A moment later he had drawn the desk telephone to his side. He looked up a number in the telephone book. He raised the receiver. He dialed the number. And within the space of possibly ten seconds he was connected with the Reggie van Twillingham residence on Astor Street — he was talking with Reggie van Twillingham’s private secretary — he was making an appointment with grim earnestness between himself and Reggie van Twillingham for that afternoon. Kate Barwick should demonstrate the man-trap!
CHAPTER XVIII
MR. REGGIE VAN TWILLINGHAM AND THE SPORTING PROPOSITION
TO CARSON, seated in his office, the smooth voice of Reggie van Twillingham’s secretary came over the wire from Astor Street, two miles northward.
“Yes,” he was saying, “as I have just stated, Mr. van Twillingham has been interviewing applicants all day since his return from the East, but he is highly dissatisfied with the class of ideas submitted to him. The applicants for the prize do not seem to grasp his idea. And he leaves for Honolulu tonight.”
“For Honolulu!” said Carson. “Tonight?”
“Yes,” said the van Twillingham secretary. “He and Mrs. van Twillingham have adjusted their — er — difficulties. But I would prefer to refer you to tonight’s newspaper articles on that subject. As to his departure for Honolulu, however, they leave together at midnight tonight on their private car to the coast, thence by steamer across the Pacific.”
Carson thought very hard for a moment. “Well now, how soon can you give me an appointment with Mr. van Twillingham? I think I can interest him in exactly what he is searching for.”
“At four-fifteen,” replied the secretary promptly, after apparently consulting a notepad at his desk.
“Thank you,” said Carson. “I’ll be there. Clifford Carson is the name.” And with this he hung up. He lost no time in raising the receiver once more and ringing up Cary Desmond’s Oak Street quarters. He felt fortunate when he heard that young man’s tones on the wire. “Cary,” he told the other without any preliminaries, “we’re in a bad pickle.” He glanced back over his shoulder. The absence of his stenographer and her empty box of carbon paper showed that she had gone downstairs to replenish her stock. He was free to speak quite openly. “Cary, your father, instead of having been found to be alive, is not alive after all. Worse — we’ve lost a chance for you and Marcia to make two thousand dollars on that deal which we deliberately killed on Smock. Still worse — that money — that big sum — you know what I refer to? — yes, that gold note with which you paid off your promissory note to me — is stolen money. No, don’t get alarmed so far as your accounts at the Mid-West Trust go. You’re safe and all in the clear. It’s only poor me that’s getting it in the neck — because I haven’t fully completed settling on that helium stock yet, and — well — I can’t honorably complete settlement now that I know the facts. So I am done here, after all, I guess. However, let that pass. Now I can’t explain all this over the phone, Cary, but the facts I’ve just given you mean that if ever we had to sell your man-trap to van Twillingham in exchange for his twenty-five thousand dollar prize, now is the moment. We’ve robbed Peter to pay Paul. And we’ve only half paid Paul in the bargain!”
Cary seemed stunned trying to digest the facts Carson had just delivered in Gatling-gun order. At last he found his tongue, but carefully followed the older man’s lead by not attempting to discuss the matter over the telephone. “Have — have you made an appointment?” he asked dumbly.
“I have,” was Carson’s prompt retort, “and I’m going to try and do the salesman act for you. Just now I want some quick information. When you took the measurements for the castings for your man-trap, you took them from that old safe of Granddad’s, didn’t you?”
“Every one,” replied Cary quickly. “I liked the graceful proportions of that old safe put out by Amos Todd and Sons; so I repeated every dimension in my own drawings. The outside ones only, of course you understand.”
“Yes. I understand. That’s all I wanted to know,” Carson returned. “They struck me as being very similar in size and shape, but I wanted to make sure. Now in your opinion, Cary, if the two safes were inspected close together there isn’t much to show the difference between them, is there?”
“Only this,” the younger man replied authoritatively. “Each safe has a two-circle dial on it, but the dial on mine is about a half-inch larger in diameter than the one on Granddad’s. Then, too, my safe has no lettering on it, while Grandfather’s had the old red and gold manufacturer’s emblem of Amos Todd and Sons painted on it near the top of the door.”
“I see. As to the difference in the dials, it would hardly be noticed if each safe were seen only by itself. Now as to the lettering. Do you think that Marcia is adept enough with her brushes to paint in — to reproduce — that Amos Todd and Sons trademark on your man-trap — within an hour’s time?”
“I’ve no doubt of it,” said Cary. “Marcia’s a wiz at lettering and such work. She could trace them, on the other hand. And if you want a hand-painted letter that looks old, she knows how to camouflage it beautifully. She should have been in the phony antique business. But I don’t understand all this, Cliff. What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you as soon as I see you,” responded Carson. “The first thing for you to do is to get home to St. Giles Lane. Get Marcia up and wait my telephone call. We’ve got to work hard now. I’ll explain everything when I get out there.”
And off he went without a moment’s further delay to Astor Street, and Reggie van Twillingham, the man who had inherited fifty million dollars from the estate of his father, old Derk van Twillingham.
The van Twillingham residence was a building of bluish-greystone, five full stories in height, its entire front unmarred by a single bay window, each one of its latticed casements bearing its blue shade. It was, beyond doubt, a reproduction on a very grand and expensive scale of a simple Greenwich Village dwelling. A tall iron fence with great pointed spikes cut off the very narrow green lawn of three or four feet in width, from the sidewalk; and two pretty little green trees in wooden pots stood on either side of the low flight of stone steps leading upward to two forbiddingly tall and brass-knockered front doors. It was indeed a piece of old New York re-created in a very modern part of a modern city.
The door was opened by a butler, grey around the ears; and he in turn led Carson to a room, a library, fitted with leather chairs and books in rich bindings, where a round-faced young man with black hair parted in the middle sat at a desk, thumbing over some papers.
“Mr. Clifford Carson,” the butler announced. And withdrew.
“I am Oscar Heberling, Mr. van Twillingham’s secretary,” said the young man arising. He motioned to a seat, and as soon as Carson had dropped into it he politely resumed his own. “Now, Mr. Carson, from our telephone conversation you are here in response to Mr. van Twillingham’s offer of twenty-five thousand dollars for a safe, or the idea for a safe which no safe-cracker can open without exterminating himself. Several questions I must ask of you before hand. First, is this idea of yours patented? If it is, of course — ”
“It is not,” said Carson abruptly. “There is a complete working model of the idea, but through the carelessness of its inventor it has never yet been put through the patent office.”
“Has it been through any patent attorney’s hands?”
Carson shook his head.
“How many people know the secret of it?”
“Only three people: the inventor, Mr. Cary Desmond, who is my foster-brother; his sister, who is shortly to become my wife; and myself.”
“That is good,” smiled Mr. Heberling. “The idea is strictly in the family then, isn’t it?” He paused thinking. “Now, Mr. Carson, I have asked these questions a good many times today, for the reason that the degree in which the idea has failed to be exploited has a weight in itself with Mr. van Twillingham as to its desirability. Numerous applicants have assured me that conditions surrounding their idea or their invention fulfilled t
his desideratum, but all have failed more or less to grasp Mr. van Twillingham’s requirements as to the idea itself. In fact he is getting very piqued at the unsatisfactory way in which inventors have reacted to his offer, and I am frank to say that an hour ago he was almost on the verge of withdrawing that offer entirely and ordering me to send all further applicants away.”
“May I ask,” Carson put in pleasantly, “whether Mr. van Twillingham has incorporated the conditions of his contest in any form-letters to safe manufacturers, mechanics, or mechanical model manufacturing firms?”
“Why yes — he has,” returned Mr. Heberling curiously. “We solicited an entire list of mechanics. But why do you ask?”
“Well,” retorted Carson with a more or less impersonal gesture of his hands, “I don’t like to speak of unpleasant things, but you have technically inaugurated a prize contest and used the mails to advertise it, and Mr. van Twillingham will have to award the prize ultimately to someone — otherwise he is guilty of using the mails to defraud in a prize contest. You may refer to the Post Office Department regulations, if you feel any doubt about my statement.”
Mr. Heberling gave a worried frown, stroking his chin unhappily. “By George, but you are right. That never occurred to either of us.” He brightened up. “Well, Mr. van Twillingham certainly doesn’t want to go to Leavenworth Prison. But aside from that, he is more than glad to comply with his own requirements. All he wants is something that really warrants the prize.” He paused, thinking hard. Then he looked up. “Well, of course I am going to take you up to him, for you are the first man who has been here today who hasn’t looked like a crank of some kind. Now I want to specify a few matters for you first. As you know, Mrs. van Twillingham, acting very unwisely on the advice of attorneys who were more anxious to secure fees than an honorable adjustment of marital misunderstandings, was induced to include in her counter-bill for divorce an allegation to the effect that Mr. van Twillingham had tried to bring about her — er — demise with a so-called man-trap. Mr. van Twillingham feels this very keenly. Mr. van Twillingham has, in fact, been robbed twice of valuable family heirlooms and jewelry of the sort which are in constant demand for functions attended by him and Mrs. van Twillingham, and which, therefore, cannot be kept in a downtown safety box. In the first instance burglars blew open his safe; in the second they cut a huge hole in the safe door with an oxy-hydrogen flame jet and released the mechanism. Now his offer is and has been a truly bona fide offer — for he feels that he has been made the laughing stock of the crook world. Incidentally, however, it is a condition of his offer that any sum he shall pay an inventor for such an impregnable safe shall be made into a legitimate newspaper story — photographs of the check — and so forth and so on — thus making it quite evident to the public that Mr. van Twillingham has indeed been anxious to secure a safe that shall be a man-trap. Do you, or does your party, stand willing, other things being settled, to be involved in this publicity?”
“My foster-brother whom I represent,” replied Carson with a half smile, “would have no objection whatsoever to allowing the public and the press to know that his inventive faculty had earned the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars from Mr. van Twillingham, and would be only too glad to make affirmation to the Post Office Department that he had actually received the award money, and to exhibit the check and give interviews as well to every newspaper in town.”
“Limited interviews,” cautioned the secretary, “because Mr. van Twillingham is offering a sum sufficiently great that those with whom he deals can afford by it not only to sign over all rights to the idea, but to retain that secret for all time.” He leaned back in his chair. “I have argued to Mr. van Twillingham that this latter proviso is not one which he can enforce and which in all likelihood will not be lived up to, but Mr. van Twillingham, not having had to combat the elements of improbity in the business world with which his father was forced to contend in order to accumulate the van Twillingham estate, remains blissfully naïve with respect to this human weakness.” The round-faced Mr. Heberling, after his long and carefully picked speech, smoothed back the hair from his unruffled brow.
“As to the proviso,” Carson said pointedly, “I am sorry that I cannot assure you definitely and completely on that point, but I can only say that, being honorable men, when my foster-brother and I sell a secret, the secret is sold for good.”
“I believe you,” said Mr. Heberling benignly. “I will now take you to Mr. van Twillingham.”
He led the way into the outer hall and up a great stairway with carpet on it an inch thick, banister posts hand-carved and polished to a high degree, tall Chinese carvings and bizarre weapons on the walls of the landings, and a red plush cord three inches thick linking the banister posts as a railing. On the door of a second-floor room, he tapped. A voice bade him enter, and as the door opened Carson found himself in the presence of two men, one, by his black and white habiliments, obviously a valet or sub-butler, the other Reginald van Twillingham, the man who possessed a fortune of fortunes.
Reggie van Twillingham stood surveying four great wardrobe trunks with wide-swung doors, beautiful creations in green leather with massive, highly polished brass corners. His was a long, lean aristocratic face, a face intelligent to a high degree, but the face of a man who had never done much work other than bunt a polo ball about a field. He was clad in a brown suit of rich cut, a pair of hornshell glasses hung from a cord of black silk fixed to the plaid vest of rich material, perfectly manicured and polished nails graced the slender fingers, and long shoes with tips like needles adorned his patrician feet. His hair was lightly greyed about the temples, and in the straight-gazing eyes was a look of keenness that to one who knew old Chicago might have suggested the eyes of old Derk van Twillingham who had made a fortune in everything from pottery to real estate.
“Mr. van Twillingham,” said Mr. Heberling, appreciably awed in the presence of his master, “I am afraid that we cannot withdraw that offer, as we were contemplating, for I happen to have learned today that there are some Post Office regulations which provide, under some sort of criminal penalty, that when the mails have been used to advertise a contest the prize money must be awarded to somebody. However, since we have a genuine contest here, it does not seem to me this should greatly matter.” He now indicated Carson. “This gentleman here is Mr. Clifford Carson of the Government Bureau for the Investigation of Fraudulent Mining Stocks. He is shortly to become the brother-in-law of one Mr. Cary Desmond, and in the latter’s behalf wishes to enter an idea in the prize competition.”
“Sit down,” said Reggie van Twillingham. He nodded to his secretary. “You can go, Oscar.” He turned to the valet. “You also, Rolfe. I’ll call you when we’re ready to start the packing.”
As the round-faced Mr. Heberling went out, followed by the obsequious valet, a door connecting with the room adjoining opened, and a blond girl with beautifully coiffured yellow-golden hair, a string of pearls around her white throat, and a face in which could be seen elements of character which demanded more or less pampering and petting of its owner, partly entered the room. She stood with her hand on the door knob. “Oh — I beg your pardon for interrupting,” she said in Carson’s direction. She turned toward her husband. “Reg, honey,” she asked, “just exactly what time is it now that our private car is to pull out of the Northwestern depot?”
“Twelve-five tonight, sweetheart,” said Mr. van Twillingham who just a few days before had been spending a thousand dollars a day to fight “sweetheart” in the divorce courts. “I couldn’t get the general manager to hold off a moment longer, my love.” He paused. “Are you still quite sure, darling, that you don’t want to fly? I can get a tri-motored plane at the Grey Goose field that will carry trunks, bags and baggage, and us included, and that will put us on the coast by — ”
“Oh — no, no, no, darling,” Dolly van Twillingham replied hastily. “I simply won’t enter one of those things, honey, not if it’s got a dozen motors. I never will ge
t into the Flying Age with the rest of you, I guess.” She paused, thinking. “No, your twelve-five special train is just right for me. Helen gets back from Atlantic City late tonight, and that will just give me the chance to see her before we start for Honolulu.” She blew him a kiss, and Reggie van Twillingham bowed low before the goddess of his palatial home. Then he turned to Carson and, motioning him to an over-stuffed armchair, took a seat himself on a similar piece of furniture.
“Now to be frank with you, Mr. Carson, I’ve had a lot of bally crazy ideas presented to me today — so many impracticable ones that I’d just about decided to cut out my offer — at least till my secretary just now outlined the United States mails angle of the case. So I guess I will have to give the prize to somebody — but it’s got to be the somebody with the best idea. I’ve got that much right, I believe, despite all the Postal regulations in the world.” He paused. “As my secretary has probably told you, I’m really anxious to get a device that will kill” — he curled up his aristocratic lips into a fierce piratical facial distortion — ”that will kill any bloody bounder that tries again what the beggars have been trying in the past. Likewise I want to dissolve as much as possible the imputation against me which Doll — er — Mrs. van Twillingham’s — lawyers induced her to insert in her bill for — er — you’ve read the papers? Drat ‘em. Bloodsuckers all of ‘em!”
“That’s about the size of it,” agreed Carson amicably. “Lawyers are frequently out for the money alone — and the newspapers one and all are always for sensation.”
Van Twillingham nodded vehemently. A pause followed. “Well then, Mr. Carson,” he said, “suppose you give me an outline of your idea. You’ll have to trust me, of course. If it doesn’t strike me I’ll tell you so; and if it’s what I can use, I’m ready to pay for it.”
The Riddle of the Yellow Zuri Page 24