Back Aa

Anthony Trent, Master Criminal

Close

<h2>CHAPTER XXIII THE SECRET OF THE BLACK BAG</h2> THE dinner was a wearisome affair to Trent. His companions were vulgar, their conversation tedious and the flattery they offered him nauseous. It was exactly half-past nine when a waiter came to his side and told him there was a long distance call for him from Denver. Apologizing he left the table. “His brother is a mining man out in Colorado,” Weiller informed the company. “They’re a rich bunch, the Chicago Maltbys.” “They can’t come too rich for us,” one of his friends chuckled. “Pass me the wine, George.” “This is a great little opportunity for rehearsing,” Weiller reminded them. “I’ve got to sign this bird up to-night. If I do we’ll have another little dinner on Saturday with a souvenir beside each plate.” Directly Trent reached the hotel lobby he slipped the waiter a five dollar bill. “If they get impatient,” he cautioned the man, “say I’m still busy on the long distance and must not be interrupted.” Five minutes later he opened the door of Norah’s flat and turned on the light. There, upon a chair, was the bag on which he had built so many hopes. His long sensitive fingers felt each of the pendants. Then with the small blade of a pocket knife he cut a few stitches and drew out the Takowaja emerald. For a full minute he gazed at its green glittering glory. Then from a waistcoat pocket he took the brilliant which had been purchased with the Benares lamp. They were much of a size and he placed the glass where the jewel had been and with a needle of black silk already prepared sewed up the cut stitches. The whole time occupied from entering the apartment to leaving it was not five minutes. He was back with his guests within a quarter of an hour. “You must have had good news,” Norah exclaimed when he took his seat. His face which had been expressionless before was now lighted up. He was a new man, vivacious, witty and bubbling over with fun. “I had very good news,” he smiled, “I put through a deal which means a whole lot to me. Let’s have some more wine to celebrate.” The dinner was taking place in a private room and he had insisted that the service be of the best. Now he was free from the tension that inevitably preceded one of his adventures he could enjoy himself. For the first time he looked at the omnibus by the door behind him. It was not the youthful fledgling waiter he expected to see but a big, dark man with a black moustache and imperial. Norah observed his glance. “George offered to star him as the mysterious count but the poor wop don’t speak English.” “I’ll bet he left spaghetti land because he done a murder,” George commented, “a nasty looking rummy I call him.” “I’ll swear he wasn’t here when I went to the ’phone,” said Trent. “I should have noticed him.” None heard him. The new bottle demanded attention. There was something vaguely familiar about the face but for the life of him Trent could not place it. Uneasily he was aware that the man of whom this strange waiter reminded him had come at a moment of danger. The more he looked the more certain he was that imperial and moustache were the disguising features. But it is not easy to strip such appendages off in the mind’s eye and see clearly what lies beneath. But there was a way to do so. On the back of an envelope Trent sketched the waiter as he appeared. It was a good likeness. Then with the rubber on his pencil end he erased moustache and imperial. The face staring at him now was beyond a question that of Devlin, the man who had run foul of him over the case of the Mount Aubyn ruby. He remembered now that Devlin had left Jerome Dangerfield’s employ to join a New York detective agency. What was Devlin doing here disguised as a waiter if not on his trail? And pressed against his side was a stone of world fame. There was no possibility of escape. The dining room was twenty feet from the street below and he had no way of reaching it. The door was guarded by Devlin and outside in the corridor waiters flitted to and fro. “Old Sir Richard caught at last.” He was roused from his eager scheming by a waiter asking what liqueur he would have. Automatically he ordered the only liqueur he liked, green chartreuse. Would Devlin allow the party to break up? If so he had a place of safety already prepared for the emerald. But if arrest and search were to take place before he could reach his room there was no help. He would be lucky to get off with fifteen years. Something told him that Devlin was about to act. Waiters were now grouped about the door. He knew that Devlin must long ago have marked him down and this was the final scene. And yet, oddly enough, when suddenly the door closed and a truculent detective advanced to the table tearing off moustache and imperial, Anthony Trent, who had not left his seat, had no longer the incriminating stone upon him. He felt, in fact, reasonably secure. “Quiet youze,” Devlin shouted and flashed a badge at them. Five of the eight felt certain he had come for them. Weiller owed much money in the vicinity of Fort Lee, New Jersey and was never secure. And more than that he had passed many opprobrious remarks concerning the waiter whom he supposed did not understand him. “I’m employed,” said Devlin, “to recover the emerald stolen from the home of the late Andrew Apthorpe of Groton, Massachusetts, on the third of last month, and you can be searched here or in the station house.” “It’s an outrage,” exclaimed Miss Richards the character woman. “Sure it is,” Devlin agreed cynically, “but what are you going to do about it?” A woman operative was introduced who took the ladies of the party into an adjoining room for search. The emerald was not found. The search revealed merely, that Miss Richards had been souvenir hunting and her spoils were a knife, spoon and olive fork. The men had passed the ordeal successfully. That they had made the most of their host’s temporary absence the pockets full of cigars, cigarettes and salted almonds testified. Anthony Trent seemed hugely amused at the procedure. Alone of them he did not breathe suits for defamation of character and the like. “I have rooms here,” he reminded Devlin, “by all means search them.” “I have,” snapped the other, showing his teeth. “I regret I didn’t bring my golf clubs,” Trent taunted him. “I hope I’ll put you in a place where they don’t play golf,” Devlin cried angrily. “I’m wise to you.” “It’s good he’s wise to something,” shouted Miss Richards. “Isn’t it?” Trent returned equably. “I’ve had no experience of it so far.” He resumed his seat and beckoned a waiter, “Some more coffee. Sit down, ladies, the ordeal is over.” “Not by a long shot,” snarled Devlin, “I’ve got a search warrant to search the apartment rented by Norah Thompson and I want you, Weiller, to come with me.” He turned to the moving picture celebrities—self confessed celebrities—“as for you, you’d better beat it quick.” Devlin’s last impression of the ornate dining room was the sight of the debonair Trent sipping his green chartreuse. Devlin ground his strong teeth when the other raised the green filled glass and drank his health. He was not to know that in the glass invisible amid the enveloping fluid was the Takowaja emerald, slipped there in the moment of peril. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2