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Anthony Trent, Master Criminal

<h2>CHAPTER XVI THE MOUNT AUBYN RUBY</h2> IT was while Trent was shaving that the lamp fell. He started, blessed the man who invented safety razors, that he had not gashed himself, and went into his library to see what had happened. Mrs. Kinney, his housekeeper, was volubly apologetic. “I was only dusting it,” she explained, “when it came down. I think it’s no more than bent.” It was a hanging lamp of Benares brasswork, not of much value, but Trent liked its quaint design and the brilliant flashing of the cut colored glass that embellished it. Four eyes of light looked out on the world when the lamp was lit. White, green, blue and red, eyes of the size of filbert nuts. He stooped down and picked up the shattered red glass. It was the sole damage done by Mrs. Kinney’s activity. “It will cost only a few cents to have it repaired,” he commented, and went back to the bathroom, and speedily forgot the whole matter. At breakfast Anthony Trent admitted he was bored. There had been little excitement in his recent work. The niceness of calculation, the careful planning and dextrous carrying out of his affairs had netted him a great deal of money with very little risk. There had been risk often enough but not within the past few months. His thoughts went back to some of his more noteworthy feats, and he smiled. He chuckled at the episode of the bank president whom he had given in charge for picking his pocket when he had just relieved the financier of the choicest contents of his safe. Trent’s specialty was adroit handling of situations which would have been too much for the ordinary criminal. He had an aplomb, an ingenuous air, and was so diametrically opposed to the common conception of a burglar that people had often apologized to him whose homes he had looted. It was his custom to read through two of the leading morning papers after breakfast. It was necessary that he should keep himself fully informed of the movements of society, of engagements, divorces and marriages. It was usually among people of this sort that he operated. To the columns devoted to lost articles he gave special attention. More than once he had seen big rewards offered for things that he had concealed in his rooms. And although the comforting phrase, “No questions asked” invariably accompanied the advertisement, he never made application for the reward. In this, Trent differed from the usual practitioner of crime. When he had abandoned fiction for a more diverting sport he had formulated regulations for his professional conduct drawn up with extraordinary care. It was the first article of his faith under no circumstances to go to a “fence” or disposer of stolen goods, or to visit pawnshops. It is plain to see such precautions were wise. Sooner or later the police get the “fence” and with him the man’s clientèle. Every man who sells to a “fence” puts his safety in another’s keeping, and Anthony Trent was minded to play the game alone. As to the pawnshops, daily the police regulations expose more searchingly the practices of those who bear the arms of old Lombardy above their doors. The court news is full of convictions obtained by the police detailed to watch the pawnbrokers’ customers. It was largely on this account that Trent specialized on currency and remained unknown to the authorities. On this particular morning the newspapers offered nothing of interest except to say that a certain Italian duke, whose cousin had recently become engaged to an American girl of wealth and position, was about to cross the ocean and bear with him family jewels as a wedding gift from the great house he represented. Methodically Trent made a note of this. Later he took the subway downtown to consult with his brokers on the purchase of certain oil stocks. He had hardly taken his seat when Horace Weems pounced upon him. This Weems was an energetic creature, by instinct and training a salesman, so proud of his art and so certain of himself that he was wont to boast he could sell hot tamales in hell. By shrewdness he had amassed a comfortable fortune. He was a short, blond man nearly always capable of profuse perspirations. Trent knew by Weems’ excitement that there was at hand either an entrancingly beautiful girl—as Weems saw beauty—or a very rich man. Only these two spectacles were capable of bringing Weems’ smooth cheeks to this flush of excitement. Weems sometimes described himself as a “money-hound.” “You see that man coming toward us,” Weems whispered. Trent looked up. There were three men advancing. One was a heavily built man of late middle age with a disagreeable face, dominant chin and hard gray eyes. The other two were younger and had that alert bearing which men gain whose work requires a sound body and courage. “Are they arresting him?” Parker demanded. He noticed that they were very close to the elder man. They might be Central Office men. “Arresting him?” Weems whispered, still excitedly, “I should say not. You don’t know who he is.” “I only know that he must be rich,” Trent returned. “That’s one of the wealthiest men in the country,” Weems told him. “That’s Jerome Dangerfield.” “Your news leaves me unmoved,” said the other. “I never heard of him.” “He hates publicity,” Weems informed him. “If a paper prints a line about him it’s his enemy, and it don’t pay to have the enmity of a man worth nearly a hundred millions.” “What’s his line?” Trent demanded. “Everything,” Weems said enthusiastically. “He owns half the mills in New Bedford for one thing. And then there’s real estate in this village and Chicago.” Weems sighed. “If I had his money I’d buy a paper and have myself spread all over it. And he won’t have a line.” “I’m not sure he has succeeded in keeping it out. I’d swear that I’ve read something about him. It comes back clearly. It was something about jewels. I remember now. It was Mrs. Jerome Dangerfield who bought a famous ruby that the war compelled an English marchioness to sell.” The thing was quite clear to him now. He was on his favorite topic. “It was known as the Mount Aubyn ruby, after the family which had it so long.” He turned to look at the well-guarded financier. “So that’s the man whose wife has that blood-stained jewel!” “What do you mean—blood stained?” Weems demanded. “It’s one of the tragic stones of history,” said the other. “Men have sold their lives for it, and women their honor. One of the former marquises of Mount Aubyn killed his best friend in a duel for it. God knows what blood was spilled for it in India before it went to Europe.” “You don’t believe all that junk, do you?” asked Weems. “Junk!” the other flung back at him. “Have you ever looked at a ruby?” “Sure I have,” Weems returned aggrieved. “Haven’t you seen my ruby stick pin?” “Which represents to you only so many dollars, and is, after all, only a small stone. If you’d ever looked into the heart of a ruby you’d know what I mean. There’s a million little lurking devils in it, Weems, taunting you, mocking you, making you covet it and ready to do murder to have it for your own.” Weems looked at him, startled for the moment. He had never known his friend so intense, so unlike his careless, debonair self. “For the moment,” said Weems, “I thought you meant it. Of course you used to write fiction and that explains it.” To his articles of faith Anthony Trent added another paragraph. He swore not to let his enthusiasm run away with him when he discussed jewels. Weems was safe enough. He was lucky to be in no other company. But suppose he had babbled to one of those keen-eyed men engaged in guarding Jerome Dangerfield, the multi-millionaire who shunned publicity! He determined to choose another subject. “What does he take those men around with him for?” he asked. “A very rich man is pestered to death,” the wise Weems said. “Cranks try to interest him in all sorts of fool schemes and crazy men try to kill him for being a capitalist. And then there’s beggars and charities and blackmailers. Nobody can get next to him. I know. I’ve tried. I’ve never seen him in the subway before. I guess his car broke down and he had to come with the herd.” “So you tried? What was your scheme?” “I forget now,” Weems admitted. “I’ve had so many good things since. I followed out a stunt of that crook, Conway Parker, you used to write about. In one of your stories you made him want to meet a millionaire and instead of going to his office you made him go to the Fifth Avenue home and fool the butlers and flunkeys. It won’t work, old man. I know. I handed the head butler my hat and cane, but that was as far as I got. There must be a high sign in that sort of a house that I wasn’t wise to.” Weems mused on his defeat for a few seconds. “I ought to have worn a monocle.” He brightened. “Anyway just as I came out of the door a lady friend passed by on the top of a ’bus and saw me. Now you’re a good looker, old man, and high-class and all that, but you and I don’t belong in places like Millionaires’ Row.” “Too bad,” said Trent, smiling. He wondered what Weems would have said if he had known that his friend had within the week been to a reception in one of the greatest of the Fifth Avenue palaces and there gazed at a splendid ruby—not half the size of the Mount Aubyn stone—on the yellowing neck of an aged lady of many loves.   When Weems was shaken off, Dangerfield and his attendants vanished, and Trent had placed an order with his brokers he walked over to Park Row, where he had once worked as a cub reporter. Contrary to his usual custom, he entered a saloon well patronized by the older order of newspapermen, men who graduated in a day when it was possible to drink hard and hold a responsible position. He had barely crossed the threshold when he heard the voice of the man he sought. It was Clarke, slave to the archdemon rum. He was trying to borrow enough money from a monotype man, who had admitted backing a winner, to get a prescription filled for a suffering wife. The monotype man, either disbelieving Clarke’s story or having little regard for wifely suffering, was indisposed to share his winnings with druggist or bartender. It was at this moment that Clarke caught sight of his old reporter and more recent benefactor. He dropped the monotype man with all the outraged pride of an erstwhile city editor and shook Trent’s hand cordially. His own trembled. “That might be managed,” said Trent, listening to his request gravely, “but first have a drink to steady your nerves.” They repaired to a little alcove and sat down. Clarke was not anxious to leave so pleasant a spot. He talked entertainingly and was ready to expatiate on his former glories. “By the way,” said Trent presently, “you used to know the inside history and hidden secrets of every big man in town.” “I do yet,” Clarke insisted eagerly. “What’s on your mind?” “Nothing in particular,” said the other idly, “but I came downtown on the subway and saw Jerome Dangerfield with his two strong-arm men. What’s he afraid of? And why won’t he have publicity?” “That swinehound!” Clarke exclaimed. “Why wouldn’t he be afraid of publicity with his record? You’re too young to remember, but I know.” “What do you know?” Trent demanded. “I know that he’s worse than the Leader said he was when I was on the staff twenty years back. That was why the old Leader went out of business. He put it out. A paper is a business institution and won’t antagonize a vicious two-handed fighter like Dangerfield unless it’s necessary. That’s why they leave him alone. The big political parties get campaign contributions from him. Why stir him up?” “But you haven’t told me what he did?” “Women,” said Clarke briefly. “You know, boy, that some men are born women-hunters. That may be natural enough; but if it’s a game, play it fair. Pay for your folly. He didn’t. You ask me why he has those guards with him? It’s to protect him from the fathers of young girls who’ve sworn to get him. His bosom pal got his at a roof garden a dozen years back, and Dangerfield’s watching night and day. He’s bad all through. The stuff we had on him at the Leader would make you think you were back in decadent Rome.” “What’s his wife like?” “Society—all Society. Handsome, they tell me, and not any too much brain, but domineering. Full of precious stones. I’m told every servant is a detective. I guess they are, as you never heard of any of their valuables being taken. It makes me thirsty to think of it.” Trent, when he had obtained the information he desired, left Clarke with enough money to buy medicine for his wife. With the bartender he left sufficient to pay for a taxi to the boarding-house of Mrs. Sauer, where he himself had once resided. Clarke would need it. On his way uptown he found himself thinking continuously of Jerome Dangerfield and the Mount Aubyn ruby. There would be excitement in going after such a prize. The Dangerfield household was one into which thieves had not been able to break nor steal. A man, to make a successful coup, would need more than a knowledge of the mechanism of burglar alarms or safes; he would need steel nerves, a clear head, physical courage and that intuitive knowledge of how to proceed which marks the great criminal from his brother, the ordinary crook. If he possessed himself of the ruby there would be no chance to sell it. It was as well known among connoisseurs as are the paintings of Velasquez. To cut it into lesser stones would be a piece of vandalism that he could never bring himself to enact. It was Trent’s custom when he planned a job to lay out in concise form the possible and probable dangers he must meet. And to each one of these problems there must be a solution. He decided that an entrance to the Dangerfield house from the outside would fail. To gain a position in the household would be not easy. In all probability references would be strictly looked up. They would be easy enough to forge, but if they were exposed he would be a suspect and his fictitious uncle in Australia exhumed. Also he did not care to live in a household where he was certain to be under the observation of detectives. No less than Jerome Dangerfield he shrank from publicity. Mrs. Kinney noticed that he was strangely unresponsive to her well-cooked lunch. When she enquired the cause he told her he wanted a change. “I shall go away and play golf for a couple of weeks,” he declared. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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