He resumed his pacing up and down, up and down. The problem had come upon him so suddenly that he had not had time to realize the hopelessness of the situation. Suddenly he stopped. He went to the desk where he had thrown down a paper when he had come in, the newspaper which he had been reading on the way out to the St. Giles Lane house. He ran his eye across the captions of the front page, and then, paper in hand, dropped into his swivel chair once more. He fastened his gaze on the other.
“Cary, you say you’re sent on a vacation tonight — that the bank examiner comes tomorrow. If the money could be raised tonight — would there be any way by which you could straighten out your accounts before he starts in?”
“Indeed there would,” replied the younger man. “I could stop off at the bank in the morning with my fishing tackle and valises as though I were going on a trip, and substitute the money for a packet which contains blank paper. But how — how am I going to do it?”
“Yes — how?” repeated Carson helplessly. His brow was creased into fine lines. “Cary, what have you done with your old invention — the Cary Desmond Burglar-Proof Safe? Have you ever tried to patent it?”
Cary shook his head. “No. The safe is still down in the basement of the St. Giles Lane house, gathering dust. Frankly, Cliff, since working it out, I’ve been in doubt that any Safe Company in America would be interested in it as a commercial proposition. And then, too, the patenting expenses — I haven’t felt able to spare the money for the fees, particularly after what it cost me that time to rent that little foundry and cast the thing up secretly according to my own specifications. But — but what’s that got to do with my present situation?”
“It’s got something to do with it — and yet — ” Carson wrinkled up his forehead once more. “And yet — I don’t see exactly where it has a solution for our case, considering the few hours left us.” He paused. “Here, read this afternoon edition of the News. The Reggie and Dolly van Twillingham divorce case, as you undoubtedly know, has resulted in some mighty bitter and sensational charges being bandied back and forth. They’ve been published far and wide, for they make good newspaper copy. And why wouldn’t they, considering that Reggie van Twillingham is worth fifty million at a conservative estimate? In case you’ve been too busy reading the ticker tape on Black Dragon Copper, I’ll merely rehearse one or two of the citations. Reggie charges Dolly with receiving typewritten pseudo-business letters from the co-respondent in the case, some melancholy Italian baritone, in which certain messages were conveyed in code, such as for instance when the letters constituting her name, like ‘Dear Mrs. van Twillingham,’ were spaced out, or the letters constituting the signature, like ‘Smith and Brown, Furriers,’ were similarly treated. So much for that. She charges back that Reggie rigged up a man-trap — a sawed-off shotgun pointing to his library safe in his Astor Street home and dischargeable by the breaking of a thread, for the sole and only purpose of despatching her. That last charge is a most serious one. It has resulted in Reggie van Twillingham’s issuing an important bulletin in today’s papers. He offers the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars cash for an idea — an unpatented one — to be solely his, the idea being a method of protecting or constructing a safe that no burglar can crack without travelling post-haste across the river Styx. I daresay he figures that the publicity attendant on his paying out such a sum is worth nearly twenty-five thousand dollars to him towards removing the stigma caused by Dolly’s charge, but there is also this to be considered: The van Twillingham mansion has been twice burglarized in the past five years, its safe cracked each time, and a goodly number of family jewels made away with. Consequently, regardless of the valuable publicity, I think Reggie van Twillingham is sincere in trying to evolve a safe that will put the next cracksman down and out.”
Cary stared unbelievingly. “Oh, Cliff — maybe — maybe there’s a chance for us to save the day for me yet. To save the day for both of us. Maybe my solution — our solution — lies there. Heavens, Cliff, let’s lose no time. Where can van Twillingham be found? Let’s ring him at once. It’s a chance — but it’s the only one I’ve — we’ve — got.”
Carson shook his head. “Take it easy,” he said. “Van Twillingham is somewhere on his way East now, on some secret and personal business. Perhaps connected with his divorce case, who knows? He made the offer by way of the newspaper reporters just before leaving this morning. His divorce trial is postponed for a few days. He doesn’t get back till Thursday morning. He has arranged to see aspirants for the prize all day Thursday at his Astor Street residence.”
“Then it’s all up,” said Cary hopelessly, “for this is only Monday. It’s all up.”
“Well, with Mrs. Galioto not coming in here before Thursday, it isn’t all up so far as paying her the ten thousand dollars for her stock certificate goes,” agreed Carson. “But,” he added ruefully, “it’s certainly up so far as the time goes — with respect to your deficit at the bank. In the first place, Thursday won’t do you any good with a bank examiner coming down on your books tomorrow. And in the second place, there’ll be literally dozens and dozens of aspirants for that prize. You’ll be only one of many people trying to pull down that money. I have always felt that that idea of yours is the nearest one that will ever be evolved towards making a safe impregnable — secure against all comers; and if anyone has a better scheme, I’d give a good deal to know what it is. While your idea is adaptable chiefly to a man who has the money to thoroughly carry it out, van Twillingham has the money. Of course his offer is in many respects an expensive and drastic effort to refute the imputations cast against him by his wife’s charges, but this doesn’t mean that the best idea submitted Thursday won’t pull down the prize.” Carson bit his underlip in his own agitation of thought. “But Thursday might as well be a year from Thursday for any good it can do us on the bank matter. That’s plain. Oh, for only some word that your father is alive. If we could get it, we could hold back on that quitclaim tomorrow, go to the bank and explain that your father owns a half-share in that rich tract in new Outer Ravenswood, and possibly stave off the publicity and prosecution until the bank could learn from him what he was willing to do with regards to your defalcation.” Carson shook his head and heaved a sigh that might better have come from the other.
As for Cary Desmond he remained silent a long while, sunk in his own thoughts. At last he straightened up in his chair. He spoke. His voice had taken on a marked calmness, a resignation. “Cliff, old man, don’t rouse yourself all up about my miserable mess. I’ve done you in badly enough — although God knows, as I explained, it wasn’t intentional so far as your affairs went — and you’ve got quite enough to worry about — what I’ve just handed you! So far as my end goes, I’m going to take my medicine, and take it without a whimper. In my first panic after I left the bank today I had a wild idea that maybe there would be some way to save me. And I hot-footed it over to you. But I realize mighty well that there is no way. I’ve done it; that ends it. I’m more sorry, Cliff, for you — and in turn for you and Marcia — than I am for myself. I’ve been a selfish rotter. If I had it to do all over again I’d cut out living in fashionable bachelor apartments, and I’d stay home with Marcia and Granddad — I’d help stoke the furnace in winter, and put up screens in summer, and contribute part of my money to keeping things up. I’d see that the little kid had an easier row to hoe. But what’s the use now of saying what I’d do? I’ve shot my bolt. And since I’ve come to you in advance, it will give you a chance to break the news to Marcia before the publicity. I’m going on back to my rooms now. In the morning I’m going straight back to the bank while the examiner is there. I’m going to confess — I’m going to take my medicine.” He laughed, just a little bit hysterically. “As for tonight, it’ll be my last free one for eight or nine years. I’m going to make it one to remember. I’m going on to the Earl Carroll Vanities that I already had a ticket for, and I’m going to have some glorious feed after it in the toniest restaurant in town.” He laug
hed again, the tone of the laugh showing that he was slightly unstrung. “I’ve got twenty dollars, Cliff. I’m going to spend ‘em all before the doors of the county jail close on me.” He fumbled down in his breast pocket and drew up a slender length of printed paper on which some written words had evidently been filled in. “But before I go, I’d better give you this — which unfortunately isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.”
“What is it?” Carson said gruffly. He took it from the other’s outstretched fingers.
“A note — my promissory note for ten thousand dollars — the value of that stock certificate that I did you out of.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Worth nothing, old chap, but it’s written evidence at least that I’m in on you to the tune of ten thou. I’m also going to write you a letter tonight stating all the facts, and you’ll have that too.” He laughed unhappily. “Won’t do you any good — ”
“No, I know it, but I’ll take it,” put in Carson, folding up the paper. “As you say, it’s at least some sort of evidence anyway that I didn’t default with the certificate.” He tucked it away in his own breast pocket. He looked at his watch. “As a matter of fact, I’m going to think hard, Cary. In the meantime where can I get you by telephone if I have to?”
“At the Bradley Arms on Oak Street till seven o’clock tonight,” said the young fellow in a low voice. “After that I’ll be at the Selwyn Theatre — in seat C-3-Center. Then the Club Madrid till about 1 A.M. Then home. And that winds up my career as a disciple of the gay life.” He rose and put on his derby hat. “Thanks, Cliff, for not bawling me out. Heaven knows I hate myself all over badly enough as it is. You’re a real thoroughbred. You haven’t made it worse.”
“I couldn’t do that,” replied Carson miserably. “I’ve got an awful job ahead of me — to have to tell Marcia about it.” He paused. A sudden dreadful explanation of that promissory note occurred to him. He looked at the other sharply. “Now whatever you do, don’t do anything rash, Cary. No suicide — nothing like that, boy. I have one last desperate attempt to make. I might as well tell you what it is. I’m going to Matthias Smock — I’m going to try to raise his ante for the price of your father’s quitclaim — I’m going to try to make him pay twenty thousand dollars for it instead of two thousand dollars. If by any chance I could — you can square yourself all around. And if I could get him to pay just a half of that — we could still save you at the bank.”
Cary paused in the door. “Good old Cliff. Always working like the devil for somebody else. But, old man, you’ll never succeed. You don’t know Father’s cousin as Marcia and I do. Smock is as hard as nails, and equally as stubborn. He wouldn’t budge one dollar over the amount he has offered. Anyway — Cliff — find out from the bank in the morning where I’m locked up, and communicate with me there. Good-bye.”
And he left, the door closing behind him. Carson, releasing the button latch of that same door, dropped once more unhappily back into his own chair. And thus he sat amid his own melancholy reflections when a figure darkened the glazed pane, and then entered. Looking in the direction of the visitor, Carson found it to be no other than Mr. Jake Jennings, who, true to his statement over the telephone, was on the minute. Mr. Jennings made a somewhat exaggerated bow, and dropped down upon the edge of the visitor’s chair. He drew from his pocket a thick roll of money. “Won’t take up a minute of your time, my boy. Just sixty seconds — no more. Came in to settle up with you for that little advertising bill of mine.” He opened the roll and looked up expectantly. “What did she come to? I saw the ad in the last edition of tonight’s Post, just out on the stands.”
“The bill for the advertising plus the broadcast, Mr. Jennings,” Carson informed him, “came to exactly $103.35, but the ads can be canceled before they have completed their three-day runs. That would reduce the charges. Care to see the separate items? And incidentally, the ad will go on the air tonight.”
Mr. Jennings waved away the very suggestion with a grandiloquent forward movement of his fat palm. He peeled from his plethoric roll in quick succession ten worn ten-dollar bills, a worn two and a greasy one-dollar note, which separate pile he topped with a silver quarter and a dime from his pants pocket. “There you are,” he said genially. “Correct to the last penny you’ll find it. Receipt? Forget it, young man. Gentlemen don’t need receipts, eh, what?” He returned his roll to his pocket, and lighted a cigar. “Well, I won’t detain you, for I suppose you’re busy. Nice little place you’ve got here. Perhaps some day you’ll tell me just what sort of business this is?” He gazed with undisguised curiosity about the nondescript walls, but pressed the question no further. “Well, I’m off.” He rose. “I’ve all the confidence in the world that we’ll locate this Zuri snake, and that you and the little lady will be richer by two hundred and fifty dollars when we do. I only hope that we locate the right one. Always a chance, you know, that in a big city like Chicago there might be one or two in captivity — and somebody owning one of ‘em might try to put it over on us. Won’t do. Won’t do at all. I’ll catch ‘em if they try anything like that. Just you call in Jake Jennings as soon as you get hold of a Zuri, and he’ll know the right one soon’s he gives it the once-over. I’m saying so!”
But Carson was paying less attention to the man’s blatant talk than he was to the latter’s left hand. The old-fashioned square blue-white diamond that had reposed there earlier in the day was now gone, as well as was the indisputably Chinese ring in which it sat, that ring which showed two Buddhas joined waist to waist. And suddenly something came over Carson with remarkable swiftness: There were others than Cary in the world who were operating on shoestrings. Mr. Jake Jennings had had to pawn his ring to provide the advertising expenses alone toward securing the Zuri snake. Where and how was he going to raise two hundred and fifty dollars, let alone one thousand dollars, toward rewarding the finder and paying his agents? On the other hand, perhaps the disappearance of the ring was merely a symptom of a purely temporary financial stringency of Mr. Jennings. At least it was too early in the game to endeavor to catalogue Mr. Jennings in the realm of things pecuniary.
So Carson rose. His reply was quiet, businesslike. “Good-bye, Mr. Jennings. I’ll call you promptly at the National Hotel the minute anything material develops from the ad.”
Mr. Jake Jennings bowed. His heavy watch chain flapped across his vest. His flabby muscles hung out as he projected his torso from the vertical position to the horizontal position and back again. His tricky, crafty grey eyes held a peculiar gleam in them. Then he was gone.
Again Carson dropped back to his desk. He dismissed Mr. Jennings promptly from his mind, and once more fell to thinking upon this thing that Cary Desmond had propelled into his affairs. Could that unpleasant and unhappy contretemps yet, in some way, affect Carson’s own marriage to the little brown-eyed girl on St. Giles Lane? He sighed deeply. Then he listlessly took up his afternoon’s mail which lay stacked upon his desk.
One by one he opened the envelopes with his slender steel opener. A long-delayed receipt from the agents of the building for the first month’s office rent, relayed around from Washington, came in one: in another, a proof of the photograph he had loaned one of the newspaper reporters who had written up the new Bureau of Mining Stock Investigation; a quotation on bungalows, which he had requested from a contractor, came in the third. A fourth held a short letter of congratulation from a former classmate at the College of Mines; and a fifth contained an analysis of a suspicious mineral sample submitted to a chemist. One by one he disposed of the various contents, and at last only a big legal-size envelope with typewritten address remained. It bore no return card in the upper left-hand corner, he noted absently, as he slit it open. And when on withdrawing the contents he found those contents consisted only of a pink advertising blotter, he reached with the fingers of one hand in his vest pocket for the key to his desk drawers so that he could lock up and call the day closed. But he was destined not to withdraw that key, for as he flipped over the blotter wit
h his free hand to see whose advertisement was printed upon its glazed surface, a peculiar electrical shock seemed to flow through his being. There on that glazed white surface was no advertisement, but a message — not a message written by hand, but one carefully spelled out by the leaden slugs of a printer’s case. It bore two names and two only. One of those names belonged to the man whose eyes devoured its significant letters — the other belonged to one who was both presumably dead and missing. And as Carson continued to rivet his eyes unbelievingly upon the few words which stared back at him in bright black type, by some devious mechanism of psychology the van Twillingham divorce suit, now filling the papers, and particularly that part of the suit which devolved about Reggie van Twillingham’s charges against Dolly van Twillingham, flowed through Carson’s mind like a strip of celluloid, lightning-fast in its speed. The name at the top — the name at the bottom — but only the names — were deliberately, meticulously spaced out. And with a palpable irregularity, moreover, designed to call attention unequivocally to that very fact. And thus they presented their brief injunction — a veritable flash from out the dark: —
As though riveted in that position, one hand still hooked on the pocket containing his desk key, one hand holding the blotter, Carson continued to stare down at the glazed surface with its black type. “Do as you like with the money in your hands for thirty days,” he repeated slowly. “Do as you like — ” He removed his hand from his key pocket, and sat back in his swivel chair, still trying to collect his thoughts. He gazed unbelievingly at the message. “To me — and from Henry Desmond. What — what — does it mean? What can it mean? ‘The money in your hands.’ “ He seized the big empty envelope and peered into it, in every corner. There was no money there. He glimpsed its postmark now, and found that it had been mailed from Hammond, Indiana. He looked down at the floor. There was nothing there. He picked up the blotter again. Money? There was no money in his hand. Only a simple rectangle of blotting paper stock with its porous pink side unsmirched by even the tiniest drop of ink — with its opposite side of white glazed paper bearing thirteen cryptic words signed in type only by the last name in the world Carson ever anticipated receiving through the mails. Could it be a hoax — a practical joke — played by someone who had access to a printer’s case and who knew that he was the man who was going to marry Marcia Desmond?
The Riddle of the Yellow Zuri Page 8
