A THIEF TO CATCH A THIEF
IT was not a matter of much difficulty for Trent, still Mr. Maltby, to
become acquainted with male members of the set in San Francisco which
Miss Thompson affected. He knew that she dined each night at a café
which attracted many motion picture people. And he learned that there
was a producer from Los Angeles now looking for easy money in San
Francisco who was very friendly with her. Since this man Weiller was
easy of approach to such as seemed prosperous it was not difficult for
Trent to strike up an acquaintance one day at the St Charles. Weiller
first of all, as became a loyal native son, spoke of climate. Then with
even greater enthusiasm he spoke of the movies as money-makers. He
wanted to get a little money together, put on a feature and sell it. He
arranged all the details on the back of a St. Charles menu card. He had
an idea which, if William Reynard of New York could learn of it, would
bring that eminent producer of features a cool million.
Anthony Trent hung back with the lack of interest a man with money to
invest may properly exhibit. Weiller was sure he had money. He lived at
a first class hotel, he dined well and he was a “dresser” to be admired.
Also Weiller had seen a sizeable roll of bills on occasion.
There came a night when at Anthony Trent’s expense, Miss Norah Thompson,
Weiller and a svelte girl called by Weiller California’s leading
“anjenou,” partook of a sumptuous repast. Had it not been that Trent was
out for business the whole thing would have disgusted him. Weiller and
Norah were blatantly vulgar and intent on impressing their host. The
“anjenou” said a hundred times that he was like one of her dearest
“gentlemen friends” now being featured by the Jewbird Film company. Her
friend was handsome but she liked Anthony’s nose better.
With coffee came the great scheme. Weiller wanted to make a five reel
feature of the Andrew Apthorpe murder. Norah Thompson was to play the
lead!
“It’ll knock ’em dead!” cried Weiller. “Gee! What press agent stuff!” He
helped himself with a hand trembling from excitement to another gulp of
wine. “My boy, you’re in luck. We’ll go into this thing on equal shares.
I’m putting up fifty thousand dollars and you shall put up a like sum.
We’ll clear up five hundred per cent.”
“You’ve put up fifty thousand in actual cash?” Trent demanded.
“That’s what I capitalize my knowledge of pictures at,” Weiller
explained.
“George is one of the best known producers in the game,” Miss Thompson
said, a trifle nettled at what she thought was a smile of contempt on
the other’s face. “He don’t need your money. I’ve got enough in this bag
right here to produce it.” She waived a black moiré bag before Trent’s
eyes.
George Weiller looked at her and frowned. What a foolish project, he
thought, to spend one’s own money when here was a victim.
“You keep that, little one,” he said generously. “We’re gentlemen; we
don’t want to take a lady’s money. We’ll talk it over later.”
A keen salesman, he noted Trent was growing restive. If the matter were
persisted in he might either take a fright or take offence. All this he
explained later. “You see, Norah,” he remarked, “that guy has a chin on
him that means you can’t drive him.”
“He’s got a cold, nasty eye,” said Norah who was not without her just
fears of strangers.
“I’m going to play the game so he’ll beg me to let him in on it,”
Weiller boasted. “I know the way to play that sort of bird.”
The negotiations resulted in Trent’s seeing a great deal more of this
precious couple than he cared for. The “anjenou” finding her charms made
no impression on him was rarely included in the little dinners and
excursions.
It was when Trent had met Miss Thompson a dozen times that he consulted
the notes he had made on each occasion. It was a method of working
unique so far as he could learn. It might yield no results in a thousand
cases. In the thousand and first it might be the clue. It was nothing
more than a list of the costumes he had seen the ex-nurse wear.
On going through the list he saw that whereas Miss Thompson had worn a
new dress on each occasion of the dinners in public restaurants with
shoes and hosiery to harmonize or match the color scheme of her gown she
had always carried the black moiré bag. And since it was a fashion of
the moment for women to own many and elaborate bags of this sort to
match or harmonize with the color scheme or details of their costumes,
it seemed odd that Norah Thompson, who had been buying everything that
seemed modish, should fail to follow the way of the well dressed.
The bag as he remembered it was about seven inches wide and perhaps ten
inches long. It was closed by a silver buckle and a pendant of some sort
swung at each corner. Concentrating upon it he remembered they were not
beads but made of the same material as the bag itself and in size about
that of an English walnut. He called to mind the fact that he had never
seen her without this bag. Why should she cling so closely to what was
already demodé? Were he a genuine detective the problem had been an easy
one. He could seize the bag, search it and denounce her. But that would
entail giving up a priceless stone for a few thousand dollars of reward.
On the pretext of having to buy a present for a Chicago cousin, Anthony
Trent led the willing Weiller into one of the city’s exclusive
department stores. Weiller was anxious to do anything and everything for
his new friend. That night he, Norah and some other friends were to be
Trent’s guests at a very recherché dinner. He felt, as the born salesman
senses these things, that he would get his answer that night and that it
would be favorable. And with fifty thousand dollars to play with he
might do anything. Probably the last project would be to make a picture
himself.
Trent asked to be shown the very latest thing in bags. The counter was
presently laden with what the salesgirl claimed to be direct
importations from Paris. Trent selected one which he said would suit
his cousin.
“You ought to get one for Norah,” he said. “What color is she going to
wear to-night?”
“Light blue,” Weiller returned almost sulkily. He had been with her when
she purchased the gown and resented the extravagance. If she went on at
that rate there would be nothing left for him. “What they call gentian
blue.”
The salesgirl picked out an exquisite blue bag on which the lilies of
France had been painted daintily by hand. It was further decorated with
a border of fleur-de-lis in seed pearls.
“This is the biggest bargain we have,” the girl assured them. “The
government won’t allow any more to be brought over. It’s marked down to
a hundred dollars.” She looked at George Weiller, “Will you take it?”
“I’m not sure it’s the shade my friend wants,” he prevaricated. In
reality he cursed Trent for dragging him into a proposition which could
cost such a sum. He had not a tenth of the amount upon him.
“I’ll take it,” Trent said carelessly, pushing a hundred dollar bill
over the counter, “I’ve plenty of cousins and girls always like these
things.”
Weiller sighed enviously. He often remarked if he could capitalize his
brains he would pay an income tax of a million dollars; but that did not
prevent him from being invariably short of ready money.
He was looking forward to the dinner Trent was to give him and his
friends that night. Besides Norah there were five other moving picture
people who were to be used to impress Trent with their knowledge of the
game and the money he could make out of it. They would be amply repaid
by the dinner; for there are those who serve the screened drama whose
salaries are small. These ancilliary salesmen and women were to meet at
half past six in the furnished flat Norah Thompson had rented. There
they were to be drilled.
It was while they were receiving the finishing touches that Anthony
Trent knocked upon the door, blandly announcing that he had brought an
automobile to take Norah and George to the hotel where he was staying.
Instantly the gathering registered impatience to start. Weiller, always
suspicious, feared that Trent might think it curious that so many were
engaged in earnest conversation, and he wondered if their voices had
carried to the hall where Trent had waited.
Suave and courteous, Trent made himself at home among the crowd of
people who were, so they informed him, world famous in a screen sense.
Trent, as usual, had timed things accurately. It was part of his scheme
that Norah should want to banish from his mind the idea that there had
been any collusion. She was bright and vivacious in her manner toward
him.
“You are a sweet man,” she exclaimed, “I’m dreadfully hungry--and
thirsty. Come on boys and girls.”
He noticed that although arrayed in a new costume of blue, she clung to
her back moiré bag. He called Weiller aside while Norah mixed a last
cocktail for the men.
“George,” he whispered, “that blue bag I bought is just the thing to
give Norah.” George felt a parcel thrust into his hand. “It’s a little
present from me to you and she mustn’t know I bought it.”
“She shan’t from me,” Weiller said almost tremulously. Nothing could
have happened more delightfully. Not ten minutes ago in the presence of
his even less prosperous motion picture colleagues, Norah had called him
a tightwad who didn’t think enough of the woman he was to marry to buy
her a ring. He explained that easily enough by saying nothing in San
Francisco was good enough for her and that he was ordering one from New
York. This present from a rich and careless spender would prove
affluence no less than affection. “Thanks, old man, a million times.”
Norah was at the door when he presented it. She was genuinely affected
by the gift. Perhaps her thanks were even warmer when one of her friends
picked up the sales slip which had fluttered to the ground and read
aloud the price. “I’m tired of that black bag,” George complained.
“Norah’s never going to carry that when she’s got this,” one of the
other women cried. “It matches her gown exactly.”
“I took care of that,” George said complacently. “I told the saleswoman
to get me the best she had but it must be gentian blue.”
There seemed a momentary hesitation before the black bag was discarded.
To cling to it at such a moment would be to court suspicion. This was
Trent’s strategy. Her manner was not lost upon one of the others, a
character woman named Richards.
“Why, George,” she laughed, “I believe a former lover gave Norah that
bag and she hates to part with it. I was in a picture once where the
heroine carried the ashes of her first sweetheart around with her. I’d
look into it if I was you.”
Nonchalantly Norah emptied the contents of the black bag into the new
one. Then she pitched the old one onto a chair.
“Now for the eats,” she said cheerily.