“WANTED--AN EMERALD”
Since Anthony Trent had replaced the red glass in his Benares lamp with
the Mount Aubyn ruby, the other pieces of cut glass seemed so dull by
comparison that had his visitors been many, suspicion must have arisen
from the very difference they exhibited. The lamp was discreetly swung
in a distant corner and the button which lighted the lamp carefully
concealed.
Reading one morning that owing to the financial trouble into which the
war had plunged a great West of England family, the celebrated Edgcumbe
sapphire had been purchased by a New York manufacturer of
ammunition--one of the new millionaires created by the war to buy what
other countries had to sacrifice.
The papers gave every necessary particular. At ten o’clock one morning
Anthony Trent sallied forth to loot. By dinner time the Edgcumbe
sapphire had replaced the blue cube of cut glass and in his lamp the
papers were devoting front page space to its daring abduction. How he
accomplished it properly belongs to another chapter in the life of the
master criminal. So easy was it of consummation that he planned to use
the same technique for a greater coup.
When these two great stones were making his brazen lamp a thing of
flashing beauty they threw into infinite dullness the cube of green.
Looking at it night after night when Mrs. Kinney was long abed and the
grateful silences had drowned the noise of day, Anthony Trent longed for
an emerald to bear these lordly jewels company.
There was an excellent second-hand book store on Thirty-second street,
between Seventh avenue and Sixth, where he browsed often among waiting
volumes. One day he picked up a book, written in French, “Romances of
Precious Stones.” It was by a Madame Sernin, grandniece of the great
Russian novelist Feoder Vladimir Larrovitch. Trent remembered that he
had read her translation of _Crasny Baba_ and _Gospodi Pomi_, and looked
at this original work with interest. It was published in Paris just
before the war.
He knew well that most of the great stones which had became famous
historically were still in Europe. And Europe, until the long war was
over, was closed to him. He hoped Madame Sernin had something to say
about American-owned jewels. There was a reference in the index and
later, in his rooms, he read it eagerly. There were, Mme. Sernin
announced, but two of the great emeralds in the United States. One
belonged to the wife of the Colombian minister and was found in
Colombia. Trent considered this stone carefully. It might not be in the
United States after all. Mme. Sernin was doubtful herself. But of the
second stone she was certain. It was known as the Takowaja Emerald. A
century and a half before it had been dug from the Ural Mountains. That
great “_commenceuse_,” the second Catherine of Russia, had given it to
her favorite, Gregory Orlov, who had sold it to a traveling English
noble in a day before American gold was known in Continental Europe.
It was now the property of Andrew Apthorpe, of Boston in Massachusetts.
Presumably the man was a collector, and assuredly he was wealthy, but
Anthony Trent had never heard of him. A trip by boat to Boston would
make a pleasant break and a day later he was steaming north. His
inevitable golf clubs accompanied him. Trent was one of those
natural-born players whose game suffer little if short of practice. And
of late he had not stinted himself of play. He told Mrs. Kinney he was
going to Edgartown for a few days. He had sometimes played around these
island links; and his bag of clubs was always an excellent excuse for
traveling in strange parts.
Directly he had registered at the Adams House he consulted a city
directory. Andrew Apthorpe’s town house was in the same block on Beacon
street which held the Clent Bulstrode mansion.
It was a vast, forbidding residence of red brick running back to the
Charles embankment. The windows were small and barred and the shades
drawn. An empty milk bottle and a morning paper at a basement door gave
evidence of occupancy. And at the garage at the rear a burly chauffeur
was cleaning the brass work of a touring car. Looking wisely and
suspiciously at Trent as he sauntered by was an Airedale. The family,
Trent surmised, was absent and the caretaker, who rose late if the
neglected Post was a sign, and this man and dog were left to guard the
place.
If the Takowaja emerald were housed here with two such guardians its
recovery might not be difficult. But the more Trent thought of it the
more improbable it seemed that the owner of such a gem should leave it
prey to any organized attack. The curious part about this Ural emerald
was that Trent had never before heard of it and he knew American owned
stones well. Most of the owners of famous jewels were ready to talk of
them, lend them for exhibition purposes when they were properly guarded,
but he had never seen a line about the Apthorpe emerald.
A few minutes before midday Anthony Trent strolled into the Ames
building and saw that Andrew Apthorpe, cotton broker, occupied very
large offices. A little later he followed one of the Apthorpe clerks, a
well-dressed, good-looking young man, to the place where he lunched. It
was curiously unlike a New York restaurant. Circular mahogany counters
surrounded self possessed young women who permitted themselves to attend
to those who hungered. To such as they knew and liked they were affable.
To others their front was cold and severe.
The Apthorpe employee was a favorite, apt at retort and not ill pleased
if others noted it. Soon he drifted into conversation with Trent, who
with his careful mind had read through the column devoted to cotton in
the morning papers and was ready with a carefully remembered phrase or
two for the stranger who responded in kind.
Gradually, by way of the Red Sox, the beauties of Norumbega Park and the
architectural qualities of Keith’s, the young man lapsed into
personalities and told Anthony Trent all he desired to know of Andrew
Apthorpe. Andrew, it seemed, was not beloved of his employees. He was
unappreciative of merit unless it accompanied female beauty. He was
old; he was ill. His family had abandoned him with the sincere
reluctance that wealth is ever abandoned.
“He lives up at Groton,” said Trent’s loquacious informant, “in a sort
of castle on a hill fitted with every burglar resisting device that was
ever invented.”
“What’s he afraid of?” Trent demanded.
“He’s got a lot of valuables,” the other answered, “cut gems and cameos
and intaglios and things that wouldn’t interest any one but an old miser
like him. I have to go up there once in a while. The old boy has an
automatic in his pocket all the while. I think he’s crazy.”
There were two or three men at Camp Devens whom Trent knew slightly. The
Camp was within walking distance of Groton, he learned. By half past
nine on the following morning Anthony Trent left Ayer behind him and
breasted the rising ground towards Groton. He could go to the Camp
later. He might not go at all but if questioned as to his presence the
excuse would be a just one. He was always anxious that his motives would
pass muster with the police if ever he came in contact with them.
After a couple of miles he came in sight of the beautiful tower of
Groton School Chapel. Two or three times he had played for his school
against this famous institution in the years that seemed now so far
behind him. The town of Groton, some distance from the more modern
school, charmed his senses. Restful houses among immemorial elms, well
kept gardens and a general air of contentment made the town one to be
remembered even in New England.
He hoped he would be able to find something about Apthorpe from some
local historian without having to lead openly to the matter. A luncheon
at the famous Inn might discover some such informant. But he was not
destined to enter that admirable hostelry for coming toward him, with
dignified carriage and an aura of fragrant havana smoke about him, was
Mr. Westward whom he had known slightly at Kennebago. This Mr. Westward
was the most widely known fisherman on the famous lake, an authority
wherever wet-fly men foregathered.
Trent would have preferred to meet none who knew him by name. This was a
professional adventure and not a trout fishing vacation. But the angler
had already recognized him and there was no help for it. Westward rather
liked Anthony Trent as he liked all men who were skilled in the use of
the wet-fly and were, in his own published words, “high-minded,
fly-fishing sportsmen.”
“Why, my dear fellow,” said Westward genially, “what are you doing in my
home town?”
“I’d no idea you lived here,” Trent said, shaking his hand. “I thought
you were a New Yorker.”
Westward pointed to a modest house. “This is what I call my office,” he
explained. “I do my writing there and house my fishing tackle and my
specimens.”
“I wish you’d let me see them,” Trent suggested smiling. “I’ve often
marveled at the way you catch ’em.”
It was past twelve when he had finished talking over what Mr. Westward
had to show. He realized he had forgotten the matter which brought him
to Groton. When Mr. Westward asked him to luncheon he hesitated a
moment. This hesitation was born not of a disinclination to accept the
angler’s hospitality but rather to the feeling that he was out for
business and if he failed at it might be led as a criminal to whatever
jail was handy. And were he thus a prisoner it would embarrass a good
sportsman. But Mr. Westward gained his point and led Trent to a big
rambling house further down the street that was a rich store house of
the old and quaint furniture of Colonial days.
Mrs. Westward proved to be a woman of charm and culture, endowed with a
quick wit and a gift of entertaining comment on what local happenings
were out of the ordinary.
“Has Charles told you of the murder?” she asked.
“We’ve been talking fish,” Anthony Trent explained.
“Oh you fishermen!” she laughed. “I often tell my husband he won’t take
any notice of the Last Trump if he’s fishing or talking of trout. We
actually had a murder here last night.”
“I hope it was some one who could be easily spared,” Trent returned,
“and not a friend.”
“I could spare him,” Mrs. Westward said decisively. “I know his wife and
she has my friendship but for Andrew Apthorpe I have never cared.”
“Apthorpe?” Trent cried. “The cotton man?”
“The same,” Mrs. Westward assured him.
Anthony Trent was suddenly all attention. He surmised that the murder of
so rich a man was actuated by a desire for his collection. And if so,
where was the Takowaja emerald?
“Please tell me,” he entreated, “murders fascinate me. If the penalty
were not so severe I should engage in murder constantly. What was it?
Revenge? Robbery?”
“Yes and no,” Charles Westward observed with that judicial air which
confounded questioners. “Revenge no doubt. Robbery perhaps, but we are
awaiting the arrival of Mrs. Apthorpe and her daughter. We shall not
know until then whether his collection of valuables has been stolen.”
“What about the revenge theory?” Trent inquired.
“Apthorpe made many enemies as a younger man. Physically he was violent.
There are no doubt many who detested him. Personally I had no quarrel
with him. I sent him a mess of trout from the Unkety brook this season
and had a little talk with him over the phone but he saw few except his
lawyer and business associates.”
“Is any one suspected in particular?” Trent asked.
“The whole thing is mysterious,” Mrs. Westward declared with animation.
“Last night at eight o’clock I received a telephone message from his
nurse, a Miss Thompson, a woman I hardly know. Once or twice I have seen
her at the Red Cross meetings but that is all. She apologized for
calling but said she felt nervous. It seems that Mr. Apthorpe had let
all the servants go off to the band concert at Ayer. There were two
automobiles filled with them. The only people left were Miss Thompson in
the house and a gardener who lives in a cottage on the grounds. They
left the house just after dinner--say half past seven. At a quarter to
eight a stranger called to see Mr. Apthorpe.”
“Accurately timed,” commented Mr. Westward.
“Miss Thompson declined to admit him. You must understand, Mr. Trent,
that Andrew Apthorpe was a very sick man, heart trouble mainly, and she
was within her rights. The man who would not give his name put his foot
in the door and said he would see Mr. Apthorpe if he waited there all
night. While she was arguing with him, begging him, in fact, to go away,
her employer came to the head of the stairs that lead from the main
rooms to the hall. Miss Thompson explained what had happened. To her
surprise he said, ‘I have been expecting him for twenty years. Let him
in.’”
“Why should she call you up?” Trent asked.
“Merely because she was nervous and knew other people even less than she
did me.” Mrs. Westward hesitated a moment. “There have been rumors about
her and Mr. Apthorpe which were not pleasant. They were probably not
true but when a man has lived as he had it was not surprising. She
called me up at eight because the two men were quarreling. My husband
told you he was a man of violent temper. That is putting it mildly. I
told her there was nothing to be alarmed about. At nine she called me up
again to say that she would be grateful if Mr. Westward and my nephew
Richmond, who is staying with me, would go up there as she had heard
blows struck and Mr. Apthorpe was too ill to engage in any sort of
tussle. I told her my two men were out but that the police should be
called in. While I was talking she gave a shriek--it was a most dramatic
moment and I could hear her steps running from the telephone.”
“My nephew and I came in at that moment,” Westward interrupted, “and
went up the hill to the house as fast as possible. Mrs. Westward
meanwhile had telephoned for the police. Miss Thompson was waiting on
the steps. She was hysterical and afraid to go back into the lonely
house.”
“Richmond said he thought she had been drinking,” his wife interjected.
“That meant nothing,” Westward observed, “she was hysterical and I don’t
wonder in that great lonely house. When we went in with the police we
found the big living room door locked with the key on the inside. We had
to break it open and found it bolted. Evidently the stranger had seen to
that. Old Apthorpe was lying dead shot through the head with a bullet
from his own revolver. The window was open. There was a twelve-foot drop
to the grass outside and the man had lowered himself by a portiere. So
far not a trace has been found of him. A great many people pass through
here on the way to or from Boston and we have become so used to
strangers that no heed is paid to them any more.”
“Was there any evidence of robbery?” Trent asked.
“Not a trace so far as we could see. I mean by that there was no
disorder. Things of value might have been taken but nothing had been
broken open. We shan’t know until Mrs. Apthorpe comes.”
“It was evidently,” Mr. Westward declared, “some man whom he had been
expecting. Miss Thompson, according to her story, did not know the man’s
name and yet was told to admit him. It may be the police will find it
from correspondence.”
“I doubt it,” Trent observed shaking his head. “If it was a man Apthorpe
had dreaded for a score of years he wouldn’t be corresponding with
him.”
“Then why was he admitted?” asked Mrs. Westward.
“Consider the circumstances,” Anthony Trent reminded her. He was
becoming thoroughly interested. “Here he was almost in the house, his
foot in the door. All the servants were away. No matter what Apthorpe
said he would have got in. What more likely than that the proud
overbearing old man felt sufficient confidence in his nerve and his
revolver? Or if he didn’t he would not admit it. The curious part to my
mind was how this unknown timed it so exactly. He turned up just as the
servants were going out for the evening.” He turned to Mrs. Westward,
“Why didn’t Miss Thompson telephone for police aid do you suppose? Does
it seem strange to you that she telephoned to you instead?”
“Knowing Andrew Apthorpe it does not,” she answered. “He would have been
furious if she had done so. To begin with he has had many squabbles with
the local authorities over trumpery matters. He was most unpopular. The
last thing he would have desired would be to have them in his house.
None of the servants were from Groton and he would not have them
associating with local people.”
Anthony Trent ruminated for a little. So far nothing had been developed
which offered a reasonable solution of the problem. And the problem for
him was a different one from that which would confront the police.
Trent’s problem was to secure the Takowaja emerald. So far neither of
the Westwards had mentioned it. Probably for the reason that they did
not know of its existence. It would be unwise, he decided, to try to
lead them to talk of the dead man’s collection of jewels. But he felt
reasonably certain in his own mind that in this carefully guarded house,
replete with burglar alarms and safety appliances, the treasure from the
Ural Mountains had been reposing within a dozen hours. The stranger who
had come after a score of years and had left murder in his trail, was
more likely to have come for the great green stone than anything else.
“I wish I could have a look at the place,” he said presently.
“Amateur detective?” laughed Mrs. Westward.
“I can’t imagine anything being more exciting,” he admitted, “than to
follow this mysterious man except, perhaps, to be the man himself and
outwit the detectives.”
“Why not take Mr. Trent up there, Charles?”
Plainly Mr. Westward was not eager to do so. This was due to a dislike
to invade premises under police supervision to which he had no business
except a friendly curiosity. Still there would be no harm done. He had
known the Apthorpes for years and perhaps Anthony Trent might be an aid.
Some one had told him Trent was an expert in the oil market. He had no
reason to believe him anything but a man of probity.
“It might be arranged,” he said slowly.