Adventure, December 3, 1920 — page 139: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Messenger angry young woman. jump behind a screen as the lock burst in. “Get out of here!’ she ordered in a shrill voice, peering over the top. “Not yet, ma’am,” I said. “It’s nine o’clock. I want you out o’ this room by noon, if you please——”’ ‘Help!’ she sung out, then swore at me. “As sure as I’ve got a friend on the police-force, ' you'll do time for this. You’re no gentleman!’’ “T don’t claim to be,” I said, and laughed as I tossed a twenty-dollar boy over the screen. “Take that, miss, and there’ll be another if you're out at noon, My name’s Day, this house is mine, and I’m occupying it at noon. No hard feelings.” I withdrew, leaving her silenced by the gold. Out in the hall I nearly ran over a man who seemed to think I was a burglar or something. “What’s this, what’s this?” he cried ex- citedly, “Is Miss Matilda calling for help? Put up your hands, there! Explain your busi- ness in that room e He waved a gun at me, so I wasted no time on him. The gun did not go off, fortunately for my mother’s peace of mind. This chivalric person looked pretty sick when I held him up against the wall and talked to him. “T gave the lady until noon,” I concluded, “but you’re all ready to hike, and you’ve been rude. So hike, friend! Your trunk will be on the sidewalk when you come back, and if you make any fuss I’ll have you pinched for as- saulting me with that gun.” I gave the gun back to him and went on, cleaning out the other rats. It became evident, however, that the place could never be reoccu- pied by my mother in its present condition. Everything was dingy, the carpets were thread- barey and the house needed a complete over- hauling. Meantime, the lodgers were getting out. The last room was my own—my own room, where I had kept my own shelf of boy’s books, where I had seen my father for the last time. _ My room, dear with a thousand memories. No one answered my knock. The door was locked. A surge of anger rising in me, I put my shoulder to it and entered. And this entry came within a half-inch of being my death. Perhaps some intuition warned me, held me back the scant second of time that saved me. The knife flashed down past my face, sang by my ear like a bee in wing, ripped the cloth of my coat sleeve and went down into the floor beside my foot. For an instant I stood there in dead fright, since the room was all empty and clear before me. Then I looked up. It was an easily constructed affair, to one who had the knack—a stout spring of steel, connected by a wire across the door. The lodger had the right to lay such a trap, perhaps; yet the thought of my mother entering that 129 room made me burn. Not that she would have entered when the door was locked, but—well, you understand. I stooped and drew the knife from the floor, where it was buried for a good half-inch. The blade was six inches, the haft five. The blade was thin steel, the haft light bamboo—an ideal throwing-weapon, jyou comprehend. Upon the brass cap of the haft there was scratched what looked like a fish-hook. Examining closer, it became evident that after setting the knife in its holder above the door, one could leave the room, close the door and then set the strap by pulling the wire which had been run through the door-frame. This tenant, I reflected, must have been here for some time; at least, so it looked at the moment. I turned my attention to the room, with a glow of interest in this gentleman. Somewhat to my surprize; absolutely the only evidence of tenancy was a trunk. Now one must have socks, shoes, perhaps a tooth- brush—never a sign of any here. The dresser was empty. This lodger lived, if he lived at all, from his trunk. The trunk, however, quickened my interest. It was a foreign affair of wicker, covered over with a very heavy canvas and painted black. The lock was double. It was unlike any lock I had ever seen—and I have seen and tampered with several—but something about it had a hint of Chinese. Then, upon the end of the trunk and neatly stenciled in white letters, I saw the name “James Death.” There was a name for you. Any man placed far above the common herd and mingling only with the elect might carry it. It was hard to fancy any man with that name, however, going up and down the world and mingling with other men; that is, men who did things. He would either live up to that name and be a killer, or else he’d have another name in six weeks. “Tf there’s another man in this country by that name, I’ll eat my hat!” I said to myself. “And that knife—hm! Out you go, James Death, and your knife to boot!” I picked up the trunk, which was fairly heavy, and lifted it out of the room. Our house was at the ocean-fringe of San Francisco —that line of sand-lots south of the park, at the end of things—and we had a paved street which ended fifty feet beyond the house. ‘There was no other building near by, except Aunt Nora’s bungalow over toward the shore, three blocks distant. THERE was considerable commotion 4 in the house by this time. I carried the trunk out to the street and set it down by the steps. Then, taking the knife from my pocket, I drove it in through the top of the trunk—drove it in to the hilt and left it. CORMICLOOKS (EO)