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    In the Dead of Night
    In the Dead of Night
    In the Dead of Night
    Ebook227 pages3 hours

    In the Dead of Night

    By John T. McIntyre and John Betancourt

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    About this ebook

    Steele Kenyon, a young American who had lived in all kinds of places, fought in revolutions in South America, and done all kinds of things except make a financial success out of his life, returns to New York with ten dollars in his pocket. With his last remaining money, he proceeds to dine well...possibly for the last time.


    Later that evening, while wandering the Great White Way and reflecting on his life, a young woman pulls up in an taxi and bids him enter...and launches him into enough mystery and adventure to last a lifetime!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWildside Press
    Release dateOct 7, 2022
    ISBN9781667660097
    In the Dead of Night

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      Book preview

      In the Dead of Night - John T. McIntyre

      Table of Contents

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      INTRODUCTION, by John Betancourt

      IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT, by John T. McIntyre

      CHAPTER 1

      CHAPTER 2

      CHAPTER 3

      CHAPTER 4

      CHAPTER 5

      CHAPTER 6

      CHAPTER 7

      CHAPTER 8

      CHAPTER 9

      CHAPTER 10

      CHAPTER 11

      CHAPTER 12

      CHAPTER 13

      CHAPTER 14

      CHAPTER 15

      CHAPTER 16

      CHAPTER 17

      CHAPTER 18

      CHAPTER 19

      CHAPTER 20

      CHAPTER 21

      CHAPTER 22

      CHAPTER 23

      CHAPTER 24

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 2022 by Wildside Press LLC.

      Originally published in 1908.

      Published by Wildside Press LLC.

      wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

      INTRODUCTION, by John Betancourt

      John Thomas McIntyre (1871–1951) was an American mystery writer and playwright. Today, his best-known works are probably the Ashton-Kirk scientific detective mysteries (which are relatively common on the used book market and still in print today from various publishers) and his crime novel Steps Going Down (1936).

      McIntyre was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, to Irish immigrants, Sarah Walker (1848–1885) and Patrick McIntyre (circa 1842–1871). His father died the month after he was born. John grew up in the Kensington neighborhood and left school after 8th grade, when his mother died. He was taken in by an aunt and was working full-time by the age of fourteen.

      He showed a talent both for writing and the theatre, and eventually became employed by the stock company of the South Street Standard Theatre, where he wrote a new play each week based on sensational posters produced for the theater's entrance. He also worked as a freelance journalist for various Philadelphia newspapers, including the Philadelphia Press.

      His ambitions increased as he gained experience, and in 1898, he started writing his first novel, a political drama titled The Ragged Edge. The only copy of the manuscript was stolen, and it took him nearly a year to rewrite it from memory. The book was ultimately published by McClure, Phillips in 1902.

      Unfortunately, though he published a few other serious novels and had several more plays produced, success for serious literature eluded him. He fell back on writing short stories, detective mysteries and juvenile fiction to make a living. He invented Ashton-Kirk, a scientific-minded criminologist, and published several books featuring his cases. He also wrote serials for newspapers about a freelance detective named Jerry Mooney. Maxwell Perkins took an interest in McIntyre and helped edit his novel of Philadelphia gangsters, Slag, which was published by Scribners in 1926, but it met limited success, too.

      McIntyre's big break came in 1936, when his novel, Steps Going Down, which was selected as the United States entry in the All-Nations Prize Novel Competition. Steps Going Down tells the story of two men trying to evade the police and others as they move through a series of cheap lodgings in the poorer neighborhoods around Philadelphia, encountering a variety of crooks, prostitutes, addicts, zealots, and other characters. Although it did not win, McIntyre received an award of $4,000 in cash and gained prominent notices for the book in most of the major literary magazines. Warner Brothers, which had sponsored the competition, considered filming Slag, but ultimately passed.

      McIntyre tried to build upon this new success with Ferment (1937), about union corruption, and then Signing Off (1938), about Italian-American gangsters, but again his career fizzled. He had to fall back on his newspaper and magazine writing. He placed fewer and fewer pieces as the 1940s wore on and he was forced to sell off his book collection (he was an expert on the dime novel genre and had many rare titles) and rely upon the charity of his friends in the last years before his death.

      Keep an eye out for his best genre mysteries:

      Ashton-Kirk Investigator (1910)

      Ashton-Kirk Secret Agent (1912)

      Ashton-Kirk Special Detective (1914)

      Ashton-Kirk Criminologist (1918)

      The Museum Murder (1929)

      Mooney Moves Around (1939)

      Death at Dakar (1942)

      Ninth Floor: Middle City Tower. A Jerry Mooney Story (1943)

      Death Strikes at Heron House. A Jerry Mooney Story (1944)

      IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT,

      by John T. McIntyre

      CHAPTER 1

      THE GIRL IN THE HANSOM CAB

      Mysteries, my boy, are always things of the night.

      —A Saying of Garry Webster.

      Kenyon ate the good little German dinner which the Berlin always served, and looked amusedly out upon Broadway.

      Apparently it’s the same old town, said he. A little more light, a few more people; but the same cocksureness, the same air of being the goal of all human effort.

      With a smile, he lay back in his chair and watched the tide ebbing along. It was a November night and the pulse of Broadway beat heavily: the stream of life that flowed through the great artery was as flippant and as garish as a vaudeville. An orchestra was drooning behind some palms in the Berlin; it played one of those Indian things, filled with the throb of tom-toms and unusual combinations of tone.

      But Kenyon listened inattentively. He ate the last morsel of his dessert with satisfaction, and drained the last drop of wine with appreciation; then he turned once more and watched the crowds. It was the first time he had been in New York in ten years; yet the glare and effrontery of its big highway was waking the fever of the city in his blood.

      Will there be anything else, sir? asked the precise German who had served him.

      Only the check, answered Kenyon. He felt for his card-case, after the waiter had turned away; it held a single ten-dollar bill, and this he regarded ruefully.

      It is not much of a defence against the aggressions of the world, said he. And I fancy that this little dinner will put a rather large-sized breach in it. He turned the check over gingerly. Seven-fifty! Whew! Why, that would have kept me half a lifetime in Rio.

      Then he stood up to be helped on with his long top-coat. His dress clothes had been made in Montevideo, but a good English tailor had done the work, and they looked well even under the searching eyes and lights of the Berlin. But almost anything would have looked well on Kenyon; he was of the tall, wide-shouldered type that wear even shapeless things with distinction.

      "Danke schön," said the waiter as he slipped the coin handed him into his waistcoat pocket, and gravely bowed his patron out.

      Drawing on his gloves Kenyon leisurely walked up Broadway. People turned and glanced after him with curious eyes, for there was always a sort of elegance in Kenyon’s manner of dress that commanded attention. But it was not alone the hang of a smoothly fitting coat over the shapely, powerful figure; there was the good-humored, good-looking face, also an air of quiet distinction and breeding; and then, stamped all over him, so to speak, was the resolution that makes victors of desperately circumstanced men.

      No one, to look at him as he walked slowly along, would have dreamed that this immaculate creature had stood, only seven hours before, stripped to the waist in the stoke-hole of the British ship Blenheim. Yet it was so. He had boarded her at Rio when she touched there two weeks before; and though the fire-room was no inviting prospect, still it was better than Rio. A Latin-American city is never a place for a penniless Gringo.

      The section called the Great White Way lay before Kenyon like a shimmering vortex.

      It screams like a phonograph, pronounced the young man, critically. And it’s just as ceaseless, as senseless, and as raucous. This is the spot, I think, that old Colonel Ainsleigh at West Point used to call a phosphorescent ulcer. And it looks it. It’s the pride spot of the habitual New Yorker from the small town—the money dump—the place of cakes and ale.

      Then he laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

      I really think the Berlin’s dinner does not set well on me, he told himself. I once liked New York very well. But it may be that thirty is a great deal more than ten years older than twenty. My taste for many things has slackened in those ten years, and who knows but what the big town has suffered along with the other old likings.

      Hard-worked hansoms and goblin-eyed motor-cars spun along the smooth asphalt; jeweled women and carefully attired men streamed in at the light-flooded lobbies of the theatres. Electric cars loaded with pleasure seekers flashed clanging up and down.

      At Herald Square Kenyon paused. The miraculous presses, turning out the pink-tinted Telegram, held him fascinated. As he stood there, the sharp staccato of a newsboy began to reach him. At first he paid no attention to the high-pitched, complaining cry; but above the grind of cab wheels and the thousand sounds of Broadway, it gradually began to take shape in his mind.

      Extree! Eight o’clock!

      The thin voice pierced the air like a thing with a point; and without actually being aware of the burden of the cry, Kenyon began to be annoyed by its abrupt dissonances.

      Full account! Great fortune! Extree!

      A great fortune! Kenyon was irritated by the idea. One does not contemplate another’s calm possession of a vast sum of money with any great degree of equanimity when one has but a few dingy dollars in the world.

      And suppose this gold-fat fool has his millions, muttered the young man, as he turned away from the windows. That is no reason why he should shatter the eardrums of people as they pass about their business.

      Extree! Eight o’clock! Great fortune!

      Kenyon beckoned the boy, and in a moment he had a paper. Somehow, as he turned and walked toward Thirty-sixth Street, the realization suddenly came to him of how badly off he was; and he scowled at the shadowy future, a sudden, sobering fear at his heart. But this was only for a moment. The man who had stood at the side of Nunez on that last dreadful night in Montevideo was not one to allow a little ill-luck to cast him down; so with chin up and shoulders squared, Kenyon threw the thing from him with a laugh.

      At the corner of Thirty-sixth Street he paused and opened the paper. In great, black type the following stared at him:

      WHO IS THE HEIR?

      $200,000,000!

      COLOSSAL FORTUNE OF STEPHEN AUSTIN

      HANGS IN THE BALANCE.

      Kenyon did not read farther, but folded the paper and stood tapping it thoughtfully in his open palm.

      The human mind, he muttered, can scarcely grasp the meaning of such a sum. And for one man to possess it all makes me suspect that something is out of kelter with our system of doing things. Here I am broke, and with the prospect of a succession of dinnerless days before me; and then here is another fellow with tons of money and no one to give it to. If I had the running of things I’d take down the bars on some of the fat pasture-land and let the lean cattle do a little private grazing.

      Upon the opposite side of Broadway a hansom was drawn up at the curb. Kenyon’s eyes rested absently upon the veiled woman who sat within it. He saw her speak a few hasty words to the driver; then he noted the man’s quick glance in his direction, and the smart swish of the long whip over the roof of the vehicle. The hansom rattled across the street and drew up beside him; the woman leaned forward.

      I was beginning to think that you had failed us, she said.

      A whimsical look came into Kenyon’s eyes; then he smiled good-naturedly.

      I beg your pardon, he began; but she interrupted him.

      It is quite unnecessary, she said. He noted that the tone and the gesture that accompanied the words were rather cold and imperious. I suppose, she continued, that you did not know that he was ill; but, even so, you should not have delayed. However, it is not yet too late. The physicians have assured us that he will live until morning—that he may even get well.

      The whimsical look left Kenyon’s eyes and with it went the smile.

      Has there not been a mistake? he asked, gravely. But she gestured impatiently.

      The physicians are the best in New York.

      Notwithstanding the coldness of the tone, there was a certain sweetness in the voice that attracted Kenyon; that she was a woman of gentle breeding was very evident. And then she was young!

      Regretfully, he was about to inform her that he was not the person she thought him to be—that he was a stranger in New York—that he did not know a soul among its four millions. But she stopped him once more.

      The others are already there. She made room for him beside her, as she spoke. Will you get in? The matter must be adjusted quickly if at all.

      He noticed a quick flash of something like indignation in this last sentence, and smiled. She caught this and instantly her head went up like that of an offended queen.

      I will take this occasion to say, she said, freezingly, that I have considered his safety, alone, from the beginning. My own feelings do not enter into the matter.

      I ask your pardon, again, began the young man. But the fact is—

      The small white hand went up once more and waved back the words.

      I repeat, she said, that you are still in time. However, it would have been much better if you had come earlier. The ship reached port some seven or eight hours ago; and there could have been nothing to detain you.

      Kenyon bent his brows, and looked puzzled.

      What ship do you refer to? he asked.

      "The Blenheim, came the prompt answer. Her eyes were searching his face intently; even the thick veil could not hide the fact that they were big, dark, and lustrous. That was the ship, was it not?"

      It was, answered Kenyon, and the puzzled look grew deeper.

      He is very low, the girl continued, and he is very anxious to see you.

      A number of people stood about. Those who overheard were beginning to stare; and as this could not be endured, Kenyon entered the hansom. Instantly the driver called to his horse; the vehicle went rattling along Thirty-sixth Street, heading east, and Kenyon settled back by the girl’s side, smiling his astonishment into the darkness.

      CHAPTER 2

      THE DARK HOUSE IN SELDEN’S SQUARE

      "When strange eyes peer through the veiling dark,

      Take care, my friend, take care!"

      —From the Doggerels of Balmacenso.

      It was Kenyon’s idea, upon entering the cab, to afford himself an opportunity, out of earshot of the idlers, of bringing this bizarre situation to an end. But as before the girl gave him no chance.

      When you left Rio, she began, in a rather hesitating way, you had but little money, I understand.

      That, smiled Kenyon, is very true. And, for all the smile, he gazed at her searchingly. For it was a very odd thing that she should know so much about him. Within fifteen minutes she had told him that he had arrived on the Blenheim, that he had sailed from Rio, and that he had been hard put for money when he left there. But the thick veil hid her face from him, and he turned his gaze away, baffled.

      In a few moments she spoke again; and once more he detected the slight note of hesitancy in her voice.

      Have you seen Moritze & Co.?

      Moritze & Co.? he repeated wonderingly.

      Oh! suddenly. I had forgotten. Of course you have not yet heard of them in connection with this matter.

      Kenyon laughed.

      Why, no, he admitted; I must confess that I have not heard of them in connection with this matter; nor of anyone or anything else having to do with it. It’s all a mystery to me.

      Could you expect anything more, under the circumstances? She was fumbling in a small handbag as she spoke. He watched her, amazed at how the thing drifted on.

      It does not do to speak freely of some things before all is ready, she continued, with a return of the cold manner of a few moments before. You should have learned that while you were with Nunez.

      He caught his breath.

      Nunez! She knew about that! And he had not thought that any person north of Panama knew of the part that he had played in that ill-fated expedition in Uruguay. He was still confusedly groping amid the mental haze which her words had produced, when she spoke again.

      I was entrusted with this and asked to give it to you.

      She placed a slip of crackling paper in his hand; the cab lamps were too dim for him to discern the figures, but a glance showed the young man that it was a check.

      No, no, he cried, hastily. I cannot accept this!

      Why not? It is the exact sum that you demanded.

      If there had been scorn in her voice before, it now seemed to have increased a hundredfold; and

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