Boston Blackie

by Jack Boyle

  “Wants his gold bars back or my job, does he?” Rentor growled angrily. “It’s safe to trust old Jim Clancy to want somebody’s scalp if anything happens to singe his hide. Does the doddering idiot think a crook smart enough to make sixty thousand dollars in gold vanish at sea from a steamer’s double-locked strong-room is likely to leave it lying around where my bunch of half-witted four-flushers can find it?”

  Chief Rentor spat out the mutilated remnant of his cigar and eyed his ’phone speculatively and with growing gravity. Over it but a moment before he had been told by James J. Clancy, aged and irascible president of the Northwestern Steamship Company, that unless the Humboldt’s mysteriously missing gold was recovered, the resultant police shake-up would jar loose the gold star at present glittering on the breast of Rentor’s uniform. The harried Chief knew that Clancy had both the will and political prestige to uphold his threat.

  “It’s up to me to get busy or get out, and I’ll not get out—not if I can help it,” the Chief said to the empty room. “I’ll get the gold if I can. If I can’t, I’ll find a goat and tie this caper to him.”

  Then, being a shrewd and politic detective well aware of the undeniable advantage of favorable publicity, Larry Rentor pressed a button and told his secretary to admit the newspaper men waiting impatiently in the outer office. To these he dictated an interview brimming with assurance, in which he hinted a solution of the mystery was at hand, predicted the early arrest of the Humboldt robber gang and promised the recovery of the loot “within a few hours.” With the reporters satisfied and out of his way for the moment, the Chief seized a fresh cigar, sagged down in his chair and concentrated the full power of his by no means mediocre mentality on the problem that confronted him.

  Three unbroken days and nights of unmitigated third degree harrying had developed nothing more satisfactory than increasingly vehement denials of guilt from Tatman and his partner; and Chief Rentor, shrewd in judging men of their type, at last was forced to the conclusion that they spoke the truth.

  Who, then, had stolen the gold?

  “If Tatman is innocent, as I know he is,” Rentor said to himself, “the man I want is the one who struck him down outside the strong-room door. No one on shipboard, passenger, officer or seaman, admits giving the blow. That proves it wasn’t struck to protect the gold.”

  The detective’s mind leaped to the logical conclusion.

  “One of two things is true,” he decided. “There was another crook ‘mob’ aboard the steamer, and it, not a Tatman, got the gold, or this business was an ‘inside job’ and the thieves are on the steamer payroll. Nothing amazing in that! Gold by the hundredweight will tempt anything human.”

  Had Rentor guessed that Boston Blackie and Mary, his wife and pal, were among the Humboldt’s passengers, his summing up of the possibilities would have ended with the first alternative. From the standpoint of a man unaware of this all-important fact, however, Rentor’s second theory was far from implausible. The unbroken but open padlock found near the door of the looted treasure-room, and the fact that the missing gold was not found when the steamer was searched immediately after the robbery, or in the baggage of any of the passengers, strengthened the thought growing in Rentor’s mind that the vanished fortune might still be hidden on shipboard. Gold bars two feet long and weighing thirty pounds each are not easily hidden within a passenger’s cabin.

  Rentor touched the button that summoned his secretary.

  “McNaughton, captain of the Humboldt, is coming down shortly,” he said. “When he arrives, bring him in at once and admit no one else till I ring.”

  As he waited, the gossamer clues upon which he must work expanded in the brain of the detective.

  “The strong-room lock was opened by keys made for it,” he mused. “The purser had one, the captain the other, and there were no duplicates. That’s a fact that means something.”

  The door opened to admit the big, bluff, white-bearded commander of the Humboldt.

  “What progress, Chief?” asked McNaughton anxiously.

  Rentor studied the face of the visitor silently.

  “Considerable, Captain,” he said slowly. “More than you would imagine possible. What would you say if I told you I know the Humboldt was robbed by men paid to protect her treasure—by men on the ship’s pay-roll?”

  Rentor watched the effect of his question with keen eyes half concealed by drooping lids. McNaughton, startled by the suggestion, met the Chief’s gaze squarely.

  “Impossible,” he said at last. “No member of the crew had an opportunity; and my officers—well, sir, I know them all. There’s not a thief among them.”

  Rentor leaned across the table and tapped its top.

  “And yet,” he said, “the padlock was removed intact from your strong-room door by two keys that fitted it. The most expert locksmith in America couldn’t have made duplicate keys without the originals as models. That means one of two things; either the original keys were used to open the treasure-room door, or as patterns for the duplicates that did open it. Which was it, McNaughton? You and the purser are the two men who had the keys in your keeping.”

  McNaughton leaped to his feet, his face purple with rage.

  “Do you dare to accuse me of robbing my own steamer, sir?” he cried, shaking a weather-bronzed fist at the detective.

  “I don’t accuse anybody—yet,” Rentor answered quietly, “but I have just stated a fact you can’t deny; and Captain, every man, woman and child who was on the Humboldt is under suspicion till this mystery is cleared. Sit down, and we’ll get to brass tacks. You have told me that you and the purser together locked the door of the vault immediately after the gold was placed there at Nome, and that your key never left the belt you wear round your waist night and day. Are you absolutely sure that’s the truth?”

  “Absolutely,” said McNaughton.

  “Your key was never out of your possession for an instant? No passenger or officer went to you with a story of something to be put in or taken out of the strong-room? Think carefully, Captain, and remember your reputation is at stake in this matter.”

  “The key never left my body,” McNaughton answered without hesitation. “No one asked to have the strong-room opened for any purpose whatsoever, and I wouldn’t have permitted it if I had been asked. It is specially prohibited by the company that the treasure-room be opened at sea when we’re carrying the Nome gold, and I obey orders. No, Rentor, from the moment I locked up the bullion, the key never left my belt.”

  The Captain sat a moment, thinking.

  “On the northbound trip when the strong-room was empty—” he began, then paused, suddenly hesitant.

  “Yes, yes, on the northbound trip when the strong room was empty—what happened then?” demanded Rentor eagerly.

  “I remember now that Purser Jessen came to me and asked for my key. He wanted to show our treasure-room to some curious passenger,” the Captain replied with reluctance. “But that means nothing. We could have left the strong-room door open if we had chosen. There was nothing inside then to be stolen.”

  Rentor bent over his desk and hid the eager, preying light in his eyes as he fumbled for another cigar.

  “How long did this Mr. Jessen have both the keys?” he demanded with the exultant ring of unhoped-for triumph in his voice.

  “A half-hour, possibly an hour. I didn’t notice particularly.” The Captain now was grave and plainly worried. “Don’t jump to conclusions because of what I’ve told you, Chief. I know Jessen. I knew his father, the old captain; and a finer, straighter man never walked a ship’s bridge. I’ve known young Dave since the days when I dandled him on my knee when he wore short breeches. I’ve seen him grow up and become a ship’s officer in line for a command of his own some day. He had no hand in this crooked business; no, sir, Dave Jessen’s like his dad, straight.”

  Rentor leaped up with a scoffing, worldly-wise smile on his lips.

  “Because you held
this fellow on your knee when he was a boy, that’s no reason he mightn’t be a crook,” he cried belligerently. “If his father was honest, that’s no reason he is; and I’ll tell you now we’ll prove he isn’t. While he had your key, he did one of two things; either he made a duplicate of it himself, or he gave it to a confederate who did. Dave Jessen’s the man who robbed or helped to rob the Humboldt, and in twenty-four hours I’ll have his confession.”

  Captain McNaughton shook his head in firm unbelief.

  “Call him down and talk to him,” he suggested. “If he knows anything, he’ll tell you gladly. But don’t do anything to ruin his prospects. Reputation is about all we seafaring men have that we can’t afford to lose. If you were to hold him, even on suspicion, he’d never command a ship as long as he lives. Besides, he has a mother old and feeble, and—”

  “It isn’t my business to worry about men’s mothers or reputations. I put men behind bars who belong there. This young crook is going into a cell, and in a cell he’ll stay till he tells me who stole the Humboldt’s gold or signs a confession that he did it himself. Where does he live?”

  Captain McNaughton gave the address and went out sorrowfully with bowed head. Ten minutes later two detectives in a police auto were on their way to Jessen’s home to take him into custody as a suspect in the bullion robbery.

  “Maybe Jessen did this and maybe he didn’t,” Chief Rentor mused as he impatiently awaited the car’s return. “There’s better than an even chance that he’s really guilty, but whether he is or not, one thing is certain: I’ve found a goat and a bit of incriminating evidence that will justify the pinch in the newspapers.”

  One after another he pulled the knuckles of his big hands until the joints cracked like pistols. That was Larry Rentor’s way of expressing extraordinary jubilance. He was planning the details of the “third degree” by which he hoped to extort a confession that would clear the Humboldt mystery …

  The door of the Jessen home was opened to the detectives by a sweet-faced little woman with snow-white hair and age-dimmed eyes.

  “My son is at home. I’ll call him,” she said in response to the detectives’ inquiry.

  Dave Jessen, roused from a day dream in which he stood again on the Humboldt’s deck beside a dark-eyed girl with sun-tinted cheeks and wind-blown hair, appeared behind his mother. Mrs. Jessen vanished.

  “Put on your hat and coat, Jessen. The Chief wants to see you,” said Mulligan, spokesman of the paired officers.

  “Sure. I’ll be with you in a jiffy,” the purser agreed, dropping the nautical book in his hand.

  “Mother,” he called, “I’m going down to police headquarters, but I’ll be back in time for the dinner you’ve been fussing over all afternoon so foolishly.”

  He kissed her and followed the detectives to the auto waiting at the curb.

  “What’s happened, boys?” he inquired as they climbed into the car. “Have you caught the bullion robber?”

  “I reckon we have—now,” said one detective pointedly. He drew a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and deftly slipped them over Dave Jessen’s wrists.

  The first instinctive flush of anger on the purser’s cheeks faded, leaving him pale beneath his sea tan.

  “You’re arresting me?” he gasped in bewilderment. “I’m accused of the gold robbery?”

  “Looks that way. What do you think yourself?” replied the detective.

  “This is ridiculous. It’s an outrage!” cried Jessen, straining his wrists against the steel circlets so hatefully new to them. “I know nothing of the missing gold except what I’ve told. I’m not a thief.”

  “Prison is full of men I’ve heard say those identical words when they were arrested,” said the detective. “Save all that guff for the Chief, young fellow. All I’ve got to say to you is that you’re three times seven kinds of a fool to get yourself tangled in a mess like this. A nice old mother you’ve got, too. It’ll go hard with her when she learns what you have been up to.”

  “But man, I didn’t do it. I have neither done nor said anything to justify the faintest doubt of my honesty,” cried Jessen. “Who dares say I robbed the Humboldt? Who accuses me?”

  The detectives smiled at each other knowingly.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” replied Mulligan’s partner. “Take good advice and forget that high-and-mighty stuff before we get to the Chief. He has the real dope on you.”

  Then though Jessen, outraged, angry, incredulous, asked a dozen fiercely insistent questions, the two officers maintained an omniscient silence until the car stopped at detective headquarters. The prisoner leaped to the sidewalk in advance of his guardians.

  “Take me to Chief Rentor, quick,” he demanded. “Somebody will suffer for this, for it won’t take me ten minutes to clear myself of whatever charge some irresponsible blunderer has made against me.”

  “Easy lad, easy,” cautioned the first of the officers, taking him by the arm and into the building through a private entrance. “You’ll see the Chief, all right, but don’t be in a hurry. Time is one thing you’ll have to spare from now on.” Fretting with rage and impatience, Jessen was taken into a private room where his name was entered in the “detinue” or “small” book, a police device—unlawful, but that is a mere detail—for holding prisoners against whom the department is not ready to make a public accusation. He was searched and relieved of papers, watch, pen-knife, money and all other trinkets in his pockets. Then he was pushed into a dimly lighted steel cage, and its massive door clanged behind him. A bolt shot into its sockets. The footsteps of the departing officers died away.

  Many minutes, each longer than any hour Jessen had ever passed, dragged away while he paced the steel floor.

  “It’s only a few minutes,” he kept assuring himself. “I’m innocent. They can’t keep me in this filthy den. It isn’t possible.”

  But the minutes dragged into hours, and no one came.

  Meanwhile the arresting officers were reporting. “How’d he take it?” asked Rentor, cracking his knuckles.

  “Mad as a she-bear, and stands pat he knows nothin’,” answered Mulligan.

  “Naturally he’d do that,” said the Chief. “You couldn’t expect a man with nerve enough to pull a stunt like this steamer robbery to cough up at the first touch of the cuffs. He’ll come across, though. I’ll leave him in there alone to sweat awhile. To-night we’ll spring the phony identification stuff, and then I’ll be ready to talk turkey to him.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE THIRD DEGREE

  Chief Rentor then climbed into his auto and was driven home to dine leisurely, while at Dave Jessen’s bungalow a little old woman who reminded one of a fading flower fretted nervously as she kept an overdone dinner hot for the son who didn’t and couldn’t come.

  It was early in the evening, though Jessen was sure it must be early morning, when a door opened noisily in the corridor and he heard voices nearing his cell. “At last!” he cried, springing eagerly to the door. Suddenly his cell was flooded with light, though the corridor beyond remained in darkness. He waited, hot with impatience, for the welcome sound of the jailer’s key in the lock. Instead, a wicket in the door was lifted, and a pair of eyes peered in from the outer darkness. There was a moment’s silence, then a man’s voice spoke.

  “That’s him,” it said. “I could swear to him on a hundred Bibles.”

  “Good!” replied Mulligan’s heavy voice. “We knew we had him right, but this settles it.”

  The wicket dropped, and the men started down the corridor.

  “Come back,” shouted Jessen as he realized that they did not intend to release him. “Take me out of this hole. I demand to be taken to the Chief.”

  Somebody’s laugh came back through the darkness as the door at the far end of the corridor closed with a bang. Ten minutes later the same performance was repeated, and a new voice assured the detective that it would “know that fellow’s face anywheres.”<
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  Again Jessen’s shouts and demands remained unanswered, and the lights winked out. For the first time, though the consciousness of innocence buoyed his drooping spirits, a numbing horror of the inconceivable thing that had happened overwhelmed him—exactly as Chief Rentor intended.

  Back from dinner, Rentor cracked his knuckles noisily as his men reported the prisoner’s shouts and violent demands for a hearing, following the faked identifications.

  “Fine!” he ejaculated. “That stuff always jars their nerves, whether they’re innocent or guilty. He’s ripe now for a friendly, heart-to-heart talk. Bring him in, boys, and see that the detectaphone operator is on my line ready to get every word that’s spoken in here. I’ll cut out the parts of the talk I don’t need, afterward.”

  “That sympathy stuff you told us to spill about his mother seemed to hit him hard,” suggested Mulligan.

  “That’s a trump card,” replied the Chief. “Lead in the lamb and forget the bawling out I’m going to give you, boys. I want him to think I’m a friend.”

  Jessen, fresh from the gloom of his cell, stumbled at the threshold as the detectives threw open the door of the Chief’s office. They pushed him roughly into a chair, his hands still bound by the steel cuffs, and the glare of a desk-lamp full upon his face.

  “Who’s this?” asked Rentor, looking up from a pile of reports in simulated surprise. “Not Dave Jessen—handcuffed! Take off those bracelets, Mulligan.”

  “They’ve had me locked in a dirty cell for hours, Chief,” interrupted Jessen. “I demanded to be brought here to you, but they only laughed.”

  “I told you to bring Jessen here to my office, but I didn’t give you permission to treat him like a common crook,” roared the Chief angrily at his men. “I knew this boy’s father before he was born, and no matter what sort of trouble he is in, he will be treated right while he’s in my custody, you blockheads, or I’ll know why not.”

  “I didn’t think it safe to take any chances after those two positive identifications, Chief,” said Mulligan in mock humility, “and you being out for dinner, I thought—”