Chapter II: Mixed Identities

"You're all right, neighbor," panted the fugitive as he settled back in the carriage seat. "I was in a tight corner, but the copper hadn't any call to rough things up with me like he did. How did you happen to be handy by and willing to give me a lift?"

"I've been watching you for fifteen or twenty minutes," answered the man.

"Piping me off, eh? Why was that? What's your graft, anyhow? Put me wise and oblige."

"Oh, drop it!" said the other disgustedly. "You know me, all right enough. Look!"

The man wore a black beard. Lifting his hands as he spoke he plucked it away, revealing a smoothly shaven face.

"Recognize me now?" he queried, with a husky laugh.

"If I do I'm a geezer," answered the youth. "Why the bogus wind teasers? Gee, but this is a warm play."

"You make me tired!" scowled the man. "My name's Whistler, as you know well enough."

"Whistler, Whistler," murmured the fugitive. "On the level, Whistler, you've got past my guard. But what's the diff? You're one-two-seven with me for lifting me out of that bunch of trouble. But, tell me, whose game of muggins is this, and what's the stake? Anything higher than two-call-five and a quarter to see puts me out of the running. You've heard of the bank that broke the man at Monte Carlo? Well, listen--I'm It. Please drop that dizzy front, old fel, and tell me why you're a counterfeit. Not being a has-wasser myself, I'm game for anything that promises kopecks, simoleons, or anything white or yellow with the eagle bird and E Pluribus Get-there on the side. Have one?"

With two yellow-stained fingers, the youth pulled a cigarette box from under his sweater and offered it to the man. The latter, apparently in a daze, shook his head negatively. With a grin, the fugitive lighted a cigarette and put away the box.

"Now, Whistler," he pattered, "cut away with the straight dope and tell me all about it."

Whistler narrowed his eyes and studied the fugitive's face for a minute.

"You've got more tricks in your basket, Matt King," said he, "than I've given you credit for, up to now."

"Thanks, Whistler," drawled the youth, "you'll never hear me putting up a roar when that sort of con talk is shoved at me. Yes, indeed, I've gathered much knowledge while knocking about our little planet. Experience came to me early and says, 'Joe, put your little hand in mine and let's go out and take a bird's-eye view of the Universe.' We went. Perhaps that's why, at the present speaking, I'm in N. O. all but broke. Being bashful and retiring, I don't like to feature myself; but you're keen, Whistler, and I couldn't dodge you."

The torrent of language flowed steadily, and as it flowed Whistler grew more and more surprised.

"Great jumping je-lucifer!" he muttered. "You've changed a whole lot in the last few days, King. I suppose that happened when you took to cigarettes?"

"Nay, not according to league rules." The lad allowed a mouthful of smoke to trickle out through his lips and nose. "King, eh?" he went on. "How you do keep handing me the bokays. I was king of the track when I rode the ponies, king of the plungers when I played 'em, and king of the 'bos now they've broke me. Oh, yes, call me King by all means."

Whistler, still staring, sat back and mumbled to himself.

"What do you call yourself, _now_?" he asked.

"A mistake. I took the wrong turn at the forks of the road. Prosperityville lay on the other track and I'm just over the hill from the poorhouse. Also I call myself Dennis, and I spell it M-u-d. When I was christened they named me Joe, and the other part of it was Dashington. Generally they referred to me as Dash. That's about all I amount to, now; just a dash--a straight line that ought to stand for something, but don't."

"You're a pretty slick counterfeit yourself, King," laughed Whistler. "I never dreamed that Motor Matt could play himself up like this."

"My, my!" murmured Joe Dashington. "He thinks I'm stringing him! If I'd been careless with the truth he'd have believed me; but now that I'm giving it to him straight, he winks the other eye and drops a mitt on his left shoulder."

The carriage came to a stop. Joe Dashington started up and looked through the carriage window.

"Have the cops landed on me?" he inquired, "or have we reached the place we're going?"

"We've stopped where I wanted to, Motor Matt," returned Whistler. "Do you see this?"

He lifted a hand from his outside jacket pocket and showed a glimmering bit of steel.

"Not being blind," answered Dash calmly, "I'm wise to the pepper box. Ah, ha, the plot thickens! Why the gun?"

"I said I was watching you, there on the dock," answered Whistler sternly, "and I was doing it for a purpose. You were disguised, and I believed then and am of the opinion now that you were trying to find out something about me. I intended going to False River on that boat, but changed my plans when I saw you. You're going to get out here and accompany me into the house before which we have stopped; and you're going to remember, Motor Matt, that this pepper box is in my pocket all the time, and that I can use it there just as well as though I had it in sight."

"Yes, yes, this is a funny play, but I'm a passenger, Mr. Whistler, and you seem to hold all the trumps. I shall be glad to go into the house with you. Johnny Hardluck has been rubbing my fur the wrong way for days and days, and I'd get heart failure if he didn't keep it up."

Whistler opened the door with one hand, and he and the youth got out of the carriage, crossed the walk, climbed a flight of steps and vanished into the house. They were met in the hall by a man who showed a good deal of surprise.

"Great Scott, Whistler!" fretted the man. "I thought you were on your way to False River, by now."

"Changed my plan, Jurgens," replied Whistler. "Conduct us into the front room where the light is better. I've a surprise for you."

Jurgens gave a sharp look in the fugitive's direction, turned and led the way into an apartment where the late afternoon sun rendered objects clearer to the eye.

"What!" he cried, startled. "Matt King!" He whirled angrily on Whistler. "What do you mean by bringing him here?"

"Don't go off the jump, Jurgens," answered Whistler, "until you learn more. Bangs went with me to the landing, and just as I was about to go on the boat I caught sight of King. I wondered why he was got up like that, and I believed that he was watching me. While I was wondering whether I should go on the boat, or not, this lad turned a little trouble on the levee. Those two chums of his, the sailor and the Dutchman, signaled and one of them laid a letter on a cotton bale. King went forward to get it and a spark from his cigarette fired the bale. A policeman started after him, and I motioned for him to come to the carriage. I saw, then, that he didn't know me. He accepted my invitation and I brought him away. Now we can make him tell us what his game is, and we can have a look at that letter."

Joe Dashington listened to all this with a surprised grin.

"I suppose I ought to have heart failure over this," he remarked, "but, somehow, it don't phase me. I can't be much worse off than I am, no matter what happens. When you gents find out you've made a sucker play, perhaps you'll tell me how I can turn enough of the ready for a board bill and a place to pound my ear."

"He's trying to tell me that his name's not King," scoffed Whistler.

Jurgens, deeply interested, laid his head on one side and studied the youth at some length.

"His face is King's, plain enough," said he finally, "but he's rigged out like a hoodlum and talks like a beachcomber. What's the answer?"

"I'm by," laughed Joe Dashington. "You fellows tell me."

He lighted another cigarette.

"Pass over that letter," ordered Whistler.

Dashington, without a dissenting word, handed the letter to Whistler.

"I know as much about it as you do," said he. "If it's an invite to go out with a stocking full of sand, please count me in. Anything with money in it looks good to me."

The envelope bore the words, "For Motor Matt."

"He's King, easy enough," averred Jurgens, looking over Whistler's shoulder.

"That's a cinch," averred Whistler, opening the letter and removing the inclosed sheet.

Together the two men read the letter, managing to keep wary eyes on the youth as they did so.

"DEAR MATT: I'm lying ill in bed, out on Prytania Street. Dick and
Carl know the place. There's a bag of diamonds to be delivered to the
daughter of the Man from Cape Town, over on St. Charles Avenue, and
you're the only one I can trust to do the work. You will have to be
careful about it, and I wish you would come here at midnight to-night
and get the stones. I haven't told either Carl or Dick what I want
you to do, and when you read this I think you had better keep it to
yourself--even from them. I've a feeling in my bones that there's
trouble ahead, and I want to get the responsibility of those diamonds
off my shoulders as quickly as possible.

"Yours, ARCHIBALD TOWNSEND."

Exultation flamed in the faces of Whistler and Jurgens.

"Luck!" cried Whistler. "This is our lucky day, Jurgens, and no mistake."

"Nothing ever dropped into our hands so easy before!" jubilated Jurgens. "All we've got to do is to think of some way to pull off the deal and----"

Feet clattered up the outside steps. Leaving Whistler to look after the youth, Jurgens darted into the hall.

"Hello, Bangs!" he exclaimed, a moment later. "What's the trouble?"

"I was down on the levee when Whistler took a fellow we both thought was Motor Matt into a carriage and rushed away with him," came the voice of Bangs, as Jurgens led him into the front room; "but when I----"

Bangs likewise wore a false beard. He was pulling it off as he came into the room, but suddenly he stopped and stared. His eyes were on Joe Dashington.

"Well?" demanded Jurgens curtly.

"That--that chap is a dead ringer for Motor Matt!" gasped Bangs, pointing to the youth.

"A dead ringer for him?" echoed Whistler. "Why, Bangs, he _is_ Motor Matt."

"That's what I thought when you rushed away with him," continued Bangs, "but you hadn't been gone three minutes when Motor Matt showed up on the levee and the officer tried to arrest him."

Jurgens and Whistler seemed stupefied. They stared at each other, then at Bangs, and then at the grinning face of Dashington.

"If I could see as much as two bones in this, gents," remarked the youth, "I'd be tickled out of my kicks. This Motor Matt must be a beaut if he looks like yours truly. What's in the letter? Can't we use it some way and get a strangle hold on a basket of rocks? I've got a horrible financial stringency staring me in the face, and I'm ripe for anything."

An idea, just then, laid hold of Jurgens.

"By George!" he exclaimed. "Fate must have framed up this whole play for our especial benefit. Get together, all of you, and listen to me! I've got a scheme, and it's a world beater."