Intrusion of Jimmy

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by Intrusion Of Jimmy


  would be the day for the attempt, the house being upside down, in a

  manner of speaking, on account of the theatricals. And I was right.

  I kept near those jewels on and off all day, and, presently, just as

  I had thought, along comes this fellow. He'd hardly got to the door

  when I was on him."

  "Good boy! You're no rube."

  "We fought for a while, but, being a bit to the good in strength,

  and knowing something about the game, I had the irons on him pretty

  quick, and took him off, and locked him in the cellar. That's how it

  was, sir."

  Mr. McEachern's relief was overwhelming. If Lord Dreever's statement

  was correct and Jimmy had really succeeded in winning Molly's

  affection, this would indeed be a rescue at the eleventh hour. It

  was with a Nunc-Dimittis air that he felt for his cigar-case, and

  extended it toward the detective. A cigar from his own private case

  was with him a mark of supreme favor and good-will, a sort of

  accolade which he bestowed only upon the really meritorious few.

  Usually, it was received with becoming deference; but on this

  occasion there was a somewhat startling deviation from routine; for,

  just as he was opening the case, something cold and hard pressed

  against each of his wrists, there was a snap and a click, and,

  looking up, dazed, he saw that the detective had sprung back, and

  was contemplating him with a grim smile over the barrel of an ugly-

  looking little revolver.

  Guilty or innocent, the first thing a man does when, he finds

  handcuffs on his wrists is to try to get them off. The action is

  automatic. Mr. McEachern strained at the steel chain till the veins

  stood out on his forehead. His great body shook with rage.

  The detective eyed these efforts with some satisfaction. The picture

  presented by the other as he heaved and tugged was that of a guilty

  man trapped.

  "It's no good, my friend," he said.

  The voice brought McEachern back to his senses. In the first shock

  of the thing, the primitive man in him had led him beyond the

  confines of self-restraint. He had simply struggled unthinkingly.

  Now, he came to himself again.

  He shook his manacled hands furiously.

  "What does this mean?" he shouted. "What the--?"

  "Less noise," said the detective, sharply. "Get back!" he snapped,

  as the other took a step forward.

  "Do you know who I am?" thundered McEachern.

  "No," said the detective. "And that's just why you're wearing those

  bracelets. Come, now, don't be a fool. The game's up. Can't you see

  that?"

  McEachern leaned helplessly against the billiard-table. He felt

  weak. Everything was unreal. Had he gone mad? he wondered.

  "That's right," said the detective. "Stay there. You can't do any

  harm there. It was a pretty little game, I'll admit. You worked it

  well. Meeting your old friend from New York and all, and having him

  invited to the castle. Very pretty. New York, indeed! Seen about as

  much of New York as I have of Timbuctoo. I saw through him."

  Some inkling of the truth began to penetrate McEachern's

  consciousness. He had become obsessed with the idea that, as the

  captive was not Spike, it must be Jimmy. The possibility of Mr.

  Galer's being the subject of discussion only dawned upon him now.

  "What do you mean?" he cried. "Who is it that you have arrested?"

  "Blest if I know. You can tell me that, I should think, seeing he's

  an old Timbuctoo friend of yours. Galer's the name he goes by here."

  "Galer!"

  "That's the man. And do you know what he had the impudence, the

  gall, to tell me? That he was in my own line of business. A

  detective! He said you had sent for him to come here!"

  The detective laughed amusedly at the recollection.

  "And so he is, you fool. So I did."

  "Oh, you did, did you? And what business had you bringing detectives

  into other people's houses?"

  Mr. McEachern started to answer, but checked himself. Never before

  had he appreciated to the full the depth and truth of the proverb

  relating to the frying-pan and the fire. To clear himself, he must

  mention his suspicions of Jimmy, and also his reasons for those

  suspicions. And to do that would mean revealing his past. It was

  Scylla and Charybdis.

  A drop of perspiration trickled down his temple.

  "What's the good?" said the detective. "Mighty ingenious idea, that,

  only you hadn't allowed for there being a real detective in the

  house. It was that chap pitching me that yarn that made me

  suspicious of you. I put two and two together. 'Partners,' I said to

  myself. I'd heard all about you, scraping acquaintance with Sir

  Thomas and all. Mighty ingenious. You become the old family friend,

  and then you let in your pal. He gets the stuff, and hands it over

  to you. Nobody dreams of suspecting you, and there you are.

  Honestly, now, wasn't that the game?"

  "It's all a mistake--" McEachern was beginning, when the door-handle

  turned.

  The detective looked over his shoulder. McEachern glared dumbly.

  This was the crowning blow, that there should be spectators of his

  predicament.

  Jimmy strolled into the room.

  "Dreever told me you were in here," he said to McEachern. "Can you

  spare me a--Hullo!"

  The detective had pocketed his revolver at the first sound of the

  handle. To be discreet was one of the chief articles in the creed of

  the young men from Wragge's Detective Agency. But handcuffs are not

  easily concealed. Jimmy stood staring in amazement at McEachern's

  wrists.

  "Some sort of a round game?" he enquired with interest.

  The detective became confidential.

  "It's this way, Mr. Pitt. There's been some pretty deep work going

  on here. There's a regular gang of burglars in the place. This chap

  here's one of them."

  "What, Mr. McEachern!"

  "That's what he calls himself."

  It was all Jimmy could do to keep himself from asking Mr. McEachern

  whether he attributed his downfall to drink. He contented himself

  with a sorrowful shake of the head at the fermenting captive. Then,

  he took up the part of the prisoner's attorney.

  "I don't believe it," he said. "What makes you. think so?"

  "Why, this afternoon, I caught this man's pal, the fellow that calls

  himself Galer--"

  "I know the man," said Jimmy. "He's a detective, really. Mr.

  McEachern brought him down here."

  The sleuth's jaw dropped limply, as if he had received a blow.

  "What?" he said, in a feeble voice.

  "Didn't I tell you--?" began Mr. McEachern; but the sleuth was

  occupied with Jimmy. That sickening premonition of disaster was

  beginning to steal over him. Dimly, he began to perceive that he had

  blundered.

  "Yes," said Jimmy. "Why, I can't say; but Mr. McEachern was afraid

  someone might try to steal Lady Julia Blunt's rope of diamonds. So,

  he wrote to London for this man, Galer. It was officious, perhaps,

  but not criminal. I doubt if, legally, you could handcuff a man for

  a t
hing like that. What have you done with good Mr. Galer?"

  "I've locked him in the coal-cellar," said the detective, dismally.

  The thought of the interview in prospect with the human bloodhound

  he had so mishandled was not exhilarating.

  "Locked him in the cellar, did you?" said Jimmy. "Well, well, I

  daresay he's very happy there. He's probably busy detecting black-

  beetles. Still, perhaps you had better go and let him out. Possibly,

  if you were to apologize to him--? Eh? Just as you think. I only

  suggest. If you want somebody to vouch for Mr. McEachern's non-

  burglariousness, I can do it. He is a gentleman of private means,

  and we knew each other out in New York--we are old acquaintances."

  "I never thought--"

  "That," said Jimmy, with sympathetic friendliness, "if you will

  allow me to say so, is the cardinal mistake you detectives make. You

  never do think."

  "It never occurred to me--"

  The detective looked uneasily at Mr. McEachern. There were

  indications in the policeman's demeanor that the moment following

  release would be devoted exclusively to a carnival of violence, with

  a certain sleuth-hound playing a prominent role.

  He took the key of the handcuffs from his pocket, and toyed with it.

  Mr. McEachern emitted a low growl. It was enough.

  "If you wouldn't mind, Mr. Pitt," said the sleuth, obsequiously. He

  thrust the key into Jimmy's hands, and fled.

  Jimmy unlocked the handcuffs. Mr. McEachern rubbed his wrists.

  "Ingenious little things," said Jimmy.

  "I'm much obliged to you," growled Mr. McEachern, without looking

  up.

  "Not at all. A pleasure. This circumstantial evidence thing is the

  devil, isn't it? I knew a man who broke into a house in New York to

  win a bet, and to this day the owner of that house thinks him a

  professional burglar."

  "What's that?" said Mr. McEachern, sharply.

  "Why do I say 'a man '? Why am I so elusive and mysterious? You're

  quite right. It sounds more dramatic, but after all what you want is

  facts. Very well. I broke into your house that night to win a bet.

  That's the limpid truth."

  McEachern was staring at him. Jimmy proceeded.

  "You are just about to ask--what was Spike Mullins doing with me?

  Well, Spike had broken into my flat an hour before, and I took him

  along with me as a sort of guide, philosopher, and friend."

  "Spike Mullins said you were a burglar from England."

  "I'm afraid I rather led him to think so. I had been to see the

  opening performance of a burglar-play called, 'Love, the Cracksman,'

  that night, and I worked off on Spike some severely technical

  information I had received from a pal of mine who played lead in the

  show. I told you when I came in that I had been talking to Lord

  Dreever. Well, what he was saying to me was that he had met this

  very actor man, a fellow called Mifflin--Arthur Mifflin--in London

  just before he met me. He's in London now, rehearsing for a show

  that's come over from America. You see the importance of this item?

  It means that, if you doubt my story, all you need do is to find

  Mifflin--I forgot what theater his play is coming on at, but you

  could find out in a second--and ask him to corroborate. Are you

  satisfied?"

  McEachern did not answer. An hour before, he would have fought to

  the last ditch for his belief in Jimmy's crookedness; but the events

  of the last ten minutes had shaken him. He could not forget that it

  was Jimmy who had extricated him from a very uncomfortable position.

  He saw now that that position was not so bad as it had seemed at the

  time, for the establishing of the innocence of Mr. Galer could have

  been effected on the morrow by an exchange of telegrams between the

  castle and Dodson's Private Inquiry Agency; yet it had certainly

  been bad enough. But for Jimmy, there would have been several hours

  of acute embarrassment, if nothing worse. He felt something of a

  reaction in Jimmy's favor.

  Still, it is hard to overcome a deep-rooted prejudice in an instant.

  He stared doubtfully.

  "See here, Mr. McEachern," said Jimmy, "I wish you would listen

  quietly to me for a minute or two. There's really no reason on earth

  why we should be at one another's throats in this way. We might just

  as well be friends. Let's shake, and call the fight off. I guess you

  know why I came in here to see you?"

  McEachern did not speak.

  "You know that your daughter has broken off her engagement to Lord

  Dreever?"

  "Then, he was right!" said McEachern, half to himself. "It is you?"

  Jimmy nodded. McEachern drummed his fingers on the table, and gazed

  thoughtfully at him.

  "Is Molly--?" he said at length. "Does Molly--?"

  "Yes," said Jimmy.

  McEachern continued his drumming. "Don't think there's been anything

  underhand about this," said Jimmy. "She absolutely refused to do

  anything unless you gave your consent. She said you had been

  partners all her life, and she was going to do the square thing by

  you."

  "She did?" said McEachern, eagerly.

  "I think you ought to do the square thing by her. I'm not much, but

  she wants me. Do the square thing by her."

  He stretched out his hand, but he saw that the other did not notice

  the movement. McEachern was staring straight in front of him. There

  was a look in his eyes that Jimmy had never seen there before, a

  frightened, hunted look. The rugged aggressiveness of his mouth and

  chin showed up in strange contrast. The knuckles of his clenched

  fists were white.

  "It's too late," he burst out. "I'll be square with her now, but

  it's too late. I won't stand in her way when I can make her happy.

  But I'll lose her! Oh, my God, I'll lose her!"

  He gripped the edge of the table.

  "Did you think I had never said to myself," he went on, "the things

  you said to me that day when we met here? Did you think I didn't

  know what I was? Who should know it better than myself? But she

  didn't. I'd kept it from her. I'd sweat for fear she would find out

  some day. When I came over here, I thought I was safe. And, then,

  you came, and I saw you together. I thought you were a crook. You

  were with Mullins in New York. I told her you were a crook."

  "You told her that!"

  "I said I knew it. I couldn't tell her the truth--why I thought so.

  I said I had made inquiries in New York, and found out about you."

  Jimmy saw now. The mystery was solved. So, that was why Molly had

  allowed them to force her into the engagement with Dreever. For a

  moment, a rush of anger filled him; but he looked at McEachern, and

  it died away. He could not be vindictive now. It would be like

  hitting a beaten man. He saw things suddenly from the other's view-

  point, and he pitied him.

  "I see," he said, slowly.

  McEachern gripped the table in silence.

  "I see," said Jimmy again. "You mean, she'll want an explanation."

  He thought for a moment.

  "You must tell her," he said, quickly. "For your own sake, you must
>
  tell her. Go and do it now. Wake up, man!" He shook him by the

  shoulder. "Go and do it now. She'll forgive you. Don't be afraid of

  that. Go and look for her, and tell her now."

  McEachern roused himself.

  "I will," he said.

  "It's the only way," said Jimmy.

  McEachern opened the door, then fell back a pace. Jimmy could hear

  voices in the passage outside. He recognized Lord Dreever's.

  McEachern continued to back away from the door.

  Lord Dreever entered, with Molly on his arm.

  "Hullo," said his lordship, looking round. "Hullo, Pitt! Here we all

  are, what?"

  "Lord Dreever wanted to smoke," said Molly.

  She smiled, but there was anxiety in her eyes. She looked quickly at

  her father and at Jimmy.

  "Molly, my dear," said McEachern huskily, "I to speak to you for a

  moment."

  Jimmy took his lordship by the arm.

  "Come along, Dreever," he said. "You can come and sit out with me.

  We'll go and smoke on the terrace."

  They left the room together.

  "What does the old boy want?" inquired his lordship. "Are you and

  Miss McEachern--?"

  "We are," said Jimmy.

  "By Jove, I say, old chap! Million congratulations, and all that

  sort of rot, you know!"

  "Thanks," said Jimmy. "Have a cigarette?"

  His lordship had to resume his duties in the ballroom after awhile;

  but Jimmy sat on, smoking and thinking. The night was very still.

  Now and then, a sparrow would rustle in the ivy on the castle wall,

  and somewhere in the distance a dog was barking. The music had begun

  again in the ball-room. It sounded faint and thin where he sat.

  In the general stillness, the opening of the door at the top of the

  steps came sharply to his ears. He looked up. Two figures were

  silhouetted for a moment against the light, and then the door closed

  again. They began to move slowly down the steps.

  Jimmy had recognized them. He got up. He was in the shadow. They

  could not see him. They began to walk down the terrace. They were

  quite close now. Neither was speaking; but, presently when they were

  but a few feet away, they stopped. There was the splutter of a match,

  and McEachern lighted a cigar. In the yellow light, his face was

  clearly visible. Jimmy looked, and was content.

  He edged softly toward the shrubbery at the end of the terrace, and,

  entering it without a sound, began to make his way back to the

  house.

 

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