IN CHICAGO
The three looked at one another in consternation.
"Hughes said it was unsafe," Chapin remarked. "He said you didn't
remember to pull down the shades in this room when you hid the pin,
Iris."
"No, I didn't, but who could get in? The windows are barred----"
"But the door to the living room was open, and we were all in the dining
room--anyone could have come in at the front door and walked in
here----"
"Very silently, then, or we could have heard footsteps from the dining
room."
"But it must have been done that way. Someone looking in at these
windows saw you put the pin in the chair, and a few moments later,
watching his chance, sneaked in and stole it."
"Then it was Pollock, or some messenger of his. But what _can_ he want
of it?"
"The whole thing is _too_ mysterious!" exclaimed Lucille. "Let's send
for a city detective at once."
"But," objected Iris, "what could he do?"
"Do? He could do everything! Find the murderer, find the jewels, find
the pin----"
"Good gracious!" cried Iris. "I don't want the pin! In fact, I'm glad
it's gone. Now, they won't be kidnapping me to get it! But I'm going to
find the jewels. And I'm going to start on a new tack. I'm no good at
solving mysteries, but I can investigate. I'm going to Chicago----"
"Whatever for?" exclaimed Lucille; "I'll go with you!"
"No; I'm going alone, and I'm going because I feel sure I can find out
something there. I'll see the minister of the church Auntie attended,
and see if she promised him a chalice, or if his church has a crypt, or
if those people she spoke of in her will--that firm, you know--can tell
me anything about the receipt that was in the pocket-book she left to
Win."
"But it wasn't in the pocket-book!" reminded Chapin.
"It was when Aunt Ursula made that will. The murderer took it, and, Mr.
Chapin, that lets Win out! Why should he steal a paper that was meant
for him anyway?"
"He didn't know then that it was left to him, did he?"
"I don't know that, I'm sure. But I know Win didn't kill Aunt Ursula,
and it's awful to keep him shut up!"
"I think myself they hardly had enough evidence to arrest him on, but
Hughes thought they did, and the district attorney is hard at work on
the case now."
"Yes, hard at work!" Iris spoke scornfully, "what's he doing, I'd like
to know."
"These things move slowly, Iris----"
"Well, I'll do a little quick work, then, and show them how. I'm going
to Chicago to-morrow, and I'll be gone several days, but I'll be back as
soon as possible and there'll be something doing, or I'll know why!"
"Your energy is all right, Iris," said Chapin, "but a bit
misdirected----"
"Nothing of the sort," snapped Iris, who considered the lawyer an old
fogy; "it's time somebody got busy, and I don't take much stock in the
local police."
"But about the pin," pursued Lucille, "I think you ought to find out who
stole it just now, Iris. Maybe it was somebody in the house. Where is
Purdy?"
"Purdy!" cried Iris, "don't suspect him, Lucille! Why, he is as faithful
and honest as I am myself."
"But where was he?"
"I don't know, and I don't care; he wasn't in here stealing the pin."
"Perhaps it's still in the chair," suggested Chapin.
But it wasn't. A careful search showed that, and as inquiries proved
that Purdy and his wife were in the kitchen and Agnes had been waiting
on Iris at her belated dinner, there was really no reason to suspect the
servants. Campbell, the chauffeur, was in the garage, and there were no
other servants about on Sunday. The disappearance of the pin was as
inexplicable as the murder, and Iris decided to give up the house
mysteries, and look in Chicago for new light.
* * * * *
She started the next day, Lucille and Agnes hovering over her in a
solicitude of final preparations.
"I'll take only a suitcase," Iris declared, "for I can't be bothered
with a trunk."
"I wish you'd let Agnes go with you," urged Lucille, who hated to have
the girl go alone.
But Iris didn't want to take a maid along, and, too, Agnes didn't want
to go.
"I'll go if you say so," Agnes demurred, "but I'd hate to leave here
just now. Sam is on one of his spells, and I ought to look after him."
"Oh, yes," and Iris smiled at her, "that's one word for Sam and two for
yourself! I think that good-looking young man who calls on you has more
power to keep you in Berrien than poor Sam!"
Agnes blushed, but didn't deny it.
So Iris went to Chicago alone. She went to a woman's hotel, and
established herself there. Then she set out in search of the church that
Mrs. Pell used to attend.
The rector, Dr. Stephenson, was a kindly, courteous old man, who
received her with a pleasant welcome. He well remembered Ursula Pell,
and was deeply interested in the mystery of her tragic death. It was
many years since she had lived in Chicago, and his definite memories of
her were largely concerning the pranks she used to play, for even the
minister had not been spared her annoying fooleries.
But he knew nothing of any gift of a jeweled chalice, and said he really
had no desire for such a thing.
"It would only be a temptation to thieves," he asserted, "and the price
of it could be much better expended in some more useful way."
"Is there a crypt in your church?" asked Iris, abruptly.
"No; nothing of the sort. Or--well, that is, there is a room below the
main floor that could be called a crypt, I suppose, but it is never used
as a chapel, or for mortuary purposes. Why?"
Iris told him of the entry in her aunt's diary stating that the
collection of jewels was in a crypt, and Dr. Stephenson smiled.
"Not in my church," he said, "of that I'm positive. The basement I speak
of has no hidden places nor has anybody ever concealed anything there.
You may search there if you choose, but it is useless. To my mind, it
sounds more like a bank vault. That might be called a crypt, if one
chose so to speak of it."
"Perhaps," said Iris, disappointed at this fruitless effort. "I will go
to the Industrial Bank and inquire. That is the bank where my aunt kept
her money when she lived here."
The people at the bank were also kind and courteous, but not so much at
leisure as the rector had been. They gave Iris no encouraging
information. They looked up their records, and found that Mrs. Pell had
had an account with them some years ago, but that it had been closed out
when she left the city. There were no properties of hers, of any sort,
in their custody, and no one of their vaults was rented in her name.
They seemed uninterested in Iris' story, and after their assurances the
girl went away.
Next she went to the firm of Craig, Marsden & Co., to see if she could
trace the receipt that was mentioned in Mrs. Pell's will as being of
importance to Winston Bannard.
A Mr. Reed attended to her errand.
"A vague description," he said, smiling, as she told him of the will.
"To be sure, our books will show the name, but it will take some time to
look it up."
However, he agreed to investigate the records, and Iris was told to
return the next day to learn results.
It was a mere chance that the record of the sale, whatever it might be,
would be of any definite importance, but Iris was determined to try
every possible way of finding out anything concerning the matter.
The firm of Craig, Marsden & Co. was a large jewelry concern, and
probably the receipt in question was for some precious stones or their
settings.
Iris boarded a street car to return to her hotel. She sat, deeply
engrossed in thought over the various difficulties that beset her path,
when the man who sat next her drew a handkerchief from his pocket.
Abstractedly, she noticed the handkerchief. It was of silk, and had a
few lines of blue as a border. Then, suddenly, she realized that it was
the exact counterpart of the one with which the midnight marauder had
tied up her mouth the time he came to get the pin.
Furtively she glanced at the man. The burglar had been masked, but the
size and general appearance of this man were not unlike him. Then,
another surreptitious look revealed his features to her, and to her
surprise she recognized her caller named Pollock!
Quickly she turned her own face aside (the man had not noticed her) and
wondered what to do. Without a doubt it was Pollock, she was sure of
that, and the peculiar handkerchief gave her an idea it was the midnight
intruder also--that they were one and the same! She had surmised this
before, and she now began to join the threads of the story.
She felt sure that Pollock and the burglar and the kidnapper were all
one, and that Pollock was determined to get the pin at any cost; and
she couldn't believe it was for the reason he had asserted, merely as a
memento of the dramatic tragedy.
It had not been this man who drove the little car that carried her away
on Sunday, but the driver, as well as the girl called Flossie, were
probably Pollock's tools.
At any rate, she concluded to trace Pollock and find out something about
him.
When he left the car, as he did shortly, she rose and followed him. He
had not glanced at her, and was apparently absorbed in thought, so she
had no difficulty in walking, unnoticed, behind him.
She smiled at herself, as she realized she was really "shadowing," and
felt quite like a detective.
Pollock went into a small restaurant, and Iris, through the wide window,
saw him take a seat at a table. The deliberation with which he unfolded
his napkin, and looked over the menu, made her assume that he would be
there some time.
Acting on the impulse of the moment, Iris ran to the nearest telephone
she could find, and called up a detective agency.
Over the wire she stated her desire to employ a detective at once, and
asked to have him sent to her, where she was, which was in a drug shop.
There was a maddening delay, and as Iris waited, she began to fear she
had done a foolish thing. She suddenly realized that she had acted too
quickly and perhaps unadvisedly. But she must stand by it now.
It was half an hour before a man arrived and met her at the door of the
drug shop.
"I am Mr. Dayton," he said, "from the agency. Is this Miss Clyde?"
"Yes," said Iris, "and please hurry! I've just got on the track of a man
who is a--a burglar----"
"Ma'am?" and the detective looked sharply at this young girl who had
called him to her.
"Yes," and Iris grew impatient at his doubtful interest, "now, don't
stop to parley, but catch him."
"Where is he?"
"He's in the restaurant, half a block away. I don't mean for you to
arrest him, but trail him, shadow him, or whatever you call it, and find
out who he is, and what sort of a character he bears. If he's a correct
and decent citizen, all right; if he's a man who might be a burglar, I
want to know it! Now, fly!"
"Wait a minute, Miss Clyde. Tell me more. How shall I know him?"
"Oh, he's at the table by the first front window, as you go from here.
He's a tall man, and a strong-looking one. Come on, I'll point him out."
They went toward the restaurant, and cautiously Iris looked in at the
window. But her quarry had fled. There was no one at the table at all.
"Come on in," she cried to the bewildered Dayton. "No, that won't do, he
mustn't see me. You go in, and get the waiter who served him, or the
proprietor or somebody, and find out who the man was who ate at that
table just now. Maybe he's still in the coat room."
Iris stepped around a corner, and Dayton went in on his errand.
But the waiter had no knowledge of the patron's name. He said he had
never seen him before, to his knowledge, but he was a new waiter there,
and the captain might know.
However, neither the head waiter nor the cashier, nor indeed anyone
about the place, knew the man. A few remembered seeing him, but the
waiters at nearby tables, if they had noticed him, didn't know his name.
One waiter said he thought he had seen him before, but wasn't sure. The
man was gone, and no one knew which direction he had taken from the
restaurant.
Iris was disheartened at the report of her emissary.
"If you'd only got here sooner!" she reproached the detective.
"Did my best," he assured her. "Describe your man more accurately."
But Iris couldn't seem to think of any very distinguishing
characteristics that fitted him.
"His name is Pollock," she said, "and he's a collector. Oh, wait, I do
know something more. He's in the hardware business."
"For himself, or with a firm?"
"I don't know."
"Then, I fear, Miss Clyde, we're wasting time in looking for a person so
vaguely identified. If you say so, I can go over the hardware people for
a Pollock, but it will be an unsatisfactory and expensive process."
"I don't want that," and Iris looked perplexed. "Oh, I don't know what I
_do_ want! But it's maddening to see him, and then have him get away!
He's also a collector."
"Ah, that helps. A collector of what?"
"Of mementoes of crimes----"
"Of what?"
"It sounds silly, I know, but he told me so. Not exactly crimes, more of
prominent people. Like a pencil that belonged to President Garfield,
and such things."
"Oh, a freak! I hoped you meant a prominent collector of valuable
things; then we might trace him."
"No; he collects queer things, it is a sort of harmless mania, I think.
Well, if we can't find him, we can't. How much do I owe you?"
This matter was adjusted, and Iris turned disconsolately back to her
hotel. She had accomplished nothing on her Chicago trip, and unless the
Craig people could give her information of importance, there was no use
prolonging her visit.
The rest of that day, and the morning of the next, she spent in the
vicinity of the restaurant, hoping Pollock would return.
But she didn't see him, and in the afternoon she went back to Craig,
Marsden & Co.
Mr. Reed greeted her pleasantly, but he had no important information.
"We've many records of sales to Mrs. Pell," he related, "and, if you
desire, I can give you a memorandum of them. Presumably, she had
receipts in every case, but as I do not know the particular receipt you
want, I can't offer you any data concerning it."
"What are the transactions?" asked Iris. "Jewels she bought?"
"Yes; and setting, and engraving. Mrs. Pell had a great deal of
engraving done."
"What sort of engraving?"
"On silver or gold trinkets and ornaments."
"Oh, yes, I know. All her silver has not only initials, but names and
dates, and sometimes quotations or lines of poetry."
"Yes, and she was most particular about that work. It was always done by
our best engraver, and unless it just suited her we were treated to her
finest sarcasm. Mrs. Pell was a wealthy and extravagant patron, but not
affable or easy to please."
"I know that, but she was a remarkable woman and a strong character
often has peculiar ways. I am heir to half her fortune, and that gives
me a sense of obligation that will never be canceled until I have
avenged my aunt's death."
Iris did not tell this man about the missing jewels, for it seemed of no
use. But they discussed at length the jewels that he knew that Mrs. Pell
had possessed, and Iris was amazed at the size and value of the amount.
"Really!" she exclaimed. "Do you _know_ that my aunt had such an
enormous fortune as that, in gems?"
"I know that she had at the time of her dealings with us. That was ten
years ago, or so, but then we had the handling of more than a million
dollars' worth, and I know she added to her store after that."
"Oh, where are they?" cried Iris forgetting her determination not to
discuss this matter here.
"Do you mean to say you don't know?" exclaimed Mr. Reed, astounded.
So Iris told him about the will.
"What an extraordinary tale," he commented as she finished. "I wish I
could help you out, I'm sure. Now, no receipt of ours would be of
importance in and of itself. It must have had a memorandum scribbled on
it, or something of that sort."
"Yes," agreed Iris, thoughtfully, "that must be it. In that case the
murderer wanted it because it told where the jewels are hidden."
"And he has already secured them! Oh, no!"
Mr. Reed's interest was so sincere that Iris told him a little more. She
told him of the pin, and of her being kidnapped in an attempt to get it.
"You are in danger," Reed said, warningly. "Until they get what they
want you will continue to be molested. It isn't the pin--that's too
absurd! But they're after something that has to do with the secret of
the hiding place of those jewels. On that you may depend."
"But couldn't the pin have some bearing on that?"
"I can't imagine any way that it could. The idea of its being made of
radium is ridiculous. The idea of its being a weight or a measure is
silly, too; and how else could it be indicative? No, the pin part of the
performance is a ruse, the thieves are after something else. If they
stole the receipt in question, it was, as I said, because there were
instructions on it. Your man Pollock is doubtless the head of the gang.
He's no important collector, or I should know of him. And probably his
whole collection story was a falsehood. He read of the pin in the paper
and used that to distract your mind from what he really was after."
"Very likely," and Iris sighed. "What would you advise me to do?"
"It's too big a case for a layman's advice, and, pardon me, too big a
case for a young girl to manage."
"Oh, I know that. I've a very good lawyer, and the police are at work,
but nobody seems able to accomplish anything."
"I hope and trust somebody will," said Reed, heartily; "that lot of
jewels is too big a loot for crooks to get hold of! I'd be sorry indeed
to learn they have done so!"
Iris went away, and as her work in Chicago was done, she decided to
start at once for home.
Entering the hotel, she found a telegram from Lucille Darrel. It read:
"Come home at once. I've engaged F. S. and he will arrive to-morrow."
Now, F. S. meant the great detective, Fleming Stone.