“You’re caught unless you give up that necklace. There’s a Central Office man outside. I brought him. Pass me the jewels. It’s your only chance!”
“Very good, sir,” replied Wilkins without moving a muscle.
The guests were still discussing excitedly Miss Benson‘s loss. McAllister’s thoughts flew back to the time when, locked in the same cell, he and Wilkins had eaten their frugal meal together. He could never bring himself now to give him up to that detective fellow—that ubiquitous and omniscient ass! But Wilkins was approaching with the entrée. As he passed the vol au vent he unostentatiously slipped something in a handkerchief into McAllister’s lap.
“May I go now, sir?” he asked almost inaudibly.
“Have you taken anything else?” inquired his master.
“Nothing.”
“On your honor as a gentleman——’s gentleman?”
Wilkins smiled tremulously.
“Hon my onor, Mr. McAllister.”
“Then, go!—You seem to have a penchant for pearls,” McAllister added half to himself, as he clasped in his hand the famous necklace. Common humanity to Miss Benson demanded his instant declaration of its possession, but the thought of Wilkins, who had slipped unobtrusively through the door, gave him pause. Let the poor chap have all the time he could get. He’d probably be caught, anyway. Just a question of a few days at most. And what a chance to get even on the Baron!
But meanwhile the service had halted. The butler, a sedate person with white mutton-chops, after waiting nervously a few minutes, started to pass the roast himself.
Miss Benson had been prevailed upon to finish her meal, and after dinner they were all going to have a grand hunt, everywhere. Afterward, if the necklace was not discovered, they would send for a detective from New York.
Suddenly two pistol shots rang out just beside the window. Men’s voices were raised in angry shouts. A horse attached to some sort of vehicle galloped down the road. The guests started to their feet. A violent struggle was taking place outside the dining-room door. McAllister sprang up just in time to see the Baron break away from Blair’s coachman and cover him with his pistol. The jehu threw up his hands. He was a sorry spectacle, collarless, and without his coat. Damp earth clung to his lower limbs and his defiant eyes glowed under tousled hair, while a bloody, swollen nose protruded between them.
“Here! What’s all this?” shouted Blair. “Put up that pistol! Who are you, sir?” Then the host rubbed his eyes and looked again.
“By George! It’s the Baron!” yelled Wainwright.
“The Baron! The Baron!” exclaimed the others.
“Baron—nothin’!” gasped Barney, still covering the coachman, while with the other hand he tried to rearrange his neckwear. “I’m Conville of the Central Office, and this man has aided in an escape. I’m arrestin’ him for felony!”
The detective’s own features had evidently made a close acquaintance with mother earth, and one sleeve was torn almost to the shoulder. His eye presently fell upon McAllister, and he gave vent to an exclamation of bewilderment.
“You! You! How did you get out of that wagon so quick? I’ve got you now, anyway!” And he shifted his gun in McAllister’s direction. The women shrieked and crowded back into the dining-room.
The coachman, who had not dared to remove his eyes from the detective, now began to jabber hysterically.
“Hi think ’e’s mad, I do, Mr. Blair! Hi think we all are! First hout comes Mr. McAllister, whom I brought from the station only an ’our ago an’ says as ’ow ’e must go back at once to New York. So I ’arnesses up Lady Bird in the spyder an’ sends Jeames to put hon ’is livery. Just as Jeames comes back an’ Mr. McAllister jumps in, hout comes this party ’ere an’ yells somethin’ about Welch an’ tries to climb in arter Mr. McAllister. Jeames gives the mare a cut an’ haway they go. Then this ’ere party begins to run arter ’em and commences shootin’. Hi tackles ’im! ’E knocks me down! Hi grabs ’im by the leg, an’ ’ere we are, sir, axin’ yer pardon—Hello, why ’ere’s Mr. McAllister now! May I ask as ’ow you got ’ere, sir?”
But Barney had suddenly dropped the pistol.
“Quick!” he shouted wildly. “Harness another horse! We’ve still got time. I can’t lose my man this way!”
“Well, who is he? Who was it you shot at?”
“Welch! Fatty Welch!” shrieked the Baron. “There’s two of ’em! But the one I want has started for the station. I must catch him!”
“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted the old butler, who alone had preserved his equanimity, addressing Mr. Blair. “My impression is, sir, that it must have been Manice, sir—the new third man, sir. I saw him step out. He must have taken Mr. McAllister’s coat and hat!”
There was an immediate chorus of assent. Of course that was it. The man had disguised himself in McAllister’s clothes.
“He’s got the necklace!” wailed Mildred. “Oh, I know he has!”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Of course he’s got it!”
“After him! After him!”
“Necklace! What necklace?” inquired Barney, more bewildered than ever.
“My mother’s pearl necklace! She bought it in Rome. And now it’s gone. He’s got it.”
Barney made a move for the door.
“Run and harness up, William!” directed Blair. “Put in the Morgan ponies. Hustle now. The train isn’t due for fifteen minutes and you can reach the station in ten. Don’t spare the horses!”
William, with a defiant look at the detective, hastened to obey the order.
Barney was running his hands through his hair. He certainly had stumbled on to somethin’, by Hookey! If he could only catch that feller it would mean certain promotion! He had to admit that he had been mistaken about McAllister, but this was better.
“You see, I was right!” remarked our hero to the detective in his usual suave tones. “You should have done just what I said. You stayed too long upstairs. However, there’s still a running chance of your catching our man at the station. Here, take a drink, and then get along as fast as you can!”
He handed Barney a glass of champagne, and the detective hastily gulped it down. He needed it, for the fifteen-foot jump from the bath-room window had shaken him up badly.
“Trap’s ready, sir!” called William, coming into the hall, and Barney turned without a word and dashed for the door. The whip cracked and McAllister was free.
“Well, well, well!” remarked Blair. “Don’t let’s lose our dinner, anyway! Come, ladies, let’s finish our meal. We at least know who the thief is, and there’s a fair chance of his being caught. I will notify the White Plains police at once! Don’t despair, Miss Benson. We’ll have the necklace for you yet!”
But Mildred was not to be comforted and clung to Mrs. Blair, with the tears welling in her eyes, while her hostess patted her cheek and tried to encourage a belief that the necklace in some mysterious way would return.
“No, it’s gone! I know it is. They’ll never catch him! Oh, it’s dreadful! I would give anything in the world to have that necklace back!”
“Anything, Miss Benson?” inquired McAllister gayly, as he rose from his place and held up the softly shining cord of pearls. “But perhaps if I held you to the letter of your contract you might claim duress. Allow me to return the necklace. It’s a great pleasure, I assure you!”
“Hooray for Chubby!” shouted Wainwright. The company gasped with astonishment as Miss Benson eagerly seized the jewels.
“By George, McAllister! How did you do it?” inquired his excited host.
“Yes, tell us! How did you get ’em? Where did you get ’em?”
“Who was the Baron?”
“How on earth did you know?”
They all suddenly began to shout, asking questions, arguing, and exclaiming with astonishment.
M
cAllister saw that some explanation was in order.
“Just a bit of detective work of my own,” he announced carelessly. “I don’t care to say anything more about it. One can’t give away one’s trade secrets, don’cher know. Of course that assistant of mine made rather a mess of it, but after all, the necklace was the main thing!” And he bowed to Miss Benson.
Beyond this brilliant elucidation of the mystery no one could extract a syllable from the hero of the occasion. The Baron did not return, and his absence was not observed. But Joe Wainwright voiced the sentiments of the entire company when he announced somewhat huskily that McAllister made Sherlock Holmes look like thirty cents.
“But, say,” he muttered thickly an hour later to his host as they sauntered into the billiard-room for one last whiskey and soda, “did you notice how much that butler feller that ran away looked like McAllister? ’S livin’ image! ’Pon my ’onor!”
“You’ve been drinking, Joe!” laughed his companion.
THE ESCAPE OF WILKINS, by Arthur Train
Taken from McAllister and His Double (1905).
I
“Party to see you, sir, in the visitors’ room. Didn’t have a card. Said you would know him, sir.”
Although Peter spoke in his customary deferential tones, there was a queer look upon his face that did not escape McAllister as the latter glanced up from the afternoon paper which he had been perusing in the window.
“Hm!” remarked the clubman, gazing out at the rain falling in torrents. Who in thunder could be calling upon him a day like this, when there wasn’t even a cab in sight and the policemen had sought sanctuary in convenient vestibules. It was evident that this “party” must want to see him very badly indeed.
“What shall I say, sir?” continued Peter gently.
McAllister glanced sharply at him. Of course it was absurd to suppose that Peter, or anyone else, had heard of the extraordinary events at the Blairs’ the night before, yet vaguely McAllister felt that this stranger must in some mysterious way be connected with them. In any case there was no use trying to duck the consequences of the adventure, whatever they might prove to be.
“I’ll see him,” said the clubman. Maybe it was another detective after additional information, or perhaps a reporter. Without hesitation he crossed the marble hall and parted the portières of the visitors’ room. Before him stood the rain-soaked, bedraggled figure of the valet.
“Wilkins!” he gasped.
The burglar raised his head and disclosed a countenance haggard from lack of sleep and the strain of the pursuit. Little rivers of rain streamed from his cuffs, his (McAllister’s) coat-tails, and from the brim of his master’s hat, which he held deprecatingly before him. There was a look of fear in his eyes, and he trembled like a hare which pauses uncertain in which direction to escape.
“Forgive me, sir! Oh, sir, forgive me! They’re right hafter me! Just houtside, sir! It was my honly chance!”
McAllister gazed at him horrified and speechless.
“You see, sir,” continued Wilkins in accents of breathless terror, “I caught the train last night and reached the city a’ead of the detective. I knew ’e’d ’ave telegraphed a general halarm, so I ’id in a harea all night. This mornin’ I thought I’d given ’im the slip, but I walked square into ’im on Fiftieth Street. I took it on a run hup Sixth Havenue, doubled ’round a truck, an’ thought I’d lost ’im, but ’e saw me on Fifty-third Street an’ started dead after me. I think ’e saw me stop in ’ere, sir. Wot shall I do, sir? You won’t give me hup, will you, sir?”
Before McAllister could reply there was a commotion at the door of the club, and he recognized the clear tones of Barney Conville.
“Who am I? I’m a sergeant of police—Detective Bureau. You’ve just passed in a burglar. He must be right inside. Let me in, I say!”
Wilkins shrank back toward the curtains.
There was a slight scuffle, but the servant outside placed his foot behind the door in such a position that the detective could not enter. Then Peter came to the rescue.
“What do you mean by trying to force your way into a private club, like this? I’ll telephone the Inspector. Get out of here, now! Get away from that door!”
“Inspector nothin’! Let me in!”
“Have you got a warrant?”
The question seemed to stagger the detective for a moment, and his adversary seized the opportunity to close the door. Then Peter knocked politely upon the other side of the curtains.
“I’m afraid, Mr. McAllister, I can’t keep the officer out much longer. It’s only a question of time. You’ll pardon me, sir?”
“Of course, Peter,” answered McAllister.
He stepped to the window. Outside he could see Conville stationing two plain-clothes men so as to guard both exits from the club. McAllister’s breath came fast. Wilkins crouched in terror by the centre-table. Then a momentary inspiration came to the clubman.
“Er—Peter, this is my friend, Mr. Lloyd-Jones. Take his coat and hat, give me a check for them, and then show him upstairs to a room. He’ll be here for an hour or so.”
“Very good, sir,” replied Peter without emotion, as he removed Wilkins’s dripping coat and hat. “This way, sir.”
Casting a look of dazed gratitude at his former master, the valet followed Peter toward the elevator.
“Here’s a nice mess!” thought McAllister, as he returned to the big room. “How am I ever going to get rid of him? And ain’t I liable somehow as an accomplice?”
He wrinkled his brows, lit a Perfecto, and sank again into his accustomed place by the window.
“That policeman wants to see you, sir,” said the doorman, suddenly appearing at his elbow. “Says he knows you, and it’s somethin’ very important.”
The clubman smothered a curse. His first impulse was to tell the impudent fellow to go to the devil, but then he thought better of it. He had beaten Conville once, and he would do so again. When it came to a show-down, he reckoned his brains were about as good as a policeman’s.
“All right,” he replied. “Tell him to sit down—that I’ve just come in, and will be with him in a few moments.”
“Very good, sir,” answered the servant.
McAllister perceived that he must think rapidly. There was no escape from the conclusion that he was certainly assisting in the escape of a felon; that he was an accessory after the fact, as it were. The idea did not increase his happiness at all. His one experience in the Tombs, however adventitious, had been quite sufficient. Nevertheless, he could not go back on Wilkins, particularly now that he had promised to assist him. McAllister rubbed his broad forehead in perplexity.
“The officer says he’s in a great hurry, sir, and wants to know can you see him at once, sir,” said the doorman, coming back.
“Hang it!” exclaimed our hero. “Yes, I’ll see him.”
He got up and walked slowly to the visitors’ room again, while Peter, with a studiously unconscious expression, held the portières open. He entered, prepared for the worst. As he did so, Conville sprang to his feet, leaving a pool of water in front of the sofa and tossing little drops of rain from the ends of his mustache.
“Look here, Mr. McAllister, there’s been enough of this. Where’s Welch, the crook, who ran in here a few moments ago? Oh, he’s here fast enough! I’ve got your club covered, front and behind. Don’t try to con me!”
McAllister slowly adjusted his monocle, smiled affably, and sank comfortably into an armchair.
“Why, it’s you, Baron, isn’t it! How are you? Won’t you have a little nip of something warm? No? A cigar, then. Here, Peter, bring the gentleman an Obsequio. Well, to what do I owe this honor?”
Conville glared at him enraged. However, he restrained his wrath. A wise detective never puts himself at a disadvantage by giving way to useless emotion. When Peter returned with the c
igar, Barney took it mechanically and struck a match, meanwhile keeping one eye upon the door of the club.
“I suppose,” he presently remarked, “you think you’re smart. Well, you’re mistaken. I had you wrong last night, I admit—that is, so far as your identity was concerned. You’re a real high-roller, all right, but that ain’t the whole thing, by a long shot. How would you like to wander down to Headquarters as an accomplice?”
A few chills played hide-and-seek around the base of the clubman’s spine.
“Don’t be an ass!” he finally managed to ejaculate.
“Oh, I can’t connect you with the necklace! You’re safe enough there,” Barney continued. “But how about this little game right here in this club? You’re aiding in the escape of a felon. That’s felony. You know that yourself. Besides, when you locked me in the bath-room last night you assaulted an officer in the performance of his duty. I’ve got you dead to rights, see?”
McAllister laughed lightly.
“By jiminy!” he exclaimed, “I thought you were crazy all the time, and now I know it. What in thunder are you driving at?”
Conville knocked the ashes off his cigar impatiently.
“Drivin’ at? Drivin’ at? Where’s Welch—Fatty Welch, that ran in here five minutes ago?”
McAllister assumed a puzzled expression.
“Welch? No one ran in here except myself. I came in about that time. Got off the L at Fiftieth Street, footed it pretty fast up Sixth Avenue, and then through Fifty-third Street to the club. I got mighty well wet, too, I tell you!”
“Don’t think you can throw that game into me!” shouted Conville. “You can’t catch me twice that way. It was Welch I saw, not you.”
“You don’t believe me?”
McAllister pressed the bell and Peter entered.
“Peter, tell this gentleman how many persons have come into the club within the hour.”
“Why, only you, sir,” replied Peter, without hesitation. “Your clothes was wringin’ wet, sir. No one else has entered the club since twelve o’clock.”
The Victorian Villains Megapack Page 44