Of greater importance was, perhaps, Darrell’s brief trip to a small bank equipped with snug safety-deposit vaults. Into one of these vaults, and under his own name, he deposited a paper-wrapped parcel. That parcel contained something taken from the wall safe in the apartment whose loose, swinging, circular door now no longer served to protect its contents; its paper wrapping enclosed the clock which had constituted such a salient object in this odd case.
The third occurrence — and this was the one of most importance — was a delightful little luncheon for two, served not in a restaurant equipped with palms and stringed orchestra and dress-suited waiters, but on a mahogany teacart drawn close to the improvised bed of one of the two, the other seated in an armchair drawn closely up, and the service supplied by a Negro girl whose hand shook perceptibly as she poured the cream and served the sugar. But at last, with such delightful incidents to beguile the tedium of waiting, and a put-to-rights apartment to welcome the important guest, came four o’clock and Catherwood.
The arrival of the putative tool of the swindlers — Darrell now seated on a chair in the kitchenette where unseen he could nevertheless see through the crack of the door into the big living room — was the arrival of a rather weak looking but at least striking-appearing young man. Clad in a loud checked suit, yet of faultless cut and tailoring in every one of its lines, white shirt with white cuffs and equally white collar gleaming brightly against a jet-black tie with a single small diamond in it, Catherwood Jarndyce bore about him the air of one who was the hireling of a band of professional horse gamblers. A brown derby hat, up to the very minute in style, hung low over his ears, and he carried a cane which with his gray silk gloves he deposited on a nearby chair as he greeted his cousin.
His face was not the face of the criminal, however; it was to much of an extent the face of a man who disliked work and the strenuous competition of existence. His hair was sleekly dark and parted as though by a mathematician’s slide rule; his chin was weak and not very prominent; his eyes were big and blue — yet with a pronounced glint of keenness in them that suggested it would not be an easy feat for anyone to hoodwink this young man. He looked his age of close upon twenty-eight — no more — no less. He greeted his girl cousin warmly, with hands that seized both of hers as she lay on the couch.
“Iris!” he said. “What brings you here to Chicago? I nearly fell dead when I got the message over the phone that you were here and wanted to see me.”
“I came up here,” the girl replied truthfully enough, to negotiate one of father’s antiques with an English, collector who was to pass through Chicago.” She went into no further details. “Catherwood, I have a message for you — from some one whose identity you will easily be able to guess.”
“Shoot it,” he said genially. “From Aunt Maggie, of course. Wants me to stick to the strait and narrow, eh? And attend church every Sunday?” He laughed good-naturedly.
Iris shook her head. Darrell watched with consuming interest the little scene taking place but a few yards from his position of concealment. The colored girl, busy at the sink, showed her white teeth in a wide grin at the odd suitation which for her appeared to contain a comedy element.
“No, Catherwood, it is not from Aunt Maggie. But here is the message: We have obtained Uncle Jarndyce’s alarm clock — the one which hung above his bed in his bedroom. It is locked up in the vaults of a bank. It is under a name other than my own.”
“Well, Great Scott,” replied Catherwood Jarndyce curiously. “Seems to me you’re going to a good deal of trouble with an old alarm clock, aren’t you? What about it anyway, Iris? Glad you’ve got it — but what of it anyway?”
She looked at him, focusing her big; dark eyes on his narrow-set blue ones, which regarded her wonderingly, but unflinchingly.
“Does that information mean nothing to you, Catherwood?”
“About as much as if you told me the old woman in the shoe had another dozen children.”
“Catherwood, how do you feel about John Cooper’s death?”
Catherwood shrugged his shoulders.
“John was a good sort, but he and I had rather rough times of it toward the end. Frankly, he was a bit sarcastic to me and I to him, and I haven’t forgotten those things yet. They rankle — some of the things he said. However, you know the old proverb: Speak no ill of the dead. Sorry I couldn’t have been here for the funeral of the poor chap, and I dare say I haven’t any right to feel any resentment toward him considering that he died before coming into uncle’s estate, which throws it all into my hands in about five more weeks.”
The girl half raised herself on her elbow. Darrell could hear her low, melodious voice, which carried clear in to him.
“Catherwood, suppose I should tell you that John Cooper Jarndyce is alive. What — ”
“Alive?” said Catherwood Jarndyce. “Alive?” he repeated with a skeptical laugh. “Oh, come, Iris, what’s all this joke about a clock and about John being alive? Why, jumping mackerel, my best friend Lloyd Marshly was at John’s funeral. And another one of my friends, Poindexter Cortright, helped carry his body to and from the hearse. You — ”
She shook her head.
“There is no use of your dissimulating, Catherwood. John Cooper Jarndyce is not dead. A wax shell — a shell which is an exact replica of his physical self — was deposited in Greenwood Cemetery. And John Cooper Jarndyce is to-day alive and imprisoned. Oh, Catherwood — who are these men who have inveigled you into this horrible plot?”
As she spoke, the face of the youth sitting near her reflected a whole gamut of emotions. Surprise, incredulity, anger, struggled for supremacy on his weak features. He leaned forward.
“Iris — is this true? In God’s name — is — is this true? Is John Cooper not dead? Is it not a joke that you are springing on me?”
“Absolutely true, Catherwood.”
The man seated near her seemed to sag in his chair. His pink-and-white complexion took on for the moment a ghastly tinge. He passed a hand bewilderedly over his forehead. The girl spoke.
“I am going to let you speak to the newspaper reporter who unearthed this whole conspiracy. Mr. Darrell,” she called. Darrell arose from his chair in the kitchenette and came forth into the living room. The weak-chinned young man in the checked suit arose from his chair, wheeled, and stood glaring defiantly at him. “Mr. Darrell, this is my cousin, Catherwood Jarndyce.”
“Sit down, Mr. Jarndyce,” said Darrell easily. “The door of the apartment here has been locked behind you by the colored maid. I have the key to it, and an automatic in my coat pocket here is pointing directly at you. I want a little information.”
The face of the youth grew black as a thundercloud; then he broke into a bitter, bitter laugh.
“Well — you two are certainly good. As for John Cooper’s money — God — for days I’ve had a hunch it was too good to be true. Busted — busted! Can you beat it?” The air in his lungs escaped him in a despairing whistle. He shrugged his shoulders with the mien of the professional gambler who has just dropped a fortune at the roulette wheel. He dropped back into his chair as though standing had become a terrific effort.
“Take your fingers off of your gun, my friend,” he said caustically. “Ask any questions you want. And when you’re done, for the love of Mike answer a few of mine.” He turned to Iris. “If what you said is true, Iris, I’m two hundred and sixty-three thousand dollars poorer than I was when I came into this room.”
Darrell was puzzled by the ingenuous frankness of the man in front of him. His eyes caught those of the girl, and in her eyes he caught the same perplexity. He sat down uneasily. Somehow he could perceive that he was speaking to a man who was as muddled and bewildered and ignorant of affairs as was he himself. And this being so, daylight was failing to supplant darkness. He spoke, and he found it necessary to force the tone of his words.
“Mr. Jarndyce, I’m willing to give you one last chance to come clean on this thing; and if you do I believe that y
ou’ll emerge from it all scot-free. I know; about John’s spurious death; about Doctor Bigley; about Bross — or Brossmeier; of his connection with Carl von Tresseler, the much-hunted murderer who fled from New York.” He leaned forward. “Mr. Jarndyce, I have seen with my own eyes the marvelous wax shell lying out in Greenwood Cemetery. Is this not enough to convince you that the case is over? Are you not yet willing to come clean — to turn these men up to justice? Or will you all go to prison?”
Catherwood Jarndyce heard him through, his eyes drawn into fine slits. His lips held a mirthless smile on them.
“Roll, on wild waves,” he said ironically. “Roll on! And when you’re all done, you might also let me in on this thing. Where is John? Here — better still — let’s all repair over to the nearest police station and thrash this thing out. Ring the police, and hurry up about it.”
The girl broke the silence.
“Jeffrey, Catherwood knows no more about this affair than Snowwhite. I know it. I am convinced of it.”
Darrell sighed. He took from his pocket the copy of the message made by Chi Tsung Liang which Iris had turned over to him just before Catherwood’s arrival. He handed it to Jarndyce. “Does this mean nothing at all to you, Mr. Jarndyce? It is the copy of an inscription which was found scrawled in pencil on a handkerchief which came into a Chinese laundry.”
Catherwood Jarndyce perused it from beginning to end. “It’s all Greek to me,” he bit out. “All I recognize are John Cooper’s initials, J. C. J. Beyond that — I give it up. What’s it all about?”
“Tell him,” said the girl.
Darrell bit his lip reflectively. Then he spoke. “Mr. Jarndyce, I am, as your cousin has told you, a reporter — a reporter on the Call. She and I have just tossed on the table a few cards — cards which belong to a valuable hand in my game — a big exclusive story. I wonder, if I should place the rest of those cards on the table, whether any other reporter in the city would speedily get wind of the details, and, in the parlance of the card table, take the jack pot?”
“I’ll give you a quick and positive answer on that,” said Catherwood Jarndyce quickly. “The Call has been the only paper in town that’s ever given a square deal to Mont Nevers. Every good thing he’s done has got a straight write-up in the Call, and in every other sheet in the city he’s been painted as a villain of the deepest dye. No, my friend, if you’re a Call man you’re talking to a man that’s for the Call every time. And that’s speaking for everybody that works for Mont Nevers. There isn’t one of us would give a story to the other papers to save our souls from hell.” And Darrell realized that he heard the truth, for he knew not only how well Mont Nevers, that paradoxical emperor of gamblers, treated his workers, but in what glaringly different lights the doings of the handbook king were painted by the Call and its contemporaries.
Quickly he outlined the details of the conspiracy to kidnap John Cooper Jarndyce, at least as much of them as were evident. Catherwood Jarndyce, his face a sickly color, absorbed them in silence. Concluding, Darrell said:
“So there you are, Mr. Jarndyce. You’ll have to admit that you are the only one to profit by your cousin’s death. Without your coöperation these crooks couldn’t reap anything from their scheme. And yet — well, I’ll be frank enough to say now that I believe you haven’t participated, actively or purposely.”
Catherwood Jarndyce was manifestly bewildered, enough so that a frown of perplexity covered his ordinarily smooth, carefree brow. He passed a hand over it as though to smooth it out. He shook his head slowly.
“It’s — it’s too much for me,” he commented. Darrell spoke.
“Let me ask a few questions. Maybe we can get at the modus operandi after all. First, Mr. Jarndyce, is there anyone who could profit by your inheritance of John Cooper’s estate?”
Jarndyce shook his head.
“No one — other than myself. I have no relatives other than Iris here.”
Darrell looked the other straight in the eyes.
“Are you secretly married, Mr. Jarndyce? Tell the truth now. It will have to come out sooner or later anyway. If a woman is married to you, she could well afford to enter into such a scheme.”
“Absolutely not,” declared Catherwood with an air of finality. “I am married to no one in this whole wide earth. Rest assured of that.”
“Have you been mixed up with any woman in any way? Please don’t be angry at my probing into your affairs. You can never collect your cousin’s estate now that the facts are as they are. Hence you’ll probably be as interested as the rest of us in getting at the bottom of this thing.”
“As to your question,” replied Catherwood slowly, ignoring the comments which seemed too painful to dwell upon, “I’ve not been mixed up with any women in the ordinary sense of the word. I have women friends who go out with me to cabarets and summer gardens. Beyond being seen in my company and I in theirs, that is the limit to our connections. I am not a person to get entangled with the opposite sex in such a way that I can’t untangle myself. There is Millie Laurencell. There is Vangine Stanwood. There is Diana St. John.”
“Who is Millie Laurencell?”
“Millie is a private secretary in a brokerage office where I do a bit of business for Mont Nevers. Comes of good people. Stunning girl. Good dresser. Bright.” Catherwood shrugged his shoulders.
“I see. How about Vangine Stanwood?”
“Vangie’s a telephone girl, the best little kid in the world. We’ve had lots of good times together.”
“And Diana St. John?”
“Diana — Miss St. John — is a young English girl who lives in the apartment across from me in the Chetson Arms. She’s well supplied with money — some sort of inheritance. Good dresser, bright talker, stunning blond. We’ve struck up a jolly good friendship, and go out together frequently. But that’s all — absolutely all.”
“Ever made any of these three girls any written promises of marriage?” persisted Darrell.
“Never. Absolutely never.”
“Made any verbal allusions in front of anybody that would indicate you intended to marry any one of them?”
“No,” said Catherwood emphatically.
“I see,” said Darrell. He pondered for a long time. “Have you bought any stock of any kind? Better, have you offered to buy any stock from anybody?”
“No,” said Catherwood. “Nary stocks nor bonds nor promises therefore.”
“Have you written any letters to friends of such nature that if they got into possession of any of your women friends — say this Millie Laurencell, this Vangine Stanwood, or this Diana St. John — they could be used as a base for a breach-of-promise suit after you came into John Cooper’s property?”
Catherwood shook his head. “No, I haven’t written a letter for a coon’s age. Frankly, I think you’re on the wrong tack, though. I’ll wager they intend to hold John for ransom.”
Darrell laughed quietly.
“Have you borrowed any money either from unknown or reputable money lenders, giving them a promissory note?”
“No,” said Catherwood. “None whatever, for any amount. Mont Nevers advances me money when I need it on my commissions — so I manage to keep out of the toils of these sharks.”
A long silence followed. Darrell sighed.
“I give up,” he said in the direction of the girl. “It seems that no one could profit by your cousin Catherwood’s inheritance of his uncle’s estate which normally went to John Cooper. And it certainly doesn’t seem as though these wolves would go ahead on such a scheme as this, involving at least some expense and danger, unless their profits were sure and their pickings certain. Yet it would appear that they have actually been altruistic enough to put away one man so that another can inherit in his place — and not even a decent commission in it for them.”
Again a long silence filled the room. Nobody had anything to offer by which it could be broken.
And it was Darrell himself who did break it for the second time.
>
“The only thing to do now,” he declared, “is to make efforts somehow, some way, to liberate the one man who holds the key to both the tangle and the clock mystery. That man is John Cooper Jarndyce. There is no clue by which to locate Von Tresseler — no clue other than his uncle, Brossmeier. Brossmeier has no doubt already disposed of his business as he anticipated, and now he’s living in quarters unknown to us — under an assumed name as well. As to who else is in this scheme, we don’t know them; much less where to lay our hands on them.” He glanced at his watch.
“One thing is absolutely certain — to me at least; to catch this gang we’ve got to keep quiet a little longer as to what we know. And in keeping quiet, there’s always the danger that they may change their plans and kill John Cooper Jarndyce. It’s a case of quick, quiet work for us — and not even a direction in which to go!”
CHAPTER XX
Charley Yat Gong Contributes a Fact or Two
FOR a full hour the three of them sat and discussed the matter pro and con. Catherwood Jarndyce’s suggestions were not of much value, but his whole attitude did show beyond doubt that he himself was as far from being involved in the swindling scheme as a planet from the earth. At length he looked at his watch and arose.
“I’m sorry to bolt the meeting,” he said, “but I’ve got to get back to headquarters. Returns from a special meet at Las Palmas, Mexico, come in within an hour, and I’ve got to be on the job.” He turned to Darrell. “I’m glad to have met you, Mr. Darrell, but I’ll certainly say that meeting you has cost me a mint of money. However — ” He grimaced painfully and shrugged his shoulders. Then he threw them squarely back.
“John Cooper,” he declared, “hadn’t much use for me. Never did, for some reason. Always thought I was a rotter, out and out. Now give me credit please — you, Iris, you, Mr. Darrell. Remember — if I took a notion to spill the beans on this affair, these crooks would probably croak John sure in order to cover up their tracks. And if they did that, well — say — I wonder if I wouldn’t inherit that estate after all? Eh, how about it?” He shook his head slowly. “But I’ll do nothing of the kind, rest assured, both of you. And if old John only changes his opinion of his cousin Catherwood one of these days, we’ll call it a bargain and everybody happy.” He buckled on one of his silk gloves. Then he took from his pocket a bunch of keys from which he slowly abstracted a Yale key. “Looks rather suspicious for me to be having a key to John’s bachelor bungalow, but — well — I’ve had it ever since John and I had our last split-up, about a year back. Dare say he’s long since forgotten it. Anyway — here it is. I’m going to turn it over to you, Mr. Darrell. Probably the main keys are in the possession of the Jarndyce lawyers by this time, and you’d have to unravel a bushel of red tape before you could get into that place. Better take at least a look there, though. Maybe we’re all the victims of a further hoax — and John Cooper may be sitting down in that basement storeroom even now, laughing at us.” He handed the key to Darrell, and putting on his remaining silk glove and taking up his stick, this very loyal henchman of the famous Mont Nevers pressed his cousin’s hand and with a bow to Darrell departed with a slope of dejection in his check-suited shoulders.
Find the Clock Page 19