“The whole works, huh? What’s it feel like to be masqueradin’ under your right name?”
“Pretty good, Jim; pretty good. I’ve retired on my income.”
“Quit the game?”
“Entirely.”
“That’s fine, Tommy—fine. I’m tickled pink to know it. I always like to see a crook with sense enough to know when he’s got plenty. There ain’t nothin’ like honesty, my boy, when you’ve made all the money you need.”
“That’s what I figured, Jim. There wasn’t any use for me to continue running risks.…Of course I’m not what you’d call a rich man, but then I’m pretty well fixed. And not being tied up with a frail, it don’t cost me much.…You know how it is.”
“Sure, Tommy—I know.” Jim blinked with friendly approval upon the other. “Dog-gone if you don’t look like a million dollars ready money, Son. Silk shirt, trick pants an’ everything. Say, what is there to this golf thing that makes sensible men dress funny thataway?”
“Ever played?”
“Naw! Imagine an elephant like me chasin’ a dinky little ball over the meadows.”
“Better men than you have fallen for it.”
“Sure; I know that. But it’s my figger, Son. The links wouldn’t stand for it.”
Jim turned and walked with Braden toward the hotel. Tommy was ill-at-ease despite the apparent ease of his manner. Jim’s face bore an expression of bovine contentment; he looked like a child—or a simpleton. Tommy knew that he was not a good man to have around, and yet he was afraid to protest too fervently that he was now treading the path of rectitude. Yet his curiosity shrieked for appeasement.
“Funny to see you here, Jim.”
“Me? I reckon it is. I’ve been some awful funny places, Tommy.”
“Vacation?”
“Uh-huh. An’ I just naturally got sick of lowbrow joints. Besides, a lot of the big boys in your line of work drift by here during the season, and so I thought I’d try this seven-forks-dinner stuff for a while. Guy never gets too old to learn, you know. Of course I ain’t like you—you’re a gent an’ you fit. I’ll bet you wear a movie screen shirt64 for dinner, eh?”
“Yes. Everybody does here.”
“But one. Say: ’jever see me in evenin’ duds? No? Honest, I look like next week’s wash hangin’ out.”
“Doesn’t exactly fit your style of beauty?”
“No. I reckon when the good Lord gimme a knack of rememberin’ faces an’ understanding human nature, He figgered His part was done. If faces was fortunes I’d be bankrupt.”
They attained the ornate lobby where, at the desk, Tommy secured the key to his suite. “Come up, Jim?”
“Uh-uh. Got to stroll around: exercise, the Doc says. Gosh! how I hate it. See you later, Tommy. Awful glad you’ve turned straight.”
“Nothing like it, Jim. I never thought I could run across you like this and feel safe.”
“Shuh! I wouldn’t bother you none.”
But despite outward appearances, Tommy Braden was uneasy. It wasn’t that he was in any way connected with Jim’s visit to this particular resort but rather that Jim’s proximity was unhealthy for any gentleman who was upon transgression bent.
Certainly there was no safety in continued procrastination. He had the Morses just about where he wanted them and he figured that the best thing he could do was to sell them the pearls and make his get-away. He knew there’d be no particular trouble—
There wasn’t. They dined with him that night, only Tommy being aware of the hulking lonely figure which munched by itself in a secluded corner of the dining room. Edgar Morse was radiant: he was exuberant over his record-breaking golf score and as the dinner progressed he went over for the dozenth time every shot from the first tee to the eighteenth cup. Tommy warmed up considerably. He even unbent so far as to say that Edgar was the first genuinely congenial person he had met in years. He hoped that their acquaintanceship might not perish when they parted, and—Oh! yes, he was leaving in a few days. He wished that there was something he might do to indicate to Mr. and Mrs. Morse the depth of his appreciation for the pleasure their society had afforded.
He correctly interpreted the eager glance which passed between husband and wife. “There is,” burst out Edgar, then bit his lip in embarrassment: “Er—a—that is, I was just thinking—I’m kind of crazy, I guess, and——”
“What is it, Morse? Anything in my power…You see, I have few real friends. I am more or less well fixed in a financial way, and in such a position one becomes distrustful of persons who protest friendship.…Tell me what you were thinking.”
“I can’t—really. ’Tisn’t possible.”
“Indeed it is.”
“No. Can’t.”
Tommy beamed upon Ella Morse. “What is it, Mrs. Morse? Certainly we are sufficiently intimate to permit frankness.”
She flushed. “Not to that extent.”
“Pshaw! If there’s any favor—”
“Well, it’s this,” exploded Morse. “If you wouldn’t get sore—that is, if you understood—but of course I can’t ask you because they mean more to you than just what they mean and—that is, it isn’t like you just had them, and—Oh! damn it! I’ve got myself all balled up!”
Tommy frowned slightly. “I judge you have reference to my pearls?”
“No! No! Certainly not. That is, I didn’t go to pull a bone, and—”
Mrs. Morse leaned across the table. “Yes, Mr. Braden, he does mean your pearls. He’s embarrassed because we both realize that it is utterly out of the question to even suggest that you part with them, and——”
Tommy lay back in his chair. He had an infectious laugh and he now injected the full radiance of a pleasing personality in the laughter and good-humored glance he bestowed upon them. “So that’s it, eh? Well, well, well! You folks certainly are funny. What in the world should cause you embarrassment about wanting to buy my pearls? Of course you want to own them. I’d be rather hurt if they didn’t impress you with a desire for ownership. Why man! man! I’m complimented.”
Morse was beaming. “Dog-gone if you’re not the finest fellow I ever met. You see, pearls like those are something that can’t be bought from a jeweler…and we both love ’em. We’re not strong for diamonds and platinum and stuff like that. Pearls—they’re classy and rich—and all such as that. And of course from the first minute we saw them we got to thinking how swell it would be if Ella could own them…that is, some just like ’em.”
“There aren’t any just like them.”
“Sure! We know that. Gosh! as if we didn’t! Now if you were broke or something I’d have offered to buy them—but money doesn’t mean anything to you, and—”
Tommy’s face had grown serious. He spoke with a rich tremolo effect. “You really want them that much?”
“Want them! Holy smokes! man, you don’t know!”
“Very well. I hope you’ll permit me to present them to Mrs. Morse.”
For a moment there was silence. Morse and his wife stared aghast at this man who offered as a gift a priceless rope of matched pearls.
“Give ’em——”
“Mr. Braden! I couldn’t!”
“Certainly you could, Mrs. Morse. You and your husband have afforded me an extremely delightful vacation. It would be a pleasure to present those pearls to you. After all, their intrinsic worth is not to be measured against friendship.”
They were dumbfounded. And at length Edgar Morse started to argue. He was overwhelmed by his friend’s generosity, but of course it was out of the question for him to accept such a gift. On the other hand if his friend was willing to part with them at all, he would do both an inestimable favor by permitting him to pay for them—any price which Mr. Braden chose to ask; any price at all.
“I’d rather give them to you, Mr. Morse.”
“Can’
t be done—impossible. Entirely impossible. But if you’d only let me pay you.…”
“You positively will not accept them as a gift?”
“Positively.”
“I’m sorry. Very sorry. But if you put it that way, I agree to sell them to you. You may have them for just what they cost me—seventy-five thousand dollars.”
Morse’s voice trembled with emotion. “That’s wonderful of you, Mr. Braden—wonderful. And I realize that we shall remain indebted to you beyond words. The trouble you’ve taken…the love you have for them.…”
“Let’s don’t talk about them any more, Morse. I shall get the pearls from the safe tomorrow and give them to you.” He smiled slightly. “And if you should change your mind during the night and be willing to accept them as a gift, I hope you will let me know.”
But they did not change their minds. Instead they talked until far into the morning hours of this Genie…this gentleman who, for reasons quite his own, masqueraded under the name of Thomas Matlock Braden.
Nor did Tommy Braden immediately drop off into slumber. He donned dressing gown and slippers and sat by an open window staring out into the night. Tommy was exceedingly well pleased with himself. He had operated adroitly…certainly there was no hint of suspicion in the minds of his victims. There was a profit of seventy thousand dollars in the transaction, no mean addition to his bank account.
The presence of Jim Hanvey in the hotel was less disturbing now. Tommy smiled at the prospect of some day telling Jim of the deal which had been consummated under his very nose…he knew Jim intimately and realized that he would see the humor of the situation. There was something irresistibly funny in the thought that this profit should have been turned within a hundred feet of the one detective in the world for whom Braden held a wholesome respect.
Tommy was up early the next morning. The nearness of his triumph begot a shakiness of nerves which was not unnatural. Matters had moved along like well-oiled machinery from the outset. There had been no single hitch to beget doubt or worriment.
“Hey! Tommy!”
Braden stopped short to gaze into the expressionless countenance of Jim Hanvey. The elephantine detective was smiling vacuously.
“’Lo Jim. Taking a beauty stroll?”
“Uh-huh. Pretty country around here, ain’t it?”
“Beautiful.”
“Walkin’ my way, Tommy?”
Braden’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t, but—“Yes,” he said and they moved off together; Braden tall and slender and handsome, Hanvey short and thickset and shapeless; a human pudding in a serge sack. It was the detective who spoke first and his tone was mildly reproving.
“Thought you told me you wasn’t up to nothing around here, Tommy.”
“I’m not.” With simulated indignation.
“Then how does it happen that everybody in the hotel thinks you are Jared Mallory?”
Braden threw back his head and gave an excellent imitation of carefree laughter. “That’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened to me, Jim. You know I don’t look unlike Mallory—”
“No-o, you don’t. But on the other hand you and him ain’t no twins.”
“Exactly. But the first or second day I was here somebody started the rumor that I was Mallory and there wasn’t any stopping the thing.”
“You ain’t been trying very hard to, have you?”
“No. Frankly. It amused me to be mistaken for him.”
“No—er—reason?”
“Certainly not, Jim. No one has told you that I ever admitted being Mallory, have they?”
“No-o. They haven’t—that’s right, Tommy.”
“Well, then——” virtuously. “What more could you ask? I’m registered as Thomas Matlock Braden and you know that is my true name. To folks who have quizzed me on this Mallory stuff I’ve insisted that Braden is my name. My baggage is marked with the initials T. M. B. which couldn’t possibly be twisted to stand for Jared Mallory. It certainly isn’t my fault, Jim, if a lot of fool people choose to believe I’m someone I’m not, is it?”
“No. I reckon it ain’t, Tommy. Of course you can’t blame me for thinking it funny—when I heard folks saying that you was Mallory. It looked kind of queer.”
Tommy dropped an affectionate hand on Jim’s shoulder. “You can’t help being suspicious of everybody, can you, Jim? Why, dog-gone your time, I’ve been running straight for so long it’s a habit. That’s why I didn’t even use an alias down here. Goodness knows a fellow can’t come any cleaner than to drop a dozen other names and use his own, can he?”
Jim nodded heavily and blinked with interminable slowness. “I feel a heap relieved, Tommy. I sure would hate to see you try to pull something—and I’m glad we had this little talky-talk. Hope you ain’t sore at me for thinking maybe there was something queer.”
“Not at all, Jim; not in the least. Wouldn’t have been natural if you hadn’t.”
Braden moved away, his last impression of Jim Hanvey was of an abnormally heavy man staring at him through glassy eyes. Against the background of rusty serge he saw a set of fat fingers toying idly with a gleaming gold toothpick.…“Poor Jim. He’s a hound once they give him the scent but he is so anxious to believe that every crook is honest.…”
In his room again, Braden telephoned the Morses. Edgar Morse answered and made an appointment for three o’clock that afternoon. The pearls were mentioned: Tommy repeated his offer to present them to his friend. Morse was grateful, but yet found it impossible to accept so valuable a gift. He assured Braden once more that there would be no less an obligation despite the payment of a sizeable sum of money. Tommy was relieved.
The morning dragged endlessly. Braden took his driver, midiron and a dozen balls and went to the practice tee where for an hour he slashed out clean, straight shots averaging more than two hundred yards in length. Golfer though he was, he experienced no thrill from the direct, cleaving flight of the balls: he was sufficiently a golfer to know that if his mind were not elsewhere the golfing results would be less satisfactory.
His lunch was tasteless. His eye quested through the huge dining room for a glimpse of Edgar Morse and his wife. They were nowhere to be seen. He knew that they were either lunching in the grill or out driving. The hands of his watch progressed with exasperating slowness. He feared that something might go wrong at the eleventh hour…occasionally he touched the leather case in the inside pocket of his coat.…
But he did not permit his impatience to cause a tactical blunder. It was fully ten minutes past the hour of his appointment when he rapped upon the door of the Morses’ suite. Edgar answered in person. The eyes of the little man were a-gleam with eagerness. One glance at Morse and Mrs. Morse convinced Tommy that all was well. They were effusive; couldn’t thank him enough for his generous offer of the previous evening and they hoped that he hadn’t changed his mind—and that he wouldn’t later regret having sold the pearls.
A paen of triumph sang in Braden’s heart. He extracted the pearls from his pocket and snapped the case open. Mrs. Morse gasped. He lifted the rope of pearls and personally fastened them about her throat. She was almost tearful with excitement.
Edgar Morse produced a pocket check book. “And now if you will permit me, Mr. Braden—I—er—believe seventy-five thousand is the amount you mentioned.”
Tommy nodded. “Yes. That is exactly what they cost me.”
Edgar Morse held his pen poised. Rich color flooded his cheeks. He hemmed and hawed for a moment and then—
“I hope you’ll pardon me, sir—but how shall I make this check out?”
Tommy frowned. “What’s that?”
“How shall I make it out—that is, er—to whose order?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Well, I mean—you know there’s the idea around the hotel—that is, about Jared Mallory, and—”
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Tommy’s voice was crisp. “Just make the check out to Thomas M. Braden.”
Morse nodded and wrote swiftly. He extended to Tommy a check for seventy-five thousand dollars payable to Thomas M. Braden and drawn upon the Loop National Bank of Chicago. “I didn’t mean to give any offense, Braden. Of course you understand what I thought—that is, other folks were saying—”
“Quite all right, Morse; that’s perfectly all right. I have really been exceedingly annoyed by this silly idea that Braden is not my name.” He folded the check and slipped it casually in his pocket. “By the way, are we golfing in the morning? I was hitting them mighty cleanly in practice today.”
Alone in his room again Tommy inspected the check. Veteran though he was, his heart was pounding. He had played cunningly for big stakes and had won a well-deserved victory. There remained nothing for him to do but pack up and get away; then to convert Morse’s check into cash and disappear. He decided upon a European trip; Paris had not known him for several years and he longed for the sensuous pleasures of the Boulevards.…He ripped open the drawers of his dresser and the doors of his chifforobe:65 the task of packing promised to make up in speed what it may have lacked in neatness.
Of course he knew that he must manage his going away carefully. Morse must not know that he was hastening his departure…he’d carry one suitcase and send back for the trunks the next day, or else eliminate them from his scheme of things. The important task was to place a maximum of distance between himself and his victims in a minimum of time. He worked feverishly at his packing, pausing occasionally to glance at the check which had recently been handed him. He was a trifle sorry for the Morses, but, he figured that they could well afford to lose the money…nor would it prove a loss unless by some mischance the pearls should be recognized and there seemed little likelihood of that. Certainly the Morses did not move on a social plane where they were likely to meet persons familiar with the Vanduyn pearls. They might, of course, boast that they had purchased the pearls from Jared Mallory and news of this might reach that gentleman which, in all probability, would start something. But, in so far as Tommy could figure, no one was suffering through the transaction. What injury had been inflicted upon the Vanduyns had been done long ago.
Jim Hanvey, Detective Page 22