The Day of Days: An Extravaganza

by Louis Joseph Vance

  XVIII

  THE BROOCH

  They came to the carriage entrance, where the crush of waiting peoplehad somewhat thinned--not greatly.

  Leaving Marian in the angle of the doorway, P. Sybarite pressed out tothe booth of the carriage-call apparatus, gave the operator thenumbered and perforated cardboard together with a coin, saw the manplace it on the machine and shoot home a lever that hissed and spatblue fire; then turned back.

  "What was the number?" she asked as he approached. "Did you notice? Idid--but then thought of something else; and now I've forgotten."

  "Two hundred and thirty," replied P. Sybarite absently.

  Between the two there fell a little pause of constrained silence endedby Marian.

  "I want to see you again, very soon, Mr. Sybarite."

  The eyes of the little man were as grateful as a dog's.

  "If I may call--?" he ventured diffidently.

  "Could you come to-morrow to tea?"

  "At the Plaza?"

  "At the Plaza!" she affirmed with a bright nod.

  "Thank you."

  Above the hum of chattering voices rose the bellow of the carriageporter:

  "Two hundred and thirty! _Two_ hundred and _thirty_!"

  "My car!" said the girl with a start.

  P. Sybarite moved in front of her, signalling with a lifted hand.

  "Two hundred and thirty," he repeated.

  A handsome town-car stood at the curb beneath the permanent awning ofiron and glass. Behind it a long rank waited with impatient,stuttering motors and dull-burning lamps that somehow forced homedrowsy thoughts of bed.

  Hurrying across the sidewalk, Marian permitted P. Sybarite to help herinto the vehicle.

  Transported by this proof of her graciousness, he gave the chauffeurthe address:

  "Hotel Plaza."

  With the impudent imperturbability of his breed, the man nodded andgrunted without looking round.

  From the body of the vehicle Marian extended a white-gloved hand.

  "Good-night, Mr. Sybarite. To-morrow--at five."

  Touching her fingers, P. Sybarite raised his hat; but before he couldutter the response ready upon his tongue, he was seized by the arm andswung rudely away from the door. At the same time a voice (theproperty of the owner of that unceremonious hand) addressed the porterroughly:

  "Shut that door and send the car along! I'll take charge of thisgentleman!"

  In this speech an accent of irony inhered to exasperate P. Sybarite.Half a hundred people were looking on--listening! Angrily he wrenchedhis arm free.

  "What the devil--!" he cried into the face of the aggressor; and inthe act of speaking, recognised the man as him with whom BayardShaynon had been conversing in the lobby: that putativeparvenu--hard-faced, cold-eyed, middle-aged, fine-trained, awkward inevening dress....

  The hand whose grasp he had broken shifted to his shoulder, closingfingers like steel hooks upon it.

  "If you need a row," the man advised him quietly, "try that again. Ifyou've got good sense--come along quiet'."

  "Where? What for? What right have you--?" P. Sybarite demanded in oneraging breath.

  "I'm the house detective here," the other answered, holding his eyeswith an inexorable glare. And the muscles of his heavy jaw tightenedeven as he tightened his grasp upon the little man's shoulder. "And ifit's all the same to you, we're going to have a quiet little talk inthe office," he added with a jerk of his head.

  A sidelong glance discovered the fact that Marian's car haddisappeared. Doubtless she had gone in ignorance of this outrage,perhaps thinking him accosted by a chance acquaintance. At all events,she was gone, and there was now nothing to be gained from an attemptto bluster the detective down, but deeper shame and the scorn of allbeholders.

  "What do you want?" the little man asked in a more pacific tone.

  "We can talk better inside, unless"--the detective grinnedsardonically--"you want to get out hand-bills about this matter."

  "Let me go, then," said P. Sybarite. "I'll follow you."

  "You've got a better guess than that: you'll go ahead of me," retortedthe other. "And while you're doing it, remember that there's a cop atthe Fifth Avenue door, and I've got a handy little emergency ration inmy pocket--with my hand on the butt of it."

  "Very well," said P. Sybarite, boiling with rage beneath thin ice ofsubmission.

  His shoulder free, he moved forward with a high chin and a challengein his eye for any that dared question his burning face--marched upthe steps through ranks that receded as if to escape pollution, and sore-entered the lobby.

  "Straight ahead," admonished his captor, falling in at his side."First door to the right of the elevators."

  Shoulder to shoulder, the target for two-score grinning or surprisedstares, they strode across the lobby and through the designated door.

  It was immediately closed; and the key, turned in the lock, wasremoved and pocketed by the detective.

  In this room--a small interior apartment, plainly furnished as aprivate office--two people were waiting: a stout, smooth little manwith a moustache of foreign extraction, who on better acquaintanceproved to be the manager of the establishment; the other BayardShaynon, stationed with commendable caution on the far side of theroom, the bulk of a broad, flat-topped mahogany desk fencing him offfrom the wrathful little captive.

  "Well?" this last demanded of the detective the moment they wereprivate.

  "Take it calm', son, take it calm'," counselled the man, his tone notaltogether lacking in good-nature. "There seems to be some question asto your right to attend that party upstairs; we got to investigateyou, for the sake of the rep. of the house. Get me?"

  P. Sybarite drew a long breath. If this were all that Shaynon couldhave trumped up to discomfit him--! He looked that one over with thecurling lip of contempt.

  "I believe it's no crime to enter where you've not been invited,provided you don't force door or window to do it," he observed.

  "You admit--eh?" the manager broke in excitedly--"you have no card ofinvitation, what?"

  "I freely admit I have no card of invitation what or whatever."

  "Then perhaps you'll explain whatcha doing here," suggested thedetective, not without affability.

  "Willingly: I came to find a friend--a lady whose name I don't care tobring into this discussion--unless Mr. Shaynon has forestalled me."

  "Mr. Shaynon has mentioned a lady's name," said the manager with asignificance lost upon P. Sybarite.

  "That," he commented acidly, "is much what might have been expectedof"--here he lifted his shoulders with admirable insolence--"Mr.Shaynon."

  "You saw this lady, then?" the detective put in sharply.

  "Why--yes," P. Sybarite admitted.

  "He not only saw her," Shaynon interpolated with a malicious sneer,"but I saw him see her--and saw him get away with it."

  "Get away with--what?" P. Sybarite asked blankly.

  "Mr. Shaynon," drawled the detective, "says he saw you lift a di'mondbrooch off'n Mrs. Addison Strone, while you was in the elevator."

  And while P. Sybarite gaped, thunderstruck and breathless with therage excited by this groundless accusation, the detective looked toShaynon for confirmation.

  "I stood behind him in the elevator, coming down, ten minutes or soago," the latter stated heavily. "Mrs. Addison Strone was immediatelyin front of him. The cage was badly crowded--no one could move. Butpractically every one else was with friends, you understand--laughing,talking, paying no attention to this--ah--creature. As I got in, Inoticed that Mrs. Strone's brooch, a gold bar set with several largediamonds, was apparently loose--pin had parted from the catch, youknow--and meant to warn her she was in danger of losing it; but Icouldn't, without shouting over this fellow's head, so waited until wegot out; and then, when I managed to get to her, the brooch was gone.Later, I remembered this--fellow--and looking round the lobby, saw himin a corner, apparently concealing something about his person. So Ispoke to you about it."

 
P. Sybarite's face settled into grim lines. "Shaynon," he said slowly,without visible temper, "this won't get you anything but trouble.Remember that, when I come to pay you out--unless you'll have thegrace to retract here and now."

  As if he had not heard, Shaynon deliberately produced a gold case,supplied himself with a cigarette, and lighted it.

  "Meanin', I take it," the detective interpolated, "you plead notguilty?"

  P. Sybarite nodded curtly. "It's a lie, out of whole cloth," hedeclared. "You've only to search me. I'm not strong forthat--mind--and I'm going to make the lot of you smart for thisindignity; but I'm perfectly willing to prove my innocence now, byletting you search me, so long as it affords me an earlier opportunityto catch Mister Shaynon when he hasn't got you to protect him."

  "That's big talk," commended the detective, apparently a littleprepossessed; "and it's all to the good if you can back it up." Herose. "You don't mind my going through your pockets--sure?"

  "Go ahead," P. Sybarite told him shortly.

  "To save time," Shaynon suggested dispassionately, "you might explorehis coat-tail pockets first. It was there that I saw him put away thebrooch."

  Nervously in his indignation, P. Sybarite caught his coat-tails frombeneath his Inverness, dragged them round in front of him, andfumbling, found a pocket.

  Groping therein, his fingers brushed something strange to him--asmall, hard, and irregular body which, escaping his clutches, fellwith a soft thud to the carpet at his feet.

  Transfixed, he stared down, and gulped with horror, shaken by asensation little short of nausea, as he recognised in the object--abar of yellow metal studded with winking brilliants of considerablesize--the brooch described by Shaynon.

  With a noncommittal grunt, the detective stooped and retrieved thisdamning bit of evidence, while the manager moved quickly to his side,to inspect the find. And P. Sybarite looked up with blank eyes in apallid, wizened face in time to see Shaynon bare his teeth--his lipscurling back in a manner peculiarly wolfish and irritating--and snarla mirthless laugh.

  It was something inopportune; the man could have done no better thankeep his peace; left to himself P. Sybarite would in all probabilityhave floundered and blustered and committed himself inextricably in amultitude of hasty and ill-considered protestations.

  But that laugh was as good as a douche of cold water in his face. Hecame abruptly to his senses; saw clearly how this thing had come topass: the temptation of the loose brooch to Shaynon's fingers itchingfor revenge, while they stood so near together in the elevator, theopportunity grasped with the avidity of low cunning, the broochtransferred, under cover of the crush, to the coat-tail pocket.

  Mute in this limpid comprehension of the circumstances, he soberedthoroughly from sickening consternation; remained in his heart a foulsediment of deadly hatred for Shaynon; to whom he nodded with asignificance that wiped the grimace from the man's face as with asponge. Something clearly akin to fear informed Shaynon's eyes. He satforward with an uneasy glance at the door.

  And then P. Sybarite smiled sunnily in the face of the detective.

  "Caught with the goods on, eh?" he chirped.

  "Well," growled the man, dashed. "Now, what do _you_ think?"

  "I'm every bit as much surprised as you are," P. Sybarite confessed."Come now--be fair to me--own up: you didn't expect to see that--didyou?"

  The detective hesitated. "Well," he grudged, "you did have me goin'for a minute--you were so damn' cock-sure--and it certainly is prettyslick work for an amateur."

  "You think I'm an amateur--eh?"

  "I guess I know every map in the Rogues' Gallery as well's the palm ofmy hand!"

  "And mine is not among them?" P. Sybarite insisted triumphantly.

  The detective grunted disdain of this inconclusive argument: "Youall've got to begin. It'll be there to-morrow, all right."

  "It looks bad, eh--not?" the manager questioned, his predacious eyesfixed greedily upon the trinket.

  "You think so?" P. Sybarite purposefully misinterpreted. "Let me see."

  Before the detective could withdraw, P. Sybarite caught the broochfrom his fingers.

  "Bad?" he mused aloud, examining it closely. "Phony? Perhaps it is.Looks like _Article de Paris_ to me. See what you think."

  He returned the trinket indifferently.

  "Nonsense!" Shaynon interposed incisively. "Mrs. Strone's not thatkind."

  "Shut up!" snapped P. Sybarite. "What do you know about it? You'velied yourself out of court already."

  A transitory expression of bewilderment clouded Shaynon's eyes.

  "I'm no judge," the detective announced doubtfully.

  "It makes no difference," Shaynon insisted. "Theft's theft!"

  "It makes a deal of difference whether it's grand or petit larceny,"P. Sybarite flashed--"a difference almost as wide and deep as thatwhich yawns between attempted and successful wife-murder, Mr.Shaynon!"

  His jaw dropped and a look of stupefying terror stamped itself uponShaynon's face.

  It was the turn of P. Sybarite to laugh.

  "Well?" he demanded cuttingly. "Are you ready to come to thestation-house and make a charge against me? I'll go peaceful as a lambwith the kind cop, if by so doing I can take you with me. But if I do,believe me, you'll never get out without a bondsman."

  Shaynon recollected himself with visible effort.

  "The man 's crazy," he muttered sickishly, rising. "I don't know whathe 's talking about. Arrest him--take him to the station-house--whydon't you?"

  "Who'll make the charge?" asked the detective, eyeing Shaynon withoutfavour.

  "Not Bayard Shaynon!" P. Sybarite asseverated.

  "It's not my brooch," Shaynon asserted defensively.

  "You saw him take it," the detective persisted.

  "No--I didn't; I suspected him. It's you who found the brooch on him,and it's your duty to make the charge."

  "You're one grand little lightning-change-of-heart-artist--gotta slipit to you for that," the detective observed truculently. "Now, lis'n:I don't make no charge--"

  "Any employee of the establishment will do as well, for _my_ purpose,"P. Sybarite cut in. "Come, Mr. Manager! How about you? Mr. Shaynondeclines; your detective has no stomach for the job. Suppose you takeon the dirty work--kind permission of Bayard Shaynon, Esquire. I don'tcare, so long as I get my grounds for suit against the Bizarre."

  The manager spread out expostulatory palms. "Me, I have nossingwhatever to do with the matter," he protested. "To me it would seemMrs. Strone should make the charge."

  "Well?" mumbled the detective of Shaynon. "How aboutcha?"

  "Wait," mumbled Shaynon, moving toward the door. "I'll fetch Mrs.Strone."

  "Don't go without saying good-bye," P. Sybarite admonished himseverely. "It isn't pretty manners."

  The door slammed tempestuously, and the little man chuckled with anaffectation of ease to which he was entirely a stranger: ceaselesslyhis mind was engaged with the problem of this trumped-up charge ofShaynon's.

  Was simple jealousy and resentment, a desire to "get even," the wholeexplanation?

  Or was there something of an uglier complexion at the bottom of theaffair?

  His head buzzed with doubts and suspicions, and with misgivings onMarian's behalf but indifferently mitigated by the reflection that, atworst, the girl had escaped unhindered and alone in her private car.By now she ought to be safe at the Plaza....

  "He won't be back," P. Sybarite observed generally to detective andmanager; and sat him down serenely.

  "You feel pretty sure about that?" the detective asked.

  "Wait and see."

  Bending forward, the little man examined the gilt clock on themanager's desk. "Twenty minutes past four," he announced: "I give youten minutes to find some one to make a charge against me--Shaynon,Mrs. What's-her-name, or either of yourselves, if you like the job. Ifyou fail to produce a complainant by half-past four precisely, out ofhere I go--and I'm sorry for the man who tries to stop me."

  The d
etective took a chair, crossed his legs, and produced a cigarwhich he began to trim with tender care. The manager, anxiously pacingthe floor, after another moment or so paused at the door, fidgeted,jerked it open, and with a muffled "Pardon!" disappeared--presumablyin search of Shaynon.

  Striking a match, the detective puffed his cigar aglow. Over its tiphis small eyes twinkled at P. Sybarite.

  "Maybe you're a gentleman crook, and maybe not," he returned with fineimpartiality. "But you're all there, son, with the tongue action. Yougot me still goin' round in circles. Damn 'f I know yet what tothink."

  "Well, if that's your trouble," P. Sybarite told him coolly, "this isyour cue to squat on your haunches, scratch your left ear with yourhind leg, and gaze up into my face with an intelligent expression inyour great brown eyes."

  "I'll do better 'n that," chuckled the man. "Have a cigar."

  "Thank you," said P. Sybarite politely, accepting the peace offering."All I need now is a match: I acknowledge the habit."

  The match supplied, he smoked in silence.

  Four minutes passed, by the clock: no sign of the manager, Shaynon, orMrs. Strone.

  "Story?" the detective suggested at length.

  "Plant," retorted P. Sybarite as tersely.

  "You mean he salted you?"

  "In the elevator, of course."

  "It come to me, that was the way of it when he sprung that bunk stuffabout you coarsely loading said loot into your coat-tail," admittedthe detective. "That didn't sound sensible, even if you did have askirt to fuss into a cab. The ordinary vest-pocket of commercewould've kept it just as close, besides being more natural--easy toget at. Then the guy was too careful to tip me off not to pinch youuntil the lady had went--didn't want her name dragged into it.... Afellow in my job's gotta have a lot of imagination," he concludedcomplacently. "That's why I'm letting you get away with it in thisunprofessional manner."

  "More human than in line with the best literary precedent, eh?"

  "That's me. I seen he was sore when the dame turned him down, too, andstarted right off wondering if maybe it wasn't a jealousy plant. Iseen this sorta thing happen before. Not that I blame him for feelingcut up: that was one swell piece of goods you bundled into numbatwo-thirty."

  P. Sybarite's cigar dropped unheeded from his lips.

  "_What!_" he cried.

  The detective started.

  "Wasn't that the numba of the lady's cab--two-thirty?"

  "Good God!" ejaculated P. Sybarite, jumping up.

  "What's hit you?"

  "I'm going!" the little man announced fiercely.

  "Your time allowance ain't expired by several minutes--"

  "To hell with my time allowance! Try to keep me, if you like!"

  P. Sybarite strode excitedly to the door and jerked it open. Thedetective followed him, puffing philosophically.

  There was no one in sight in the hall.

  "Looks like you got a fine show for a clean getaway," he observedcheerfully between his teeth. "Your friend's beaten it, the boss hasducked the responsibility, and you got _me_ scared to death.Besides--damn 'f I'm going to be the goat that saddles this hash-hutwith a suit for damages."

  His concluding words were addressed to the horizontal folds of theinverness that streamed from the shoulders of P. Sybarite as he boltedunhindered through the Fifth Avenue doorway.