THE ASTUTE MR. BIRNES
It was a few minutes past four o'clock when Mr. Wynne strode through
the immense retail sales department of the H. Latham Company, and a
uniformed page held open the front door for him to pass out. Once on
the sidewalk the self-styled diamond master of the world paused long
enough to pull on his gloves, carelessly chucking the small sole-leather
grip with its twenty-odd million dollars' worth of precious stones under
one arm; then he turned up Fifth Avenue toward Thirty-fourth Street. A
sneak thief brushed past him, appraised him with one furtive glance,
then went his way, seeking quarry more promising.
Simultaneously with Mr. Wynne's appearance three men whose watchful eyes
had been fastened on the doorway of the H. Latham Company for something
more than an hour stirred. One of them--Frank Claflin--was directly
across the street, strolling along idly, the most purposeless of all in
the hurrying, well-dressed throng; another--Steve Birnes, chief of the
Birnes Detective Agency--appeared from the hallway of a building
adjoining the H. Latham Company, and moved along behind Mr. Wynne, some
thirty feet in the rear; the third--Jerry Malone--was half a block away,
up Fifth Avenue, coming slowly toward them.
Mr. Birnes adjusted his pace to that of Mr. Wynne, step for step, and
then, seeming assured of his safety from any chance glance,
ostentatiously mopped his face with a handkerchief, flirting it a
little to the left as he replaced it in his pocket. Claflin, across
the street, understood from that that he was to go on up Fifth
Avenue to Thirty-fourth Street, the next intersection, and turn west
to board any crosstown car which Mr. Wynne might possibly take; and
a cabby, who had been sitting motionless on his box down the street,
understood from it that he was to move slowly along behind Mr.
Birnes, and be prepared for an emergency.
Half-way between Thirty-third and Thirty-fourth Streets, Jerry Malone
approached and passed Mr. Wynne without so much as a glance at him,
and went on toward his chief.
"Drop in behind here," Mr. Birnes remarked crisply to Malone, without
looking around. "I'll walk on ahead and turn east in Thirty-fourth
Street to nail him if he swings a car. Claflin's got him going
west."
Mr. Wynne was perhaps some twenty feet from the corner of Thirty-fourth
Street and Fifth Avenue when Mr. Birnes passed him. His glance
lingered on the broad back of the chief reflectively as he swung by and
turned into the cross street, after a quick, business-like glance at an
approaching car. Then Mr. Wynne smiled. He paused on the edge of the
curb long enough for an automobile to pass, then went on across
Thirty-fourth Street to the uptown side and, turning flatly, looked
Mr. Birnes over pensively, after which he leaned up against an
electric-light pole and scribbled something on an envelope.
A closed cab came wriggling and squirming up Fifth Avenue. As it
reached the middle of Thirty-fourth Street Mr. Wynne raised his hand,
and the cab drew up beside him. He said something to the driver,
opened the door and stepped in. Mr. Birnes smiled confidently. So
that was it, eh? He, too, crossed Thirty-fourth Street and lifted
his hand. The cab which had been drifting along behind him
immediately came up.
"Now, Jimmy, get on the job," instructed Mr. Birnes, as he stepped
in. "Keep that chap in sight and when he stops you stop."
Mr. Wynne's cab jogged along comfortably up the avenue, twisting and
winding a path between the other vehicles, the while Mr. Birnes
regarded it with thoughtful gaze. Its number dangled on a white
board in the rear; Mr. Birnes just happened to note it.
"Grand Central Station, I'll bet a hat," he mused.
But the closed cab didn't turn into Forty-second Street; it went
past, then on past Delmonico's, past the Cathedral, past the Plaza,
at Fifty-ninth Street, and still on uptown. It was not hurrying--
it merely moved steadily; but once free of the snarl which culminates
at the Fifty-ninth Street entrance to Central Park, its speed was
increased a little. Past Sixty-fourth Street, Sixty-fifth, Sixty-sixth,
and at Sixty-seventh it slowed up and halted at the sidewalk on the far
side.
"Stop in front of a door, Jimmy," directed the detective hastily.
Jimmy obeyed gracefully, and Mr. Birnes stepped out, hardly half a
block behind the closed cab. He went through an elaborate pretense
of paying Jimmy, the while he regarded Mr. Wynne, who had also
alighted and was paying the driver. The small sole-leather grip was
on the ground between his feet as he ransacked his pocketbook. A
settlement was reached, the cabby nodded, touched his horse with his
whip and continued to jog on up Fifth Avenue.
"Now, he didn't order that chap to come back or he wouldn't have paid
him," the detective reasoned. "Therefore he's close to where he is
going."
But Mr. Wynne seemed in no hurry; instead he stood still for a minute
gazing after the retreating vehicle, which fact made it necessary for
Mr. Birnes to start a dispute with Jimmy as to just how much the fare
should be. They played the scene admirably; had Mr. Wynne been
listening he might even have heard part of the vigorous argument.
Whether he listened or not he turned and gazed straight at Mr. Birnes
until, finally, the detective recognized the necessity of getting out
of sight.
With a final explosion he handed a bill to Jimmy and turned to go up
the steps of the house. He had no business there, but he must do
something.
Jimmy turned the cab short and went rattling away down Fifth Avenue
to await orders in the lee of a corner a block or so away. And,
meanwhile, as Mr. Wynne still stood on the corner, Mr. Birnes had to
go on up the steps. But as he placed his foot on the third step he
knew--though he had not looked, apparently, yet he knew--that Mr.
Wynne had raised his hand, and that in that hand was a small white
envelope. And further, he knew that Mr. Wynne was gazing directly
at him.
Now that was odd. Slowly it began to dawn upon the detective that
Mr. Wynne was trying to attract his attention. If he heeded the
signal--evidently it was intended as such--it would be a confession
that he was following Mr. Wynne, and realizing this he took two more
steps up. Mr. Wynne waved the envelope again, after which he folded
it across twice and thrust it into a crevice of a water-plug beside
him. Then he turned east along Sixty-seventh Street and disappeared.
The detective had seen the performance, all of it, and he was
perplexed. It was wholly unprecedented. However, the first thing to
do now was to keep Mr. Wynne in sight, so he came down the steps and
walked rapidly on to Sixty-seventh Street, pausing to peer around the
corner before he turned. Mr. Wynne was idling along, half a block
away, without the slightest apparent interest in what was happening
behind. Inevitably Mr. Birnes' eyes were drawn to the water-plug
across the street. A tag end of white paper gleamed tantalizingly.
Now what the deuce did it mean?
Being only human, Mr. Birnes went across the street and got the
paper. It was an envelope. As he unfolded it and gazed at the
address, written in pencil, his mouth opened in undignified
astonishment. It was addressed to him--Steve Birnes, Chief of the
Birnes Detective Agency. Mr. Wynne had still not looked back, so
the detective trailed along behind, opening the envelope as he
walked. A note inside ran briefly:
My address is No. ---- East Thirty-seventh Street. If it is
necessary for you to see me please call there about six o'clock
this afternoon.
E. VAN CORTLANDT WYNNE
Now here was, perhaps, as savory a kettle of fish as Mr. Birnes had
ever stumbled upon. It is difficult to imagine a more embarrassing
situation for the professional sleuth than to find himself suddenly
taken into the confidence of the person he is shadowing. But _was_
he being taken into Mr. Wynne's confidence? Ah! That was the
question! Admitting that Mr. Wynne knew who he was, and admitting
that he knew he was being followed, was not this apparent frankness
an attempt to throw him off the scent? He would see, would Mr.
Birnes.
He quickened his pace a little, then slowed up instantly, because Mr.
Wynne had stopped on the corner of Madison Avenue, and as a downtown
car came rushing along he stepped out to board it. Mr. Birnes
scuttled across the street, and by a dexterous jump swung on the car
as it fled past. Mr. Wynne had gone forward and was taking a seat;
Mr. Birnes remained on the back platform, sheltered by the
accommodating bulk of a fat man, and flattered himself that Mr.
Wynne had not seen him. By peering over a huge shoulder the
detective was still able to watch Mr. Wynne.
He saw him pay his fare, and then he saw him place the small
sole-leather grip on his knees and unfasten the catch. Not knowing
what was in that grip Mr. Birnes was curious to see what came out of
it. Nothing came out of it--it was empty! There was no question of
this, for Mr. Wynne opened it wide and turned it upside down to shake
it out. It didn't mean anything in particular to Mr. Birnes, the fact
that the grip was empty, so he didn't get excited about it.
Mr. Wynne left the car at Thirty-fourth Street, the south end of the
Park Avenue tunnel, by the front door, and the detective stepped off
the rear end. Mr. Wynne brushed past him as he went up the stairs,
and as he did so he smiled a little--a very little. He walked on up
Park Avenue to Thirty-seventh Street, turned in there and entered a
house about the middle of the block, with a latch-key. The detective
glanced at the number of the house, and felt aggrieved--it was the
number that was written in the note! And Mr. Wynne had entered with
a key! Which meant, in all probability, that he _did_ live there, as
he had said!
But why did he take that useless cab ride up Fifth Avenue? If he had
no objection to any one knowing his address, why did he go so far out
of his way? Mr. Birnes couldn't say. As he pondered these questions
he saw a maid-servant come out of a house adjoining that which Mr.
Wynne had entered, an he went up boldly to question her.
Did a Mr. Wynne live next door? Yes. How long had he lived there?
Five or six months. Did he own the house? No. The people who owned
the house had gone to Europe for a year and had rented it furnished.
No, Mr. Wynne didn't have a family. He lived there alone except for
two servants, a cook and a housemaid. She had never noticed anything
unusual about Mr. Wynne, or the servants, or the house. Yes, he went
out every day, downtown to business. No, she didn't know what his
business was, but she had an idea that he was a broker. That was all.
From a near-by telephone booth the detective detailed Claflin and
Malone, who had returned to the office, to keep a sharp watch on
the house, after which he walked on to Fifth Avenue, and down Fifth
Avenue to the establishment of the H. Latham Company. Mr. Latham
would see him--yes. In fact, Mr. Latham, harried by the events of
the past two hours, bewildered by a hundred-million-dollar diamond
deal which had been thrust down his throat gracefully, but none the
less certainly, and ridden by the keenest curiosity, was delighted
to see Mr. Birnes.
"I've got his house address all right," Mr. Birne boasted, in the
beginning. Of course it was against the ethics of the profession to
tell _how_ he got it.
"Progress already," commented Mr. Latham with keen interest. "That's
good."
Then the detective detailed the information he had received from the
maid, adding thereto divers and sundry conclusions of his own.
Mr. Latham marveled exceedingly.
"He tried to shake us all right when he went out," Mr. Birnes went on
to explain, "but the trap was set and there was no escape."
With certain minor omissions he told of the cab ride to Sixty-seventh
Street, the trip across to a downtown car, and, as a matter of
convincing circumstantial detail, added the incident of the empty
gripsack.
"Empty?" repeated Mr. Latham, startled. "Empty, did you say?"
"Empty as a bass drum," the detective assured him complacently. "He
turned it upside down and shook it."
"Then what became of them?" demanded Mr. Latham.
"Became of what?"
"The diamonds, man--what became of the diamonds?"
"You didn't mention any diamonds to me except those five the other
day," the detective reminded him coldly. "Your instructions were to
find out all about this man--who he is, what he does, where he goes,
and the rest. This is my preliminary report. You didn't mention
diamonds."
"I didn't know he would have them," Mr. Latham exploded irascibly.
"That empty gripsack, man--when he left here he carried millions--I
mean a great quantity of diamonds in it."
"A great quantity of --," the detective began; and then he sat up
straight in his chair and stared at Mr. Latham in bewilderment.
"If the gripsack was empty when he was on the car," Mr. Latham rushed
on excitedly, "then don't you see that he got rid of the diamonds
somehow from the time he left here until you saw that the gripsack
_was_ empty? How did he get rid of them? Where does he keep them?
And where does he get them?"
Mr. Birnes closed his teeth grimly and his eyes snapped. _Now_ he
knew why Mr. Wynne had taken that useless cab ride up Fifth Avenue.
It was to enable him to get rid of the diamonds! There was an
accomplice--in detective parlance the second person is always an
accomplice--in that closed cab! It had all been prearranged; Mr.
Wynne had deliberately made a monkey of him--Steven Birnes!
Reluctantly the detective permitted himself to remember that he
didn't know whether there was anybody in that cab or not when Mr.
Wynne entered it, and--and--! Then he remembered that he did know
one thing--_the number of the cab!_
He arose abruptly, with the light of a great determination in his
face.
"Whose diamonds were they?" he demanded.
"They were his, as far as we know," replied Mr. Latham.
"How much were they worth?"
Mr. Latham looked him over thoughtfully.
"I am not at liberty to tell you that, Mr. Birnes," he said at last.
"There are a great number of them, and they are worth--they are
worth a large sum of money. And they are all unset. That's enough
for you to know, I think."
It seemed to be quite enough for Mr. Birnes to know.
"It may be that I will have something further to report this
evening," he told Mr. Latham. "If not, I'll see you to-morrow,
here."
He went out. Ten minutes later he was talking to a friend in police
headquarters, over the telephone. The records there showed that the
license for the particular cab he had followed had been issued to one
William Johns. He was usually to be found around the cabstand in
Madison Square, and lived in Charlton Street.