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Anthony Trent, Master Criminal

<h2>CHAPTER XI ESPIONAGE AT CLOSE RANGE</h2> CASHING a modest check at the Colonial bank one morning, Trent had fallen in line with a queue at the paying teller’s window. He made it a point to observe what went on while he waited. He was not much interested in bank robberies. To begin with the American Bankers’ Association is a vengeful society pursuing to the death such as mulct its clients. Furthermore, a successful bank robbery, unless the work of an inside man, needs careful planning and collaboration. On this particular morning Trent saw a stout and jocund gentleman push his check across the glass entrance to the cashier’s cave and received without hesitation a large sum of money. He passed the time of day with the official, climbed into a limousine and was whirled up Broadway. “Did yer see that?” a youth demanded who stood before Trent. “What?” he asked quietly. It was not his pose to be interested in other of the bank’s customers. “That guy took out twenty thousand dollars,” the boy said, reverence in his tone. “That’s a lot of money,” said Trent. “He lives well,” said the lad. “I ought to know, he gets his groceries from us and he only eats and drinks the best.” “He looks like it,” the other said genially. If the stout and jocund gourmet had known what was in Trent’s mind he would have hied him back to the bank and redeposited his cash. “It’s Rudolf Liebermann, isn’t it?” “That’s Frederick Williams, and he lives on Ninety-third, near the Drive.” What additional information Trent wanted to know might be obtained from other than this boy. To make many inquiries might, if Frederick Williams were relieved of his roll, bring back the incident to the grocer’s boy. Directly dusk fell Anthony Trent, in the evening garb of fashion, crossed over to Riverside Drive and presently came to the heroic statue of Jeanne d’Arc which stands at the foot of Ninety-third Street. By this time he knew the license number of the Williams’ limousine and the address. It was one of those small residences of gray stone containing a dozen rooms or so. Such houses, as he knew, were usually laid out on a similar plan and he was familiar with it. It was very rarely that he made a professional visit to a house without having a definite plan of attack carefully worked out. This was the first time he sought to gain entrance to a strange house on the mere chance of success. But the twenty thousand dollars in crisp notes tempted him. In his last affair he had netted this sum in notes of a similar denomination and he was superstitious enough to feel that this augured well for to-night’s success. Careful as ever, Trent had made his alibis in case of failure. In one of his pockets was a pint flask of Bourbon, empty save for a dram of spirit. In another was a slip of paper containing the name of the house-holder who occupied a house with the same number as that of Williams, but on Ninety-fifth Street. Once before he had saved himself by this ruse. He had protested vigorously when detected by a footman that he was merely playing a practical joke on his old college chum who lived, as he thought, in this particular house, but was found to be on the next block. And in this case the emptied whiskey flask and the cheerful tipsiness of the amiable young man of fashion—Trent’s most successful pose—saved him. In his pockets nothing would be found to incriminate him. He knew well the folly of carrying the automatic so beloved of screen or stage Raffles. In the first place, the sudden temptation to murder in a tight pinch, and in the second the Sullivan law. In the bamboo cane, carefully concealed, were slender rods of steel whose presence few would suspect. He had left such a cane in Senator Scrivener’s Fifth Avenue mansion when he was compelled to make an unrehearsed exit. Once he met the Senator coming down the steps of the Union Club with this cane in his hand. He chuckled to think what might be that worthy’s chagrin to know he had been carrying burglar’s tools with him. As there was little light on the lower floor of Frederick Williams’ house, Trent let himself in cautiously. There was a dim hanging light which showed that the Williams idea of furnishing was in massive bad taste. At the rear of the hall were the kitchens. Under the swinging door he could see a bright light. The stairs were wide and did not creak. Carefully he ascended them and stood breathless in a foyer between the two main reception-rooms. There were voices in the rear room, which should, if Williams conformed to the majority of dwellers in such houses, be the dining-room. Big doors shut out view and sound until he crept nearer and peeped through a keyhole. He could see Williams sitting in a Turkish rocker smoking a cigar. There were two other men and all three chattered volubly in German. Unfortunately it was a tongue of which the listener knew almost nothing. Reasonably fluent in French, the comprehension of German was beyond him. There was a small safe in the corner and it was not closed. Trent felt certain that in it reposed those notes he had come for. In the corner of the foyer was a carven teakwood table with a glass top, and on it was a large Boston fern. It would be easy enough to crouch there unobserved. The only possibility of discovery was the remote contingency that Williams and his friends might choose to use this foyer. But Trent had seen that it was not furnished as a sitting-room. He had barely determined on his hiding place when he found the sudden necessity to use it. Williams arose quickly and advanced to the door. When he threw it open the path of light left the unbidden one completely obscured. The three men passed by him and entered the drawing-room in front. Trent caught a view of a luxuriously overfurnished room and a grand piano. Then Williams began to play a part of a Brahms sonata so well that Trent’s heart warmed toward him. But his appreciation of the master did not permit him to listen to the whole movement. He crept cautiously from his cover and into the room the three had just vacated. If there were other of Williams’ friends or family here Trent might be called upon to exercise his undoubted talents. One man he would not hesitate to attack since his working knowledge of jiu-jitsu was beyond the average. If there were two, attack would be useless in the absence of a revolver. But if the coast were clear—ah, then, a competence, all the golf and fishing he desired. There would be only the Countess to deal with at his leisure. The room was empty, but the safe was closed! Williams was not devoid of caution. A glance at the thing showed Trent that in an uninterrupted half hour he could learn its secrets. But he could hardly be assured of that at nine o’clock at night. His very presence in the room was fraught with danger. The one door leading from it opened into a butler’s pantry from which a flight of stairs led into the kitchen part of the house. Downstairs he could hear faucets running. A dumbwaiter offered a way of escape if he were put to it. To the side of the dumbwaiter was a zinc-lined compartment used for drying dishes. It was four feet long and three in height and a shelf bisected it. This he took out carefully and placed upon the floor of the compartment, making an ample space for concealment. A radiator opened into it, giving the heat desired, and two iron gratings in the doors afforded Trent the opportunity to overhear what might be said. He satisfied himself that the doors opened noiselessly. The burglar’s rôle was not always an heroic one, he told himself, and thought of the popular misconception of such activities. It must have been an hour later when he heard sounds in the adjoining room. By this time he was fighting against the drowsiness induced by the heat of his prison. The swinging door between the butler’s pantry and the dining-room was thrown open and Williams came in. He leaned over the staircase and shouted something in German to some one in the kitchen, who answered him in the same tongue. There was the sound below of locking and bolting the doors. The servants had evidently been sent to bed. When Williams went back to the other room the door between did not swing to by four or five inches. So far as Williams was concerned this carelessness was to cost him more than he guessed. Even in his hiding place the conversation was audible to Trent, although its meaning was incomprehensible. He was suddenly awakened to a more vivid interest when he became aware that it was now English that they were talking. There was a newcomer in the room, a man with a nasal carrying voice and a prodigious brogue. “This, gentlemen,” he heard Williams say, “is Mr. O’Sheill, who has done so much good work for us and for the freedom of oppressed, starving, shackled Ireland, which we shall free. I may tell Mr. O’Sheill that the highest personages in the Fatherland weep bitter tears for Ireland’s wrongs.” “That’s all right,” said the Sinn Feiner a trifle ungraciously, “but what’s behind yonder door?” For answer one of the other men flung it open, turned up the lights and permitted Mr. O’Sheill to make his examination. Trent heard the man’s heavy tread as he descended the stairway and found at the bottom a locked door. “You’ve got to be careful,” O’Sheill said when he rejoined Williams and the rest. “These damned secret service men are everywhere, they tell me.” “That is why we have rented a private house,” one of the Germans declared. “At an hotel privacy is impossible. We have had our experiences.” These scraps of conversation aroused Anthony Trent immediately. It required only a cursory knowledge of the affairs of the moment for a duller man than he to realize that he had come across the scent of one of those plots which were so hampering his government in their prosecution of the war. Very cautiously he crawled from his hiding place and made his silent way to the barely opened door. O’Sheill was lighting a large cigar. His was a suspicious, dour face. Williams, urbane and florid, was very patient. “That I do not tell you the names of my colleagues,” he said, “is of no moment. It is sufficient to say that you have the honor to be in the presence of one of the most illustrious personages in my country.” Here he bowed in the direction of a small, thin, dapper man who did not return the salutation. “I came for the money,” said O’Sheill. “You came first for your instructions,” snapped the illustrious personage coldly. “That’s so, yer Honor,” O’Sheill answered. There was something menacing in the tone of the other man and he recognized it. “This money,” said Williams, “is given for very definite purposes and an accounting will be demanded.” “Ain’t you satisfied with the way I managed it at Cork?” O’Sheill demanded. “It was a beginning,” Williams conceded. “Here is what you must do: Wherever along the Irish coast the English bluejackets and the American sailors foregather you must stir up bad blood. I do not pretend to give you any more precise direction than this. Let the Americans understand that the British call them cowards. Let the British think the same of the Yankees. Let there be bitter street fights, not in obscure drinking dens, but in the public streets in the light of day. I will see to it that the news gets back here and let Americans have something to think about when the next draft is raised. Find men in England to do what you must do in your own country. Let there be black blood between Briton and American from Belfast to Portsmouth. Let there be doubt and recrimination so that preparations are hindered here.” The man who passed as Williams looked venomous as he said this. The man to whom he spoke, thinking in his ignorance that he was indeed helping his native land instead of hurting it, and forgetful that in aiding the enemies of America he was stabbing a country which had ever been a faithful friend of Erin’s, gave particulars of his operations which Trent memorized as best he might. He was appalled to hear to what length these men were prepared to go if only the good relations between the Allies might be brought to naught. So engrossed was he with the importance of what he heard that the passing of the large sum of money from Williams to the Sinn Feiner lost much of its entrancing interest. Trent meant to have the money, but he intended also to give the Department of Justice what help he could. It was not the first time that he had gone from one floor to another by means of a dumbwaiter. It was never an easy operation and rarely a noiseless one. In this instance he was fortunate in finding well-oiled pulleys. It was only when he stepped out in the kitchen that he ran into danger. There was a man asleep on a folding bed which had been drawn across the door. To leave by the front door immediately was imperative. Even were it possible to leave by a rear entrance he would find himself in the little garden at the back and could only get out by climbing a dozen fences. This would be to court observation and run unnecessary risks. To invite electrocution by killing men was no part of Anthony Trent’s practice. It was plain that the servant was slumbering fitfully and the act of stepping over him to freedom likely to awaken him instantly. Even if he had the needed rope at hand binding and gagging a vigorous man was at best a matter of noise and struggle. But something had to be done. He must reach the street in time to follow O’Sheill. Superimposed on the bed’s frame was a mattress and army blanket. Directly behind the sleeper’s head was a door which led, as Trent knew from his knowledge of house design, to the cellar. It opened inward and without noise. He bent quietly over the man, put his hands gently beneath the mattress and then with a tremendous effort flung him, mattress, army blanket and all, down the cellar stairs. There was a clatter of breaking bottles, a cry that died away almost as it was uttered, and then the door was shut on silence.   A little later Williams, feeling the need for iced beer and cheese sandwiches, rang the bell for Fritz. When he received no answer he descended to the kitchen with the intention of buffeting soundly a man who could so forget his duties to his superiors. Mr. Williams found only the bare bed. Fritz, with his bedding, had disappeared. A front door unlocked when instructions had been exact as to the necessity of its careful fastening at all hours, brought uneasy conjectures to his mind. It was only so long as he and his companions were invested with the immunity of neutrality that he was of value to his native land. Of late he had been conscious of Secret Service activities. Obedient to his training, Williams instantly reported the matter to the thin, acid-faced man under whose instructions he had been commanded to act. “They have taken Fritz away,” he cried. “Who?” demanded his superior. “The Secret Service,” said Williams wildly. He was now beginning to ascribe aggressive skill to a service at which he had formerly sneered. Going down to the kitchen, they were startled by a feeble cry from the cellar. There they discovered the frightened Fritz, cut about the face from the bottles he had broken in his fall. His injuries gave him less concern than the admission he had slept at his post. He was, therefore, of no aid to them. “I do not know,” he repeated as they questioned him. “There must have been many of them. One man alone could not do it.” The thin man turned to Williams: “This O’Sheill is in danger. Arm yourself and go to his hotel. It will go badly with you if harm comes to him.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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