The Diamond Master

by Jacques Futrelle

  CHAPTER V

  THE ASTUTE MR. BIRNES

  It was a few minutes past four o'clock when Mr. Wynne strode throughthe immense retail sales department of the H. Latham Company, and auniformed page held open the front door for him to pass out. Once onthe sidewalk the self-styled diamond master of the world paused longenough to pull on his gloves, carelessly chucking the small sole-leathergrip with its twenty-odd million dollars' worth of precious stones underone arm; then he turned up Fifth Avenue toward Thirty-fourth Street. Asneak thief brushed past him, appraised him with one furtive glance,then went his way, seeking quarry more promising.

  Simultaneously with Mr. Wynne's appearance three men whose watchful eyeshad been fastened on the doorway of the H. Latham Company for somethingmore than an hour stirred. One of them--Frank Claflin--was directlyacross the street, strolling along idly, the most purposeless of all inthe hurrying, well-dressed throng; another--Steve Birnes, chief of theBirnes Detective Agency--appeared from the hallway of a buildingadjoining the H. Latham Company, and moved along behind Mr. Wynne, somethirty feet in the rear; the third--Jerry Malone--was half a block away,up Fifth Avenue, coming slowly toward them.

  Mr. Birnes adjusted his pace to that of Mr. Wynne, step for step, andthen, seeming assured of his safety from any chance glance,ostentatiously mopped his face with a handkerchief, flirting it alittle to the left as he replaced it in his pocket. Claflin, acrossthe street, understood from that that he was to go on up FifthAvenue to Thirty-fourth Street, the next intersection, and turn westto board any crosstown car which Mr. Wynne might possibly take; anda cabby, who had been sitting motionless on his box down the street,understood from it that he was to move slowly along behind Mr.Birnes, and be prepared for an emergency.

  Half-way between Thirty-third and Thirty-fourth Streets, Jerry Maloneapproached and passed Mr. Wynne without so much as a glance at him,and went on toward his chief.

  "Drop in behind here," Mr. Birnes remarked crisply to Malone, withoutlooking around. "I'll walk on ahead and turn east in Thirty-fourthStreet to nail him if he swings a car. Claflin's got him goingwest."

  Mr. Wynne was perhaps some twenty feet from the corner of Thirty-fourthStreet and Fifth Avenue when Mr. Birnes passed him. His glancelingered on the broad back of the chief reflectively as he swung by andturned into the cross street, after a quick, business-like glance at anapproaching car. Then Mr. Wynne smiled. He paused on the edge of thecurb long enough for an automobile to pass, then went on acrossThirty-fourth Street to the uptown side and, turning flatly, lookedMr. Birnes over pensively, after which he leaned up against anelectric-light pole and scribbled something on an envelope.

  A closed cab came wriggling and squirming up Fifth Avenue. As itreached the middle of Thirty-fourth Street Mr. Wynne raised his hand,and the cab drew up beside him. He said something to the driver,opened the door and stepped in. Mr. Birnes smiled confidently. Sothat was it, eh? He, too, crossed Thirty-fourth Street and liftedhis hand. The cab which had been drifting along behind himimmediately came up.

  "Now, Jimmy, get on the job," instructed Mr. Birnes, as he steppedin. "Keep that chap in sight and when he stops you stop."

  Mr. Wynne's cab jogged along comfortably up the avenue, twisting andwinding a path between the other vehicles, the while Mr. Birnesregarded it with thoughtful gaze. Its number dangled on a whiteboard in the rear; Mr. Birnes just happened to note it.

  "Grand Central Station, I'll bet a hat," he mused.

  But the closed cab didn't turn into Forty-second Street; it wentpast, then on past Delmonico's, past the Cathedral, past the Plaza,at Fifty-ninth Street, and still on uptown. It was not hurrying--it merely moved steadily; but once free of the snarl which culminatesat the Fifty-ninth Street entrance to Central Park, its speed wasincreased a little. Past Sixty-fourth Street, Sixty-fifth, Sixty-sixth,and at Sixty-seventh it slowed up and halted at the sidewalk on the farside.

  "Stop in front of a door, Jimmy," directed the detective hastily.

  Jimmy obeyed gracefully, and Mr. Birnes stepped out, hardly half ablock behind the closed cab. He went through an elaborate pretenseof paying Jimmy, the while he regarded Mr. Wynne, who had alsoalighted and was paying the driver. The small sole-leather grip wason the ground between his feet as he ransacked his pocketbook. Asettlement was reached, the cabby nodded, touched his horse with hiswhip and continued to jog on up Fifth Avenue.

  "Now, he didn't order that chap to come back or he wouldn't have paidhim," the detective reasoned. "Therefore he's close to where he isgoing."

  But Mr. Wynne seemed in no hurry; instead he stood still for a minutegazing after the retreating vehicle, which fact made it necessary forMr. Birnes to start a dispute with Jimmy as to just how much the fareshould be. They played the scene admirably; had Mr. Wynne beenlistening he might even have heard part of the vigorous argument.Whether he listened or not he turned and gazed straight at Mr. Birnesuntil, finally, the detective recognized the necessity of getting outof sight.

  With a final explosion he handed a bill to Jimmy and turned to go upthe steps of the house. He had no business there, but he must dosomething.

  Jimmy turned the cab short and went rattling away down Fifth Avenueto await orders in the lee of a corner a block or so away. And,meanwhile, as Mr. Wynne still stood on the corner, Mr. Birnes had togo on up the steps. But as he placed his foot on the third step heknew--though he had not looked, apparently, yet he knew--that Mr.Wynne had raised his hand, and that in that hand was a small whiteenvelope. And further, he knew that Mr. Wynne was gazing directlyat him.

  Now that was odd. Slowly it began to dawn upon the detective thatMr. Wynne was trying to attract his attention. If he heeded thesignal--evidently it was intended as such--it would be a confessionthat he was following Mr. Wynne, and realizing this he took two moresteps up. Mr. Wynne waved the envelope again, after which he foldedit across twice and thrust it into a crevice of a water-plug besidehim. Then he turned east along Sixty-seventh Street and disappeared.

  The detective had seen the performance, all of it, and he wasperplexed. It was wholly unprecedented. However, the first thing todo now was to keep Mr. Wynne in sight, so he came down the steps andwalked rapidly on to Sixty-seventh Street, pausing to peer around thecorner before he turned. Mr. Wynne was idling along, half a blockaway, without the slightest apparent interest in what was happeningbehind. Inevitably Mr. Birnes' eyes were drawn to the water-plugacross the street. A tag end of white paper gleamed tantalizingly.Now what the deuce did it mean?

  Being only human, Mr. Birnes went across the street and got thepaper. It was an envelope. As he unfolded it and gazed at theaddress, written in pencil, his mouth opened in undignifiedastonishment. It was addressed to him--Steve Birnes, Chief of theBirnes Detective Agency. Mr. Wynne had still not looked back, sothe detective trailed along behind, opening the envelope as hewalked. A note inside ran briefly:

  My address is No. ---- East Thirty-seventh Street. If it is necessary for you to see me please call there about six o'clock this afternoon. E. VAN CORTLANDT WYNNE

  Now here was, perhaps, as savory a kettle of fish as Mr. Birnes hadever stumbled upon. It is difficult to imagine a more embarrassingsituation for the professional sleuth than to find himself suddenlytaken into the confidence of the person he is shadowing. But _was_he being taken into Mr. Wynne's confidence? Ah! That was thequestion! Admitting that Mr. Wynne knew who he was, and admittingthat he knew he was being followed, was not this apparent franknessan attempt to throw him off the scent? He would see, would Mr.Birnes.

  He quickened his pace a little, then slowed up instantly, because Mr.Wynne had stopped on the corner of Madison Avenue, and as a downtowncar came rushing along he stepped out to board it. Mr. Birnesscuttled across the street, and by a dexterous jump swung on the caras it fled past. Mr. Wynne had gone forward and was taking a seat;Mr. Birnes remained on the back platform, sheltered by theaccommodating bulk of a fat man, and flattered himself that Mr.Wynne
had not seen him. By peering over a huge shoulder thedetective was still able to watch Mr. Wynne.

  He saw him pay his fare, and then he saw him place the smallsole-leather grip on his knees and unfasten the catch. Not knowingwhat was in that grip Mr. Birnes was curious to see what came out ofit. Nothing came out of it--it was empty! There was no question ofthis, for Mr. Wynne opened it wide and turned it upside down to shakeit out. It didn't mean anything in particular to Mr. Birnes, the factthat the grip was empty, so he didn't get excited about it.

  Mr. Wynne left the car at Thirty-fourth Street, the south end of thePark Avenue tunnel, by the front door, and the detective stepped offthe rear end. Mr. Wynne brushed past him as he went up the stairs,and as he did so he smiled a little--a very little. He walked on upPark Avenue to Thirty-seventh Street, turned in there and entered ahouse about the middle of the block, with a latch-key. The detectiveglanced at the number of the house, and felt aggrieved--it was thenumber that was written in the note! And Mr. Wynne had entered witha key! Which meant, in all probability, that he _did_ live there, ashe had said!

  But why did he take that useless cab ride up Fifth Avenue? If he hadno objection to any one knowing his address, why did he go so far outof his way? Mr. Birnes couldn't say. As he pondered these questionshe saw a maid-servant come out of a house adjoining that which Mr.Wynne had entered, an he went up boldly to question her.

  Did a Mr. Wynne live next door? Yes. How long had he lived there?Five or six months. Did he own the house? No. The people who ownedthe house had gone to Europe for a year and had rented it furnished.No, Mr. Wynne didn't have a family. He lived there alone except fortwo servants, a cook and a housemaid. She had never noticed anythingunusual about Mr. Wynne, or the servants, or the house. Yes, he wentout every day, downtown to business. No, she didn't know what hisbusiness was, but she had an idea that he was a broker. That was all.

  From a near-by telephone booth the detective detailed Claflin andMalone, who had returned to the office, to keep a sharp watch onthe house, after which he walked on to Fifth Avenue, and down FifthAvenue to the establishment of the H. Latham Company. Mr. Lathamwould see him--yes. In fact, Mr. Latham, harried by the events ofthe past two hours, bewildered by a hundred-million-dollar diamonddeal which had been thrust down his throat gracefully, but none theless certainly, and ridden by the keenest curiosity, was delightedto see Mr. Birnes.

  "I've got his house address all right," Mr. Birne boasted, in thebeginning. Of course it was against the ethics of the profession totell _how_ he got it.

  "Progress already," commented Mr. Latham with keen interest. "That'sgood."

  Then the detective detailed the information he had received from themaid, adding thereto divers and sundry conclusions of his own.

  Mr. Latham marveled exceedingly.

  "He tried to shake us all right when he went out," Mr. Birnes went onto explain, "but the trap was set and there was no escape."

  With certain minor omissions he told of the cab ride to Sixty-seventhStreet, the trip across to a downtown car, and, as a matter ofconvincing circumstantial detail, added the incident of the emptygripsack.

  "Empty?" repeated Mr. Latham, startled. "Empty, did you say?"

  "Empty as a bass drum," the detective assured him complacently. "Heturned it upside down and shook it."

  "Then what became of them?" demanded Mr. Latham.

  "Became of what?"

  "The diamonds, man--what became of the diamonds?"

  "You didn't mention any diamonds to me except those five the otherday," the detective reminded him coldly. "Your instructions were tofind out all about this man--who he is, what he does, where he goes,and the rest. This is my preliminary report. You didn't mentiondiamonds."

  "I didn't know he would have them," Mr. Latham exploded irascibly."That empty gripsack, man--when he left here he carried millions--Imean a great quantity of diamonds in it."

  "A great quantity of --," the detective began; and then he sat upstraight in his chair and stared at Mr. Latham in bewilderment.

  "If the gripsack was empty when he was on the car," Mr. Latham rushedon excitedly, "then don't you see that he got rid of the diamondssomehow from the time he left here until you saw that the gripsack_was_ empty? How did he get rid of them? Where does he keep them?And where does he get them?"

  Mr. Birnes closed his teeth grimly and his eyes snapped. _Now_ heknew why Mr. Wynne had taken that useless cab ride up Fifth Avenue.It was to enable him to get rid of the diamonds! There was anaccomplice--in detective parlance the second person is always anaccomplice--in that closed cab! It had all been prearranged; Mr.Wynne had deliberately made a monkey of him--Steven Birnes!Reluctantly the detective permitted himself to remember that hedidn't know whether there was anybody in that cab or not when Mr.Wynne entered it, and--and--! Then he remembered that he did knowone thing--_the number of the cab!_

  He arose abruptly, with the light of a great determination in hisface.

  "Whose diamonds were they?" he demanded.

  "They were his, as far as we know," replied Mr. Latham.

  "How much were they worth?"

  Mr. Latham looked him over thoughtfully.

  "I am not at liberty to tell you that, Mr. Birnes," he said at last."There are a great number of them, and they are worth--they areworth a large sum of money. And they are all unset. That's enoughfor you to know, I think."

  It seemed to be quite enough for Mr. Birnes to know.

  "It may be that I will have something further to report thisevening," he told Mr. Latham. "If not, I'll see you to-morrow,here."

  He went out. Ten minutes later he was talking to a friend in policeheadquarters, over the telephone. The records there showed that thelicense for the particular cab he had followed had been issued to oneWilliam Johns. He was usually to be found around the cabstand inMadison Square, and lived in Charlton Street.