CHAPTER XVI
THE MOUNT AUBYN RUBY
IT was while Trent was shaving that the lamp fell. He started, blessedthe man who invented safety razors, that he had not gashed himself, andwent into his library to see what had happened.
Mrs. Kinney, his housekeeper, was volubly apologetic.
"I was only dusting it," she explained, "when it came down. I think it'sno more than bent."
It was a hanging lamp of Benares brasswork, not of much value, but Trentliked its quaint design and the brilliant flashing of the cut coloredglass that embellished it. Four eyes of light looked out on the worldwhen the lamp was lit. White, green, blue and red, eyes of the size offilbert nuts.
He stooped down and picked up the shattered red glass. It was the soledamage done by Mrs. Kinney's activity.
"It will cost only a few cents to have it repaired," he commented, andwent back to the bathroom, and speedily forgot the whole matter.
At breakfast Anthony Trent admitted he was bored. There had been littleexcitement in his recent work. The niceness of calculation, the carefulplanning and dextrous carrying out of his affairs had netted him a greatdeal of money with very little risk. There had been risk often enoughbut not within the past few months. His thoughts went back to some ofhis more noteworthy feats, and he smiled. He chuckled at the episode ofthe bank president whom he had given in charge for picking his pocketwhen he had just relieved the financier of the choicest contents of hissafe.
Trent's specialty was adroit handling of situations which would havebeen too much for the ordinary criminal. He had an aplomb, an ingenuousair, and was so diametrically opposed to the common conception of aburglar that people had often apologized to him whose homes he hadlooted.
It was his custom to read through two of the leading morning papersafter breakfast. It was necessary that he should keep himself fullyinformed of the movements of society, of engagements, divorces andmarriages. It was usually among people of this sort that he operated. Tothe columns devoted to lost articles he gave special attention. Morethan once he had seen big rewards offered for things that he hadconcealed in his rooms. And although the comforting phrase, "Noquestions asked" invariably accompanied the advertisement, he never madeapplication for the reward.
In this, Trent differed from the usual practitioner of crime. When hehad abandoned fiction for a more diverting sport he had formulatedregulations for his professional conduct drawn up with extraordinarycare. It was the first article of his faith under no circumstances to goto a "fence" or disposer of stolen goods, or to visit pawnshops. It isplain to see such precautions were wise. Sooner or later the police getthe "fence" and with him the man's clientele. Every man who sells to a"fence" puts his safety in another's keeping, and Anthony Trent wasminded to play the game alone.
As to the pawnshops, daily the police regulations expose moresearchingly the practices of those who bear the arms of old Lombardyabove their doors. The court news is full of convictions obtained by thepolice detailed to watch the pawnbrokers' customers. It was largely onthis account that Trent specialized on currency and remained unknown tothe authorities.
On this particular morning the newspapers offered nothing of interestexcept to say that a certain Italian duke, whose cousin had recentlybecome engaged to an American girl of wealth and position, was about tocross the ocean and bear with him family jewels as a wedding gift fromthe great house he represented. Methodically Trent made a note of this.Later he took the subway downtown to consult with his brokers on thepurchase of certain oil stocks.
He had hardly taken his seat when Horace Weems pounced upon him. ThisWeems was an energetic creature, by instinct and training a salesman, soproud of his art and so certain of himself that he was wont to boast hecould sell hot tamales in hell. By shrewdness he had amassed acomfortable fortune. He was a short, blond man nearly always capable ofprofuse perspirations. Trent knew by Weems' excitement that there was athand either an entrancingly beautiful girl--as Weems saw beauty--or avery rich man. Only these two spectacles were capable of bringing Weems'smooth cheeks to this flush of excitement. Weems sometimes describedhimself as a "money-hound."
"You see that man coming toward us," Weems whispered.
Trent looked up. There were three men advancing. One was a heavily builtman of late middle age with a disagreeable face, dominant chin and hardgray eyes. The other two were younger and had that alert bearing whichmen gain whose work requires a sound body and courage.
"Are they arresting him?" Parker demanded. He noticed that they werevery close to the elder man. They might be Central Office men.
"Arresting _him?_" Weems whispered, still excitedly, "I should say not.You don't know who he is."
"I only know that he must be rich," Trent returned.
"That's one of the wealthiest men in the country," Weems told him."That's Jerome Dangerfield."
"Your news leaves me unmoved," said the other. "I never heard of him."
"He hates publicity," Weems informed him. "If a paper prints a lineabout him it's his enemy, and it don't pay to have the enmity of a manworth nearly a hundred millions."
"What's his line?" Trent demanded.
"Everything," Weems said enthusiastically. "He owns half the mills inNew Bedford for one thing. And then there's real estate in this villageand Chicago." Weems sighed. "If I had his money I'd buy a paper and havemyself spread all over it. And he won't have a line."
"I'm not sure he has succeeded in keeping it out. I'd swear that I'veread something about him. It comes back clearly. It was something aboutjewels. I remember now. It was Mrs. Jerome Dangerfield who bought afamous ruby that the war compelled an English marchioness to sell." Thething was quite clear to him now. He was on his favorite topic. "It wasknown as the Mount Aubyn ruby, after the family which had it so long."He turned to look at the well-guarded financier. "So that's the manwhose wife has that blood-stained jewel!"
"What do you mean--blood stained?" Weems demanded.
"It's one of the tragic stones of history," said the other. "Men havesold their lives for it, and women their honor. One of the formermarquises of Mount Aubyn killed his best friend in a duel for it. Godknows what blood was spilled for it in India before it went to Europe."
"You don't believe all that junk, do you?" asked Weems.
"Junk!" the other flung back at him. "Have you ever looked at a ruby?"
"Sure I have," Weems returned aggrieved. "Haven't you seen my ruby stickpin?"
"Which represents to you only so many dollars, and is, after all, only asmall stone. If you'd ever looked into the heart of a ruby you'd knowwhat I mean. There's a million little lurking devils in it, Weems,taunting you, mocking you, making you covet it and ready to do murder tohave it for your own."
Weems looked at him, startled for the moment. He had never known hisfriend so intense, so unlike his careless, debonair self.
"For the moment," said Weems, "I thought you meant it. Of course youused to write fiction and that explains it."
To his articles of faith Anthony Trent added another paragraph. He sworenot to let his enthusiasm run away with him when he discussed jewels.Weems was safe enough. He was lucky to be in no other company. Butsuppose he had babbled to one of those keen-eyed men engaged in guardingJerome Dangerfield, the multi-millionaire who shunned publicity! Hedetermined to choose another subject.
"What does he take those men around with him for?" he asked.
"A very rich man is pestered to death," the wise Weems said. "Cranks tryto interest him in all sorts of fool schemes and crazy men try to killhim for being a capitalist. And then there's beggars and charities andblackmailers. Nobody can get next to him. I know. I've tried. I've neverseen him in the subway before. I guess his car broke down and he had tocome with the herd."
"So you tried? What was your scheme?"
"I forget now," Weems admitted. "I've had so many good things since. Ifollowed out a stunt of that crook, Conway Parker, you used to writeabout. In one of your stories you made him want to m
eet a millionaireand instead of going to his office you made him go to the Fifth Avenuehome and fool the butlers and flunkeys. It won't work, old man. I know.I handed the head butler my hat and cane, but that was as far as I got.There must be a high sign in that sort of a house that I wasn't wiseto." Weems mused on his defeat for a few seconds. "I ought to have worna monocle." He brightened. "Anyway just as I came out of the door a ladyfriend passed by on the top of a 'bus and saw me. Now you're a goodlooker, old man, and high-class and all that, but you and I don'tbelong in places like Millionaires' Row."
"Too bad," said Trent, smiling.
He wondered what Weems would have said if he had known that his friendhad within the week been to a reception in one of the greatest of theFifth Avenue palaces and there gazed at a splendid ruby--not half thesize of the Mount Aubyn stone--on the yellowing neck of an aged lady ofmany loves.
* * * * *
When Weems was shaken off, Dangerfield and his attendants vanished, andTrent had placed an order with his brokers he walked over to Park Row,where he had once worked as a cub reporter. Contrary to his usualcustom, he entered a saloon well patronized by the older order ofnewspapermen, men who graduated in a day when it was possible to drinkhard and hold a responsible position. He had barely crossed thethreshold when he heard the voice of the man he sought. It was Clarke,slave to the archdemon rum. He was trying to borrow enough money from amonotype man, who had admitted backing a winner, to get a prescriptionfilled for a suffering wife. The monotype man, either disbelievingClarke's story or having little regard for wifely suffering, wasindisposed to share his winnings with druggist or bartender.
It was at this moment that Clarke caught sight of his old reporter andmore recent benefactor. He dropped the monotype man with all theoutraged pride of an erstwhile city editor and shook Trent's handcordially. His own trembled.
"That might be managed," said Trent, listening to his request gravely,"but first have a drink to steady your nerves."
They repaired to a little alcove and sat down. Clarke was not anxious toleave so pleasant a spot. He talked entertainingly and was ready toexpatiate on his former glories.
"By the way," said Trent presently, "you used to know the inside historyand hidden secrets of every big man in town."
"I do yet," Clarke insisted eagerly. "What's on your mind?"
"Nothing in particular," said the other idly, "but I came downtown onthe subway and saw Jerome Dangerfield with his two strong-arm men.What's he afraid of? And why won't he have publicity?"
"That swinehound!" Clarke exclaimed. "Why wouldn't he be afraid ofpublicity with his record? You're too young to remember, but I know."
"What do you know?" Trent demanded.
"I know that he's worse than the _Leader_ said he was when I was on thestaff twenty years back. That was why the old _Leader_ went out ofbusiness. He put it out. A paper is a business institution and won'tantagonize a vicious two-handed fighter like Dangerfield unless it'snecessary. That's why they leave him alone. The big political partiesget campaign contributions from him. Why stir him up?"
"But you haven't told me what he did?"
"Women," said Clarke briefly. "You know, boy, that some men are bornwomen-hunters. That may be natural enough; but if it's a game, play itfair. Pay for your folly. He didn't. You ask me why he has those guardswith him? It's to protect him from the fathers of young girls who'vesworn to get him. His bosom pal got his at a roof garden a dozen yearsback, and Dangerfield's watching night and day. He's bad all through.The stuff we had on him at the _Leader_ would make you think you wereback in decadent Rome."
"What's his wife like?"
"Society--all Society. Handsome, they tell me, and not any too muchbrain, but domineering. Full of precious stones. I'm told every servantis a detective. I guess they are, as you never heard of any of theirvaluables being taken. It makes me thirsty to think of it."
Trent, when he had obtained the information he desired, left Clarke withenough money to buy medicine for his wife. With the bartender he leftsufficient to pay for a taxi to the boarding-house of Mrs. Sauer, wherehe himself had once resided. Clarke would need it.
On his way uptown he found himself thinking continuously of JeromeDangerfield and the Mount Aubyn ruby. There would be excitement in goingafter such a prize. The Dangerfield household was one into which thieveshad not been able to break nor steal. A man, to make a successful coup,would need more than a knowledge of the mechanism of burglar alarms orsafes; he would need steel nerves, a clear head, physical courage andthat intuitive knowledge of how to proceed which marks the greatcriminal from his brother, the ordinary crook. If he possessed himselfof the ruby there would be no chance to sell it. It was as well knownamong connoisseurs as are the paintings of Velasquez. To cut it intolesser stones would be a piece of vandalism that he could never bringhimself to enact.
It was Trent's custom when he planned a job to lay out in concise formthe possible and probable dangers he must meet. And to each one of theseproblems there must be a solution. He decided that an entrance to theDangerfield house from the outside would fail. To gain a position in thehousehold would be not easy. In all probability references would bestrictly looked up. They would be easy enough to forge, but if they wereexposed he would be a suspect and his fictitious uncle in Australiaexhumed. Also he did not care to live in a household where he wascertain to be under the observation of detectives. No less than JeromeDangerfield he shrank from publicity.
Mrs. Kinney noticed that he was strangely unresponsive to herwell-cooked lunch. When she enquired the cause he told her he wanted achange. "I shall go away and play golf for a couple of weeks," hedeclared.
Anthony Trent, Master Criminal Page 16