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Anthony Trent, Master Criminal

<h2>CHAPTER XXII A THIEF TO CATCH A THIEF</h2> IT was not a matter of much difficulty for Trent, still Mr. Maltby, to become acquainted with male members of the set in San Francisco which Miss Thompson affected. He knew that she dined each night at a café which attracted many motion picture people. And he learned that there was a producer from Los Angeles now looking for easy money in San Francisco who was very friendly with her. Since this man Weiller was easy of approach to such as seemed prosperous it was not difficult for Trent to strike up an acquaintance one day at the St Charles. Weiller first of all, as became a loyal native son, spoke of climate. Then with even greater enthusiasm he spoke of the movies as money-makers. He wanted to get a little money together, put on a feature and sell it. He arranged all the details on the back of a St. Charles menu card. He had an idea which, if William Reynard of New York could learn of it, would bring that eminent producer of features a cool million. Anthony Trent hung back with the lack of interest a man with money to invest may properly exhibit. Weiller was sure he had money. He lived at a first class hotel, he dined well and he was a “dresser” to be admired. Also Weiller had seen a sizeable roll of bills on occasion. There came a night when at Anthony Trent’s expense, Miss Norah Thompson, Weiller and a svelte girl called by Weiller California’s leading “anjenou,” partook of a sumptuous repast. Had it not been that Trent was out for business the whole thing would have disgusted him. Weiller and Norah were blatantly vulgar and intent on impressing their host. The “anjenou” said a hundred times that he was like one of her dearest “gentlemen friends” now being featured by the Jewbird Film company. Her friend was handsome but she liked Anthony’s nose better. With coffee came the great scheme. Weiller wanted to make a five reel feature of the Andrew Apthorpe murder. Norah Thompson was to play the lead! “It’ll knock ’em dead!” cried Weiller. “Gee! What press agent stuff!” He helped himself with a hand trembling from excitement to another gulp of wine. “My boy, you’re in luck. We’ll go into this thing on equal shares. I’m putting up fifty thousand dollars and you shall put up a like sum. We’ll clear up five hundred per cent.” “You’ve put up fifty thousand in actual cash?” Trent demanded. “That’s what I capitalize my knowledge of pictures at,” Weiller explained. “George is one of the best known producers in the game,” Miss Thompson said, a trifle nettled at what she thought was a smile of contempt on the other’s face. “He don’t need your money. I’ve got enough in this bag right here to produce it.” She waived a black moiré bag before Trent’s eyes. George Weiller looked at her and frowned. What a foolish project, he thought, to spend one’s own money when here was a victim. “You keep that, little one,” he said generously. “We’re gentlemen; we don’t want to take a lady’s money. We’ll talk it over later.” A keen salesman, he noted Trent was growing restive. If the matter were persisted in he might either take a fright or take offence. All this he explained later. “You see, Norah,” he remarked, “that guy has a chin on him that means you can’t drive him.” “He’s got a cold, nasty eye,” said Norah who was not without her just fears of strangers. “I’m going to play the game so he’ll beg me to let him in on it,” Weiller boasted. “I know the way to play that sort of bird.” The negotiations resulted in Trent’s seeing a great deal more of this precious couple than he cared for. The “anjenou” finding her charms made no impression on him was rarely included in the little dinners and excursions. It was when Trent had met Miss Thompson a dozen times that he consulted the notes he had made on each occasion. It was a method of working unique so far as he could learn. It might yield no results in a thousand cases. In the thousand and first it might be the clue. It was nothing more than a list of the costumes he had seen the ex-nurse wear. On going through the list he saw that whereas Miss Thompson had worn a new dress on each occasion of the dinners in public restaurants with shoes and hosiery to harmonize or match the color scheme of her gown she had always carried the black moiré bag. And since it was a fashion of the moment for women to own many and elaborate bags of this sort to match or harmonize with the color scheme or details of their costumes, it seemed odd that Norah Thompson, who had been buying everything that seemed modish, should fail to follow the way of the well dressed. The bag as he remembered it was about seven inches wide and perhaps ten inches long. It was closed by a silver buckle and a pendant of some sort swung at each corner. Concentrating upon it he remembered they were not beads but made of the same material as the bag itself and in size about that of an English walnut. He called to mind the fact that he had never seen her without this bag. Why should she cling so closely to what was already demodé? Were he a genuine detective the problem had been an easy one. He could seize the bag, search it and denounce her. But that would entail giving up a priceless stone for a few thousand dollars of reward. On the pretext of having to buy a present for a Chicago cousin, Anthony Trent led the willing Weiller into one of the city’s exclusive department stores. Weiller was anxious to do anything and everything for his new friend. That night he, Norah and some other friends were to be Trent’s guests at a very recherché dinner. He felt, as the born salesman senses these things, that he would get his answer that night and that it would be favorable. And with fifty thousand dollars to play with he might do anything. Probably the last project would be to make a picture himself. Trent asked to be shown the very latest thing in bags. The counter was presently laden with what the salesgirl claimed to be direct importations from Paris. Trent selected one which he said would suit his cousin. “You ought to get one for Norah,” he said. “What color is she going to wear to-night?” “Light blue,” Weiller returned almost sulkily. He had been with her when she purchased the gown and resented the extravagance. If she went on at that rate there would be nothing left for him. “What they call gentian blue.” The salesgirl picked out an exquisite blue bag on which the lilies of France had been painted daintily by hand. It was further decorated with a border of fleur-de-lis in seed pearls. “This is the biggest bargain we have,” the girl assured them. “The government won’t allow any more to be brought over. It’s marked down to a hundred dollars.” She looked at George Weiller, “Will you take it?” “I’m not sure it’s the shade my friend wants,” he prevaricated. In reality he cursed Trent for dragging him into a proposition which could cost such a sum. He had not a tenth of the amount upon him. “I’ll take it,” Trent said carelessly, pushing a hundred dollar bill over the counter, “I’ve plenty of cousins and girls always like these things.” Weiller sighed enviously. He often remarked if he could capitalize his brains he would pay an income tax of a million dollars; but that did not prevent him from being invariably short of ready money. He was looking forward to the dinner Trent was to give him and his friends that night. Besides Norah there were five other moving picture people who were to be used to impress Trent with their knowledge of the game and the money he could make out of it. They would be amply repaid by the dinner; for there are those who serve the screened drama whose salaries are small. These ancilliary salesmen and women were to meet at half past six in the furnished flat Norah Thompson had rented. There they were to be drilled. It was while they were receiving the finishing touches that Anthony Trent knocked upon the door, blandly announcing that he had brought an automobile to take Norah and George to the hotel where he was staying. Instantly the gathering registered impatience to start. Weiller, always suspicious, feared that Trent might think it curious that so many were engaged in earnest conversation, and he wondered if their voices had carried to the hall where Trent had waited. Suave and courteous, Trent made himself at home among the crowd of people who were, so they informed him, world famous in a screen sense. Trent, as usual, had timed things accurately. It was part of his scheme that Norah should want to banish from his mind the idea that there had been any collusion. She was bright and vivacious in her manner toward him. “You are a sweet man,” she exclaimed, “I’m dreadfully hungry—and thirsty. Come on boys and girls.” He noticed that although arrayed in a new costume of blue, she clung to her back moiré bag. He called Weiller aside while Norah mixed a last cocktail for the men. “George,” he whispered, “that blue bag I bought is just the thing to give Norah.” George felt a parcel thrust into his hand. “It’s a little present from me to you and she mustn’t know I bought it.” “She shan’t from me,” Weiller said almost tremulously. Nothing could have happened more delightfully. Not ten minutes ago in the presence of his even less prosperous motion picture colleagues, Norah had called him a tightwad who didn’t think enough of the woman he was to marry to buy her a ring. He explained that easily enough by saying nothing in San Francisco was good enough for her and that he was ordering one from New York. This present from a rich and careless spender would prove affluence no less than affection. “Thanks, old man, a million times.” Norah was at the door when he presented it. She was genuinely affected by the gift. Perhaps her thanks were even warmer when one of her friends picked up the sales slip which had fluttered to the ground and read aloud the price. “I’m tired of that black bag,” George complained. “Norah’s never going to carry that when she’s got this,” one of the other women cried. “It matches her gown exactly.” “I took care of that,” George said complacently. “I told the saleswoman to get me the best she had but it must be gentian blue.” There seemed a momentary hesitation before the black bag was discarded. To cling to it at such a moment would be to court suspicion. This was Trent’s strategy. Her manner was not lost upon one of the others, a character woman named Richards. “Why, George,” she laughed, “I believe a former lover gave Norah that bag and she hates to part with it. I was in a picture once where the heroine carried the ashes of her first sweetheart around with her. I’d look into it if I was you.” Nonchalantly Norah emptied the contents of the black bag into the new one. Then she pitched the old one onto a chair. “Now for the eats,” she said cheerily. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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