McAllister lost no time in getting to the Grand Central Station. He was
looking for a big Vuitton trunk, and he wanted to find it quick. For
this purpose he enlisted the services of a burly young porter, who, for
the consideration of a half-dollar, piloted the clubman through the
crowded alleys of the outgoing baggage-room, until they came upon the
familiar collection of Lord Lyndhurst's paraphernalia of travel. Eagerly
he recognized the luggage of his uncle's official household. There were
his boot-boxes, his hat-boxes, his portable desk, his dumb-bells, his
bath-tub, his medicine chest, the secretary's trunk, the typewriter in
its case; there were his aunt's basket trunks, and--yes--there was the
big Vuitton. McAllister heaved a sigh of relief. The next thing was to
get it back to the hotel as fast as possible.
"That's it," said he to the porter. "Heave it out!" They were standing
in a little open space some distance from the entrance. The big Vuitton
lay at one side, and about it a row of other trunks roughly in a
semicircle. The porter made but one step in the desired direction, then
jumped as if he had seen a ghost, for a big basket trunk, standing alone
upon its end apart, suddenly shook violently, its lock clicked, the
cover swung open, and out jumped a slender, sharp-featured young man
with a black mustache. It was Barney Conville, although at first
McAllister failed to recognize him.
"Look here you! Don't touch that trunk!" he exclaimed. Then he perceived
McAllister, and a look of intense disgust overspread his face.
"It's the Baron!" ejaculated McAllister. "Now what the devil do you
suppose he's been doin' in that trunk? Howd'y', Baron," he added
pleasantly, holding out his hand. "Hardly expected to see you here. Do
you take your rest that way?" pointing to the trunk from which Conville
had emerged.
The detective eyed him with disapproval.
"Say," he remarked, disdainfully, "you give me a pain--always buttin' in
an' spoilin' everythin'! This here is a _plant_. I'm waitin' fer a
thief--Jerry, the Oyster. They're goin' to try an' lift that big striped
trunk over there. It belongs to an old party up to the Waldorf. He's a
diplomatico."
"He's my uncle!" cried McAllister.
"Your _aunt_!" snorted Barney.
"But I want to take that trunk back with me."
"On the level?"
"Sure!"
"Can't help it! This is an important job. The Oyster's the cleverest
thief in the business. Works in with all the butlers and valets. Why
he's got away with more'n three thousand pieces of baggage. He's
the----"
Barney did not finish the sentence. Suddenly he ducked, and grabbing
McAllister by the shoulder, pulled him down with him.
"There he is now! Into the trunk! There's no other way! Plenty of room!"
He shoved his fat companion inside and stepped after him. McAllister,
utterly bewildered, tried to convince himself that he was not dreaming.
He was quite sure he had taken only one Scotch that morning, but he
pinched himself, and was relieved to get the proper reaction. When he
became used to the dim light he discovered that he was ensconced in a
dress-box of immense proportions, made of basket work, and covered with
waterproofing. Placed on end, with a seat across the middle, it afforded
a very comfortable place of concealment. Conville turned the key and
locked the cover. Then he poked McAllister in the ribs.
"Great joint, ain't it? Idee of the cap's. Makes a fine plant," he
whispered, affixing his eye to a narrow slit near the top.
"Sh-h!" he added; "he's here. There's another peeper over on your side."
McAllister followed his example, gluing his eye to the improvised
window, and discovered that they commanded the approach to the big
Vuitton. And inside that innocent piece of luggage reposed the glory of
his uncle's family, the heirlooms of four centuries! He made an
involuntary movement.
"Keep still!" hissed Conville, and McAllister sank back obediently.
A young Anglican clergyman in shovel-hat and gaiters, carrying a dainty
silver-headed umbrella in one hand and a copy of _The Churchman_ in the
other, had approached the counter. He seemed somewhat at a loss, gazed
vaguely about him for a moment, and then stepping up to the head
baggage-man, an oldish man with white whiskers, addressed him anxiously.
"I say, my man, I'm really in an awful mess, don't you know! I don't see
my box anywhere. I sent it over from the hotel early this morning, and
I'm leavin' for Montreal at three. The luggage-man says it was left here
by ten o'clock. Do you keep all the boxes in this room?"
The head baggage-man nodded.
"Sorry you've lost your trunk," said he. "If it ain't here we haven't
got it, but like as not it's mixed up in one of them piles. If you'll
wait for about ten minutes I'll see if I can find it for your
Reverence."
The Anglican looked shocked.
"Thanks, I'm sure," he murmured stiffly. He was a slight young man with
a monocle and mutton-chops.
"It's very good of you," he added after a pause, with more
condescension. "Awfully awkward to be without one's luggage, for I have
a service in Montreal to-morrow, and all my vestments are in my box. I
fear I shall miss my train."
"Oh, I guess not!" replied the baggage-man encouragingly. "I'll be with
you presently. You come in and look around yourself, and if you don't
see it I'll help you. This way, sir," and he lifted a section of the
counter and allowed the clergyman to pass in.
"My! Ain't he _clever_!" whispered Barney delightedly.
The clergyman now began a rather dilatory investigation of the contents
of the baggage-room, bending over and examining every trunk in sight,
and even tapping the one in which they were ensconced with the silver
head of his umbrella, but after a few moments, in apparent despair, he
took his stand beside the big trunk marked "B. C. L.," and gazed
despondently about him. There was nothing in his appearance to suggest
that he was other than he seemed, but Barney directed McAllister's
attention to the copy of _The Churchman_, from the leaves of which
protruded two diminutive pieces of string, put there, as it might
appear, for a book-mark. And now as the Anglican shifted from one foot
to the other, ostensibly waiting for the porter, he placed his hands
behind him and took a step or two backward toward the big trunk. Chubby
was by this time all agog. What would the fellow do? He certainly
couldn't be goin' to shoulder the trunk and try to walk off with it!
Suddenly McAllister saw the daintily gloved hands slip a penknife from
among the leaves of the magazine and quickly sever the check from the
handle of the trunk. The Anglican altered his position and waited until
the baggage-man was once more engaged at the other end of the counter.
Again this amiable representative of the cloth shuffled backward until
the handle was within easy reach, and with a dexterity which must have
been born of long practice deftly tied the two ends of string around it.
With a quick motion he stepped away in the direction of the counter, and
out from the leaves of _The Churchman_ fell and dangled a new check
stamped "Waistcoat's Express, No. 1467."
"My good fellow," impatiently drawled the clergyman, approaching the
baggage-man, "I really can't wait, don'cher know. I've looked
everywhere, and my box isn't here. I don't know whether to blame that
beastly luggage-man, or whether it's the fault of this disgustin'
American railroad. It's evident someone's at fault, and as I assume that
you are in charge I shall report you immediately."
[Illustration: Deftly tied the two ends of string around it.]
The elderly baggage-man regarded the robust champion of religion before
him with scorn.
"Well, son, you can report all you like. I've worked in this
baggage-room eighteen years, and you're not the first English crank who
thought he owned the hull Central Railroad," and he turned on his heel,
while the clergyman, with an expression of horror, ambled quickly out of
the side door.
McAllister had watched this remarkable proceeding with enthusiastic
interest, his round face shining with the excitement of a child.
"Jiminy, but this is great!" he exclaimed, slapping Barney upon the
back. "And to think of your doin' it for a livin'! Why I'd sit here all
day for nothin'! What happens next? And what becomes of the feller
that's just gone out?"
"Oh, you ain't seen half the show yet!" responded Conville, pleased. "It
is pretty good fun at times. But, o' course, this is a star performance,
and we're sure of our man. Oh, it beats the theayter, all right, all
right! Truth's stranger than fiction every time, you bet. Now take this
Oyster--why he's a regular cracker-jack! Got sense enough to be an
alderman, or president, or anythin', but he keeps right at his own
little job of liftin' trunks, an' he ain't never been caught yet. His
pal'll be along now any minute."
"How's that?" inquired Chubby with eagerness.
"Why, don'cher see? Jerry's cut off the reg'lar tag, and now the other
feller'll present a duplicate of the one Jerry's just hitched on. Great
game, 'Foxy Quiller,' eh?"
McAllister admitted delightedly that it was a great game. By George, it
beat playin' the horses! At the same time he shivered as he realized how
nearly the famous jewels had actually been lost. Wilkins must be an
awful bad egg to go and tie up to a gang of that sort!
The baggage-man, serenely unconscious of all that had been taking place
behind his back, and apparently not soured by his little set-to with the
Englishman, was genially assisting the great American public to find its
effects, and beaming on all about him. People streamed in and out,
engines coughed and wheezed; from outside came the roar and rattle of
the city.
Presently there bounced in a stout person in a yellow and black suit,
with white waistcoat and green tie, who mopped his red face with a large
silk handkerchief. Rushing up to a porter who seemed to be unoccupied,
he threw down a pasteboard check, together with a shining half-dollar,
and shouted, "Here, my good feller, that trunk, will you? Quick! The big
one with the red letters on it--'B. C. L.' They sent it here from the
Astoria instead of to the steamboat dock, and my ship sails at twelve.
Now, get a move on!"
The porter grabbed the check and the half-dollar, and falling upon the
big Vuitton, rolled it end over end out into the street, followed by its
perspiring claimant.
"That's right, that's right," shouted the bounder. "Chuck it on behind.
Mus'n't miss the boat!" and throwing the porter another half-dollar, the
sportive traveller jumped into the hack, yelling, "Now drive like the
devil!" The door closed with a bang, and the vehicle quickly disappeared
among the tracks and wagons of Forty-second Street.
McAllister for the first time felt distinctly uneasy.
"Look here," he whispered feverishly, "is it right to let him walk off
like that? Hurry! Open the trunk, or he'll get away!"
"Sit still, and don't get excited!" commanded Barney. "It's all right,"
he added condescendingly, remembering that McAllister was unfamiliar
with such mysteries. "We've got him covered. He couldn't get away to
save his neck. An' as for follerin' him, why he'll carry that trunk half
over New York before he lands it where it's goin'!"
"All right!" sighed the clubman; "you're the doctor. But it seems to me
you're takin' a lot of risk. Your brother officer might lose track of
him, or he might drop the trunk somehow, and _then_ where would the
jewels be?"
"Right exactly where they are _now_," replied Barney with a grin. "In
the office safe at the Waldorf. They ain't never left the hotel. There
wasn't any need of it, and if I hadn't taken 'em out I'd 've had to
watch 'em here all night. Now everythin's all right.
"And say," he added, chuckling at the joke of it, "I forgot to tell you.
Who do you suppose is workin' with Jerry? Fatty Welch! 'Wilkins,' you'd
call him. He's turned up again an' hooked on, somehow, to the Gov'nor.
Me and my side-partner's been trailin' 'em both ever since your uncle
hit New York. I had the room opposite him at the Waldorf. Yesterday
mornin' I saw Welch pack the jewelry. I was togged out as a bell-boy,
and was cleanin' the winders. The Gov'nor's kind of figgity you know,
and I thought we'd better not mention anythin' to _him_. Of course I
didn't have any idea _you'd_ come waltzin' along this way."
McAllister solemnly held out his hand to the detective. He was as
demonstrative as his narrow quarters rendered possible.
"Baron," said he, "you're a corker! I've learned a heap this morning."
"There's lots of things you never dream of, Horace," replied Barney
politely.
"Do you remember, Baron, the last time we met asking me to help you nab
Wilkins?" continued McAllister. "Well, I'm goin' to make good. I've got
him safely locked in a closet at the hotel. He promised not to come
back, and now I'm done with him. What do you say to that?"
"Good work!" ejaculated Barney. "Keep it up! In time you might make a
pretty good detective."
From Barney such a concession was high praise, and showed intense
appreciation. On their way back to the Waldorf he explained that the
"Oyster" was one of a very few "guns" able effectively to make use of a
disguise, this being in part due to the fact that he was the son of a
clergyman, and educated for the stage.
They were met at the door of the apartment by Lady Lyndhurst.
"Basil has disappeared!" she gasped. "And that awful man in the closet
has become so blasphemous that I can't remain with decency in the room."
McAllister partially pacified her by stating that the jewelry was
entirely safe. He wondered what on earth had become of the Governor.
Once inside the suite conversation became practically impossible, owing
to the sounds of inarticulate rage which proceeded from the closet.
Barney decided to place the valet immediately under arrest and take him
to Police Headquarters. The sooner they did so the more likely he would
be to "squeal." He requested McAllister to arm himself with a
walking-stick, and to stand ready to come to his assistance if, on
opening the door, he should find himself unable to cope with the
prisoner alone. Aunt Sophia was relegated to her bedroom, the door
leading to the corridor was closed and locked, and the two prepared for
the conflict. The detective, of course, had his pistol, which he cocked
and held ready.
"Don't fire 'till you see the whites of his eyes!" murmured McAllister.
"Fire--nothin'!" muttered Barney, throwing open the closet door.
"Hands up, or I'll shoot!" yelled the detective, as a fat, wild-eyed
individual sprung from within and burst upon their astonished gaze. The
Governor-General stood before them.
[Illustration: "Hands up, or I'll shoot!" yelled the detective, as a
fat, wild-eyed individual sprung from within.]
Speechless with rage, he glowered from one to the other--then in
response to their surprised inquiries broke into incoherent explanation.
He had waited on guard some ten minutes after McAllister's departure,
and Sophia had gone to her bedroom to finish dressing, when suddenly the
expostulations of Morton had seemed to grow fainter. Finally they had
died entirely away, and in their place had come terrible gasps and
gurgles. He had remembered that there was no means of renewing the air
supply in the closet, and had become alarmed. Presently all sounds had
ceased. He was convinced that Morton was being suffocated. Opening the
door, he had found the valet apparently lying there unconscious, and had
dragged him forth, whereupon Morton had suddenly returned to life, and
before he knew it had jammed him into the closet and locked the door.
"He was most impertinent, too, when he got on the outside, I can assure
you," concluded Lord Lyndhurst indignantly. "Gave me a lot of gratuitous
advice!"
McAllister and the detective endeavored to calm his troubled spirit, and
soothe his ruffled dignity, informing him that the jewels had been in
the hotel safe all the time. The Governor, however, refused to take any
stock whatever in their explanation. Nothing of the sort could possibly
have happened in England. It took them an hour to persuade him that they
were not lying. The only things that appeared to convince him at all
were the disappearance of Morton, a large bump on his own forehead, and
the actual presence of the jewelry in the safe downstairs. Even then he
sent to Tiffany's for a man to examine it.
Barney he regarded with unconcealed suspicion, subjecting him to an
exhaustive cross-examination upon his antecedents and occupation. The
Governor declared he was astounded at his impudence. The idea of opening
his private luggage! He would address a communication to the
authorities! It was little better than grand larceny. It _was_ grand
larceny, by Jupiter! Hadn't Conville abstracted the jewels _vi et
armis_? Of _course_ he had! Damme, he would see if the sacred rights of
an English official should be trampled on! It was _trespass_
anyway--_Trespass ab initio_! Did Conville know that? It was grand
larceny _and_ trespass. He would lock him up.
Barney grinned, and the Governor again became almost apoplectic.
He snorted scornfully at the detective's explanation about this Jerry
"What-do-you-call-him--the Clam." Pooh! Did they expect him to believe
_that_? Conville was a confounded, hair-brained busybody--He dwindled
off, exhausted.
At that moment there came a sharp rap upon the door, and an officer in
roundsman's uniform entered.
"Gentleman called at the precinct house and reported a jewelry theft in
this suite. Said the thief had been caught and locked up in a closet, so
I thought I'd drop over and see how things stood."
He looked inquiringly at McAllister, significantly at the
Governor-General, and then caught sight of Barney.
"Hello, Conville!" he exclaimed. "You on the case? Well, then I'll drop
out. Got your man, I see!" He glanced again at the dishevelled scion of
nobility before him.
"Everythin's all right," answered the detective with a chuckle. "I guess
they was fakin' you round at the house. By the way, I want you to meet a
friend of mine--Roundsman McCarthy, let me present you to his Nibs--the
Governor-General."
The Governor glared immobile, his stony eyes shifting from the now red
and stammering roundsman to Conville's beaming countenance, and back
again.
"Gentlemen," he remarked sternly, "do you prefer Scotch or rye? You will
find cigars on the sideboard. The drinks, as you Yankees say, are upon
_me_!"
"By the way," he added to McCarthy, as McAllister filled the glasses,
"would you be so obliging as to describe the individual who so
thoughtfully notified you in regard to the loss of the jewelry?"
"Rather stout, well-dressed man, fat face, gray eyes," answered
McCarthy, lighting a cigar. "Looked somethin' like this gentleman here,"
indicating the clubman. "Spoke with a kind of English accent. Nice
appearin' feller, all right."
"By George! Wilkins!" ejaculated McAllister.
"Damn!" exploded Uncle Basil.
"The nerve of him!" muttered Barney.