Anthony Trent, Master Criminal

by Wyndham Martyn

  CHAPTER XXVII

  MRS. KINNEY MAKES A CONFESSION

  ANTHONY TRENT looked about his well-furnished rooms with a certainmerited affection. In a week he would know them no more. Alreadyarrangements had been made to send the furniture to his camp onKennebago. A great deal of the furniture Weems had gathered there wasdistressfully bad. Weems ran to gilt and brocade mainly.

  As Trent surveyed his apartment it amused him to think that never was aflat in a house such as this furnished so well and at so great a cost.The things might seem modest enough at first glance. There was, forexample, a steel engraving, after Stuart, of George Washington. Afitting and a worthy picture for any American's room but hardly onewhich required a large amount of money to obtain.

  None save Anthony Trent knew that behind the print was concealed one ofthe most beautiful examples of that flower of the Venetian Renaissance,Giorgione. A few months before the Scribblers' Club had invited motionpicture magnates to its monthly dinner. Only a few of these moulders ofpublic taste had accepted. There were good enough reasons fordeclination. The subject incensed those who held that writers had nogrudge against the "movies." Others lacked speech-making ability in theEnglish tongue. And there were some high-stomached producers who fearedthe Scribblers' fare might be unworthy.

  One big man consented to speak. He was glib with that oratory whichcomes from successful selling. Before he had sprung into notoriety hehad been a salesman in a Seventh Avenue store, one of those persuasivegentlemen who waylay passersby. His speech was, of course, absurd. Itwas interesting mainly as an example that intelligence is not alwaysnecessary in the making of big money.

  It was when he began to speak of the material rewards that his acumenhad garnered, that Anthony Trent awoke to interest. The producer toldhis hearers that they had assuredly read of the sale to an unnamedpurchaser of a Giorgione. "I am that purchaser!" said the great man. "Igive more money for it than--" his shrewd appraising eye went around thetable. He saw eager unsuccessful writers, starveling associate editorsand a motley company of the unarrived. There were a few who had gainedrecognition but in the main it was not a prosperous gathering ascommerce reckons success. "I give more money for it," he declared, "thanall this bunch will make in their lifetime. It'll be on view at theMetropolitan Museum next week when you boys can take an eyefull. It's onmy desk at this present moment in a plain wooden case. It ain't a bigpicture; this Giorgione"--his "G" was wrongly pronounced--"didn't paint'em big. My wife don't know anything about it but she's got the art bugand she'll get it to-morrow morning as her birthday present."

  However, the lady was disappointed. The wooden case was brought to thetable and the magnate unwrapped it with his own fat fingers. Instead ofthe canvas representing a Venetian fete and undraped ladies, was thecomic sheet of a Sunday paper. The motion picture magnate used hisweekly news-sheet (produced in innumerable theatres) to advertise hisloss by a production of the missing picture. It was good advertising andmade the Venetian master widely known. But it still reposed behind thesphinx-like Washington.

  The Benares lamp was naturally his _piece de resistance_. Never inhistory had such value been gathered together in a lamp. Trentremembered seeing once in the British Museum a lamp from the Mosque ofOmar at Jerusalem on which was inscribed, "The Painter is the poor andhumble Mustafa." As he looked at his own lantern he thought, "TheDecorator is the unknown Anthony Trent."

  Collectors of china would have sneered at a single vase on the top of abookcase. It was white enameled and had a few flowers painted on it. Andthe inscription told the curious that it was a souvenir of Watch Hill,R. I.

  In reality it was the celebrated vase of King Senwosri who had gazed onit twenty-five centuries before Christ. Senator Scrivener had bought itat a great price in Cairo. Some day the white enamel which Trent hadpainted over the imperishable glass would be carefully removed and itwould gladden his eyes in Maine where visitors would be infrequent.

  There were a dozen curious things Trent looked at, things hidden fromall eyes but his, which aroused exciting memories of a career he fullybelieved had drawn to a close. He doubted if ever a man in all thehistory of crime had taken what he had taken and was yet personallyunknown. Some day, if possible, he might be able to learn from thepolice what mental estimate they had formed of him. He must loom largein their eyes. They must invest him with a skill and courage that wouldbe flattering indeed were he to learn of it. The occasional mentions ofhim he read in daily papers were too distorted to be interesting andMcWalsh's tribute to the unknown master was his only reward so far.

  The life that was coming, was to be the life he desired. Leisure, thepossession of books, the opportunity to wander as he chose through farcountries when the war was over. And he liked to think that later hemight find love. Often he had envied men with children. Well, he couldoffer the woman that he might find comforts that fiction would neverhave brought him. He was getting to have fewer qualms of conscience now.He often assured himself that he was honest by comparison with warprofiteers. He had taken from the rich and had not withheld from thepoor.

  His immunity from arrest, the growing certainty that his cleverness hadsaved him from detection led him on this particular night to speculateupon his new life with an easy mind. He had been wise to avoid thedangers of friendship. He had been astute in selecting a woman like Mrs.Kinney who distrusted strangers. She believed in him absolutely. Shelooked to his comforts and cared for his health admirably. She wouldassuredly be happy in Maine.

  And then he remembered that during the last week or so she had beenstrangely moody. She had sighed frequently. She had looked at himconstantly and gazed away when he met her eye. She was old, and the oldwere fanciful as he knew. Perhaps, after all she regretted leaving theNew York which filled her with exquisite tremblings and fear. In Maineshe would be lonely. She should have a younger woman to aid her with thehouse work. A physician should look her over. Trent was genuinely fondof the old woman.

  He was thinking of her when she came into the room. Undoubtedly therewas something unusual about her. There was no longer the pleasant smileon her face. He was almost certain she wore a look of fear. Instantly hesensed some danger impending.

  "There's a man been here three times to-day," she began.

  "What of it?" he demanded. So far as she could judge the news did notdisconcert him.

  "Is there anybody you might want to avoid?" she asked, and did not lookat him as she spoke.

  "A thousand," he smiled. "Who was it?"

  "He wouldn't leave his name."

  "What was he like?"

  "A man," she told him, "sixty. Well dressed and polite but I didn'ttrust him. He'll be back at ten."

  It was now almost half past nine.

  "I don't see everybody who calls," he reminded her.

  "You must see him," she said seriously.

  "Why?" he demanded.

  "He said you would regret it if you did not."

  "Probably an enterprising salesman," he returned with an appearancealmost of boredom.

  "No, he isn't," she said quickly.

  There was no doubt that Mrs. Kinney was terribly in earnest. He affectedthe air of composure he did not feel.

  "Who then?" Anthony Trent demanded.

  "I think it's the police," she whispered.

  Then suddenly she fell to weeping.

  "Oh, Mr. Trent," she said brokenly, "I _know_."

  "What?" he cried sharply, suddenly alert to danger, turned in thatmoment from the debonair careless idler to one in imminent risk ofcapture.

  "About you," she said.

  "What about me?" he exclaimed impatiently.

  "I know how you make your living. I didn't spy on you, sir, believe me,I just happened on it." Timidly she looked over to the Benares lampgracefully swinging in its dim corner. "I know about that."

  For a moment Anthony Trent said nothing. A few minutes ago he had sat inthe same chair as he now occupied congratulating himself on a new lifethat seemed so near and so desirable. N
ow he was learning that thelittle, shrinking woman, who so violently denounced crime and criminals,had found him out. What compromise could he effect with her? Was itlikely that she was instrumental in denouncing him to the authorities,tempted perhaps by the rewards his capture would bring? For the momentit was useless to ask how she had discovered the lamp's secret.

  "What are you going to do?" he demanded. He was assuredly not going towait for the police to arrest him if escape were possible. He might haveto shut the old woman in a closet and make his hurried exit. He alwayshad a large sum of money about him. Of late the banks had been aidingthe government by disclosing the names of those depositors who investedsums of a size that seemed incompatible with their positions and ways ofliving. He feared to make such deposits that might lead to investigationand of late had secreted what money his professional gains had broughthim.

  "What am I going to do?" she echoed. "Why help you if I can."

  He looked at her, suspicion in his gaze. Her manner convinced him thatby some means or other she had indeed stumbled upon what he had hopedwas hidden. It was not a moment to ask her by what means she had doneso. And, equally, it was no moment for denial.

  "Why should you help me?" he demanded. He could not afford blindly totrust any one. "If you think you have found something irregular about mewhy do you offer aid? In effect you have accused me of being a criminal.Don't you know there's a law against helping one?"

  "I'm one, too," she said, to his amazement.

  "Nonsense!" he snapped. He was too keen a judge of character to believethat this meek old creature had fallen into evil ways.

  "Do you remember," she said steadily--and he could see she was intenselynervous--"that I told you I had no children when I applied for thisplace?"

  "Yes, yes," he answered impatiently. It seemed so trivial a matter now.

  "Well, I lied," she returned, "I had a daughter at the point of death. Ineeded the position and I heard you telling other applicants you wantedsome one with no ties."

  "That's hardly criminal," Anthony Trent declared.

  "Wait," she wailed, "I did worse. You remember when you furnished thisplace you sent me to pay for some rugs--nearly two hundred dollars itwas?"

  "And you had your pocket picked. I remember."

  "I took the money," she confessed. "If I had not my girl would have beenburied with the nameless dead."

  He looked at the sobbing woman kindly.

  "Don't worry about that, Mrs. Kinney. If only you had told me you couldhave had it."

  "I know that now," she returned, "but then I was afraid."

  "You'll stand by me notwithstanding that?" he pointed to the jeweledlamp.

  "Why of course," she said simply, and he knew she was genuine.

  Almost as she spoke the bell rang.

  "Go to the head of the stairs," he commanded, "and I will let him in. Becertain to see how many there are. If there are two or more, call outthat some men are coming. If it is the one who called before, say 'thegentleman is here.' Listen carefully. If there are two or more I shallget out by the roof. Meet me to-morrow by Grant's Tomb at ten o'clock inthe morning. You've got that?"

  Mrs. Kinney was perfectly calm now and he was certain that her loyaltycould be depended upon. Presently she called out, "The gentleman ishere."

  Anthony Trent rose slowly from his chair by the window as his visitorentered. It was a heavily built man of sixty or so dressed very well. Ata glance the stranger displayed distinguished urbanity.

  "What a charming retreat you have here, Mr. Trent," he observed.

  "It is convenient," said Anthony Trent shortly. The word "retreat"sounded unpleasantly in his ear. It had a sound of enforced seclusion.He continued to study the elder man. There was an inflection in hisvoice which we are pleased to term an "English accent." And yet he didnot seem, somehow, to be an Englishman. His accent reminded Trent of aman he had met casually two years before. It was at a Park riding schoolwhere he kept a saddle horse that he encountered him. From his accent hebelieved him to be English and was surprised when he was informed thatit was Captain von Papen he had taken to be British. He learnedafterwards that the Germans of good birth generally learned theirEnglish among England's upper classes and acquired thereby thatinflection which does not soothe the average American. This stranger hadjust such a speaking voice. Obviously then he was German and one highlyconnected. And at a day when German plots and intrigue engaged publicattention what was he doing here?

  "Mine is a business call," said the stranger.

  "You do not ask if this is a convenient hour," Trent reminded him.

  "My dear sir," the other said smiling, "you must understand that it is amatter in which my convenience is to be consulted rather than yours."The eyes that gleamed through the thick glasses were fixed on Trent'sface with a trace of amusement in them. The stranger had the look of onewho holds the whiphand over another.

  "I don't admit that," Anthony Trent retorted. "I don't know your name oryour errand and I'm not sure that I want to."

  "Wait," said the other. "As for my name--let it be Kaufmann. As for myerrand, let us say I am interested in a history of crime and want you tobe a collaborator."

  "What qualifications have I for such an honor?"

  Anthony Trent rammed his pipe full of Hankey and lit it with a hand thatdid not tremble. Instinctively he knew the other watched for signs ofnervousness.

  "You have written remarkable stories of crime," Mr. Kaufmann remindedhim. "I regret that the death of an Australian uncle permitted you toretire."

  "You will not think it rude, I hope," Trent said with a show ofpoliteness, "if I say that you seem to be much more interested in mybusiness than I am in yours."

  "I admire your national trait of frankness," Kaufmann smiled, "and willcopy it. I am a merchant of Zurich, at Bahnhof street, the largest dyerof silk in Switzerland. This much you may find through your StateDepartment if you choose."

  "And owing to lack of business have taken up a study of crime?" Trentcommented. "Your frankness impresses me favorably, Mr. Kaufmann. I stilldo not see why you visit me at this hour."

  "We shall make it plain," Mr. Kaufmann assured him cordially. "First letme tell you that my business is in danger. This dye situation is likelyto ruin me. I have, or had, the formulae of the dyes I used. They weremy property."

  "German formulae!" Trent exclaimed.

  "Swiss," Kaufmann corrected, "bought by me, and my property. They havebeen stolen from my partner by an officious amateur detective--one ofyour allies--and brought here. The ship should be in shortly. He willstay in New York a day or so before going to Washington. When he goes hewill take with him my property, my dye formulae. He will enrich Americandyers at my expense."

  "You can't expect me to feel grieved about that," Anthony Trent saidbluntly.

  "I do not," said Kaufmann. "But I must have those formulae." He leanedforward and touched Trent on the arm. "You must get them."

  Trent knocked the gray ashes from his pipe. The merchant of Zurich gazedinto a face which wore amusement only. He was not to know the dismayinto which his covert threat had thrown the younger man. Without doubt,Trent told himself, this stranger must have stumbled upon somethingwhich made this odd visit a logical one, some discovery which would be asword over his head.

  "In your own country," said Trent politely, "I have no doubt you passfor a wit. To me your humor seems strained."

  Kaufmann smiled urbanely.

  "I had hoped," he asserted, "that you would not have compelled me to sayagain that you _must_ get them. I fancied perhaps that you would besensitive to any mention of, shall we say, your past?"

  "My past?" queried Trent blandly. He did not propose to be bluffed. Toooften he had played that game himself. It might still be that this man,a German without question, had only guessed at his avocation and hopedto frighten him.

  "Your past," repeated the merchant. "The phrase has possibly too vague asound for you. Let me say rather your professional activities."


  "I see," Trent smiled, "you are interested in the writing of stories. Myprofession is that of a fiction writer."

  "You fence well," Kaufmann admitted, "but I have a longer and sharperfoil. I can wound you and receive never a scratch in return. You speakof fiction. Permit me to offer you a plot. Although a Swiss I have, orhad, many German friends. We are still neutral, we of Switzerland, andyou cannot expect us to feel the enmities this war has stirred up askeenly as you and your allies do."

  "That I have noticed," Trent declared.

  "Very well then. I have a close friend here, one Baron von Eckstein. Youhave perhaps heard of him--yes?"

  Anthony Trent knitted his brow in thought.

  "Married a St. Louis heiress, didn't he?"

  "A very delightful lady, and rich," Kaufmann returned. "Charitable too,and loyal. My friends are all very loyal. Did you know that she donatedten fully-equipped ambulances to this country?"

  "I saw it in the papers," said Anthony Trent. And for the life of him hecould not help smiling.

  Mr. Kaufmann begged permission to light a cigar. It would have beendifficult to find a more urbane or genial gentleman in all Switzerland.

  "The Baron and Baroness von Eckstein are close friends."

  Since he offered no other remarks Anthony Trent spoke.

  "And I am to derive a story from so slender a plot."

  "That is but the beginning," Kaufmann assured him. "One night theBaroness had a very valuable necklace stolen. It was worth a great dealmore than was supposed. Diamonds have gone up in price. She told meabout it. In my native land I had some little skill as an amateurdetective. She had been to a ball and had met many strangers. At myrequest she mentioned those to whom she had spoken at length. Among themwas your name. That means nothing. There were twenty others. Now I cometo another interesting thing. Do I entertain you?"

  Anthony Trent simulated a yawn. He gave the appearance of one wholistens because a guest in his house speaks and politeness demands it.In reality a hundred schemes went racing through his head and in most ofthem Herr Kaufmann played a part that would have made him nervous had heguessed it.

  "Indeed yes," Anthony Trent assured him. "Please continue."

  "Very well," said the other cheerfully. "Next, my plot takes me to NewBedford. You know it?"

  "A mill town I believe?"

  "Many of the mills are owned by my friend Jerome Dangerfield who used topurchase my dyes. We are friends of thirty years. He was the owner ofthe celebrated Mount Aubyn ruby. It was stolen from him, knocked out ofhis very hands. A most mysterious case. You have heard of it?"

  "I saw that ten thousand dollars was offered for the return of the stoneand capture of the thief."

  "I made my little list of those to whom Dangerfield had talked duringhis stay at Sunset Park. Your name was there, Mr. Trent."

  "If you are thinking of writing it up," Trent said kindly, "I mustadvise you that editors of the better sort rather frown on coincidence.Coincidence in fiction is a shabby old gentleman to-day with fewerfriends every year. What next?"

  "Nothing, now," Kaufmann admitted readily. "Since then I haveinvestigated you. I find you write no more; that you live well; thatwhile your money supposedly comes from Australia you never present anAustralian draft at your bank. Now, my dear Mr. Trent, I may misjudgeyou. Possibly I do. But in the interests of my friends the Baron andBaroness, to say nothing of my customer Jerome Dangerfield, I may bepermitted to investigate any man whose way of living seems suspicious. Iought perhaps to put the matter into the hands of the police."

  "Have you?" Trent demanded sharply.

  "Not yet. It may be that I shall when I leave here. You may be thinkingwhat a fool I am to come here and tell you these startling things whenyou are so much younger and stronger than I. I should answer, if youasked me, that I have a permit to carry a revolver and that I haveavailed myself of it."

  Blandly he showed the other a .38 automatic Bayard pistol.

  "You may be misjudged," he said cordially. "If so I offer you theapology of a Swiss gentleman. But consider my position. Suppose we abideby the decision of the police." He looked keenly at Anthony Trent, "Areyou willing to leave it to them? Shall I call up Spring 3100?"

  Kaufmann gave Trent the idea that he knew very much more about his lifethan he had so far admitted. There was a certainty about the man thatveiled disquieting things. If he knew the Von Ecksteins and Dangerfieldas he claimed, it was one of those unfortunate coincidences which lifeoften provides to humble supercilious editors like Crosbeigh. Policeinvestigation was a thing Trent feared greatly. Under cross-examinationhis defense would fall abjectly. It was no good to inquire how Kaufmannhad found out that he had never offered an Australian check at his bank.It was sufficient that his charge was true.

  "It is rather late to bother the police," he said smiling.

  Kaufmann breathed relief, "Ah," he said genially, "we shall makeexcellent collaborators, I can see that. To-day is Tuesday. On Thursdayat this hour I shall come with particulars of what I expect you to dofor us?"

  "Us?" Trent exclaimed.

  "Myself and my partners," Kaufmann explained. "Yes, at this hour I shallcome and you will serve your interest by doing in all things as I say.The alternative is to telephone police headquarters and say an elderlymerchant from Zurich threatens you, slanders you, impels you to performunpleasant offices."

  Kaufmann smiling benignly backed toward the door. He closed it behindhim. A little later Anthony Trent saw him on the sidewalk five storiesbelow.

  He started as he heard footsteps behind him. It was Mrs. Kinney.

  "Was it anything serious?" she asked.

  "I'm afraid it was," he answered. "I want you to go up to Kennebago withme to-morrow afternoon. I shall take only my personal baggage. Thefurniture can wait. The apartment will be locked up."

  She spoke with a certain hesitation.

  "I listened to what he was saying, Mr. Trent."

  "I hoped you would," he answered, "I may need a witness."

  "Don't you think it would be wiser to wait and do what he wants you to?"

  "Perhaps," retorted her employer, "but I don't see how he can find meout in Kennebago. Who knows about it but you and Weems? You haven'tmentioned it to any one and Weems isn't anxious his financial conditionshould be suspected. And, beside that, he's in Los Angeles. I shall paythe rent of this flat up till Christmas and tell the agent I may be backfor a few days any time. I must leave the furniture." He looked abouthim regretfully. "That could be traced easily enough." He decided totake the Benares lamp, Stuart's picture of Washington, the vase of KingSenwosri, and one or two things of price. They could go in his trunks.

  "But, sir," Mrs. Kinney persisted timidly, "if he finds you out it maygo badly with you and it wouldn't be difficult to get what he wants."

  "Perhaps not," he said gravely, "but if I were to do one such thing forthem they would use me continually."

  "But he only wants his dye formulae," she reminded him.

  "Don't you understand," he said, "that he is a German spy and wants meto betray my country?"