HOW THE SAN REVE KEPT HER STORRI
Richard was of a temperament singularly cool and steady. His curiosity
had been trained to wait, and he put questions only as a last resort.
Throughout the strange happenings of the night--the tryst with Inspector
Val--the meeting with Mr. Duff and Mr. England at the drain's mouth--the
presence of Steamboat Dan--the colloquy between that unworthy and
Inspector Val--the signal pistol shot--the flight of the robbers--he had
not spoken a word. While his astonishment was kept to an upgrade, there
had not been elicited a syllable of inquiry from Richard. He threaded
the drain, encountered the long fleet of little rubber argosies, and
finally brought up at London Bill's tunnel, and never an interrogation.
This was not acting nor affectation; Richard knew that he might with
better intelligence invite an explanation from Inspector Val after
having seen and understood his utmost. Moreover, what with the storm and
the splashing journey up the drain, there had been scanty opportunity
for conversation. Also, when he saw how Inspector Val looked forward to
the capture of Storri in the midst of crime, the strain of expectation
made silence the natural thing. It took Inspector Val's sudden yet
decisive assertion that Storri was dead, to provoke the first word.
Storri's death instantly overshadowed all else in the thoughts of
Richard.
"Storri dead!" he exclaimed, making as though he would enter London
Bill's tunnel, from which Inspector Val had crawled to make his grim
announcement.
"Dead as Nero!" returned Inspector Val. "But not there--not in the
tunnel!"
"Where then?" asked Richard.
"In Grant Place. You recall the San Reve?--she who wrote the letter
about those French shares? Both Storri and she are dead in Grant Place,
or I'm not an Inspector of Police."
Richard was for going to Grant Place, but Inspector Val detained him.
"There's no hurry," he said. "Any discoveries to be made in Grant Place
will wait. On second thought the death of the Russian is the best
solution. But there's no hurry. Besides," continued Inspector Val, his
tones betraying that sublime appreciation of art at its utmost which an
amateur of bronzes might have felt in the presence of Cellini's Perseus,
"besides, I want you to take a look over this job of London Bill! You'll
never again see its equal--never such perfection of plan and execution!"
Richard was glad of the darkness that hid the half-smile which the
delight of Inspector Val called forth. Protest would be of no avail; it
was one of those cases where to yield is the only way of saving time.
Inspector Val re-entered London Bill's tunnel and invited Richard to
follow. He showed Richard how truthfully, like the work of a best
engineer, the tunnel--begun high above water-mark on the side of the
drain--sloped downward until it dipped beneath the Treasury walls. Then
it began to climb, heading as unerringly for the gold as though London
Bill had brought clairvoyant powers to direct his digging. The tunnel
ran to the rear of the vault, and about six feet beneath its floor. Then
it went straight upward; and next, the supporting earth and masonry
having been removed, the gold, pressing with its vast weight, had forced
down two of the floor slabs of steel on one side, precisely as London
Bill designed from the beginning. Those five-thousand-dollar sacks
spilled themselves into the tunnel of their own motion--a very cataract
of gold! As fast as they were carried away, more came tumbling--a flow
of riches, ceaseless! Inspector Val flashed his lantern here and there
in disclosure of the wonderful beauties of the work. As he did so,
Richard heard him sigh in a positive contentment of admiration.
"The most scientific job in the history of the police!" whispered
Inspector Val. "London Bill is certainly entitled to his rank as the
world's foremost box-worker! It's this sort of a thing that makes you
respect a man!"
Richard was driven to smile again as he recalled the sleepy, intolerant
exquisite, gloved and boutonnièred, whom he met in Willard's, and
compared him with the thief-hunting enthusiast who, dark-lantern in hand
and crouching under the low clay roof of the tunnel, was so rapturously
expounding the genius of the great burglar.
"But greater still," continued Inspector Val, "greater than London Bill,
was that Russian party Storri. And to think this was his first--that he
was only a beginner! I used to wonder how he was going to bring out the
gold; and I'm free to admit I couldn't answer the question. Sometimes,
I'd even think he had blundered; I'd figure on him as the amateur who
had only considered the business of going to the gold, without
remembering that getting away with it was bound to be the hardest part
of the trick. You can see yourself," and here Inspector Val appealed to
Richard, "and you no crook at all, that if it ever became a case of
lugging out this gold by hand, it would take the gang a week to get away
with a half-million. It was when Storri ordered those circular rubber
rafts that I fell to it all; it was then I took off my hat to him!"
When Richard and Inspector Val were again at the mouth of the drain, the
lashing storm had worn itself out. The night was silently serene; the
clouds were breaking, and two or three big stars peered down. There was
a moon, and having advantage of a rift in the clouds, a ray struck white
on Arlington. Over across, one might make out the tall dark Maryland
hills. Far away on the river burned the lights of the _Zulu Queen_; she
was holding her best speed down-stream, having reason to think her
recent anchorage a perilous one.
"Their hearts will be in their mouths until they clear Point Comfort,"
said Inspector Val, pointing to the retreating _Zulu Queen_. Then
turning to Mr. Duff, who, with Mr. England, had faithfully met him and
Richard when they emerged from the drain, and giving him a pasteboard
from his case, he continued: "Mr. Duff, present my card to the Chief of
the Secret Service, and tell him with my compliments that he and what
men lie handy to his call are wanted at this drain. Should he be a bit
slow, say that a big slice of the gold reserve has fallen into the
drain, and the situation doesn't do him credit. You, Mr. England, will
remain on guard until the Secret Service people get here. London Bill
might regain confidence, and come back for a sack of that gold."
"Where now?" asked Richard as Inspector Val, taking him by the arm, bent
his steps towards the center of town.
"Grant Place," replied Inspector Val. "And on that point, if I may
advise you, I'd not go to Grant Place; one of us will be enough. You'd
see something disagreeable; besides, this killing may get into the
coroner's office, and from there into the courts and the newspapers.
Considering that you are to be married in a few days, I should say that
you don't want to have your name mixed up with it. No, the wise thing is
for me to go alone."
"It's the question of publicity," responded Richard, "that I was
revolving in my mind. Here's this bald attempt to rob the Treasury----"
"It was magnificent!" interjected Inspector Val, unable to restrain his
tribute.
"And if your surmise be correct," continued Richard, disregarding the
interruption, "now come the deaths of Storri and the woman San Reve to
cap the robbery. What, may I ask, do you call your duty in the
premises?"
"Duty?" repeated Inspector Val. "I've no duty; that is, no official
duty. Washington is off my beat. My course, however, must depend upon
circumstances. As far as I may, I shall smother every mention of
to-night's work. If the papers get hold of one end of it, and begin to
haul it ashore, they will bring in yourself and Mr. Harley and Senator
Hanway in a manner not desired at this time. Besides, the Secret Service
people, goaded by publicity, might pinch Steamboat Dan and his gang. Now
I'm not going to lose my best stool pigeon to please these somnambulists
of the Secret Service. Also, I've given my promise to Dan, and I never
break my word."
"I'm quite anxious, as you may imagine," said Richard, "to bury what
we've seen and heard to-night. But how can it be done? You've sent word
to the Secret Service Chief."
"The men of the Secret Service will never mention the business unless
they have to; it's not to their glory. The danger lies with those dead
folk waiting in Grant Place. If there were nothing to hide but the gold
in the drain, and the hole under the Treasury wall, it would prove easy
enough."
"But are you sure that Storri is dead? It's simply your deduction, you
know. You may yet find him very much alive."
"He's dead," reiterated Inspector Val, with deepest conviction. "If he
were alive, we would have found him at the drain. That gold would have
drawn him there in his sleep. Besides, I saw it coming. I've an idea,
however, that the Russian legation people possess as many motives for
holding Storri's death a secret as do the Secret Service men for keeping
dark the fact that the Treasury has been tapped. Yes, the Russians, with
the State Department to help them, will find a way. Everything goes by
pull, you know," concluded Inspector Val, confidently, "and it will be
queer if the State Department and the Russians, working together, can't
call Storri's blinking out by some name that won't attract attention."
Inspector Val related how, step by step, he had kept abreast of Storri.
"When he came out of retirement," explained Inspector Val, "following
the loss of his money in Northern Consolidated, I kept close tabs on
him. These half-civilized people are only half sane, and some crazy
crime would have come natural to this Russian at that time. So, as I
tell you, I stayed close to his heels. I could see by his face that he
had some big purpose. He began buying maps and visiting the department
buildings. I knew then we were getting to the heart of the affair, and,
while I couldn't guess the shoot he would take, I had only to follow to
find out. The moment he put foot in the Treasury Building, I turned
wise. Those visits to the other buildings had been mere 'stalls.' As I
followed him through the Treasury I could see that now he was in
earnest.
"When the Assistant Secretary showed him the vault that held the gold
reserve, I learned all I wanted to learn. His design and the crime he
plotted were written on his face. Of course as soon as ever I realized
that he meant to try his teeth on the Treasury, I had only to run my eye
over the year's calendar to tell when. There was a Sunday followed by
Decoration Day--two holidays, and no one on guard worth considering; it
was sure that Storri would hit upon those days to make the play. When I
saw how the Saturday before was set apart for a special holiday, the
thing was surer than ever. It did not require any deep intelligence to
determine when Storri would act. Next I followed him up the drain; and
later to Steamboat Dan's. That visit to Dan's so reduced the business
that nothing was left but the question of when to make the collar."
"What yacht was that?" asked Richard.
"It belongs to a fat-witted rich young fellow from whom Storri borrowed
it. Steamboat Dan is aboard; he went out in the skiff he spoke of. When
he's tied her up and his gang's ashore, I'll wire the fat-witted one to
come and claim his boat."
Inspector Val never breathed a hint concerning Storri's ebon purpose of
abduction, and how he meant to fire the Harley house and then kidnap
Dorothy in the confusion certain to be an incident of flames and smoke
at four o'clock in the morning. This reticence arose from the delicacy
of Inspector Val. The relation could not fail to leave a most unpleasant
impression upon Richard, and Inspector Val decided to suppress it for
the nonce.
"I'll keep it a year and a day," thought Inspector Val; "then I'll tell
him."
Richard adopted the counsel of Inspector Val, and did not accompany that
gentleman of secrets to Grant Place. It was the half hour after midnight
when Inspector Val climbed the Warmdollar steps, and strenuously pulled
the bell. The latter appurtenance was one of those old-fashioned
knob-and-wire tocsins, and its clangorous voice was calculated to
arouse, not only the house whereof it was a fixture, but the
neighborhood round about. Inspector Val's second pull at this ancient
engine brought Mr. Warmdollar, something bleary and stupid to be sure,
but wide awake for Mr. Warmdollar. Once inside the hallway, Inspector
Val told Mr. Warmdollar that he was a police agent, showed that
ex-representative the gold badge glimmering beneath his coat, and
concluded by informing him that all might not be well in the San Reve's
room. Inspector Val did what he could to frighten Mr. Warmdollar. It was
necessary to tame that householder to docility, and what should achieve
this sooner than a great fright? At the fearful hints of Inspector
Val--they were in his manner more than in his words--the purple nose of
Mr. Warmdollar became a disastrous gray. Beholding this encouraging
symptom, Inspector Val delayed no longer, but bid him beat upon the San
Reve's door. This Mr. Warmdollar, nervous and shaken, did with
earnestness, not once but twice. Nobody responded; after each visitation
of the panel the silence that prevailed was sinister.
"There's no one in," faltered Mr. Warmdollar.
Inspector Val pointed ominously to the hall-rack on which were hanging
Storri's hat and waterproof coat. Mr. Warmdollar wrung his hands; his
imagination, fretted into fever by the remoteness of his latest whisky
toddy,--whisky toddy being Mr. Warmdollar's favorite tipple,--began to
give him pictures of what dread things lay hidden in the silence beyond
that unresponsive door.
Inspector Val took from his pocket three pieces of steel, each about the
size of a lead pencil, and began screwing them together, end for end.
The instrument produced was a foot in length and looked like a
screwdriver. As a matter of burglarious fact it was a jimmy of fineness
and finish. It had been the property of a gentlemanly "flat-worker," who
made rich hauls before he fell into the fingers of Inspector Val and
went to Sing Sing. Inspector Val applied the absent gentleman's jimmy to
the San Reve's door, squarely over the lock. He gave it a twitch and the
door flew inward, the bolt tearing out a mouthful of the casing.
"Stand back!" said Inspector Val to Mr. Warmdollar, who having already
retired to the lower step of the stair, where he sat with his face
buried in his hands, hardly required the warning.
One gas jet was burning in the San Reve's room; being turned down to
lowest ebb, it was about as illuminative as a glow-worm. Inspector Val
stretched forth his hand and instantly the room was flooded of light.
Inspector Val was neither shocked nor surprised at the spectacle before
him; he was case-hardened by a multitude of professional experiences,
and besides, for full a fortnight he had read murder in the San Reve's
face.
Storri was lying upon the lounge, dead--stone-dead. A trifling hole in
the back of the head showed where the bullet entered in search of his
life. There was a minimum of blood; the few dried drops upon a curling
lock of the black hair were all there was to tell how death came. Storri
had been dead for hours; the small thirty-two caliber revolver--being
that one which Storri had seen on a memorable night in mid-winter--lay
on the floor where it fell from the San Reve's jealous fingers. It was a
diminutive machine, blue steel and mother of pearl, more like a
plaything than a pistol.
The San Reve was on her knees beside the dead Storri, her left arm
beneath his head and her face buried in the silken cushion that served
as pillow. There was a looseness of attitude that instantly struck
Inspector Val; he stepped to the San Reve and lifted the free hand which
hung by her side. The hand was clammy and cold as ice. The San Reve had
died when Storri died, but there was none of the rigidity of death, the
body was relaxed and limp. Inspector Val sniffed the air inquisitively,
and got just the faintest odor of bitter almonds. That, and the relaxed
limbs, enlightened him.
"Prussic acid," said he.
As Inspector Val replaced the San Reve's hand by her side, a tiny
vial--that with a prayer-book--was dislodged from a fold of her dress.
The vial showed a few drops of a yellow-green fluid in the bottom.
Inspector Val picked it up, and the bitter breath of the almond was more
pronounced than ever.
"Exactly!" murmured Inspector Val; "prussic acid! She died as though by
lightning;--which is a proper way to die if one's mind is made up. Now
why couldn't she have sent Storri by the same route? A drop of
this"--here he surveyed the tiny vial with interest, almost with
approval--"a drop of this in the corner of his eye, or on his lip, would
have beaten the pistol. Ah, yes, the pistol!" mused Inspector Val,
taking the baby weapon in his hand; "I suppose the storm drowned the
report. Well, they're gone! Storri was asleep, and never knew what hit
him; which, considering his record,--and I'm something of a judge,--was
an easier fate than he had earned."
Inspector Val made a close examination of the room, rather from habit
than any thought more deep, and straightway discovered the sleepy
whisky. He put it to his nose as he had the tiny vial.
"Laudanum!" he muttered; "she had mapped it out in every detail. It was
the sight of the _Zulu Queen_; she saw that he was about to desert her."
Inspector Val heaved a half-sigh, as even men most like chilled steel
will when in the near company of death, and then, stiffening
professionally, he called in Mr. Warmdollar, still weeping drunken tears
at the stair's foot.
"I want, for your own sake," explained Inspector Val, "to impress upon
you the propriety of silence. These deaths will produce a sensation in
both the State Department and the Russian legation. If word get abroad
through you, it might be resented in the quarters I've named. I shall
give the Russians notice, and you must not let a word creep into the
papers until after they have been here. If news of this leak out, it may
cost Mrs. Warmdollar her situation."
Inspector Val was aware that in Washington the hinted loss of one's
position as the penalty of loquacity has ever been the way of ways to
lock fast the garrulous tongue. Mr. Warmdollar became a prodigal of
promises; neither sign nor sound should escape him of the tragedy. Mrs.
Warmdollar, as head scrubwoman, must not be put in jeopardy!
Inspector Val visited the Secret Service Chief, and the two were as
brothers of one mind. To lapse into the rustic figures of the farms, on
that subject of secrecy they fell together like a shock of oats. Why
should the world know of the splendid gopher work of London Bill? The
gold had been saved; to publish the dangers it had grazed might inspire
other bandits. No, secrecy was the word; that question Inspector Val and
the Secret Service Chief answered as one man. And so no word crept
forth. When the vault must be restored, it was said that those tons upon
tons of gold it sheltered had broken down the steel floor. As bricks by
the wagon load went into the drain through the manhole nearest the scene
of London Bill's exploits, a pavement idler asked their purpose. They
were to repair the drain where the water had eaten into and undermined
the walls. Yes, it was a secret stubbornly protected; the tunnel was
stopped up, the vault restored to what had been a former strength or
weakness, and never a dozen souls to hear the tale.
With the Russians, Inspector Val met views which ran counter to his own.
An attaché of the Bear accompanied Inspector Val to the San Reve's rooms
in Grant Place. The Attaché was for sending Storri's body to St.
Petersburg. Inspector Val objected.
"Why should you care?" said the Attaché to Inspector Val. "I do not
understand your interest."
"She cares," returned Inspector Val, pointing to the dead San Reve. "I
have made her interest mine. She died to keep this Storri by her side; I
will not see her cheated."
The Attaché looked curiously at Inspector Val; a sentimental lunatic was
not a common sight. The Attaché, however, was no one to yield. Storri's
remains must go to Russia.
"Will you send home then the body of a thief overtaken in the crime?"
asked Inspector Val. "This Storri schemed to rob the Treasury. I do not
think the representatives of the Czar should oppose me in my whim."
"Who are you?" asked the Attaché. Inspector Val's disclosures were
alarming; trained in caution, he did not care to defy them until he was
sure of his foothold of fact. "The news you brought so affected me that
I failed of politeness and never asked your name."
"I am Inspector Val of the New York police."
"And you declare Count Storri a thief engaged in robbing your Treasury?"
"I say it word for word. More; he had it in train to burn a house and
abduct a girl."
The Attaché surveyed Inspector Val with his sharp black eyes. Clearly,
here was a man whom it would not be wise--for the honor of the Bear--to
oppose!
"And this poor woman loved Count Storri," said the Attaché, shifting his
glance to the dead San Reve. "She died, you say, to keep him by her.
Yes, you are right; they should not be parted now."
The San Reve, no longer jealous, and Storri, no longer false, were given
one grave, and the Attaché of the Czar and Inspector Val alone attended,
as though representing rival interests. The San Reve's prayer of passion
had been granted; her Storri would be her own and hers alone throughout
eternity.