The sack was returned to Hanvey's pocket. "I got to be trottin' along
downtown, Arthur. That's all I wanted of you--just to show you them
imitation jools."
Sherwood was nervous. He more than half expected to be arrested, and he
drew a deep breath of relief as he stepped into the street. He walked
swiftly toward the corner, turned sharply, and saw Hanvey emerge from
the apartment house and follow him. A slight frown corrugated the
criminal's forehead.
He was frankly worried. Hanvey was too insistent about the brummagem
quality of the gems. Doubt assailed him. Perhaps they were the
genuine stones. It was impossible--but if they were imitations they
were wonderful. Suppose Hanvey had discovered the location of his
safety-deposit box and the name in which it was held? Suppose he had
actually secured the gems?
Sherwood hailed a passing taxi and entered. As he did so he saw another
cab ease around the corner. Jim Hanvey overflowed the back seat, cigar
between his pursy lips. Sherwood spoke swiftly to his driver. "See that
cab yonder?"
"Yeh."
"Lose it and you get twenty dollars."
"Cinch."
At the same moment Hanvey was speaking with his own driver. "See that
cab up ahead--the one the good-lookin' feller is just gettin' into?"
"Uh-huh."
"Foller it an' you get five dollars."
"Cinch."
The chase started. Both cabs swung into Riverside Drive at moderate
speed, Sherwood's driver playing a careful game until such time as he
might find an opportunity to elude pursuit in a traffic jam. Along
Riverside they went, turning eastward to Broadway on Seventy-second
Street, thence down that thoroughfare to Park Circle. It was there that
luck played into Sherwood's hands. His cab crossed Park Circle just
as the traffic policeman raised his hand. It took Hanvey fully a half
minute to exhibit his credentials to the policeman, and by that time
Sherwood had sped eastward on Fifty-eighth Street, turning downtown on
Sixth Avenue and doubling back uptown via Fiftieth Street and Ninth
Avenue.
Sherwood was confident that he had eluded Hanvey, but he was taking no
chance. As a matter of fact, additional precaution was unnecessary.
Hanvey's taxi reached Fifty-eighth, Jim glanced down the avenue through
an endless line of cabs, touring cars and busses, and motioned his
driver to a halt. "Needn't go no farther, son. They've got away. How
much?"
"Dollar eighty."
Hanvey handed him a two-dollar bill. "Keep the change." Then, as he
started across toward the Subway kiosk, he glanced at his watch.
"Three-thirty--hmph!"
He entered the Subway and rode uptown. When he alighted it was to walk
to Central Park West and seat himself on the steps of Sherwood's
apartment house. He was smiling slightly and there appeared to be a
faint sign of life in his dead fishy eyes. Sherwood had proceeded with
meticulous care. He left his taxi on West Sixty-fourth Street, took
a surface car to the Pennsylvania Hotel, entered the Subway via the
lobby of that hostelry, rode downtown and thence to his bank, where
he secured access to the safety-deposit box held by himself under the
alias of Roger Clarkson.
His examination took but a moment. The jewels were there, every last
one of them. He sighed relievedly. Then as he left the bank he found
himself worrying. He realized that Jim Hanvey had some deeply ulterior
motive, that he had not gone to the trouble and expense of securing
the paste duplicates without making them a part of an elaborate trap.
Hanvey's very frankness had been disquieting. Paste, said Hanvey, made
from the insurance-company descriptions. Well, Hanvey had told the
truth. But why? Sherwood was apprehensive. Here had entered the first
element the criminal was unable to understand. Until this moment he
had felt a bit sorry for Jim Hanvey's heavy blundering, his bovine
indifference and his lethargy. But now----
Still seeking a solution Sherwood rode uptown on the Elevated and then
walked to his apartment. As he turned in at the door the monster figure
of Jim Hanvey hoisted itself from the marble steps.
"Hello, Arthur."
"Jim! You here?"
"Naw! I'm over in Brooklyn huntin' for the other end of the bridge."
Sherwood took his friend by the arm. "Come upstairs a minute, Jim. I
want to chat with you."
"Sure."
Hanvey selected the most comfortable chair and crashed into it.
Sherwood walked to the window, put up the shade and turned toward the
Gargantuan figure of his friend. Sherwood's face was in shadow, that of
the detective in the full glare of daylight--as expressionful as putty.
"I've been trying to figure out your little play, Jim."
"Have you?"
"Yes. And I don't get the answer. About the only idea I can see behind
it was that you showed me those imitations to make me go down to the
vault where I have the real stones to reassure myself."
"You're hittin' on all six so far, Arthur."
"And that you'd trail me there and find out what box----"
"Arthur Sherwood! I'm plumb disappointed in you--knockin' me thataway.
You don't honestly think I thought I could trail you through the
streets of New York, do you?"
"It didn't seem so, Jim--unless you were attaining your second
childhood. But I couldn't figure out any other reason--and you did try
to follow me."