“I won’t do business with you in that way, Mickey. You’re a common crook and I don’t care to enter into a co-partnership with you. However, I’ll buy the pearls from you for five thousand dollars cash.”
“Aw! Tommy.”
“Very well.” Mr. Braden waved insouciantly. “Sell them elsewhere. I’m rather busy these days.”
Mr. Donley knew that he was caught and he knew that Tommy Braden knew it. It was impossible for Mickey to dispose of the gems; in fact, there was a strong likelihood that even Tommy Braden would find it an impossible task. Certainly there was little doubt that it would tax his capacities to the utmost.
Mickey studied closely the inscrutable countenance of his companion. In it he read a subtle enjoyment of the situation. Mickey was annoyed—chiefly because he was helpless.
“Awright Tommy. Where’s the five grand?”
“Where are the pearls, Mickey?”
“They’re cache’d. Didn’t dare bring ’em here. The bulls’ve got me shadowed. It’s a shame the way they hound a poor crook.”
“It is, Mickey; it certainly is. But it proves that you’re wise to sell them to me. They don’t care anything for your carcass; they can pick you up any minute they choose. What they’re after is the jewels. Pretty nice reward they’re offering, isn’t it?”
Mr. Donley shook his bullet head sorrowfully. “Ten thousand berries. Gosh.…But the point is—where’ll we meet?”
Mr. Braden did some careful thinking. “Let’s say tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock at the corner of Boulevard and Thirty-second street, Bayonne. And be sure they don’t trail you.”
Mickey laughed shortly. “The dick that follies me there is going to have went all over Joisey.”
They met as per schedule. Tommy Braden at the wheel of a borrowed sedan. Together they rolled slowly down the Hudson County Boulevard toward Bergen Point. Mr. Donley produced a chamois sack and from it poured forth a stream of pink glory. “Gawd! ain’t they beauts?”
Tommy’s eyes glittered with the appreciation of a connoisseur. “Very fine, Mickey. A rope of matched pearls…hmm! I should say they’re worth a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Ev’ry dime of that. Say, listen—how ’bout raising the ante a grand or two?”
“Don’t be silly, Mickey. Here’s your five thousand. Give me the pearls.”
Mr. Donley left the sedan at Eighth Street and returned to New York via the Jersey Central. The route chosen by Mr. Thomas Matlock Braden was considerably more circuitous. He crossed the Kill von Kull to Port Richmond and traversed Staten Island to St. George where he boarded the New York ferry. He reached his apartment, concealed the pearls carefully and four days later departed for Indiana.
Braden’s mind was agile, and before his departure he had carefully planned every move of the delicate game. For one thing he had obtained several magazines which contained pictures of a certain Mr. Jared Mallory. Mr. Braden had always been interested in Mr. Mallory. The interest had been aroused once by the casual comment of a detective friend that they were not dissimilar in appearance. Mr. Mallory was a trifle older, true, but he had the same lean, sinewy figure; the same easy grace of bearing; the same appearance of gentility and the same touches of gray at the temples. Of course no person who knew Mr. Mallory could ever confound the twain, but a person who had never seen Mr. Mallory (and few had beyond his limited circle) could very readily believe that Tommy Braden was he, provided that belief was suggested.
Tommy Braden was a great admirer of Mallory’s. The latter was all that Tommy would have liked to be. He was immeasurably wealthy, he did not work, he existed in a little world of his own and looked with fine and distant disdain upon the senseless turmoil of a commercial world. If he dabbled at all in the marts of commerce it was with a magnificent aloofness which kept his name clear of financial news. One could imagine him as a person whose fortune was invested exclusively in government bonds. But the greatest link between Messrs. Braden and Mallory lay in the fact that the latter was by way of being a jewel collector.
Tommy, too, collected jewelry, although in a rather more informal way. A gem to Mr. Mallory was a thing of beauty and of glory; something to be treasured and gazed upon and studied. Mr. Braden, being rather grossly material, saw in a jewel only its intrinsic worth and its marketable value where the method of its coming into his possession had been a bit questionable. But he loved jewelry none the less…the viewpoint of the two men was basically the same although diametrically opposite in the working-out; Braden saw jewels in terms of cash; Mallory saw dollars in terms of gems.
Jared Mallory was known to the masses in a vague way, such as a king is known. He was a person without a public personality. He shunned publicity and human contact outside his own little personal circle. He was a living definition of the word exclusive in its sociological application…and so it was that very few persons were aware of the fact that Mr. Mallory had but recently sailed for France. Tommy Braden knew it, but that was only because Tommy happened to have an interest in Mr. Mallory. And now Tommy planned to cash in on his observation of the millionaire jewel collector.
Tommy’s decision to visit the famous Indiana resort was the result of careful deliberation. He knew that this was the last place in the world that Mr. Mallory would ever visit, and it was logical to presume that Mr. Mallory’s intimates would also shun it. They were to be found on private estates situated in Florida or along the Carolina coast…anywhere but at a blatant resort hotel.
Nor was Mr. Braden wrong in his conjecture. Of the thousands of guests who thronged the hotel lobby, the golf course, the casino—there was not one who had ever personally seen the famous Mr. Mallory although there were several whose bank balances contained as many figures as that of the gem collector. Which did not mean that Mr. Braden’s fellow-guests were socially doubtful but rather that Mr. Mallory’s status was such that the hotel would have considered he was paying it an inestimable compliment by deigning to visit.
Tommy arrived at the hotel late one evening. He knew that one or two guests commented upon his distinguished appearance as he crossed the lobby. Such comment always pleased Tommy. It was a tribute to something which was innate. He liked to tell himself that he was not a snob…he intended fully that the reputation of Mr. Mallory should not suffer by reason of any misapprehension which might be more or less deliberately engendered in the minds of his fellow-guests.
He registered in a cramped scrawl which bore a startling similarity to the labored chirography of Jared Mallory. But Tommy was nothing if not honest. The clerk whirled the register and glimpsed the signature——
THOMAS M. BRADEN—NEW YORK
“I wired for a suite.…” Tommy’s voice was rather indifferent, his manner bored.
“Yes sir. Certainly sir.” The gong. “Front. Show Mr. Braden up to Suite F.”
The dinner hour approached. Mr. Braden bathed and dressed with scrupulous care in an ultra-conservative dinner jacket. There was about his rather statuesque figure an air of stateliness which harmonized with the conventional simplicity of his garb. His dress was so unobtrusive as to command instant attention. He descended to the lobby, crossed to the dining room and slipped a crisp and ample bill into the willing hand of the headwaiter by way of assuring himself the proper respect.
He knew that more than one person commented upon him during the course of the meal. For the most part he kept his eyes down, but when they did chance to focus upon some person, that individual experienced the unpleasant sensation of being looked through. More than one consulted the clerk after dinner for information as to the identity of the stranger who had now retired to a corner of the lobby and was puffing lightly upon a monogrammed cigarette.
Among those who had particularly noticed Tommy was a couple from the Middle West: a rather wizened gentleman of some fifty-five years and his unduly ample wife. Mr. and Mrs. Edgar H. Morse had, for the past five year
s, been frantically attempting to create the impression which Mr. Braden was now registering so profoundly. Wealth had come to them in an unexpected flood. They were not crude persons but they did lack the background which is essential to true culture and, as earnestly as they had struggled for financial success during years which were rather more lean than fat, so they set about adjusting themselves to the social demands of their miraculously acquired millions.
They were rather pathetic as they hung on the fringe of things and sought to absorb in a few years the social ease which must be born in one. They were not aggressive in their wealth—as a matter of fact they scarcely understood it; had not yet fathomed its meaning. And their tastes were those of the contest-answerers who send in to the editor lengthy replies to the prize query: “What would you do if you suddenly inherited a million dollars?”
Mr. and Mrs. Morse strolled over to the desk and made inquiry of the clerk.
“Oh! him? That’s Thomas M. Braden.”
His manner indicated that anyone who was anyone would certainly know Mr. Thomas M. Braden. Mr. Morse caught the nuance and uttered an enlightening—“A-a-ah! So it is.”
“He’s a wonderful looking man,” commented Mrs. Morse. “So distinguished.”
They managed to seat themselves near Tommy. He appraised them scientifically. There was no mistaking their new and complete wealth—“Woman—no taste—but nice. Swellest modiste in New York—make me the grandest gown you got. He’s a bird that ain’t sure yet whether he ought to wear plain or patent oxfords with his dinner jacket. They look soft.”
He was apparently oblivious to their proximity until Mr. Morse apologetically borrowed a match. He did so apprehensively and was put instantly at ease by Tommy’s manner. But Mr. Braden immediately appeared to lose interest in them. He was gazing out across the lobby—in but not of the crowd. And just when the Morses had become discouraged Tommy turned to them with a question—“How far is the golf links from the hotel?”
Edgar H. Morse expanded instantly. He orated jerkily upon the nearness of the first tee, the condition of the course, the scenic beauties of the place—and wound up with the inevitable question of all golfers: “What do you shoot?”
Tommy shrugged, “I’m not very good. When I break a hundred I’m satisfied.”
“Just my game. I did a 98 today and I’m tickled pink. Of course I hole every putt and most of ’em don’t. You booked up for a game in the morning?”
Tommy Braden bestowed upon his companion a stare in which there was the faintest hint of disapproval; a stare such as he fancied Jared Mallory might confer. Morse felt a sensation of faintness.
“No-o,” answered Tommy, “I’m not.”
There was an awkward pause. Edgar Morse desired to invite this regal gentleman to play with him but he dreaded a rebuff. And just when the subject was about to expire naturally, Tommy ventured a polite “Why?”
“Why—er—a—I just sort of thought.…That is, if you weren’t——”
“That we might play a round?”
“Yes. Yes.” Eagerly. “If you would—that is, if you’d care to.”
“Delighted. What hour shall we tee off?”
“Don’t know—course crowded—have to get starting time.” He rose excitedly. “’Scuse me minute. I’m in strong with the starter—give ’im cigars—and—er—things. See if I can’t fix it.…” He darted away, leaving Tommy with Mrs. Morse. She favored him with a wistful little smile.
“That’s real nice of you,” she said. “Eddie just dotes on golf.”
“I’m sure I shall enjoy it.”
“Oh! sure you will. As soon as you get to know Eddie real well—that is, if you should—you’ll like him tremendously. He’s been awful lonesome here.…”
Edgar H. Morse returned, flushed and triumphant. “Fixed him. Ain’t hard when you know how. We’re off at nine-fifteen. Say, I’m all pepped up.”
Tommy took a cigarette from a platinum case. He extended the case to his new-found friend. Edgar Morse took one and glanced at the monogram. He wanted to note the brand of cigarette this gentleman used that he might unostentatiously duplicate it at the earliest possible moment.
His eye focused upon a simple monogram. Private brand…but no: the initials were distinctly not T. M. B. He inspected more closely, then lighted the thing and inhaled deeply. “Fine cigarette. What make?”
“My own,” answered Tommy Braden suavely.
They chatted amiably for a few moments and then Tommy rose, expressed polite regrets and moved away. “T’morrow morning, remember,” the little man flung after him. “We’ll have a great round. Er—a—that is, I hope we will.”
Tommy smiled his best Mallory smile, indicating the ultra-correct degree of mild enthusiasm. And when he had taken hat and stick and disappeared Mr. Edgar H. Morse did a very peculiar thing. He reached eagerly into the ash tray and rescued there from two frayed cigarette stubs. Mrs. Morse was duly horrified.
“Eddie! What in the world!”
But Edgar did not hear. He was frowning slightly and his gaze was fixed intently upon the monogram of Tommy’s privately made cigarettes.
“Listen, Ella—you heard him say they were his private cigarettes?”
“Yes. But a good many gentlemen——”
“Sure. Sure. I’m not saying they don’t. But there’s something peculiar about this chap. See this monogram here—it ain’t T. M. B. at all. The initials are J. M.”
From the deepest shadows of the spacious veranda, Tommy Braden was a witness to the little scene. A slow smile of satisfaction creased his thin, patrician lips. “So much for him,” he murmured. “That Mallory monogram was a great idea. Our trade mark—once seen, never forgotten.”
The game of golf was enjoyed by both men. They played a nip and tuck contest which atoned in competitive value what it undoubtedly lacked in skill. It was not until the seventeenth green when an impossibly long putt caromed off a match stick and clicked into the cup that victory finally perched upon the Morse banner. The little man was jumpy with excitement.
“Great game—wonderful. Ain’t often I meet a guy I like to play as much as I do you. Besides, most of the chaps I know can beat me—beat the tar out of me. I’m an awful dub. Say—we got to do this again—a—that is, I hope we got to.”
“We shall,” smiled Tommy. “I’ve enjoyed the morning immensely.”
From the eighteenth green they strolled to the clubhouse where they indulged in long, tall lemonades which appeared to inspire Mr. Morse with no particular enthusiasm. “Got something in my room.57 C’mon and sample it. That is—a—if you care to.”
Mr. Braden was delighted—far more than he cared to admit. One glance at the suite occupied by the Morses and he was well satisfied that he had picked his victim competently. He knew just about what this suite was costing and his keen eye missed no detail of the many which shrieked new and amazing wealth.
Mrs. Morse inquired interestedly as to the details of the match—a frequently interrupted and garbled account which had to do with lucky breaks, horrible kicks, phenomenal putts.…“We’re gonna play again in the morning,” finished Edgar. “That is—er—Mr. Braden says he wants to. ’Course I’m not blaming him for kicking. That last putt of mine didn’t have any right going down. I always did believe that putting was too all-fired important in this game.…”
The fraternity of golf engendered a friendliness which would have been long in developing else. It was decided that they should dine together that night, and about five o’clock in the afternoon Tommy visited the florist shop in the hotel where he ordered a corsage bouquet sent up to Mrs. Morse. “Right here,” he reflected, “is where the old dame gets hooked right. And at the same time I exterminate another bird.”
“Shly write the card?” inquired the obtrusively blonde young lady at the counter.
“No-o.” Tommy produced a card w
hich he flipped across the counter. She glanced at it indifferently.
“Cash?” she inquired, “or shly charge it to y’r room, Mr. Mallory?”
He started visibly. “What’s that?”
“Shly charge it to your room or juh wanna pay cash?”
“I mean—what was it you called me?’”
She glanced at the card. “Mallory. That’s what the card here says, an’——”
He snatched it brusquely from her hand. “Wrong card,” he snapped making an effort to appear as though he were making an effort to appear unembarrassed. “Here’s my card. You may charge it to Suite F.”
He whirled and moved away, his manner denoting extreme irritation. The rather fullblown young lady stared after him. “Now ain’t he the pussy’s ankle?” she murmured reflectively. “Gets sore because he slips me the wrong card. That ain’t nothin’ to get peeved about.” An assistant manager drifted toward her counter. “Say, Gus—who’s the flossy bird with the gray thatch which just rambled away from here?”
The young gentleman shrugged. “I got worries of my own, Susie. What’s the matter—he been trying to date you up?”
“No. But he ordered a corsage sent up to some female an’ he slipped me the wrong card. I looks on the card an’ reads the name an’ I says ‘Shly charge it to your room, Mr. Mallory?’ an’ with that he like to of bit my head off. He just about gives me the bum’s rush gettin’ that pasteboard which he tears up right away. Then he slips me this one—Mr. Thomas Matlock Braden—I don’t see nothing to get excited about just because he slips me the wrong pasteboard, d’you? What difference does it make to me if his name’s Thomas Braden or Jared Mallory or what it is. I reckon neither of them handles is gonna start no war—Say! Gus—for the love of Mike, what’s eatin’ you? If you feel like that you’d ought to see a Doc.”
The ninth assistant manager put out a delicately restraining hand. “Jared Mallory?” he said half to himself.
Susie was annoyed. “Now listen at me, Gus—”
“I thought Braden wasn’t his name. Jared Mallory! Holy Suffering Catfish! Say, you ain’t sure about that, are you, Susie?”
Jim Hanvey, Detective Page 20