"That's foolish. I'll get you sooner or later. You might as well come
clean and start serving your time now. Every day you put it off is just
that much time wasted."
"I've got plenty of time, Jim."
"Yeh, reckon so. I hardly thought you'd 'fess up."
"Not a chance."
"I'm real sorry for you, Arthur. All that trouble, all that risk--and
you ain't gonna get nothin' out of it."
"I'll make out very well."
"Nope. You can't sell 'em, an' there ain't no other way of realizin' on
your investment of time and effort."
Sherwood knew that he must hold on for a long, long while. It was
awkward, but necessary. He was too clever a performer to worry about
financial stringency. Jim was after him now as keenly as he was after
the jewels, even more so. Of course he had never intended turning
the jewels over to Hanvey; had quizzed him solely for the purpose of
finding out whether it was the man or the jewels they were seeking. The
fact that it was the former made greater caution imperative.
Jim was using the police too. That was further embarrassment. The
police system bothers criminals, it is so extensive and comprehensive,
a system of surveillance that eventually wears a man down. Playing
lone hands, Sherwood knew that the advantage would always be with
the criminal. But fighting against the individual brilliance of a
detective and the inexorable patience and scope of the nation's police
departments, a man had to watch his step pretty carefully.
Sherwood was willing--but it was deucedly uncomfortable.
Jim had impressed him. There was no one to whom he could sell the
jewels; not for several years, at any rate, not a soul. Unless,
perhaps----Sherwood nodded slowly. "It's worth thinking over," he told
himself.
Two days later Sherwood's telephone buzzed, and Jim Hanvey's monotonous
droning voice came to him over the wire:
"That you, Arthur?"
"Yes."
"This is Jim Hanvey."
"Yes."
"Busy?"
"Not particularly."
"How 'bout droppin' over to my rooms a minute. I got somethin' to show
you; somethin' real interestin'."
"Coming."
"Right away?"
"Pronto."
A taxi, a swift journey uptown to West 110th Street; Jim Hanvey's
three-room apartment--a stuffy affair grotesquely furnished and vilely
kept; three rooms which sagged under the heavy odor of Jim's cigars.
Sherwood swore fervently and threw up the windows in the tiny parlor.
"Jim, you shouldn't."
"What?"
"Smoke those cigars indoors."
"Oh! Them? Gosh! I like 'em."
"The other tenants don't kick?"
"Dunno. The janitor done time once in Joliet, an' him an' me is
buddies. He was a awful rotten yegg, but he's a swell janitor. That
just shows----Anyway, you ain't interested in him; n'r me neither for
that matter. I got somethin' to show you."
"So you said."
"C'mere."
Sherwood trailed his host into the dining room. Jim motioned him to a
chair. "Just got one thing to ask, Arthur; that is that you use your
eyes--not your hands."
"Whatever you say, Jim."
"Good." From the capacious hip pocket of his voluminous trousers Hanvey
extracted a little chamois sack. Sherwood's eyes narrowed slightly.
Chamois sack! Jewelry! Hanvey, apparently unmindful of his visitor,
droned on:
"Just you watch, Arthur--but remember, hands off."
With a quick deft motion he opened the sack and spilled its contents on
the imitation-mahogany table. The fishlike eyes of the detective were
focused vacantly upon Arthur Sherwood, who had started involuntarily
from his seat. Then Sherwood caught himself, controlled his nerves with
an effort and tried to smile.
"What's the idea, Jim?"
Hanvey's glassy eyes were turned to the table top, upon which glowed
and flamed a handful of magnificent gems--matched pearls, diamonds of
rare cut and brilliance, a huge blood ruby, twin emeralds of enormous
size and clarity, deep Oriental sapphires. The eyes of the detective
closed slowly, sleepily, then opened with maddening leisureliness.
"How you like 'em, Arthur?"
Sherwood appeared at ease, but his nerves were under a terrific
tension. "Very much."
"Look familiar?"