AN AMAZING ROBBERY.
Nick Carter responded immediately to Clayton’s urgent message. It was
half past eleven when he entered the magnificent new Westgate, and
almost the first person he saw in the spacious and elaborately designed
rotunda and main office was one of the house detectives, Nat Webber,
with whom he was well acquainted.
Webber saw him entering and hurried to meet him.
“I am looking for Mr. Clayton,” said Nick. “Where will I find him?”
“He is with Mademoiselle Falloni, in her suite on the fourth floor,”
said Webber, with his face reflecting no end of conflicting sentiments.
“She’s up in the air a mile. So is Madame Escobar, who has the adjoining
suite. Clayton has it all over both of them, however, for he’s in the
air out of sight. It’s my opinion, Carter, that he has suddenly gone
daffy, as mad as a March hare, or any old jack rabbit. There can be
nothing else to it.”
“What do you mean?” Nick demanded. “What has occurred here?”
“I’ll tell you what I know,” said Webber. “If you can tell me what it
means, Nick, you’ll be going some. About half past ten--stop a bit. Come
here and let me show you. Do you see that door?”
He drew Nick toward the office inclosure while speaking and pointed to a
door leading out of it to the right.
“Yes, certainly,” said Nick.
“That’s the door to Clayton’s private office,” said Webber. “There is an
opposite door which opens into a corridor leading to one of the
stairways, the ladies’ elevator, and the main dining room.”
“Well?”
“At half past ten,” Webber resumed; “Clayton was seen to leave the
office inclosure and enter his private office. He closed the door, as he
habitually does, denoting that he does not wish to be intruded upon. The
clerks never interrupt him at such times except on very important
business. Those are his instructions.”
“Well?” Nick repeated.
“About five minutes later Clayton came from the corridor and spoke to
the head clerk, Robert Vernon, over the counter, directing the clerk to
hand Mademoiselle Falloni’s jewel casket from the vault, remarking that
she wanted them in her suite and that he would take the casket up to
her.”
“Is that so?” Nick muttered, brows knitting.
There was no need for Webber to tell him of the tremendous value of
Mademoiselle Falloni’s wonderful jewels. The world-famous prima donna,
then singing _Cleopatra_ with the International Grand Opera Company, had
created a sensation and broken all records with her dazzling display of
gems and jewels in her portrayal of Egypt’s ill-starred queen.
The precautions to preclude robbery, moreover, would have seemed amply
adequate to protect her. Three special detectives occupied her limousine
during its run to and from the opera house. They guarded her dressing
room between the acts. They watched her constantly when on the stage.
From the moment her jewel casket was taken from the vault in the
Westgate, in fact, until it was safely returned to it after each
performance, these three trusty guardians never once lost sight of it.
Not less careful of her own costly jewels, which were deposited in the
Westgate vault when not in use on the stage, was Madame Escobar, the
celebrated Swedish contralto, to whom Detective Webber also had
referred.
Half a million of money, in fact, was a conservative estimate of the
value of both superb collections, though that of Mademoiselle Falloni
greatly exceeded the other.
“Continue,” said Nick, gazing steadily at Webber. “Tell me the whole
business.”
“That won’t take long,” returned the detective. “After five more
minutes, Nick, Clayton again appeared at the office inclosure and asked
for Madame Escobar’s jewel case. He remarked to Vernon that the two
singers wanted to compare some of their diamonds, and that both caskets
would presently be returned. Vernon did not for a moment suspect
anything wrong. Who on earth, as a matter of fact, would have suspected
Clayton of anything crooked? Vernon brought the jewel case from the
vault and Clayton departed with it.”
“And then?”
“He came out of his private office a few minutes later, entering the
clerks’ inclosure.”
“You mean through the door between the two offices?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“But when he came after the jeweled caskets, or the first one, at least,
he came from the other door, and through the corridor.”
“Exactly.”
“What followed?”
“Vernon asked, when Clayton entered the inclosure, if it would not be
wise to have me keep an eye on Mademoiselle Falloni’s suite,” said
Webber. “Clayton asked him for what reason. I was standing near enough
to hear both. Vernon replied that something might happen to the two
jewel caskets, since he, meaning Clayton, had left the women alone with
them.”
“What did Clayton say to that?” Nick inquired.
“Say to it?” Webber echoed. “He asked Vernon to explain, which he did,
and Clayton then staggered all hearers, myself included, by declaring
that he had not been out of his private office for nearly half an hour.
Great guns, what a crust! Could you beat it? Could you beat it, Nick?
The man has gone daffy, clean off his perch. He----”
“One moment, Webber,” said Nick, interrupting. “Where were you when
Clayton came after the jewel cases?”
“Right here in the office.”
“Did you see him?”
“See him--certainly, Nick, I saw him.”
“Are you sure it was he, absolutely sure?”
“Rats!” Webber blurted derisively. “Sure of it? That’s a fat question.
Do you think I’ve been hanging around here for six months and don’t know
Chester Clayton by sight? I know it was he, Nick. I would stake my life
on it. Here’s Vernon. Ask him.”
Nick turned to the head clerk, who had been listening over the marble
counter, within a few feet of which the detectives were standing.
“What do you say, Mr. Vernon?” he inquired.
“I can speak as emphatically as Mr. Webber,” was the reply. “I know
positively that Mr. Clayton took both jewel cases from me.”
“You would not admit, then, that you could be mistaken?”
“Impossible--utterly impossible!” Vernon forcibly declared. “Why, Mr.
Carter, he stood as near to me as you are at this moment. He is not a
man who could be successfully impersonated by another.”
“Certainly not,” put in Webber flatly.
“His smooth-shaved face could not be duplicated,” added Vernon. “The man
was Clayton, with Clayton’s features, eyes, voice, and manner of
speaking. Furthermore, an impersonator, if that is conceivable, could
not have had on Clayton’s clothing. I would have detected any change
since morning. I noticed his suit, his navy-blue necktie, and his
carbuncle scarfpin, when I gave him Mademoiselle Falloni’s jewel casket
over the counter. Mistake--that’s utterly absurd, out of the question.”
Nick did not argue the point.
“How large is the casket?” he inquired.
“About a foot long and eight inches square on the ends,” said Vernon.
“It is made of aluminum and it has two combination locks.”
“And Madame Escobar’s?”
“That is a leather-covered case, about half as large.”
“Both of these thefts, then, if such they are, took place in about
twenty minutes?” said Nick inquiringly.
“Just about that, Mr. Carter,” Vernon nodded.
“What did Clayton say, or do, when informed of the circumstances?”
“He said very little, except to repeatedly assert that he had not been
out of his private office,” said Vernon. “He appeared nonplused,
completely staggered for a few moments, and then he suddenly ran through
his private office and out into the adjoining corridor, where he began
searching in all directions for a man who had been with him all the
while in his private office--or so he said,” Vernon added significantly.
“Well, well, if that man can be found, he will corroborate Clayton and
settle the----”
“But he cannot be found, Nick,” Webber put in forcibly. “Clayton cannot
even recall his name. No man inquired for him at the desk. No man was
seen going to the door of his private office. No man was seen to leave
it. The elevator boy in that corridor is equally positive, on the
contrary, that he saw Clayton twice on the stairs. Others saw him also,
and it’s absurd to suppose all are mistaken.”
“You speak as if thoroughly convinced, Webber, that Mr. Clayton has
stolen both jewel cases; that he has suddenly turned from an upright and
honorable man and become a criminal,” Nick said, more forcibly.
“No, no, I don’t mean exactly that,” Webber quickly protested. “But the
circumstances, Nick, certainly speak for themselves. What I really think
is that Clayton has lost his mind; that his brain is turned by overwork,
anxiety, and the thought of having property of such extraordinary value
in the hotel vault. I think he removed the jewel cases in a state of
mental aberration, from which he has not yet recovered. I don’t think
he now realizes that he did so, or knows what he has done with them.”
“Well, that is a more considerate view of the matter, at least,” Nick
replied incredulously. “Did you overhear any conversation in the private
office, Mr. Vernon, during the time Clayton claims to have been there?”
“I did not, Mr. Carter.”
“Could you ordinarily have heard it? Are voices audible to persons in
the outer office when the door of the private office is closed?”
“Not unless they are raised considerably above an ordinary tone,” said
Vernon. “One must speak quite loud to be heard outside.”
“Where is Clayton now?” Nick inquired.
“With Mademoiselle Falloni,” said the clerk. “He rushed up to her suite
after his vain search for the visitor he claims to have had, and almost
immediately he sent down the message I telephoned to you. He has not
since been down here.”
“Call up my house again, Mr. Vernon,” Nick abruptly directed. “Tell
whoever answers you that I want Chick and Patsy Garvan to come here
immediately. Tell them to wait here for me, if they arrive before I
return. Get a hall boy. I will go up to Mademoiselle Falloni’s suite at
once.”
“Front!” shouted the clerk.
“The bomb has burst, indeed,” thought Nick, as he hastened toward the
elevator.