222CHAPTER XXXIII.BATEATO SUMMONS BIG MUCH POLICE.
A vitagraph film of Bateato’s journey to and from the police station would consist of a series of dark brown blurs. If you have ever noticed a mouse in full flight you will have some idea of how that Jap ran. He knew where the police station was, too, for he had been there once when his brother, Itchi Comia, was arrested for assaulting a Russian peddler.
If the little Jap had only coursed through another street things might have gone somewhat differently in the Gladwin household, for he would have encountered Whitney Barnes hurrying in the opposite direction, and that young man would very likely have prevented him from going to the station.
But there was absolutely no obstacle in Bateato’s way until he reached the station house, and the only obstacle he encountered there was a serious impediment in his speech.
Police Captain Stone had returned to barracks a few minutes after the departure of Barnes and a few minutes before the arrival of Bateato. He was223standing beside the lieutenant’s chair when the Jap sped in, and he seemed almost interested (for a police captain) at the extraordinary manifestations of emotion in Bateato’s countenance.
“All pleece––quick––robbers––thieves––ladies!” began Bateato, then paused and made wild jabs above his head with his hands.
“Crazy as a nut,” said the lieutenant in an undertone to the captain, and the captain nodded.
“All pictures––thieves––steal ladies!” was Bateato’s second instalment, and the captain and lieutenant looked at each other and shook their heads.
“Big much pleece!” shrieked Bateato, made some more motions with his hands and rushed out into the street.
“It’s Jap whiskey,” said the captain, musingly, utterly unimpressed. “He isn’t crazy. That Jap whiskey’s awful stuff. They licked the Russian army on it. He’ll run it off. If you ever see a Jap runnin’ you’ll know what’s the matter.”
Bateato ran a block and then stopped.
“Hell damn!” he exploded. “I no tell where house.”
He ran back to the station and burst in again with even more precipitation.
“I no tell house,” he rattled off. “Mr. Gladwin––Travers Gladwin. Big lot white house––Fifth avenue––eighty, eighty, eighty. Quick––thieves––ladies!” and he was gone again before Captain Stone could remove his cigar from his face.
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The captain looked at the lieutenant and the lieutenant looked at the captain.
“Maybe he ain’t drunk, Captain,” ventured the lieutenant. “There’s that Gladwin house on the books. It’s marked closed and there’s a note about a million-dollar collection of paintings.”
The captain thought a moment and then burst into action:
“Call the reserves and get the patrol wagon,” he shouted. “I remember that Jap. I guess there’s something doing. I’ll go myself.”
As the reserves were all asleep and the horses had to be hitched to the patrol wagon Bateato had a big start of his big much pleece.
Notwithstanding the breathless condition in which he had arrived at the station house, his return journey was accomplished at his dizziest speed. Also he arrived back at the house way in advance of Whitney Barnes. There was a reason.
Wearing a frock coat and a silk hat and carrying a cane (of course he called itstick) one is hardly equipped for marathoning. And if you must know more, Whitney’s small clothes were too fashionably tight to permit of more than a swift heel and toe action. At this he was doing admirably in his passionate haste to return and warn his friend Gladwin when another woman came into his life and appealed for succor.
Three in one evening, when he was perfectly satisfied to stop at one––the bewitching Sadie.
225
No. 3 was of an entirely different type from No. 1 and No. 2, and, happily for Whitney, there was no yowling bundle this time––merely a cat, and a silent cat at that.
She was a plump little woman and rather comely and she was intensely excited, for the cat in the case was hers and the cat was up the only tree on that street east of Central Park. At the foot of the tree sat a large bulldog gazing fixedly up at the cat.
Whitney Barnes was so occupied with his heel and toe pace that he did not descry the woman or the dog or the tree or the cat until the woman seized him by the arm and cried:
“You must save my darling Zaza from that dog.”
Then she tailed off into hysterical sobs, but did not release her grip.
“Madam, I’m in great haste,” retorted Barnes, striving to wriggle free from her grip. “I would advise you to call a policeman.”
“There is no policeman,” sobbed the distressed mistress of Zaza. “Oh, you m-m-m-must s-s-s-save my Z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-aza. Oo-oo!”
Then Barnes glimpsed the dog and its fang-filled grin as it stared up at the cat.
“You don’t expect me to tackle that dog?” he asked, backing away and making another effort to free himself.
“Shoot him! do anything to him!” insisted the distressed female. “Oo-oo-oo! he kills cats. Do something quick or I must scream.”
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Whitney Barnes would have welcomed an open manhole to vanish into. If that woman screamed and held fast to him till the police came it would be just as bad as the baby case. But if he tackled the dog he would probably go to the hospital and be afflicted with hydrophobia and all sorts of things.
“Calm yourself my dear woman,” he said frantically. “The dog cannot climb the tree and your cat is perfectly safe.”
“Are y-y-y-you s-s-s-sure?” she moaned. Then grabbing him tighter. “But you must not leave me. In case the dog should go up that tree you must attack it with your cane.”
“I promise,” panted Barnes, “if you will only release your grip on my arm. Your finger nails are tearing the flesh.”
“I w-w-w-will not hold you so tight,” she consented, “but I must hold on to you till somebody comes. Oh, look at that brute. He is biting the tree. He–––”
But the sudden clangor of a patrol wagon and the hammering of steel-shod hoofs on the cobbles caused the owner of Zaza both to cease her shrill lamentations and let go of Whitney Barnes’s arm.
The patrol wagon was rolling down behind them at a furious pace while its gong rent the stillness of the night as a warning to all crooks and criminals to beware and to scurry to shelter. It is the New York brass band method of thief hunting and if that patrol227wagon gong hadn’t broken before the vehicle had crossed Madison avenue the destinies of several prominent personages might have been seriously hampered in their headlong fling.
That gong kept blaring its clang of warning long enough to frighten off the dog and restore Whitney Barnes to freedom, and once released from the bruising grip of that distraught little woman he turned his back upon Zaza’s fate and ran––he ran so long as he considered it feasible to maintain the integrity of his trousers. That is, he ran not quite a block, then dropped back to his heel and toe exercise and swiftly ate up the distance that separated him from Travers Gladwin’s home.
228CHAPTER XXXIV.PHELAN LOSES HIS BRIBE.
It was merely a coincidence that Bateato should drag Helen back into the room just as Gladwin had gone on record with the declaration, “There are no women here,” but it was a sufficiently dramatic coincidence to jar from Officer No. 666 the exclamation:
“Where the divil are they all springin’ from?”
Bateato had come up with Helen as she was descending the stoop, had seized her by the wrist and almost swung her off her feet as he swept her back into the house and rounded her up before the three men, dumb with fright and barely able to stand. Still gripping her wrist, Bateato let go the Maxim volley:
“You tief! She try get away, but Bateato catch fast––she tief––I see steal all pictures––she”–––
“Bateato, you idiot!” his master hurled at him with a menacing gesture that caused the little Jap to drop the girl’s hand and jump back.
“Didn’t I tell you to stay at the hotel?” continued Gladwin, fiercely, for the moment ignoring both Phelan and the thief.
229
“Yes, but I ’fraid––much late you no come. Bateato come back see girl steal all pictures!”
The little Jap had fallen into Phelan’s state of blind bewilderment.
“Shut up!” his master snapped him up, walking up to him with an eat-’em-alive expression. “And now listen––I don’t want you to say anything more, understand? Not a word to anybody about anything. Not a syllable!”
“I no spick,” bleated the Jap.
“See that you don’t––not a single word––if you do I’ll skin you!”
Never in the three years he had served the young man had Bateato seen him in anything like this savage state of mind.
“I spick no more for noting not nobody quick!” he promised, and his hand clasped over his mouth like a vise.
Having corked Bateato in this wise, Gladwin turned to Helen, who stood as if rooted to the floor, staring straight ahead of her.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said gently. “Everything is all right.” He took her arm to reassure her and then spoke to Phelan, who had been making a vain effort to solve the mix-up and didn’t feel quite sure that he wasn’t bewitched.
“Now, Phelan,” said Gladwin, “I’ll explain the thing.”
“I wish to God ye would!” said Phelan from the bottom of his heart.
230
“This lady’s being here is all right––and she isn’t connected with this affair in any way. I’ll prove that to you readily enough.”
“Well, go ahead.” And Phelan crossed his eyes in an effort to include in the focus both Gladwin and the thief de luxe, whose splendidly groomed appearance impressed him the more.
On his part the thief was leaning carelessly against a cabinet looking on with the expression of one both amused and bored. What he had noticed most was that Helen kept her eyes averted from him as if she feared to look at him and that she had palpably transferred her allegiance to Gladwin. When she had recovered some of her self-control she followed that young man’s words eagerly and obeyed his slightest signal.
“I will explain to you, Phelan, as soon as I see this young lady started for home,” Gladwin ran on, and proceeded with Helen toward the entrance to the hallway.
“Hold on! Yez’ll not leave this room,” Phelan stopped them, his suspicions again in a state of conflagration.
“But I only want–––”
“I don’t care what yez want,” Phelan snorted, blocking the way. “Yez’ll stay here.”
“Oh, well––just as you say,” returned the young man desperately, “but I will have to ask my man to escort this lady out and put her in a taxicab. Bateato”–––
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“Bad Pertaters ’ll stay where he is.”
Phelan was visibly swelling with the majesty of the law.
“You’re very disagreeable,” Gladwin charged him; then to Helen, “I’m awfully sorry I cannot go with you, but I think you can find the way yourself. Just go out through the hall, and”–––
“She’ll stay right here with the rest o’ yez,” was Phelan’s ultimatum, as he squared himself in the doorway with the heroic bearing of a bridge-defending Horatius.
The only member of that tense little tableau who really had anything to fear from the spectre of the law embodied in the person of Officer 666 had waited for Gladwin to play his poor hand and, conceiving that this was the psychological moment, sauntered across the room and said with easy assurance:
“Officer, if there’s anything further you want of me, you’ll have to be quick.”
“Yez’ll wait here, too, till I can communicate with headquarters,” Phelan gave him back, not liking the tone of command.
“Then hurry up, because it won’t go well with you if I am detained.”
“Now, don’t yez threaten me!” exploded Phelan. “I’m doin’ me duty by the book.”
“Threaten you! Why, I can show you that you have been helping to rob my house.”
This was a new current of thought––a sudden232inspiration––but this peer of bluffers managed to crowd a volume of accusation in the slow emphasis with which he said it.
“Your house!” gasped Phelan, rocked clear off the firm base he had scarcely planted himself on. “What do ye mean––who are yez?”
“Who do you suppose I am? Travers Gladwin, of course.”
Even the fear-numbed Helen Burton was startled into animation by this amazingly nervy declaration and half rose from the chair she had been guided to and forced into by Gladwin when she seemed on the verge of swooning at Phelan’s refusal to permit her to depart.
Phelan expressed wonder and alarm in every feature and his arms flopped limply at his side as he muttered:
“Travers Gladwin––youse!”
“Don’t listen to him, Phelan,” cried Gladwin.
“Shut up!” Phelan turned on him.
“When I came home to-night,” the thief pressed his advantage, “this man was here––robbing my house, dressed in your uniform––yes, and you yourself were helping him.”
“But I didn’t know,” whined the distressed Phelan, yielding himself utterly to the toils of the master prevaricator.
“I don’t think you did it intentionally––but why did you do it?” the thief let him down with a little less severity of emphasis.
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“He said he wanted to play a joke. He––he–––”
“Oh, don’t be an idiot, Phelan,” interposed Gladwin, putting his foot in it at the wrong time and receiving as his reward from the policeman a savage, “Close your face!”
“Oh, playing a joke, was he?” said the thief, smiling. “And did he offer you money. Now, no evasion––you had better tell me.”
“Yes, sir,” gulped Phelan, with murder in one eye for the real Gladwin and craven apology in the other for the impostor.
“And you took it?” sharply.
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, officer! Shame! Shame!” in tones of shocked reproach. “Let me see what he gave you––come now, it’s your only chance.”
Phelan hesitated, gulped some more, and at last produced the bill.
The thief took it from his trembling but unresisting hand, unfurled it, turned it over, held it up close to his eyes and suddenly laughed:
“Well, you certainly are easy––counterfeit!”
“What!” roared Phelan, and Travers Gladwin joined him in the exclamation.
“Will you swear that man gave you this bill?” cut in the thief, sharply, snatching out a pencil and marking the gold certificate across the corner.
“I will, sorr!” shouted Phelan. “I will, an’–––”
“Very well! Now you see this mark in the corner––will you be able to identify it?”
234
“Yes, sorr.” Phelan was fairly grovelling.
“Good,” said the thief, and nonchalantly shoved the bill into his waistcoat pocket.
“See here, Phelan,” protested Gladwin.
“Kape your mouth shut––I’d just like to take wan punch at yez.”
Phelan meant it and took a step toward Gladwin when the thief stopped him and asked:
“Now, officer, is there anything I can do for you?”
“Thank you, Mr. Gladwin––I got to get the patrol wagon here some way.”
If Bateato had entered into an inflexible contract with himself not to utter another syllable before the break of day at least he might have eased Phelan’s mind on that score and informed him that something ominously like a patrol wagon was rounding the corner at that moment. And if the art collector had not been so keenly amused at his facile conquest of the gullible bluecoat his alert ears might have warned him to say something entirely different from this:
“I’d call the wagon for you, officer, only I’m afraid these people might overpower you and get away with that trunk of pictures. You see what a nice mess they’ve been making of my picture gallery. Why, if I hadn’t happened in to-night they would have walked off with half a million dollars’ worth of paintings.”
“You call the wagon, Mr. Gladwin,” returned Phelan, grimly. “I kin handle the lot of o’ them an’ ten more like them.”
235
“All right, officer, but be very careful––I shan’t be long.”
And turning with a mocking bow to Travers Gladwin, he sauntered out into the hallway and walked into the arms of Police Captain Stone and ten reserves.
236CHAPTER XXXV.BATEATO KEEPS HIS PROMISE.
Although the escaping thief was brushed back into the room rather rudely and Travers Gladwin cried out as he caught sight of the uniformed officer and his men, “By Jove, captain, I’m glad you’ve come,” the consummate bluffer did not bat an eyelash or manifest the merest symptom of fear, stepping easily to one side and watching for the coming of his cue with feline alertness.
For a moment Captain Stone devoted himself only to the distribution of his men, posting them at all the windows and doors. When he was satisfied that every avenue of escape was covered he turned to Phelan with the sharp query:
“What’s all this, Phelan?”
“I caught them trying to get away with Mr. Gladwin’s”–––
“Yes, it was by the luckiest chance,” broke in Travers Gladwin.
“Is this Mr. Gladwin?” the captain stopped him, curtly.
“No, the other one, captain,” replied Phelan, indicating the thief; whereupon that gentleman bowed.
237
“Why, captain, I’m––” the real Gladwin started again.
“You’ve done well here, Phelan,” the captain complimented him, ignoring the young millionaire.
“Thank ye, sorr,” blushed Phelan.
“I should say he has done well.” The thief came forward, with an approving nod toward the now ecstatic Officer 666.
“If it hadn’t been for him,” pursued the thief, “these thieves would have carried off my pictures. I would suggest, captain, that he be properly rewarded.”
“Thank ye, sorr.” Phelan’s voice shook with gratitude.
“I’ll see that he gets full credit in my report,” said Captain Stone stiffly. “Now, Phelan, you go to the station for the patrol wagon. I sent it back, as one of the horses threw a shoe and got a bad fall. Tell the driver to get another horse at Murphy’s stable and hurry back.”
“Yes sorr.”
Phelan went out, walking on air and humming to himself, “Sergt. Michael Phelan, no less,” utterly forgetful of the sorry plight he was in not a half hour before.
Travers Gladwin was almost beside himself with chagrin. Again he made an impassioned plea to be heard.
“Now see here, Captain,Iam Travers Gladwin”–––
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“Oh, you are, eh?” sneered the captain, scarcely deigning to look at him. “Well, we’ll see about that. Where is the little Jap who notified me of this?”
Bateato had concealed himself behind a heavy piece of furniture and was yanked out into the open by a burly policeman.
“Here you,” growled the captain, shaking his hand at the Jap, “you’re Mr. Gladwin’s servant, you said––which one of these men is your master?”
Bateato locked his teeth together and refused even to smile.
“Which is your master? Answer me!” demanded Captain Stone.
“The poor little devil is frightened to death,” interposed the thief with a commiserating nod toward the Jap. He was playing his bluff to the limit.
“What scared him like that?” asked the captain.
“Oh, this gang here––some of the others got away––threatened to kill him.”
“Now look here, Captain––” broke in Gladwin, making furious, yet vain, gestures at Bateato.
“Silence!” Captain Stone cut him off again.
“I admire this chap’s nerve, Captain,” laughed the thief. “It’s monumental. He very nearly succeeded in bluffing Officer Phelan, but I guess you can take care of him all right––I must hurry off and get an expert to repair the damage done to these valuable paintings. Of course, you’ll leave a man or two on guard.”
239
Once more he gathered up his stick and overcoat and once more his exit was blocked––this time by Whitney Barnes.
It was only natural for that young man to misread the situation and conceive that Mrs. Elvira Burton had succeeded in her object of arresting his friend. So he blurted breathlessly:
“By Jove, Travers, I see I’m too late. I’ve been all over the city trying to warn you––I knew the police were on your track.”
“Who the devil are you?” Captain Stone cut in on him.
“Another of the gang,” responded the thief promptly. “He’s got some story trumped up that he thinks will get him off.”
“Well, we’ll let him tell it then, and you”––indicating the thief––“had better wait and hear it.”
There was something in the thief’s manner that had fired a spark of suspicion in the officer’s mind.
“Not a word about the girl,” Travers managed to whisper to Barnes in the moment Captain Stone had turned to address the thief.
“I won’t”––Barnes was replying when the Captain flung round on him.
“Stop that whispering, and come over here where I can get a good look at you. Which one of these men is the real Gladwin?”
“He is, of course!” Barnes nodded toward his friend. The truth of the situation had at last dawned upon him.
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The thief smiled at Captain Stone and shook his head as if in compliment of the nerve of some criminals.
“H’m,” said the captain, turning to Barnes again. “And when did you find out that there was some one else who claimed to be Travers Gladwin?”
“Why,” replied Barnes briskly, “when Gladwin and I were here together this afternoon. The doorbell rang and two”–––
His friend shook a vigorous warning. Barnes stopped.
“Yes, and two what?”
“Well, you see, the doorbell rang”–––
“Yes, you said that!” snapped Captain Stone. “The doorbell rang and two”–––
“Yes, and two minutes after that it rang again––rang in an extraordinary kind of way, you know, as if whoever was ringing it––was ringing it because––because they wanted to come in––come in in a hurry, you see. Well, I went to the door”–––
“Why didyougo to the door?” demanded Captain Stone.
“Well, you see, the bell rang”–––
“Don’t go back to that again! Why did you go to the door?”
“Well, I can’t at this minute remember exactly, but I’m under the impression I went to––to find out who was ringing the bell, just like that, as it were.”
“That’s enough of you,” snorted Captain Stone.241“Ryan (to one of his men) take this one and slip the nippers on him.”
“See here, Captain, I can explain this.”––Travers Gladwin essayed again, as he saw his friend struggling in the grip of a blue-coated giant and spluttering his protests against being handcuffed.
“You can’t explain anything to me,” was the best he got from Captain Stone.
During this spirited dialogue the thief had gone to the side of Helen Burton, who had remained motionless where she had risen from her chair, playing the part of a helpless victim in the seemingly hopeless tangle.
“Now then, Helen,” he said to her in his old tone of endearment, “we can go. You see where this impostor stands.”
“With you––no!”
There was no mistaking the uncompromising emphasis of her denial.
Captain Stone set out to distribute his prisoners, motioning to one policeman to take care of Gladwin and to another to look after the Jap, who would be needed as a witness.
He came last to Helen just as she had repulsed the man she was to have eloped with that night. Captain Stone had had experience enough with women to be able to distinguish between types. He was on the point of ordering another of his men to take charge of Helen when he paused and studied her242more closely. His men were starting for the door with their prisoners when he signalled them to stop.
“Wait,” he said, “I wish to question this lady.”
He turned to Helen, when there came swiftly into the room Lieutenant Detective Kearney of the Central Office.
Kearney was every inch a Central Office man, and had been long enough at Headquarters to lose the heavy bovine set of the man who pounds the pavement. A strapping big fellow, with graying hair and a pair of round bullet eyes that searched you with needle points, his very appearance was sufficient corroboration of all the thrilling stories the newspapers printed of his skill and courage.
“Hello, Kearney! What do you want?” Captain Stone addressed him as he stopped in the doorway and surveyed the remarkable scene before him.
“I’m looking for Travers Gladwin,” replied the detective shortly.
“I’m Travers Gladwin,” spoke up the thief, easily, but holding his head so that Kearney could see only the profile.
“That’s my name!” exclaimed Travers Gladwin in the same breath with the impostor.
Kearney looked from one to the other, fairly pistolling his scrutiny.
“Oh, both of you named Travers Gladwin?” he asked with a puzzled expression.
“That one’s a fake,” interposed Captain Stone,243pointing to the real Gladwin. “This”––nodding toward the impostor––“is the real Travers Gladwin.”
Kearney’s face showed no more expression than if it had been cut for a cameo, but when the thief asked him with perfect self-command: “What can I do for you?” he came on into the room and stopped directly in front of him.
“I have a warrant for your arrest,” he said, abruptly, and stuck his hand in his pocket for the document.
“My arrest! For what?” said the thief with a beautifully feigned amazement and a little laugh of incredulity.
“Cradle snatching––abduction,” jerked out Kearney, unfolding the paper.
“That is rich!” laughed the thief.
“I got the warrant from”––Kearney stopped and his little bullet eyes went to work on the thief from the ground up. He was measuring every inch of the man with an eye that had been trained for years to keep tabs on a multitude of marked and measured men.
“Would you mind coming over here––a step or two closer, Mr.––Gladwin?” he said tensely.
The thief stepped toward him and directly under the electrolier, while the others in the room stood like statues, looking on.
As Kearney continued his searching examination of the unflinching and still smiling man, whose head was244on a level with his and whose body was every inch as big and well set up, Captain Stone broke in nervously:
“What is it, Kearney?”
“I think there’s some mistake, sir,” said the detective, grimly. “Are you sure this man is Travers Gladwin?”
“You seem to be in some doubt about it,” said the thief, dropping his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat and raising his chin a little. Whatever was going on inside him, his eyes were twinkling with amusement.
“I am,” Kearney retorted; then to Captain Stone, “What is this case Captain?”
“Picture robbery.”
“Picture robbery! I was sure of it! You’ve made a mistake, Captain. I know this man!”
The sentences came out like a succession of pistol shots, while his eyes never left the face of the thief.
“I know you,” he attacked the smile again. It was a bullet-proof smile and never wavered.
“Well, who is he?” interrupted the real Travers Gladwin, eagerly.
“He’s the greatest pictureexpertin––the world!”
“You flatter me,” said the thief with a bow, and a side glance at Helen Burton, who was gazing at him as if both fascinated and repelled.
“You admit it then,” said Kearney roughly, unable to disguise the triumph he felt at this identification of a man he had never seen before.
245
“I am not so egotistical,” the other bowed, “but I will go along with you with pleasure and see what you are able to prove.”
“Are you sure about this, Kearney?” asked Captain Stone, still doubting and hating to admit he had been led into an egregious blunder.
“Certain,” retorted the detective. “He’s been fooling them on the other side for several years, but they nearly got him in Scotland Yard two months ago. I got a full report on him from his straight eyebrows and gray eyes down to the cut of his vest, with picture and measurement attached. His real name is Alf Wilson––there were a hundred men on his trail, but he made a getaway.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any use trying to deny all this now,” said Wilson, without the slightest change of tone, shoving his hands into his trousers pockets and lifting his head in contemplation of the pictures on the wall.
“Not the slightest,” returned the detective, snatching a pair of handcuffs from his coat pocket.
“Wait just a moment, officer,” interrupted Travers Gladwin. “I’d like to ask this man one question.”
“Delighted,” cried the picture expert, turning and showing all his teeth in a mocking smile.
Travers Gladwin pointed to the portrait of “The Blue Boy.”
“How did you know I bought that picture in London upon certain misrepresentations?”
246
“I was the man behind the gun––think it over.”
He swung round to face the spurious Gainsborough. As he did so something caught his eye and he moved toward the portrait. Gladwin followed and inquired:
“But you not only knew it was a fake, but when I bought it and what I paid for it.”
“I knew about it,” came the jaunty reply, “becauseIpainted it.”
He moved another step nearer the painting as Gladwin gasped.
“Yes,” he went on lightly, running his hand along the bottom of the frame, “according to this gentleman,” and he nodded over his shoulder to Kearney, who had kept pace with him, backing to cover the doorway, “your ‘Blue Boy’ was painted by the greatest picture expert in the world!”
As the last word came laughingly from his lips the room was plunged in darkness.
247CHAPTER XXXVI.REPARTEE AND A REVOLVER MUZZLE.
The inky blackness fell upon the room with palpable suddenness––like a blinding flash, numbing for a moment the senses of all who had been taken by surprise. The reflex of the shock was manifested in a very babel of incoherent shouts, jostlings and stumblings and sharp collisions with the furniture.
“Turn up the lights,” shouted Captain Stone, amid the tumult.
Travers Gladwin made a blind dive toward the wall and stumbled headlong over the great antique chest which stood to one side of where he and the thief had stood contemplating “The Blue Boy.” In stumbling against the chest he felt something that was a revelation to him by the time he found the switch button and brought back a flood of light.
“Quick, men, cover the doors––don’t let any one get out,” yelled Captain Stone, pivoting on his heel as his eyes vainly sought the picture expert.
“He’s gone!” cried Kearney.
“Yes, up the stairs––I hear him,” yelled Gladwin. “There are two back stairways and the roof. There248are two basement exits––post your men out there, and down through that hallway on the left––the panel door––that leads to the kitchen. Barnes, you and Bateato take the young lady up to my study––quick!––I’ll look after this room.”
The most remarkable thing about it was that every command the young man shouted was obeyed. Even Kearney was fooled and rushed headlong up the stairs, followed by two policemen and Barnes, who was yelling: “Hey! come back here and unlock me! How can I hunt that chap with these handcuffs on?”
He might as well have appealed to the moon.
Bateato fairly dragged Helen up the stairs after him and guided her to the magnificently furnished study and den to the right of the staircase, when he switched on the lights and became furiously active in the interest of the young girl’s comfort.
Captain Stone had rushed out into the street and posted men on the stoop and at the basement exits; then, followed by the last lone patrolman of his squad, he darted through the alley at the side of the mansion which led to the rear yard.
The emptying of the room was accomplished in a few seconds, whereupon Gladwin hastened to the doorway, reached for the folding doors and hauled them to, fastening the latch. Next he shut the door to the kitchen hallway and fastened that, when, with a sigh of relief, he walked to the long carved oak table that flanked the window,249hoisted himself on it, produced his gold cigarette case, took out a cigarette, set fire to it, snapped the case and returned it to his pocket.
While he inhaled a deep breath of stimulating smoke his eyes were fixed upon the great chest directly in front of him.
He was sitting easily on the table, kicking his legs, and he continued just in that attitude when the lid of the chest lifted a few inches and a small brilliantly nickelled revolver came out and covered him.
“I’m waiting for yez, Misther Gladwin,” chuckled the young man.
By some strange psychologic freak he was not in the least dismayed by the ominous menace of that shining muzzle, which gradually came further out as the arm and head of the picture expert followed it.
Once the thief had glimpsed the young man and made out that they had the room to themselves he came out of the chest as lightly and noiselessly as he had enveloped himself in it. But his smile was gone now and in its place there was the wariness of the hunted animal. Still covering Gladwin and surveying the room he said in low, level tones:
“If you move it’ll be the last act of your life, McGinty.”
“Murphy, sorr,” purred Gladwin, his face abeam.
“I like your nerve, young un.”
“I’ve been taking lessons from the man who invented nerve.”
250
“Well, you don’t seem anxious to give the alarm,” said Wilson, toying with the little automatic and turning it over in the expanse of his palm.
“No, I’m afraid it might make you nervous.”
“Might make me so nervous that this gun would go off, eh?”
A shadow of the old smile came back as he went stealthily to the door and listened.
“You seem to enjoy smoking,” said the peer of art collectors, turning his back to Gladwin.
“Don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Have you time to smoke a cigar?”
“Is it a good one?”
“I don’t know––it’s the one you gave me while I was Officer 666.”
Gladwin tossed the cigar to the thief, who caught it deftly and inserted it between his lips. “And here’s some more of your possessions,” added the young man, drawing out the bribe money he had accepted while he masqueraded in the officer’s uniform.
“Thanks,” said Wilson, as he caught the money, “and here’s your little yellow boy, though I wish that intellectual giant of a cop were here so I could hire his uniform for a bit.”
“You amaze me by your generosity,” murmured Gladwin as he pocketed the $500 bill.
“Oh,” said the other easily, while he again listened at the door. “I’m not a regular crook––I’m in the picture business.”
251
“Still, if you kept that bill it might help you get better accommodations when you reach Sing Sing.”
“If I don’t need it till then I won’t need it for a long, long time.”
“You mean you think you’re going to escape?”
Gladwin slid down from the table and leaned against it, making no effort to conceal the admiration he experienced for this man’s superhuman aplomb.
“And with guards all around the house and policemen tearing thirty rooms apart upstairs and camping on the roof scuttle––yes, and more coming, maybe.”
“I venture to hope so,” chuckled the other. “I admit it’s close enough to be interesting.”
“Well, I’ll say one thing for you,” the young millionaire said earnestly, “you’re the coolest chap I ever hope to meet. You’re a marvel.”
“Built to order to work in story books, eh? Well, to be candid with you, McGinty, there are times when I’m not so cool as I look. I’m almost human.”
“Those cops will finish their work soon––then they’ll come in here,” Gladwin warned him.
“I’m listening for them,” said Wilson softly, putting his ear to the door again.
“Just because your pistol prevents me from calling them now, don’t think”–––
“This gun isn’t stopping you,” came the short reply. “If you wanted to call them you’d take a chance––I’ve found that out in the last hundred seconds or so.”