Weston motioned his visitor to a chair. He extracted from his desk a
humidor of fragrant Havana cigars, and as he was doing so, Jim reached
for a battered, near-silver cigar case which reposed in the inside
pocket of his coat. Each extended his to the other. Jim's were short
and fat and very, very black. Weston took one from the case and Jim
accepted one from his host. Each sniffed at his gift, each made a
poorly concealed wry face and each placed the cigar carefully beside
him with the remark--"Smoke it later." Then each man lighted one of
his own. As the fierce aroma of Jim's projectile assailed Weston's
nostrils, the little man winced. But Jim did not notice. He was
inexpressibly content with the strong fumes he generated. And so they
smoked on as they chatted idly. Weston finally caused the conversation
to veer to the subject.
"You have been recommended to me, Mr. Hanvey, as the one man capable of
helping me out of a dilemma. I cannot question the judgment of the men
who have bespoken you."
"Fine. That's awful nice of you, Mr. Weston."
"I'll admit--" honestly "--that I am somewhat surprised by your
appearance. This is a matter which requires infinite tact and delicacy.
It's not--er--what you might call strong-arm work."
"That's good," endorsed the detective. "I'm in awful poor trim."
"It is, in fact, a problem such as detectives seldom meet with; an
affair of diplomacy. It involves no particular moral turpitude. Yet
the intervention and assistance of friends cannot aid me at all--which
is why I have sought outside--and professional--help."
"In other words," summarized Jim slowly, "somebody's tryin' to slip
somethin' over on you."
"Precisely. Not in a business way. That would be relatively easy
to cope with. In entrusting you with this story I must impress
upon you the necessity for strictest secrecy. My confidence must
remain inviolate. As a matter of fact, I find myself excessively
embarrassed.... I--I--scarcely know where to begin."
"Hmm! An' you're doubtful about beginnin' at all, aint you, Mr. Weston?"
"No. Not exactly. With the endorsement you have received from business
associates of mine...."
"You still think I look like such a slob I aint the man to show no
finesse. Aint that it?"
"You state it rather crudely, Mr. Hanvey, but you have hit the
bull's-eye."
"Well," Jim slumped in his chair. His eyes closed with maddening
slowness--remained shut for a second--then opened even more slowly....
"I'm willin' to do my best to help you out. But if you want me to enter
a beauty contest, I guess we'd better call it off."
"It isn't that, Mr. Hanvey. You see, the primary essential is that you
come here as my guest for two or three weeks."
"In this house? Gosh!"
"That will be necessary."
Hanvey deliberated. Once again he gave vent to the ocular yawn which
interested--and somewhat exasperated--his host. "I reckon I'll have to
put up with it then," he sighed.
Weston smiled slightly. "I don't believe it will be as terrible as you
anticipate. The--er--reimbursement in this affair, Mr. Hanvey, will be
adequate. More than adequate, should you happen to be successful."
Jim waved a pudgy hand. "Never mind that. I'll take a chance if you
will."
Again silence settled between them. Weston sat forward in his chair
with his keen eyes glittering across the room. Finally he rose abruptly
and stepped mincingly across the library to the window. Jim remained
slouched on the lounge, apparently asleep. A miasma of rancid smoke
hovered about his Brobdingnagian figure.
The descending sun of early evening bathed the dapper figure of the
little industrial giant in a soft, mellow light. He stood by the window
staring out--at something--silent, intense, a bit morose. And finally
he spoke without turning his head.
"Hanvey?"
"Yeh?"
"Come here."
Jim rose with a grunt and waddled across the room. His enormous bulk
completely shadowed that of the smaller man. And now there had come a
slight change in the atmosphere. Weston's use of Jim's last name and a
sudden pathetic drooping of the narrow shoulders bespoke the fact that
he had reconciled himself to his disappointment in Jim's appearance
and was willing to place his trust in the big detective. He spoke in a
sharp but toneless voice.
"Look yonder," he directed, pointing down the winding, poplar-lined
bridle path which twisted toward the house from a rich green valley
beyond.
Jim blinked slowly--and looked. His first impression was one of
enthusiasm for the pastoral beauty of the scene: a gradual blending of
formal gardening into the rich lusciousness of untrammelled nature; a
gentle tinting of the gold of early evening; the silver of a brook in
the valley below ... a wealth of color and of natural beauty.
Then his fishlike eyes discerned two persons on horseback, a man
and a woman, who were walking their mounts slowly toward the house.
They rode close together and they were conversing with an absorption
which made plain that the outside world did not exist for them. The
girl had half-turned in her saddle in order that her eyes might feast
unrestrainedly upon the man; while he, conscious of his power, was
injecting the full wealth of an engaging personality into the task of
holding her undivided attention.
They approached slowly, the mounts scarce moving, and as they came
closer something in the magnificent stature and military carriage of
the man stirred memory in the mind of the obese detective. But before
recognition came to him his attention was once more attracted to the
girl.
She was young--that much was evident even at the distance separating
her from Jim. There was something about the slim, boyish figure;
the artless eagerness with which she hung upon the words of her
companion, which proclaimed extreme youth. And, too, the way she sat
her horse--carelessly, easily, as though she belonged. The girl wore
no hat, her rich brown hair was piled carelessly atop the exquisitely
shaped head. Her left hand held the rein loosely, her right hung by her
side. It held a riding crop which she twiddled aimlessly. Up through
the poplar-lined bridle path they came ... the shadows spotting the
roadway like the stippling of a pen-and-ink artist.
"My daughter," said Weston simply and without turning. There was
affection in his voice--and worry--and abounding pride. Jim responded
to the tone with all the sincerity of his emotionful nature.
"Swell-lookin' kid," was his comment.
He turned his attention to the man, now limned in the glow of the late
evening sun. He was a perfect foil for the girl; a figure of powerful,
dominant masculine maturity offsetting her naïve girlishness. He wore
an immaculate riding costume. He rode like a Centaur, swaying to the
stride of his horse ... oblivious to everything save the girl by his
side. He was talking, head inclined toward her. And then Jim recognized
the man and he emitted a slow, amazed whistle. Theodore Weston turned.
"You know him?"
"Yes."
"Who is he?"
Jim favored the man with a prolonged scrutiny. It was scarcely
possible ... but there was certitude in the tone with which he made
answer to his host's question.
"That's Whitey Kirk."
"Who is Whitey Kirk?"
"The cleverest con man in the world," was the answer, and there was a
ring of professional admiration in his voice. "I didn't know he was a
friend of yours--"
"He isn't."
"There ain't anything to be ashamed of if he is. Y'know I'm awful
strong for Whitey--Warren is his real name--because of the fact that
he is so good. For ten years that baby has been pullin' jobs, big
jobs, wide-open jobs--and they've never fastened a thing on him. He's
a wizard, that's what. He's tackled everything from stock swindling to
smuggling and he's gotten away with it. I can't help liking a man with
his brains and ability. And nerve--Oh! Mamma!"
Weston walked heavily back to the table of black walnut which occupied
the middle of the library. Jim followed slowly, and then, seeing that
the attention of his host was not upon him, deftly exchanged the two
cigars which lay upon the desk--so that his own vicious black one was
once more in his possession. "Fair exchange," he told himself, "ain't
always robbery."
Absently Weston reached for the rich Havana which had thus been
returned to him, lighted it, and puffed meditatively for a few moments.
Hanvey slouched opposite in an easy chair, allowed his fat fingers to
toy idly with the golden toothpick which hung from his cable-strength
watch chain. He contemplated the little man, wondering what was coming,
and, without knowing why, feeling a sense of sorrow and of personal
responsibility.
"That," said Weston suddenly, waving toward the window which they had
just vacated, "is why I sent for you."
"Yeh?"
Silence. From outside came the crunch-crunch of horses' hoofs on the
gravel driveway, the sound of a man's voice--and a girl's--then nothing
save the soft sighing of the evening breeze through the trees which
surrounded the stately home. It was Theodore Weston who punctured the
silence--
"What is this man's criminal record?"
"He ain't got none. We know he's crooked, we even know most of what
he's done. But we ain't ever been able to get the goods on him."
"He's never been arrested?"
"Nary time."
"That will make it more difficult--very much more difficult. Perhaps
too much so." He was silent for a moment, and then--with a sudden
intensity which surprised Jim: "The man is a criminal, Mr. Hanvey. It
shall be your task to prove it!"
"Hmm!" Jim's glassy orbs closed--then opened--with exasperating
leisureliness. "Why?"
"Because--" and Jim liked the directness of Weston's speech, "that man
is engaged to marry my daughter."
"Gee!" commented Jim Hanvey. "That's tough."
"It is worse than that--it is horrible. She is not quite eighteen years
of age. He is--Oh! about forty I judge--"
"Forty-one."
"They met at Ormond Beach last year. We have a winter place there.
My daughter is a golf enthusiast. This man, it seems, was down there
playing golf--peculiar pastime for a criminal--"
"Whitey's a gent."
"Madge was injured one day on the links--struck by a golf ball on
number ten fairway. She was stunned. Number ten is farthest removed
from the clubhouse. This man Kirk was playing right behind her. He is
a powerful fellow and he carried her to the clubhouse in his arms.
From there she was taken home in a car which he provided. I thanked
him and he introduced himself. It never occurred to me that he was
not a gentleman. He told me he was a graduate of one of the large
universities--"
"He is."
"--And we were all emotionally grateful at the time. We magnified
the very simple favor which he had done for us. Certainly it never
occurred to us to scrutinize too closely the very natural friendship
which rapidly developed between him and my daughter. We didn't take
it seriously--somehow a parent finds difficulty in appreciating the
maturity of his own child.
"We all liked him. His natural gentility was the only credential we
asked. He and Madge were together everywhere: he appeared to be a
man of means, culture and leisure. We fancied that he had a paternal
interest in her. They golfed together, played tennis, swam, rode--a
very delightful winter idyll. And the day Madge told her mother and
me that she was engaged to marry this man--well, Mr. Hanvey, unless
you're a father--and have received a shock through your child--a shock
involving the happiness of that child--you cannot understand."
Jim fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. The voice of his host rang
with fierce bitterness.... "You sure are up against it, Weston."
"I investigated him, suddenly realizing that Mrs. Weston and I had been
criminally negligent. I was amazed by the fact that I knew nothing
whatever of him save that he bore all the earmarks of a gentleman.
He vouchsafed no personal information. I brought the family back
north--and investigated further. The thing was horrible enough as
it was--a seventeen-year-old-girl engaged to a man of forty. She
wouldn't listen to reason.... I tried to be tactful in my handling of
the situation. You see," simply, "I am worth a great many millions of
dollars and it was only natural that I should be careful ... marrying
for money, you know--"
"Yeh--sure. I know."
"As though the situation itself were not sufficiently bad, came the
report that the man is a notorious criminal. I told Madge and she went
straight to him with it. He laughed--said he had bitter enemies who
were trying to injure him. Defied them to prove that he had ever been
crooked. Suggested that they produce a prison record. Of course it
couldn't be done. You can imagine the effect on an impressionable young
girl--in love for the first time. She fancied him a persecuted man--she
said flatly that she didn't believe a word of it and intended to stand
by him...."
"Good sport," breathed Jim heavily.
"She is. Too good. I talked to him--straight from the shoulder.
He gazed at me blandly and said that my accusations were false. I
offered him his own price. He didn't even have the grace to get
insulted--merely stated that he didn't have a price. Alleged that
he was genuinely in love with Madge. I threatened him. He laughed.
I ordered him never to see her again. He told me coldly that if I
persisted in any such foolish course he'd induce her to elope with him.
And finally, because it seemed the wisest thing to do, Mrs. Weston and
I sanctioned a secret engagement, hoping against hope that the true
nature of the beast would show--and Madge would be awakened.
"It hasn't worked, Hanvey. She is more infatuated than ever. That's why
you were recommended to me. They told me that you were the one person
who might be of real assistance."