The Brass Bowl
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Louis Joseph Vance >> The Brass Bowl
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"Yes, sir. Yes, sir. But wot an 'orrid 'appenin', sir, if you'll
permit me--"
"I won't. Be quiet and listen. This man is Anisty--Handsome Dan
Anisty, the notorious jewel thief, wanted badly by the police of a
dozen cities. You understand?... I'm going now to motor to the
village and get the constables; I may," he invented desperately,
"be delayed--may have to get a detective from Brooklyn. If this
scoundrel stirs, don't touch him. Let him alone--he can't escape
if you do. Above all things, don't you dare to remove that gag!"
"Most cert'inly, sir. I shall bear in mind wot you says----"
"You'd best," grimly. "Now I'm off. No; I don't want any
attendance--I know my way. And--don't--touch--that--man--till I
return."
"Very good, sir."
Maitland stepped over to the safe, glanced within, cursorily,
replaced a bundle of papers which he did not recall disturbing,
closed the door and twirled the combination.
"Nothing gone," he announced. An inarticulate gurgle from the
prostrate man drew a black scowl from Maitland. Recovering, "Good
morning," he said politely to the butler, and striding out of the
house by the front door, was careful to slam that behind him, ere
darting into the shadows.
The moon was down, the sky a cold, opaque grey, overcast with a
light drift of cloud. The park seemed very dark, very dreary; a
searching breeze was sweeping inland from the Sound, soughing
sadly in the tree-tops; a chill humidity permeated the air,
precursor of rain. The young man shivered, both with chill and
reaction from the tension of the emergency just past.
He was aware of an instantaneous loss of heart, a subsidence of
the elation which had upheld him throughout the adventure; and to
escape this, to forget or overcome it, took immediately to his
heels, scampering madly for the road, oppressed with fear lest he
should find the girl gone--with the jewels.
That she should prove untrue, faithless, lacking even that honor
which proverbially obtains in the society of criminals--a
consideration of such a possibility was intolerable, as much so as
the suspense of ignorance. He could not, would not, believe
her capable of ingratitude so rank; and fought fiercely,
unreasoningly, against the conviction that she would have followed
her thievish instincts and made off with the booty.... A judgment
meet and right upon him, for his madness!
Heart in mouth, he reached the gates, passing through without
discovering her, and was struck dumb and witless with relief when
she stepped quietly from the shadows of a low branching tree,
offering him a guiding hand.
"Come," she said quietly. "This way."
Without being exactly conscious of what he was about he caught the
hand in both his own. "Then," he exulted almost passionately,--
"then you didn't----"
His voice choked in his throat. Her face, momentarily upturned to
his, gleamed pale and weary in the dreary light; the face of a
tired child, troubled, saddened; yet with eyes inexpressibly
sweet. She turned away, tugging at her hand.
"You doubted me, after all!" she commented, a trifle bitterly.
"I--no! You misunderstand me. Believe me, I----"
"Ah, don't protest. What does it make or mar, whether or not you
trusted me?... You have," she added quietly, "the jewels safe
enough, I suppose?"
He stopped short, aghast. "I! The jewels!"
"I slipped them in your coat pocket before----"
Instantly her hand was free, Maitland ramming both his own into
the side pockets of his top-coat. "They're safe!"
She smiled uncertainly.
"We have no time," said she. "Can you drive--?"
They were standing by the side of her car, which had been
cunningly hidden in the gloom beneath a spreading tree on the
further side of the road. Maitland, crestfallen, offered his hand;
the tips of her fingers touched his palm lightly as she jumped in.
He hesitated at the step.
"You wish me to?"
She laughed lightly. "Most assuredly. You may assure yourself that
I shan't try to elude you again----"
"I would I might be sure of that," he said, steadying his voice
and seeking her eyes.
"Procrastination won't make it any more assured."
He stepped up and settled himself in the driver's seat, grasping
throttle and steering-wheel; the great machine thrilled to his
touch like a live thing, then began slowly to back out into the
road. For an instant it seemed to hang palpitant on dead center,
then shot out like a hound unleashed, _ventre-a-terre_,--
Brooklyn miles away over the hood.
It seemed but a minute ere they were thundering over the Myannis
bridge. A little further on Maitland slowed down and, jumping out,
lighted the lamps. In the seat again,--no words had passed,--he
threw in the high-speed clutch, and the world flung behind them,
roaring. Thereafter, breathless, stunned by the frenzy of speed,
perforce silent, they bored on through the night, crashing along
deserted highways.
In the east a band of pallid light lifted up out of the night, and
the horizon took shape against it, stark and black. Slowly,
stealthily, the formless dawn dusk spread over the sleeping world;
to the zenith the light-smitten stars reeled and died, and houses,
fields, and thoroughfares lay a-glimmer with ghostly twilight as
the car tore headlong through the grim, unlovely, silent
hinterland of Long Island City.
The gates of the ferry-house were inexorably shut against them
when at last Maitland brought the big machine to a tremulous and
panting halt, like that of an over-driven thoroughbred. And though
they perforce endured a wait of fully fifteen minutes, neither
found aught worth saying; or else the words wherewith fitly to
clothe their thoughts were denied them. The girl seemed very
weary, and sat with head drooping and hands clasped idly in her
lap. To Maitland's hesitant query as to her comfort she returned a
monosyllabic reassurance. He did not again venture to disturb her;
on his own part he was conscious of a clogging sense of
exhaustion, of a drawn and haggard feeling about the eyes and
temples; and knew that he was keeping awake through main power of
will alone, his brain working automatically, his being already
a-doze.
The fresh wind off the sullen river served in some measure to
revive them, once the gates were opened and the car had taken a
place on the ferry-boat's forward extreme. Day was now full upon
the world; above a horizon belted with bright magenta, the
cloudless sky was soft turquoise and sapphire; and abruptly, while
the big unwieldy boat surged across the narrow ribbon of green
water, the sun shot up with a shout and turned to an evanescent
dream of fairy-land the gaunt, rock-ribbed profile of Manhattan
Island, bulking above them in tier upon tier of monstrous
buildings.
On the Manhattan side, in deference to the girl's low-spoken wish,
Maitland ran the machine up to Second Avenue, turned north, and
brought it to a stop by the curb, a little north of Thirty-fifth
Street.
"And now whither?" he inquired, hands somewhat impatiently ready
upon the driving and steering-gear.
The girl smiled faintly through her veil. "You have been most
kind," she told him in a tired voice. "Thank you--from my heart,
Mr. Anisty," and made a move as if to relieve him of his charge.
"Is that all?" he demanded blankly.
"Can I say more?"
"I ... I am to go no further with you?" Sick with disappointment,
he rose and dropped to the sidewalk--anticipating her affirmative
answer.
"If you would please me," said the girl, "you won't insist...."
"I don't," he returned ruefully. "But are you quite sure that
you're all right now?"
"Quite, thank you, dear Mr. Anisty!" With a pretty gesture of
conquering impulse she swept her veil aside, and the warm
rose-glow of the new-born day tinted her wan young cheeks with
color. And her eyes were as stars, bright with a mist of emotion,
brimming with gratitude--and something else. He could not say
what; but one thing he knew, and that was that she was worn with
excitement and fatigue, near to the point of breaking down.
"You're tired," he insisted, solicitous. "Can't you let me----?"
"I am tired," she admitted wistfully, voice subdued, yet rich and
vibrant. "No, please. Please let me go. Don't ask me any
questions--now."
"Only one," he made supplication. "I've done nothing----"
"Nothing but be more kind than I can say!"
"And you're not going to back out of our partnership?"
"Oh!" And now the color in her cheeks was warmer than that which
the dawn had lent them. "No ... I shan't back out." And she
smiled.
"And if I call a meeting of the board of management of Anisty and
Wentworth, Limited, you will promise to attend?"
"Ye-es...."
"Will it be too early if I call one for to-day?"
"Why...."
"Say at two o'clock this afternoon, at Eugene's. You know the
place?"
"I have lunched there----"
"Then you shall again to-day. You won't disappoint me?"
"I will be there. I ... I shall be glad to come. Now--
_please_!"
"You've promised. Don't forget."
He stepped back and stood in a sort of dreamy daze, while, with
one final wonderful smile at parting, the girl assumed control of
the machine and swung it out from the curb. Maitland watched it
forge slowly up the Avenue and vanish round the Thirty-sixth
Street corner; then turned his face southward, sighing with
weariness and discontent.
At Thirty-fourth Street a policeman, lounging beneath the
corrugated iron awning of a corner saloon, faced about with a low
whistle, to stare after him. Maitland experienced a chill sense of
criminal guilt; he was painfully conscious of those two shrewd
eyes, boring gimlet-like into his back, overlooking no detail of
the wreck of his evening clothes. Involuntarily he glanced down at
his legs, and they moved mechanically beneath the edge of his
overcoat, like twin animated columns of mud and dust, openly
advertising his misadventures. He felt in his soul that they
shrieked aloud, that they would presently succeed in dinning all
the town awake, so that the startled populace would come to the
windows to stare in wonder as he passed by. And inwardly he
groaned and quaked.
As for the policeman, after some reluctant hesitation, he overcame
the inherent indisposition to exertion that affects his kind, and,
swinging his stick, stalked after Maitland.
Happily (and with heartfelt thanksgiving) the young man chanced
upon a somnolent and bedraggled hack, at rest in the stenciled
shadows of the Third Avenue elevated structure. Its pilot was
snoring lustily the sleep of the belated, on the box. With some
difficulty he was awakened, and Maitland dodged into the musty,
dusty body of the vehicle, grateful to escape the unprejudiced
stare of the guardian of the peace, who in another moment would
have overtaken him and, doubtless, subjected him to embarrassing
inquisition.
As the ancient four-wheeler rattled noisily over the cobbles, some
of the shops were taking down their shutters, the surface cars
were beginning to run with increasing frequency, and the sidewalks
were becoming sparsely populated. Familiar as the sights were,
they were yet somehow strangely unreal to the young man. In a
night the face of the world had changed for him; its features
loomed weirdly blurred and contorted through the mystical
grey-gold atmosphere of the land of Romance, wherein he really
lived and moved and had his being. The blatant day was altogether
preposterous: to-day was a dream, something nightmarish; last
night he had been awake, last night for the first time in
twenty-odd years of existence he had lived....
He slipped unthinkingly one hand into his coat pocket, seeking
instinctively his cigarette case; and his fingers brushed the
coarse-grained surface of a canvas bag. He jumped as if electrified.
He had managed altogether to forget them, yet in _his_ keeping
were the jewels, Maitland heirlooms--the swag and booty, the loot
and plunder of the night's adventure. And he smiled happily to think
that his interest in them was Fifty-percent depreciated in twenty-four
hours; now he owned only half....
Suddenly he sat up, with happy eyes and a glowing face. _She_
had trusted him!
V.
INCOGNITO
At noon, precisely, Maitland stirred between the sheets for the first
time since he had thrown himself into his bed--stirred, and, confused by
whatever alarm had awakened him, yawned stupendously, and sat up, rubbing
clenched fists in his eyes to clear them of sleep's cobwebs. Then he bent
forward, clasping his knees, smiled largely, replaced the smile with a
thoughtful frown, and in such wise contemplated the foot of the bed for
several minutes,--his first conscious impression, that he had something
delightful to look forward to yielding to a vague recollection of a
prolonged shrill tintinnabulation--as if the telephone bell in the front
room had been ringing for some time.
But he waited in vain for a repetition of the sound, and eventually
concluded that he had been mistaken; it had been an echo from his dreams,
most likely.
Besides, who should call him up? Not two people knew that he was in town:
not even O'Hagan was aware that he had returned to his rooms that morning.
He gaped again, stretching wide his arms, sat up on the edge of the bed,
and heard the clock strike twelve.
Noon and.... He had an engagement at two! He brightened at the memory and,
jumping up, pressed an electric call-button on the wall. By the time he
had paddled barefoot to the bath-room and turned on the cold-water tap,
O'Hagan's knock summoned him to the hall door.
"Back again, O'Hagan; and in a desperate rush. I'll want you to shave me
and send some telegrams, please. Must be off by one-thirty. You may get out
my grey-striped flannels"--here he paused, calculating his costume with
careful discrimination,--"and a black-striped negligee shirt; grey socks;
russet low shoes; black and white check tie--broad wings. You know where to
find them all?"
"Shure yiss, sor."
O'Hagan showed no evidence of surprise; the eccentricities of Mr. Maitland
could not move him, who was inured to them through long association and
observation. He moved away to execute his instructions, quietly efficient.
By the time Maitland had finished splashing and gasping in the bath-tub,
everything was ready for the ceremony of dressing.
In other words, twenty minutes later Maitland, bathed, shaved, but still in
dressing-gown and slippers, was seated at his desk, a cup of black coffee
steaming at his elbow, a number of yellow telegraph blanks before him, a
pen poised between his fingers.
It was in his mind to send a wire to Cressy, apologizing for his desertion
of the night just gone, and announcing his intention to rejoin the party
from which the motor trip to New York had been as planned but a temporary
defection, in time for dinner that same evening. He nibbled the end of the
pen-holder, selecting phrases, then looked up at the attentive O'Hagan.
"Bring me a New Haven time-table, please," he began, "and--"
The door-bell abrupted his words, clamoring shrilly.
"What the deuce?" he demanded. "Who can that be? Answer it, will you,
O'Hagan?"
He put down the pen, swallowed his coffee, and lit a cigarette, listening
to the murmurs at the hall door. An instant later, O'Hagan returned,
bearing a slip of white pasteboard which he deposited on the desk before
Maitland.
"'James Burleson Snaith,'" Maitland read aloud from the faultlessly
engraved card. "I don't know him. What does he want?"
"Wouldn't say, sor; seemed surprised whin I towld him ye were in, an' said
he was glad to hear it--business pressin', says he."
"'Snaith'? But I never heard the name before. What does he look like?"
"A gintleman, sor, be th' clothes av him an' th' way he talks."
"Well.... Devil take the man! Show him in."
"Very good, sor."
Maitland swung around in his desk chair, his back to the window, expression
politely curious, as his caller entered the room, pausing, hat in hand,
just across the threshold.
He proved to be a man apparently of middle age, of height approximating
Maitland's; his shoulders were slightly rounded as if from habitual bending
over a desk, his pose mild and deferential. By his eyeglasses and peering
look, he was near-sighted; by his dress, a gentleman of taste and judgment
as well as of means to gratify both. A certain jaunty and summery touch in
his attire suggested a person of leisure who had just run down from his
country place, for a day in town.
His voice, when he spoke, did nothing to dispel the illusion.
"Mr. Maitland?" he opened the conversation briskly. "I trust I do not
intrude? I shall be brief as possible, if you will favor me with a private
interview."
Maitland remarked a voice well modulated and a good choice of words. He
rose courteously.
"I should be pleased to do so," he suggested, "if you could advance any
reasons for such a request."
Mr. Snaith smiled discreetly, fumbling in his side pocket. A second slip of
cardboard appeared between his fingers as he stepped over toward Maitland.
"If I had not feared it might deprive me of this interview, I should have
sent in my business card at once," he said. "Permit me."
Maitland accepted the card and elevated his brows. "Oh!" he said, putting
it down, his manner becoming perceptibly less cordial. "I say, O'Hagan."
"Yessor?"
"I shall be busy for--Will half an hour satisfy you, Mr. Snaith?"
"You are most kind," the stranger bowed.
"In half an hour, O'Hagan, you may return."
"Very good, sor." And the hall door closed.
"So," said Maitland, turning to face the man squarely, "you are from Police
Headquarters?"
"As you see." Mr. Snaith motioned delicately toward his business card--as
he called it.
"Well?"--after a moment's pause.
"I am a detective, you understand."
"Perfectly," Maitland assented, unmoved.
His caller seemed partly amused, partly--but very slightly--embarrassed.
"I have been assigned to cover the affair of last night," he continued
blandly. "I presume you have no objection to giving me what information you
may possess."
"Credentials?"
The man's amusement was made visible in a fugitive smile, half-hidden by
his small and neatly trimmed mustache. Mutely eloquent, he turned back
the lapel of his coat, exposing a small shield; at which Maitland glanced
casually.
"Very well," he consented, bored but resigned. "Fire ahead, but make it as
brief as you can; I've an engagement in"--glancing at the clock--"an hour,
and must dress."
"I'll detain you no longer than is essential.... Of course you understand
how keen we are after this man, Anisty."
"What puzzles me," Maitland interrupted, "is how you got wind of the affair
so soon."
"Then you have not heard?" Mr. Snaith exhibited polite surprise.
"I am just out of bed."
"Anisty escaped shortly after you left Maitland Manor."
"Ah!"
Mr. Snaith knitted his brows, evidently at a loss whether to ascribe
Maitland's exclamation as due to surprise, regret, or relief. Which pleased
Maitland, who had been at pains to make his tone noncommittal. In point of
fact he was neither surprised nor regretful.
"Thunder!" he continued slowly. "I forgot to 'phone Higgins."
"That is why I called. Your butler did not know where you could be found.
You had left in great haste, promising to send constables; you failed to do
so; Higgins got no word. In the course of an hour or so his charge began to
choke,--or pretended to. Higgins became alarmed and removed the gag.
Anisty lay quiet until his face resumed its normal color and then began to
abuse Higgins for a thick-headed idiot."
Mr. Snaith interrupted himself to chuckle lightly.
"You noticed a resemblance?" he resumed.
Maitland, too, was smiling. "Something of the sort."
"It is really remarkable, if you will permit me to say so." Snaith was
studying his host's face intently. "Higgins, poor fellow, had his faith
shaken to the foundations. This Anisty must be a clever actor as well as a
master burglar. Having cursed Higgins root and branch, he got his second
wind and explained that he was--Mr. Maitland! Conceive Higgins' position.
What could he do?"
"What he did, I gather."
"Precisely."
"And Anisty?"
"Once loosed, he knocked Higgins over with the butt of a revolver, jumped
out of the window, and vanished. By the time the butler got his senses
back, Anisty, presumably, was miles away ... Mr. Maitland!" said Snaith
sharply.
"Yes?" responded Maitland, elevating his brows, refusing to be startled.
"Why," crisply, "didn't you send the constables from Greenfields, according
to your promise?"
Maitland laughed uneasily and looked down, visibly embarrassed, acting with
consummate address, playing the game for all he was worth; and enjoying it
hugely.
"Why.... I.... Really, Mr. Snaith, I must confess--"
"A confession would aid us materially," dryly. "The case is perplexing. You
round up a burglar sought by the police of two continents, and listlessly
permit his escape. Why?"
"I would rather not be pressed," said Maitland with evident candor; "but,
since you say it is imperative, that you must know--" Snaith inclined
his head affirmatively. "Why ... to tell the truth, I was a bit under the
weather last night: out with a party of friends, you know. Dare say we all
had a bit more than we could carry. The capture was purely accidental; we
had other plans for the night and--well," laughing shortly, "I didn't give
the matter too much thought, beyond believing that Higgins would hold the
man tight."
"I see. It is unfortunate, but ... you motored back to town."
It was not a question, but Maitland so considered it.
"We did," he admitted.
"And came here directly?"
"_I_ did."
"Mr. Maitland, why not be frank with me? My sole object is to capture a
notorious burglar. I have no desire to meddle with your private affairs,
but.... You may trust in my discretion. Who was the young lady?"
"To conceal her identity," said Maitland, undisturbed, "is precisely why I
have been lying to you."
"You refuse us that information?"
"Absolutely. I have no choice in the matter. You must see that."
Snaith shook his head, baffled, infinitely perturbed, to Maitland's hidden
delight.
"Of course," said he, "the policeman at the ferry recognized me?"
"You are well known to him," admitted Snaith. "But that is a side issue.
What puzzles me is why you let Anisty escape. It is inconceivable."
"From a police point of view."
"From any point of view," said Snaith obstinately. "The man breaks into
your house, steals your jewels--"
"This is getting tiresome," Maitland interrupted curtly. "Is it possible
that you suspect me of conniving at the theft of my own property?"
Snaith's eyes were keen upon him. "Stranger things have been known. And
yet--the motive is lacking. You are not financially embarrassed,--so far as
we can determine, at least."
Maitland politely interposed his fingers between his yawn and the
detective's intent regard. "You have ten minutes more, I'm sorry to say,"
he said; glancing at the clock.
"And there is another point, more significant yet."
"Ah?"
"Yes." Snaith bent forward, elbows on knees, hat and cane swinging, eyes
implacable, hard, relentless. "Anisty," he said slowly, "left a tolerably
complete burglar's kit in your library."
"Well--he's a burglar, isn't he?"
"Not that kind." Snaith shook his head.
"But his departure was somewhat hurried. I can conceive that he might
abandon his kit--"
"But it was not his."
"Not Anisty's?"
"Anisty does not depend on such antiquated methods, Mr. Maitland; save that
in extreme instances, with a particularly stubborn safe, he employs a high
explosive that, so far as we can find out, is practically noiseless. Its
nature is a mystery.... But such old-fashioned strong-boxes as yours at
Greenfields he opens by ear, so to speak,--listens to the combination.
He was once an expert, reputably employed by a prominent firm of safe
manufacturers, in whose service he gained the skill that has made him--what
he is."
"But,"--Maitland cast about at random, feeling himself cornered,--"may he
not have had accomplices?"
"He's no such fool. Unless he has gone mad, he worked alone. I presume you
discovered no accomplice?"
"I? The devil, no!"
Snaith smiled mysteriously, then fell thoughtful, pondering.
"You are an enigma," he said, at length. "I can not understand why you
refuse us all information, when I consider that the jewels were yours--"
"Are mine," Maitland corrected.
"No longer."
"I beg your pardon; I have them."
Snaith shook his head, smiling incredulously. Maitland flushed with
annoyance and resentment, then on impulse rose and strode into the
adjoining bedroom, returning with a small canvas bag.
"You shall see for yourself," he said, depositing the bag on the desk and
fumbling with the draw-string. "If you will be kind enough to step over
here--"
Mr. Snaith, still unconvinced, hesitated, then assented, halting a brief
distance from Maitland and toying abstractedly with his cane while the
young man plucked at the draw-string.
"Deuced tight knot, this," commented Maitland, annoyed.
"No matter. Don't trouble, please. I'm quite satisfied, believe me."
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