Anthony Trent, Master Criminal

by Wyndham Martyn

  CHAPTER XX

  "WANTED--AN EMERALD"

  Since Anthony Trent had replaced the red glass in his Benares lamp withthe Mount Aubyn ruby, the other pieces of cut glass seemed so dull bycomparison that had his visitors been many, suspicion must have arisenfrom the very difference they exhibited. The lamp was discreetly swungin a distant corner and the button which lighted the lamp carefullyconcealed.

  Reading one morning that owing to the financial trouble into which thewar had plunged a great West of England family, the celebrated Edgcumbesapphire had been purchased by a New York manufacturer ofammunition--one of the new millionaires created by the war to buy whatother countries had to sacrifice.

  The papers gave every necessary particular. At ten o'clock one morningAnthony Trent sallied forth to loot. By dinner time the Edgcumbesapphire had replaced the blue cube of cut glass and in his lamp thepapers were devoting front page space to its daring abduction. How heaccomplished it properly belongs to another chapter in the life of themaster criminal. So easy was it of consummation that he planned to usethe same technique for a greater coup.

  When these two great stones were making his brazen lamp a thing offlashing beauty they threw into infinite dullness the cube of green.Looking at it night after night when Mrs. Kinney was long abed and thegrateful silences had drowned the noise of day, Anthony Trent longed foran emerald to bear these lordly jewels company.

  There was an excellent second-hand book store on Thirty-second street,between Seventh avenue and Sixth, where he browsed often among waitingvolumes. One day he picked up a book, written in French, "Romances ofPrecious Stones." It was by a Madame Sernin, grandniece of the greatRussian novelist Feoder Vladimir Larrovitch. Trent remembered that hehad read her translation of _Crasny Baba_ and _Gospodi Pomi_, and lookedat this original work with interest. It was published in Paris justbefore the war.

  He knew well that most of the great stones which had became famoushistorically were still in Europe. And Europe, until the long war wasover, was closed to him. He hoped Madame Sernin had something to sayabout American-owned jewels. There was a reference in the index andlater, in his rooms, he read it eagerly. There were, Mme. Serninannounced, but two of the great emeralds in the United States. Onebelonged to the wife of the Colombian minister and was found inColombia. Trent considered this stone carefully. It might not be in theUnited States after all. Mme. Sernin was doubtful herself. But of thesecond stone she was certain. It was known as the Takowaja Emerald. Acentury and a half before it had been dug from the Ural Mountains. Thatgreat "_commenceuse_," the second Catherine of Russia, had given it toher favorite, Gregory Orlov, who had sold it to a traveling Englishnoble in a day before American gold was known in Continental Europe.

  It was now the property of Andrew Apthorpe, of Boston in Massachusetts.Presumably the man was a collector, and assuredly he was wealthy, butAnthony Trent had never heard of him. A trip by boat to Boston wouldmake a pleasant break and a day later he was steaming north. Hisinevitable golf clubs accompanied him. Trent was one of thosenatural-born players whose game suffer little if short of practice. Andof late he had not stinted himself of play. He told Mrs. Kinney he wasgoing to Edgartown for a few days. He had sometimes played around theseisland links; and his bag of clubs was always an excellent excuse fortraveling in strange parts.

  Directly he had registered at the Adams House he consulted a citydirectory. Andrew Apthorpe's town house was in the same block on Beaconstreet which held the Clent Bulstrode mansion.

  It was a vast, forbidding residence of red brick running back to theCharles embankment. The windows were small and barred and the shadesdrawn. An empty milk bottle and a morning paper at a basement door gaveevidence of occupancy. And at the garage at the rear a burly chauffeurwas cleaning the brass work of a touring car. Looking wisely andsuspiciously at Trent as he sauntered by was an Airedale. The family,Trent surmised, was absent and the caretaker, who rose late if theneglected Post was a sign, and this man and dog were left to guard theplace.

  If the Takowaja emerald were housed here with two such guardians itsrecovery might not be difficult. But the more Trent thought of it themore improbable it seemed that the owner of such a gem should leave itprey to any organized attack. The curious part about this Ural emeraldwas that Trent had never before heard of it and he knew American ownedstones well. Most of the owners of famous jewels were ready to talk ofthem, lend them for exhibition purposes when they were properly guarded,but he had never seen a line about the Apthorpe emerald.

  A few minutes before midday Anthony Trent strolled into the Amesbuilding and saw that Andrew Apthorpe, cotton broker, occupied verylarge offices. A little later he followed one of the Apthorpe clerks, awell-dressed, good-looking young man, to the place where he lunched. Itwas curiously unlike a New York restaurant. Circular mahogany counterssurrounded self possessed young women who permitted themselves to attendto those who hungered. To such as they knew and liked they were affable.To others their front was cold and severe.

  The Apthorpe employee was a favorite, apt at retort and not ill pleasedif others noted it. Soon he drifted into conversation with Trent, whowith his careful mind had read through the column devoted to cotton inthe morning papers and was ready with a carefully remembered phrase ortwo for the stranger who responded in kind.

  Gradually, by way of the Red Sox, the beauties of Norumbega Park and thearchitectural qualities of Keith's, the young man lapsed intopersonalities and told Anthony Trent all he desired to know of AndrewApthorpe. Andrew, it seemed, was not beloved of his employees. He wasunappreciative of merit unless it accompanied female beauty. He wasold; he was ill. His family had abandoned him with the sincerereluctance that wealth is ever abandoned.

  "He lives up at Groton," said Trent's loquacious informant, "in a sortof castle on a hill fitted with every burglar resisting device that wasever invented."

  "What's he afraid of?" Trent demanded.

  "He's got a lot of valuables," the other answered, "cut gems and cameosand intaglios and things that wouldn't interest any one but an old miserlike him. I have to go up there once in a while. The old boy has anautomatic in his pocket all the while. I think he's crazy."

  There were two or three men at Camp Devens whom Trent knew slightly. TheCamp was within walking distance of Groton, he learned. By half pastnine on the following morning Anthony Trent left Ayer behind him andbreasted the rising ground towards Groton. He could go to the Camplater. He might not go at all but if questioned as to his presence theexcuse would be a just one. He was always anxious that his motives wouldpass muster with the police if ever he came in contact with them.

  After a couple of miles he came in sight of the beautiful tower ofGroton School Chapel. Two or three times he had played for his schoolagainst this famous institution in the years that seemed now so farbehind him. The town of Groton, some distance from the more modernschool, charmed his senses. Restful houses among immemorial elms, wellkept gardens and a general air of contentment made the town one to beremembered even in New England.

  He hoped he would be able to find something about Apthorpe from somelocal historian without having to lead openly to the matter. A luncheonat the famous Inn might discover some such informant. But he was notdestined to enter that admirable hostelry for coming toward him, withdignified carriage and an aura of fragrant havana smoke about him, wasMr. Westward whom he had known slightly at Kennebago. This Mr. Westwardwas the most widely known fisherman on the famous lake, an authoritywherever wet-fly men foregathered.

  Trent would have preferred to meet none who knew him by name. This was aprofessional adventure and not a trout fishing vacation. But the anglerhad already recognized him and there was no help for it. Westward ratherliked Anthony Trent as he liked all men who were skilled in the use ofthe wet-fly and were, in his own published words, "high-minded,fly-fishing sportsmen."

  "Why, my dear fellow," said Westward genially, "what are you doing in myhome town?"

  "I'd no idea you lived here," Trent said, sh
aking his hand. "I thoughtyou were a New Yorker."

  Westward pointed to a modest house. "This is what I call my office," heexplained. "I do my writing there and house my fishing tackle and myspecimens."

  "I wish you'd let me see them," Trent suggested smiling. "I've oftenmarveled at the way you catch 'em."

  It was past twelve when he had finished talking over what Mr. Westwardhad to show. He realized he had forgotten the matter which brought himto Groton. When Mr. Westward asked him to luncheon he hesitated amoment. This hesitation was born not of a disinclination to accept theangler's hospitality but rather to the feeling that he was out forbusiness and if he failed at it might be led as a criminal to whateverjail was handy. And were he thus a prisoner it would embarrass a goodsportsman. But Mr. Westward gained his point and led Trent to a bigrambling house further down the street that was a rich store house ofthe old and quaint furniture of Colonial days.

  Mrs. Westward proved to be a woman of charm and culture, endowed with aquick wit and a gift of entertaining comment on what local happeningswere out of the ordinary.

  "Has Charles told you of the murder?" she asked.

  "We've been talking fish," Anthony Trent explained.

  "Oh you fishermen!" she laughed. "I often tell my husband he won't takeany notice of the Last Trump if he's fishing or talking of trout. Weactually had a murder here last night."

  "I hope it was some one who could be easily spared," Trent returned,"and not a friend."

  "I could spare him," Mrs. Westward said decisively. "I know his wife andshe has my friendship but for Andrew Apthorpe I have never cared."

  "Apthorpe?" Trent cried. "The cotton man?"

  "The same," Mrs. Westward assured him.

  Anthony Trent was suddenly all attention. He surmised that the murder ofso rich a man was actuated by a desire for his collection. And if so,where was the Takowaja emerald?

  "Please tell me," he entreated, "murders fascinate me. If the penaltywere not so severe I should engage in murder constantly. What was it?Revenge? Robbery?"

  "Yes and no," Charles Westward observed with that judicial air whichconfounded questioners. "Revenge no doubt. Robbery perhaps, but we areawaiting the arrival of Mrs. Apthorpe and her daughter. We shall notknow until then whether his collection of valuables has been stolen."

  "What about the revenge theory?" Trent inquired.

  "Apthorpe made many enemies as a younger man. Physically he was violent.There are no doubt many who detested him. Personally I had no quarrelwith him. I sent him a mess of trout from the Unkety brook this seasonand had a little talk with him over the phone but he saw few except hislawyer and business associates."

  "Is any one suspected in particular?" Trent asked.

  "The whole thing is mysterious," Mrs. Westward declared with animation."Last night at eight o'clock I received a telephone message from hisnurse, a Miss Thompson, a woman I hardly know. Once or twice I have seenher at the Red Cross meetings but that is all. She apologized forcalling but said she felt nervous. It seems that Mr. Apthorpe had letall the servants go off to the band concert at Ayer. There were twoautomobiles filled with them. The only people left were Miss Thompson inthe house and a gardener who lives in a cottage on the grounds. Theyleft the house just after dinner--say half past seven. At a quarter toeight a stranger called to see Mr. Apthorpe."

  "Accurately timed," commented Mr. Westward.

  "Miss Thompson declined to admit him. You must understand, Mr. Trent,that Andrew Apthorpe was a very sick man, heart trouble mainly, and shewas within her rights. The man who would not give his name put his footin the door and said he would see Mr. Apthorpe if he waited there allnight. While she was arguing with him, begging him, in fact, to go away,her employer came to the head of the stairs that lead from the mainrooms to the hall. Miss Thompson explained what had happened. To hersurprise he said, 'I have been expecting him for twenty years. Let himin.'"

  "Why should she call you up?" Trent asked.

  "Merely because she was nervous and knew other people even less than shedid me." Mrs. Westward hesitated a moment. "There have been rumors abouther and Mr. Apthorpe which were not pleasant. They were probably nottrue but when a man has lived as he had it was not surprising. Shecalled me up at eight because the two men were quarreling. My husbandtold you he was a man of violent temper. That is putting it mildly. Itold her there was nothing to be alarmed about. At nine she called me upagain to say that she would be grateful if Mr. Westward and my nephewRichmond, who is staying with me, would go up there as she had heardblows struck and Mr. Apthorpe was too ill to engage in any sort oftussle. I told her my two men were out but that the police should becalled in. While I was talking she gave a shriek--it was a most dramaticmoment and I could hear her steps running from the telephone."

  "My nephew and I came in at that moment," Westward interrupted, "andwent up the hill to the house as fast as possible. Mrs. Westwardmeanwhile had telephoned for the police. Miss Thompson was waiting onthe steps. She was hysterical and afraid to go back into the lonelyhouse."

  "Richmond said he thought she had been drinking," his wife interjected.

  "That meant nothing," Westward observed, "she was hysterical and I don'twonder in that great lonely house. When we went in with the police wefound the big living room door locked with the key on the inside. We hadto break it open and found it bolted. Evidently the stranger had seen tothat. Old Apthorpe was lying dead shot through the head with a bulletfrom his own revolver. The window was open. There was a twelve-foot dropto the grass outside and the man had lowered himself by a portiere. Sofar not a trace has been found of him. A great many people pass throughhere on the way to or from Boston and we have become so used tostrangers that no heed is paid to them any more."

  "Was there any evidence of robbery?" Trent asked.

  "Not a trace so far as we could see. I mean by that there was nodisorder. Things of value might have been taken but nothing had beenbroken open. We shan't know until Mrs. Apthorpe comes."

  "It was evidently," Mr. Westward declared, "some man whom he had beenexpecting. Miss Thompson, according to her story, did not know the man'sname and yet was told to admit him. It may be the police will find itfrom correspondence."

  "I doubt it," Trent observed shaking his head. "If it was a man Apthorpehad dreaded for a score of years he wouldn't be corresponding withhim."

  "Then why was he admitted?" asked Mrs. Westward.

  "Consider the circumstances," Anthony Trent reminded her. He wasbecoming thoroughly interested. "Here he was almost in the house, hisfoot in the door. All the servants were away. No matter what Apthorpesaid he would have got in. What more likely than that the proudoverbearing old man felt sufficient confidence in his nerve and hisrevolver? Or if he didn't he would not admit it. The curious part to mymind was how this unknown timed it so exactly. He turned up just as theservants were going out for the evening." He turned to Mrs. Westward,"Why didn't Miss Thompson telephone for police aid do you suppose? Doesit seem strange to you that she telephoned to you instead?"

  "Knowing Andrew Apthorpe it does not," she answered. "He would have beenfurious if she had done so. To begin with he has had many squabbles withthe local authorities over trumpery matters. He was most unpopular. Thelast thing he would have desired would be to have them in his house.None of the servants were from Groton and he would not have themassociating with local people."

  Anthony Trent ruminated for a little. So far nothing had been developedwhich offered a reasonable solution of the problem. And the problem forhim was a different one from that which would confront the police.Trent's problem was to secure the Takowaja emerald. So far neither ofthe Westwards had mentioned it. Probably for the reason that they didnot know of its existence. It would be unwise, he decided, to try tolead them to talk of the dead man's collection of jewels. But he feltreasonably certain in his own mind that in this carefully guarded house,replete with burglar alarms and safety appliances, the treasure from theUral Mountains had been reposing within a doze
n hours. The stranger whohad come after a score of years and had left murder in his trail, wasmore likely to have come for the great green stone than anything else.

  "I wish I could have a look at the place," he said presently.

  "Amateur detective?" laughed Mrs. Westward.

  "I can't imagine anything being more exciting," he admitted, "than tofollow this mysterious man except, perhaps, to be the man himself andoutwit the detectives."

  "Why not take Mr. Trent up there, Charles?"

  Plainly Mr. Westward was not eager to do so. This was due to a disliketo invade premises under police supervision to which he had no businessexcept a friendly curiosity. Still there would be no harm done. He hadknown the Apthorpes for years and perhaps Anthony Trent might be an aid.Some one had told him Trent was an expert in the oil market. He had noreason to believe him anything but a man of probity.

  "It might be arranged," he said slowly.