Leslie van Slyke gave a hard laugh. “Venson must have now about a thousand dollars saved up, as this was the amount of the last offer I received. If he had been able to come another eight hundred I would have sold the safe, for that’s the price I’ve put on it. I really detest the thing.”
There was a silence in the room. It was broken by Crosby.
“Mr. van Slyke, when I came here to-day it was with some nebulous idea in my mind of buying, for a client, that safe, at a price on which you would agree to let anything other than valuables go with the safe. However, since talking here with you in person, I am convinced that such procedure is the wrong one for us to adopt. There are, I have strong reason to believe, a packet of stamped, addressed envelopes contained in that secret recess, each one of which bears Rupert van Slyke’s name and address. Letters. Just letters! And I am now going to put it to you, as man to man, if, providing this lady here can identify herself as the writer of those letters by duplicating one of the addresses in her own handwriting, I am not entitled to ask that they be given to her without question.”
Leslie van Slyke went to an escritoire from which he returned a moment later bearing in his hands a slip of paper. “Here is the combination of those ivory drawsticks which was found pinned to Rupert’s will deposited several years ago in the Northern Trust Company,” he said. “But what about the method of gaining access to the secret compartment? In view of this letter he wrote to the curio company of London, revealed to-day for the first time, do you think it possible that these notations in pencil on the bottom could be memoranda about those ‘pressings’?”
Crosby took the paper. Drawn neatly in black ink in a vertical row were three Chinese characters, evidently the three which must be lined up on the top, middle and bottom drawsticks respectively to release the safe door. Whereupon Crosby turned his attention to the hastily scrawled pencil notations at the bottom of the slip. They read simply:
“Replace red inlay in tail of dragon and pearl inlay in beak of smallest wahoo bird.”
He looked up with a frown of puzzlement. “Neither the Chinese characters nor the words are an official record for his heirs, that’s certain,” he offered. “The whole thing is a memo, all right. And his not putting it into official shape indicates that he half-expected ultimately to dispose of the safe.”
“Well,” commented Leslie van Slyke, “we’ll just have a look.” Placing a desk lamp on the floor, he turned its pivoted bulb so that it illuminated the door of the safe. Then, dropping to his knees, his three visitors rising to watch the unique operation of the strong-box, he deftly drew out in turn each ivory stick until the character corresponding to the slip of paper was lined up with that above or below. And with a click the door swung majestically open.
Now the lamp bathed the empty interior in bright light, and in the wide expanse comprising the back of the safe revealed a peculiar snake-like dragon who seemed to have in his coils a large bird, which Rupert van Slyke had perhaps in facetiousness called a “wahoo bird.” That it was the mother bird was suggested by two smaller birds flying and fluttering around the dragon’s evil head. Studying the odd pictorial representation for a second, Leslie van Slyke reached forward and pressed hard first on the red inlay that made a spark in the dragon’s tail, and then equally hard on the mother-of-pearl beak of the smallest of all the birds. Nothing happened. He looked up.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing doing. They’re so deeply inset the only thing possible is pressing them — but nothing happens as you can see.”
Crosby wrinkled up his forehead. “No, it wouldn’t be quite so simple, Mr. van Slyke,” he commented. “Remember, the drawsticks have to be all drawn to the proper marks at the same time, not in succession. Don’t you imagine both inlays must be pressed at one and the same time?”
“You might be right, considering Rupert’s saying it took him several years to work it out,” was Leslie van Slyke’s reply. “I’ll try it if my hand spans it. It — well — look here, folks! The two inlays can just be spanned by a human hand and no more. See, I can press with the tip of my little finger on the red inlay and with the tip of my thumb on the pearl beak. He must have worked something like that, covering every pair that his hand could span. He — ”
But his words were interrupted as, with a sharp click, the whole apparent bottom of the safe flew up like a trapdoor hinged to one side only, literally sweeping his hand off the inlays on which it was pressing. And there, beneath this neatest of all neat false bottoms, this cunning floor whose junction with the four sides could well represent the highest example of the wood-joiner’s art, lay the real block comprising the base of the safe; and it was in this block that a recess with polished walls, about four inches deep and a foot square, stood. What was more, there lay in this square hollow a packet of green and brown and gold certificates all snapped together with a wide rubber band, and a packet of hand-written letters, all of the same lavender tint, size and shape, and divided into two heaps for convenience. Leslie van Slyke took out the bonds, as bonds they were, and laid them respectfully to one side. And then he brought forth the letters. The address on the top one said: Mr. Rupert van Slyke, 4020 N. Oakley Ave., City.
Already Mrs. Cornell, who had been one of the two silent spectators to this meeting, had her fountain pen out, and on the topmost letter she penned very neatly the exact replica of the address, fearfully, as though she were within range of a great prize. The man on his knees nodded his head as he examined the duplication, then laid them on her lap. “They are yours, madam.” His face betrayed not an iota of curiosity — not the flicker of an eyelash.
“I thank you,” she said, her voice vibrant with happiness. She thrust the letters into her capacious handbag.
The sudden silence that now fell upon the four people was broken by Crosby, who glanced at his watch. “Well, Mr. van Slyke, I daresay this is all, then. My thanks to you also.” He turned toward his companions. “Shall we go?”
Mrs. Cornell nodded. Adieus were said all round, and Mr. Leslie van Slyke himself conducted his guests to the front door and bowed them out with countenance that now seemed in a slight measure to beam, suggesting that for the first time the significance of a fortune of 25,000 dollars in negotiable bonds thrust into his own lap was beginning to dawn fully upon him.
The waiting taxicab bowled silently through the evening twilight in the direction of Mrs. Cornell’s Lake Shore Drive residence. Only once was the silence even broken, and that was when the taxi was turning the corner of Madison and Clark in the downtown Loop to work its way northward by way of Wacker Drive. Around a news-stand people were standing in little groups and knots, open papers in hand, and under the bright corner light all three occupants were able to glimpse on one open paper a huge moustached picture obviously of Captain Kidd fronting, in the same layout, an equally big picture of one David Crosby.
“Just think, David,” Lindell Trent exclaimed, “how millions of people are reading that same news to-night and will be reading it to-morrow morning. What does it feel like, David, to become famous in a few hours?”
But he only smiled drearily, as he reflected that what was to break further in a few days about the modern occupant of that newspaper layout could be described by the same adjective prefixed by a single syllable. Infamous! What would it feel like to become infamous in a few hours? What indeed?
At last the cab drew up in front of Mrs. Cornell’s lake front home. “I suppose,” she said, “it is of no use to invite both of you in to-night? But you know you are both welcome. The servants — old Mose — will wonder at my sudden return from another city, I suppose.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cornell,” said Lindell Trent, “but I have an appointment to-night that must be filled. We will both come soon, though.”
And with one last farewell between the two women the cab drove away. Now indeed there was silence, for Lindell’s gay query of a few minutes before had brought home to Crosby as nothing else the fact that he was at that moment under bon
ds of 65,000 dollars with a criminal charge — and worse — a trial with himself as defendant impending. It was after he had ridden for a full three blocks, slumped back in his seat, mute, that Lindell spoke.
“What is wrong, David?”
“Much is wrong,” he said gravely. “The winning of the 500,000 dollars Chalmers verdict to-day after everything had caved in on me would ordinarily have meant the Open Sesame for me of big time legal work — big fees — gold and plenty of it, Lindell. I might show you three telegraphic offers alone that I picked up at my office this afternoon after the early papers carried the bare details of the great news. Yet all is destroyed — all is nullified — for I am to be tried on a vicious charge of having double-crossed a friendless client and stolen 150,000 dollars worth of gems, eight coloured diamonds belonging to Lord Masefield of England. It means, Lindell, professional death at this time, for even if I break a jury, it means a shadow hanging over my professional self for all time.”
And with this he proceeded to tell the girl who meant most in life to him of his interview with Sammy Viggman in Winniston, Wisconsin, his careful deposit of Viggman’s loot in the safety-box, and his being summoned to Krenway’s office only to be confronted with Viggman’s confession, an extradition warrant, and the surprising news that the eight Masefield diamonds had turned to coughdrops. “And the devilish complication of it all,” he concluded fiercely, “is that I cannot produce this Mabel Mannering who demanded 44,000 dollars from me, nor give any explanation to the police or a jury, since Mabel Mannering is Al Lipke, the kingpin of crookdom, and the 44,000 dollars is the price of John Carrington’s abduction. Was ever man tangled in a worse mess?”
She looked tenderly at him. “Don’t take it so hard, David. Perhaps something can be done to extricate you.” She glanced out at the arc-lights which marked the crossing of Huron and State Street. “David, will you come up to my room with me? We’ll leave the door open to satisfy my landlady, Mrs. Capsum — until I take care of an important business appointment to-night. Then we’ll be free to talk over your affairs. Perhaps I can help in some way to extricate you — as you — as you extricated me years ago.”
“Lindell — don’t,” he said horrified, crimson-red.
“Forgive me,” she said contritely. “I shouldn’t — shouldn’t have said that cruel thing, David. It was the last flicker of the old bitterness of my life dying out completely.”
The cab had now drawn up to a dingy house on West Huron Street. Crosby followed the girl as she entered the poorly lighted hallway, key in hand. A slatternly-looking woman stood peering at them through silver spectacles.
“Mrs. Capsum, this is my attorney, Mr. Crosby. Perhaps you’ve heard of Mr. Crosby.” Mrs. Capsum nodded dimly, evidently recognizing only a keen well-dressed professional man rather than a personage in a field unknown to her. “If the bell rings to-night at eight o’clock, and someone asks for Miss Lindell Trent, will you please conduct that party upstairs to my room and come up with them? I want you for a witness.”
Mrs. Capsum’s face was a study. “For a witness!” she said. “For a witness? Oh Lord!” she exclaimed. “What — what do you mean, Miss Wentworth?”
“You will understand then, Mrs. Capsum. Now I note that the adjoining room to mine was vacated this morning. As Mr. Crosby has nothing to do with this interview, do you object if I allow him to sit in there until it is over?”
“Object?” said Mrs. Capsum magnanimously, beaming on her lodger’s well-dressed and obviously high-priced lawyer! “No, not at all.”
And with a nod to Crosby, Lindell Trent led the way up the stairway carpeted with its threadbare covering. He followed, a bit puzzled.
He looked curiously, yet tenderly, about her square colourless room as they entered, its carpet faded, its wallpaper stained, the little cheap alarm clock on the bureau, the dirty lace curtains in the windows. The one open door of the room looked out on a narrow matting-covered hallway, and an open door in the opposite wall showed a connection with another room which could make the two rooms function as a suite if necessary.
She lost no time in stretching across the open doorway of this adjoining room a Japanese screen which leaned against the wall, the top of which presented a criss-cross tangle of reeds. Then she placed a chair back of the doorway a short distance, and returned to him.
“Now, David,” she said, “when the bell rings downstairs, I want you to step into that room there, sit down in that chair in the dark, listen carefully to all that you hear and see as much as you can.”
Her words were interrupted by a long peal at the bell. Almost before it terminated, Crosby felt himself pushed gently toward the open door of the room adjoining, and without any more questions, quite dazed, he stepped into it and dropping into the straight-backed wooden chair there, saw her close up the opening with the screen. He could peer through the reedwork of the screen, seeing but not seen, hearing but not heard.
CHAPTER XXVIII
IN WHICH KRENWAY SCRATCHES HIS CHIN
BUT the fraction of a minute after the ring at the bell, and Crosby from his position of concealment heard heavy footsteps ascending the stairway, footsteps evidently of two men at least, intermingled with the puffing and panting of a woman at their head, and the incessant clatter of her tongue. And then there entered the room two men, tall, broad-shouldered, heavy-jawed men, with great flat shoes, followed by Mrs. Capsum. And Crosby, peering curiously from his position of vantage, saw with surprise that one of the two men was George Krenway, chief of the Chicago detective bureau, and the other was Bailey, his right-hand man.
“You’re Miss Trent, I presume,” said Krenway brusquely. “I had a telephone message from you — ”
“To call here at eight o’clock to-night to hear something of extreme importance to the police department,” the girl replied. “Yes, Inspector Krenway.” She motioned the two men to chairs, and then turned to the gaping landlady. “Come in please, Mrs. Capsum. And close the door behind you.” That worthy lady did so with great alacrity.
As soon as the door was closed, Lindell Trent spoke.
“Inspector Krenway, the reason I sent for you is because I am, fortunately, involved in something of considerable interest to your department.” She paused. “May I first ask if you are familiar with the testimony which I gave yesterday morning at the Chalmers trial?”
Crosby, from his position behind the screen, had to confess to himself that George Krenway had a sense of humour, even at the expense of himself.
“I may tell you, Miss Trent,” the detective-head remarked with a grimace, “that ever since an unfortunate experience in the first trial of that man Chalmers, I’ve followed every line in the papers. Let’s see. It seems you were short of money, weren’t you, and went out to the north-western outskirts of the city — North 60th Court, wasn’t it? — to earn some. And coming back you got off the car that was full of roughnecks at Marmora Avenue, and then — ”
“Miss Trent,” interrupted Bailey, “I’ll venture you were one of those people who went out to that tent where the cyclist looped the loop in mid-air?”
“An advertising stunt of some sort, I’m pretty sure,” said his superior. “That’s all.” He nodded his head. “Well, let’s see what Miss Trent has to tell us first.”
“As to the show,” said the girl, “I confess I cannot enlighten you gentlemen. What I have called you here for is to tell you of why and how and what happened when I got off the car at Marmora Avenue.” She paused. “Going out, I had made the acquaintance of a genial young Irish giant — his name was Mike McGann, and he is a teamster for the Patterson Coal Yards. You will probably want to take that name down. I must tell you that I was dressed in a suit of young man’s clothing which I procured here, and to comply with the advertisement carried an empty black paperoid suitcase which belonged to Mrs. Capsum, my landlady here. After the show was over and Mr. McGann and I watched the Irving Park cars fill almost up to the roofs with the fighting mob of men waiting there to get b
ack to the city — with, of course, that essential thing to make their cheques valid, a street-car transfer; and because of the hopelessness of getting me aboard under such conditions, Mr. McGann suggested that we walk to the gates of the State Hospital at Dunning, where we could board the car at its terminal. Which we did. As we came down the rise on the Dunning side, a little inoffensive, effeminate sort of a fellow was seated on a suitcase at the curb. He was just where one would board a car, yet a car had just departed, and he appeared not to have desired to get aboard it at all.”
“Must have been waiting for somebody from the Nut House,” put in Krenway.
“The obvious explanation appears not to be the case,” said Lindell quietly, “for when we approached he arose and asked us if this car went straight to the heart of the city. Mr. McGann put him aright — instructed him to remain on the line only till Milwaukee Avenue was reached, and not only that, but to stay on the back platform so that he could extricate himself quickly from that terrible mob getting on at North 60th Court.
“And thus it was that we three, Mr. McGann and I chatting together, and the little fellow, boarded the car. We, too, stayed on the back platform so that we would be first off at the other end to get our cheques countersigned.
“Over the rise, at North 60th Court, our car stopped of course, and now it filled with the mob till it was packed so that we couldn’t move. I was pushed and shoved, stepped upon, my ears deafened with whistles; the handle of my suitcase parted from the paperoid body due to the swaying of the little light car and its jerks; a big man next to me staggered upon the paperoid body itself, put his foot clear through it, and in a minute it was flattened out a hopeless wreck by three or four pairs of heavy feet around it. Then it was that I turned to Mr. McGann and begged him to pull the bellcord — that my suitcase was trampled to pieces and that I intended to get off the car entirely.
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