A particularly beautiful limousine stopped before the door of Welch,
Boon & Shaw, the renowned jewelers, on Fifth Avenue. There alighted from
it, on this cold but bright January day, a tall, well-built man, erect,
square-shouldered, head held high. He wore a fur-lined overcoat with
a beautiful mink collar, and a mink cap. He was one of those
blond-mustached, ruddy-complexioned, daily-cold-plunge British officers
you sometimes see in Ottawa. He walked quickly into the shop and spoke
to the first clerk he saw.
“Where's the proprietor?”
“Who?”
“The proprietor of the shop!” He spoke with a pronounced English accent.
His eyes were gray and cold. They looked a trifle close together, but
that may have been from the frown--said frown impressing even a casual
observer as a chronic affair. His appearance, even without the frown,
was aristocratic.
“Do you wish,” said the clerk, politely, “to see Mr. Boon or Mr. Shaw?”
“I wish to see the man who owns this shop; the--ah--boss, I think you
call it here.”
“Well, Mr. Boon--” began the clerk, about to explain.
“I don't care if it's Mr. Loon or Mr. Coon. Be quick, please!” he said,
peremptorily.
The clerk, now resenting the stranger's words, tone, manner, attitude,
nationality, and ancestry, turned to a floor-walker person and called:
“Mr. Smith, this--ahem--gentleman wishes to see one of the firm.”
Mr. Smith came forward, smiling suavely.
“You wish to see one of the firm, sir?” He bowed in advance.
“Yes. That's the third time I've said what I wish. I have no time to
lose and not much patience, either!” He twitched his neck and twisted
his head as though his collar were too tight. It was a habit, and it
became more pronounced with his annoyance. All the clerks noticed it.
Mr. Smith bit his lip and said, very politely: “Yes, sir. It happens
that none of them is in at present. If you will tell me what you wish to
see them about I may suggest--”
The fur-coated man turned on his heel, his face dark red with annoyance,
and started to leave the shop.
“Good-by, old Jerk-Neck!” muttered the offended clerk.
Mr. Boon entered at that very moment.
“Here's Mr. Boon, our senior partner,” said Mr. Smith, with an
irritation in his voice that he could not conceal, and that now gave Mr.
Boon his cue.
“You wish to see me?” Mr. Boon asked it very coldly, ready to say no.
“You have an annoying set of clerks here,” said the fur-coated stranger.
“I wished to see one of the firm and--”
“You see him now,” interrupted Mr. Boon, letting the words drop out with
an effect of broken icicles. “I am Mr. Boon.”
“My good man, I came after some pearl necklaces and a few rings, and
trinkets. Do make haste! I am Colonel Lowther.”
“Indeed! Well, what if you are Colonel Lowther?”
In Mr. Boon's eyes was a look that made all the clerks in the store
busy themselves with their own affairs. Explosions scatter dangerous
fragments that may injure lookers-on. The fur-coated Englishman stared
at the sizzling jeweler in amazement.
“Damme!” he sputtered. “Do you mean to say--Oh--I see! Yes! I am
the secretary of the Duke of Connaught. The jewels are for his Royal
Highness.”
The change was instantaneous and magical. They all understood now,
and forgave. There wasn't a clerk in the store who did not stare
with unchecked interest at the fur-coated member of the royal party,
concerning which the newspapers were printing columns and columns.
The man opened his coat, took a card from a Russia-leather case, which
he gave to Mr. Boon.
“Colonel the Honorable H. C. Lowther, K.C.B.,” it read, “Private
Secretary to H. R. H. the Duke of Connaught.”
“Colonel Lowther,” said Mr. Boon, in a voice from which all the icicles
had melted and turned into warm honey, “I regret exceedingly that
you have had to wait. Had I known you were here, or if you had only
mentioned who you were--”
“Exactly so. Yes! And now I'll have a few words with you in private,
Boon.”
The colonel could not know that Mr. Boon was not a misterless Bond
Street tradesman, but a millionaire expert in gems and human vanity. So
Boon forgave the omission of “Mr.” and magnanimously said, “This way,
Colonel Lowther, please!”
In the office Mr. Boon opened a box of his good cigars--and they were
very good, indeed--and held it toward the colonel, who took one with his
gloved hands, lit it at the flame of the match which Mr. Boon himself
held for him, and puffed away, with never a “Thank you.”
Again Mr. Boon was magnanimous.
Colonel Lowther wiggled his neck as if his collar were uncomfortably
tight, and then shot his head forward with a motion that made the chin
go up six inches--a nervous affliction that Mr. Boon politely ignored by
looking exaggeratedly attentive.
“His Royal Highness wishes to leave some remembrances to gentlemen he
has met, you know--chairmen of committees and presidents of clubs, and
others who have been very nice to him. At home he would have given them
snuff-boxes or cigarette-cases, with his arms on them; but there won't
be time to engrave them, so he will give scarf-pins.” He paused, puffed
at his cigar, and cleared his neck of the constricting collar.
“I understand,” Mr. Boon assured him, deferentially.
“And the duchess will give rings
and--ah--lorgnette-chains--trinkets--ah--you know. Everybody in New
York has been so kind to the party. 'Pon my honor, Boon, I really think
Americans are keener for royalty than the British. I do! What?”
“Blood,” observed Mr. Boon, with the impressive sententiousness of a man
inventing a proverb, “is thicker than water!”
“Eh? What? Oh! I see! Yes! Quite so!”
“Our people,” pursued the encouraged Mr. Boon, “have always thought a
great deal of the English--er--British royal family.”
“Oh, indeed! Now, Boon, I didn't think you showed great affection for
George III! What?”
Mr. Boon blushed to think of Bunker Hill. His daughter was a D. A. R.,
too! He hastened to change the subject.
“You mentioned,” he said, as though he were reading aloud from one of
the sacred books, “some pearl necklaces. At least, I think you did.” He
put on the tradesman's listening look in advance. It is the look that
courtiers assume when they listen to his Majesty excitedly telling how
once, on a hunting-trip, he almost dressed himself.
“Oh yes! The pearls are for the Princess Patricia. A necklace to cost
not over ten thousand. You see, the duke is not one of your Pittsburg
millionaires. He's not what you'd call rich, in America!” He smiled,
democratically, as a man always does when he is pleased with his own
wit. Mr. Boon smiled uncertainly.
“You can't, of course,” he said, regretfully, “do much with ten thousand
dollars.”
“Not dollars--pounds! Perhaps we may go up to fifteen thousand; but his
Highness would prefer to keep at about ten thousand pounds. That's fifty
thousand dollars.”
“I am sure we can please his Highness,” said Mr. Boon, with impressive
confidence. There fleeted across his mind the vision of the tremendous
value of the advertisement which the royal patronage would give him. The
papers were full of the doings of the distinguished visitors. He himself
on his way to the office had been guilty of the pardonable curiosity
which the lower classes call rubber-necking; and he had even
discussed--in common with 89,999,999 fellow-Americans--the personal
pulchritude of the royal ladies. Usually democracy is enabled to
apologize to itself for its undemocratic interest in feminine royalty
by saying, “She isn't at all goodlooking.” That excuse, however, did not
serve in this instance. The Princess Patricia was the most popular girl
in New York--with the classes because she was the princess, and with the
masses because she was so pretty! And to think of selling pearls to her!
He closed his eyes and ecstatically read what the papers would print
about the sale! He heard himself saying to Mrs. Carmpick, of Pittsburg:
“This necklace is handsomer than the one we sold to Princess Patricia!”
He heard the rattle in the throats of Johnson & Pierce, of J. Storrs'
Sons, of the sixteen partners of Goffony's, dying from apoplexy
superinduced by envy, or from starvation following the loss of all the
swell customers!
“Ah, you realize, of course, Boon, that his Royal Highness's patronage
is worth many thousands to your firm. What?”
The colonel's eyes, Mr. Boon thought, were cold and greedy, as befitted
a common grafter. Mr. Boon resented this, having himself been caught
red-handed getting something for nothing. If he had to pay a
commission--“We appreciate the honor, of course, Colonel Lowther,” he
said, deferentially--and non-committally.
“Quite so! You ought to, considering how the newspapers will mention
your shop.”
“I may suggest, Colonel Lowther, that our firm's reputation--”
“I know its reputation. That's why I am here”--the colonel's voice
seemed colder than a Canadian cold spell--“but it is no better than your
competitors'--Goffony, Johnson & Pierce, or J. Storrs' Sons. I figured
that the duke's patronage should be worth thousands to Welch, Boon &
Shaw; so you must make me a special price.”
“We have but one--”
“I've heard all that, Boon,” the colonel interrupted, angrily. “If you
are going to talk like a bally ass I'll waste no more time here. Bring
in the pearls. I can't take over a half-hour to this.”
Mr. Boon's hard sense and knowledge of advertising values triumphed over
his injured dignity. He excused himself, and presently returned with a
tray full of pearl necklaces.
“I say, Boon, on second thought, you must not reduce your prices. It's a
bad principle.”
“Yes, it is,” agreed Boon, cordially.
“Therefore, my good fellow, name me one price--the lowest possible after
considering how much the duke's patronage is worth to your house. The
very lowest! Put it in plain figures on new price-tags. The duke is
accustomed to the prices across the pond, you know; so don't frighten
him. Now that one?”
He picked up at once the most beautiful necklace--and also the most
valuable, though by no means the most showy. Mr. Boon's respect jumped.
He looked at the colonel, whose neck and head were twitching and
twisting violently.
“This one--” he began. The colonel interrupted him:
“Now, Boon, think carefully--the very lowest price,” he said, sternly.
“If you name a really reasonable figure I'll pledge you my word to
recommend its purchase and not visit the other shops. Take your time!”
Thus placed on the rack, Mr. Boon figured and cut and restored and
reduced again until he was angry at the torturer and at the opportunity
for a glorious advertisement. Finally he said, vindictively:
“This I'll sell for sixty-five thousand dollars!” Immediately he
regretted it. Perhaps he was overestimating the advertising value of the
Princess Patricia's beautiful neck to exhibit his pearls on. The price
was exactly thirty-five thousand dollars less than he had expected to
get for it during the next steel boom.
“Oh, come now, I say,” remonstrated Colonel Lowther, impatiently.
“That's thirteen thousand pounds. It's too much, you know.”
“Colonel Lowther,” said Boon, pale but determined, “I am losing
considerable money on this, which I am charging to advertising account
and may never get back. If the price is not satisfactory, I'm sorry;
and I can only suggest that you'd better go to the other firms you've
mentioned. They are all,” he finished quietly, “very good firms.”
Colonel Lowther, who had not taken his keen eyes off the jeweler's face
during the speech, appeared impressed by Mr. Boon's earnestness. His
neck jerked spasmodically half a dozen times before he said:
“I believe you. I'll take it. But first mark it--in pounds; thirteen
thousand pounds.” And he looked on, eagle-eyed, while Mr. Boon himself
wrote out a new price-tag. Evidently he would take no chances with
sleight-of-hand substitutions. “Put it here,” he said, “beside me.”
It made Mr. Boon say, half angry, half amused: “We won't change it for
an imitation string. We are really a reputable firm, Colonel Lowther.”
“Oh! Ah! Really, I--ah!” stammered the colonel, “I wasn't thinking of
such a thing!” He looked so absurdly guilty, however, that Mr. Boon
forgave him. “I think you'd better show me others--ah!--cheaper, you
know, in case the duke should not wish to go above ten thousand pounds.
Say, that one--and this!--and this!”
He had selected the three next best; but Boon figured very closely and
in all instances named a price below cost: fifty-seven thousand five
hundred dollars, fifty thousand dollars, and forty-five thousand
dollars.
“Put them here also with the first one,” said Colonel Lowther..
“Don't you wish us to put them in boxes?” asked Mr. Boon.
“Ah--ah!--I say, bring the boxes in and I'll put them in. We'll do it
more quickly,” he finished, lamely.
There flashed across Mr. Boon's mind the possibility of crookedness.
Colonel Lowther did not trust them--perhaps because he hoped to avert
suspicions by that same attitude of distrust! Mr. Boon determined to
watch closely. He asked a clerk to bring some cases for the necklaces.
“You fix them, Boon,” said Colonel Lowther, who was watching the
jeweler's hands as children watch the hands of a prestidigitator.
It actually eased Boon's mind to be taken for a crook. He arranged the
necklaces, each in its own Russia-leather case, and then gratefully
helped Colonel Lowther to select two dozen scarf-pins, amounting in
value to eighteen thousand dollars, a score of rings worth in all a
little over twenty-five thousand dollars, and a few lorgnette-chains
and other trinkets. Once all these were duly price-tagged, packed, and
placed beside the necklaces, Colonel Lowther, after a series of mild
cervical convulsions, said, calmly:
“Now, Boon, you and I must settle a personal matter. You know, of
course, the royal party never pays cash.”
“Then,” said the impetuous Mr. Boon, “the deal is off!”
“Silly ass! The royal family of England always pays. You know very
well that the jewels bought by King George for gifts for his coronation
guests have not been paid for yet. It's all a matter of red tape. The
money is as safe as the Bank of England! Any banker here would be glad
to guarantee the account--only that would never do, of course. Now you
know I can't take any commission. I've made you give me the lowest
prices for the duke, haven't I? What?”
“Yes, you have; and therefore I can't--”
“If I were a bally Russian I'd have made you name a price twice the
usual figure and I'd have taken the difference as a commission. It's
what you Americans call graft, I believe. What?”
“Of course,” said Boon, coldly, disgusted with the venal aristocracy,
“we'd never have done such a--”
“Tut, tut! It's done everywhere; but not to me!” Colonel Lowther said,
so sternly that Mr. Boon considered himself accused of unnamed crimes.
He resented this, but, being unable to fix the exact accusation,
contented himself with remarking, diplomatically:
“Of course not! But at the same time--”
“Yes, yes,” rudely broke in the colonel, with a silencing wave of his
gloved hand. “Now I can myself pay you in cash for whatever the duke
buys--say, up to twenty thousand or twenty-five thousand pounds. For
advancing this money, which will not be paid to me for months, I ask
you to allow me a half-year's interest. That,” finished Colonel Lowther,
impressively, “is banking. What?”
“At what rate?”
“Oh, eight or ten per cent.”
“Impossible!”
“Then, Mr. Welch, Boon, or whatever your name is, I wish you a very good
morning!”
“But we'll allow you interest at the rate of six per cent, a year.”
“But I myself have to pay five for the use--ah!--that is--er--”
floundered the Englishman. Mr. Boon perceived instantly that the colonel
borrowed the money from Canadian bankers at five per cent, and got ten
per cent. It was not a bad scheme for high-class aristocratic graft!
Even a jeweler could philosophize about wilful self-delusion, the point
of view, custom, and so on. “Make it seven per cent. What?”
Mr. Boon could not help admiring the persistency of the Englishman in
coating his graft-pills with the sugar of legitimacy. Doubtless the
colonel had really convinced himself this was not graft!
“Very well,” said Mr. Boon, with a smile. “I'll take three and a half
per cent, off for cash.”
“But we agreed on seven!” remonstrated the Englishman.
“Well, three and a half per cent, of the whole is the same as six months
at seven per cent.”
“Oh!” The colonel began to figure in his mind. His cervical contortions,
twitchings, and jerkings were painful to behold. Mr. Boon thought it was
a mild form of St. Vitus's dance. It would enable him to recognize the
colonel in a crowd of ten thousand.
“Quite so! Yes--three and a half per cent, of the total bill. It will
be at least twenty thousand pounds--that's one hundred thousand dollars.
Not half bad! What?”
“Do you mean your commission will be one hundred thousand dollars? I'm
delighted to hear it!” Mr. Boon was so pleased that he jested. He would
play up the royal patronage to the limit.
“Oh no! I meant the total amount, you know,” corrected the colonel,
earnestly. He saw that Boon was smiling, and gradually it dawned on him
that the jeweler was an American humorist. “Oh! Ah! Yes! Very funny!
Quite so! I wish it were! How many millions would the bill have to be
for the cash discount to be twenty thousand pounds? What?
Right-O! Well, now bring the pearls and the other things to the motor.
I shall show them to his Royal Highness at once. I can let you know in a
half-hour which he will keep.” And he rose.
“Ah!--er--Colonel, you know we don't like to--ah!--there's over two
hundred thousand dollars' worth of jewels, worth four hundred thousand
dollars in any other place in New York; and if anything happened--”
“Nothing will happen,” said the colonel, with assurance.
“And then, it will take a long time to prepare the memorandum of--”
“Why do you need a memorandum?” inquired the colonel, coldly. He looked
as if he began to suspect that Mr. Boon distrusted a member of the suite
of his Royal Highness, Prince Arthur William Patrick Albert, K.G., K.T.,
K.P., P.C., G.M.B., G.3. S.I., G.C.M.G., G.C.I.E., G.C.V.O., Duke of
Connaught and Stratheam, Earl of Sussex, Prince of Coburg and Gotha,
Governor-General of Canada, and potential customer of the world-renowned
firm of Welch, Boon & Shaw.
Reading the emotions on the colonel's face and not desiring to offend,
but at the same time determined not to deliver two hundred thousand
dollars' worth of goods to a stranger, who might be the duke's
secretary, but might not be a reliable man financially, for all that,
Mr. Boon groped for an excuse. But Colonel Lowther pursued, frigidly:
“Why should you need a memorandum if you yourself will bring the jewels?
Did you think I was a bally clerk to sell your jewels for you? You do
the talking--and don't change the prices!”
So profoundly relieved as not to resent the last insult, Mr. Boon smiled
pleasantly and said, “I must take a man to carry them.”
“Take a regiment if you wish; but there's room for only three in the
motor,” said the Englishman, his neck twitching and twisting and jerking
quite violently. Anger seemed to aggravate his nervous malady. Wherefore
Mr. Boon hastily gathered up the packages, put them into a jeweler's
strong valise, and followed the colonel, accompanied by Terry Donnelly,
the store's private policeman, who carried the precious satchel in one
hand, and in the other--in his overcoat pocket--an automatic pistol of
the latest model.
One of the clerks must have told of the affair, for there was an eager
crowd on the sidewalk. They had heard that the Duke of Connaught's
secretary was in the store, buying diamonds. By the time it had passed
seven mouths it was the duke himself. Mr. Boon heard: “There he comes!”
and, “Is the princess with him?” and, “Which is the duke?” And he had
pleasant visions of free reading-notices and renewed popularity among
the ultra-fashionable. One of the traffic squad was trying to make the
crowd move on--in vain.
The colonel good-naturedly forced his way through the mob to the motor,
followed by the jeweler and the store policeman, who saw on the door of
the limousine the letters “W. R.” And both of them concluded that this
stood for the well-known initials of the duke's host.
A short woman, with red hair and a self-assertive bust, stared boldly at
the colonel and said, “He don't look like his pictures.”
“Say, are you the duke?” asked a messenger-boy.
However, the colonel merely said “Home!” and entered the motor, followed
by Mr. Boon and T. Donnelly. The store footman closed the door as if it
were made of priceless cut-glass. The traffic policeman touched his cap
and the motor went up the Avenue.
The colonel picked up a newspaper from the seat and turned to Mr. Boon.
“See!” he said, “our pictures. Your reporters are--ah!--very
enterprising and clever. But the photographers are worse!” He laughed
and went on: “The pictures don't look like me, d'ye think?”
“I recognize the coat and the fur cap,” laughed Mr. Boon.
“Oh, do you?” said the colonel, seriously. He looked at it and
said: “But it might be my other fur cap, you know. What?” He looked
challengingly at the jeweler.
“It might be,” admitted Mr. Boon, diplomatically confessing his error.
“Quite so!” said the owner of the fur cap, triumphantly.
Mr. Boon, finding himself nearer the house of the duke's host, began to
feel more confident of putting through the epoch-making deal. It is not
often that a New York jeweler sells pearls to an uncle of the King of
England, to be used by the king's most beautiful cousin! He would have
the princess's photograph in his window. It should show the famous
necklace!
The motor took its place last in the long string of automobiles and
carriages that were creeping toward the door of the house which his
Royal Highness was honoring.
“Democracy meekly leaving its card at the house of royalty,” laughed the
colonel, pointing to the twoscore vehicles ahead of theirs.
“Americans paying their respects to an Englishman who is honored even in
his own country,” said Mr. Boon.
“Oh, now, I say, Boon, that's uncommonly neat, you know. What? But
perhaps we'd better get out and walk; otherwise it may be a half-hour
before--”
A footman in livery came up to their motor, touched his hat with a
respect that entitled him to a bank president's wages, and said to the
colonel:
“I beg pardon, sir, but 'is Royal 'ighness 'as gone to Mr. Walton's,
sir, at number 899 Fifth Avenue. I was hinstructed to tell you to go
there, sir.”
“Tell the chauffeur where to go,” said the colonel, briefly.
“Yes, sir--very good, sir.” The man touched his hat and told the
chauffeur.
Their motor pulled out of the line and turned to the west.
“Mr. Walton was at Eton with the duke,” explained the colonel to Mr.
Boon.
“J. G. Walton?” asked Mr. Boon.
“Yes.”
“I didn't know he was educated in England,” said Mr. Boon in a tone that
implied he knew Mr. Walton well.
“Didn't you?” said the colonel, more sharply than the occasion
warranted.
“But then, we never discussed the subject,” apologized the jeweler.
“Do you know the house?”
“Yes. I've been in it several times. I understood Mr. Walton was in
Florida and had rented his residence for the winter.”
“I don't know a bally thing about his private affairs,” said the
colonel, coldly; “but I do know the duke intended to visit him, and I've
been told to go there.”
It occurred to the store detective that if the Englishman was rude to
Mr. Boon it was altogether likely the duke treated his private secretary
as a servant. It gave the detective pleasure to imagine this, for
whenever the colonel had looked at Mr. Donnelly it was with the casual
indifference with which men look at chairs or cobblestones. This made
T. Donnelly feel that he was not alive, and he disliked the aristocratic
undertaker.
The motor turned into Fifth Avenue, sped northward, and halted before a
house. Mr. Boon recognized Mr. Walton's residence.
The colonel alighted quickly and said “Come with me!” in the tone
foreigners use to menials, and didn't even turn his head to see if he
was followed, but walked up to the door and rang the bell.
A man in livery opened the door.
“I am Colonel Lowther!”
“Yes, sir. His Royal Highness said you were to wait in the drawing-room
unless there was somebody with you; in which case you were to be taken
to him, sir.”
“Come on!” said the colonel to Mr. Boon and the private policeman. The
footman preceded them to a door at the back of the foyer hall, opened
it, drew back heavy portières, and announced, solemnly:
“Colonel Lowther!”
The colonel entered. So did Mr. Boon and Donnelly. A man stood gazing
out of a window. His back was toward them. For the first time Mr.
Boon--so he said later--felt that something was wrong. Yet he made no
effort to protect himself.
“Your Highness, here are the pearls.”
The duke turned round. He had a kindly face, had white hair and
mustaches.
“Let me have them!” said his Royal Highness, in the husky whisper of a
man suffering from acute laryngitis or partial paralysis of the vocal
cords.
“I know that voice!” shouted Donnelly, and the jeweler knew he might
fear the worst; but, before they could put their hands in their pockets
for their revolvers, strong fingers took strangle-holds on their
throats, a spray of ammonia had been squirted into their nostrils and
eyes, and they were helpless. In a jiffy their wrists were handcuffed
behind their backs, their feet were fastened with leg-irons, their
mouths pried open with a bowie-knife blade that made them cease
struggling. Pear-gags were inserted into their mouths. Donnelly squirmed
and carried on like a frightened child--but at the same time kept
unfrightened eyes on the duke. Not so Boon, who was as pale as ivory.
The duke turned his back on his captives and put on a black cloth mask,
but the watchful Donnelly noticed that he put into his pocket what
looked like false mustaches. He also donned a pair of black gloves, but
not before the policeman had seen a long, white scar, beginning at the
knuckles and disappearing up the wrist into the cuff. Donnelly recalled
having heard or read a description of a professional crook that tallied
with what he had seen. It would make the work of capture easier.
The masked duke picked up the precious valise and said, “Take them to
the others.”
The four men who had nearly strangled the jeweler and the policeman were
dressed in overalls and jumpers, had on black masks, and wore gloves.
They carried the helpless victims into what seemed to be the servants'
dining-room.
Propped up in high-backed chairs, Mr. Jesse L. Boon, of Welch, Boon
& Shaw, saw Mr. Wilfred Gaylord, president of Goffony's, Mr. Percival
Pierce, of Johnson & Pierce, Mr. J. Sumner Storrs, of J. Storrs' Sons,
and five of their clerks. Beside Mr. Pierce was an empty chair. Mr. Boon
was placed on it. The detective was dumped on one near Goffony's clerk.
“Tie 'em in couples,” whispered the duke. Each man was tied to the back
of his chair--and the chairs themselves were tied back to back.
“That,” explained the colonel, “will prevent you from hurting yourselves
by toppling over in regrettable efforts to reach the door. We wish no
harm to befall you. What?”
The masked men in overalls left the room like perfectly trained
servants.
“You are a damned fool!” whispered the duke, angrily.
“Why?” amiably asked the Englishman.
“The only people that don't talk are those that can't.”
“I know--but murder will out! Never knew it to fail. We have--ah!--you
might say--ah!--borrowed a few trinkets from these gentlemen. They may
get them back, possibly; but you can't ever bring back the breath of
life if you decapitate them. What?”
“I tell you I will not leave them here to blab!” hissed the duke;
and Boon could not help thinking of the anger of a rattlesnake with
laryngitis. “A slight nick in the jugular and they'll bleed away
painlessly. Just before the end they will begin to dream. By------, I'll
do it! Right now!”
The duke pulled out a barber's razor, opened it, and approached Boon.
Something about his manner told the jeweler that this creature was about
to cut their throats as much for the pleasure of it as because of
the supposed safety. It was confirmed when the masked fiend wheezed,
malignantly:
“It's sterilized!”
Mr. Boon was suddenly conscious of an extreme cold, as if he had been
thrown naked into an ice-cave. On Pierce's face, grown gray, the sweat
stood in a microscopic dew. Gaylord's florid face was livid and tense;
J. Sumner Storrs had closed his eyes and seemed asleep, but the breath
whistled unpleasantly through his nostrils.
“Stop!” said the colonel so sharply that the duke turned like a
flash--to look into the barrel of a blue-steel automatic.
“Drop the razor, old chap! I can't let you kill the beggars in cold
blood. Upon my soul, I can't, you know!” His head was jerking and
twisting at a furious rate, but the revolver was as steady as a rock.
“It's our only chance. It won't hurt them. They won't feel it any more
than a feather--it's so sharp,” whispered the black-masked devil.
“Drop it, I say!” said the colonel, peremptorily. They heard a gritting
of teeth from behind the mask as the duke closed the razor and dropped
it on the floor. Still covering his accomplice, the colonel put his foot
on the weapon. “Thanks, old chap!” he said, pleasantly. At that very
moment he could have capitalized the gratitude of the ten prisoners at
many thousands.
“Fool!” came in a husky whisper.
“Oh, now! I say!”
“What's the difference between twenty years in the pen and twenty
seconds in the electric chair? I myself prefer the chair. But I'd rather
cut their throats and keep out of danger. I tell you, it's tempting
Providence to leave these men--”
“Is it as much as twenty years, old fellow?” queried the colonel,
obviously perturbed.
The duke nodded.
“I say, gentlemen, I don't want to stay twenty years indoors, you know.
Really, it's not a pleasant thought. What? If I give you your lives you
must not take away my liberty. So I will go out now and leave you here
with my friend, unless you promise not to tell the police anything that
will serve as a clue and yourselves do nothing to harm us. If you
will act like gentlemen I'll undertake to prevent my friend here from
severing your respective jugulars. Nod for 'Yes' and shake your heads
for 'No.' Promise not to talk?”
Ten heads nodded vehemently.
“Come, old chap; you must take their words. Gentlemen, you will be
released this evening without fail. We must have time to leave New York.
Avoid the reporters as you would the plague. It would not be wise to
publish the facts! Think of it--the heads of the great firms! In parting
from you, gentlemen, I wish to thank you in behalf of the Plunder
Recovery Syndicate, to the success of whose operations you have in this
instance so generously contributed. Gratitude surely is not incompatible
with business methods. Gentleman, again I say, Thank you kindly, and--
why not?--_au revoir!_”
And that was the last the captives saw of the man who, on behalf of
the Plunder Recovery Syndicate, had reduced the holdings of pearls and
trinkets of New York's most famous jewelers by a trifle over one million
dollars' worth.
It was nearly closing-time--midnight--that night when two men entered P.
T. Ayres's corner drugstore. One of them wore a fur overcoat and a silk
hat. The other was dressed in black, had a mourning-band about his hat,
and wore black gloves. He carried a bag on which the sleepy lady cashier
saw the “L” and the cabin tags of a transatlantic line. The man in black
said to her:
“May this gentleman telephone for me, miss? My throat is in pretty bad
shape, and I don't want to use it.”
It was in bad shape, indeed. She could hardly hear him.
“But, I say, dear chap--” remonstrated the fur-coated man, whose collar
was so tight that he wiggled his head violently as if in search of
comfort.
“This is as good a place as any,” whispered the man in black,
impatiently. “Call 'em up! I say, miss, have you got any slippery elm or
some kind of troches good for laryngitis?”
She remembered afterward that when she said she would call the
proprietor he kept her from it by engaging her in conversation, which
likewise prevented her from trying to hear what his companion was
saying.
The fur-coated man had called up Spring 3100, which is police
headquarters.
“Are you there? I say, are you there? Yes, I know this is not London.
You know Mr. Pierce and Mr. Storrs and Mr. Boon and Mr. Gaylord? Well,
tell your men they are in a residence on Fifth Avenue, in the servants'
dining-room. It's Colonel Walton's house. Right-O! That's not your
business. Go to the devil!” He came out of the booth with an angry face.
“Confound their impudence! Where is my friend?”
“He's gone,” said the cashier. “Here--come back and pay for that call;
five cents!”
The telephone clerk at police headquarters promptly told the news of
the whereabouts of the missing jewelers--for whom the star men had been
searching six hours diligently and secretly--and then tried, through the
telephone Central, to get in touch with the pay station from which
the “tip” had come, but couldn't, as they would not answer. The reason
Ayres's drug-store wouldn't answer was that the Englishman in his
ignorance had disarranged the connection without betraying that fact.
The detectives said it showed a technical knowledge of telephones and
their construction.
The news was kept from the newspapers, in the first place, because the
jewelers requested it of the Police Department; and, secondly, because
it was deemed wise by the sleuths to fight mystery with mystery. As
a matter of fact, the detectives were confident of apprehending the
miscreants shortly--for had they not left a trail as broad as Fifth
Avenue?
The jewelers went back on their words to the colonel, who saved their
lives. From their descriptions and the information given by Ayres and
the fair cashier, they knew the husky-voiced man with the scar on the
back of his hand must be Whispering Willie, a clever all-round crook.
The Englishman, they thought, was an amateur. The police communicated
with the _Ruritania_ by wireless, and asked the purser if among the
passengers were a man of middle height, smooth-shaven, about forty years
of age, with paralyzed vocal cords that made him talk as if he had acute
laryngitis, and a tall, well-built, blue-eyed, blond Englishman with a
nervous affliction of the neck like a mild form of St. Vitus's dance.
Within twenty-four hours the purser had sent the reply: “St. Vitus
here, under name of Lewis J. Wright. No trace of Laryngitis.”
So headquarters cabled to Scotland Yard to hold the tall blond afflicted
with St. Vitus's dance, who was thought to have sailed under the name of
Lewis J. Wright, until the detective sergeant and one of the jeweler's
clerks could arrive with extradition papers. And that's how Mr. L. J.
Wright was arrested in Liverpool, less on account of New York's request
than by reason of the absurd yarn he told. There was no such Dr. Cephas
W. Atterbury as Wright declared he was going to see. The letter of
introduction to the doctor, moreover, was a blank sheet of paper. The
New York police learned about W. W. Lovell in this way and knew they
were on the right trail.
Ten days later there was arrested in Paris, at the office of the
American Express Company, a man answering the description of Whispering
Willie, who had presented some checks signed by W. W. Lowry. The Paris
police reported that W. W. Lowry was probably one of a band, because the
scar on his hand vanished when washed with alcohol. And his voice grew
normal when questioned by the prefect of police. He told an absurd story
of having been hired at the rate of one thousand dollars a week to ask
in a whisper for eleven letters at the American Express Company's office
on February 11th, at 11.11 a.m., and declared that when his employer
bade him good-by on the steamer he painted a scar on the back of his
hand and told him always to wear black gloves. The employer answered the
description of Whispering Willie and also of W. W. Lovell. The police
found that the whisperer's trail led a second time to the _Herald_
office. The clerk, Carroll, remembered the mysterious advertiser very
well indeed. Messrs. Reese & Silliman, real-estate agents, told the
police they had rented Colonel Walton's house for the winter to a Mr.
J. C. Atkinson, an Englishman who had given as references a firm of
international bankers on whom his letter of credit for five thousand
pounds was drawn. The bankers knew nothing about him personally or
socially. Mr. Atkinson had drawn the entire five thousand pounds. He had
occupied the house two months, paid his rent promptly, and had given
a satisfactory deposit against possible damage happening to any of the
furniture.
The police had lost four weeks of valuable time in following clues
that merely led back to the St. Iago Building and to the man with the
paralyzed vocal cords and the scar on the back of his hand, calling
himself W. W. Lovell, who was probably William W. Long, alias William W.
Longworth, alias W. W. Latshay, alias Whispering Willie. The Englishman
was not known to any member of the New York police force, but
fortunately he had a nervous affliction which would betray him without
recourse to the third degree.
Exactly one month after the departure of the real Duke of Connaught from
New York Messrs. Jesse L. Boon, Percival Pierce, J. Sumner Storrs,
and Wilfred Gaylord each received a copy of the following letter,
typewritten on note-paper of the Ritz-Carlton:
_Having disposed of the pearls of the Princess Patricia at a price only
eight per cent, below that at which you offered them to H. R. H. the
Duke of Connaught, we beg to suggest that it is a waste of money for you
to encourage the detectives and downright dishonesty for the detectives
to encourage you. You have caused to be arrested unfortunate men
suffering from chorea in Liverpool, Bremen, Genoa, Buenos Ayres, and
Panama, as well as Mr. W. W. Lowry in Paris and W. W. Longman in the
City of Mexico. For the last eleven months Whispering Willie has been
in the Missouri State Penitentiary, where he is Number 317. Our Colonel
Lowther has not St. Vitus's dance, is not an Englishman, and has not
left New York! The Duke of Connaught, otherwise W. W. Lovell, of the
Acme Vibrator Company, has a fine, strong barytone voice, has no scar on
the back of his right hand, is too young to have gray hair, and his nose
is not what it was when he was known as Mr. Lovell. We needed time to
move about unwatched in New York, hence the elaborate false clues. We
always plan our deals carefully and we are uniformly successful. We may
inform you, in selfdefense, that we operate only on the rich enemies
of society. Pearls and diamonds have ruined as many women as drink has
ruined men or Wall Street has destroyed souls! We regard them as plunder
to be recovered. You may be interested to know that we propose to
induce one of our most famous high financiers to contribute a couple of
millions to our surplus this month. At the proper time we shall supply
the name and the particulars, in order that you may compare notes with
the other patrons of_
_Yours truly,_
_The Plunderers._
The jewelers were inclined to regard the letter as a jest in very bad
taste perpetrated by one of their number. But all denied it, and the
communication was turned over to the police. The detective sergeant who
was in charge of the case also thought the letter was a joke--until
Mr. Boon told him he didn't see anything funny in the loss of a million
dollars' worth of gems and a score of false arrests. He wondered, like
the rest, whether there really was a syndicate, and presently found
himself waiting for the news of the second exploit. “He fooled _me_”
Boon confided to Donnelly. But what he really meant was that the man who
impersonated the private secretary of the Duke of Connaught could fool
anybody.