THE MOUNT AUBYN RUBY
IT was while Trent was shaving that the lamp fell. He started, blessed
the man who invented safety razors, that he had not gashed himself, and
went into his library to see what had happened.
Mrs. Kinney, his housekeeper, was volubly apologetic.
“I was only dusting it,” she explained, “when it came down. I think it’s
no more than bent.”
It was a hanging lamp of Benares brasswork, not of much value, but Trent
liked its quaint design and the brilliant flashing of the cut colored
glass that embellished it. Four eyes of light looked out on the world
when the lamp was lit. White, green, blue and red, eyes of the size of
filbert nuts.
He stooped down and picked up the shattered red glass. It was the sole
damage done by Mrs. Kinney’s activity.
“It will cost only a few cents to have it repaired,” he commented, and
went back to the bathroom, and speedily forgot the whole matter.
At breakfast Anthony Trent admitted he was bored. There had been little
excitement in his recent work. The niceness of calculation, the careful
planning and dextrous carrying out of his affairs had netted him a great
deal of money with very little risk. There had been risk often enough
but not within the past few months. His thoughts went back to some of
his more noteworthy feats, and he smiled. He chuckled at the episode of
the bank president whom he had given in charge for picking his pocket
when he had just relieved the financier of the choicest contents of his
safe.
Trent’s specialty was adroit handling of situations which would have
been too much for the ordinary criminal. He had an aplomb, an ingenuous
air, and was so diametrically opposed to the common conception of a
burglar that people had often apologized to him whose homes he had
looted.
It was his custom to read through two of the leading morning papers
after breakfast. It was necessary that he should keep himself fully
informed of the movements of society, of engagements, divorces and
marriages. It was usually among people of this sort that he operated. To
the columns devoted to lost articles he gave special attention. More
than once he had seen big rewards offered for things that he had
concealed in his rooms. And although the comforting phrase, “No
questions asked” invariably accompanied the advertisement, he never made
application for the reward.
In this, Trent differed from the usual practitioner of crime. When he
had abandoned fiction for a more diverting sport he had formulated
regulations for his professional conduct drawn up with extraordinary
care. It was the first article of his faith under no circumstances to go
to a “fence” or disposer of stolen goods, or to visit pawnshops. It is
plain to see such precautions were wise. Sooner or later the police get
the “fence” and with him the man’s clientèle. Every man who sells to a
“fence” puts his safety in another’s keeping, and Anthony Trent was
minded to play the game alone.
As to the pawnshops, daily the police regulations expose more
searchingly the practices of those who bear the arms of old Lombardy
above their doors. The court news is full of convictions obtained by the
police detailed to watch the pawnbrokers’ customers. It was largely on
this account that Trent specialized on currency and remained unknown to
the authorities.
On this particular morning the newspapers offered nothing of interest
except to say that a certain Italian duke, whose cousin had recently
become engaged to an American girl of wealth and position, was about to
cross the ocean and bear with him family jewels as a wedding gift from
the great house he represented. Methodically Trent made a note of this.
Later he took the subway downtown to consult with his brokers on the
purchase of certain oil stocks.
He had hardly taken his seat when Horace Weems pounced upon him. This
Weems was an energetic creature, by instinct and training a salesman, so
proud of his art and so certain of himself that he was wont to boast he
could sell hot tamales in hell. By shrewdness he had amassed a
comfortable fortune. He was a short, blond man nearly always capable of
profuse perspirations. Trent knew by Weems’ excitement that there was at
hand either an entrancingly beautiful girl--as Weems saw beauty--or a
very rich man. Only these two spectacles were capable of bringing Weems’
smooth cheeks to this flush of excitement. Weems sometimes described
himself as a “money-hound.”
“You see that man coming toward us,” Weems whispered.
Trent looked up. There were three men advancing. One was a heavily built
man of late middle age with a disagreeable face, dominant chin and hard
gray eyes. The other two were younger and had that alert bearing which
men gain whose work requires a sound body and courage.
“Are they arresting him?” Parker demanded. He noticed that they were
very close to the elder man. They might be Central Office men.
“Arresting _him?_” Weems whispered, still excitedly, “I should say not.
You don’t know who he is.”
“I only know that he must be rich,” Trent returned.
“That’s one of the wealthiest men in the country,” Weems told him.
“That’s Jerome Dangerfield.”
“Your news leaves me unmoved,” said the other. “I never heard of him.”
“He hates publicity,” Weems informed him. “If a paper prints a line
about him it’s his enemy, and it don’t pay to have the enmity of a man
worth nearly a hundred millions.”
“What’s his line?” Trent demanded.
“Everything,” Weems said enthusiastically. “He owns half the mills in
New Bedford for one thing. And then there’s real estate in this village
and Chicago.” Weems sighed. “If I had his money I’d buy a paper and have
myself spread all over it. And he won’t have a line.”
“I’m not sure he has succeeded in keeping it out. I’d swear that I’ve
read something about him. It comes back clearly. It was something about
jewels. I remember now. It was Mrs. Jerome Dangerfield who bought a
famous ruby that the war compelled an English marchioness to sell.” The
thing was quite clear to him now. He was on his favorite topic. “It was
known as the Mount Aubyn ruby, after the family which had it so long.”
He turned to look at the well-guarded financier. “So that’s the man
whose wife has that blood-stained jewel!”
“What do you mean--blood stained?” Weems demanded.
“It’s one of the tragic stones of history,” said the other. “Men have
sold their lives for it, and women their honor. One of the former
marquises of Mount Aubyn killed his best friend in a duel for it. God
knows what blood was spilled for it in India before it went to Europe.”
“You don’t believe all that junk, do you?” asked Weems.
“Junk!” the other flung back at him. “Have you ever looked at a ruby?”
“Sure I have,” Weems returned aggrieved. “Haven’t you seen my ruby stick
pin?”
“Which represents to you only so many dollars, and is, after all, only a
small stone. If you’d ever looked into the heart of a ruby you’d know
what I mean. There’s a million little lurking devils in it, Weems,
taunting you, mocking you, making you covet it and ready to do murder to
have it for your own.”
Weems looked at him, startled for the moment. He had never known his
friend so intense, so unlike his careless, debonair self.
“For the moment,” said Weems, “I thought you meant it. Of course you
used to write fiction and that explains it.”
To his articles of faith Anthony Trent added another paragraph. He swore
not to let his enthusiasm run away with him when he discussed jewels.
Weems was safe enough. He was lucky to be in no other company. But
suppose he had babbled to one of those keen-eyed men engaged in guarding
Jerome Dangerfield, the multi-millionaire who shunned publicity! He
determined to choose another subject.
“What does he take those men around with him for?” he asked.
“A very rich man is pestered to death,” the wise Weems said. “Cranks try
to interest him in all sorts of fool schemes and crazy men try to kill
him for being a capitalist. And then there’s beggars and charities and
blackmailers. Nobody can get next to him. I know. I’ve tried. I’ve never
seen him in the subway before. I guess his car broke down and he had to
come with the herd.”
“So you tried? What was your scheme?”
“I forget now,” Weems admitted. “I’ve had so many good things since. I
followed out a stunt of that crook, Conway Parker, you used to write
about. In one of your stories you made him want to meet a millionaire
and instead of going to his office you made him go to the Fifth Avenue
home and fool the butlers and flunkeys. It won’t work, old man. I know.
I handed the head butler my hat and cane, but that was as far as I got.
There must be a high sign in that sort of a house that I wasn’t wise
to.” Weems mused on his defeat for a few seconds. “I ought to have worn
a monocle.” He brightened. “Anyway just as I came out of the door a lady
friend passed by on the top of a ’bus and saw me. Now you’re a good
looker, old man, and high-class and all that, but you and I don’t
belong in places like Millionaires’ Row.”
“Too bad,” said Trent, smiling.
He wondered what Weems would have said if he had known that his friend
had within the week been to a reception in one of the greatest of the
Fifth Avenue palaces and there gazed at a splendid ruby--not half the
size of the Mount Aubyn stone--on the yellowing neck of an aged lady of
many loves.
* * * * *
When Weems was shaken off, Dangerfield and his attendants vanished, and
Trent had placed an order with his brokers he walked over to Park Row,
where he had once worked as a cub reporter. Contrary to his usual
custom, he entered a saloon well patronized by the older order of
newspapermen, men who graduated in a day when it was possible to drink
hard and hold a responsible position. He had barely crossed the
threshold when he heard the voice of the man he sought. It was Clarke,
slave to the archdemon rum. He was trying to borrow enough money from a
monotype man, who had admitted backing a winner, to get a prescription
filled for a suffering wife. The monotype man, either disbelieving
Clarke’s story or having little regard for wifely suffering, was
indisposed to share his winnings with druggist or bartender.
It was at this moment that Clarke caught sight of his old reporter and
more recent benefactor. He dropped the monotype man with all the
outraged pride of an erstwhile city editor and shook Trent’s hand
cordially. His own trembled.
“That might be managed,” said Trent, listening to his request gravely,
“but first have a drink to steady your nerves.”
They repaired to a little alcove and sat down. Clarke was not anxious to
leave so pleasant a spot. He talked entertainingly and was ready to
expatiate on his former glories.
“By the way,” said Trent presently, “you used to know the inside history
and hidden secrets of every big man in town.”
“I do yet,” Clarke insisted eagerly. “What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing in particular,” said the other idly, “but I came downtown on
the subway and saw Jerome Dangerfield with his two strong-arm men.
What’s he afraid of? And why won’t he have publicity?”
“That swinehound!” Clarke exclaimed. “Why wouldn’t he be afraid of
publicity with his record? You’re too young to remember, but I know.”
“What do you know?” Trent demanded.
“I know that he’s worse than the _Leader_ said he was when I was on the
staff twenty years back. That was why the old _Leader_ went out of
business. He put it out. A paper is a business institution and won’t
antagonize a vicious two-handed fighter like Dangerfield unless it’s
necessary. That’s why they leave him alone. The big political parties
get campaign contributions from him. Why stir him up?”
“But you haven’t told me what he did?”
“Women,” said Clarke briefly. “You know, boy, that some men are born
women-hunters. That may be natural enough; but if it’s a game, play it
fair. Pay for your folly. He didn’t. You ask me why he has those guards
with him? It’s to protect him from the fathers of young girls who’ve
sworn to get him. His bosom pal got his at a roof garden a dozen years
back, and Dangerfield’s watching night and day. He’s bad all through.
The stuff we had on him at the _Leader_ would make you think you were
back in decadent Rome.”
“What’s his wife like?”
“Society--all Society. Handsome, they tell me, and not any too much
brain, but domineering. Full of precious stones. I’m told every servant
is a detective. I guess they are, as you never heard of any of their
valuables being taken. It makes me thirsty to think of it.”
Trent, when he had obtained the information he desired, left Clarke with
enough money to buy medicine for his wife. With the bartender he left
sufficient to pay for a taxi to the boarding-house of Mrs. Sauer, where
he himself had once resided. Clarke would need it.
On his way uptown he found himself thinking continuously of Jerome
Dangerfield and the Mount Aubyn ruby. There would be excitement in going
after such a prize. The Dangerfield household was one into which thieves
had not been able to break nor steal. A man, to make a successful coup,
would need more than a knowledge of the mechanism of burglar alarms or
safes; he would need steel nerves, a clear head, physical courage and
that intuitive knowledge of how to proceed which marks the great
criminal from his brother, the ordinary crook. If he possessed himself
of the ruby there would be no chance to sell it. It was as well known
among connoisseurs as are the paintings of Velasquez. To cut it into
lesser stones would be a piece of vandalism that he could never bring
himself to enact.
It was Trent’s custom when he planned a job to lay out in concise form
the possible and probable dangers he must meet. And to each one of these
problems there must be a solution. He decided that an entrance to the
Dangerfield house from the outside would fail. To gain a position in the
household would be not easy. In all probability references would be
strictly looked up. They would be easy enough to forge, but if they were
exposed he would be a suspect and his fictitious uncle in Australia
exhumed. Also he did not care to live in a household where he was
certain to be under the observation of detectives. No less than Jerome
Dangerfield he shrank from publicity.
Mrs. Kinney noticed that he was strangely unresponsive to her
well-cooked lunch. When she enquired the cause he told her he wanted a
change. “I shall go away and play golf for a couple of weeks,” he
declared.