THE SECRET OF THE BLACK BAG
THE dinner was a wearisome affair to Trent. His companions were vulgar,
their conversation tedious and the flattery they offered him nauseous.
It was exactly half-past nine when a waiter came to his side and told
him there was a long distance call for him from Denver. Apologizing he
left the table.
“His brother is a mining man out in Colorado,” Weiller informed the
company. “They’re a rich bunch, the Chicago Maltbys.”
“They can’t come too rich for us,” one of his friends chuckled. “Pass me
the wine, George.”
“This is a great little opportunity for rehearsing,” Weiller reminded
them. “I’ve got to sign this bird up to-night. If I do we’ll have
another little dinner on Saturday with a souvenir beside each plate.”
Directly Trent reached the hotel lobby he slipped the waiter a five
dollar bill. “If they get impatient,” he cautioned the man, “say I’m
still busy on the long distance and must not be interrupted.”
Five minutes later he opened the door of Norah’s flat and turned on the
light. There, upon a chair, was the bag on which he had built so many
hopes. His long sensitive fingers felt each of the pendants. Then with
the small blade of a pocket knife he cut a few stitches and drew out the
Takowaja emerald. For a full minute he gazed at its green glittering
glory. Then from a waistcoat pocket he took the brilliant which had been
purchased with the Benares lamp. They were much of a size and he placed
the glass where the jewel had been and with a needle of black silk
already prepared sewed up the cut stitches. The whole time occupied from
entering the apartment to leaving it was not five minutes. He was back
with his guests within a quarter of an hour.
“You must have had good news,” Norah exclaimed when he took his seat.
His face which had been expressionless before was now lighted up. He was
a new man, vivacious, witty and bubbling over with fun.
“I had very good news,” he smiled, “I put through a deal which means a
whole lot to me. Let’s have some more wine to celebrate.”
The dinner was taking place in a private room and he had insisted that
the service be of the best. Now he was free from the tension that
inevitably preceded one of his adventures he could enjoy himself. For
the first time he looked at the omnibus by the door behind him. It was
not the youthful fledgling waiter he expected to see but a big, dark man
with a black moustache and imperial. Norah observed his glance.
“George offered to star him as the mysterious count but the poor wop
don’t speak English.”
“I’ll bet he left spaghetti land because he done a murder,” George
commented, “a nasty looking rummy I call him.”
“I’ll swear he wasn’t here when I went to the ’phone,” said Trent. “I
should have noticed him.”
None heard him. The new bottle demanded attention. There was something
vaguely familiar about the face but for the life of him Trent could not
place it. Uneasily he was aware that the man of whom this strange waiter
reminded him had come at a moment of danger. The more he looked the more
certain he was that imperial and moustache were the disguising features.
But it is not easy to strip such appendages off in the mind’s eye and
see clearly what lies beneath. But there was a way to do so. On the back
of an envelope Trent sketched the waiter as he appeared. It was a good
likeness. Then with the rubber on his pencil end he erased moustache and
imperial. The face staring at him now was beyond a question that of
Devlin, the man who had run foul of him over the case of the Mount Aubyn
ruby. He remembered now that Devlin had left Jerome Dangerfield’s employ
to join a New York detective agency.
What was Devlin doing here disguised as a waiter if not on his trail?
And pressed against his side was a stone of world fame. There was no
possibility of escape. The dining room was twenty feet from the street
below and he had no way of reaching it. The door was guarded by Devlin
and outside in the corridor waiters flitted to and fro. “Old Sir Richard
caught at last.”
He was roused from his eager scheming by a waiter asking what liqueur he
would have. Automatically he ordered the only liqueur he liked, green
chartreuse. Would Devlin allow the party to break up? If so he had a
place of safety already prepared for the emerald. But if arrest and
search were to take place before he could reach his room there was no
help. He would be lucky to get off with fifteen years.
Something told him that Devlin was about to act. Waiters were now
grouped about the door. He knew that Devlin must long ago have marked
him down and this was the final scene. And yet, oddly enough, when
suddenly the door closed and a truculent detective advanced to the table
tearing off moustache and imperial, Anthony Trent, who had not left his
seat, had no longer the incriminating stone upon him. He felt, in fact,
reasonably secure.
“Quiet youze,” Devlin shouted and flashed a badge at them. Five of the
eight felt certain he had come for them. Weiller owed much money in the
vicinity of Fort Lee, New Jersey and was never secure. And more than
that he had passed many opprobrious remarks concerning the waiter whom
he supposed did not understand him.
“I’m employed,” said Devlin, “to recover the emerald stolen from the
home of the late Andrew Apthorpe of Groton, Massachusetts, on the third
of last month, and you can be searched here or in the station house.”
“It’s an outrage,” exclaimed Miss Richards the character woman.
“Sure it is,” Devlin agreed cynically, “but what are you going to do
about it?”
A woman operative was introduced who took the ladies of the party into
an adjoining room for search. The emerald was not found. The search
revealed merely, that Miss Richards had been souvenir hunting and her
spoils were a knife, spoon and olive fork.
The men had passed the ordeal successfully. That they had made the most
of their host’s temporary absence the pockets full of cigars, cigarettes
and salted almonds testified. Anthony Trent seemed hugely amused at the
procedure. Alone of them he did not breathe suits for defamation of
character and the like.
“I have rooms here,” he reminded Devlin, “by all means search them.”
“I have,” snapped the other, showing his teeth.
“I regret I didn’t bring my golf clubs,” Trent taunted him.
“I hope I’ll put you in a place where they don’t play golf,” Devlin
cried angrily. “I’m wise to you.”
“It’s good he’s wise to something,” shouted Miss Richards.
“Isn’t it?” Trent returned equably. “I’ve had no experience of it so
far.” He resumed his seat and beckoned a waiter, “Some more coffee. Sit
down, ladies, the ordeal is over.”
“Not by a long shot,” snarled Devlin, “I’ve got a search warrant to
search the apartment rented by Norah Thompson and I want you, Weiller,
to come with me.” He turned to the moving picture celebrities--self
confessed celebrities--“as for you, you’d better beat it quick.”
Devlin’s last impression of the ornate dining room was the sight of the
debonair Trent sipping his green chartreuse. Devlin ground his strong
teeth when the other raised the green filled glass and drank his health.
He was not to know that in the glass invisible amid the enveloping fluid
was the Takowaja emerald, slipped there in the moment of peril.