Now go and get a taxi. Mrs. Pett will explain everything when you arrive.” He hung up the receiver. “I think I had better go now, Mrs. Pett. It would not do for me to be here while these fellows are on their guard. I can safely leave the matter to Miss Trimble. I wish you good afternoon.”
After he had gone, Mrs. Pett vainly endeavoured to interest herself again in her book, but in competition with the sensations of life, fiction, even though she had written it herself, had lost its power and grip. It seemed to her that Miss Trimble must be walking to the house instead of journeying thither in a taxi-cab. But a glance at the clock assured her that only five minutes had elapsed since the detective’s departure. She went to the window and looked out. She was hopelessly restless.
At last a taxi-cab stopped at the corner, and a young woman got out and walked towards the house. If this were Miss Trimble, she certainly looked capable. She was a stumpy, square-shouldered person, and even at that distance it was possible to perceive that she had a face of no common shrewdness and determination. The next moment she had turned down the side-street in the direction of the back-premises of Mrs. Pett’s house: and a few minutes later Mr. Crocker presented himself.
“A young person wishes to see you, madam. A young person of the name of Trimble.” A pang passed through Mrs. Pett as she listened to his measured tones. It was tragic that so perfect a butler should be a scoundrel. “She says that you desired her to call in connection with a situation.”
“Show her up here, Skinner. She is the new parlour-maid. I will send her down to you when I have finished speaking to her.”
“Very good, madam.”
There seemed to Mrs. Pett to be a faint touch of defiance in Miss Trimble’s manner as she entered the room. The fact was that Miss Trimble held strong views on the equal distribution of property, and rich people’s houses always affected her adversely. Mr. Crocker retired, closing the door gently behind him.
A meaning sniff proceeded from Mrs. Pett’s visitor as she looked round at the achievements of the interior decorator, who had lavished his art unsparingly in this particular room. At this close range she more than fulfilled the promise of that distant view which Mrs. Pett had had of her from the window. Her face was not only shrewd and determined: it was menacing. She had thick eyebrows, from beneath which small, glittering eyes looked out like dangerous beasts in undergrowth: and the impressive effect of these was accentuated by the fact that, while the left eye looked straight out at its object, the right eye had a sort of roving commission and was now, while its colleague fixed Mrs. Pett with a gimlet stare, examining the ceiling. As to the rest of the appearance of this remarkable woman, her nose was stubby and aggressive, and her mouth had the coldly forbidding look of the closed door of a subway express when you have just missed the train. It bade you keep your distance on pain of injury. Mrs. Pett, though herself a strong woman, was conscious of a curious weakness as she looked at a female of the species so much deadlier than any male whom she had ever encountered: and came near feeling a half-pity for the unhappy wretches on whom this dynamic maiden was to be unleashed. She hardly knew how to open the conversation.
Miss Trimble, however, was equal to the occasion. She always preferred to open conversations herself. Her lips parted, and words flew out as if shot from a machine-gun. As far as Mrs. Pett could observe, she considered it unnecessary to part her teeth, preferring to speak with them clenched. This gave an additional touch of menace to her speech.
“Dafternoon,” said Miss Trimble, and Mrs. Pett backed convulsively into the padded recesses of her chair, feeling as if somebody had thrown a brick at her.
“Good afternoon,” she said faintly.
“Gladda meecher, siz Pett. Mr. Sturge semme up. Said y’ad job f’r me. Came here squick scould.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Squick scould. Got slow taxi.”
“Oh, yes.”
Miss Trimble’s right eye flashed about the room like a searchlight, but she kept the other hypnotically on her companion’s face.
“Whass trouble?” The right eye rested for a moment on a magnificent Corot over the mantelpiece, and she snifted again. “Not s’prised y’have trouble. All rich people ‘ve trouble. Noth’ t’do with their time ‘cept get ‘nto trouble.”
She frowned disapprovingly at a Canaletto.
“You–ah–appear to dislike the rich,” said Mrs. Pett, as nearly in her grand manner as she could contrive.
Miss Trimble bowled over the grand manner as if it had been a small fowl and she an automobile. She rolled over it and squashed it flat.
“Hate ’em! Sogelist!”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs. Pett humbly. This woman was beginning to oppress her to an almost unbelievable extent.
“Sogelist! No use f’r idle rich. Ev’ read B’nard Shaw? Huh? Or Upton Sinclair? Uh? Read’m. Make y’think a bit. Well, y’haven’t told me whasser trouble.”
Mrs. Pett was by this time heartily regretting the impulse which had caused her to telephone to Mr. Sturgis. In a career which had had more than its share of detectives, both real and fictitious, she had never been confronted with a detective like this. The galling thing was that she was helpless. After all, one engaged a detective for his or her shrewdness and efficiency, not for suavity and polish. A detective who hurls speech at you through clenched teeth and yet detects is better value for the money than one who, though an ideal companion for the drawing-room, is incompetent: and Mrs. Pett, like most other people, subconsciously held the view that the ruder a person is the more efficient he must be. It is but rarely that any one is found who is not dazzled by the glamour of incivility. She crushed down her resentment at her visitor’s tone, and tried to concentrate her mind on the fact that this was a business matter and that what she wanted was results rather than fair words. She found it easier to do this when looking at the other’s face. It was a capable face. Not beautiful, perhaps, but full of promise of action. Miss Trimble having ceased temporarily to speak, her mouth was in repose, and when her mouth was in repose it looked more efficient than anything else of its size in existence.
“I want you,” said Mrs. Pett, “to come here and watch some men–“
“Men! Thought so! Wh’ there’s trouble, always men’t bottom’f it!”
“You do not like men?”
“Hate ’em! Suff-gist!” She looked penetratingly at Mrs. Pett. Her left eye seemed to pounce out from under its tangled brow. “You S’porter of th’ Cause?”
Mrs. Pett was an anti-Suffragist, but, though she held strong opinions, nothing would have induced her to air them at that moment. Her whole being quailed at the prospect of arguing with this woman. She returned hurriedly to the main theme.
“A young man arrived here this morning, pretending to be my nephew, James Crocker. He is an impostor. I want you to watch him very carefully.”
“Whassiz game?”
“I do not know. Personally I think he is here to kidnap my son Ogden.”
“I’ll fix’m,” said the fair Trimble confidently. “Say, that butler ‘f yours. He’s a crook!”
Mrs. Pett opened her eyes. This woman was manifestly competent at her work.
“Have you found that out already?”
“D’rectly saw him.” Miss Trimble opened her purse. “Go’ one ‘f his photographs here. Brought it from office. He’s th’ man that’s wanted ‘ll right.”
“Mr. Sturgis and I both think he is working with the other man, the one who pretends to be my nephew.”
“Sure. I’ll fix ‘m.”
She returned the photograph to her purse and snapped the catch with vicious emphasis.
“There is another possibility,” said Mrs. Pett. “My nephew, Mr. William Partridge, had invented a wonderful explosive, and it is quite likely that these men are here to try to steal it.”
“Sure. Men’ll do anything. If y’ put all the men in th’ world in th’ cooler, wouldn’t be ‘ny more crime.”
She glowered at the dog Aida, who had risen from the basket and removing the last remains of sleep from her system by a series of calisthenics of her own invention, as if she suspected her of masculinity. Mrs. Pett could not help wondering what tragedy in the dim past had caused this hatred of males on the part of her visitor. Miss Trimble had not the appearance of one who would lightly be deceived by Man; still less the appearance of one whom Man, unless short-sighted and extraordinarily susceptible, would go out of his way to deceive. She was still turning this mystery over in her mind, when her visitor spoke.
“Well, gimme th’ rest of th’ dope,” said Miss Trimble.
“I beg your pardon?”
“More facts. Spill ‘m!”
“Oh, I understand,” said Mrs. Pett hastily, and embarked on a brief narrative of the suspicious circumstances which had caused her to desire skilled assistance.
“Lor’ W’sbeach?” said Miss Trimble, breaking the story. “Who’s he?”
“A very great friend of ours.”
“You vouch f’r him pers’n’lly? He’s all right, uh? Not a crook, huh?”
“Of course he is not!” said Mrs. Pett indignantly. “He’s a great friend of mine.”
“All right. Well, I guess thass ’bout all, huh? I’ll be going downstairs ‘an starting in.”
“You can come here immediately?”
“Sure. Got parlour-maid rig round at m’ boarding-house round corner. Come back with it ‘n ten minutes. Same dress I used when I w’s working on th’ Marling D’vorce case. D’jer know th’ Marlings? Idle rich! Bound t’ get ‘nto trouble. I fixed ‘m. Well, g’bye. Mus’ be going. No time t’ waste.”
Mrs. Pett leaned back faintly in her chair. She felt overcome.
Downstairs, on her way out, Miss Trimble had paused in the hall to inspect a fine statue which stood at the foot of the stairs. It was a noble work of art, but it seemed to displease her. She snorted.
“Idle rich!” she muttered scornfully. “Brrh!”
The portly form of Mr. Crocker loomed up from the direction of the back stairs. She fixed her left eye on him piercingly. Mr. Crocker met it, and quailed. He had that consciousness of guilt which philosophers tell is the worst drawback to crime. Why this woman’s gaze should disturb him so thoroughly, he could not have said. She was a perfect stranger to him. She could know nothing about him. Yet he quailed.
“Say,” said Miss Trimble. “I’m c’ming here ‘s parlour-maid.”
“Oh, ah?” said Mr. Crocker, feebly.
“Grrrh!” observed Miss Trimble, and departed.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE VOICE PROM THE PAST
The library, whither Jimmy had made his way after leaving Mrs. Pett, was a large room on the ground floor, looking out on the street which ran parallel to the south side of the house. It had French windows, opening onto a strip of lawn which ended in a high stone wall with a small gate in it, the general effect of these things being to create a resemblance to a country house rather than to one in the centre of the city. Mr. Pett’s town residence was full of these surprises.
In one corner of the room a massive safe had been let into the wall, striking a note of incongruity, for the remainder of the wall-space was completely covered with volumes of all sorts and sizes, which filled the shelves and overflowed into a small gallery, reached by a short flight of stairs and running along the north side of the room over the door.
Jimmy cast a glance at the safe, behind the steel doors of which he presumed the test-tube of Partridgite which Willie had carried from the luncheon-table lay hid: then transferred his attention to the shelves. A cursory inspection of these revealed nothing which gave promise of whiling away entertainingly the moments which must elapse before the return of Ann. Jimmy’s tastes in literature lay in the direction of the lighter kind of modern fiction, and Mr. Pett did not appear to possess a single volume that had been written later than the eighteenth century–and mostly poetry at that. He turned to the writing-desk near the window, on which he had caught sight of a standing shelf full of books of a more modern aspect. He picked one up at random and opened it.
He threw it down disgustedly. It was poetry. This man Pett appeared to have a perfect obsession for poetry. One would never have suspected it, to look at him. Jimmy had just resigned himself, after another glance at the shelf, to a bookless vigil, when his eye was caught by a name on the cover of the last in the row so unexpected that he had to look again to verify the discovery.
He had been perfectly right. There it was, in gold letters.
THE LONELY HEART
BY
ANN CHESTER
He extracted the volume from the shelf in a sort of stupor. Even now he was inclined to give his goddess of the red hair the benefit of the doubt, and assume that some one else of the same name had written it. For it was a defect in Jimmy’s character–one of his many defects–that he loathed and scorned minor poetry and considered minor poets, especially when feminine, an unnecessary affliction. He declined to believe that Ann, his Ann, a girl full of the finest traits of character, the girl who had been capable of encouraging a comparative stranger to break the law by impersonating her cousin Jimmy Crocker, could also be capable of writing The Lonely Heart and other poems. He skimmed through the first one he came across, and shuddered. It was pure slush. It was the sort of stuff they filled up pages with in the magazines when the detective story did not run long enough. It was the sort of stuff which long-haired blighters read alone to other long-haired blighters in English suburban drawing-rooms. It was the sort of stuff which–to be brief–gave him the Willies. No, it could not be Ann who had written it.
The next moment the horrid truth was thrust upon him. There was an inscription on the title page.
“To my dearest uncle Peter, with love from the author, Ann Chester.”
The room seemed to reel before Jimmy’s eyes. He felt as if a friend had wounded him in his tenderest feelings. He felt as if some loved one had smitten him over the back of the head with a sandbag. For one moment, in which time stood still, his devotion to Ann wobbled. It was as if he had found her out in some terrible crime that revealed unsuspected flaws in her hitherto ideal character.
Then his eye fell upon the date on the title page, and a strong spasm of relief shook him. The clouds rolled away, and he loved her still. This frightful volume had been published five years ago.
A wave of pity swept over Jimmy. He did not blame her now. She had been a mere child five years ago, scarcely old enough to distinguish right from wrong. You couldn’t blame her for writing sentimental verse at that age. Why, at a similar stage in his own career he had wanted to be a vaudeville singer. Everything must be excused to Youth. It was with a tender glow of affectionate forgiveness that he turned the pages.
As he did so a curious thing happened to him. He began to have that feeling, which every one has experienced at some time or other, that he had done this very thing before. He was almost convinced that this was not the first time he had seen that poem on page twenty-seven entitled “A Lament.” Why, some of the lines seemed extraordinarily familiar. The people who understood these things explained this phenomenon, he believed, by some stuff about the cells of the brain working simultaneously or something. Something about cells, anyway. He supposed that that must be it.
But that was not it. The feeling that he had read all this before grew instead of vanishing, as is generally the way on these occasions. He _had_ read this stuff before. He was certain of it. But when? And where? And above all why? Surely he had not done it from choice.
It was the total impossibility of his having done it from choice that led his memory in the right direction. There had only been a year or so in his life when he had been obliged to read things which he would not have read of his own free will, and that had been when he worked on the _Chronicle_. Could it have been that they had given him this book of poems to review? Or–?
And then memory, in its usual eccentric way, having taken all this time to make the first part of the journey, finished the rest of it with one lightning swoop, and he knew.
And with the illumination came dismay. Worse than dismay. Horror.
“Gosh!” said Jimmy.
He knew now why he had thought on the occasion of their first meeting in London that he had seen hair like Ann’s before. The mists rolled away and he saw everything clear and stark. He knew what had happened at that meeting five years before, to which she had so mysteriously alluded. He knew what she had meant that evening on the boat, when she had charged one Jimmy Crocker with having cured her of sentiment. A cold sweat sprang into being about his temples. He could remember that interview now, as clearly as if it had happened five minutes ago instead of five years. He could recall the article for the _Sunday Chronicle_ which he had written from the interview, and the ghoulish gusto with which he had written it. He had had a boy’s undisciplined sense of humour in those days, the sense of humour which riots like a young colt, careless of what it bruises and crushes. He shuddered at the recollection of the things he had hammered out so gleefully on his typewriter down at the _Chronicle_ office. He found himself recoiling in disgust from the man he had been, the man who could have done a wanton thing like that without compunction or ruth. He had read extracts from the article to an appreciative colleague. . . .
A great sympathy for Ann welled up in him. No wonder she hated the memory of Jimmy Crocker.
It is probable that remorse would have tortured him even further, had he not chanced to turn absently to page forty-six and read a poem entitled “Love’s Funeral.” It was not a long poem, and he had finished it inside of two minutes; but by that time a change had come upon his mood of self-loathing. He no longer felt like a particularly mean murderer. “Love’s Funeral” was like a tonic. It braced and invigourated him. It was so unspeakably absurd, so poor in every respect. All things, he now perceived, had worked together for good. Ann had admitted on the boat that it was his satire that had crushed out of her the fondness for this sort of thing. If that was so, then the part he had played in her life had been that of a rescuer. He thought of her as she was now and as she must have been then to have written stuff like this, and he rejoiced at what he had done. In a manner of speaking the Ann of to-day, the glorious creature who went about the place kidnapping Ogdens, was his handiwork. It was he who had destroyed the minor poetry virus in her.
The refrain of an old song came to him.
“You made me what I am to-day!
I hope you’re satisfied!”
He was more than satisfied. He was proud of himself.
He rejoiced, however, after the first flush of enthusiasm, somewhat moderately. There was no disguising the penalty of his deed of kindness. To Ann Jimmy Crocker was no rescuer, but a sort of blend of ogre and vampire. She must never learn his real identity–or not until he had succeeded by assiduous toil, as he hoped he would, in neutralising that prejudice of the distant past.
A footstep outside broke in on his thoughts. He thrust the book quickly back into its place. Ann came in, and shut the door behind her.
“Well?” she said eagerly.
Jimmy did not reply for a moment. He was looking at her and thinking how perfect in every way she was now, as she stood there purged of sentimentality, all aglow with curiosity to know how her nefarious plans had succeeded. It was his Ann who stood there, not the author of “The Lonely Heart.”
“Did you ask her?”
“Yes. But–“
Ann’s face fell.
“Oh! She won’t let him come back?”
“She absolutely refused. I did my best.”
“I know you did.”
There was a silence.
“Well, this settles it,” said Jimmy. “Now you will have to let me help you.”
Ann looked troubled.
“But it’s such a risk. Something terrible might happen to you. Isn’t impersonation a criminal offence?”
“What does it matter? They tell me prisons are excellent places nowadays. Concerts, picnics–all that sort of thing. I shan’t mind going there. I have a nice singing-voice. I think I will try to make the glee-club.”
“I suppose we are breaking the law,” said Ann seriously. “I told Jerry that nothing could happen to us except the loss of his place to him and being sent to my grandmother to me, but I’m bound to say I said that just to encourage him. Don’t you think we ought to know what the penalty is, in case we are caught?”
“It would enable us to make our plans. If it’s a life sentence, I shouldn’t worry about selecting my future career.”
“You see,” explained Ann, “I suppose they would hardly send me to prison, as I’m a relation–though I would far rather go there than to grandmother’s. She lives all alone miles away in the country, and is strong on discipline–but they might do all sorts of things to you, in spite of my pleadings. I really think you had better give up the idea, I’m afraid my enthusiasm carried me away. I didn’t think of all this before.”
“Never. This thing goes through, or fails over my dead body. What are you looking for?”
Ann was deep in a bulky volume which stood on a lectern by the window.
“Catalogue,” she said briefly, turning the pages. “Uncle Peter has heaps of law books. I’ll look up kidnapping. Here we are. Law Encyclopedia. Shelf X. Oh, that’s upstairs. I shan’t be a minute.”
She ran to the little staircase, and disappeared. Her voice came from the gallery.
“Here we are. I’ve got it.”
“Shoot,” said Jimmy.
“There’s such a lot of it,” called the voice from above. “Pages and pages. I’m just skimming. Wait a moment.”
A rustling followed from the gallery, then a sneeze.
“This is the dustiest place I was ever in,” said the voice. “It’s inches deep everywhere. It’s full of cigarette ends, too. I must tell uncle. Oh, here it is. Kidnapping–penalties–“
“Hush” called Jimmy. “There’s some one coming.”
The door opened.
“Hello,” said Ogden, strolling in. “I was looking for you. Didn’t think you would be here.”
“Come right in, my little man, and make yourself at home,” said Jimmy.
Ogden eyed him with disfavour.
“You’re pretty fresh, aren’t you?”
“This is praise from Sir Hubert Stanley.”
“Eh? Who’s he?”
“Oh, a gentleman who knew what was what.”
Ogden closed the door.
“Well, I know what’s what, too. I know what you are for one thing.” He chuckled. “I’ve got your number all right.”
“In what respect?”
Another chuckle proceeded from the bulbous boy.
“You think you’re smooth, don’t you? But I’m onto you, Jimmy Crocker. A lot of Jimmy Crocker you are. You’re a crook. Get me? And I know what you’re after, at that. You’re going to try to kidnap me.”
From the corner of his eye Jimmy was aware of Ann’s startled face, looking over the gallery rail and withdrawn hastily. No sound came from the heights, but he knew that she was listening intently.
“What makes you think that?”
Ogden lowered himself into the depths of his favourite easy chair, and, putting his feet restfully on the writing-desk, met Jimmy’s gaze with a glassy but knowing eye.
“Got a cigarette?” he said.
“I have not,” said Jimmy. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
“Returning, with your permission, to our original subject,” said Jimmy, “what makes you think that I have come here to kidnap you?”
Ogden yawned.
“I was in the drawing-room after lunch, and that guy Lord Wisbeach came in and said he wanted to talk to mother privately. Mother sent me out of the room, so of course I listened at the door.”
“Do you know where little boys go who listen to private conversations?” said Jimmy severely.
“To the witness-stand generally, I guess. Well, I listened, and I heard this Lord Wisbeach tell mother that he had only pretended to recognise you as Jimmy Crocker and that really he had never seen you before in his life. He said you were a crook and that they had got to watch you. Well, I knew then why you had come here. It was pretty smooth, getting in the way you did. I’ve got to hand it to you.”
Jimmy did not reply. His mind was occupied with the contemplation of this dashing counter-stroke on the part of Gentleman Jack. He could hardly refrain from admiring the simple strategy with which the latter had circumvented him. There was an artistry about the move which compelled respect.
“Well, now, see here,” said Ogden, “you and I have got to get together on this proposition. I’ve been kidnapped twice before, and the only guys that made anything out of it were the kidnappers. It’s pretty soft for them. They couldn’t have got a cent without me, and they never dreamed of giving me a rake-off. I’m getting good and tired of being kidnapped for other people’s benefit, and I’ve made up my mind that the next guy that wants me has got to come across. See? My proposition is fifty-fifty. If you like it, I’m game to let you go ahead. If you don’t like it, then the deal’s off, and you’ll find that you’ve a darned poor chance of getting me. When I was kidnapped before, I was just a kid, but I can look after myself now. Well, what do you say?”
Jimmy found it hard at first to say anything. He had never properly understood the possibilities of Ogden’s character before. The longer he contemplated him, the more admirable Ann’s scheme appeared. It seemed to him that only a resolute keeper of a home for dogs would be adequately equipped for dealing with this remarkable youth.
“This is a commercial age,” he said.
“You bet it is,” said Ogden. “My middle name is business. Say, are you working this on your own, or are you in with Buck Maginnis and his crowd?”
“I don’t think I know Mr. Maginnis.”
“He’s the guy who kidnapped me the first time. He’s a rough-neck. Smooth Sam Fisher got away with me the second time. Maybe you’re in with Sam?”
“No.”
“No, I guess not. I heard that he had married and retired from business. I rather wish you were one of Buck’s lot. I like Buck. When he kidnapped me, I lived with him and he gave me a swell time. When I left him, a woman came and interviewed me about it for one of the Sunday papers. Sob stuff. Called the piece ‘Even Kidnappers Have Tender Hearts Beneath A Rough Exterior.’ I’ve got it upstairs in my press-clipping album. It was pretty bad slush. Buck Maginnis hasn’t got any tender heart beneath his rough exterior, but he’s a good sort and I liked him. We used to shoot craps. And he taught me to chew. I’d be tickled to death to have Buck get me again. But, if you’re working on your own, all right. It’s all the same to me, provided you meet me on the terms.”
“You certainly are a fascinating child.”
“Less of it, less of it. I’ve troubles enough to bear without having you getting fresh. Well, what about it? Talk figures. If I let you take me away, do we divvy up or don’t we? That’s all you’ve got to say.”
“That’s easily settled. I’ll certainly give you half of whatever I get.”
Ogden looked wistfully at the writing-desk.
“I wish I could have that in writing. But I guess it wouldn’t stand in law. I suppose I shall have to trust you.”
“Honour among thieves.”
“Less of the thieves. This is just a straight business proposition. I’ve got something valuable to sell, and I’m darned if I’m going to keep giving it away. I’ve been too easy. I ought to have thought of this before. All right, then, that’s settled. Now it’s up to you. You can think out the rest of it yourself.”
He heaved himself out of the chair, and left the room. Ann, coming down from the gallery, found Jimmy meditating. He looked up at the sound of her step.
“Well, that seems to make it pretty easy for us, doesn’t it?” he said. “It solves the problem of ways and means.”
“But this is awful. This alters everything. It isn’t safe for you to stay here. You must go away at once. They’ve found you out. You may be arrested at any moment.”
“That’s a side-issue. The main point is to put this thing through. Then we can think about what is going to happen to me.”
“But can’t you see the risk you’re running?”
“I don’t mind. I want to help you.”
“I won’t let you.”
“You must.”
“But do be sensible. What would you think of me if I allowed you to face this danger–?”
“I wouldn’t think any differently of you. My opinion of you is a fixed thing. Nothing can alter it. I tried to tell you on the boat, but you wouldn’t let me. I think you’re the most perfect, wonderful girl in all the world. I’ve loved you since the first moment I saw you. I knew who you were when we met for half a minute that day in London. We were utter strangers, but I knew you. You were the girl I had been looking for all my life. Good Heavens, you talk of risks. Can’t you understand that just being with you and speaking to you and knowing that we share this thing together is enough to wipe out any thought of risk? I’d do anything for you. And you expect me to back out of this thing because there is a certain amount of danger!”
Ann had retreated to the door, and was looking at him with wide eyes. With other young men and there had been many–who had said much the same sort of thing to her since her _debutante_ days she had been cool and composed–a little sorry, perhaps, but in no doubt as to her own feelings and her ability to resist their pleadings. But now her heart was racing, and the conviction had begun to steal over her that the cool and composed Ann Chester was in imminent danger of making a fool of herself. Quite suddenly, without any sort of warning, she realised that there was some quality in Jimmy which called aloud to some corresponding quality in herself–a nebulous something that made her know that he and she were mates. She knew herself hard to please where men were concerned. She could not have described what it was in her that all the men she had met, the men with whom she had golfed and ridden and yachted, had failed to satisfy: but, ever since she had acquired the power of self-analysis, she had known that it was something which was a solid and indestructible part of her composition. She could not have put into words what quality she demanded in man, but she had always known that she would recognise it when she found it: and she recognised it now in Jimmy. It was a recklessness, an irresponsibility, a cheerful dare-devilry, the complement to her own gay lawlessness.
“Ann!” said Jimmy.
“It’s too late!”
She had not meant to say that. She had meant to say that it was impossible, out of the question. But her heart was running away with her, goaded on by the irony of it all. A veil seemed to have fallen from before her eyes, and she knew now why she had been drawn to Jimmy from the very first. They were mates, and she had thrown away her happiness.
“I’ve promised to marry Lord Wisbeach!”
Jimmy stopped dead, as if the blow had been a physical one.
“You’ve promised to marry Lord Wisbeach!”
“Yes.”
“But–but when?”
“Just now. Only a few minutes ago. When I was driving him to his hotel. He had asked me to marry him before I left for England, and I had promised to give him his answer when I got back. But when I got back, somehow I couldn’t make up my mind. The days slipped by. Something seemed to be holding me back. He pressed me to say that I would marry him, and it seemed absurd to go on refusing to be definite, so I said I would.”
“You can’t love him? Surely you don’t–?”
Ann met his gaze frankly.
“Something seems to have happened to me in the last few minutes,” she said, “and I can’t think clearly. A little while ago it didn’t seem to matter much. I liked him. He was good-looking and good-tempered. I felt that we should get along quite well and be as happy as most people are. That seemed as near perfection as one could expect to get nowadays, so–well, that’s how it was.”
“But you can’t marry him! It’s out of the question!”
“I’ve promised.”
“You must break your promise.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You must!”
“I can’t. One must play the game.”
Jimmy groped for words. “But in this case you mustn’t–it’s awful–in this special case–” He broke off. He saw the trap he was in. He could not denounce that crook without exposing himself. And from that he still shrank. Ann’s prejudice against Jimmy Crocker might have its root in a trivial and absurd grievance, but it had been growing through the years, and who could say how strong it was now?
Ann came a step towards him, then paused doubtfully. Then, as if making up her mind, she drew near and touched his sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
There was a silence.
“I’m sorry!”
She moved away. The door closed softly behind her. Jimmy scarcely knew that she had gone. He sat down in that deep chair which was Mr. Pett’s favourite, and stared sightlessly at the ceiling. And then, how many minutes or hours later he did not know, the sharp click of the door-handle roused him. He sprang from the chair. Was it Ann, come back?
It was not Ann. Round the edge of the door came inquiringly the fair head of Lord Wisbeach.
“Oh!” said his lordship, sighting Jimmy.
The head withdrew itself.
“Come here!” shouted Jimmy.
The head appeared again.
“Talking to me?”
“Yes, I was talking to you.”
Lord Wisbeach followed his superstructure into the room. He was outwardly all that was bland and unperturbed, but there was a wary look in the eye that cocked itself at Jimmy, and he did not move far from the door. His fingers rested easily on the handle behind him. He did not think it probable that Jimmy could have heard of his visit to Mrs. Pett, but there had been something menacing in the latter’s voice, and he believed in safety first.
“They told me Miss Chester was here,” he said by way of relaxing any possible strain there might be in the situation.
“And what the devil do you want with Miss Chester, you slimy, crawling second-story-worker, you damned, oily yegg?” enquired Jimmy.
The sunniest optimist could not have deluded himself into the belief that the words were spoken in a friendly and genial spirit. Lord Wisbeach’s fingers tightened on the door-handle, and he grew a little flushed about the cheek-bones.
“What’s all this about?” he said.
“You infernal crook!”
Lord Wisbeach looked anxious.
“Don’t shout like that! Are you crazy? Do you want people to hear?”
Jimmy drew a deep breath.
“I shall have to get further away from you,” he said more quietly. “There’s no knowing what may happen if I don’t. I don’t want to kill you. At least, I do, but I had better not.”
He retired slowly until brought to a halt by the writing-desk. To this he anchored himself with a firm grip. He was extremely anxious to do nothing rash, and the spectacle of Gentleman Jack invited rashness. He leaned against the desk, clutching its solidity with both hands. Lord Wisbeach held steadfastly to the door-handle. And in this tense fashion the interview proceeded.
“Miss Chester,” said Jimmy, forcing himself to speak calmly, “has just been telling me that she has promised to marry you.”
“Quite true,” said Lord Wisbeach. “It will be announced to-morrow.” A remark trembled on his lips, to the effect that he relied on Jimmy for a fish-slice, but prudence kept it unspoken. He was unable at present to understand Jimmy’s emotion. Why Jimmy should object to his being engaged to Ann, he could not imagine. But it was plain that for some reason he had taken the thing to heart, and, dearly as he loved a bit of quiet fun, Lord Wisbeach decided that the other was at least six inches too tall and fifty pounds too heavy to be bantered in his present mood by one of his own physique. “Why not?”
“It won’t be announced to-morrow,” said Jimmy. “Because by to-morrow you will be as far away from here as you can get, if you have any sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just this. If you haven’t left this house by breakfast time to-morrow, I shall expose you.”
Lord Wisbeach was not feeling particularly happy, but he laughed at this.
“You!”
“That’s what I said.”
“Who do you think you are, to go about exposing people?”
“I happen to be Mrs. Pett’s nephew, Jimmy Crocker.”
Lord Wisbeach laughed again.
“Is that the line you are going to take?”
“It is.”
“You are going to Mrs. Pett to tell her that you are Jimmy Crocker and that I am a crook and that you only pretended to recognise me for reasons of your own?”
“Just that.”
“Forget it!” Lord Wisbeach had forgotten to be alarmed in his amusement. He smiled broadly. “I’m not saying it’s not good stuff to pull, but it’s old stuff now. I’m sorry for you, but I thought of it before you did. I went to Mrs. Pett directly after lunch and sprang that line of talk myself. Do you think she’ll believe you after that? I tell you I’m ace-high with that dame. You can’t queer me with her.”
“I think I can. For the simple reason that I really am Jimmy Crocker.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Exactly. Yes, I am.”
Lord Wisbeach smiled tolerantly.
“It was worth trying the bluff, I guess, but it won’t work. I know you’d be glad to get me out of this house, but you’ve got to make a better play than that to do it.”
“Don’t deceive yourself with the idea that I’m bluffing. Look here.” He suddenly removed his coat and threw it to Lord Wisbeach. “Read the tailor’s label inside the pocket. See the name. Also the address. ‘J. Crocker. Drexdale House. Grosvenor Square. London.'”
Lord Wisbeach picked up the garment and looked as directed. His face turned a little sallower, but he still fought against his growing conviction.
“That’s no proof.”
“Perhaps not. But, when you consider the reputation of the tailor whose name is on the label, it’s hardly likely that he would be standing in with an impostor, is it? If you want real proof, I have no doubt that there are half a dozen men working on the _Chronicle_ who can identify me. Or are you convinced already?”
Lord Wisbeach capitulated.
“I don’t know what fool game you think you’re playing, but I can’t see why you couldn’t have told me this when we were talking after lunch.”
“Never mind. I had my reasons. They don’t matter. What matters is that you are going to get out of here to-morrow. Do you understand that?”
“I get you.”
“Then that’s about all, I think. Don’t let me keep you.”
“Say, listen.” Gentleman Jack’s voice was plaintive. “I think you might give a fellow a chance to get out good. Give me time to have a guy in Montreal send me a telegram telling me to go up there right away. Otherwise you might just as well put the cops on me at once. The old lady knows I’ve got business in Canada. You don’t need to be rough on a fellow.”
Jimmy pondered this point.
“All right. I don’t object to that.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t start anything, though.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Jimmy pointed to the safe.
“Come, come, friend of my youth. We have no secrets from each other. I know you’re after what’s in there, and you know that I know. I don’t want to harp on it, but you’ll be spending to-night in the house, and I think you had better make up your mind to spend it in your room, getting a nice sleep to prepare you for your journey. Do you follow me, old friend?”
“I get you.”
“That will be all then, I think. Wind a smile around your neck and recede.”
The door slammed. Lord Wisbeach had restrained his feelings successfully during the interview, but he could not deny himself that slight expression of them. Jimmy crossed the room and took his coat from the chair where the other had dropped it. As he did so a voice spoke.
“Say!”
Jimmy spun round. The room was apparently empty. The thing was beginning to assume an uncanny aspect, when the voice spoke again.
“You think you’re darned funny, don’t you?”
It came from above. Jimmy had forgotten the gallery. He directed his gaze thither, and perceived the heavy face of Ogden hanging over the rail like a gargoyle.
“What are you doing there?” he demanded.
“Listening.”
“How did you get there?”
“There’s a door back here that you get to from the stairs. I often come here for a quiet cigarette. Say, you think yourself some josher, don’t you, telling me you were a kidnapper! You strung me like an onion. So you’re really Jimmy Crocker after all? Where was the sense in pulling all that stuff about taking me away and divvying up the ransom? Aw, you make me tired!”
The head was withdrawn, and Jimmy heard heavy steps followed by the banging of a door. Peace reigned in the library.
Jimmy sat down in the chair which was Mr. Pett’s favourite and which Ogden was accustomed to occupy to that gentleman’s displeasure. The swiftness of recent events had left him a little dizzy, and he desired to think matters over and find out exactly what had happened.
The only point which appeared absolutely clear to him in a welter of confusing occurrences was the fact that he had lost the chance of kidnapping Ogden. Everything had arranged itself so beautifully simply and conveniently as regarded that venture until a moment ago; but now that the boy had discovered his identity it was impossible for him to attempt it. He was loth to accept this fact. Surely, even now, there was a way . . .
Quite suddenly an admirable plan occurred to him. It involved the co-operation of his father. And at that thought he realised with a start that life had been moving so rapidly for him since his return to the house that he had not paid any attention at all to what was really as amazing a mystery as any. He had been too busy to wonder why his father was there.
He debated the best method of getting in touch with him. It was out of the question to descend to the pantry or wherever it was that his father lived in this new incarnation of his. Then the happy thought struck him that results might be obtained by the simple process of ringing the bell. It might produce some other unit of the domestic staff. However, it was worth trying. He rang the bell.
A few moments later the door opened. Jimmy looked up. It was not his father. It was a dangerous-looking female of uncertain age, dressed as a parlour-maid, who eyed him with what seemed to his conscience-stricken soul dislike and suspicion. She had a tight-lipped mouth and beady eyes beneath heavy brows. Jimmy had seldom seen a woman who attracted him less at first sight.
“Jer ring, S’?”
Jimmy blinked and almost ducked. The words had come at him like a projectile.
“Oh, ah, yes.”
“J’ want anything, s’?”
With an effort Jimmy induced his mind to resume its interrupted equilibrium.
“Oh, ah, yes. Would you mind sending Skinner the butler to me.”
“Y’s’r.”
The apparition vanished. Jimmy drew out his handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. He felt weak and guilty. He felt as if he had just been accused of nameless crimes and had been unable to deny the charge. Such was the magic of Miss Trimble’s eye–the left one, which looked directly at its object. Conjecture pauses baffled at the thought of the effect which her gaze might have created in the breasts of the sex she despised, had it been double instead of single-barrelled. But half of it had wasted itself on a spot some few feet to his right.
Presently the door opened again, and Mr. Crocker appeared, looking like a benevolent priest.
CHAPTER XIX
BETWEEN FATHER AND SON
“Well, Skinner, my man,” said Jimmy, “how goes it?”
Mr. Crocker looked about him cautiously. Then his priestly manner fell from him like a robe, and he bounded forward.
“Jimmy!” he exclaimed, seizing his son’s hand and shaking it violently. “Say, it’s great seeing you again, Jim!”
Jimmy drew himself up haughtily.
“Skinner, my good menial, you forget yourself strangely! You will be getting fired if you mitt the handsome guest in this chummy fashion!” He slapped his father on the back. “Dad, this is great! How on earth do you come to be here? What’s the idea? Why the buttling? When did you come over? Tell me all!”
Mr. Crocker hoisted himself nimbly onto the writing-desk, and sat there, beaming, with dangling legs.
“It was your letter that did it, Jimmy. Say, Jim, there wasn’t any need for you to do a thing like that just for me.”
“Well, I thought you would have a better chance of being a peer without me around. By the way, dad, how did my step-mother take the Lord Percy episode?”
A shadow fell upon Mr. Crocker’s happy face.
“I don’t like to do much thinking about your step-mother,” he said. “She was pretty sore about Percy. And she was pretty sore about your lighting out for America. But, gee! what she must be feeling like now that I’ve come over, I daren’t let myself think.”
“You haven’t explained that yet. Why did you come over?”
“Well, I’d been feeling homesick–I always do over there in the baseball season–and then talking with Pett made it worse–“
“Talking with Pett? Did you see him, then, when he was in London?”
“See him? I let him in!”
“How?”
“Into the house, I mean. I had just gone to the front door to see what sort of a day it was–I wanted to know if there had been enough rain in the night to stop my having to watch that cricket game–and just as I got there the bell rang. I opened the door.”
“A revoltingly plebeian thing to do! I’m ashamed of you, dad! They won’t stand for that sort of thing in the House of Lords!”
“Well, before I knew what was happening they had taken me for the butler. I didn’t want your step-mother to know I’d been opening doors–you remember how touchy she was always about it so I just let it go at that and jollied them along. But I just couldn’t help asking the old man how the pennant race was making out, and that tickled him so much that he offered me a job here as butler if I ever wanted to make a change. And then your note came saying that you were going to New York, and–well, I couldn’t help myself. You couldn’t have kept me in London with ropes. I sneaked out next day and bought a passage on the _Carmantic_–she sailed the Wednesday after you left–and came straight here. They gave me this job right away.” Mr. Crocker paused, and a holy light of enthusiasm made his homely features almost beautiful. “Say, Jim, I’ve seen a ball-game every darned day since I landed! Say, two days running Larry Doyle made home-runs! But, gosh! that guy Klem is one swell robber! See here!” Mr. Crocker sprang down from the desk, and snatched up a handful of books, which he proceeded to distribute about the floor. “There were two men on bases in the sixth and What’s-his-name came to bat. He lined one out to centre-field–where this book is–and–“
“Pull yourself together, Skinner! You can’t monkey about with the employer’s library like that.” Jimmy restored the books to their places. “Simmer down and tell me more. Postpone the gossip from the diamond. What plans have you made? Have you considered the future at all? You aren’t going to hold down this buttling job forever, are you? When do you go back to London?”
The light died out of Mr. Crocker’s face.
“I guess I shall have to go back some time. But how can I yet, with the Giants leading the league like this?”
“But did you just light out without saying anything?”
“I left a note for your step-mother telling her I had gone to America for a vacation. Jimmy, I hate to think what she’s going to do to me when she gets me back!”
“Assert yourself, dad! Tell her that woman’s place is the home and man’s the ball-park! Be firm!”
Mr. Crocker shook his head dubiously.
“It’s all very well to talk that way when you’re three thousand miles from home, but you know as well as I do, Jim, that your step-mother, though she’s a delightful woman, isn’t the sort you can assert yourself with. Look at this sister of hers here. I guess you haven’t been in the house long enough to have noticed, but she’s very like Eugenia in some ways. She’s the boss all right, and old Pett does just what he’s told to. I guess it’s the same with me, Jim. There’s a certain type of man that’s just born to have it put over on him by a certain type of woman. I’m that sort of man and your stepmother’s that sort of woman. No, I guess I’m going to get mine all right, and the only thing to do is to keep it from stopping me having a good time now.”
There was truth in what he said, and Jimmy recognised it. He changed the subject.
“Well, never mind that. There’s no sense in worrying oneself about the future. Tell me, dad, where did you get all the ‘dinner-is-served, madam’ stuff? How did you ever learn to be a butler?”
“Bayliss taught me back in London. And, of course, I’ve played butlers when I was on the stage.”
Jimmy did not speak for a moment.
“Did you ever play a kidnapper, dad?” he asked at length.
“Sure. I was Chicago Ed. in a crook play called ‘This Way Out.’ Why, surely you saw me in that? I got some good notices.”
Jimmy nodded.
“Of course. I knew I’d seen you play that sort of part some time. You came on during the dark scene and–“
“–switched on the lights and–“
“–covered the bunch with your gun while they were still blinking! You were great in that part, dad.”
“It was a good part,” said Mr. Crocker modestly. “It had fat. I’d like to have a chance to play a kidnapper again. There’s a lot of pep to kidnappers.”
“You _shall_ play one again,” said Jimmy. “I am putting on a little sketch with a kidnapper as the star part.”
“Eh? A sketch? You, Jim? Where?”
“Here. In this house. It is entitled ‘Kidnapping Ogden’ and opens to-night.”
Mr. Crocker looked at his only son in concern. Jimmy appeared to him to be rambling.
“Amateur theatricals?” he hazarded.
“In the sense that there is no pay for performing, yes. Dad, you know that kid Ogden upstairs? Well, it’s quite simple. I want you to kidnap him for me.”
Mr. Crocker sat down heavily. He shook his head.
“I don’t follow all this.”
“Of course not. I haven’t begun to explain. Dad, in your rambles through this joint you’ve noticed a girl with glorious red-gold hair, I imagine?”
“Ann Chester?”
“Ann Chester. I’m going to marry her.”
“Jimmy!”
“But she doesn’t know it yet. Now, follow me carefully, dad. Five years ago Ann Chester wrote a book of poems. It’s on that desk there. You were using it a moment back as second-base or something. Now, I was working at that time on the _Chronicle_. I wrote a skit on those poems for the Sunday paper. Do you begin to follow the plot?”
“She’s got it in for you? She’s sore?”
“Exactly. Get that firmly fixed in your mind, because it’s the source from which all the rest of the story springs.”
Mr. Crocker interrupted.
“But I don’t understand. You say she’s sore at you. Well, how is it that you came in together looking as if you were good friends when I let you in this morning?”
“I was waiting for you to ask that. The explanation is that she doesn’t know that I am Jimmy Crocker.”
“But you came here saying that you were Jimmy Crocker.”
“Quite right. And that is where the plot thickens. I made Ann’s acquaintance first in London and then on the boat. I had found out that Jimmy Crocker was the man she hated most in the world, so I took another name. I called myself Bayliss.”
“Bayliss!”
“I had to think of something quick, because the clerk at the shipping office was waiting to fill in my ticket. I had just been talking to Bayliss on the phone and his was the only name that came into my mind. You know how it is when you try to think of a name suddenly. Now mark the sequel. Old Bayliss came to see me off at Paddington. Ann was there and saw me. She said ‘Good evening, Mr. Bayliss’ or something, and naturally old Bayliss replied ‘What ho!’ or words to that effect. The only way to handle the situation was to introduce him as my father. I did so. Ann, therefore, thinks that I am a young man named Bayliss who has come over to America to make his fortune. We now come to the third reel. I met Ann by chance at the Knickerbocker and took her to lunch. While we were lunching, that confirmed congenital idiot, Reggie Bartling, who happened to have come over to America as well, came up and called me by my name. I knew that, if Ann discovered who I really was, she would have nothing more to do with me, so I gave Reggie the haughty stare and told him that he had made a mistake. He ambled away–and possibly committed suicide in his anguish at having made such a bloomer–leaving Ann discussing with me the extraordinary coincidence of my being Jimmy Crocker’s double. Do you follow the story of my life so far?”
Mr. Crocker, who had been listening with wrinkled brow and other signs of rapt attention, nodded.
“I understand all that. But how did you come to get into this house?”
“That is reel four. I am getting to that. It seems that Ann, who is the sweetest girl on earth and always on the lookout to do some one a kindness, had decided, in the interests of the boy’s future, to remove young Ogden Ford from his present sphere, where he is being spoiled and ruined, and send him down to a man on Long Island who would keep him for awhile and instil the first principles of decency into him. Her accomplice in this admirable scheme was Jerry Mitchell.”
“Jerry Mitchell!”
“Who, as you know, got fired yesterday. Jerry was to have done the rough work of the job. But, being fired, he was no longer available. I, therefore, offered to take his place. So here I am.”
“You’re going to kidnap that boy?”
“No. You are.”
“Me!”
“Precisely. You are going to play a benefit performance of your world-famed success, Chicago Ed. Let me explain further. Owing to circumstances which I need not go into, Ogden has found out that I am really Jimmy Crocker, so he refuses to have anything more to do with me. I had deceived him into believing that I was a professional kidnapper, and he came to me and offered to let me kidnap him if I would go fifty-fifty with him in the ransom!”
“Gosh!”
“Yes, he’s an intelligent child, full of that sort of bright ideas. Well, now he has found that I am not all his fancy painted me, he wouldn’t come away with me; and I want you to understudy me while the going is good. In the fifth reel, which will be released to-night after the household has retired to rest, you will be featured. It’s got to be tonight, because it has just occurred to me that Ogden, knowing that Lord Wisbeach is a crook, may go to him with the same proposal that he made to me.”
“Lord Wisbeach a crook!”
“Of the worst description. He is here to steal that explosive stuff of Willie Partridge’s. But as I have blocked that play, he may turn his attention to Ogden.”
“But, Jimmy, if that fellow is a crook–how do you know he is?”
“He told me so himself.”
“Well, then, why don’t you expose him?”
“Because in order to do so, Skinner my man, I should have to explain that I was really Jimmy Crocker, and the time is not yet ripe for that. To my thinking, the time will not be ripe till you have got safely away with Ogden Ford. I can then go to Ann and say ‘I may have played you a rotten trick in the past, but I have done you a good turn now, so let’s forget the past!’ So you see that everything now depends on you, dad. I’m not asking you to do anything difficult. I’ll go round to the boarding-house now and tell Jerry Mitchell about what we have arranged, and have him waiting outside here in a car. Then all you will have to do is to go to Ogden, play a short scene as Chicago Ed., escort him to the car, and then go back to bed and have a good sleep. Once Ogden thinks you are a professional kidnapper, you won’t have any difficulty at all. Get it into your head that he wants to be kidnapped. Surely you can tackle this light and attractive job? Why, it will be a treat for you to do a bit of character acting once more!”
Jimmy had struck the right note. His father’s eyes began to gleam with excitement. The scent of the footlights seemed to dilate his nostrils.
“I was always good at that rough-neck stuff,” he murmured meditatively. “I used to eat it!”
“Exactly,” said Jimmy. “Look at it in the right way, and I am doing you a kindness in giving you this chance.”
Mr. Crocker rubbed his cheek with his forefinger.
“You’d want me to make up for the part?” he asked wistfully.
“Of course!”
“You want me to do it to-night?”
“At about two in the morning, I thought.”
“I’ll do it, Jim!”
Jimmy grasped his hand.
“I knew I could rely on you, dad.”
Mr. Crocker was following a train of thought.
“Dark wig . . . blue chin . . . heavy eyebrows . . . I guess I can’t do better than my old Chicago Ed. make-up. Say, Jimmy, how am I to get to the kid?”
“That’ll be all right. You can stay in my room till the time comes to go to him. Use it as a dressing-room.”
“How am I to get him out of the house?”
“Through this room. I’ll tell Jerry to wait out on the side-street with the car from two o’clock on.”
Mr. Crocker considered these arrangements.
“That seems to be about all,” he said.
“I don’t think there’s anything else.”
“I’ll slip downtown and buy the props.”
“I’ll go and tell Jerry.”
A thought struck Mr. Crocker.
“You’d better tell Jerry to make up, too. He doesn’t want the kid recognising him and squealing on him later.”
Jimmy was lost in admiration of his father’s resource.
“You think of everything, dad! That wouldn’t have occurred to me. You certainly do take to Crime in the most wonderful way. It seems to come naturally to you!”
Mr. Crocker smirked modestly.
CHAPTER XX
CELESTINE IMPARTS INFORMATION
Plit is only as strong as its weakest link. The best-laid schemes of mice and men gang agley if one of the mice is a mental defective or if one of the men is a Jerry Mitchell. . . .
Celestine, Mrs. Pett’s maid–she who was really Maggie O’Toole and whom Jerry loved with a strength which deprived him of even that small amount of intelligence which had been bestowed upon him by Nature–came into the house-keeper’s room at about ten o’clock that night. The domestic staff had gone in a body to the moving-pictures, and the only occupant of the room was the new parlourmaid, who was sitting in a hard chair, reading Schopenhauer.
Celestine’s face was flushed, her dark hair was ruffled, and her eyes were shining. She breathed a little quickly, and her left hand was out of sight behind her back. She eyed the new parlour-maid doubtfully for a moment. The latter was a woman of somewhat unencouraging exterior, not the kind that invites confidences. But Celestine had confidences to bestow, and the exodus to the movies had left her in a position where she could not pick and choose. She was faced with the alternative of locking her secret in her palpitating bosom or of revealing it to this one auditor. The choice was one which no impulsive damsel in like circumstances would have hesitated to make.
“Say!” said Celestine.
A face rose reluctantly from behind Schopenhauer. A gleaming eye met Celestine’s. A second eye no less gleaming glared at the ceiling.
“Say, I just been talking to my feller outside,” said Celestine with a coy simper. “Say, he’s a grand man!”
A snort of uncompromising disapproval proceeded from the thin-lipped mouth beneath the eyes. But Celestine was too full of her news to be discouraged.
“I’m strong fer Jer!” she said.
“Huh?” said the student of Schopenhauer.
“Jerry Mitchell, you know. You ain’t never met him, have you? Say, he’s a grand man!”
For the first time she had the other’s undivided attention. The new parlour-maid placed her book upon the table.
“Uh?” she said.
Celestine could hold back her dramatic surprise no longer. Her concealed left hand flashed into view. On the third finger glittered a ring. She gazed at it with awed affection.
“Ain’t it a beaut!”
She contemplated its sparkling perfection for a moment in rapturous silence.
“Say, you could have knocked me down with a feather!” she resumed. “He telephones me awhile ago and says to be outside the back door at ten to-night, because he’d something he wanted to tell me. Of course he couldn’t come in and tell it me here, because he’d been fired and everything. So I goes out, and there he is. ‘Hello, kid!’ he says to me. ‘Fresh!’ I says to him. ‘Say, I got something to be fresh about!’ he says to me. And then he reaches into his jeans and hauls out the sparkler. ‘What’s that?’ I says to him. ‘It’s an engagement ring,’ he says to me. ‘For you, if you’ll wear it!’ I came over so weak, I could have fell! And the next thing I know he’s got it on my finger and–” Celestine broke off modestly. “Say, ain’t it a beaut, honest!” She gave herself over to contemplation once more. “He says to me how he’s on Easy Street now, or will be pretty soon. I says to him ‘Have you got a job, then?’ He says to me ‘Now, I ain’t got a job, but I’m going to pull off a stunt to-night that’s going to mean enough to me to start that health-farm I’ve told you about.’ Say, he’s always had a line of talk about starting a health-farm down on Long Island, he knowing all about training and health and everything through having been one of them fighters. I asks him what the stunt is, but he won’t tell me yet. He says he’ll tell me after we’re married, but he says it’s sure-fire and he’s going to buy the license tomorrow.”
She paused for comment and congratulations, eyeing her companion expectantly.
“Huh!” said the new parlour-maid briefly, and resumed her Schopenhauer. Decidedly hers was not a winning personality.
“Ain’t it a beaut?” demanded Celestine, damped.
The new parlour-maid uttered a curious sound at the back of her throat.
“He’s a beaut!” she said cryptically.
She added another remark in a lower tone, too low for Celestine’s ears. It could hardly have been that, but it sounded to Celestine like:
“I’ll fix ‘m!”
CHAPTER XXI
CHICAGO ED.
Riverside Drive slept. The moon shone on darkened windows and deserted sidewalks. It was past one o’clock in the morning. The wicked Forties were still ablaze with light and noisy foxtrots; but in the virtuous Hundreds, where Mr. Pett’s house stood, respectable slumber reigned. Only the occasional drone of a passing automobile broke the silence, or the love-sick cry of some feline Romeo patrolling a wall-top.
Jimmy was awake. He was sitting on the edge of his bed watching his father put the finishing touches to his make-up, which was of a shaggy and intimidating nature. The elder Crocker had conceived the outward aspect of Chicago Ed., King of the Kidnappers, on broad and impressive lines, and one glance would have been enough to tell the sagacious observer that here was no white-souled comrade for a nocturnal saunter down lonely lanes and out-of-the-way alleys.
Mr. Crocker seemed to feel this himself.
“The only trouble is, Jim,” he said, peering at himself in the glass, “shan’t I scare the boy to death directly he sees me? Oughtn’t I to give him some sort of warning?”
“How? Do you suggest sending him a formal note?”
Mr. Crocker surveyed his repellent features doubtfully.
“It’s a good deal to spring on a kid at one in the morning,” he said. “Suppose he has a fit!”
“He’s far more likely to give you one. Don’t you worry about Ogden, dad. I shouldn’t think there was a child alive more equal to handling such a situation.”
There was an empty glass standing on a tray on the dressing-table. Mr. Crocker eyed this sadly.
“I wish you hadn’t thrown that stuff away, Jim. I could have done with it. I’m feeling nervous.”
“Nonsense, dad! You’re all right! I had to throw it away. I’m on the wagon now, but how long I should have stayed on with that smiling up at me I don’t know. I’ve made up my mind never to lower myself to the level of the beasts that perish with the demon Rum again, because my future wife has strong views on the subject: but there’s no sense in taking chances. Temptation is all very well, but you don’t need it on your dressing-table. It was a kindly thought of yours to place it there, dad, but–“
“Eh? I didn’t put it there.”
“I thought that sort of thing came in your department. Isn’t it the butler’s job to supply drinks to the nobility and gentry? Well, it doesn’t matter. It is now distributed over the neighbouring soil, thus removing a powerful temptation from your path. You’re better without it.” He looked at his watch. “Well, it ought to be all right now.” He went to the window. “There’s an automobile down there. I suppose it’s Jerry. I told him to be outside at one sharp and it’s nearly half-past. I think you might be starting, dad. Oh, by the way, you had better tell Ogden that you represent a gentleman of the name of Buck Maginnis. It was Buck who got away with him last time, and a firm friendship seems to-have sprung up between them. There’s nothing like coming with a good introduction.”
Mr. Crocker took a final survey of himself in the mirror.
“Gee I I’d hate to meet myself on a lonely road!”
He opened the door, and stood for a moment listening.
From somewhere down the passage came the murmur of a muffled snore.
“Third door on the left,” said Jimmy. “Three–count ’em!–three. Don’t go getting mixed.”
Mr. Crocker slid into the outer darkness like a stout ghost, and Jimmy closed the door gently behind him.
Having launched his indulgent parent safely on a career of crime, Jimmy switched off the light and returned to the window. Leaning out, he gave himself up for a moment to sentimental musings. The night was very still. Through the trees which flanked the house the dimmed headlights of what was presumably Jerry Mitchell’s hired car shone faintly like enlarged fire-flies. A boat of some description was tooting reflectively far down the river. Such was the seductive influence of the time and the scene that Jimmy might have remained there indefinitely, weaving dreams, had he not been under the necessity of making his way down to the library. It was his task to close the French windows after his father and Ogden had passed through, and he proposed to remain hid in the gallery there until the time came for him to do this. It was imperative that he avoid being seen by Ogden.
Locking his door behind him, he went downstairs. There were no signs of life in the house. Everything was still. He found the staircase leading to the gallery without having to switch on the lights.
It was dusty in the gallery, and a smell of old leather enveloped him. He hoped his father would not be long. He lowered himself cautiously to the floor, and, resting his head against a convenient shelf, began to wonder how the interview between Chicago Ed. and his prey was progressing.
* * * * *
Mr. Crocker, meanwhile, masked to the eyes, had crept in fearful silence to the door which Jimmy had indicated. A good deal of the gay enthusiasm with which he had embarked on this enterprise had ebbed away from him. Now that he had become accustomed to the novelty of finding himself once more playing a character part, his intimate respectability began to assert itself. It was one thing to play Chicago Ed. at a Broadway theatre, but quite another to give a benefit performance like this. As he tip-toed along the passage, the one thing that presented itself most clearly to him was the appalling outcome of this act of his, should anything go wrong. He would have turned back, but for the thought that Jimmy was depending on him and that success would mean Jimmy’s happiness. Stimulated by this reflection, he opened Ogden’s door inch by inch and went in. He stole softly across the room.
He had almost reached the bed, and had just begun to wonder how on earth, now that he was there, he could open the proceedings tactfully and without alarming the boy, when he was saved the trouble of pondering further on this problem. A light flashed out of the darkness with the suddenness of a bursting bomb, and a voice from the same general direction said “Hands up!”
When Mr. Crocker had finished blinking and had adjusted his eyes to the glare, he perceived Ogden sitting up in bed with a revolver in his hand. The revolver was resting on his knee, and its muzzle pointed directly at Mr. Crocker’s ample stomach.
Exhaustive as had been the thought which Jimmy’s father had given to the possible developments of his enterprise, this was a contingency of which he had not dreamed. He was entirely at a loss.
“Don’t do that!” he said huskily. “It might go off!”
“I should worry!” replied Ogden coldly. “I’m at the right end of it. What are you doing here?” He looked fondly at the lethal weapon. “I got this with cigarette-coupons, to shoot rabbits when we went to the country. Here’s where I get a chance at something part-human.”
“Do you want to murder me?”
“Why not?”
Mr. Crocker’s make-up was trickling down his face in sticky streams. The mask, however, prevented Ogden from seeing this peculiar phenomenon. He was gazing interestedly at his visitor. An idea struck him.
“Say, did you come to kidnap me?”
Mr. Crocker felt the sense of relief which he had sometimes experienced on the stage when memory had failed him during a scene and a fellow-actor had thrown him the line. It would be exaggerating to say that he was himself again. He could never be completely at his case with that pistol pointing at him; but he felt considerably better. He lowered his voice an octave or so, and spoke in a husky growl.
“Aw, cheese it, kid. Nix on the rough stuff!”
“Keep those hands up!” advised Ogden.
“Sure! Sure!” growled Mr. Crocker. “Can the gun-play, bo! Say, you’ve soitanly grown since de last time we got youse!”
Ogden’s manner became magically friendly.
“Are you one of Buck Maginnis’ lot?” he enquired almost politely.
“Dat’s right!” Mr. Crocker blessed the inspiration which had prompted Jimmy’s parting words. “I’m wit Buck.”
“Why didn’t Buck come himself?”
“He’s woiking on anudder job!”
To Mr. Crocker’s profound relief Ogden lowered the pistol.
“I’m strong for Buck,” he said conversationally. “We’re old pals. Did you see the piece in the paper about him kidnapping me last time? I’ve got it in my press-clipping album.”
“Sure,” said Mr. Crocker.
“Say, listen. If you take me now, Buck’s got to come across. I like Buck, but I’m not going to let myself be kidnapped for his benefit. It’s fifty-fifty, or nothing doing. See?”
“I get you, kid.”
“Well, if that’s understood, all right. Give me a minute to get some clothes on, and I’ll be with you.”
“Don’t make a noise,” said Mr. Crocker.
“Who’s making any noise? Say, how did you get in here?”
“T’roo de libery windows.”
“I always knew some yegg would stroll in that way. It beats me why they didn’t have bars fixed on them.”
“Dere’s a buzz-wagon outside, waitin’.”
“You do it in style, don’t you?” observed Ogden, pulling on his shirt. “Who’s working this with you? Any one I know?”
“Naw. A new guy.”
“Oh? Say, I don’t remember you, if it comes to that.”
“You don’t?” said Mr. Crocker a little discomposed.
“Well, maybe I wouldn’t, with that mask on you. Which of them are you?”
“Chicago Ed.’s my monaker.”
“I don’t remember any Chicago Ed.”
“Well, you will after dis!” said Mr. Crocker, happily inspired.
Ogden was eyeing him with sudden suspicion.
“Take that mask off and let’s have a look at you.”
“Nothing doin’.”
“How am I to know you’re on the level?”
Mr. Crocker played a daring card.
“All right,” he said, making a move towards the door. “It’s up to youse. If you t’ink I’m not on de level, I’ll beat it.”
“Here, stop a minute,” said Ogden hastily, unwilling that a promising business deal should be abandoned in this summary manner. “I’m not saying anything against you. There’s no need to fly off the handle like that.”
“I’ll tell Buck I couldn’t get you,” said Mr. Crocker, moving another step.
“Here, stop! What’s the matter with you?”
“Are youse comin’ wit me?”
“Sure, if you get the conditions. Buck’s got to slip me half of whatever he gets out of this.”
“Dat’s right. Buck’ll slip youse half of anyt’ing he gets.”
“All right, then. Wait till I’ve got this shoe on, and let’s start. Now I’m ready.”
“Beat it quietly.”
“What did you think I was going to do? Sing?”
“Step dis way!” said Mr. Crocker jocosely.
They left the room cautiously. Mr. Crocker for a moment had a sense of something missing. He had reached the stairs before he realised what it was. Then it dawned upon him that what was lacking was the applause. The scene had deserved a round.
Jimmy, vigilant in the gallery, heard the library door open softly and, peering over the rail, perceived two dim forms in the darkness. One was large, the other small. They crossed the room together.
Whispered words reached him.
“I thought you said you came in this way.”
“Sure.”
“Then why’s the shutter closed?”
“I fixed it after I was in.”
There was a faint scraping sound, followed by a click. The darkness of the room was relieved by moonlight. The figures passed through. Jimmy ran down from the gallery, and closed the windows softly. He had just fastened the shutters, when from the passage outside there came the unmistakeable sound of a footstep.
CHAPTER XXII
IN THE LIBRARY
Jimmy’s first emotion on hearing the footstep was the crude instinct of self-preservation. All that he was able to think of at the moment was the fact that he was in a questionable position and one which would require a good deal of explaining away if he were found, and his only sensation was a strong desire to avoid discovery. He made a silent, scrambling leap for the gallery stairs, and reached their shelter just as the door opened. He stood there, rigid, waiting to be challenged, but apparently he had moved in time, for no voice spoke. The door closed so gently as to be almost inaudible, and then there was silence again. The room remained in darkness, and it was this perhaps that first suggested to Jimmy the comforting thought that the intruder was equally desirous of avoiding the scrutiny of his fellows. He had taken it for granted in his first panic that he himself was the only person in that room whose motive for being there would not have borne inspection. But now, safely hidden in the gallery, out of sight from the floor below, he had the leisure to consider the newcomer’s movements and to draw conclusions from them.
An honest man’s first act would surely have been to switch on the lights. And an honest man would hardly have crept so stealthily. It became apparent to Jimmy, as he leaned over the rail and tried to pierce the darkness, that there was sinister work afoot; and he had hardly reached this conclusion when his mind took a further leap and he guessed the identity of the soft-footed person below. It could be none but his old friend Lord Wisbeach, known to “the boys” as Gentleman Jack. It surprised him that he had not thought of this before. Then it surprised him that, after the talk they had only a few hours earlier in that very room, Gentleman Jack should have dared to risk this raid.
At this moment the blackness was relieved as if by the striking of a match. The man below had brought an electric torch into play, and now Jimmy could see clearly. He had been right in his surmise. It was Lord Wisbeach. He was kneeling in front of the safe. What he was doing to the safe, Jimmy could not see, for the man’s body was in the way; but the electric torch shone on his face, lighting up grim, serious features quite unlike the amiable and slightly vacant mask which his lordship was wont to present to the world. As Jimmy looked, something happened in the pool of light beyond his vision. Gentleman Jack gave a muttered exclamation of satisfaction, and then Jimmy saw that the door of the safe had swung open. The air was full of a penetrating smell of scorched metal. Jimmy was not an expert in these matters, but he had read from time to time of modern burglars and their methods, and he gathered that an oxy-acetylene blow-pipe, with its flame that cuts steel as a knife cuts cheese, had been at work.
Lord Wisbeach flashed the torch into the open safe, plunged his hand in, and drew it out again, holding something. Handling this in a cautious and gingerly manner, he placed it carefully in his breast pocket. Then he straightened himself. He switched off the torch, and moved to the window, leaving the rest of his implements by the open safe. He unfastened the shutter, then raised the catch of the window. At this point it seemed to Jimmy that the time had come to interfere.
“Tut, tut!” he said in a tone of mild reproof.
The effect of the rebuke on Lord Wisbeach was remarkable. He jumped convulsively away from the window, then, revolving on his own axis, flashed the torch into every corner of the room.
“Who’s that?” he gasped.
“Conscience!” said Jimmy.
Lord Wisbeach had overlooked the gallery in his researches. He now turned his torch upwards. The light flooded the gallery on the opposite side of the room from where Jimmy stood. There was a pistol in Gentleman Jack’s hand now. It followed the torch uncertainly.
Jimmy, lying flat on the gallery floor, spoke again.
“Throw that gun away, and the torch, too,” he said. “I’ve got you covered!”
The torch flashed above his head, but the raised edge of the gallery rail protected him.
“I’ll give you five seconds. If you haven’t dropped that gun by then, I shall shoot!”
As he began to count, Jimmy heartily regretted that he had allowed his appreciation of the dramatic to lead him into this situation. It would have been so simple to have roused the house in a prosaic way and avoided this delicate position. Suppose his bluff did not succeed. Suppose the other still clung to his pistol at the end of the five seconds. He wished that he had made it ten instead. Gentleman Jack was an enterprising person, as his previous acts had showed. He might very well decide to take a chance. He might even refuse to believe that Jimmy was armed. He had only Jimmy’s word for it. Perhaps he might be as deficient in simple faith as he had proved to be in Norman blood! Jimmy lingered lovingly over his count.
“Four!” he said reluctantly.
There was a breathless moment. Then, to Jimmy’s unspeakable relief, gun and torch dropped simultaneously to the floor. In an instant Jimmy was himself again.
“Go and stand with your face to that wall,” he said crisply. “Hold your hands up!”
“Why?”
“I’m going to see how many more guns you’ve got.”
“I haven’t another.”
“I’d like to make sure of that for myself. Get moving!”
Gentleman Jack reluctantly obeyed. When he had reached the wall, Jimmy came down. He switched on the lights. He felt in the