Castle Craneycrow

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CASTLE CRANEYCROW

BY

George Barr McCutcheon

NEW YORK

1902

CASTLE CRANEYCROW

THE TAKING OF TURK

It was characteristic of Mr. Philip Quentin that he first lectured
his servant on the superiority of mind over matter and then took him
cheerfully by the throat and threw him into a far corner of the
room. As the servant was not more than half the size of the master,
his opposition was merely vocal, but it was nevertheless
unmistakable. His early career had increased his vocabulary and his
language was more picturesque than pretty. Yet of his loyalty and
faithfulness, there could be no doubt. During the seven years of his
service, he had been obliged to forget that he possessed such a name
as Turkington or even James. He had been Turk from the beginning,
and Turk he remained--and, in spite of occasional out breaks, he had
proved his devotion to the young gentleman whose goods and chattels
he guarded with more assiduity than he did his own soul or--what
meant more to him--his personal comfort. His employment came about in
an unusual way. Mr. Quentin had an apartment in a smart building
uptown. One night he was awakened by a noise in his room. In the
darkness he saw a man fumbling among his things, and in an instant
he had seized his revolver from the stand at his bedside and covered
the intruder. Then he calmly demanded: "Now, what are you doing
here?"

"I'm lookin' for a boardin' house," replied the other, sullenly.

"You're just a plain thief--that's all."

"Well, it won't do me no good to say I'm a sleepwalker, will it?--er
a missionary, er a dream? But, on d' dead, sport, I'm hungry, an' I
wuz tryin' to git enough to buy a meal an' a bed. On d' dead, I
wuz."

"And a suit of clothes, and an overcoat, and a house and lot, I
suppose, and please don't call me 'sport' again. Sit down--not oh
the floor; on that chair over there. I'm going to search you. Maybe
you've got something I need." Mr. Quentin turned on the light and
proceeded to disarm the man, piling his miserable effects on a
chair. "Take off that mask. Lord! put it on again; you look much
better. So, you're hungry, are you?"

"As a bear."

Quentin never tried to explain his subsequent actions; perhaps he
had had a stupid evening. He merely yawned and addressed the burglar
with all possible respect. "Do you imagine I'll permit any guest of
mine to go away hungry? If you'll wait till I dress, we'll stroll
over to a restaurant in the next street and get some supper.

"Police station, you mean."

"Now, don't be unkind, Mr. Burglar. I mean supper for two. I'm
hungry myself, but not a bit sleepy. Will you wait?"

"Oh, I'm in no particular hurry."

Quentin dressed calmly. The burglar began whistling softly.

"Are you ready?" asked Philip, putting on his overcoat and hat.

"I haven't got me overcoat on yet," replied the burglar,
suggestively. Quentin saw he was dressed in the chilliest of rags.
He opened a closet door and threw him a long coat.

"Ah, here is your coat. I must have taken it from the club by
mistake. Pardon me."

"T'anks; I never expected to git it back," coolly replied the
burglar, donning the best coat that had ever touched his person.
"You didn't see anything of my gloves and hat in there, did you?" A
hat and a pair of gloves were produced, not perfect in fit, but
quite respectable.

Soberly they walked out into the street and off through the
two-o'clock stillness. The mystified burglar was losing his
equanimity. He could not understand the captor's motive, nor could
he much longer curb his curiosity. In his mind he was fully
satisfied that he was walking straight to the portals of the nearest
station. In all his career as a housebreaker, he had never before
been caught, and now to be captured in such a way and treated in
such a way was far past comprehension. Ten minutes before he was
looking at a stalwart figure with a leveled revolver, confidently
expecting to drop with the bullet in his body from an agitated
weapon. Indeed, he encountered conditions so strange that he felt a
doubt of their reality. He had, for some peculiar and amazing
reason, no desire to escape. There was something in the oddness of
the proceeding that made him wish to see it to an end. Besides, he
was quite sure the strapping young fellow would shoot if he
attempted to bolt.

"This is a fairly good eating house," observed the would-be victim
as they came to an "all-nighter." They entered and deliberately
removed their coats, the thief watching his host with shifty, even
twinkling eyes. "What shall it be, Mr. Robber? You are hungry, and
you may order the entire bill, from soup to the date line, if you
like. Pitch in."

"Say, boss, what's your game?" demanded the crook, suddenly. His
sharp, pinched face, with its week's growth of beard, wore a new
expression--that of admiration. "I ain't such a rube that I don't
like a good t'ing even w'en it ain't comin' my way. You'se a dandy,
dat's right, an' I t'ink we'd do well in de business togedder. Put
me nex' to yer game,"

"Game? The bill of fare tells you all about that. Here's quail,
squab, duck--see? That's the only game I'm interested in. Go on, and
order."

"S' 'elp me Gawd if you ain't a peach."

For half an hour Mr. Burglar ate ravenously, Quentin watching him
through half-closed, amused eyes. He had had a dull, monotonous
week, and this was the novelty that lifted life out of the torpidity
into which it had fallen.

The host at this queer feast was at that time little more than
twenty-five years of age, a year out of Yale, and just back from a
second tour of South America. He was an orphan, coming into a big
fortune with his majority, and he had satiated an old desire to
travel in lands not visited by all the world. Now he was back in New
York to look after the investments his guardian had made, and he
found them so ridiculously satisfactory that they cast a shadow of
dullness across his mind, always hungry for activity.

"Have you a place to sleep?" he asked, at length.

"I live in Jersey City, but I suppose I can find a cheap lodgin'
house down by d' river. Trouble is, I ain't got d' price."

"Then come back home with me. You may sleep in Jackson's room.
Jackson was my man till yesterday, when I dismissed him for stealing
my cigars and drinking my drinks. I won't have anybody about me who
steals. Come along."

Then they walked swiftly back to Quentin's flat. The owner of the
apartment directed his puzzled guest to a small room off his own,
and told him to go to bed.

"By the way, what's your name?" he asked, before he closed the door.

"Turkington--James Turkington, sir," answered the now respectful
robber. And he wanted to say more, but the other interrupted.

"Well, Turk, when you get up in the morning, polish those shoes of
mine over there. We'll talk it over after I've had my breakfast.
Good-night."

And that is how Turk, most faithful and loyal of servants, began his
apparently endless employment with Mr. Philip Quentin, dabbler in
stocks, bonds and hearts. Whatever his ugly past may have been,
whatever his future may have promised, he was honest to a painful
degree in these days with Quentin. Quick-witted, fiery, willful and
as ugly as a little demon, Turk knew no law, no integrity except
that which benefitted his employer. Beyond a doubt, if Quentin had
instructed him to butcher a score of men, Turk would have proceeded
to do so and without argument. But Quentin instructed him to be
honest, law-abiding and cautious. It would be perfectly safe to
guess his age between forty and sixty, but it would not be wise to
measure his strength by the size of his body. The little ex-burglar
was like a piece of steel.

II

SOME RAIN AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

New York had never been so nasty and cold and disagreeable. For
three weeks it had rained--a steady, chilling drizzle. Quentin stood
it as long as he could, but the weather is a large factor in the
life of a gentleman of leisure. He couldn't play Squash the entire
time, and Bridge he always maintained was more of a profession than
a pastime. So it was that one morning, as he looked out at the
sheets of water blowing across the city, his mind was made up.

"We'll get out of this, Turk. I've had enough of it."

"Where do we go, sir?" calmly asked the servant.

"Heaven knows! But be ready to start tomorrow. We'll go somewhere
and dodge this blessed downpour. Call me a cab."

As he drove to the club, he mentally tossed coppers as to his
destination. People were already coming back from Aiken and Palm
Beach, and those who had gone to the country
were cooped up indoors and shivering about the fireplaces. Where
could he go? As he entered the club a man hailed him from the front
room.

"Quentin, you're just the man I'm looking for. Come in here."

It was the Earl of Saxondale--familiarly "Lord Bob"--an old chum of
Quentin's. "My missus sent me with an invitation for you, and I've
come for your acceptance," said the Englishman, when Quentin had
joined him.

"Come home with us. We're sailing on the Lucania to-morrow, and
there are going to be some doings in England this month which you
mustn't miss. Dickey Savage is coming, and we want you."

Quentin looked at him and laughed. Saxondale was perfectly serious.
"We're going to have some people up for Goodwood, and later we shall
have a house-boat for Henley. So you'd better come. It won't be bad
sport."

Quentin started to thank his friend and decline. Then he remembered
that he wanted to get away--there was absolutely nothing to keep him
at home, and, besides, he liked Lord Bob and his American wife.

Fashionable New York recalls the marriage of the Earl of Saxondale
and Frances Thornow when the '90's were young, and everybody said it
was a love match. To be sure, she was wealthy, but so was he. She
had declined offers of a half-dozen other noblemen; therefore it was
not ambition on her part. He could have married any number of
wealthier American girls; therefore it was not avarice on his part.
He was a good-looking, stalwart chap with a very fetching drawl,
infinite gentility, and a man despite his monocle, while she was
beautiful, witty and womanly; therefore it is reasonable to suspect
that it must have been love that made her Lady Saxondale.

Lord Bob and Lady Frances were frequent visitors to New York. He
liked New York, and New Yorkers liked him. His wife was enough of a
true American to love the home of her forefathers. "What my wife
likes I seem to have a fondness for," said he, complacently. He once
remarked that were she to fall in love with another man he would
feel in duty bound to like him.

Saxondale had money invested in American copper mines, and his wife
had railroad stocks. When they came to New York, once or twice a
year, they took a furnished apartment, entertained and were
entertained for a month or so,
rushed their luggage back to the steamer and sailed for home,
perfectly satisfied with themselves and--the markets.

Quentin looked upon Lord Bob's invitation as a sporting proposition.
This would not be the first time he had taken a steamer on
twenty-four hours' notice. The one question was accommodation, and a
long acquaintance with the agent helped him to get passage where
others would have failed.

So it happened that the next morning Turk was unpacking things in
Mr. Quentin's cabin and establishing relations with the bath
steward.

III

PRINCE UGO

Several days out from New York found the weather fine and Lord
Saxondale's party enjoying life thoroughly. Dickey and the
capricious Lady Jane were bright or squally with charming
uncertainty. Lady Jane, Lord Bob's sister, certainly was not in love
with Mr. Savage, and he was too indolent to give his side of the
case continuous thought. Dimly he realized, and once lugubriously
admitted, that he was not quite heartwhole, but he had not reached a
positive understanding with himself.

"How do they steer the ship at night when it is so cloudy they can't
see the north star?" she asked, as they leaned over the rail one
afternoon. Her pretty face was very serious, and there was a
philosophical pucker on her brow.

"With a rudder," he answered, laconically.

"How very odd!" she said, with a malicious gleam in her eyes. "You
are as wonderfully well-informed concerning the sea as you are
on all other subjects. How good it must seem to be so awfully
intelligent."

"It isn't often that I find anyone who asks really intelligent
questions, you know, Lady Jane. Your profound quest for knowledge
forced my dormant intellect into action, and I remembered that a
ship invariably has a rudder or something like that."

"I see it requires the weightiest of questions to arouse your
intellect." The wind was blowing the stray hairs ruthlessly across
her face and she looked very, very pretty.

"Intellects are so very common nowadays that 'most anything will
arouse them. Quentin says his man Turk has a brain, and if Turk has
a brain I don't see how the rest of us can escape. I'd like to be a
porpoise."

"What an ambition! Why not a whale or a, shark?"

"If I were a shark you'd be afraid of me, and if I were a whale I
could not begin to get into your heart."

"That's the best thing you've said since you were seasick," she
said, sweetly.

"I'm glad you didn't hear what I said when I was seasick."

"Oh! I've heard brother Bob say things," loftily.

"But nobody can say things quite so impressively as an American."

"Pooh! You boasting Americans think you can do everything better
than others. Now you claim that you can swear better. I won't listen
to you," and off she went toward the companionway. Dickey looked
mildly surprised, but did not follow. Instead, he joined Lady
Saxondale and Quentin in a stroll.

Four days later they were comfortably established with Saxondale in
London. That night Quentin met, for the first time, the reigning
society sensation, Prince Ugo Ravorelli, and his countrymen, Count
Sallaconi and the Duke of Laselli. All London had gone mad over the
prince.

There was something oddly familiar in the face and voice of the
Italian. Quentin sat with him for an hour, listening with puzzled
ears to the conversation that went on between him and Saxondale. On
several occasions he detected a curious, searching look in the
Italian's dark eyes, and was convinced that the prince also had the
impression that they had met before. At last Quentin, unable to curb
his curiosity, expressed his doubt. Ravorelli's gaze was penetrating
as he replied, but it was perfectly frank.

"I have the feeling that your face is not strange to me, yet I
cannot recall when or where I have seen you. Have you been in Paris
of late?" he asked, his English almost perfect. It seemed to Quentin
that there was a look of relief in his dark eyes, and there was a
trace of satisfaction in the long breath that followed the question.

"No," he replied; "I seem in some way to associate you with Brazil
and the South American cities. Were you ever in Rio Janeiro?"

"I have never visited either of the Americas. We are doubtless
misled by a strange resemblance to persons we know quite well, but
who do not come to mind."

"But isn't it rather odd that we should have the same feeling? And
you have not been in New York?" persisted Phil.

"I have not been in America at all, you must remember," replied the
prince, coldly.

"I'd stake my soul on it," thought Quentin to himself, more fully
convinced than ever. "I've seen him before and more than once, too.
He remembers me, even though I can't place him. It's devilish
aggravating, but his face is as familiar as if I saw him yesterday."

When they parted for the night Ravorelli's glance again impressed
the American with a certainty that he, at least, was not in doubt as
to where and when they had met.

"You are trying to recall where we have seen one another," said the
prince, smiling easily, his white teeth showing clearly between
smooth lips. "My cousin visited America some years ago, and there is
a strong family resemblance. Possibly you have our faces confused."

"That may be the solution," admitted Phil, but he was by no means
satisfied by the hypothesis.

In the cab, later on, Lord Bob was startled from a bit of doze by
hearing his thoughtful, abstracted companion exclaim:

"By thunder!"

"What's up? Forgot your hat, or left something at the club?" he
demanded, sleepily.

"No; I remember something, that's all. Bob, I know where I've seen
that Italian prince. He was in Rio Janeiro with a big Italian opera
company just before I left there for New York."

"What! But he said he'd never been in America," exclaimed Saxondale,
wide awake.

"Well, he lied, that's all. I am positive he's the man, and the best
proof in the world is the certainty that he remembers me. Of course
he denies it, but you know what he said when I first asked him if we
had met. He was the tenor in Pagani's opera company, and he sang in
several of the big South American cities. They were in Rio Janeiro
for weeks, and we lived in the same hotel. There's no mistake about
it, old man. This howling swell of to-day was Pagani's tenor, and he
was a good one, too. Gad, what a Romeo he was! Imagine him in the
part, Bob. Lord, how the women raved about him!"

"I say, Phil, don't be ass enough to tell anybody else about this,
even if you're cocksure he's the man. He was doubtless driven to the
stage for financial reasons, you know, and it wouldn't be quite
right to bring it up now if he has a desire to suppress the truth.
Since he has come into the title and estates it might be deuced
awkward to have that sort of a past raked up."

"I should say it would be awkward if that part of his past were
raked up. He wasn't a Puritan, Bob."

"They are a bit scarce at best."

"He was known in those days as Giovanni Pavesi, and he wasn't in
such dire financial straits, either. It was his money that backed
the enterprise, and it was common property, undenied by him or
anyone else, that the chief object in the speculation was the love
of the prima donna, Carmenita Malban. And, Bob, she was the most
beautiful woman I ever saw. The story was that she was a countess or
something of the sort. Poverty forced her to make use of a glorious
voice, and the devil sent Pagani to young Pavesi, who was then a
student with some ripping big master, in the hope that he would
interest the young man in a scheme to tour South America. It seems
that Signorita Malban's beauty set his heart on fire, and he
promptly produced the coin to back the enterprise, the only
condition being that he was to sing the tenor roles. All this came
out in the trial, you know." "The trial! What trial?"

"Giovanni's. Let me think a minute. She was killed on the 29th of
March, and he was not arrested until they had virtually convicted
one of the chorus men of the murder. Pagani and Pavesi quarrelled,
and the former openly accused his 'angel' of the crime. This led to
an arrest just as the tenor was getting away on a ship bound for
Spain."

"Arrested him for the murder of the woman? On my life, Quentin, you
make a serious blunder unless you can prove all this. When did it
all happen?"

"Two years ago. Oh, I'm not mistaken about it; it is as clear as
sunlight to me now. They took him back and tried him. Members of the
troupe swore he had threatened on numerous occasions to kill her if
she continued to repulse him. On the night of the murder--it was
after the opera--he was heard to threaten her. She defied him, and
one of the women in the company testified that he sought to
intimidate Malban by placing the point of his stiletto against her
white neck. But, in spite of all this, he was acquitted. I was in
New York when the trial ended, but I read of the verdict in the
press dispatches. Some one killed her, that is certain, and the
nasty job was done in her room at the hotel. I heard some of the
evidence, and I'll say that I believed he was the guilty man, but I
considered him insane when he committed the crime. He loved her to
the point of madness, and she would not yield to his passion. It was
shown that she loved the chorus singer who was first charged with
her murder."

"Ravorelli doesn't look like a murderer," said Lord Bob, stoutly.

"But he remembers seeing me in that courtroom, Bob."

IV

AND THE GIRL, TOO

"Now tell me all about our Italian friend," said Quentin next
morning to Lady Frances, who had not lost her frank Americanism when
she married Lord Bob, The handsome face of the young prince had been
in his thoughts the night before until sleep came, and then there
were dreams in which the same face appeared vaguely sinister and
foreboding. He had acted on the advice of Lord Bob and had said
nothing of the Brazilian experiences.

"Prince Ugo? I supposed that every newspaper in New York had been
devoting columns to him. He is to marry an American heiress, and
some of the London journals say she is so rich that everybody else
looks poor beside her."

"Lucky dog, eh? Everybody admires him, too, it seems. Do you know
him, Frances?"

"I've met him a number of times on the continent, but not often in
London. He is seldom here, you know. Really, he is quite a charming
fellow."

"Yes," laconically. "Are Italian princes as cheap as they used to
be? Mary Carrolton got that nasty little one of hers for two hundred
thousand, didn't she? This one looks as though he might come a
little higher. He's good-looking enough."

"Oh, Ugo is not like the Carrolton investment. You see, this one is
vastly rich, and he's no end of a swell in sunny Italy. Really, the
match is the best an American girl has made over here in--oh, in
centuries, I may say."

"Pocahontas made a fairly decent one, I believe, and so did Frances
Thornow; but, to my limited knowledge, I think they are the only
satisfactory matches that have been pulled off in the last few
centuries. Strange, they both married Englishmen."

"Thank you. You don't like Italian princes, then?"

"Oh, if I could buy a steady, well-broken, tractable one, I'd take
him as an investment, perhaps, but I believe, on the whole, I'd
rather put the money into a general menagerie like Barnum's or
Forepaugh's. You get such a variety of beasts that way, you know."

"Come, now, Phil, your sarcasm is unjust. Prince Ugo is very much of
a gentleman, and Bob says he is very clever, too. Did you see much
of him last night?"

"I saw him at the club and talked a bit with him. Then I saw him
while I slept. He is much better in the club than he is in a dream."

"You dreamed of him last night? He certainly made an impression,
then," she said.

"I dreamed I saw him abusing a harmless, overworked and underfed
little monkey on the streets of New York."

"How absurd!"

"The monkey wouldn't climb up to the window of my apartment to
collect nickels for the vilest hand-organ music a man ever heard,
even in a nightmare."

"Phil Quentin, you are manufacturing that dream as you sit here.
Wait till you know him better and you will like him."

"His friends, too? One of those chaps looks as if he might throw a
bomb with beautiful accuracy--the Laselli duke, I think. Come, now,
Frances, you'll admit he's an ugly brute, won't you?"

"Yes, you are quite right, and I can't say that the count impresses
me more favorably."

"I'll stake my head the duke's ancestors were brigands or something
equally appalling. A couple of poor, foolish American girls elevate
them both to the position of money-spenders-in-chief though, I
presume, and the newspapers will sizzle."

At dinner that evening the discussion was resumed, all those at the
table taking part. The tall young American was plainly prejudiced
against the Italian, but his stand was a mystery to all save Lord
Bob. Dickey Savage was laboriously non-committal until Lady Jane
took sides unequivocally with Quentin. Then he vigorously defended
the unlucky prince. Lady Saxondale and Sir James Graham, one of the
guests, took pains to place the Italian in the best light possible
before the critical American.

"I almost forgot to tell you, Phil," suddenly cried Lady Saxondale,
her pretty face beaming with excitement. "The girl he is to marry is
an old flame of yours."

"Quite impossible, Lady Frances. I never had a flame."

"But she was, I'm sure."

"Are you a theosophist?" asked Phil, gaily, but he listened
nevertheless. Who could she be? It seemed for the moment, as his
mind swept backward, that he had possessed a hundred sweethearts.
"I've had no sweetheart since I began existence in the present
form."

"Good Lord!" ejaculated Dickey, solemnly and impressively.

"I'll bet my soul Frances is right," drawled Lord Bob. "She always
is, you know. My boy, if she says you had a sweetheart, you either
had one or somebody owes you one. You've never collected, perhaps."

"If he collected them he'd have a harem," observed Mr. Savage,
sagely. "He's had so many he can't count 'em."

"I should think it disgusting to count them, Mr. Savage, even if he
could," said Lady Jane, severely.

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