MRS. KINNEY MAKES A CONFESSION
ANTHONY TRENT looked about his well-furnished rooms with a certain
merited affection. In a week he would know them no more. Already
arrangements had been made to send the furniture to his camp on
Kennebago. A great deal of the furniture Weems had gathered there was
distressfully bad. Weems ran to gilt and brocade mainly.
As Trent surveyed his apartment it amused him to think that never was a
flat in a house such as this furnished so well and at so great a cost.
The things might seem modest enough at first glance. There was, for
example, a steel engraving, after Stuart, of George Washington. A
fitting and a worthy picture for any American’s room but hardly one
which required a large amount of money to obtain.
None save Anthony Trent knew that behind the print was concealed one of
the most beautiful examples of that flower of the Venetian Renaissance,
Giorgione. A few months before the Scribblers’ Club had invited motion
picture magnates to its monthly dinner. Only a few of these moulders of
public taste had accepted. There were good enough reasons for
declination. The subject incensed those who held that writers had no
grudge against the “movies.” Others lacked speech-making ability in the
English tongue. And there were some high-stomached producers who feared
the Scribblers’ fare might be unworthy.
One big man consented to speak. He was glib with that oratory which
comes from successful selling. Before he had sprung into notoriety he
had been a salesman in a Seventh Avenue store, one of those persuasive
gentlemen who waylay passersby. His speech was, of course, absurd. It
was interesting mainly as an example that intelligence is not always
necessary in the making of big money.
It was when he began to speak of the material rewards that his acumen
had garnered, that Anthony Trent awoke to interest. The producer told
his hearers that they had assuredly read of the sale to an unnamed
purchaser of a Giorgione. “I am that purchaser!” said the great man. “I
give more money for it than--” his shrewd appraising eye went around the
table. He saw eager unsuccessful writers, starveling associate editors
and a motley company of the unarrived. There were a few who had gained
recognition but in the main it was not a prosperous gathering as
commerce reckons success. “I give more money for it,” he declared, “than
all this bunch will make in their lifetime. It’ll be on view at the
Metropolitan Museum next week when you boys can take an eyefull. It’s on
my desk at this present moment in a plain wooden case. It ain’t a big
picture; this Giorgione"--his “G” was wrongly pronounced--“didn’t paint
’em big. My wife don’t know anything about it but she’s got the art bug
and she’ll get it to-morrow morning as her birthday present.”
However, the lady was disappointed. The wooden case was brought to the
table and the magnate unwrapped it with his own fat fingers. Instead of
the canvas representing a Venetian fête and undraped ladies, was the
comic sheet of a Sunday paper. The motion picture magnate used his
weekly news-sheet (produced in innumerable theatres) to advertise his
loss by a production of the missing picture. It was good advertising and
made the Venetian master widely known. But it still reposed behind the
sphinx-like Washington.
The Benares lamp was naturally his _pièce de résistance_. Never in
history had such value been gathered together in a lamp. Trent
remembered seeing once in the British Museum a lamp from the Mosque of
Omar at Jerusalem on which was inscribed, “The Painter is the poor and
humble Mustafa.” As he looked at his own lantern he thought, “The
Decorator is the unknown Anthony Trent.”
Collectors of china would have sneered at a single vase on the top of a
bookcase. It was white enameled and had a few flowers painted on it. And
the inscription told the curious that it was a souvenir of Watch Hill,
R. I.
In reality it was the celebrated vase of King Senwosri who had gazed on
it twenty-five centuries before Christ. Senator Scrivener had bought it
at a great price in Cairo. Some day the white enamel which Trent had
painted over the imperishable glass would be carefully removed and it
would gladden his eyes in Maine where visitors would be infrequent.
There were a dozen curious things Trent looked at, things hidden from
all eyes but his, which aroused exciting memories of a career he fully
believed had drawn to a close. He doubted if ever a man in all the
history of crime had taken what he had taken and was yet personally
unknown. Some day, if possible, he might be able to learn from the
police what mental estimate they had formed of him. He must loom large
in their eyes. They must invest him with a skill and courage that would
be flattering indeed were he to learn of it. The occasional mentions of
him he read in daily papers were too distorted to be interesting and
McWalsh’s tribute to the unknown master was his only reward so far.
The life that was coming, was to be the life he desired. Leisure, the
possession of books, the opportunity to wander as he chose through far
countries when the war was over. And he liked to think that later he
might find love. Often he had envied men with children. Well, he could
offer the woman that he might find comforts that fiction would never
have brought him. He was getting to have fewer qualms of conscience now.
He often assured himself that he was honest by comparison with war
profiteers. He had taken from the rich and had not withheld from the
poor.
His immunity from arrest, the growing certainty that his cleverness had
saved him from detection led him on this particular night to speculate
upon his new life with an easy mind. He had been wise to avoid the
dangers of friendship. He had been astute in selecting a woman like Mrs.
Kinney who distrusted strangers. She believed in him absolutely. She
looked to his comforts and cared for his health admirably. She would
assuredly be happy in Maine.
And then he remembered that during the last week or so she had been
strangely moody. She had sighed frequently. She had looked at him
constantly and gazed away when he met her eye. She was old, and the old
were fanciful as he knew. Perhaps, after all she regretted leaving the
New York which filled her with exquisite tremblings and fear. In Maine
she would be lonely. She should have a younger woman to aid her with the
house work. A physician should look her over. Trent was genuinely fond
of the old woman.
He was thinking of her when she came into the room. Undoubtedly there
was something unusual about her. There was no longer the pleasant smile
on her face. He was almost certain she wore a look of fear. Instantly he
sensed some danger impending.
“There’s a man been here three times to-day,” she began.
“What of it?” he demanded. So far as she could judge the news did not
disconcert him.
“Is there anybody you might want to avoid?” she asked, and did not look
at him as she spoke.
“A thousand,” he smiled. “Who was it?”
“He wouldn’t leave his name.”
“What was he like?”
“A man,” she told him, “sixty. Well dressed and polite but I didn’t
trust him. He’ll be back at ten.”
It was now almost half past nine.
“I don’t see everybody who calls,” he reminded her.
“You must see him,” she said seriously.
“Why?” he demanded.
“He said you would regret it if you did not.”
“Probably an enterprising salesman,” he returned with an appearance
almost of boredom.
“No, he isn’t,” she said quickly.
There was no doubt that Mrs. Kinney was terribly in earnest. He affected
the air of composure he did not feel.
“Who then?” Anthony Trent demanded.
“I think it’s the police,” she whispered.
Then suddenly she fell to weeping.
“Oh, Mr. Trent,” she said brokenly, “I _know_.”
“What?” he cried sharply, suddenly alert to danger, turned in that
moment from the debonair careless idler to one in imminent risk of
capture.
“About you,” she said.
“What about me?” he exclaimed impatiently.
“I know how you make your living. I didn’t spy on you, sir, believe me,
I just happened on it.” Timidly she looked over to the Benares lamp
gracefully swinging in its dim corner. “I know about that.”
For a moment Anthony Trent said nothing. A few minutes ago he had sat in
the same chair as he now occupied congratulating himself on a new life
that seemed so near and so desirable. Now he was learning that the
little, shrinking woman, who so violently denounced crime and criminals,
had found him out. What compromise could he effect with her? Was it
likely that she was instrumental in denouncing him to the authorities,
tempted perhaps by the rewards his capture would bring? For the moment
it was useless to ask how she had discovered the lamp’s secret.
“What are you going to do?” he demanded. He was assuredly not going to
wait for the police to arrest him if escape were possible. He might have
to shut the old woman in a closet and make his hurried exit. He always
had a large sum of money about him. Of late the banks had been aiding
the government by disclosing the names of those depositors who invested
sums of a size that seemed incompatible with their positions and ways of
living. He feared to make such deposits that might lead to investigation
and of late had secreted what money his professional gains had brought
him.
“What am I going to do?” she echoed. “Why help you if I can.”
He looked at her, suspicion in his gaze. Her manner convinced him that
by some means or other she had indeed stumbled upon what he had hoped
was hidden. It was not a moment to ask her by what means she had done
so. And, equally, it was no moment for denial.
“Why should you help me?” he demanded. He could not afford blindly to
trust any one. “If you think you have found something irregular about me
why do you offer aid? In effect you have accused me of being a criminal.
Don’t you know there’s a law against helping one?”
“I’m one, too,” she said, to his amazement.
“Nonsense!” he snapped. He was too keen a judge of character to believe
that this meek old creature had fallen into evil ways.
“Do you remember,” she said steadily--and he could see she was intensely
nervous--“that I told you I had no children when I applied for this
place?”
“Yes, yes,” he answered impatiently. It seemed so trivial a matter now.
“Well, I lied,” she returned, “I had a daughter at the point of death. I
needed the position and I heard you telling other applicants you wanted
some one with no ties.”
“That’s hardly criminal,” Anthony Trent declared.
“Wait,” she wailed, “I did worse. You remember when you furnished this
place you sent me to pay for some rugs--nearly two hundred dollars it
was?”
“And you had your pocket picked. I remember.”
“I took the money,” she confessed. “If I had not my girl would have been
buried with the nameless dead.”
He looked at the sobbing woman kindly.
“Don’t worry about that, Mrs. Kinney. If only you had told me you could
have had it.”
“I know that now,” she returned, “but then I was afraid.”
“You’ll stand by me notwithstanding that?” he pointed to the jeweled
lamp.
“Why of course,” she said simply, and he knew she was genuine.
Almost as she spoke the bell rang.
“Go to the head of the stairs,” he commanded, “and I will let him in. Be
certain to see how many there are. If there are two or more, call out
that some men are coming. If it is the one who called before, say ‘the
gentleman is here.’ Listen carefully. If there are two or more I shall
get out by the roof. Meet me to-morrow by Grant’s Tomb at ten o’clock in
the morning. You’ve got that?”
Mrs. Kinney was perfectly calm now and he was certain that her loyalty
could be depended upon. Presently she called out, “The gentleman is
here.”
Anthony Trent rose slowly from his chair by the window as his visitor
entered. It was a heavily built man of sixty or so dressed very well. At
a glance the stranger displayed distinguished urbanity.
“What a charming retreat you have here, Mr. Trent,” he observed.
“It is convenient,” said Anthony Trent shortly. The word “retreat”
sounded unpleasantly in his ear. It had a sound of enforced seclusion.
He continued to study the elder man. There was an inflection in his
voice which we are pleased to term an “English accent.” And yet he did
not seem, somehow, to be an Englishman. His accent reminded Trent of a
man he had met casually two years before. It was at a Park riding school
where he kept a saddle horse that he encountered him. From his accent he
believed him to be English and was surprised when he was informed that
it was Captain von Papen he had taken to be British. He learned
afterwards that the Germans of good birth generally learned their
English among England’s upper classes and acquired thereby that
inflection which does not soothe the average American. This stranger had
just such a speaking voice. Obviously then he was German and one highly
connected. And at a day when German plots and intrigue engaged public
attention what was he doing here?
“Mine is a business call,” said the stranger.
“You do not ask if this is a convenient hour,” Trent reminded him.
“My dear sir,” the other said smiling, “you must understand that it is a
matter in which my convenience is to be consulted rather than yours.”
The eyes that gleamed through the thick glasses were fixed on Trent’s
face with a trace of amusement in them. The stranger had the look of one
who holds the whiphand over another.
“I don’t admit that,” Anthony Trent retorted. “I don’t know your name or
your errand and I’m not sure that I want to.”
“Wait,” said the other. “As for my name--let it be Kaufmann. As for my
errand, let us say I am interested in a history of crime and want you to
be a collaborator.”
“What qualifications have I for such an honor?”
Anthony Trent rammed his pipe full of Hankey and lit it with a hand that
did not tremble. Instinctively he knew the other watched for signs of
nervousness.
“You have written remarkable stories of crime,” Mr. Kaufmann reminded
him. “I regret that the death of an Australian uncle permitted you to
retire.”
“You will not think it rude, I hope,” Trent said with a show of
politeness, “if I say that you seem to be much more interested in my
business than I am in yours.”
“I admire your national trait of frankness,” Kaufmann smiled, “and will
copy it. I am a merchant of Zurich, at Bahnhof street, the largest dyer
of silk in Switzerland. This much you may find through your State
Department if you choose.”
“And owing to lack of business have taken up a study of crime?” Trent
commented. “Your frankness impresses me favorably, Mr. Kaufmann. I still
do not see why you visit me at this hour.”
“We shall make it plain,” Mr. Kaufmann assured him cordially. “First let
me tell you that my business is in danger. This dye situation is likely
to ruin me. I have, or had, the formulae of the dyes I used. They were
my property.”
“German formulae!” Trent exclaimed.
“Swiss,” Kaufmann corrected, “bought by me, and my property. They have
been stolen from my partner by an officious amateur detective--one of
your allies--and brought here. The ship should be in shortly. He will
stay in New York a day or so before going to Washington. When he goes he
will take with him my property, my dye formulae. He will enrich American
dyers at my expense.”
“You can’t expect me to feel grieved about that,” Anthony Trent said
bluntly.
“I do not,” said Kaufmann. “But I must have those formulae.” He leaned
forward and touched Trent on the arm. “You must get them.”
Trent knocked the gray ashes from his pipe. The merchant of Zurich gazed
into a face which wore amusement only. He was not to know the dismay
into which his covert threat had thrown the younger man. Without doubt,
Trent told himself, this stranger must have stumbled upon something
which made this odd visit a logical one, some discovery which would be a
sword over his head.
“In your own country,” said Trent politely, “I have no doubt you pass
for a wit. To me your humor seems strained.”
Kaufmann smiled urbanely.
“I had hoped,” he asserted, “that you would not have compelled me to say
again that you _must_ get them. I fancied perhaps that you would be
sensitive to any mention of, shall we say, your past?”
“My past?” queried Trent blandly. He did not propose to be bluffed. Too
often he had played that game himself. It might still be that this man,
a German without question, had only guessed at his avocation and hoped
to frighten him.
“Your past,” repeated the merchant. “The phrase has possibly too vague a
sound for you. Let me say rather your professional activities.”
“I see,” Trent smiled, “you are interested in the writing of stories. My
profession is that of a fiction writer.”
“You fence well,” Kaufmann admitted, “but I have a longer and sharper
foil. I can wound you and receive never a scratch in return. You speak
of fiction. Permit me to offer you a plot. Although a Swiss I have, or
had, many German friends. We are still neutral, we of Switzerland, and
you cannot expect us to feel the enmities this war has stirred up as
keenly as you and your allies do.”
“That I have noticed,” Trent declared.
“Very well then. I have a close friend here, one Baron von Eckstein. You
have perhaps heard of him--yes?”
Anthony Trent knitted his brow in thought.
“Married a St. Louis heiress, didn’t he?”
“A very delightful lady, and rich,” Kaufmann returned. “Charitable too,
and loyal. My friends are all very loyal. Did you know that she donated
ten fully-equipped ambulances to this country?”
“I saw it in the papers,” said Anthony Trent. And for the life of him he
could not help smiling.
Mr. Kaufmann begged permission to light a cigar. It would have been
difficult to find a more urbane or genial gentleman in all Switzerland.
“The Baron and Baroness von Eckstein are close friends.”
Since he offered no other remarks Anthony Trent spoke.
“And I am to derive a story from so slender a plot.”
“That is but the beginning,” Kaufmann assured him. “One night the
Baroness had a very valuable necklace stolen. It was worth a great deal
more than was supposed. Diamonds have gone up in price. She told me
about it. In my native land I had some little skill as an amateur
detective. She had been to a ball and had met many strangers. At my
request she mentioned those to whom she had spoken at length. Among them
was your name. That means nothing. There were twenty others. Now I come
to another interesting thing. Do I entertain you?”
Anthony Trent simulated a yawn. He gave the appearance of one who
listens because a guest in his house speaks and politeness demands it.
In reality a hundred schemes went racing through his head and in most of
them Herr Kaufmann played a part that would have made him nervous had he
guessed it.
“Indeed yes,” Anthony Trent assured him. “Please continue.”
“Very well,” said the other cheerfully. “Next, my plot takes me to New
Bedford. You know it?”
“A mill town I believe?”
“Many of the mills are owned by my friend Jerome Dangerfield who used to
purchase my dyes. We are friends of thirty years. He was the owner of
the celebrated Mount Aubyn ruby. It was stolen from him, knocked out of
his very hands. A most mysterious case. You have heard of it?”
“I saw that ten thousand dollars was offered for the return of the stone
and capture of the thief.”
“I made my little list of those to whom Dangerfield had talked during
his stay at Sunset Park. Your name was there, Mr. Trent.”
“If you are thinking of writing it up,” Trent said kindly, “I must
advise you that editors of the better sort rather frown on coincidence.
Coincidence in fiction is a shabby old gentleman to-day with fewer
friends every year. What next?”
“Nothing, now,” Kaufmann admitted readily. “Since then I have
investigated you. I find you write no more; that you live well; that
while your money supposedly comes from Australia you never present an
Australian draft at your bank. Now, my dear Mr. Trent, I may misjudge
you. Possibly I do. But in the interests of my friends the Baron and
Baroness, to say nothing of my customer Jerome Dangerfield, I may be
permitted to investigate any man whose way of living seems suspicious. I
ought perhaps to put the matter into the hands of the police.”
“Have you?” Trent demanded sharply.
“Not yet. It may be that I shall when I leave here. You may be thinking
what a fool I am to come here and tell you these startling things when
you are so much younger and stronger than I. I should answer, if you
asked me, that I have a permit to carry a revolver and that I have
availed myself of it.”
Blandly he showed the other a .38 automatic Bayard pistol.
“You may be misjudged,” he said cordially. “If so I offer you the
apology of a Swiss gentleman. But consider my position. Suppose we abide
by the decision of the police.” He looked keenly at Anthony Trent, “Are
you willing to leave it to them? Shall I call up Spring 3100?”
Kaufmann gave Trent the idea that he knew very much more about his life
than he had so far admitted. There was a certainty about the man that
veiled disquieting things. If he knew the Von Ecksteins and Dangerfield
as he claimed, it was one of those unfortunate coincidences which life
often provides to humble supercilious editors like Crosbeigh. Police
investigation was a thing Trent feared greatly. Under cross-examination
his defense would fall abjectly. It was no good to inquire how Kaufmann
had found out that he had never offered an Australian check at his bank.
It was sufficient that his charge was true.
“It is rather late to bother the police,” he said smiling.
Kaufmann breathed relief, “Ah,” he said genially, “we shall make
excellent collaborators, I can see that. To-day is Tuesday. On Thursday
at this hour I shall come with particulars of what I expect you to do
for us?”
“Us?” Trent exclaimed.
“Myself and my partners,” Kaufmann explained. “Yes, at this hour I shall
come and you will serve your interest by doing in all things as I say.
The alternative is to telephone police headquarters and say an elderly
merchant from Zurich threatens you, slanders you, impels you to perform
unpleasant offices.”
Kaufmann smiling benignly backed toward the door. He closed it behind
him. A little later Anthony Trent saw him on the sidewalk five stories
below.
He started as he heard footsteps behind him. It was Mrs. Kinney.
“Was it anything serious?” she asked.
“I’m afraid it was,” he answered. “I want you to go up to Kennebago with
me to-morrow afternoon. I shall take only my personal baggage. The
furniture can wait. The apartment will be locked up.”
She spoke with a certain hesitation.
“I listened to what he was saying, Mr. Trent.”
“I hoped you would,” he answered, “I may need a witness.”
“Don’t you think it would be wiser to wait and do what he wants you to?”
“Perhaps,” retorted her employer, “but I don’t see how he can find me
out in Kennebago. Who knows about it but you and Weems? You haven’t
mentioned it to any one and Weems isn’t anxious his financial condition
should be suspected. And, beside that, he’s in Los Angeles. I shall pay
the rent of this flat up till Christmas and tell the agent I may be back
for a few days any time. I must leave the furniture.” He looked about
him regretfully. “That could be traced easily enough.” He decided to
take the Benares lamp, Stuart’s picture of Washington, the vase of King
Senwosri, and one or two things of price. They could go in his trunks.
“But, sir,” Mrs. Kinney persisted timidly, “if he finds you out it may
go badly with you and it wouldn’t be difficult to get what he wants.”
“Perhaps not,” he said gravely, “but if I were to do one such thing for
them they would use me continually.”
“But he only wants his dye formulae,” she reminded him.
“Don’t you understand,” he said, “that he is a German spy and wants me
to betray my country?”