With her left hand she cautiously extracted his revolver and backed away with it to the table.
“If you’d lied to me I should have killed you; do you understand?”
“Yes’m,” murmured The Hopper meekly.
She had spoken as though homicide were a common incident of her life, but a gleam of humor in the eyes she was watching vigilantly abated her severity.
“You may sit down—there, please!”
She pointed to a much bepillowed davenport and The Hopper sank down on it, still with his hands up. To his deepening mystification she backed to the windows and lowered the shades, and this done she sat down with the table between them, remarking—
“You may put your hands down now, Mr. —?”
He hesitated, decided that it was unwise to give any of his names; and respecting his scruples she said with great magnanimity:
“Of course you wouldn’t want to tell me your name, so don’t trouble about that.”
She sat, wholly tranquil, her arms upon the table, both hands caressing the small automatic, while his own revolver, of different pattern and larger caliber, lay close by. His status was now established as that of a gentleman making a social call upon a lady who, in the pleasantest manner imaginable and yet with undeniable resoluteness, kept a deadly weapon pointed in the general direction of his person.
A clock on the mantel struck eleven with a low, silvery note. Muriel waited for the last stroke and then spoke crisply and directly.
“We were speaking of that letter I left lying here on the table. You didn’t understand it, of course; you couldn’t—not really. So I will explain it to you. My husband and I married against our fathers’ wishes; both of them were opposed to it.”
She waited for this to sink into his perturbed consciousness. The Hopper frowned and leaned forward to express his sympathetic interest in this confidential disclosure.
“My father,” she resumed, “is just as stupid as my father-in-law and they have both continued to make us just as uncomfortable as possible. The cause of the trouble is ridiculous. There’s nothing against my husband or me, you understand; it’s simply a bitter jealousy between the two men due to the fact that they are rival collectors.”
The Hopper stared blankly. The only collectors with whom he had enjoyed any acquaintance were persons who presented bills for payment.
“They are collectors,” Muriel hastened to explain, “of ceramics—precious porcelains and that sort of thing.”
“Yes’m,” assented The Hopper, who hadn’t the faintest notion of what she meant.
“For years, whenever there have been important sales of these things, which men fight for and are willing to die for—whenever there has been something specially fine in the market, my father-in-law—he’s Mr. Talbot—and Mr. Wilton—he’s my father—have bid for them. There are auctions, you know, and people come from all over the world looking for a chance to buy the rarest pieces. They’ve explored China and Japan hunting for prizes and they are experts—men of rare taste and judgment—what you call connoisseurs.”
The Hopper nodded gravely at the unfamiliar word, convinced that not only were Muriel and her husband quite insane, but that they had inherited the infirmity.
“The trouble has been,” Muriel continued, “that Mr. Talbot and my father both like the same kind of thing; and when one has got something the other wanted, of course it has added to the ill-feeling. This has been going on for years and recently they have grown more bitter. When Roger and I ran off and got married, that didn’t help matters any; but just within a few days something has happened to make things much worse than ever.”
The Hopper’s complete absorption in this novel recital was so manifest that she put down the revolver with which she had been idling and folded her hands.
“Thank ye, miss,” mumbled The Hopper.
“Only last week,” Muriel continued, “my father-in-law bought one of those pottery treasures—a plum-blossom vase made in China hundreds of years ago and very, very valuable. It belonged to a Philadelphia collector who died not long ago and Mr. Talbot bought it from the executor of the estate, who happened to be an old friend of his. Father was very angry, for he had been led to believe that this vase was going to be offered at auction and he’d have a chance to bid on it. And just before that father had got hold of a jar—a perfectly wonderful piece of red Lang-Yao—that collectors everywhere have coveted for years. This made Mr. Talbot furious at father. My husband is at his father’s now trying to make him see the folly of all this, and I visited my father today to try to persuade him to stop being so foolish. You see I wanted us all to be happy for Christmas! Of course, Christmas ought to be a time of gladness for everybody. Even people in your—er—profession must feel that Christmas is one day in the year when all hard feelings should be forgotten and everybody should try to make others happy.”
“I guess yer right, miss. Ut sure seems foolish fer folks t’ git mad about jugs like you says. Wuz they empty, miss?”
“Empty!” repeated Muriel wonderingly, not understanding at once that her visitor was unaware that the “jugs” men fought over were valued as art treasures and not for their possible contents. Then she laughed merrily, as only the mother of Shaver could laugh.
“Oh! Of course they’re empty! That does seem to make it sillier, doesn’t it? But they’re like famous pictures, you know, or any beautiful work of art that only happens occasionally. Perhaps it seems odd to you that men can be so crazy about such things, but I suppose sometimes you have wanted things very, very much, and—oh!”
She paused, plainly confused by her tactlessness in suggesting to a member of his profession the extremities to which one may be led by covetousness.
“Yes, miss,” he remarked hastily; and he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, and grinned indulgently as he realized the cause of her embarrassment. It crossed his mind that she might be playing a trick of some kind; that her story, which seemed to him wholly fantastic and not at all like a chronicle of the acts of veritable human beings, was merely a device for detaining him until help arrived. But he dismissed this immediately as unworthy of one so pleasing, so beautiful, so perfectly qualified to be the mother of Shaver!
“Well, just before luncheon, without telling my husband where I was going, I ran away to papa’s, hoping to persuade him to end this silly feud. I spent the afternoon there and he was very unreasonable. He feels that Mr. Talbot wasn’t fair about that Philadelphia purchase, and I gave it up and came home. I got here a little after dark and found my husband had taken Billie—that’s our little boy—and gone. I knew, of course, that he had gone to his father’s hoping to bring him round, for both our fathers are simply crazy about Billie. But you see I never go to Mr. Talbot’s and my husband never goes—Dear me!” she broke off suddenly. “I suppose I ought to telephone and see if Billie is all right.”
The Hopper, greatly alarmed, thrust his head forward as she pondered this. If she telephoned to her father-in-law’s to ask about Billie, the jig would be up! He drew his hand across his face and fell back with relief as she went on, a little absently:
“Mr. Talbot hates telephoning, and it might be that my husband is just getting him to the point of making concessions, and I shouldn’t want to interrupt. It’s so late now that of course Roger and Billie will spend the night there. And Billie and Christmas ought to be a combination that would soften the hardest heart! You ought to see—you just ought to see Billie! He’s the cunningest, dearest baby in the world!”
The Hopper sat pigeon-toed, beset by countless conflicting emotions. His ingenuity was taxed to its utmost by the demands of this complex situation. But for his returning suspicion that Muriel was leading up to something; that she was detaining him for some purpose not yet apparent, he would have told her of her husband’s note and confessed that the adored Billie was at that moment enjoying the reluctant hospitality of Happy Hill Farm. He resolved to continue his policy of silence as to the young heir’s wherea
bouts until Muriel had shown her hand. She had not wholly abandoned the thought of telephoning to her father-in-law’s, he found, from her next remark.
“You think it’s all right, don’t you? It’s strange Roger didn’t leave me a note of some kind. Our cook left a week ago and there was no one here when he left.”
“I reckon as how yer kid’s all right, miss,” he answered consolingly.
Her voluble confidences had enthralled him, and her reference of this matter to his judgment was enormously flattering. On the rough edges of society where he had spent most of his life, fellow craftsmen had frequently solicited his advice, chiefly as to the disposition of their ill-gotten gains or regarding safe harbors of refuge, but to be taken into counsel by the only gentlewoman he had ever met roused his self-respect, touched a chivalry that never before had been wakened in The Hopper’s soul. She was so like a child in her guilelessness, and so brave amid her perplexities!
“Oh, I know Roger will take beautiful care of Billie. And now,” she smiled radiantly, “you’re probably wondering what I’ve been driving at all this time. Maybe”—she added softly—“maybe it’s providential, your turning up here in this way!”
She uttered this happily, with a little note of triumph and another of her smiles that seemed to illuminate the universe. The Hopper had been called many names in his varied career, but never before had he been invested with the attributes of an agent of Providence.
“They’s things wot is an’ they’s things wot ain’t, miss; I reckon I ain’t as bad as some. I mean to be on the square, miss.”
“I believe that,” she said. “I’ve always heard there’s honor among thieves, and”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“it’s possible I might become one myself!”
The Hopper’s eyes opened wide and he crossed and uncrossed his legs nervously in his agitation.
“If—if”—she began slowly, bending forward with a grave, earnest look in her eyes and clasping her fingers tightly—“if we could only get hold of father’s Lang-Yao jar and that plum-blossom vase Mr. Talbot has—if we could only do that!”
The Hopper swallowed hard. This fearless, pretty young woman was calmly suggesting that he commit two felonies, little knowing that his score for the day already aggregated three—purse-snatching, the theft of an automobile from her own door, and what might very readily be construed as the kidnapping of her own child!
“I don’t know, miss,” he said feebly, calculating that the sum total of even minimum penalties for the five crimes would outrun his natural life and consume an eternity of reincarnations.
“Of course it wouldn’t be stealing in the ordinary sense,” she explained. “What I want you to do is to play the part of what we will call a reversible Santa Claus, who takes things away from stupid people who don’t enjoy them anyhow. And maybe if they lost these things they’d behave themselves. I could explain afterward that it was all my fault, and of course I wouldn’t let any harm come to you. I’d be responsible, and of course I’d see you safely out of it; you would have to rely on me for that. I’m trusting you and you’d have to trust me!”
“Oh, I’d trust ye, miss! An’ ef I was to get pinched I wouldn’t never squeal on ye. We don’t never blab on a pal, miss!”
He was afraid she might resent being called a “pal,” but his use of the term apparently pleased her.
“We understand each other, then. It really won’t be very difficult, for papa’s place is over on the Sound and Mr. Talbot’s is right next to it, so you wouldn’t have far to go.”
Her utter failure to comprehend the enormity of the thing she was proposing affected him queerly. Even among hardened criminals in the underworld such undertakings are suggested cautiously; but Muriel was ordering a burglary as though it were a pound of butter or a dozen eggs!
“Father keeps his most valuable glazes in a safe in the pantry,” she resumed after a moment’s reflection, “but I can give you the combination. That will make it a lot easier.”
The Hopper assented, with a pontifical nod, to this sanguine view of the matter.
“Mr. Talbot keeps his finest pieces in a cabinet built into the bookshelves in his library. It’s on the left side as you stand in the drawing-room door, and you look for the works of Thomas Carlyle. There’s a dozen or so volumes of Carlyle, only they’re not books—not really—but just the backs of books painted on the steel of a safe. And if you press a spring in the upper right-hand corner of the shelf just over these books the whole section swings out. I suppose you’ve seen that sort of hiding-place for valuables?”
“Well, not exactly, miss. But havin’ a tip helps, an’ ef there ain’t no soup to pour—”
“Soup?” inquired Muriel, wrinkling her pretty brows.
“That’s the juice we pour into the cracks of a safe to blow out the lid with,” The Hopper elucidated. “Ut’s a lot handier ef you’ve got the combination. Ut usually ain’t jes’ layin’ around.”
“I should hope not!” exclaimed Muriel.
She took a sheet of paper from the leathern stationery rack and fell to scribbling, while he furtively eyed the window and again put from him the thought of flight.
“There! That’s the combination of papa’s safe.” She turned her wrist and glanced at her watch. “It’s half-past eleven and you can catch a trolley in ten minutes that will take you right past papa’s house. The butler’s an old man who forgets to lock the windows half the time, and there’s one in the conservatory with a broken catch. I noticed it today when I was thinking about stealing the jar myself!”
They were established on so firm a basis of mutual confidence that when he rose and walked to the table she didn’t lift her eyes from the paper on which she was drawing a diagram of her father’s house. He stood watching her nimble fingers, fascinated by the boldness of her plan for restoring amity between Shaver’s grandfathers, and filled with admiration for her resourcefulness.
He asked a few questions as to exits and entrances and fixed in his mind a very accurate picture of the home of her father. She then proceeded to enlighten him as to the ways and means of entering the home of her father-in-law, which she sketched with equal facility.
“There’s a French window—a narrow glass door—on the veranda. I think you might get in there!” She made a jab with the pencil. “Of course I should hate awfully to have you get caught! But you must have had a lot of experience, and with all the help I’m giving you—!”
A sudden lifting of her head gave him the full benefit of her eyes and he averted his gaze reverently.
“There’s always a chance o’ bein’ nabbed, miss,” he suggested with feeling.
Shaver’s mother wielded the same hypnotic power, highly intensified, that he had felt in Shaver. He knew that he was going to attempt what she asked; that he was committed to the project of robbing two houses merely to please a pretty young woman who invited his coöperation at the point of a revolver!
“Papa’s always a sound sleeper,” she was saying. “When I was a little girl a burglar went all through our house and carried off his clothes and he never knew it until the next morning. But you’ll have to be careful at Mr. Talbot’s, for he suffers horribly from insomnia.”
“They got any o’ them fancy burglar alarms?” asked The Hopper as he concluded his examination of her sketches.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you about that!” she cried contritely. “There’s nothing of the kind at Mr. Talbot’s, but at papa’s there’s a switch in the living-room, right back of a bust—a white marble thing on a pedestal. You turn it off there. Half the time papa forgets to switch it on before he goes to bed. And another thing—be careful about stumbling over that bearskin rug in the hall. People are always sticking their feet into its jaws.”
“I’ll look out for ut, miss.”
Burglar alarms and the jaws of wild beasts were not inviting hazards. The programme she outlined so lightheartedly was full of complexities. It was almost pathetic that any one could so cheerfully and
irresponsibly suggest the perpetration of a crime. The terms she used in describing the loot he was to filch were much stranger to him than Chinese, but it was fairly clear that at the Talbot house he was to steal a blue-and-white thing and at the Wilton’s a red one. The form and size of these articles she illustrated with graceful gestures.
“If I thought you were likely to make a mistake I’d—I’d go with you!” she declared.
“Oh, no, miss; ye couldn’t do that! I guess I can do ut fer ye. Ut’s jes’ a leetle ticklish. I reckon ef yer pa wuz to nab me ut’d go hard with me.”
“I wouldn’t let him be hard on you,” she replied earnestly. “And now I haven’t said anything about a—a—about what we will call a reward for bringing me these porcelains. I shall expect to pay you; I couldn’t think of taking up your time, you know, for nothing!”
“Lor’, miss, I couldn’t take nothin’ at all fer doin’ ut! Ye see ut wuz sort of accidental our meetin’, and besides, I ain’t no housebreaker—not, as ye may say, reg’ler. I’ll be glad to do ut fer ye, miss, an’ ye can rely on me doin’ my best fer ye. Ye’ve treated me right, miss, an’ I ain’t a-goin’ t’ fergit ut!”
The Hopper spoke with feeling. Shaver’s mother had, albeit at the pistol point, confided her most intimate domestic affairs to him. He realized, without finding just these words for it, that she had in effect decorated him with the symbol of her order of knighthood and he had every honorable—or dishonorable!—intention of proving himself worthy of her confidence.
“If ye please, miss,” he said, pointing toward his confiscated revolver.
“Certainly; you may take it. But of course you won’t kill anybody?”
“No, miss; only I’m sort o’ lonesome without ut when I’m on a job.”
“And you do understand,” she said, following him to the door and noting in the distance the headlight of an approaching trolley, “that I’m only doing this in the hope that good may come of it. It isn’t really criminal, you know; if you succeed, it may mean the happiest Christmas of my life!”
The Second Christmas Megapack Page 6