"An even split----"
"I won't do business with you in that way, Mickey. You're a common
crook and I don't care to enter into a co-partnership with you.
However, I'll buy the pearls from you for five thousand dollars cash."
"Aw! Tommy."
"Very well." Mr. Braden waved insouciantly. "Sell them elsewhere. I'm
rather busy these days."
Mr. Donley knew that he was caught and he knew that Tommy Braden knew
it. It was impossible for Mickey to dispose of the gems; in fact,
there was a strong likelihood that even Tommy Braden would find it an
impossible task. Certainly there was little doubt that it would tax his
capacities to the utmost.
Mickey studied closely the inscrutable countenance of his companion.
In it he read a subtle enjoyment of the situation. Mickey was
annoyed--chiefly because he was helpless.
"Awright Tommy. Where's the five grand?"
"Where are the pearls, Mickey?"
"They're cache'd. Didn't dare bring 'em here. The bulls've got me
shadowed. It's a shame the way they hound a poor crook."
"It is, Mickey; it certainly is. But it proves that you're wise to sell
them to me. They don't care anything for your carcass; they can pick
you up any minute they choose. What they're after is the jewels. Pretty
nice reward they're offering, isn't it?"
Mr. Donley shook his bullet head sorrowfully. "Ten thousand berries.
Gosh.... But the point is--where'll we meet?"
Mr. Braden did some careful thinking. "Let's say to-morrow afternoon
at two o'clock at the corner of Boulevard and Thirty-second street,
Bayonne. And be sure they don't trail you."
Mickey laughed shortly. "The dick that follies me there is going to
have went all over Joisey."
They met as per schedule. Tommy Braden at the wheel of a borrowed
sedan. Together they rolled slowly down the Hudson County Boulevard
toward Bergen Point. Mr. Donley produced a chamois sack and from it
poured forth a stream of pink glory. "Gawd! ain't they beauts?"
Tommy's eyes glittered with the appreciation of a connoisseur. "Very
fine, Mickey. A rope of matched pearls ... hmm! I should say they're
worth a hundred thousand dollars."
"Ev'ry dime of that. Say, listen--how 'bout raising the ante a grand or
two?"
"Don't be silly, Mickey. Here's your five thousand. Give me the pearls."
Mr. Donley left the sedan at Eighth Street and returned to New York
via the Jersey Central. The route chosen by Mr. Thomas Matlock Braden
was considerably more circuitous. He crossed the Kill von Kull to Port
Richmond and traversed Staten Island to St. George where he boarded
the New York ferry. He reached his apartment, concealed the pearls
carefully and four days later departed for Indiana.
Braden's mind was agile, and before his departure he had carefully
planned every move of the delicate game. For one thing he had obtained
several magazines which contained pictures of a certain Mr. Jared
Mallory. Mr. Braden had always been interested in Mr. Mallory. The
interest had been aroused once by the casual comment of a detective
friend that they were not dissimilar in appearance. Mr. Mallory was
a trifle older, true, but he had the same lean, sinewy figure; the
same easy grace of bearing; the same appearance of gentility and the
same touches of gray at the temples. Of course no person who knew Mr.
Mallory could ever confound the twain, but a person who had never seen
Mr. Mallory (and few had beyond his limited circle) could very readily
believe that Tommy Braden was he, provided that belief was suggested.
Tommy Braden was a great admirer of Mallory's. The latter was all
that Tommy would have liked to be. He was immeasurably wealthy, he
did not work, he existed in a little world of his own and looked with
fine and distant disdain upon the senseless turmoil of a commercial
world. If he dabbled at all in the marts of commerce it was with a
magnificent aloofness which kept his name clear of financial news. One
could imagine him as a person whose fortune was invested exclusively
in government bonds. But the greatest link between Messrs. Braden and
Mallory lay in the fact that the latter was by way of being a jewel
collector.
Tommy, too, collected jewelry, although in a rather more informal way.
A gem to Mr. Mallory was a thing of beauty and of glory; something
to be treasured and gazed upon and studied. Mr. Braden, being rather
grossly material, saw in a jewel only its intrinsic worth and its
marketable value where the method of its coming into his possession had
been a bit questionable. But he loved jewelry none the less ... the
viewpoint of the two men was basically the same although diametrically
opposite in the working-out; Braden saw jewels in terms of cash;
Mallory saw dollars in terms of gems.
Jared Mallory was known to the masses in a vague way, such as a king
is known. He was a person without a public personality. He shunned
publicity and human contact outside his own little personal circle.
He was a living definition of the word exclusive in its sociological
application ... and so it was that very few persons were aware of the
fact that Mr. Mallory had but recently sailed for France. Tommy Braden
knew it, but that was only because Tommy happened to have an interest
in Mr. Mallory. And now Tommy planned to cash in on his observation of
the millionaire jewel-collector.
Tommy's decision to visit the famous Indiana resort was the result of
careful deliberation. He knew that this was the last place in the world
that Mr. Mallory would ever visit, and it was logical to presume that
Mr. Mallory's intimates would also shun it. They were to be found on
private estates situated in Florida or along the Carolina coast ...
anywhere but at a blatant resort hotel.
Nor was Mr. Braden wrong in his conjecture. Of the thousands of guests
who thronged the hotel lobby, the golf course, the casino--there was
not one who had ever personally seen the famous Mr. Mallory although
there were several whose bank balances contained as many figures
as that of the gem collector. Which did not mean that Mr. Braden's
fellow-guests were socially doubtful but rather that Mr. Mallory's
status was such that the hotel would have considered he was paying it
an inestimable compliment by deigning to visit.
Tommy arrived at the hotel late one evening. He knew that one or two
guests commented upon his distinguished appearance as he crossed the
lobby. Such comment always pleased Tommy. It was a tribute to
something which was innate. He liked to tell himself that he was not a
snob ... he intended fully that the reputation of Mr. Mallory should
not suffer by reason of any misapprehension which might be more or less
deliberately engendered in the minds of his fellow-guests.
He registered in a cramped scrawl which bore a startling similarity to
the labored chirography of Jared Mallory. But Tommy was nothing if not
honest. The clerk whirled the register and glimpsed the signature----
THOMAS M. BRADEN--New York.
"I wired for a suite...." Tommy's voice was rather indifferent, his
manner bored.
"Yes sir. Certainly sir." The gong. "Front. Show Mr. Braden up to Suite
F."
The dinner hour approached. Mr. Braden bathed and dressed with
scrupulous care in an ultra-conservative dinner jacket. There was about
his rather statuesque figure an air of stateliness which harmonized
with the conventional simplicity of his garb. His dress was so
unobtrusive as to command instant attention. He descended to the lobby,
crossed to the dining room and slipped a crisp and ample bill into the
willing hand of the headwaiter by way of assuring himself the proper
respect.
He knew that more than one person commented upon him during the course
of the meal. For the most part he kept his eyes down, but when they
did chance to focus upon some person, that individual experienced the
unpleasant sensation of being looked through. More than one consulted
the clerk after dinner for information as to the identity of the
stranger who had now retired to a corner of the lobby and was puffing
lightly upon a monogrammed cigarette.
Among those who had particularly noticed Tommy was a couple from the
Middle West: a rather wizened gentleman of some fifty-five years and
his unduly ample wife. Mr. and Mrs. Edgar H. Morse had, for the past
five years, been frantically attempting to create the impression which
Mr. Braden was now registering so profoundly. Wealth had come to them
in an unexpected flood. They were not crude persons but they did lack
the background which is essential to true culture and, as earnestly as
they had struggled for financial success during years which were rather
more lean than fat, so they set about adjusting themselves to the
social demands of their miraculously acquired millions.
They were rather pathetic as they hung on the fringe of things and
sought to absorb in a few years the social ease which must be born in
one. They were not aggressive in their wealth--as a matter of fact they
scarcely understood it; had not yet fathomed its meaning. And their
tastes were those of the contest-answerers who send in to the editor
lengthy replies to the prize query: "What would you do if you suddenly
inherited a million dollars?"
Mr. and Mrs. Morse strolled over to the desk and made inquiry of the
clerk.
"Oh! him? That's Thomas M. Braden."
His manner indicated that anyone who was anyone would certainly know
Mr. Thomas M. Braden. Mr. Morse caught the nuance and uttered an
enlightening--"A-a-ah! So it is."
"He's a wonderful looking man," commented Mrs. Morse. "So
distinguished."
They managed to seat themselves near Tommy. He appraised them
scientifically. There was no mistaking their new and complete
wealth--"Woman--no taste--but nice. Swellest modiste in New York--make
me the grandest gown you got. He's a bird that ain't sure yet whether
he ought to wear plain or patent oxfords with his dinner jacket. They
look soft."
He was apparently oblivious to their proximity until Mr. Morse
apologetically borrowed a match. He did so apprehensively and was
put instantly at ease by Tommy's manner. But Mr. Braden immediately
appeared to lose interest in them. He was gazing out across the
lobby--in but not of the crowd. And just when the Morses had become
discouraged Tommy turned to them with a question--"How far is the golf
links from the hotel?"
Edgar H. Morse expanded instantly. He orated jerkily upon the nearness
of the first tee, the condition of the course, the scenic beauties of
the place--and wound up with the inevitable question of all golfers:
"What do you shoot?"
Tommy shrugged, "I'm not very good. When I break a hundred I'm
satisfied."
"Just my game. I did a 98 to-day and I'm tickled pink. Of course I
hole every putt and most of 'em don't. You booked up for a game in the
morning?"
Tommy Braden bestowed upon his companion a stare in which there was the
faintest hint of disapproval; a stare such as he fancied Jared Mallory
might confer. Morse felt a sensation of faintness.
"No-o," answered Tommy, "I'm not."
There was an awkward pause. Edgar Morse desired to invite this regal
gentleman to play with him but he dreaded a rebuff. And just when the
subject was about to expire naturally, Tommy ventured a polite "Why?"
"Why--er--a--I just sort of thought.... That is, if you weren't----"
"That we might play a round?"
"Yes. Yes." Eagerly. "If you would--that is, if you'd care to."
"Delighted. What hour shall we tee off?"
"Don't know--course crowded--have to get starting time." He rose
excitedly. "'Scuse me minute. I'm in strong with the starter--give 'im
cigars--and--er--things. See if I can't fix it...." He darted away,
leaving Tommy with Mrs. Morse. She favored him with a wistful little
smile.
"That's real nice of you," she said. "Eddie just dotes on golf."
"I'm sure I shall enjoy it."
"Oh! sure you will. As soon as you get to know Eddie real well--that
is, if you should--you'll like him tremendously. He's been awful
lonesome here...."
Edgar H. Morse returned, flushed and triumphant. "Fixed him. Ain't hard
when you know how. We're off at nine-fifteen. Say, I'm all pepped up."
Tommy took a cigarette from a platinum case. He extended the case to
his new-found friend. Edgar Morse took one and glanced at the monogram.
He wanted to note the brand of cigarette this gentleman used that he
might unostentatiously duplicate it at the earliest possible moment.
His eye focussed upon a simple monogram. Private brand ... but no: the
initials were distinctly not T. M. B. He inspected more closely, then
lighted the thing and inhaled deeply. "Fine cigarette. What make?"
"My own," answered Tommy Braden suavely.
They chatted amiably for a few moments and then Tommy rose, expressed
polite regrets and moved away. "T'morrow morning, remember," the little
man flung after him. "We'll have a great round. Er--a--that is, I hope
we will."
Tommy smiled his best Mallory smile, indicating the ultra-correct
degree of mild enthusiasm. And when he had taken hat and stick and
disappeared Mr. Edgar H. Morse did a very peculiar thing. He reached
eagerly into the ash tray and rescued therefrom two frayed cigarette
stubs. Mrs. Morse was duly horrified.
"Eddie! What in the world!"
But Edgar did not hear. He was frowning slightly and his gaze was fixed
intently upon the monogram of Tommy's privately made cigarettes.
"Listen, Ella--you heard him say they were his private cigarettes?"
"Yes. But a good many gentlemen----"
"Sure. Sure. I'm not saying they don't. But there's something peculiar
about this chap. See this monogram here--it ain't T. M. B. at all. The
initials are J. M."
From the deepest shadows of the spacious veranda, Tommy Braden was a
witness to the little scene. A slow smile of satisfaction creased his
thin, patrician lips. "So much for him," he murmured. "That Mallory
monogram was a great idea. Our trade mark--once seen, never forgotten."
The game of golf was enjoyed by both men. They played a nip and tuck
contest which atoned in competitive value what it undoubtedly lacked in
skill. It was not until the seventeenth green when an impossibly long
putt caromed off a match stick and clicked into the cup that victory
finally perched upon the Morse banner. The little man was jumpy with
excitement.
"Great game--wonderful. Ain't often I meet a guy I like to play as much
as I do you. Besides, most of the chaps I know can beat me--beat the
tar out of me. I'm an awful dub. Say--we got to do this again--a--that
is, I hope we got to."
"We shall," smiled Tommy. "I've enjoyed the morning immensely."
From the eighteenth green they strolled to the clubhouse where they
indulged in long, tall lemonades which appeared to inspire Mr. Morse
with no particular enthusiasm. "Got something in my room. C'mon and
sample it. That is--a--if you care to."
Mr. Braden was delighted--far more than he cared to admit. One glance
at the suite occupied by the Morses and he was well satisfied that
he had picked his victim competently. He knew just about what this
suite was costing and his keen eye missed no detail of the many which
shrieked new and amazing wealth.
Mrs. Morse inquired interestedly as to the details of the match--a
frequently interrupted and garbled account which had to do with lucky
breaks, horrible kicks, phenomenal putts.... "We're gonna play again in
the morning," finished Edgar. "That is--er--Mr. Braden says he wants
to. 'Course I'm not blaming him for kicking. That last putt of mine
didn't have any right going down. I always did believe that putting was
too all-fired important in this game...."
The fraternity of golf engendered a friendliness which would have been
long in developing else. It was decided that they should dine together
that night, and about five o'clock in the afternoon Tommy visited the
florist shop in the hotel where he ordered a corsage bouquet sent up
to Mrs. Morse. "Right here," he reflected, "is where the old dame gets
hooked right. And at the same time I exterminate another bird."
"Shly write the card?" inquired the obtrusively blonde young lady at
the counter.
"No-o." Tommy produced a card which he flipped across the counter. She
glanced at it indifferently.
"Cash?" she inquired, "or shly charge it to y'r room, Mr. Mallory?"