by Joe Meno
This time I nodded, for I was dimly beginning to comprehend that DeLancey, through the help of Tzhorka, contemplated tampering with this pair of suspended cables, thus interfering with the light supply of the Bascom residence.
“Late last night,” DeLancey went on, “Tzhorka, dressed in a complete lineman’s outfit, went up the pole that stands on the outer edge of the Bascom estate and spliced on to one of these cables a so-called single-pole, single-throw switch with carbon contacts. Then, after lashing the inner span to the crossarm by means of a small block-and-tackle and what he terms a come-along, Tzhorka cut the cable completely through with a hacksaw. The whole arrangement, quite inconspicuous in itself, is in addition hidden by the foliage of a nearby tree.”
“Then the current that feeds the Bascom estate,” I exclaimed triumphantly, “is now passing through this switch. But how—”
“Yes. And if you had used those latent—nay, dormant—faculties of observation that are in you, you would have noticed also that the great French latticed windows of the Bascom dining room are in direct line with that outermost pole. In other words, my dear fellow, if Tzhorka should be astride that crossarm in the darkness of tomorrow night, watching our dinner table intently through a pair of high-power field glasses, and he should see—er—a certain individual, myself for instance, raise his hand to his head and pat down his hair—say—twice in succession, he might easily slip on a pair of blue goggles and pull the handles of that switch. The house, stable, garage, kitchens, and everything would be without electric light, instantly, until such time that—”
“For thirty seconds—”
“After which,” DeLancey concluded coolly, “Tzhorka, consulting the second hand of his watch, would throw back the switch. Then the lights would go on and—”
“You idiot, you rash, foolhardy numbskull,” I raged, rising up from my chair in agitation, “a search would be immediately ordered by Bascom when anywhere from one to twenty-nine of those guests, not counting the countess herself, discovers that this necklace that adorns her neck is missing. You can’t—”
“Which brings us face to face with another one of your questions, T.B. What can I do if one or two of those guests prove to be the usual Pinkertons and lock the doors in order to make a thorough search? A neat problem, isn’t it?”
“Far, far too neat,” I replied bitterly. “DeLancey, get this project out of your mind. You can’t do it, I tell you. If you kept the necklace on your person—they would get it sure. And even if you were able to hide it some place during the thirty seconds that Tzhorka, five hundred yards away, holds open the switch, everyone would be watched so closely that you could not dare to regain it.” I stopped, disheartened. “And what part am I to play in this affair, as I asked you once?”
“Nothing, this time, lad. All that you need to do in the darkness is to draw back your chair and rise, as no doubt some of the men and most of the ladies will. You might rattle a dish or two, if handy. Just add to the general confusion, for beyond that I have no definite part for you to play.”
I leaned forward and placed my hand on DeLancey’s shoulder. “DeLancey, give up this mad idea. I tell you the thing is impossible. Your arrangements are characteristic of the thoroughness that always surrounds your work, and to a certain degree admirable. But I tell you frankly this particular feat cannot be accomplished. It cannot.” I leaned forward still farther. “Listen to me, old man. Give it up. Why must you take these chances? Why—”
“Enough, T.B.,” he calmly interrupted me. “I’ve been planning this for several days. When I first studied that Cordova necklace in Madrid, just after the old count parted with it for a wedding gift, I felt a strange desire—almost a hope—that I might place my fingers on it within another ten years. I tell you I counted every stone: I feasted my eyes on their pureness, their scintillations, their unusual brilliancy. I studied even the clasp, so obsessed did I become with the thing and the possibilities for removing it. Not content with that, I looked up the records and valuation of the necklace in the Spanish Royal Archives of the Library Madrid. And then and there I determined that the Cordova line—money lenders, interest sharks, blood suckers as they have been for the past five generations—should pay toll at least to the thousandth part of what they themselves have stolen.”
I knew that DeLancey’s decision was final, for there, in his last statement, was his whole philosophy of theft summed up. Never yet had I known him to lay a finger on the property of anyone except those scattered individuals who amassed their wealth by extortion and trickery. So I saw full well that all the arguments in the world would prove to be useless now.
I made no more attempts at dissuading him from his purpose. Instead, I tried with all my ability to induce him to tell me just what method he expected to follow in order to leave Bascom’s house with this $100,000 necklace in his possession. Did he intend, perhaps, to toss it from the French window? No, he claimed, for the coolness of the late fall weather was too great to count on the possibility of those windows being open. More than that he refused to say. And yet it seemed that some scheme, some rational, logical procedure, was mapped out in his brain, if he had gone to the trouble of securing Tzhorka’s services in tampering with the electric cables that fed the Bascom estate.
After a quarter of an hour of vain questioning, I gave it up, for he proved adamantine this time in his resolve not to allow me to enter his plans. He persisted in arguing that, since I could be of no assistance whatever in this instance, it was best that I remain in total ignorance of what was to take place. And finally he seized his silk hat and ordered me to drop the whole subject and come for a stroll along Michigan Boulevard.
I confess that I did not sleep very well that night, for something seemed to tell me that tomorrow was the last day that we should be together; that the following evening was to end disastrously for DeLancey. But as I slipped into a bathrobe in the morning, I met DeLancey himself, emerging from his cold plunge, pink cheeked, smiling, totally lacking the slightest shadow under his eyes. Truly, it seemed as though there was nothing in the world that could disturb the man’s equanimity.
After finishing the breakfast that was brought up to our suite, DeLancey donned his cape, took up his hat and walking stick, and pressed the button that summoned a taxicab.
“Now, my dear fellow,” he said, “I may be away all day today as I have been during the past two days. Can you exist without me?”
“I thought that perhaps we should have this last day together—a trip to the country, for instance. But here you go off again—on that mysterious business that’s been keeping you for two days now. If something unusual should develop, where could I find you?”
He wrinkled up his brows. “Well—I may as well tell you my whereabouts are uncertain. But for the present I’m off to old Moses Stein’s shop on Halsted Street, ostensibly to make a purchase, but in reality to conclude the details for disposing of this necklace before we leave for Australia. I may be gone for—”
“Old Stein, the jewel shark? The fence?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re still confident that you are to have everything your own way in stealing this necklace? That you can deliberately walk out of the house with it? That you will not make a single mistake?”
“Not absolutely confident,” he said simply. “But old Stein knows that necklace as he knows pretty nearly everything of value in the world of jewels, and he has agreed to pay over 60 percent of the intrinsic value of those stones. And I, in turn, have agreed to place it in his hands by midnight tonight. So you see, T.B., there is no recrossing of the Rubicon.” He paused a moment. “I may be gone the greater part of the day. Since we dare not employ a valet, you might, if you will, lay out my evening clothes, studs, and gloves at six o’clock tonight—and order the taxicab for seven thirty. The dinner is scheduled for nine, and we must allow at least an hour and a half to reach Rogers Park.”
And without even allowing me to put forth one last argument, he slipp
ed from our apartment. A second later I heard the clang of the descending elevator in the outer hallway.
That day was surely an unpleasant one for me. It seemed as though the fear of a slip-up haunted me this time far more than it had in all DeLancey’s previous affairs in which I had participated. I tried to read, but my attention failed utterly to stay with the printed page. I tried to smoke, but invariably my cigar grew cold in my fingers while I became lost in my own abstractions.
What plans DeLancey had contrived I could not imagine. Why had he been so rash as to take the old jewel fence, Moses Stein, into his confidence on the subject of the Cordova necklace? Yet I knew, too, that on more than one occasion DeLancey had consulted with the old man on various jobs. One thing, at least, was certain: in dealing with old Stein he was dealing with an individual who knew the exact value and description of every piece of jewelry in the world of any historical value. In fact, it was Stein who outbid Ranseer, the mad gem collector, for possession of Castor and Pollux, a year or more before, and that without ever having seen the stones, so well did he know their size, color, shape, cutting, and purity. So no doubt he knew the Cordova necklace as well, if he had agreed on a finite sum to be paid over for it.
The day dragged by interminably.
I spent the afternoon walking along Michigan Boulevard and returning to the apartment at intervals of an hour, feverishly looking for DeLancey to put in an appearance. Came two o’clock, three o’clock, four o’clock. At five o’clock the afternoon light faded. As darkness came on, I laid out his evening clothes and his studs. Then I ordered the taxicab for seven thirty. And when this was done, I heard six o’clock tinkle from the tiny onyx clock on our mantel.
What in heaven’s name, I wondered vaguely, could be keeping him? Mysterious as his movements had been in the last two days, he not yet remained away so late as this. Where had he gone after leaving Moses Stein’s? Or was he still lolling in the old man’s Halsted Street shop?
Came six thirty o’clock—and DeLancey!
He bustled into the apartment and quickly locked the door behind him. I was making a poor attempt at dressing for the Bascom dinner. He glanced hurriedly at his watch and slipped into his own bedroom without a word, where I heard him splashing about in his tub a few moments later.
But just as I looked from the boulevard window at seven thirty and saw the lights of our taxicab as it drew up to the curbing far down in the darkness below, he emerged from his room, dressed in his immaculate evening clothes, debonair as ever, smiling as though the fortunes of the night meant nothing to him one way or the other.
We descended to the taxicab and started out on the long journey to Rogers Park. DeLancey persisted, however, in chatting about a host of trivial subjects, the very discussion of which required all my self-restraint and composure. But when I touched ever so lightly on the subject of the Cordova necklace, he frowned and quickly changed the subject.
It was a quarter to nine when we rolled up Sheridan Road and turned in between the two great ornamental iron fence posts that marked the entrance to the Bascom grounds. A short drive farther over a gravel road between two tall blackthorn hedges brought us to a grating stop at the steps of the mansion itself. A second later an obsequious footman was opening the door of the cab.
So now the die was cast, for no more that evening—perhaps forever—could I have even a single secret word with DeLancey.
As I mingled with the guests in the drawing room, I tried my best to appear composed and completely at ease. Old Garrard Bascom passed from group to group, and shortly catching sight of me, standing alone and forlorn, introduced me to a pretty debutante who was to be my partner at the table. And I confess that my conversation held forth little promise of an entertaining evening for her, for my attention persisted in straying around the great room, from one individual to another.
Jewels there were a-plenty. They flashed from the earlobes of most of the women, and from the shirt bosoms of some of the men. Here and there a pearl necklace could be seen, and once I caught sight of a flashing diamond stomacher adorning the person of a huge, powdered, beruffled dowager. The Cordova necklace, however, was the one object which I seemed unable to locate.
But suddenly I caught sight of both it and its owner—and DeLancey as well, seated on a divan which was almost concealed from my view by a huge fern. Truly, there could be no doubt that the rather faded woman who sat looking up at DeLancey was the Countess of Cordova, for when she tossed her head coquettishly at his no doubt complimentary sallies, the sinuous coil around her white throat seemed to emit a veritable stream of colored fire. As for him, however, he seemed quite oblivious to it. All preliminaries, though, must come to an end. Yet, when the butler appeared in the wide doorway and announced dinner, my heart persisted in giving a strange leap. But I gave my arm to my partner and I followed the guests to the dining room.
Matters there were just as DeLancey had stated they would be. The French latticed windows were tightly shut. Plainly, then, he must carry the Cordova necklace out of the house himself if it were to be carried away at all. As I dropped into my chair I could see far, far off through the window the twinkling lights of a passing automobile on Sheridan Road, and I found myself wondering what thoughts were running through Tzhorka’s head as he crouched on the wooden crossarm at the outermost edge of the estate and surveyed this laughing, chatting assemblage through the field glasses that DeLancey had mentioned.
As chance would have it, I found myself seated across from DeLancey and the countess. Several times during the first few moments I tried to catch his eye, but his whole attention seemed to be concentrated on arousing the inherent vanity of the woman who sat at his side. And since I could not hear a word of what he was saying, so great was the babble of conversation and the chink of glasses, I determined to conceal my nervousness to the best of my ability and to pay more attention to my partner.
Course after course proceeded with clockwork regularity. That the preliminary cocktails had mounted to the heads of some of the younger members was plain, for their laughter grew stronger and more strident. Old Bascom, from his position at the head of the table, beamed in turn on everyone, and the servants passed mechanically and noiselessly from chair to chair. And as nothing happened, I commenced wondering whether DeLancey had changed his plans at the last moment.
My gaze kept up a rather rapid circuit from the chattering young woman at my side, to the top of DeLancey’s smoothly brushed black hair, to the string of sparkling brilliants around the countess’s neck, to two of the guests who sat at the very end of the long table. Somehow I felt instinctively that they were not of the same world as the rest of those people, for the man’s jaws were too strong, and his close-cropped mustache seemed to proclaim the plainclothes man to such an extent that his perfect evening dress was considerably out of keeping with the rest of him. As for the young woman at his side, she had too much of an alert, businesslike air about her, and complexion that showed too well the absence of the trained masseur—and the French maid.
Yet nothing happened.
The last course was brought to the table, and a few moments later its empty dishes were removed. Then the tinkling glasses of iced crême-de-menthe were carried in and distributed. And just as I had concluded with a sigh of relief that DeLancey had given up his scheme, he performed precisely the gesture that I had been seeing in my mind’s eye for the past twenty-four hours.
He raised his right hand carelessly to the top of his head and patted his hair twice.
Almost automatically I turned my own head and gazed in the direction of the latticed window—only far out and beyond, into the darkness. It seemed that several long seconds elapsed. But when I detected a bright point of light breaking into being a quarter mile distant, I knew that Tzhorka was playing his part. Almost on the heels of this momentary flash, the lights on the chandelier above the table, as well as the tiny frosted bulbs along the fresco work on the walls, dimmed—and went completely dark.
I
n the profound blackness that ensued, only an intense stillness, the stillness of utter surprise, followed. Then came a chorus of exclamations, which, with a ripple or two of laughter, served to break the silence. On top of this, a number of chairs were drawn hastily back from the table, and I heard a rumble of anger from the direction of old Bascom’s place.
At this juncture, a succession of peculiar, almost indistinguishable sounds struck my ear, for I, of all that assemblage, was expecting them. I heard a slight snip, then a sharp sound as though some light object had struck the opposite wall of the room. Following this came the faintest suggestion of a metallic tinkle. But on top of that a woman’s alarming scream sounded forth: “My necklace—”
Almost instantly, it seemed, a match was struck on the underside of a chair, and as it flared up I saw with surprise that it was in DeLancey’s hand, and that he was standing erect looking dumbfoundedly down at the countess.
“Get matches—or lights—or something, some of you men,” he commanded sharply. “The countess has fainted—and her necklace is gone from her throat. Bascom, lock the doors. Don’t let a man—”
But his words were interrupted by the instantaneous bursting into radiance of the great chandelier above the table.
The thirty seconds were over.
And it was just as DeLancey had cleverly announced, for, as far as I could see, he had deliberately drawn suspicion to himself in order to bolster up his own unpleasant position. The countess sat slumped up in her chair, in a dead faint. DeLancey stood above her, still holding the blackened match stub. And every guest, without exception, was staring open-mouthed at her white throat, now utterly devoid of a single diamond.
This last tableau lasted for only an instant. Then the man with the close-cropped mustache, whom I had suspected all along of being an employee of the Pinkerton system, crossed the floor rapidly and planted his back to the door, at the same time throwing back his coat and displaying a shining steel badge. Almost as quickly, a young society man next to him crossed to the French latticed window and took up a position there.
