MAYNARD’S FOLLY.
But past experiences did not prove of any advantage to Maynard, who
still kept the diamonds in his possession, greatly to the surprise of
his chum, Henry Townsend.
“Do you mean that you have with you over half a million dollars in
diamonds—here on the Bowery at midnight?” asked Townsend, one night as
they sat in a popular café in the Bowery.
“That is the situation.”
“I had an idea that the gems you were handling so carelessly were
paste.”
“Not a bit of it. They are the real thing.”
“Your entire collection?”
“The same.”
“Then you are running a fearful risk, especially when the nature of our
visit to this part of the city is considered. How many members of the
dramatic club know that you are carrying the diamonds in your pocket
to-night?”
“All of them, I take it. The gems were much admired.”
“Then you’re a fool, Maynard. Why, it’s simply tempting Providence. You
alarm me.”
The men were taking a light luncheon in a rear room of the café. They
had attended a dress rehearsal of a play soon to be presented in the
interest of charity by a dramatic club of which they were both members.
They were now waiting at the Bowery café for the arrival of an
acquaintance, one Julius Mantelle by name, who was to conduct them to a
private interview with a female fortune teller over whom the city was
at that time in a craze.
The appointment had been made that evening during the rehearsal already
mentioned, and was for two o’clock at the woman’s rooms, not far from
the place where the young men waited.
“I wish you hadn’t mentioned the diamonds,” said Maynard presently.
“You have about spoiled my evening. It makes me nervous, now that you
mention them, to think of their being here at this time.”
“I should think it would,” said Townsend. “How did you come to do it?”
“Oh, they are to be used during the play, you know, and this was the
last full-dress rehearsal, so I carried them down. Then, during the
rehearsal, this appointment was made, unexpectedly, as you know, and
I had to bring the gems with me or leave them there with the other
properties.”
“They would have been safer there,” urged Townsend. “We don’t know
what sort of a game we are going up against at the den of this African
fortune teller. She is a mystery to the police, and is surrounded by a
lot of servants who would, I actually believe, even do murder for her.
We don’t even know Mantelle, who made the appointment for us at the
hour of two in the morning—an unusual time, to say the least. Yes, I
know! He seems to have plenty of money, and is a good entertainer, but
what else do we know about him? It will never answer, Maynard. You must
get rid of those diamonds before we go to that woman’s den.”
“But how?”
“Let me carry them to the nearest respectable hotel and have them
placed in the vault.”
“Oh, I need not trouble you to do that. I can go myself.”
“But it is a risk for you to go,” said Townsend. “If you have been
watched or followed, you would never get to the hotel, while no one
would suspect me of having the diamonds. Pass them over while no one is
in the room with us.”
“Pshaw!” cried Maynard. “You are making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“I have heard it said,” continued Townsend, “that blood never washes
off a diamond. The first night these gems were in America your uncle
was murdered. A fine record those diamonds have! Come, let me be off
with them—that is, if you can trust me with half a million.”
“If you think it is as serious as all that,” said Maynard, “I’ll let
you have them, but it looks like we were getting frightened at nothing.
To be sure, Anton and Bernice were sentenced to short terms on the
recommendation of Nick Carter, and are now both out. I saw Anton
yesterday, but he came to the home of his mother, and made all sorts
of promises for the future.”
“And where is Bernice?”
“She did not return to Aunt Maynard. I think, however, that Anton knows
where she is, and will assist her if he succeeds in getting money from
his mother.”
“I don’t like the pair,” said Townsend, “any more than I like the
circumstances of the night. You certainly must get rid of the diamonds.”
“I suppose so, but how? If we really are in danger, it is not safe for
you to take them. Suppose we call a cab and both go to the Wisconsin?
That’s rather a neat little hotel over on Broadway.”
“No, you remain here, and I’ll walk there. You must see the necessity
of not seeming to be going away for a purpose.”
“All right, then. Here are the diamonds. Hurry back.”
Young Maynard passed a rather bulky package to Townsend, and the latter
hurried away. At the door of the room he paused and turned back.
“I’ll go to the Wisconsin first,” he said, “and if there is no chance
there, I’ll go on up Broadway. You wait until I return.”
Townsend closed the door and walked through the outer room to the
street. As he did so, a dark, lithe, muscular man of perhaps thirty
years, who had been standing at the cigar case for a moment, stepped
to the street door and spoke a few words to a man standing there. Then
he turned to the cigar case again, and as he did so was accosted by a
young man as dark and as sinister of face as himself.
“Well?” asked the elder man.
“The young fellow took them off with him.”
“Where?”
“To a hotel.”
“I see,” said the other. “To the Wisconsin. Get a cab—quick.”
“But the night is dark, and he is walking.”
“Never mind that now. Get a cab, pick up Number Two at the corner, and
drive quickly to the Wisconsin. Number Two knows what to do on arrival.”
The young man hastened away, and the other paid for a package of
cigars he had ordered and took his departure.
Young Maynard waited half an hour for the return of his friend, but he
did not come. As he was about to go in search of him, Julius Mantelle
entered the room.
“I am late,” said the fresh arrival, throwing himself into a chair and
ringing for an attendant. “I met a friend out here, and he steered me
up against a jolly bunch that just let go of me. Where is Townsend?”
“He was called away,” replied Maynard, becoming every instant more
anxious for his friend. “I am expecting him every moment.”
When the attendant arrived, Julius ordered brandy and cigars, and set
out to make himself at home. He was a man of sallow skin and slender
build. His eyes were dark and dull in repose, but they flashed like
those of a snake under excitement. His nose was broad at the nostrils,
his lips were thick, his hair jet black, and curly. He spoke English
with a slight French accent. Maynard had known him only a few weeks,
having met him at the house of a mutual acquaintance. From that first
day Mantelle had seemed to court the acquaintance and companionship of
the young millionaire.
“Townsend is late,” said Mantelle presently. “We shall miss the
appointment.”
Maynard could hardly retain his seat in his chair. He was fearful that
his friend had come to some injury in his service. Surely, he had been
absent long enough to have executed his commission twice over. He was
not thinking of the appointment. He was wondering how he could obtain
news of his friend without exciting curiosity of the man sitting there.
“Shall we go without him?” asked Julius, after a time.
“By no means,” was the reply. “I shall wait for a few minutes, and then
look him up if he does not return.”
“In that case,” said the other, “we may as well call the appointment
off. I am confoundedly sleepy, anyway. See you to-morrow.”
Mantelle went away, and Maynard sprang for the phone. Two millions in
diamonds would have appeared as small to him as did the half million
involved when it came to a question of the safety of his friend. He
began to understand now that he had made an awful mistake in carrying
the diamonds about with him.
At the phone he called up the Wisconsin Hotel, asking for the clerk.
When that rather important individual was on the wire Maynard asked:
“Was there a young man there within the hour asking to leave a package
in the safe until morning?”
“No,” came the short reply.
Maynard gave a brief description of his friend’s personal appearance,
and asked:
“Was such a person there for any purpose?”
“Yes,” was the reply.
“Did he make his business known?”
“He immediately went to one of the rooms in response to a call left at
the desk for him,” was the answer.
Maynard experienced a feeling of relief, but only for a moment.
“Is he there still?” he then asked.
“He came down almost immediately, and went away,” was the reply.
Maynard hung up the receiver, his face white and drawn. There was still
much information to be asked at the hotel, but not by phone.
“Something has happened,” he thought. “Townsend may be dead, for all
I know. It was a horrible mistake to permit him to go away alone with
the diamonds. Why should he go to a room at the Wisconsin and leave
immediately? Why should he keep me here in suspense when he understood
how anxious I was as to the result of his mission? I can never solve
the problem alone. I wonder if it is possible to reach Mr. Carter
to-night? I wonder if he will come?”
The excited young man called the detective’s private number and waited
with wildly beating heart. Presently a response came over the wire.
“Is Mr. Carter there?” he asked.
“Talking,” was the reply, much to Maynard’s relief.
In a few words Maynard explained the exact situation.
“I may be unnecessarily alarmed,” he said, “but I feel that something
ought to be done at once. Can you come?”
“Immediately,” was the prompt response, and Maynard hung up the
receiver to walk and worry until the detective laid a hand on his
shoulder.