She shrugged her slender shoulders.
“But what is the matter with me? Force of habit, probably. Here I am through with any and every—ah—racket and I must start uncasing jobs I read about in the papers.”
She shook her head disapprovingly.
“Come, come, Madame! Enough of this! You must get about the permanent closing of the shoppe and then, as your acquaintances in the underworld so aptly put it—take it on the hot. Now the first thing to do, obviously, is to call——”
She reached for the gilded telephone on her desk.
But her hand was destined not to touch it at that moment, for from the shoppe came the low whine of a buzzer.
Like a striking snake the Madame whipped around in her chair as a heavily-veiled figure slunk furtively through the door that led in from the street.
As the figure moved uncertainly past the glass cases with their load of exotic bottles that lined the walls, casting quick, hunted glances over its shoulder, the Madame’s agile mind classified its impression of the visitor—woman, young, body trained in dancing or some other kindred profession. The latter gave her the clue she wanted and nodding her head imperceptibly she made a shrewd guess as to the woman’s identity.
The woman came hesitatingly toward the door of the inner office, her feet making no sound on the thick carpet of the floor.
Suddenly the woman stiffened, and stifled a shriek with her black-gloved hand.
From the street came a loud report.
The Madame’s nonchalant pose did not change. She had seen the heavy truck sweep past the door and had recognized the sound for what it was—a backfire. And to her already complete classification of her visitor the Madame added—in mortal terror of someone. But she was too shrewd to confuse her mind with suppositions as to the cause for the fear. That was the secret of the Madame’s success, she reasoned only from facts.
* * *
—
The woman came through the inner door and paused, undecided, beside the desk.
The Madame waited.
The visitor’s first words would answer one question, that of her identity, the Madame was sure. The heavy black veil hid her features completely and it was necessary that she speak to give the Madame her cue.
And it was as the Madame expected.
“You are the—the person known as the Madame?” the woman asked haltingly.
The Madame’s guess as to the woman’s identity proved correct as her answer showed.
“Yes, Miss Devine,” she said with a gracious inclination of the head. “Won’t you sit down?”
The visitor took a quick step backward, surprise and fear in the movement.
“But—but how did you know it was I?”
“It is my business to know such things, Miss Devine. But do sit down.” She indicated the slim-legged chair beside her desk. “I enjoyed your performance so much on Saturday night.”
The Madame’s visitor took the chair and thrust up her veil.
It was Dorothy Devine.
“Thank you,” she said from polite force of habit. “I am glad that you enjoyed my efforts. But it is a wonder that I was able to play any show at all. You see, I had—I had unwelcome callers and they frightened me nearly crazy.”
The actress hesitated.
“And you are still terrified of them,” the Madame supplied in a low, soothing tone. “Your entrance a moment ago showed that only too plainly. And if I may hazard a guess, it is of these same unwelcome callers that you have come to see me.”
Dorothy Devine nodded.
* * *
—
The Madame’s eyelids drew together, half filming the grey-blue eyes and turning the blue to a glinting, metallic grey; her lips compressed; her nostrils distended like a keen-nosed hunting dog that gets the first breath of scent. It was always that way with the Madame when she scented a problem against which she could pit her matchless mind. This savored of action, intrigue, complications. The ethics of the problem did not interest the Madame—whether it was a question of the weak menaced by the strong, or the lesser dog seeking to wrest its due from the greater—it was only the problem that counted.
She leaned forward.
“I am interested, Miss Devine.” The words dropped from her lips like tense, brittle bits of steel. “Please be perfectly frank and perhaps I may be able to help you.”
The actress moved uneasily in her chair, hesitated, and appeared finally to make up her mind.
“I have been told—er—Madame, that you have never violated a confidence.”
The Madame acknowledged the compliment perfunctorily, eager for the actress to speak.
“Please tell me what is troubling you, Miss Devine.”
Dorothy Devine rested an arm on the edge of the desk and looked the Madame in the eyes, every trace of the stage business gone.
“Blackmail!” she whispered.
“Ah!”
“And if it will not bore you, Madame, I will begin at the beginning and tell you everything.”
She did.
The Madame listened intently to the harrowing recital which began with the actress’s debut in the tent show, continued through her marriage, the death of her husband, the frame-up that sent her to jail and began the blackmail, and led finally to her interview with the man with the scar and his companion in the dressing-room.
“I swore to myself I would not do it, Madame!” Dorothy cried in a shaken voice. “But when the time came I did.” She looked up pleadingly. “Oh, if you could only understand how I have struggled for recognition—the recognition of the people that counted—not only the people of the theatre, but of society. And when I once got it I could not let it go—I could not!”
Her head dropped tiredly on her arm.
The Madame reached out a hand and stroked the shaking shoulders.
“I understand,” she said gently.
The actress raised her head.
“They promised that if I would do this one thing they would leave me alone for good. I should have known better. They are nothing but cheap crooks—scavengers. They wait for things to fall into their hands, that is why they are not well known to the police. They will only go after sure things. They read about my success in the papers and left a petty racket to come to New York and make me pay. They read about the Lacey-Smythe pearls in the paper, cased the job, and found it was simply too easy, the owners depending chiefly for protection on the fact that the safe was concealed. Once they learned its location there was nothing to it. The private guards did not count.”
She paused for breath.
“But what have they done now?” the Madame asked.
“They came to me this morning, directly I had returned from Long Island. They said that they would not be able to make satisfactory arrangements with the fence for a few days and demanded money to tide them over. They showed me Mrs. Lacey-Smythe’s pearls, and laughed in my face. But what could I do?”
Dorothy Devine spread her hands helplessly.
“They have bled me dry, Madame. My work is suffering, and so——”
“And so,” the Madame cut in, with a trace of amused irony, “you decided to set a thief to catch a thief.”
She waved the actress’s protest aside.
“And not such a bad idea at that, Miss Devine.”
The Madame sat back, smoothed her tawny hair reflectively, and gazed into space.
After what seemed an interminable period to the actress, the silence was broken.
“You wish to be permanently rid of these two men.” The Madame was thinking aloud. “And in so doing you must not, to their knowledge, appear, otherwise your secret would become known. That is to be avoided at all costs. Violence I will not tolerate, so”—she lapsed for a moment into the vernacular of the underworld at which she was adept—“burning
them down is out.”
She swung around quickly on the waiting woman.
“You say these men first put the finger on you when they were with you in the same can?”
“Yes.”
“Have they ever, to your knowledge, done time since?”
“Yes. Both of them. Three times, once for working a cheap con game on a farmer, once for a stick-up, and once for concealed weapons. Oh, I know their histories well.”
“Fine!” the Madame interrupted. “All felonies. Have you an understudy who could take your part—say for a week, if necessary?”
The actress showed her surprise.
“Y-es,” she answered.
“Good. How long have the men given you to produce the money?”
“Until tomorrow morning.”
The Madame drummed for a moment upon the polished top of the desk.
“Tell me, Miss Devine, is there a service entrance in the rear of your apartment building—I mean, one which you could slip out of without being seen?”
The rapid-fire of questions had completely tied the actress’s mental faculties in a knot.
“Why—why, I believe so,” she stammered.
“Good. Now, Miss Devine, go back to your apartment and answer neither doorbell or telephone until I call. You will know my call because the phone will ring three times and stop. Approximately three minutes later it will ring again three times and again stop. You will answer it when it rings once more after a three-minute interval. It will be I and I will tell you what to do next.”
Before the actress could express her thanks she found herself being ushered gently but firmly toward the outer door.
“Follow my instructions implicitly—and, by the way, stop at the theatre on your way home and pick up your make-up box. And now, please excuse me, for I shall be very busy.”
A moment later the door closed behind her and the actress found herself alone in the street.
* * *
—
The Madame returned to her desk, sat down and thumbed rapidly through the telephone book. Finding the number she sought, she reached for the telephone and gave it to the operator.
In a moment she was connected with her party.
“A-1 Realty Corporation?” she asked. “I am interested in renting a furnished apartment—somewhere in the West 90’s, near the Drive….Yes….Just a moment, while I note the address”—she scribbled rapidly on a pad—“I will call to inspect it this afternoon, and if it suits I wish to occupy it immediately. Good-bye.”
She hung up and once more consulted the pages of the telephone directory, found her number and gave it to the operator.
“Evening Gazette? I wish to speak to Jane Bradley, please…thank you…Miss Bradley?…I have never had the pleasure of your acquaintance, but I want to tell you how much I enjoyed your story of the Lacey-Smythe robbery”—she laughed softly, although the expression of her face did not change—“you are speaking to the person known as the Madame, possibly…oh, you have heard of me…I wondered, Miss Bradley, if you would care to be instrumental in the capture of the two persons responsible for the Lacey-Smythe robbery?…Splendid…could you call at Le Parfume Shoppe immediately?” She gave the address. “And it is understood that until you have seen me you are to say nothing about this call…good…I will be waiting for you…Good-bye.”
The Madame replaced the receiver on its hook.
* * *
—
Inside of half an hour Jane Bradley, police reporter for the Gazette, burst into the inner office of Le Parfume Shoppe. She was young, competent, and inclined toward beauty. But efficiently-cynical newspaper woman that she was, she was obviously awed at first in the presence of the famous Madame.
She was soon at her ease, however, and listened with increasing wonder as the Madame talked. In five minutes she was convinced.
“I’ll do it!” she exclaimed excitedly. “We can just make the next edition of this afternoon’s paper. And I’ll get ‘Big Dan’ Murray for the other part. He’s a young dick trying to get along. You’ll like him.”
“Good, Miss Bradley. Now listen——”
For five minutes more the Madame spoke, rapidly but without using a superfluous word, while the reporter took notes. When she finished, the girl sprang to her feet.
“I’ll rush right over and shove it in as is, Madame!” she cried, on her way to the door. “The rest of your directions will be carried out to the letter. I’ll wait in the city room for a call from you. And thanks awfully, Madame, you don’t know what this beat will mean to me. Cheerio.”
Less than an hour later the Madame was inspecting a furnished apartment at 493 West 97th Street. It was in a brownstone house, the first two floors, to be exact, and had been occupied for years by a somewhat eccentric widow. The furnishings were old and a bit antiquated, but it seemed to suit the Madame and she leased it on the spot, stipulating, however, that she be allowed to occupy it immediately. The permission was readily granted by the agent, who did not recognize the identity of his prospective tenant.
“And now I wish to telephone,” she remarked as she folded the receipt and slipped it into her bag.
“You may do so from this apartment, if you wish,” the agent suggested. “The telephone has been kept in service. It is in the library, and there is also an extension in the master bedroom on the second floor. Nothing has been touched here since the death of the owner.”
“Thank you.”
The agent complimented himself on a smooth piece of work and left.
The Madame hurried to the phone, took a watch from her bag and placed it beside the instrument, raised the receiver and gave the number. It was repeated by the operator, then came the faint purr that indicated that the bell at the other end of the wire was ringing. There was a pause, another purr, a pause, and a third purr. Halfway through it she hung up, glancing at the dial of the watch as she did so. Three minutes later she called again and the process was repeated.
At the end of another three-minute interval she again called the same number. Dorothy Devine’s voice answered almost immediately.
The Madame’s directions were brief and to the point. At their conclusion the actress repeated what was expected of her so there could be no slip.
“Good,” the Madame replied, “and don’t forget the address.”
The Madame had yet one more call to make, and this time when the receiver had clicked back upon its hook she rubbed her hands.
“If I do say it, Madame,” she remarked affably, “this is as fine a job of casing as you have ever done. The trap is set, now all we have to do is wait for the prey to smell the bait. It will be one grand job—if it works.”
* * *
—
It was ten o’clock that evening. Behind the drawn curtains of the library at 493 West 97th Street a fire glowed comfortably in the open grate. In its flickering light, for there was no other source of illumination, the ancient furniture cast grotesque moving shadows upon the dingy walls.
In a wing-chair, beside the fire sat a little frail old lady, looking, in her stiff silk dress with lace at the neck and wrists, as though she had stepped direct from a century-old painting. The lace cap on her head was scarcely whiter than the hair beneath and served to throw the transparent, wrinkled face under it into shadow.
From time to time the little old lady turned half around in her chair and glanced apprehensively to where the seeking fingers of ruddy light from the fireplace fell upon a squat, bulky object against the opposite wall that reflected the soft rays in sharp, alien glimmerings.
It was a small safe, obviously new.
And as the little old lady in the chair sat watching it a door at the far end of the room opened and a maid as old and bent and fragile as herself entered bearing a tray. Her uniform would have brought a snicker to the modern variety of servant, b
ut it blended in perfectly with its present surroundings.
The maid came forward with the tiny, fumbling steps of the very aged, and placed the tray on a low table beside her mistress.
“Your tea and toast, Ma’am, and a newspaper with an article about the diamonds,” she quavered.
Handing a folded copy of the last edition of the Gazette to her mistress, she pointed to the headlines:
LACEY-SMYTHE GEM ROBBERY BAFFLES POLICE
All Clues Fail
By Jane Bradley
For an instant their eyes met with a twinkle, as though they shared an amusing secret.
“The first part of the article is about that horrible business on Long Island. It’s the last few paragraphs”—the maid indicated them with a pointing finger—“that’s about the diamonds, Ma’am.”
While the ancient maid poured the tea from an old-fashioned pot the little old lady read:
The ease with which the Lacey-Smythe pearls were stolen reveals a shocking condition which is prevalent throughout greater New York, where many thousands of dollars’ worth of gems are nightly placed behind even less trustworthy safeguards.
Many instances of such carelessness could be cited, but probably the most flagrant of these is the case of the famous Musgrave diamonds.
The Musgrave diamonds, a necklace of twenty flawless stones totaling several hundreds of carats in weight, have long been kept by their owner, Mrs. Elvira P. Musgrave, in a secret compartment of a secretary in the library of her residence at 493 West 97th Street.
This necklace, while not as well known as some of the more historic collections resting in the guarded vaults of the larger jewelers’ shops, is nevertheless of tremendous real and sentimental value to Mrs. Musgrave, as the stones were collected in all parts of the world by her late husband.
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 212