Love Insurance

by Earl Derr Biggers

  However, it was not his appearance that excited comment and caused Miss Meyrick to pale. Hung over his shoulders was a pair of sandwich boards such as the outcasts of a great city carry up and down the streets. And on the front board, turned full toward Miss Meyrick's dinner party, was printed in bold black letters:

  I

  AM

  THE

  REAL

  LORD

  HARROWBY

  With a little gasp and a murmured apology, Miss Meyrick turned quickly and entered the elevator. Lord Harrowby stood like a man of stone, gazing at the sandwich boards.

  It was at this point that the hotel detective sufficiently recovered himself to lay eager hands on the audacious sandwich man and propel him violently from the scene.

  In the background Mr. Minot perceived Henry Trimmer, puffing excitedly on a big black cigar, a triumphant look on his face.

  Mr. Trimmer's bomb was thrown.

  Chapter 6

  TEN MINUTES OF AGONY

  ALL I ask, Mister Harrowby, is that you consent to a short interview with your brother."

  Mr. Trimmer was speaking. The time was noon of the following day, and Trimmer faced Lord Harrowby in the sitting-room of his lordship's hotel suite. Also present—at Harrowby's invitation—were Martin Wall and Mr. Minot.

  His lordship turned his gray eyes on Trimmer's eager face. He could make those eyes fishy when he liked—he made them so now.

  "He is not my brother," he said coldly, "and I shall not see him. May I ask you not to call me Mr. Harrowby?"

  "You may ask till you're red in your noble face," replied Trimmer, firm in his disrespect. "But I shall go on calling you 'Mister' just the same. I call you that because I know the facts. Just as I call your poor cheated brother, who was in this hotel last night between sandwich boards, Lord Harrowby."

  "Really," said his lordship, "I see no occasion for prolonging this interview."

  Mr. Trimmer leaned forward. He was a big man, but his face was incongruously thin—almost ax-like. The very best sort of face to thrust in anywhere—and Trimmer was the very man to do the thrusting without batting an eye.

  "Do you deny," he demanded with the air of a prosecutor, "that you had an older brother by the name of George?"

  "I certainly do not," answered Lord Harrowby. "George ran off to America some twenty-two years ago. He died in a mining camp in Arizona twelve years back. There is no question whatever about that. We had it on the most reliable authority."

  "A lot of lies," said Trimmer, "can be had on good authority. This situation illustrates that. Do you think, Mr. Harrowby, that I'd be wasting my time on this proposition if I wasn't dead sure of my facts. Why, poor old George has the evidence in his possession. Incontrovertible proofs. It wouldn't hurt you to see him and look over what he has to offer."

  "Your lordship," Minot suggested, "you know that I am your friend and that my great desire is to see you happily married next week. In order that nothing may happen to prevent, I think you ought to see—"

  "This impostor," cut in his lordship haughtily. "No, I can not. This is not the first time adventurers have questioned the Harrowby title. The dignity of our family demands that I refuse to take any notice whatsoever."

  "Go on," sneered Trimmer. "Hide behind your dignity. When I get through with you you won't have enough left to conceal your stick-pin."

  "Trimmer," said Martin Wall, speaking for the first time, "how much money do you want?"

  Mr. Trimmer kept his temper admirably.

  "Your society has not corrupted me, Mr. Wall," he said sweetly. "I am not a blackmailer. I am simply a publicity man. I'm working on a salary which Lord Harrowby—the real Lord Harrowby—is to pay me when he comes into his own. I've handled successfully in publicity campaigns prima donnas, pills, erasers, perfumes, holding companies, race horses, soups and society leaders. It isn't likely that I shall fall down on this proposition. For the last time, Mr. Allan Harrowby, will you see your brother?"

  "Lord Harrowby, if I were you—" Minot began.

  "My dear fellow." His lordship raised one slim hand. "It is quite impossible. Which, I take it, terminates our talk with Mr. Trimmer."

  "Yes," said Mr. Trimmer, rising. "Except for one thing. Our young friend here, when he urges you to grant my request, is giving a correct imitation of a wise head on youthful shoulders. He's an American, and he knows about me—about Henry Trimmer. I guess you never heard, Mr. Harrowby, what I did for Cotrell's Ink Eraser—"

  "Come on," said Mr. Wall militantly, "erase yourself."

  "For the moment, I will," smiled Mr. Trimmer. "But I warn you, Mr. Harrowby, you are going to be sorry. You aren't up against any piker in publicity—no siree. That little sandwichboard stunt of mine last night was just a starter. I'm going to take the public into partnership. Put it up to the people—that's my motto."

  "Good day, sir," snapped Lord Harrowby.

  "Put it up to the people. And when I pull off the little trick I thought of this morning, you're going to get down before me on your noble knees, and beg off. I warn you. Good day, gentlemen. And may I add one simple request on parting? Watch Trimmer!"

  He went out, slamming the door behind him. Mr. Wall rose and walked rapidly toward a decanter.

  "Rather tough on you, Lord Harrowby," he remarked, pouring himself a drink. "Especially just now. The fresh bounder! Ought to have been kicked out of the room."

  "An impostor," snorted Harrowby. "A1 rank impostor."

  "Of course." Mr. Wall set down his glass. "But don't worry. If Trimmer gets too obstreperous, I'll take care of him myself. I guess I'll be going back to the yacht."

  After Wall's departure, Minot and Harrowby sat staring at each other for a long moment.

  "See here, your lordship," said Minot at last. "You know why I'm in San Marco. That wedding next Tuesday must take place without fail. And I can't say that I approve of your action just now—"

  "My dear boy," Harrowby interrupted soothingly, "I appreciate your position. But there was nothing to be gained by seeing Mr. Trimmer's friend. The Meyricks were distressed, naturally, by that ridiculous sandwich-board affair last evening, but they have made no move to call off the wedding on account of it. The best thing to do, I'm sure, is to let matters take their course. I might be able to prove that chap's claims false—and then again I mightn't, even if I knew they were false. And—there is a third possibility."

  "What is that?"

  "He might really be—George."

  "But you said your brother died, twelve years ago.

  "That is what we heard. But—one can not be sure. And, delighted as I should be to know that George is alive, naturally I should prefer to know it after next Tuesday."

  Anger surged into Minot's heart.

  "Is that fair to the young lady who—"

  "Who is to become my wife?" Lord Harrowby waved his hand. "It is. Miss Meyrick is not marrying me for my title. As for her father and aunt, I can not be so sure. I want no disturbance. You want none. I am sure it is better to let things take their course."

  "All right," said Minot. "Only I intend to do every thing in my power to put this wedding through."

  "My dear chap—your cause is mine," answered his lordship.

  Minot returned to the narrow confines of his room. On the bureau, where he had thrown it earlier in the day, lay an invitation to dine that night with Mrs. Bruce. Thus was Jack Paddock's hand shown. The dinner was to be in Miss Meyrick's honor, and Mr. Minot was not sorry he was to go. He took up the invitation and reread it smilingly. So he was to hear Mrs. Bruce at her own table—the wittiest hostess in San Marco—bar none.

  The drowsiness of a Florida midday was in the air. Mr. Minot lay down on his bed. A hundred thoughts were his: the brown of Miss Meyrick's eyes, the sincerity of Mr. Trimmer's voice when he spoke of his proposition, the fishy look of Lord Harrowby refusing to meet his long lost brother. Things grew hazy. Mr. Minot slept.

  On leaving Lord Harrowby's rooms, Mr. Martin Wall d
id not immediately set out for the Lileth, on which he lived in preference to the hotel. Instead he took a brisk turn about the spacious lobby of the De la Pax.

  People turned to look at him as he passed. They noted that his large, placid, rather jovial face was lighted by an eye sharp and queer, and a bit out of place amid its surroundings. Mr. Wall considered himself the true cosmopolite, and his history rather bore out the boast. Many and odd were the lands that had known him. He had loaned money to a prince of Algiers (on excellent security), broken bread with a sultan, organized a baseball nine in Cuba, and coming home from the East via the Indian ports, had flirted on shipboard with the wife of a Russian grand duke. As he passed through that cool lobby it was not to be wondered at that middle west merchants and their wives found him worthy of a second glance.

  The courtyard of the Hotel de la Pax was fringed by a series of modish shops, with doors opening both on the courtyard and on the narrow street outside. Among these, occupying a corner room was the very smart jewel shop of Ostby and Blake. Occasionally in the winter resorts of the South one may find jewelry shops whose stock would bear favorably competition with Fifth Avenue. Ostby and Blake conducted such an establishment.

  For a moment before the show-window of this shop Mr. Wall paused, and with the eye of a connoisseur studied the brilliant display within. His whole manner changed. The air of boredom with which he had surveyed his fellow travelers of the lobby disappeared; on the instant he was alert, alive, almost eager. Jauntily he strolled into the store.

  One clerk only—a tall thin man with a sallow complexion and hair the color of a lemon—was in charge. Mr. Wall asked to be shown the stock of unset diamonds.

  The trays that the man set before him caused the eyes of Mr. Wall to brighten still more. With a manner almost reverent he stooped over and passed his fingers lovingly over the stones. For an instant the tall man glanced outside, and smiled a sallow smile. A little girl in a pink dress was crossing the street, and it was at her that he smiled.

  "There's a flaw in that stone," said Mr. Wall, in a voice of sorrow. "See—"

  From outside came the shrill scream of a child, interrupting. The tall man turned quickly to the window.

  "My God—" he moaned.

  "What is it?" Mr. Wall sought to look over his shoulder. "Automobile—"

  "My little girl," cried the clerk in agony. He turned to Martin Wall, hesitating. His sallow face was white now, his lips trembled. Doubtfully he gazed into the frank open countenance of Martin Wall. And then—

  "I leave you in charge," he shouted, and fled past Mr. Wall to the street.

  For a moment Martin Wall stood, frozen to the spot. His eyes were unbelieving; his little Cupid's bow mouth was wide open.

  "Here—come back—" he shouted, when he could find his voice.

  No one heeded. No one heard. Outside in the street a crowd had gathered. Martin Wall wet his dry lips with his tongue. An unaccountable shudder swept his huge frame.

  "My God—" he cried in a voice of terror, "I'm alone!"

  For the first time he dared to move. His elbow bumped a hundred thousand dollars' worth of unset diamonds. Frightened, he drew back. He collided with a show-case rich in emeralds, rubies and aquamarines. He put out a plump hand to steady himself. It rested on a display case of French, Russian and Dutch silver.

  Mr. Wall's knees grew weak. He felt a strange prickly sensation all over him. He took a step—and was staring at the finest display of black pearls south of Maiden Lane, New York.

  Quickly he turned away. His eyes fell upon the door of a huge safety vault. It was swinging open!

  Little beads of perspiration began to pop out on the forehead of Martin Wall. His heart was hammering like that of a youth who sees after a long separation his lady love. His eyes grew glassy.

  He took out a silk handkerchief and passed it slowly across his damp forehead.

  Staggering slightly, he stepped again to the trays of unset stones. The glassy eyes had grown greedy now. He put out one huge hand as the lover aforesaid might reach toward his lady's hair.

  Then Mr. Wall shut his lips firmly, and thrust both of his hands deep into his trousers pockets. He stood there in the middle of that gorgeous room—a fat figure of a man suffering a cruel inhuman agony.

  He was still standing thus when the tall man came running back. Apprehension clouded that sallow face.

  "It was very kind of you." The small eyes of the clerk darted everywhere; then came back to Martin Wall. "I'm obliged—why, what's the matter, sir?"

  Martin Wall passed his hand across his eyes, as a man banishing a terrible dream.

  "The little girl?" he asked.

  "Hardly a scratch," said the clerk, pointing to the smiling child at his side. "It was lucky, wasn't it?" He was behind the counter now, studying the trays unprotected on the show-case.

  "Very lucky." Martin Wall still had to steady himself. "Perhaps you'd like to look about a bit before I go—"

  "Oh, no, sir. Everything's all right, I'm sure. You were looking at these stones—"

  "Some other time," said Wall weakly. "I only wanted an idea of what you had."

  "Good day, sir. And thank you very much."

  "Not at all." And the limp ex-guardian passed unsteadily from the store into the glare of the street.

  Mr. Tom Stacy, of the Manhattan Club, half dozing on the veranda of his establishment, was rejoiced to see his old friend Martin Wall crossing the pavement toward him.

  "Well, Martin—" he began. And then a look of concern came into his face. "Good lord, man —what ails you?"

  Mr. Wall sank like a wet rag to the steps.

  "Tom," he said, "a terrible thing has just happened. I was left alone in Ostby and Blake's jewelry shop."

  "Alone?" cried Mr. Stacy. "You—alone?"

  "Absolutely alone."

  Mr. Stacy leaned over.

  "Are you leaving town—in a hurry?" he asked.

  Gloomily Mr. Wall shook his head.

  "He put me on my honor," he complained. "Left me in charge of the shop. Can you beat it? Of course after that, I—well—you know, somehow I couldn't do it. I tried, but I couldn't."

  Mr. Stacy threw back his head, and his raucous laughter smote the lazy summer afternoon.

  "I can't help it," he gasped. "The funniest thing I ever — you — the best stone thief in America alone in charge of three million dollars' worth of the stuff!"

  "Good heavens, man," whispered Wall. "Not so loud!" And well might he protest, for Mr. Stacy's indiscreet and mirthful tone carried far. It carried, for example, to Mr. Richard Minot, standing hidden behind the curtains of his little room overhead.

  "Come inside, Martin," said Stacy. "Come inside and have a bracer. You sure must need it, after that."

  "I do," replied Mr. Wall, in heartfelt tones. He rose and followed Tom Stacy.

  Cheeks burning, eyes popping, Mr. Minot watched them disappear into the Manhattan Club.

  Here was news indeed. Lord Harrowby's boon companion the ablest jewel thief in America! Just what did that mean?

  Putting on coat and hat, he hurried to the hotel office and there wrote a cablegram:

  "Situation suspicious are you dead certain H. is on the level?"

  An hour later, in his London office, Mr. Jephson read this message carefully three times.

  Chapter 7

  CHAIN LIGHTNING'S COLLAR

  THE Villa Jasmine, Mrs. Bruce's winter home, stood in a park of palms and shrubbery some two blocks from the Hotel de la Pax. Mr. Minot walked thither that evening in the resplendent company of Jack Paddock.

  "You'll enjoy Mrs. Bruce to-night," Paddock confided. "I've done her some rather good lines, if I do say it as shouldn't."

  "On what topics?" asked Minot, with a smile.

  "International marriage—jewels—by the way, I don't suppose you know that Miss Cynthia Meyrick is to appear for the first time wearing the famous Harrowby necklace?"

  "I didn't even know there was a necklace,"
Minot returned.

  "Ah, such ignorance. But then, you don't wander much in feminine society, do you? Mrs. Bruce told me about it this morning. Chain Lightning's Collar."

  "Chain Lightning's what?"

  "Ah, my boy—" Mr. Paddock lighted a cigarette. "You should go round more in royal circles. List, commoner, while I relate. It seems that the Earl of Raybrook is a giddy old sport with a gambling streak a yard wide. In his young days he loved the Lady Evelyn Hollowway. Lady Evelyn had a horse entered in a derby about that time—name, Chain Lightning. And the Earl of Raybrook wagered a diamond necklace against a kiss that Chain Lightning would lose."

  "Wasn't that giving big odds?" inquired Minot.

  "Not if you believe the stories of Lady Evelyn's beauty. Well, it happened before Tammany politicians began avenging Ireland on Derby Day. Chain Lightning won. And the earl came across with the necklace. Afterward he married Lady Evelyn—"

  "To get back the necklace?"

  "Cynic. And being a rather racy old boy, he referred to the necklace thereafter as Chain Lightning's Collar. It got to be pretty well known in England by that name. I believe it is considered a rather neat piece of jewelry among the English nobility—whose sparklers aren't what they were before the steel business in Pittsburgh turned out a good thing."

  "Chain Lightning's Collar," mused Minot. "I presume Lady Evelyn was the mother of the present Lord Harrowby?"

  "So 'tis rumored," smiled Paddock. "Though I take it his lordship favors his father in looks."