CHAPTER VII
THE DANGER OF SENTIMENT
AFTER leaving Drummond's house Anthony Trent started without intemperatehaste for his comfortable apartment. In accordance with hisinstructions, Mrs. Kinney retired not later than ten. There might come anight when he needed to prove the alibi that she could unconsciouslynullify if she waited up for him.
In these early days of his career he was not much in fear of detectionand approached his door with little of the trepidation he was toexperience later when his name was unknown still but his reputationexceedingly high with the police. Later he knew he must arrange his modeof life with greater care.
New York, for example, is not an easy city for a man fleeing from policepursuit. Its brilliant lighting, its sleeplessness, the rectangularblocks and absence of helpful back alleys, all these were aids to thelaw abiding.
He had not chosen his location heedlessly. From the roof on which heoften slept he could see five feet distant from its boundary, the wallthat circumscribed the top of another house such as his but having itsentrance on a side street. It would not be hard to get a key to fit thefront door; and since he would make use of it infrequently and then onlylate at night there was little risk of detection.
Thinking several moves ahead of his game was one of Trent's means toinsure success. He must have some plausible excuse in case he werecaught upon the roof. The excuse that suggested itself instantly was acat. He bought a large and frolicsome cat, tiger-striped and a stealthyhunter by night, and introduced him to Mrs. Kinney. That excellent womanwas not pleased. A cat, she asserted, needed a garden. "Exactly," agreedher employer, "a roof garden." So it was that Agrippa joined thehousehold and sought to prey upon twittering sparrows. And since Agrippalooking seventy feet below was not in fear of falling, he leaped theintermediate distance between the roofs and was rewarded with a sparrow.Thereafter he used what roof offered the best hunting.
Two maiden ladies occupied the topmost flat, the Misses Sawyer, and werestartled one evening at a knock upon their door. An affable younggentleman begged permission to retrieve his cat from their roof. Thehunting Agrippa had sprung the dreadful space and feared, he assertedplausibly, to get back.
The Misses Sawyer loved cats, it seemed, but had none now, fearing toseem disloyal to the memory of a peerless beast about whom they couldnot talk without tear-flooded eyes. They told their neighbor cordiallythat whenever Agrippa strayed again he was to make free of the roof.
"Ring our bell," said one of them, "and we'll let you in."
"But how did you get in?" the other sister demanded, suddenly.
"The door was open," he said blandly.
"That's that dreadful Mr. Dietz again," they cried in unison. "Hedrinks, and when he goes out to the saloon, he puts the catch back sothere won't be the bother of a key. I have complained but the janitortakes no notice. I suppose we don't offer him cigars and tips, so hetakes the part of Dietz."
By this simple maneuver Anthony Trent established his right to use theroof without incurring suspicion.
The Drummond loot proved not to be despised by one anxious to put ahundred thousand dollars to his credit. The actual amount was threethousand, eight hundred dollars. Furthermore, there was some of theDrummond stationery, a bundle of letters and the two or three things hehad taken hastily from young Bulstrode's room. He regretted there hadbeen so small an opportunity to investigate the Bulstrode mansion buttime had too great a value for him. The black pearl had flung itself athim, and some yale keys and assorted club stationery--these were all hecould take. The stationery might prove useful. He had discovered thatfact in the Conington Warren affair. If it had not been that the butlercrept out of the dark hall to watch him as he left the Bulstrode house,he would have tried the keys on the hall door. That could be done later.It is not every rich house which is guarded by burglar resistingdevices.
It was the bundle of letters and I. O. U.'s that he examined withpeculiar care. They were enclosed in a long, blue envelope on which waswritten "Private and Personal."
When Trent had read them all he whistled.
"These will be worth ten times his measly thirty-eight hundred," he saidsoftly.
But there was no thought of blackmail in his mind. That was a crime atwhich he still wholesomely rebelled. It occurred to him sometimes that alife such as his tended to lead to progressive deterioration. That theremight come a time when he would no longer feel bitterly towardblackmailers. It was part of his punishment, this dismal thought of whatmight be unless he reverted to the ways of honest men. Inasmuch as a manmay play a crooked game decently, so Anthony Trent determined to playit.
Many of the letters in the blue envelope were from women whose nameswere easily within the ken of one who studied the society columns of themetropolitan dailies. Most of them seemed to have been the victims ofmisplaced bets at Belmont Park or rash bidding at Auction. There was oneletter from the wife of a high official at Washington begging him on noaccount to let her husband know she had borrowed money from him. Aprominent society golfing girl whose play Trent had a score of timesadmired for its pluck and skill had borrowed a thousand dollars fromDrummond. There was her I. O. U. on the table. Scrawling a line onDrummond stationery in what seemed to be Drummond handwriting, AnthonyTrent sent it back to her. There were acknowledgments of borrowings fromthe same kind of rich waster that Graham Bulstrode represented. A scoreof prominent persons would have slept the better for knowing that theirI. O. U.'s had passed from Drummond's keeping. The man was more of ausurer than banker.
What interested Anthony Trent most of all was a collection of letterssigned "N.G." and written on the stationery of a very exclusive club.It was a club to which Drummond did not belong.
The first letter was merely a request that Drummond meet the writer inthe library of the athletic club where Anthony Trent had seen him.
The second was longer and spelled a deeper distress.
"It's impossible in a case like this," wrote "N.G.," "to get any man Iknow well to endorse my note. If I could afford to let all the worldinto my secret, I should not have come to you. You know very well thatas I am the only son your money is safe enough. I must pay this girlfifty thousand dollars or let my father know all about it. He would beangry enough to send me to some god-forsaken ranch to cut wild oats."
The third letter was still more insistent. The writer was obviouslyafraid that he would have to beg the money from his father.
"I have always understood," he wrote, "that you would lend any amount onreasonable security. I want only fifty thousand dollars but I've got tohave it at once. It's quite beyond my mother's power to get it for methis time. I've been to that source too often and the old man is on toit. E.G. insists that the money in cash must be paid to her on themorning of the 18th when she will call at the house with her lawyer. Iam to receive my letters back and she will leave New York. Let me knowinstantly."
The next letter indicated that William Drummond had decided to lend"N.G." the amount but that his offer came too late.
"I wish you had made up your mind sooner," said "N.G." "It would havesaved me the devil of a lot of worry and you could have made money outof it. As it is my father learned of it somehow. He talked about thefamily honor as usual. But the result is that when she and her lawyercall at ten on Thursday morning the money will be there. No check forher; she's far too clever, but fifty thousand in crisp new notes. As forme, I'm to reform. That means I have to go down town every morning atnine and work in my father's brokerage business. Can you imagine medoing that? I blame you for it, Drummond. You are too cautious by a damnsight to please me."
Anthony Trent was thus put into possession of the following facts. Thata rich man's son, initials only known, had got into some sort of ascrape with a girl, initials were E.G., who demanded fifty thousanddollars in cash which was to be paid at the residence of the young man'sfather. The date set was Thursday the eighteenth. It was now the earlymorning of Tuesday the sixteenth.
Trent had lists of the members of
all the best clubs. He went throughthe one on whose paper N.G. had written. There were several members withthose initials. Careful elimination left him with only one likely name,that of Norton Guestwick. Norton Guestwick was the only son and heir ofa very rich broker. The elder Guestwick posed as a musical critic, had abox in the Golden Horseshoe and patronized such opera singers aspermitted it. Many a time Anthony Trent had gazed on the Guestwickfamily seated in their compelling box from the modest seat that was his.Guestwick had even written a book, "Operas I Have Seen," which might befound in most public libraries. It was an elaborately illustrated tomewhich reflected his shortcomings as a critic no less than his vanity asan author. A collector of musical books, Trent remembered buying it withhigh hopes and being disgusted at its smug ineffectiveness.
He had seldom seen Norton in the family box but the girls were seldomabsent. They, too, upheld the Arts. Long ago he had conceived a dislikefor Guestwick. He hated men who beat what they thought was time to musicwhose composers had other ideas of it.
Turning up a recent file of _Gotham Gossip_ he came upon a reference tothe Guestwick heir. "We understand," said this waspish, but usuallyveracious weekly, "that Norton Guestwick's attention to pretty EstelleGrandcourt (nee Sadie Cort) has much perturbed his aristocratic parentswho wish him to marry a snug fortune and a girl suited to be theirdaughter-in-law. It is not violating a confidence to say that the ladyin question occupies a mansion on Commonwealth avenue and is one of themost popular girls in Boston's smart set."
While many commentators will puzzle themselves over the identity of thedark lady of the immortal sonnets, few could have failed to perceivethat E.G. was almost certain to be Estelle Grandcourt. Sundry tests of aconfirmatory nature proved it without doubt. He had thus two days inwhich to make his preparations to annex the fifty thousand dollars.There were difficulties. In these early days of his adventuring AnthonyTrent made no use of disguises. He had so far been but himself. Vaguelyhe admitted that he must sooner or later come to veiling his identity.For the present exploit it was necessary that he should find out thename of the Guestwick butler.
He might have to get particulars from Clarke. But even Clarke's helpcould not now be called in and it was upon this seemingly unimportantthing that his plan hinged. In a disguise such as many celebratedcracksmen had used, he might have gained a kitchen door and learned bywhat name Guestwick's man called himself. Or he might have found it outfrom a tradesman's lad. But to ask, as Anthony Trent, what might linkhim with a robbery was too risky.
Unfortunately for Charles Newman Guestwick his book, which had costTrent two dollars and was thrown aside as worthless, supplied the key towhat was needed.
It was the wordy, garrulous book that only a multi-millionaire authormight write and have published. The first chapter, "My Childhood," wassucceeded by a lofty disquisition on music. Later there came revelationsof the Guestwick family life with portraits of their various homes. Themusic room had a chapter to itself. Reading on, Anthony Trent came tothe chapter headed, rather cryptically, "After the Opera."
"It is my custom," wrote the excellent Guestwick, "to hold in my box aninformal reception after the performance is ended. My wide knowledge ofmusic, of singers and their several abilities lends me, I venture tosay, a unique position among amateurs.
"We rarely sup at hotel or restaurant after the performance. In mylibrary where there is also a grand piano--we have three suchinstruments in our New York home and two more at Lenox--Mrs. Guestwickand my daughters talk over what we have heard, criticizing here, laudingthere, until a simple repast is served by the butler who always waits upfor us. The rest of the servants have long since retired. My libraryconsists of perhaps the most valuable collection of musical literaturein the world.
"I have mentioned in another chapter the refining influence of music onpersons of little education. John Briggs, my butler, is a case in point.He came to me from Lord Fitzhosken's place in Northamptonshire, England.The Fitzhoskens are immemoriably associated with fox-hunting and thesteeple-chase and all Briggs heard there in the way of music were thecheerful rollicking songs of the hunt breakfast. I sent him to seeGoetterdaemmerung. He told me simply that it was a revelation to him. Hedoubted in his uneducated way whether Wagner himself comprehended whathe had written."
There were thirty other chapters in Mr. Guestwick's book. In all herevealed himself as a pompous ass assured only of tolerance among apeople where money consciousness had succeeded that of caste. ButAnthony Trent felt kindly toward him and the money he had spent waslikely to earn him big dividends if things went well.
Caruso sang on the night preceding the morning on which EstelleGrandcourt was to appear and claim her heart balm. This meant a largeattendance; for tenors may come and go, press agents may announce othergolden voiced singers, but Caruso holds his pride of place honestly wonand generously maintained. It had been Trent's experience that theGuestwicks rarely missed a big night.
It was at half past nine Anthony Trent groaned that a professionalengagement compelled him to leave the Metropolitan. He had spent moneyon a seat not this time for an evening of enjoyment, but to make certainthat the Guestwicks were in their box.
There was Charles Newman Guestwick beating false time with a pudgy hand.His lady, weighted with Guestwick jewels, tried to create the impressionthat, after all, Caruso owed much of his success to her amiablepatronage. The two daughters upheld the Guestwick tradition by beingexceedingly affable to those greater than they and using lorgnettes tothose who strove to know the Guestwicks.
Mr. John Briggs, drinking a mug of ale and wondering who was winning alight weight contest at the National Sporting Club, was resting in hissitting-room. He liked these long opera evenings, which gave him theopportunity to rest, as much as he despised his employer for hisinordinate attendance at these meaningless entertainments. He shudderedas he remembered "The Twilight of the Gods."
At ten o'clock when Mr. Briggs was nodding in his chair the telephonebell rang. Over the wire came his employer's voice. It was not withoutpurpose that Anthony Trent's unusual skill in mimicry had been employed.As a youth he had acquired a reputation in his home town for imitationsof Henry Irving, Bryan, Otis Skinner and their like.
"Is this you, Briggs?" demanded the supposed Mr. Guestwick.
"Yes, sir," returned Briggs.
"I wish you to listen carefully to my instructions," he was commanded."They are very important."
"Certainly, sir," the man returned. He sensed a something, almostagitation in the usually placid voice. "I hope there's nothing serious,sir."
"There may be," the other said, "that I can't say yet. See that everyone goes to bed but you. Send them off at once. You must remain up untila man in evening dress comes to the front door and demands admittance.It will be a detective. Show him at once to the library and leave himabsolutely undisturbed. Absolutely undisturbed, Briggs, do youunderstand?"
"I'll do as you say, sir," Briggs answered, troubled. He was sure nowthat serious sinister things were afoot and wished the Guestwicks hadbeen as well disposed to dogs in the house as had been that harddrinking, reckless Lord Fitzhosken. Suddenly an important thought cameto him. "Is there any way of making sure that the man who comes is thedetective?"
"I am glad you are so shrewd, Briggs," said the millionaire. "It had notoccurred to me that an impostor might come. Say to the man, 'What isyour errand?' I shall instruct him to answer, 'I have come to look atMr. Guestwick's rare editions.'"
"Very good, sir," said Briggs.
"Unless he answers that, do not admit him. You understand?"
"Perfectly," the butler made answer.
At half past ten a man in evening dress rang the door of the Guestwickmansion. He was a tall man with a hard look and a biting, gruff voice.
Briggs interposed his sturdy body between the stranger and theentrance.
"What is your errand?" said Briggs suavely.
"I have come to look at Mr. Guestwick's rare editions," he was told.
"Step in
side," urged Briggs with cordiality.
"Everybody in bed?" the man snapped.
"Except me," said the butler.
"Any one here except the servants?"
"We have no house guests," said Briggs. "We don't keep a deal ofcompany."
"Show me to the library," the stranger commanded.
Briggs, now stately and offended, led the way. Briggs resented the tonethe detective used. In his youth the butler had been handy with thegloves. It was for this reason he was taken into service by thefox-hunting nobleman so that he might box with his lordship every daybefore breakfast. Briggs would have liked the opportunity to put on thegloves with this frowning, overbearing, hawknosed detective.
"You've got your orders?" cried the stranger.
"I have," Briggs answered, a trace of insolence perceptible.
"Then get out and don't worry me. Remember this, answer no phonemessages or door bells. My men outside will attend to the people whowant to get into this house."
Briggs tried new tactics. He was feverishly anxious to find out what wassuspected.
"As man to man," Briggs began with a fine affability.
Imperiously he was ordered from the room.
Anthony Trent sank into a chair and laughed gently. It had all been soabsurdly easy. Two good hours were before him. None would interrupt. Itwas known that young Norton had been bundled out of town until hischarmer had disappeared. _Gotham Gossip_ had told him so much. It wasalmost certain that the Guestwicks would not return to their home untilhalf past twelve. That would give him a sufficient time to examine everylikely looking place in the house. The old time crook would no doubthave hit Mr. Briggs over the head with a black jack and run a risk inthe doing of it. The representative of the newer school had simply sentall the servants to bed.
Looking quickly about the great apartment, book-lined and imposing,Trent's eyes fell on an edition in twenty fat volumes of _Penroy'sEncyclopaedia of Music and Art_. Scrutiny told the observer that behindthese steel-bound fake books there was a safe. It was an old dodge,this. If the money for Miss Grandcourt was not here there were, nodoubt, negotiable papers and jewels. This was just the sort ofsacro-sanct spot where valuables might be laid away.
To pry open the glass door of the book case, roll back the works of theunknown Penroy and come face to face with the old fashioned safe tookless than two minutes. It was amazing that so shrewd a man as Guestwickmust be in business matters should rely on this. It was rather that herelied on the integrity of his servants and an efficient system ofburglar alarm.
From the cane that Anthony Trent had carelessly thrown on a chair, hetook some finely tempered steel drills and presently assembled the toolsnecessary to his task. As a boy he had been the rare kind who could takea watch apart and put it together again and have no parts left over. Itwas largely owing to an inborn mechanical skill that he had persuadedhimself he could make good at his calling.
It was striking eleven by the ship's clock--six bells--when he rolledthe doors open. He rose to his feet and stretched. Kneeling before thesafe had cramped his muscles. Sinking into a big black leathern chair hecontemplated the strong box that was now at his mercy. He allowedhimself the luxury of a cigarette. There passed before his mind's eye avista of pleasant shaded pools wherein big trout were lying. Weems didnot own the only desirable camp on Kennebago.
He was suddenly called back from this dreaming, this castle-building, toa realization that such prospects might never be his. It was the low,pleasant, tones of a cultivated woman's voice which wrought the amazingchange.
"I suppose you're a burglar," the voice said. There was no trace ofnervousness in her tone.
He sprang to his feet and looked around. Not twenty feet distant he sawher. She was a tall, graceful girl about twenty-two or three, clad in acharming evening gown. Over her white arm trailed a fur cloak costly andelegant. And, although the moment was hardly one for thinking of femalecharms, he was struck by her unusual beauty. She possessed an air ofextreme sophistication and stood looking at him as if the man before herwere some unusual and bizarre specimen of his kind.
Anthony Trent, Master Criminal Page 7
