Anthony Trent, Master Criminal

by Wyndham Martyn

  CHAPTER XIII

  ANTHONY TRENT INTERESTS HIMSELF IN POLICE GOSSIP

  SO far as he knew, none suspected him. His face had been seen on one ortwo occasions, but he was of a type common among young Americans of theeducated classes. Above middle height, slenderly fashioned butwire-strong, he had a shrewd, humorous face with strongly markedfeatures. It might be that the nose was a trifle large and the mouth atrifle tight, but none looking at him would say, "There goes acriminal." They would say, rather, "There goes a resourceful youngbusiness man who can rise to any emergency."

  Since Trent had calculated everything to a nicety, he knew he must,during these harvesting years, deny himself the privilege of friendshipwith other men or women. Too many of his gild had lost their libertythrough some errant desire to be confidential. This habit of solitudewas trying to a man naturally of a sociable nature, but he determinedthat it could be cast from him as one throws away an old coat when hewas a burglar emeritus.

  That blessed moment had arrived. He even looked up an old editor friend,the man who had first put into his mind that he could make more money atburglary than in writing fiction.

  "It's good to see you again!" cried the editor. "I often wish youhadn't been left money by that Australian uncle of yours, so that youcould still write those corking crook yarns for us. There was never anyone like you. I was talking about you at the Scribblers' Club dinner theother night."

  Trent frowned. Publicity was a thing to avoid and this particular editorhad always been ready to sound his praise. The editor had once beforeasked him to join this little club made up of professional writers. Theywere men he would have delighted to know under other conditions.

  "Be my guest next Tuesday," the editor persisted. "I'm toastmaster andthe subject is 'Crime in Fiction.' I told the boys I'd get you to speakif I possibly could. I'm counting on you. Will you do it?"

  It seemed a deliciously ironical thing. Here was an honest editor askingthe friend he did not know to be a master criminal to make an address oncrime in fiction. Trent laughed the noiseless laugh he had cultivated inplace of the one that was in reality the expression of himself. Theeditor thought it a good sign.

  "Who are the other speakers?" Trent demanded.

  "Oppenheim Phelps for one. He's over here on a visit. His specialty ishigh-grade international spy stuff, as you know. E. W. Hornung would bethe man to have if we could get him, but that's impossible. I've gothalf a dozen others, but Phelps and you will be the drawing cards."

  "Put me down," Trent said genially, "but introduce me as a back numberalmost out of touch with things but willing to oblige a pal." He laughedagain his noiseless laugh.

  Crosbeigh looked at him meditatively. Certainly Anthony Trent waschanged. In the old days, before he came into Australian money, he wasat times jocund with the fruitful grape, a good fellow, a raconteur, onewho had been popular at school and college and liked to stand well withhis fellows. But now, Crosbeigh reflected, he was changed. There was acertain suspicion about him, a lack of trust in men's motives. It wasthe attitude no doubt which wealth brought. The moneyless man can meet aborrower cheerfully and need cudgel his mind for no other excuse thanhis poverty.

  Crosbeigh was certain Trent had a lot of money for the reason he hadactually refused four cents a word for what he had previously receivedonly two cents. But the editor admired his old contributor and was gladto see him again.

  "I'm going to spring a surprise on you," Crosbeigh declared, "and I'mwilling to bet you'll enjoy it."

  "I hope so," Trent returned, idly, and little dreamed what lay beforehim.

  The dinner was at a chop house and the food no worse than the run ofcity restaurants. Anthony Trent, who had fared delicately for some time,put up with the viands readily enough for the pleasure of being againamong men of the craft which had been his own.

  Oppenheim Phelps was interesting. He was introduced as a historian whohad made his name at fiction. It was a satisfaction, he said, to findthat modern events had justified him. The reviewers had formerly treatedhim with patronizing airs; they had called his secret diplomacy andGerman plot-stuff as chimeras only when they had shown themselves to betranscripts, and not exaggerated ones at that, of what had taken placeduring the last few years.

  Anthony Trent sat next to the English novelist and liked him. It broughthim close to the war to talk to a man whose home had been bombed fromair and submarine. And Phelps was also a golfer and asked Trent, whenthe war was over, to visit his own beloved links at Cromer.

  It had grown so late when the particularly prosy member of the club hadmade his yawn-bringing speech, that Crosbeigh came apologetically toTrent's side.

  "I'm afraid, old man," he began, "that it's too late for any morespeeches except the surprise one. A lot of us commute. Do you mindspeaking at our next meeting instead?"

  "Not a bit," Trent said cheerfully. But he felt as all speakers do underthese circumstances that his speech would have been a brilliant one. Hehad coined a number of epigrams as other speakers had plowed laboriouslyalong their lingual way and now they were to be still-born.

  But he soon forgot them when Crosbeigh announced the surprise speaker.

  "I have been very fortunate," Crosbeigh began, "in getting to-night aman who knows more of the ways of crooks than any living authority.Gentlemen, you all know Inspector McWalsh!"

  "Well, boys," said the Inspector, "I guess a good many of you know me byname." He had risen to his full height and looked about him genially. Hehad imbibed just the right amount to bring him to this stage. Threehighballs later, he would be looking for insults but he was now ripewith good humor. He had come because Conington Warren had asked him tooblige Crosbeigh. For writers on crime he had the usual contempt of theprofessional policeman and he was fluent in his denunciation. "Youboys," he went on, "make me smile with your modern scientific criminals,the guys what use chemistry and electricity and x-rays and so forth.I've been a policeman now for thirty years and I never run across any ofthat stuff yet."

  Inspector McWalsh poured his unsubtle scorn on such writings for tenfull minutes. But he added nothing to the Scribblers' knowledge of hissubject.

  It chanced that the writer he had taken as his victim was a guest at thedinner. This fictioneer pursued the latest writings on physicist andchemical research so that he might embroider his tales therewith.Personally Trent was bored by this artificial type of story; but asbetween writer and policeman he was always for the writer.

  The writer was plainly angry but the gods had not blessed him with aready tongue and he was prepared to sit silent under McWalsh's scorn.Some mischievous devil prompted Anthony Trent to rise to his aid. It wasa bold thing to do, to draw the attention of the man who had been incharge of the detectives sent to run him to earth, but of lateexcitement had been lacking.

  "Inspector McWalsh," he commenced, "possesses precisely that type ofmind one would expect to find in a successful policeman. He has thatabsolute absence of imagination without which one cannot attain his rankin the force. All he has done in his speech is to pour his scorn of acertain type of crime story on its author. As writers we are sorry ifInspector McWalsh never heard of the Einthoven string galvanometer uponwhich the solution of the story he ridicules rests, yet we know it toexist. Were I a criminal instead of a writer I should enjoy to crossswords with men who think as the Inspector does. I could outguess themevery time."

  "Who is this guy?" Inspector McWalsh demanded loudly.

  "Anthony Trent," Mr. Crosbeigh whispered. "He wrote some wonderful crookstories a few years ago dealing with a crook called Conway Parker."

  "What one would expect to hear from a man with McWalsh's opportunitiesto deal with crime is some of the difficulty he experiences in his work.There must be difficulty. We know by statistics what crimes arecommitted and what criminals brought to justice. What happens to thecrooks who remain safe from arrest by reason of superior skill? I'lltell you, gentlemen. They live well and snap their fingers at men likethe last speaker. There is suc
h a thing as fatty degeneration of thebrain----"

  Inspector McWalsh rose to his feet with a roar. "I didn't come here tobe insulted."

  "I am not insulting a guest," Trent went on equably, "I am asking him totell us interesting things of his professional work instead of givinghis opinion on modern science. I met McWalsh years ago when I coveredMulberry Street for the _Morning Leader_. He was captain then. Let himentertain us with some of the reasons why the Ashy Bennet murderer wasnever caught. You remember, gentlemen, that Bennet was shot down onPark Row at midday. Then the thoroughbred racer Foxkeen was poisoned inhis stall at Sheepshead Bay. Why was that crime never punished? Iremember a dozen others where the police have been beaten. Coming downto the present time, there is the robbery of the house of the genialsportsman Inspector McWalsh tells us he is proud to call his friend,Conington Warren. How was it the burglar or burglars were allowed toescape?" Trent was enjoying himself hugely. "I have a right to demandprotection of the New York police. In my own humble home I havevaluables bequeathed me by an uncle in Australia which are never safewhile such men as snap their fingers at the police are at large. LetInspector McWalsh tell us why his men fail. It will help us, perhaps, tounderstand the difficulties under which they labor. It may help us toappreciate the silent unadvertised work of the police. The Inspector isa good sport who loves a race horse and a good glove fight as much as Ido myself. I assure him he will make us grateful if he will take thehint of a humble scribbler."

  The applause which followed gratified the Inspector enormously. Hethought it was evidence of his popularity, a tribute to his knownfondness for the race tracks. His anger melted.

  "Boys," he shouted, rising to his feet and waving a Larranaga to theapplauders, "I guess he's right and I hope the fellow who writes thatscientific dope will accept my word that it wasn't personal. Of coursewe do have difficulties. I admit it. I had charge of that Ashy Bennetmurder and I'd give a thousand dollars to be able to put my hand on theman who done it. As to Foxkeen I had a thousand on him to win ateight-to-one and when he was poisoned the odds were shortening everyminute so you can guess I was sore on the skunk who poisoned him. Thepolice of all countries fail and they fail the most in countries wherepeople have most sympathy with crime. Boys, you know you all like aclever crook to get away with it. It's human nature. We ain't helped allwe could be and you know it. We, 'gentlemen of the police,'" he quotedAustin's words glibly, "we make mistakes sometimes. We get the ordinarycrook easy enough. If you don't believe me get a permit to look overSing Sing. The crimes the last speaker mentioned were committed byclever men. They get away with it. The clever ones do get away withthings for a bit. But if the guy who croaked Bennet tried murder againthe odds are we'd gather him in. Same with the man or men who putstrychnine in Foxkeen's oats. The clever ones get careless. That's ouropportunity."

  The Inspector lighted a new cigar, sipped his highball and came back tohis speech.

  "Boys, I'm not rich--no honest cop is--but I'd give a lot of money toget my hands on a gentleman crook who's operating right now in thiscity. I've got a list of seven tricks I'm certain he done himself. He'sgot technique." Inspector McWalsh turned purple red, "Dammit, he made mean accomplice to one of his crimes. Yes, sir, he made me carry a vaseworth ten thousand dollars out of Senator Scrivener's house on FifthAvenue and hand it to him in his taxi. He had a silk hat, a cane and acoat and he asked me to hold the vase for a moment while he put his coaton. I thought he was a friend of the Senator so I trotted down thehall--there was a big reception on--down the steps past my own men onwatch for this very crook or some one like him, and handed it throughthe window. None of my men thought of questioning him. Why did he do ityou wonder. He did it because he thought some one _might_ have seen himswipe it. The thing was thousands of years old and if any of you find itSenator Scrivener stands ready to give you five thousand dollars reward.I believe he took the----" Inspector McWalsh stopped. He thought itwiser to say no more. "That's about all now," he concluded. Then with aflourish he added, "Gentlemen, I thank you."

  McWalsh sat down with the thunder of applause ringing gratefully in hisears. And none applauded more heartily than Anthony Trent.