Part 6

"Bruce, I'm on a very curious chase," he said, pushing back from the table, "and I want your help. It's too long and too confidential to tell you now. But two things I wish you would do for me: find out all you can quietly about two men--Enos Bloodgood and a fellow called Garraboy, a broker."

"Garraboy--the brother-in-law?" said Gunther instantly. They left the table and went for cigars and coffee to the first room, to a window that gave on the Avenue. "I know him. He was blackballed here a couple of years ago. There were some ugly stories about him; I'll look 'em up. Bloodgood's another matter. I have heard rumors he was hard hit by the market. It's easy enough; I know several men I can call up. Can't you tell me the whole thing now?"

When Beecher had finished, Gunther remained a long moment immersed in reflection.

"By the Lord Harry, that is a problem," he said, suddenly waking up. "The dickens of a tangle! What the deuce was Slade doing there?" He relapsed into silence again, and as suddenly said decisively: "You're wrong on one point, Ted. It's not Garraboy or Bloodgood we ought to suspect first; it's Cheever--the Cheevers."

"How the deuce are we going about it?" said Beecher.

"I suppose Mrs. Kildair wants the whole thing kept quiet," said Gunther, rapping absent-mindedly on the arm of his chair.

"Naturally; besides, I promised."

"Of course. Well, we'll begin in a practical fashion. You don't mind spending a little money, do you?"

"I expect to."

Gunther rose and went to the telephone booths, where he remained for some time.

"Half-past six in my rooms, Ted," he said, returning. "I'll put you up against the most interesting character in the United States--a real detective. Dress and come over."

"But the girls," objected Beecher, remembering their engagement.

"The girls can go hang," said Gunther, shrugging his shoulders. "They can always wait half an hour. This is something real."

At five o'clock Beecher called on Mrs. Kildair, and found her out, to his considerable vexation. The bell-boy gave him a little note, which he opened and read:

DEAR TEDDY:

Forgive my breaking my engagement. All sorts of sudden and exciting things have crowded in on me to-day. Come to-morrow for luncheon.

RITA.

P.S. Remember--nothing public about last night!

The prospect of a tete-a-tete with Mrs. Kildair appeased him somewhat, but his anticipations for the afternoon were sorely disappointed, and he started aimlessly back, with a feeling that a great hole had been made in the day. As he reached the corner, a red automobile cut in close to the curb, causing him to step hastily back. Inside he recognized Slade. He watched the red machine come to a stop before Mrs. Kildair's and then whirl away, after depositing the massive figure of its owner. Beecher, with a little wounded vanity, lingered a moment, hoping to see him reappear; but, as the sidewalk continued empty, he was forced to conclude that he had come by appointment.

"She might at least have seen me," he said angrily. "What the deuce has she got to see Slade for?"

All at once he perceived that his steps had led him in the general direction of the quarter in which Nan Charters resided, and, as he had come to make an impression on one woman, he soon began to consider transferring his attack on another. Only, he remembered that he had determined to treat Miss Charters with indifference, to correct any erroneous ideas that she might have formed from his previous impulsive conduct.

"That's so," he said, angry now at himself, at her, and at a condition of affairs that left him with an hour of idleness on his hands. "If I call now, she'll think I'm hot on the trail. I could stop, though, and inquire about her health," he thought, hesitating; "that would seem natural, after last night."

But he rejected this as a subterfuge, and continued his slow, uneven progress down Seventh Avenue, which he had selected at random in search of a little oddity and interest; and gradually he recognized that the vexation he felt was, in reality, not at being unable to find an excuse for calling on Miss Charters, but the keen sense of disappointment he had in missing an intimate hour with Rita.

It was essentially the woman of the world in her that fascinated him, the woman of mysterious experience, of sure knowledge and complete command of situations. He wished to increase the intimacy of his position, because to be favored by her meant something--something that awoke his masculine sense of supremacy and fed his vanity. Determined on a long bachelorhood that would open to him all sorts and conditions of society and adventurous experiences, he had determined likewise to avoid the dangerous field of young girls of his own set and to exercise his curiosity with women of the world--older women, professional women, with whom an impulsive infatuation brought no risks, but something to be taken at value, a mood that was charming because it would pass.

All at once an idea came to him that reconciled his easily satisfied conscience and appeared sublimely politic. He would drop in on Nan Charters, just to show his indifference.

"I'll stay fifteen minutes--be quite formal and a little bored," he said, chuckling.

And he went without too much enthusiasm toward his destination, thinking of Rita Kildair and planning in his imaginative mind a series of confidential conversations for the tete-a-tete on the morrow.

"To see Miss Charters," he said, giving his card to the boy in the elevator, who turned it over doubtfully, hesitated, and disappeared like a float in an opera, mounting heavenward.

Beecher ceased to think of Rita Kildair, and prepared himself, smiling astutely, for his approaching scene with the young actress whom he intended properly to discipline for her effrontery in imagining that he--Edward T. Beecher--had entertained for a moment any other than a polite social interest. Miss Charters excused herself--she was lying down and dining out.

He cast a furious look at the telephone-booth, by means of which she might personally have assured him of her great regret, and stalked out in a worse temper than ever--Rita Kildair, Nan Charters, all the women in the world consigned to perdition.

"Confound them all!" he said, brandishing his cane. "What a lot of time a man wastes over them. She might have telephoned me. They only exist in this world to distract us from what we ought to do. I wonder if she did it on purpose--just to give me an appetite. Well, if she did--she's succeeded," he said ruefully.

He went to his rooms, resolved to meet her at every opportunity, to revenge himself by showing her he could play the game more cleverly than she could; and in his angry resolve there was very little trace of the indifference of which he had been so confident.

*CHAPTER VII*

Gunther had a suite in one of the newer hotels that tower over the eastern entrance to the park. When Beecher arrived, a quiet, powerfully built man was standing in front of the fireplace, smoking with enjoyment. Beecher recognized immediately Cyrus McKenna, formerly of the United States Secret Service, founder of the great detective agency that bore his name.

"Ted, shake hands with my good friend Mr. McKenna," said Gunther, appearing in the doorway with a refractory collar in his grasp. "McKenna, shake hands with Mr. Beecher. Fire away, Ted. I'll be out in a second."

"Glad to know you," said McKenna, grasping his hand.

Beecher was aware of the quick, estimating scrutiny and a sense of unusual physical vitality. But he was disappointed in his first glance at this man whose investigations had been the terror of corrupt politicians and unscrupulous agitators. McKenna was physically the ideal detective, in that not a feature possessed a trace of oddity which could betray him to the public, in which he thus mingled without fear of recognition. He was neither short nor tall, neither thin nor unusually heavy. His head was round, well-spaced, and evenly formed, without affectation of mystery or astuteness, lit up by a jovial good humor when animated, and quite blank and indecipherable when in repose. The eyes alone, like the eyes of a painter or a sculptor seeking tones or modelings that escape the common glance, were noticeable for a certain quality of penetration, expressed in the countenance by innumerable fine lines that gathered in the eye-pits.

"Mr. McKenna," said Beecher, who had an instinctive desire to impress the detective with the lucidity of his observations, "I will give you quickly the details that are important. First, here is the plan of the apartment, which may or may not be of use."

He went to the low table-desk at the side, and drew out paper and pencil. McKenna brought up a chair at his side, and Gunther, coming in, sat down opposite.

"It concerns the theft of a ruby ring worth over fifteen thousand dollars," said Beecher, busy with his pencil, "taken last night, between eight and eleven, at the apartment of Mrs. Rita Kildair. The circumstances are so extraordinary that you will be interested in the problem itself."

The detective smiled in a slightly amused way and asked:

"Am I retained in her interest or in yours?"

"In mine," said Beecher quickly. "The theft took place at a social gathering, you understand, and in the party were persons well known in New York society. Mrs. Kildair, as is natural, particularly desires that nothing shall become public."

"Does she know that you intend to consult me?"

"No--and I am not sure I wish her to know."

"Is she employing detectives?"

"Yes."

"Whom did the ring belong to?"

"To Mrs. Kildair," said Beecher, annoyed that he had forgotten this rather important detail.

"Let me see the plan," said McKenna, who glanced at it a moment and nodded. "Now go on."

"There were eleven persons present, including Mrs. Kildair," said Beecher, after a moment's pause. McKenna took the pencil and prepared to inscribe the list. "Myself, Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Cheever--"

"I can give you a pointer on them," said Gunther, speaking for the first time.

"Unnecessary," said McKenna. "I know the card episode."

"Mr. and Mrs. Bloodgood."

"Mrs. Bloodgood--yes."

"Mr. Garraboy."

"Joseph L. or Edward C., the broker?"

"The broker. Miss Nan Charters."

"The actress--yes."

"Miss Maud Lille."

"Know anything about her?"

"She's a journalist; writes books too, I believe."

"Well?"

"Bernard L. Majendie and John Slade."

The detective raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"They were there--together?"

"They came separately. Slade joined the party at the last moment; he was not expected."

"A very interesting crowd," said the detective slowly, studying the list. "What servants?"

"None."

"You are sure?"

"Mrs. Kildair has only two, a Japanese butler and a lady's maid, both of whom were out."

"You are positive?"

"Absolutely. The occasion was an informal supper. Mrs. Kildair, while preparing the dishes, placed her three rings on the pin-cushion of her dressing-table--at this point here on the plans--fastening them with a hatpin. The table, as you see, can be easily seen both from the studio and the dining-room."

"What were the circumstances of her placing the rings on the pin-cushion? First, when did it occur? After all the guests had arrived?"

"Yes," said Beecher, who immediately corrected himself. "No, I'm wrong; Slade arrived later. But, as I say, he was a surprise. Majendie was the last of the invited party to come. Immediately afterward Mrs. Kildair went into her bedroom to put on an apron and take off her rings."

"Who was in the room?"

"Mrs. Cheever, Miss Lille, and Garraboy," said Beecher slowly.

"They saw her take off the ring?"

"Yes; they even announced it later."

"Was there much passing to and fro?"

"All the time. I am quite sure every one was in the room several times."

"Did any one use the hall?" said the detective, indicating it on the plan. "I see it opens into the dining-room also."

"Quite a number," said Beecher. "I remember using it myself. We were all going and coming, carrying dishes, glasses, bottles, provisions."

"One question: did you notice the ring on the pin-cushion yourself?"

"Yes; I distinctly remember seeing two or three rings, I don't remember which."

"Go on."

"After about three quarters of an hour of preparation, we took our places at the table, with the exception of Mrs. Kildair, who was still moving about us. It was then that Slade came in, was introduced, and took his place."

"He did not pass into the bedroom, then?"

"No. Mrs. Kildair went in immediately, took off her apron, and discovered the loss of the ruby ring."

Beecher, without further interruptions from McKenna, recounted in detail the return of Mrs. Kildair, the locking of the doors, the extinguishing of the lights, the announcement of the theft, the beginning of the counting, the sound of the ring on the table, and the discovery of its second disappearance. Then he stopped, awaiting the questioning of the detective.

"No; go right on," said McKenna, with a little gesture of his pencil that dotted an imaginary _i_.

Beecher continued, describing the lighting of the lights, the confusion in the room, the sending for the detectives, the discussion as to the order of search, and the failure to recover the ring. Omitting his personal observations of Miss Charters and their conversation in the cab, he recounted his return to Mrs. Kildair's, his meeting with Garraboy, the discovery of the detective, the strangeness of Mrs. Kildair's attitude, and her concealment of the identity of the next visitor. He concluded, and both young men looked at the detective as if they expected him to solve the problem on the instant--an attitude that was not lost on McKenna.

"I suppose you young men believe every word that has been written on deduction," he said, grinning and biting off the end of another cigar. "Presume you've already determined that a woman took the ring, and lacked the nerve to face the risk--that the strong, daring nature of a man seized the opportunity the second time, and, because Slade and Majendie are millionaires and Bloodgood the respectable owner of a newspaper, the thief is either Garraboy, a gambler in stocks, or Cheever, with an ugly reputation."

The two young men smiled guiltily.

"But I say, McKenna, you don't reject deduction entirely," said Gunther.

"Oh, no, I believe in 'deduction forward,'" said McKenna, laughing. "If I know there's a thief in the company, I deduce he'll steal if he gets the chance. Now, before I put a few more questions to you, let me tell you this. My business isn't in deducing how the theft was done (I get my man and sweat him out; he'll tell me that), but who did it; and for that it don't take any deduction, either. Give me time, money, and no strings on me, there isn't any crime can't be worked out."

"But how the deuce are you going to locate a ring," said Beecher, "if you don't know whom to follow?"

"The ring's the easiest part," said the detective. "You may not know it, but every stone of great value is what's called a named stone; every jeweler knows of it. Now, there aren't many rubies worth over fifteen thousand floating around. If you don't believe it, I'll show you how easy it's done. Inside a week I'll give you the history of the stone and just how it came into the hands of Mrs. Kildair."

"You mean no one can dispose of it to a jeweler without its being recognized?"

"Unless he's done it within these twenty-four hours, which is quite probable if a certain suspicion of mine isn't far wrong."

"Deduction," said Gunther, laughing.

"Not entirely; and, besides, that's not quite fair. It just happens that I may be interested in a couple of persons in your party from another tack. No, gentlemen; deduction's all right, if it's honest deduction and if you use it in its place; but the great thing's motive. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, get down to your motives and you get your criminals. Show me the person who needed to steal that ring, or who just simply had to steal it, and you've got your man."

"But suppose that applies to two persons there, or even three," said Gunther, who perceived that the detective did not intend to commit himself.

"Possibly."

"Or it may be the hysterical act of a woman who will never attempt to sell the ring."

"Possible--more than possible."

"And then it will never be found."

"That's right."

"But you don't think that's the case," said Gunther. "And you have an opinion."

McKenna gave him a quick look of appreciation.

"That's right; but it's not who took it, but why it was taken. In forty-eight hours I'll know a little bit more about the habits of the ladies and gentlemen we're dealing with, and then I'll be more communicative." He paused, with a little pardonable pleasure in the mystification he was preparing, and added: "In forty-eight hours I'll give you a little story about each of the persons who were at that party which'll beat anything in the story-telling line you ever came up against. Now, Mr. Beecher, before we get down to questions, here's one thing I want you to do. Find out from Mrs. Kildair what's her detective agency. Say you've a friend who's trying to track a valet for stealing and want a good address--see?"

"You are not going to shadow the detectives?" said Gunther curiously.

"You bet I am, till I know more about them," said McKenna. "Young man, I can tell you more than twenty cases I've been on where the detective who was called in to make a search went cahoots with the thief."

"Detectives!" said Beecher, amazed.

"You bet. I don't trust my own, when I've got anything that's got to be done right. I don't trust any one man; I put two on it. My dear fellow, the crooks that pick your pocket or break into your house are only amateurs. The real criminal, the criminal of brains, joins a police force, becomes a detective, a clerk, goes slowly, gets to be a cashier or president of a bank. You think I'm joking. Not at all. Look here; just stop and think it over, and you won't laugh. For every bank president who takes the funds of his bank, speculates, and _loses_, how many do you think win out and never get caught?"

"That's so," said Gunther thoughtfully.

"It's too big a subject," said McKenna, smiling. "I shake hands every day with gentlemen who ought to be breaking rocks. Now, let's get back to business. Mr. Beecher, what did you notice of any kind last night that would make you suspect any one? I don't mean opinions, but eyes."

Beecher hesitated an interval that did not escape the notice of the detective.

"Nothing," he said at last, unwilling to mention the name of Nan Charters. He added, to cover the hesitation: "I suspected Garraboy, but I admit there's no proof--personal dislike."

"Why do you dislike him?"

Beecher shrugged his shoulder and his glance went to one side.

"Mr. Gunther, will you get me my office?" said McKenna, suddenly looking at his watch. "You know the number."

Gunther disappeared in the hall in search of the telephone.

"Now, Mr. Beecher," said McKenna, smiling, "I'm like a doctor, you know. There's no use calling me in unless you give me all the facts. What's the name of the lady who excited your suspicion, whom Mr. Garraboy was so attentive to, and on account of whom, I rather guess, you got interested in this case?"

The startled look Beecher gave him amply gratified McKenna, who continued:

"What's Miss Charters' position in this business?"

Beecher admitted the correctness of the surmise with a laugh, and, Gunther being absent, quickly recounted the different moments of Nan Charters' agitation and the conversation in the cab.

At this moment Gunther returned. "I say, McKenna," he said, "some one's trying to get you on the wire."

McKenna passed to the telephone, and almost immediately returned.

"Look here, gentlemen," he said, "if you want to try your hand at deduction, here's something to work on. The Clearing-house has just refused to clear for the Atlantic Trust, Majendie's resignation has been accepted, and tomorrow there'll be a run on every bank in the city--and God help those who're caught in the stock market!"

*CHAPTER VIII*

The two young men and McKenna descended by the elevator into the lobby of the hotel. The news of the Clearing-house's drastic action against the Atlantic Trust was already in the scare-heads of the evening papers, though Majendie's resignation was still unknown. The halls were crowded with a fleet of newspapers, spread out, fluttering feverishly. Everywhere was a suppressed murmur and nervous tension, which occasionally exploded in exclamations when acquaintances met. The news was indeed staggering to the little man of the Street; the great Atlantic Trust with its hundreds of millions of deposits was on the verge of collapse and this at the end of a period of depression and alarm!

As they proceeded toward the carriage entrance, Gunther stopped to speak to one of the clerks at the desk, who, with a frightened face, came out to seek his advice. McKenna profited by the moment to say to Beecher:

"By the way, if you're a friend of Miss Charters', find out if she has any money invested in Wall Street, and who she's dealing through."

"Does it mean a panic?" said Beecher, surprised. "Do you mean she ought to get out?"

"Too late," said McKenna. "Find out what I asked you. I'm in a hurry. Say good-night to Mr. Gunther for me. And, say, if you're so interested in this case, get him to put you wise to Majendie and Mrs. Bloodgood."

He gave a quick nod, and mingled in the crowd about the north entrance. Beecher watched him with a feeling of disillusionment. The detective had expressed no opinion, had brought to bear on the problem none of the instantaneous analysis which he had expected; in fact, had deliberately avoided even a discussion of the natural probabilities. Had this complete reticence been associated with an individuality of impressive oddity, he would have perhaps regarded it with respect. As it was, he was conscious only of being defrauded as though some one were tearing away a precious illusion.

"There's a poor devil; got all his money tied up in the Atlantic Trust," said Gunther, joining him and passing out to the waiting automobile.

"The Atlantic Trust can't fail," said Beecher, amazed. "Things aren't as bad as that."

"Don't know. Lots of queer things have been worked lately. Anyhow, what's bound to happen is--I should say--a receivership and closed doors to-morrow."

"But that means panic."

"Sure."

Beecher was silent a while. He thought of Majendie of the night before, correct, restrained, prodigal of small courtesies.

"By Jove, how game he was!" he said aloud. "I should hate to think there was anything crooked in him."

They had reached Forty-second Street in their smooth and rapid flight. There, newsboys were shrieking the latest extra, dodging under the heads of horses, swinging on the steps of surface-cars, bumping their shrill way through the crowd, with their hysterical instinct for heightening the effect of a sensation.

Gunther stopped the automobile and bought a handful of papers which a dozen urchins fought to press into his hands. On every sheet, front page, accompanied by sudden scare-heads, was the photograph of Bernard L. Majendie, whose resignation had been demanded and accepted.

The two scanned the pages for additional details. Some papers hinted at criminal actions--the district attorney had been suddenly summoned to town. Scattered through the sheets were photographs entitled, "Majendie's Palace on Fifth Avenue." "$100,000 Yacht of Deposed President." "Newport Estate of Millionaire."

"Is he a crook after all?" said Beecher, flinging down the extra.