“But—he’s got away with it,” I put in.
“As far as East Houston Street,” Holmes observed quietly. “Tomorrow I shall take up the case, track Nervy to his lair, secure Mrs. Robinson-Jones’s necklace, return it to the lady, and within three weeks the Snatcher will take up his abode on the banks of the Hudson, the only banks the ordinary cracksman is anxious to avoid.”
“But how the dickens did you manage to put a crook like that on the grand-tier floor?” I demanded.
“Jenkins, what a child you are!” laughed Holmes. “How did I get him there? Why, I set him up with a box of his own, directly above the Robinson-Jones box—you can always get one for a single performance if you are willing to pay for it—and with a fair expanse of shirt front, a fancy jacket, and a crush hat, almost any man at all these days can pass for a gentleman. All he had to do was to go to the opera house, present his ticket, walk in, and await the signal. I gave the man his music cue, and two minutes before the lights went out, he sauntered down the broad staircase to the door of the Robinson-Jones box and was ready to turn the trick. He was under cover of darkness long enough to get away with the necklace, and when the lights came back, if you had known enough to look out into the auditorium, you would have seen him back there in his box above, taking in the situation as calmly as though he had himself had nothing whatever to do with it.”
“And how shall you trace him?” I demanded. “Isn’t that going to be a little dangerous?”
“Not if he followed out my instructions,” said Holmes. “If he dropped a letter addressed to himself in his own handwriting at his East Houston Street lair, in the little anteroom of the box, as I told him to do, we’ll have all the clues we need to run him to earth.”
“But suppose the police find it?” I asked.
“They won’t,” laughed Holmes. “They’ll spend their time looking for some impecunious member of the smart set who might have done the job. They always try to find the sensational clue first, and by day after tomorrow morning four or five poor but honest members of the four hundred will find when they read the morning papers that they are under surveillance, while I, knowing exactly what has happened, will have all the start I need. I have already offered my services, and by ten o’clock tomorrow morning they will be accepted, as will also those of half a hundred other detectives, professional and amateur. At eleven I will visit the opera house, where I expect to find the incriminating letter on the floor, or if the cleaning women have already done their work, which is very doubtful, I will find it later among the sweepings of waste paper in the cellar of the opera house. Accompanied by two plain-clothes men from headquarters I will then proceed to Nervy’s quarters, and, if he is really sincere in his desire to go to jail for a protracted period, we shall find him there giving an imitation of a gloat over his booty.”
“And suppose the incriminating letter is not there?” I asked. “He may have changed his mind.”
“I have arranged for that,” said Holmes with a quick, steely glance at me. “I’ve got a duplicate letter in my pocket now. If he didn’t drop it, I will.”
But Nervy Jim was honest at least in his desire for a permanent residence in an up-to-date penitentiary, for, even as the deed itself had been accomplished with a precision that was almost automatic, so did the work yet to be done go off with the nicety of a well regulated schedule. Everything came about as Holmes had predicted, even to the action of the police in endeavoring to fasten the crime upon an inoffensive and somewhat impecunious social dangler, whose only ambition in life was to lead a cotillion well, and whose sole idea of how to get money under false pretenses was to make some over-rich old maid believe that he loved her for herself alone and in his heart scorned her wealth. Even he profited by this, since he later sued the editor who printed his picture with the label “A Social Highway-man” for libel, claiming damages of $50,000, and then settled the case out of court for $15,000, spot cash. The letter was found on the floor of the box where Nervy Jim had dropped it; Holmes and his plain-clothes men paid an early visit at the East Houston Street lodging-house, and found the happy Snatcher snoring away in his cot with a smile on his face that seemed to indicate that he was dreaming he was back in a nice comfortable jail once more. As if to make doubly sure, the missing necklace hung about his swarthy neck!
Short work was made of the arrest; Nervy Jim, almost embarrassingly grateful, was railroaded to Sing-Sing in ten days’ time, for fifteen years, and Raffles Holmes had the present pleasure and personal satisfaction of restoring the lost necklace to the fair hands of Mrs. Robinson-Jones herself.
* * * *
“Look at that, Jenkins!” he said gleefully when the thing was all over. “A check for $10,000.”
“Well—that isn’t so much, considering the value of the necklace,” said I.
“That’s the funny part of it,” laughed Holmes. “Every stone in it was paste, but Mrs. Robinson-Jones never let on for a minute. She paid her little ten thousand rather than have it known.”
“Great Heavens—really?” I said.
“Yes,” said Holmes, replacing the check in his pocketbook. “She’s almost as nervy as Nervy Jim himself. She’s what I call a dead-game sport.”
THE ADVENTURE OF ROOM 407
Raffles Holmes and I had walked uptown together. It was a beastly cold night, and when we reached the Hotel Powhatan, my companion suggested that we stop in for a moment to thaw out our frozen cheeks—and, incidentally, warm up the inner man with some one of the spirituous concoctions for which that hostelry is deservedly famous. I naturally acquiesced, and in a moment we sat at one of the small tables in the combination reading room and café of the hotel.
“Odd place, this,” said Holmes, gazing about him at the motley company of guests. “It is the gathering place of the noted and the notorious. That handsome six-footer, who has just left the room, is the Reverend Dr. Harkaway, possibly the most eloquent preacher they have in Boston. At the table over in the corner, talking to that golden-haired lady with a roasted pheasant on her head in place of a hat, is Jack McBride, the light-weight champion of the Northwest, and—by thunder, Jenkins, look at that!”
A heavy-browed, sharp-eyed Englishman appeared in the doorway, stood a moment, glanced about him eagerly, and, with a gesture of impatience, turned away and disappeared in the throngs of the corridor without.
“There’s something doing to bring Lord Baskingford here,” muttered Holmes.
“Lord Baskingford?” said I. “Who’s he?”
“He’s the most expert diamond lifter in London,” answered Holmes. “His appearance on Piccadilly was always a signal to Scotland Yard to wake up…and to the jewelers of Bond Street to lock up. My old daddy used to say that Baskingford could scent a Kohinoor quicker than a hound a fox. I wonder what his game is.”
“Is he a real lord?” I asked.
“Real?” laughed Holmes. “Yes—he’s a real Lord of the Lifters, if that’s what you mean, but if you mean does he belong to the peerage, no. His real name is Bob Hollister. He has served two terms in Pentonville, escaped once from a Russian prison, and is still in the ring. He’s never idle, and if he comes to the Powhatan you can gamble your last dollar on it that he has a good, big stake somewhere in the neighborhood. We must look over the list of arrivals.”
We finished our drink and settled the score. Holmes sauntered, in leisurely fashion, out into the office and, leaning easily over the counter, inspected the register.
“Got any real live dukes in the house tonight, Mr. Sommers?” he asked of the clerk.
“Not tonight, Mr. Holmes,” laughed the clerk. “We’re rather shy on the nobility tonight. The nearest we come to anything worth while in that line is a baronet—Sir Henry Darlington of Dorsetshire, England. We can show you a nice line of Captains of Industry, however.”
“Thank you, Sommers,” said Holmes, returning the laugh. “I won’t trouble you. Fact is, I’m long on Captains of Industry and was just a bit hungry tonight for a das
h of the British nobility. Who is Sir Henry Darlington of Dorsetshire, England?”
“You can’ search me,” said the clerk. “I’m too busy to study genealogy—but there’s a man here who knows who he is, all right—at least I judge so from his manner.”
“Who’s that?” asked Holmes.
“Himself,” said Sommers with a chuckle. “Now’s your chance to ask him—for there he goes into the Palm Room.”
We glanced over in the direction indicated, and again our eyes fell upon the muscular form of Lord Baskingford.
“Oh!” said Holmes. “Well—he is a pretty fair specimen, isn’t he! Little too large for my special purpose, though, Sommers,” he added, “so you needn’t wrap him up and send him home.”
“All right, Mr. Holmes,” grinned the clerk. “Come in again some time when we have a few fresh importations in and maybe we can fix you out.”
With a swift glance at the open page of the register, Holmes bade the clerk good night and we walked away.
“Room 407,” he said as we moved along the corridor. “Room 407—we mustn’t forget that. His lordship is evidently expecting someone, and I think I’ll fool around for a while and see what’s in the wind.”
A moment or two later we came face to face with the baronet and watched him as he passed along the great hall, scanning every face in the place, and on to the steps leading down to the barbershop, which he descended.
“He’s anxious, all right,” said Holmes as we sauntered along. “How would you like to take a bite, Jenkins? I’d like to stay here and see this out.”
“Very good,” said I. “I find it interesting.”
So we proceeded towards the Palm Room and sat down to order our repast. Scarcely were we seated when one of the hotel boys, resplendent in brass buttons, strutted through between the tables, calling aloud in a shrill voice:
“Telegram for four-oh-seven. Four hundred and seven, telegram.”
“That’s the number, Raffles,” I whispered excitedly.
“I know it,” he said quietly. “Give him another chance—”
“Telegram for number four hundred and seven,” called the bellboy.
“Here, boy,” said Holmes, nerving himself up. “Give me that.”
“Four hundred and seven, sir?” asked the boy.
“Certainly,” said Holmes coolly. “Any charge?”
“No, sir,” said the boy, giving Raffles the yellow covered message.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, tearing the flap open as the boy departed.
And just then the fictitious baronet entered the room and, as Holmes read his telegram, passed by us, still apparently in search of the unattainable, little dreaming how close at hand was the explanation of his troubles. I was on the edge of nervous prostration, but Holmes never turned a hair. Save for a slight tremor of his hand, no one would have even guessed that there was anything in the wind. Sir Henry Darlington took a seat in the far corner of the room.
“That accounts for his uneasiness,” said Holmes, tossing the telegram across the table.
I read: “Slight delay. Will meet you at eight with the goods.” The message was signed: “Cato.”
“Let’s see,” said Holmes. “It is now 6:45. Here—lend me your fountain pen, Jenkins.”
I produced the desired article and Holmes, in an admirably feigned hand, added to the message the words: “at the Abbey, Lafayette Boulevard. Safer,” restored it in amended form to its envelope.
“Call one of the bellboys, please,” he said to the waiter.
A moment later, a second bellboy appeared.
“This isn’t for me, boy,” said Holmes, handing the message to him. “Better take it to the office.”
“Very good, sir,” said the lad, and off he went.
A few minutes after this incident, Sir Henry again rose impatiently and left the room, and, at a proper distance to the rear, Holmes followed him. Darlington stopped at the desk, observed the telegram in his box, called for it, and opened it. His face flushed as he tore it into scraps and made for the elevator, into which he disappeared.
“He’s nibbling the bait, all right,” said Holmes gleefully, “We’ll just wait around here until he starts, and then we’ll see what we can do with Cato. This is quite an adventure.”
“What do you suppose it’s all about?” I asked.
“I don’t know any more than you do, Jenkins,” said Holmes, “save this, that old Bob Hollister isn’t playing penny-ante. When he goes on to a job as elaborately as all this, you can bet your last dollar that the game runs into five figures, and, like a loyal subject of his Gracious Majesty King Edward VII., whom may the Lord save, he reckons not in dollars but in pounds sterling.”
“Who can Cato be, I wonder?” I asked.
“We’ll know at eight o’clock,” said Holmes. “I intend to have him up.”
“Up? Up where?” I asked.
“In Darlington’s rooms—where else?” demanded Holmes.
“In four hundred and seven?” I gasped.
“Certainly—that’s our headquarters, isn’t it?” he grinned.
“Now see here, Raffles,” I began.
“Shut up, Jenkins,” he answered. “Just hang on to your nerve—”
“But suppose Darlington turns up?”
“My dear boy, the Abbey is six miles from here and he won’t, by any living chance, get back before ten o’clock tonight. We shall have a good two and a half hours to do up old Cato without any interference from him,” said Holmes.
“Suppose he does come—what then?”
“I rather doubt if Sir Henry Darlington, of the Hotel Powhatan, New York, or Dorsetshire, England, would find it altogether pleasant to hear a few reminiscences of Bob Hollister of Pentonville prison, which I have on tap.”
“He’ll kick up a deuce of a row,” I protested.
“Very doubtful, Jenkins,” said Raffles. “I sort of believe he’ll be as gentle as a lamb when he finds out what I know—but, if he isn’t, well, don’t I represent law and order?” and Holmes displayed a detective’s badge, which he wore for use in emergency cases, pinned to the inner side of his suspenders.
As he spoke, Darlington reappeared and, leaving his key at the office, went out through the revolving doorway and jumped into a cab.
“Where to, sir?” asked the driver.
“The Abbey,” said Darlington.
“They’re off!” whispered Holmes with a laugh. “And now for Mr. Cato.”
We walked back through the office, and, as we passed the bench upon which the bellboys sat, Raffles stopped before the lad who had delivered the telegram to him.
“Here, son,” he said, handing him a quarter, “run over to the newsstand and get me a copy of this month’s Salmagundi—I’ll be in the smoking room.
The boy went off on his errand and in a few minutes returned with a magazine.
“Thanks,” said Holmes. “Now get me my key and we’ll call it square.”
“Four hundred and seven, sir?” said the boy with a smile of recognition.
“Yep,” said Holmes laconically, as he leaned back in his chair and pretended to read.
“Gad, Holmes, what a nerve!” I muttered.
“We need it in this business,” said he.
The bellboy returned and delivered the key of Sir Henry Darlington’s apartment into the hands of Raffles Holmes.
Ten minutes later we sat in room 407—I in a blue funk from sheer nervousness, Raffles Holmes as imperturbable as the rock of Gibraltar. It was the usual style of hotel room, with bath, pictures, telephone, what-nots, wardrobes, and center-table. The last proved to be the main point of interest upon our arrival. It was littered up with papers of one sort and another: letters, bills receipted and otherwise, and a large assortment of railway and steamship folders. “He knows how to get away,” was Holmes’s comment on the latter. Most of the letters were addressed to Sir Henry Darlington, in care of Bruce, Watkins, Brownleigh & Co., bankers.
“Same old g
ame,” laughed Holmes. “The most conservative banking house in New York! It’s amazing how such institutions issue letters indiscriminately to any Tom, Dick, or Harry who comes along and planks down his cash. They don’t seem to realize that they thereby unconsciously lend the glamor of their own respectability and credit to people who, instead of travelling abroad, should be locked up in the most convenient penitentiary at home. Aha!” Holmes added as he ran his eye over some of the other documents and came upon a receipted bill. “We’re getting close to it, Jenkins. Here’s a receipted bill from Bar, LeDuc & Co., of Fifth Avenue, for $15,000—three rings, one diamond necklace, a ruby stickpin, and a set of pearl shirt-studs.”
“Yes,” said I, “but what is there suspicious about that? If the things are paid for—”
“Precisely,” laughed Holmes. “They’re paid for. Sir Henry Darlington has enough working capital to buy all the credit he needs with Messrs. Bar, LeDuc & Co. There isn’t a house in this town that, after a cash transaction of this kind, conducted through Bruce, Watkins, Brownleigh & Co., wouldn’t send its own soul up on approval to a nice, clean-cut member of the British aristocracy like Sir Henry Darlington. We’re on the trail, Jenkins—we’re on the trail. Here’s a letter from Bar, LeDuc & company Let’s see what light that sheds on the matter.”
Holmes took a letter from an envelope and read, rapidly:
“Sir Henry Darlington—care of Bruce, Watkins and so forth—dear Sir Henry—We are having some difficulty matching the pearls—they are of unusual quality, but we hope to have the necklace ready for delivery as requested on Wednesday afternoon at the office of Messrs. Bruce, Watkins and so forth, between five and six o’clock. Trusting the delay will not—and so forth—and hoping to merit a continuance of your valued favors, we beg to remain, and so forth, and so forth.
“That’s it,” said Holmes. “It’s a necklace that Mr. Cato is bringing up to Sir Henry Darlington—and, once in his possession, it’s Sir Henry for some place on one of these folders.”
“Why don’t they send them directly here?” I inquired.
“It is better for Darlington to emphasize Bruce, Watkins, Brownleigh & Co., and not to bank too much on the Hotel Powhatan, that’s why,” said Holmes. “What’s the good of having bankers like that back of you if you don’t underscore their endorsement? Anyhow, we’ve discovered the job, Jenkins; today is Wednesday, and the ‘goods’ Cato has to deliver and referred to in his telegram is the pearl necklace of unusual quality—hence not less than a $50,000 stake.”
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