The Troupe
There was a quietude and sedateness about the Public Prosecutor’s office which completely harmonised with the tastes and inclinations of Mr. J. G. Reeder. For he was a gentleman who liked to work in an office where the ticking of a clock was audible and the turning of a paper produced a gentle disturbance.
He had before him one morning the typewritten catalogue of Messrs. Willoby, the eminent estate agents, and he was turning the leaves with a thoughtful expression. The catalogue was newly arrived, a messenger having only a few minutes before placed the portfolio on his desk.
Presently he smoothed down a leaf and read again the flattering description of a fairly unimportant property, and his scrutiny was patently a waste of time, for, scrawled on the margin of the sheet in red ink was the word “Let,” which meant that “Riverside Bower” was not available for hire. The ink was smudged, and “Let” had been obviously written that morning.
“Humph!” said Mr. Reeder.
He was interested for many reasons. In the heat of July riverside houses are at a premium: at the beginning of November they are somewhat of a drug on the market. And transatlantic visitors do not as a rule hire riverside cottages in a month which is chiefly distinguished by mists, rain and general discomfort.
Two reception: two bedrooms: bath, large dry cellars, lawn to river, small skiff and punt. Gas and electric light. Three guineas weekly or would be let for six months at 2 guineas.
He pulled his table telephone towards him and gave the agents’ number.
“Let, is it—dear me! To an American gentleman? When will it be available?”
The new tenant had taken the house for a month. Mr. Reeder was even more intrigued, though his interest in the “American gentleman” was not quite as intensive as the American gentleman’s interest in Mr. Reeder.
When the great Art Lomer came on a business trip from Canada to London, a friend and admirer carried him off one day to see the principal sight of London.
“He generally comes out at lunch time,” said the friend, who was called “Cheep,” because his name was Sparrow.
Mr. Lomer looked up and down Whitehall disparagingly, for he had seen so many cities of the world that none seemed as good as the others.
“There he is!” whispered Cheep, though there was no need for mystery or confidence.
A middle-aged man had come out of one of the narrow doorways of a large grey building. On his head was a high, flat-crowned hat, his body was tightly encased in a black frock coat. A weakish man with yellowy-white side-whiskers and eyeglasses, that were nearer to the end than the beginning of his nose.
“Him?” demanded the amazed Art.
“Him,” said the other, incorrectly but with emphasis.
“Is that the kind of guy you’re scared about? You’re crazy. Why, that man couldn’t catch a cold! Now, back home in T’ronto—”
Art was proud of his home town, and in that spirit of expansiveness which paints even the unpleasant features of One’s Own with the most attractive hues, he had even a good word to say about the Royal Canadian Police—a force which normally, and in a local atmosphere, he held in the greatest detestation.
Art “operated”—he never employed a baser word—from Toronto, which, by its proximity to Buffalo and the United States border, gave him certain advantages. He had once “operated” in Canada itself, but his line at that period being robbery of a kind which is necessarily accompanied by assault, he had found himself facing a Canadian magistrate, and a Canadian magistrate wields extraordinary powers. Art had been sent down for five years and, crowning horror, was ordered to receive twenty-five lashes with a whip which has nine tails, each one of which hurts. Thereafter he cut out violence and confined himself to the formation of his troupe—and Art Lomer’s troupe was famous from the Atlantic to the Pacific.
He had been plain Arthur Lomer when he was rescued from a London gutter and a career of crime and sent to Canada, the charitable authorities being under the impression that Canada was rather short on juvenile criminals. By dint of great artfulness, good stage management and a natural aptitude for acquiring easy money, he had gained for himself a bungalow on the islands, a flat in Church Street, a six-cylinder car and a New England accent which would pass muster in almost any place except New England.
“I’ll tell the world you fellows want waking up! So that’s your Reeder? Well, if Canada and the United States was full of goats like him, I’d pack more dollars in one month than Hollywood pays Chaplin in ten years. Yes, sir. Listen, does that guy park a clock?”
His guide was a little dazed.
“Does he wear a watch? Sure!”
Mr. Art Lomer nodded.
“Wait—I’ll bring it back to you in five minutes—I’m goin’ to show you sump’n’.”
It was the maddest fool thing he had ever done in his life; he was in London on business, and was jeopardising a million dollars for the sake of the cheap applause of a man for whose opinion he did not care a cent.
Mr. Reeder was standing nervously on the sidewalk, waiting for what he described as “the vehicular traffic” to pass, when a strange man bumped against him.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the stranger.
“Not at all,” murmured Mr. Reeder. “My watch is five minutes fast—you can see the correct time by Big Ben.”
Mr. Lomer felt a hand dip into his coat pocket, saw, like one hypnotised, the watch go back to J. G. Reeder’s pocket.
“Over here for long?” asked Mr. Reeder pleasantly.
“Why—yes.”
“It’s a nice time of the year.” Mr. Reeder removed his eyeglasses, rubbed them feebly on his sleeve and replaced them crookedly. “But the country is not quite so beautiful as Canada in the fall. How is Leoni?”
Art Lomer did not faint; he swayed slightly and blinked hard, as if he were trying to wake up. Leoni was the proprietor of that little restaurant in Buffalo which was the advanced base of those operations so profitable to Art and his friends.
“Leoni? Say, mister—”
“And the troupe—are they performing in England or—er—resting? I think that is the word.”
Art gaped at the other. On Mr. Reeder’s face was an expression of solicitude and inquiry. It was as though the well-being of the troupe was an absorbing preoccupation.
“Say—listen—” began Art huskily.
Before he could collect his thoughts, Reeder was crossing the road with nervous glances left and right, his umbrella gripped tightly in his hand.
“I guess I’m crazy,” said Mr. Lomer, and walked back very slowly to where he had left his anxious cicerone.
“No—he got away before I could touch him,” he said briefly, for he had his pride. “Come along, we’ll get some eats, it’s nearly twel—”
He put his hand to his pocket, but his watch was gone! So also was the expensive platinum albert. Mr. Reeder could be heavily jocular on occasions.
“Art Lomer—is there anything against him?” asked the Director of Public Prosecutions, whose servant Mr. J. G. Reeder was.
“No, sir, there is no complaint here. I have come into—er—possession of a watch of his, which I find, by reference to my private file, was stolen in Cleveland in 1921—it is in the police file of that date. Only—um—it seems remarkable that this gentleman should be in London at the end of the tourist season.”
The Director pursed his lips dubiously.
“M—m. Tell the people at the Yard. He doesn’t belong to us. What is his speciality?”
“He is a troupe leader—I think that is the term. Mr. Lomer was once associated with a theatrical company in—er—a humble capacity.”
“You mean he is an actor?” asked the puzzled Director.
“Ye—es, sir; a producer rather than actor. I have heard about his troupe, though I have never had the pleasure of seeing them perform. A talented company.”
He sighed heavily and shook his head. “I don’t quite follow you about the troupe. How did his watch come into your possession, Reeder?”
Mr. Reeder nodded. “That was a little jest on my part,” he said, lowering his voice. “A little jest.”
The Director knew Mr. Reeder too well to pursue the subject.
Lomer was living at the Hotel Calfort, in Bloomsbury. He occupied an important suite, for, being in the position of a man who was after big fish, he could not cavil at the cost of the groundbait. The big fish had bitten much sooner than Art Lomer had dared to hope. Its name was Bertie Claude Staffen, and the illustration was apt, for there was something very fishlike about this young man with his dull eyes and his permanently opened mouth. Bertie’s father was rich beyond the dreams of actresses. He was a pottery manufacturer, who bought cotton mills as a sideline, and he had made so much money that he never hired a taxi if he could take a bus, and never took a bus if he could walk. In this way he kept his liver (to which he frequently referred) in good order and hastened the degeneration of his heart.
Bertie Claude had inherited all his father’s meanness and such of his money as was not left to faithful servants, orphan homes and societies for promoting the humanities, which meant that Bertie inherited almost every penny. He had the weak chin and sloping forehead of an undeveloped intellect, but he knew there were twelve pennies to a shilling and that one hundred cents equalled one dollar, and that is more knowledge than the only sons of millionaires usually acquire.
He had one quality which few would suspect in him: the gift of romantic dreaming. When Mr. Staffen was not occupied in cutting down overhead charges or speeding up production, he loved to sit at his ease, a cigarette between his lips, his eyes half closed, and picture himself in heroic situations. Thus, he could imagine dark caves stumbled upon by accident, filled with dusty boxes bulging with treasure; or he saw himself at Deauville Casino, with immense piles of mille notes before him, won from fabulously rich Greeks, Armenians—in fact, anybody who is fabulously rich. Most of his dreams were about money in sufficient quantities to repay him the death duties on his father’s estate which had been iniquitously wrung from him by thieving revenue officers. He was a very rich man, but ought to be richer—this was his considered view.
When Bertie Claude arrived at the Calfort Hotel and was shown into Art’s private sitting-room, he stepped into a world of heady romance. For the big table in the centre of the room was covered with specimens of quartz of every grade, and they had been recovered from a brand-new mine located by Art’s mythical brother and sited at a spot which was known only to two men, one of whom was Art Lomer and the other Bertie Claude Staffen.
Mr. Staffen took off his light overcoat and, walking to the table, inspected the ore with sober interest.
“I’ve had the assay,” he said. “The johnny who did it is a friend of mine and didn’t charge a penny; his report is promising—very promising.”
“The company—” began Art, but Mr. Staffen raised a warning finger.
“I think you know, and it is unnecessary for me to remind you, that I do not intend speculating a dollar in this mine. I’m putting up no money. What I’m prepared to do is to use my influence in the promotion for a quid pro quo. You know what that means?”
“Something for nothing!” said Art, and in this instance was not entirely wide of the mark.
“Well, no—stock in the company. Maybe I’ll take a directorship later, when the money is up and everything is plain sailing. I can’t lend my name to a—well, unknown quantity.”
Art agreed.
“My friend has put up the money,” he said easily. “If that guy had another hundred dollars he’d have all the money in the world—he’s that rich. Stands to reason, Mr. Staffen, that I wouldn’t come over here tryin’ to get money from a gentleman who is practically a stranger. We met in Canada—sure we did! But what do you know about me? I might be one large crook—I might be a con man or anything!”
Some such idea had occurred to Bertie Claude, but the very frankness of his friend dispelled something of his suspicions.
“I’ve often wondered since what you must have thought of me, sittin’ in a game with that bunch of thugs,” Art went on, puffing a reflective cigar. “But I guess you said to yourself, ‘This guy is a man of the world—he’s gotta mix.’ An’ that’s true. In these Canadian mining camps you horn in with some real tough boys—yes, sir. They’re sump’n’ fierce.”
“I quite understood the position,” said Bertie Claude, who hadn’t. “I flatter myself I know men. If I haven’t shown that in ‘Homo Sum’ then I’ve failed in expression.”
“Sure,” said Mr. Lomer lazily, and added another “Sure!” to ram home the first. “That’s a pretty good book. When you give it to me at King Edward Hotel I thought it was sump’n’ about arithmetic. But ’tis mighty good poetry, every line startin’ with big letters an’ the end of every line sounding like the end word in the line before. I said to my secretary, ‘That Mr. Staffen must have a brain.’ How you get the ideas beats me. That one about the princess who comes out of a clam—”
“An oyster—she was the embodiment of the pearl,” Bertie hastened to explain. “You mean ‘The White Maiden’?”
Lomer nodded lazily.
“That was grand. I never read poetry till I read that; it just made me want to cry like a great big fool! If I had your gifts I wouldn’t be loafin’ round Ontario prospecting. No, sir.”
“It is a gift,” said Mr. Staffen after thought. “You say you have the money for the company?”
“Every cent. I’m not in a position to offer a single share—that’s true. Not that you need worry about that. I’ve reserved a few from promotion. No, sir, I never had any intention of allowing you to pay a cent.”
He knocked off the ash of his cigar and frowned.
“You’ve been mighty nice to me, Mr. Staffen,” he said slowly, “and though I don’t feel called upon to tell every man my business, you’re such a square white fellow that I feel sort of confident about you. This mine means nothing.”
Bertie Claude’s eyebrows rose.
“I don’t quite get you,” he said.
Art’s smile was slow and a little sad.
“Doesn’t it occur to you that if I’ve got the capital for that property, it was foolish of me to take a trip to Europe?”
Bertie had certainly wondered why.
“Selling that mine was like selling bars of gold. It didn’t want any doing; I could have sold it if I’d been living in the Amaganni Forest. No, sir, I’m here on business that would make your hair stand up if you knew.”
He rose abruptly and paced the room with quick, nervous strides, his brow furrowed in thought.
“You’re a whale of a poet,” he said suddenly. “Maybe you’ve got more imagination than most people. What does the mine mean for me? A few hundred thousand dollars’ profit.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What are you doing on Wednesday?”
The brusqueness of the question took Bertie Claude aback.
“On Wednesday? Well, I don’t know that I’m doing anything.”
Mr. Lomer bit his lip thoughtfully.
“I’ve got a little house on the river. Come down and spend a night with me, and I’ll let you into a secret that these newspapers would give a million dollars to know. If you read it in a book you wouldn’t believe it. Maybe one day you can write it. It would take a man with your imagination to put it over. Say, I’ll tell you now.”
And then, with some hesitation, Mr. Lomer told his story.
“Politics, and all that, I know nothing about. There has been a sort of revolution in Russia by all accounts, and queer things have been happenin’. I’m not such a dunce that I don’t know that. My interest in Russia was about the same as yours in Piketown, Saskatchewan. But about six months ago I got in touch with a couple of Russkis. They came out of the United States in a hurry, with a sheriff’s posse behind them, and I happened to be staying on a farm near the border when they turned up. And what do you think they’d been doing?”
Mr. Staffen shook his head.
“Peddling emeralds,” said the other soberly.
“Emeralds? Peddling? What do you mean—trying to sell emeralds?”
Art nodded.
“Yes, sir. One had a paper bag full of ’em, all sizes. I bought the lot for twelve thousand dollars, took ’em down to T’ronto and got them valued at something under a million dollars.”
Bertie Claude was listening open-mouthed.
“These fellows had come from Moscow. They’d been peddlin’ jewellery for four years. Some broken-down Prince was acting as agent for the other swells—I didn’t ask questions too closely, because naturally I’m not inquisitive.”
He leant forward and tapped the other’s knee to emphasise his words.
“The stuff I bought wasn’t a twentieth of their stock. I sent them back to Russia for the rest of the loot, and they’re due here next week.”
“Twenty million dollars!” gasped Bertie Claude. “What will it cost you?”
“A million dollars—two hundred thousand pounds. Come down to my place at Marlow, and I’ll show you the grandest emeralds you ever saw—all that I’ve got left, as a matter of fact. I sold the biggest part to a Pittsburg millionaire for—well, I won’t give you the price, because you’ll think I robbed him! If you like any stone you see—why, I’ll let you buy it, though I don’t want to sell. Naturally, I couldn’t make profit out of a friend.”
Bertie Claude listened, dazed, while his host catalogued his treasures with an ease and a shrewd sense of appraisement. When Mr. Staffen left his friend’s room, his head was in a whirl, though he experienced a bewildered sense of familiarity with a situation which had often figured in his dreams.
As he strode through the hall, he saw a middle-aged man with a flat-topped felt hat, but beyond noticing that he wore a ready-made cravat, that his shoes were square-toed and that he looked rather like a bailiff’s officer, Bertie Claude would have passed him, had not the old-fashioned gentleman stood in his way.
“Excuse me, sir. You’re Mr. Staffen, are you not?”
“Yes,” said Bertie shortly.
“I wonder if I could have a few moments’ conversation with you on—er—a matter of some moment?”
Bertie waved an impatient hand.
“I’ve no time to see anybody,” he said brusquely. “If you want an appointment you’d better write for it.”
And he walked out, leaving the sad-looking man to gaze pensively after him.
Mr. Lomer’s little house was an isolated stone bungalow between Marlow and the Quarry Wood, and if he had sought diligently, Mr. Lomer could not have found a property more suitable for his purpose. Bertie Claude, who associated the river with sunshine and flannelled ease, shivered as he came out of the railway station and looked anxiously up at the grey sky. It was raining steadily, and the station cab that was waiting for him dripped from every surface.
“Pretty beastly month to take a bungalow on the river,” he grumbled.
Mr. Lomer, who was not quite certain in his mind what was the ideal month for riverside bungalows, agreed.
“It suits me,” he said. “This house of mine has got the right kind of lonesomeness. I just hate having people looking over me.”
The road from the station to the house followed parallel with the line of the river. Staring out of the streaming windows, Mr. Staffen saw only the steel-grey of water and the damp grasses of the meadows through which the road ran. A quarter of an hour’s drive, however, brought them to a pretty little cottage which stood in a generous garden. A bright fire burnt in the hall fireplace, and there was a general air of cosiness and comfort about the place that revived Bertie’s flagging spirits. A few seconds later they were sitting in a half-timbered dining-room, where tea had been laid.
Atmosphere has an insensible appeal to most people, and Bertie found himself impressed alike by the snugness of the place and the unexpected service, for there was a trim, pretty waiting maid, a sedate, middle-aged butler, and a sober-faced young man in footman’s livery, who had taken off his wet mackintosh and had rubbed his boots dry before he entered the dining-room.
“No, the house isn’t mine: it is one I always hire when I’m in England,” said Mr. Lomer, who never told a small and unnecessary lie; because small and unnecessary lies are so easily detected. “Jenkins, the butler, is my man, so is the valet; the other people I just hired with the house.”
After tea he showed Bertie up to his bedroom, and, opening a drawer of his bureau, took out a small steel box, fastened with two locks. These he unfastened and lifted out a shallow metal tray covered with a layer of cotton-wool.
“You can have any of these, that take your eye,” he said. “Make me an offer and I’ll tell you what they’re worth.”
He rolled back the cotton-wool and revealed six magnificent stones.
“That one?” said Mr. Lomer, taking the largest between his finger and thumb. “Why that’s worth six thousand dollars—about twelve hundred pounds. And if you offered me that sum for it, I’d think you were a fool, because the only safe way of getting emeralds is to buy ’em fifty percent under value. I reckon that cost me about”—he made a mental calculation—“ninety pounds.”
Bertie’s eyes shone. On emeralds he was something of an expert, and that these stones were genuine, he knew.
“You wouldn’t like to sell it for ninety pounds?” he asked carelessly.
Art Lomer shook his head.
“No, sir. I’ve gotta make some profit even from my friends! I’ll let you have it for a hundred.”
Bertie’s hand sought his inside pocket.
“No, I don’t want paying now. What do you know about emeralds anyway? They might be a clever fake. Take it up to town, show it to an expert—”
“I’ll give you the cheque now.”
“Any time will do.”
Art wrapped up the stone carefully, put it in a small box and handed it to his companion.
“That’s the only one I’m going to sell,” he explained as he led the way back to the dining-room.
Bertie went immediately to the small secretaire, wrote the cheque and, tearing it out, handed it to Mr. Lomer. Art looked at the paper and frowned.
“Why, what do I do with this?” he asked. “I’ve got no bank account here. All my money’s in the Associated Express Company.”
“I’ll make it ‘pay bearer,’ ” said Bertie obligingly.
Still Mr. Lomer was dubious.
“Just write a note telling the President, or whoever he is, to cash that little bit of paper. I hate banks anyway.”
The obliging Bertie Claude scribbled the necessary note. When this was done, Bertie came to business, for he was a business man. “Can I come in on this jewel deal?”
Art Lomer shook his head reluctantly. “Sorry, Mr. Staffen, but that’s almost impossible. I’ll be quite frank with you, because I believe in straightforward dealing. When you ask to come in on that transaction, you’re just asking me for money!”
Bertie made a faint noise of protest.
“Well, that’s a mean way of putting it, but it comes to the same thing. I’ve taken all the risk, I’ve organised the operation—and it’s cost money to get that guy out of Russia: aeroplanes and special trains and everything. I just hate to refuse you, because I like you, Mr. Staffen. Maybe if there’s any little piece to which you might take a fancy, I’ll let you have it at a reasonable price.”
Bertie thought for a moment, his busy mind at work.
“What has the deal cost you up to now?” he asked.
Again Mr. Lomer shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what it’s cost me—if you offered me four times the amount of money I’ve spent—and that would be a considerable sum—I couldn’t let you in on this deal. I might go so far as giving you a small interest, but I wouldn’t take money for that.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” said Bertie, who never lost hope.
The rain had ceased, and the setting sun flooded the river with pale gold, and Bertie was walking in the garden with his host, when from somewhere above them came the faint hum of an aeroplane engine. Presently he saw the machine circling and disappearing behind the black crown of Quarry Wood. He heard an exclamation from the man at his side and, turning, saw Art’s face puckered in a grimace of annoyance and doubt.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I’m wondering,” said Art slowly. “They told me next week … why, no, I’m foolish.”
It was dark. The butler had turned on the lights and drawn the blinds when they went indoors again, and it was not difficult for Bertie to realise that something had happened which was very disturbing to his host. He was taciturn, and for the next half-hour scarcely spoke, sitting in front of the fire gazing into the leaping flames and starting at every sound.
Dinner, a simple meal, was served early, and whilst the servants were clearing away, the two men strolled into the tiny drawing-room.
“What’s the trouble, Lomer?”
“Nothing,” said the other with a start, “only—”
At that moment they heard the tinkle of a bell, and Art listened tensely. He heard the parley of voices in the hall, and then the footman came.
“There’s two men and a lady to see you, sir,” he said.
Bertie saw the other bite his lip.
“Show them in,” said Art curtly, and a second later a tall man, wearing the leather coat and helmet of an airman, walked into the room.
“Marsham! What in hell—!”
The girl who followed instantly claimed Bertie Claude’s attention. She was slim and dark, and her face was beautiful, despite the pallor of her cheeks and the tired look in her eyes. The second of the men visitors was hardly as prepossessing: a squat, foreign-looking individual with a short-clipped beard, he was wrapped to his neck in an old fur overcoat, and his wild-looking head was bare.
Art closed the door.
“What’s the great idea?” he asked.
“There’s been trouble,” said the tall man sulkily. “The Prince has had another offer. He has sent some of the stuff, but he won’t part with the pearls or the diamonds until you pay him half of the money you promised. This is Princess Pauline Dimitroff, the Prince’s daughter,” he explained.
Art shot an angry look at the girl.
“Say, see here, young lady,” he said, “I suppose you speak English?”
She nodded.
“This isn’t the way we do business in our country. Your father promised—”
“My father has been very precipitate,” she said, with the slightest of foreign accent, which was delightful to Bertie’s ear. “He has taken much risk. Indeed, I am not sure that he has been very honest in the matter. It is very simple for you to pay. If he has your money tonight—”
“Tonight?” boomed Art. “How can I get the money for him tonight?”
“He is in Holland,” said the girl. “We have the aeroplane waiting.”
“But how can I get the money tonight?” repeated the Canadian angrily. “Do you think I carry a hundred thousand pounds in my pistol pocket?”
Again she shrugged, and, turning to the unkempt little man, said something to him in a language which was unintelligible to Mr. Staffen. He replied in his hoarse voice, and she nodded.
“Pieter says my father will take your cheque. He only wishes to be sure that there is no—” She paused, at a loss for an English word.
“Did I ever double-cross your father?” asked Art savagely. “I can’t give you either the money or the cheque. You can call off the deal—I’m through!”
By this time the aviator had unrolled the package he carried under his arm, placed it on the table, and Bertie Claude grew breathless at the sight of the glittering display that met his eyes. There were diamonds, set and unset; quaint and ancient pieces of jewellery that must have formed the heirlooms of old families; but their historical value did not for the moment occur to him. He beckoned Art aside.
“If you can keep these people here tonight,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll undertake to raise all the money you want on that collection alone.”
Art shook his head.
“It’s no use, Mr. Staffen. I know this guy. Unless I can send him the money tonight, we’ll not smell the rest of the stuff.”
Suddenly he clapped his hands.
“Gee!” he breathed. “That’s an idea! You’ve got your chequebook.”
Cold suspicion showed in the eyes of Bertie Claude.
“I’ve got my chequebook, certainly,” he said, “but—”
“Come into the dining-room.” Art almost ran ahead of him, and when they reached the room he closed the door. “A cheque can’t be presented for two or three days. It certainly couldn’t be presented tomorrow,” he said, speaking rapidly. “By that time we could get this stuff up to town to your bankers, and you could keep it until I redeem it. What’s more, you can stop payment of the cheque tomorrow morning if the stones aren’t worth the money.”
Bertie looked at the matter from ten different angles in as many seconds.
“Suppose I gave them a postdated cheque to make sure?” he said.
“Postdated?” Mr. Lomer was puzzled. “What does that mean?” And when Bertie explained, his face brightened. “Why, sure!” he said. “That’s a double protection. Make it payable the day after tomorrow.”
Bertie hesitated no more. Sitting down at the table he took out his chequebook and a fountain pen, and verified the date.
“Make it ‘bearer,’ ” suggested Art, when the writer paused, “same as you did the other cheque.”
Bertie nodded and added his signature, with its characteristic underlining.
“Wait a second.”
Art went out of the room and came back within a minute.
“They’ve taken it!” he said exultantly. “Boy,” he said, as he slapped the gratified young man on the shoulder, “you’ve gotta come in on this now and I didn’t want you to. It’s fifty-fifty—I’m no hog. Come along, and I’ll show you something else that I never intended showing a soul.”
He went out into the passage, opened a little door that led down a flight of stone steps to the cellar, switching on the light as he went down the stairs. Unlocking a heavy door, he threw it open.
“See here,” he said, “did you ever see anything like this?”
Bertie Claude peered into the dark interior.
“I don’t see—” he began, when he was so violently pushed into the darkness that he stumbled.
In another second the door closed on him; he heard the snap of a lock and shrieked: “I say, what’s this!”
“I say, you’ll find out in a day or two,” said the mocking voice of Mr. Lomer.
Art closed the second door, ran lightly up the stairs and joined footman, butler, trim maid and the three visitors in the drawing-room.
“He’s well inside. And he stays there till the cheque matures—there’s enough food and water in the cellar to last him a week.”
“Did you get him?” asked the bearded Russian.
“Get him! He was easy,” said the other scornfully. “Now, you boys and girls, skip, and skip quick! I’ve got a letter from this guy to his bank manager, telling him to—” he consulted the letter and quoted—“ ‘to cash the attached cheque for my friend Mr. Arthur Lomer.’ ”
There was a murmur of approval from the troupe.
“The aeroplane’s gone back, I suppose?”
The man in the leather coat nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “I only hired it for the afternoon.”
“Well, you can get back too. Ray and Al, you go to Paris and take the C.P. boat from Havre. Slicky, you get those whiskers off and leave honest from Liverpool. Pauline and Aggie will make Genoa, and we’ll meet at Leoni’s on the fourteenth of next month and cut the stuff all ways!”
Two days later Mr. Art Lomer walked into the noble offices of the Northern Commercial Bank and sought an interview with the manager. That gentleman read the letter, examined the cheque and touched a bell.
“It’s a mighty big sum,” said Mr. Lomer, in an almost awestricken voice.
The manager smiled. “We cash fairly large cheques here,” he said, and, to the clerk who came at his summons: “Mr. Lomer would like as much of this in American currency as possible. How did you leave Mr. Staffen?”
“Why, Bertie and I have been in Paris over that new company of mine,” said Lomer. “My! it’s difficult to finance Canadian industries in this country, Mr. Soames, but we’ve made a mighty fine deal in Paris.”
He chatted on purely commercial topics until the clerk returned and laid a heap of bills and banknotes on the table. Mr. Lomer produced a wallet, enclosed the money securely, shook hands with the manager and walked out into the general office. And then he stopped, for Mr. J. G. Reeder stood squarely in his path.
“Payday for the troupe, Mr. Lomer—or do you call it ‘treasury’? My theatrical glossary is rather rusty.”
“Why, Mr. Reeder,” stammered Art, “glad to see you, but I’m rather busy just now—”
“What do you think has happened to our dear friend, Mr. Bertie Claude Staffen?” asked Reeder anxiously.
“Why, he’s in Paris.”
“So soon!” murmured Reeder. “And the police only took him out of your suburban cellar an hour ago! How wonderful are our modern systems of transportation! Marlow one minute, Paris the next, and Moscow, let us say, the next.”
Art hesitated no longer. He dashed past, thrusting the detective aside, and flew for the door. He was so annoyed that the two men who were waiting for him had the greatest difficulty in putting the handcuffs on his wrists.
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Reeder to his chief, “Art always travels with his troupe. The invisibility of the troupe was to me a matter for grave suspicion, and of course I’ve had the house under observation ever since Mr. Staffen disappeared. It is not my business, of course,” he said apologetically, “and really I should not have interfered. Only, as I have often explained to you, the curious workings of my mind—”