He walked into the outer room, carefully shut the door and locked it, grimly deciding that if the thugs should overpower him the door would prove at least a slight obstacle between them and their helpless quarry.
Then he pressed the switch, plunging the living room into blackness. Moving confidently about in the darkness, he found his desk, opened a drawer and took out a .45 caliber army revolver, the same weapon that had stood by him so well in Belleau Wood.
Holding this formidable weapon in his right hand, he stationed himself beside the door and waited.
The seconds dragged interminably, each bringing a pleasurable thrill to Jimmy’s spine. This was the first excitement he had had since his return from France, and he enjoyed it to the fullest.
Presently he found his mind straying from his self-appointed task of dealing with two dangerous bandits and wandering to a certain fair-haired girl whose name suggested boyishness and good-fellowship.
Those pleasant dreams vanished with stealthy footsteps in the hall. They ceased in front of his door and a faint whisper reached Jimmy’s straining ears.
“This is the place, Sam,” were the words the listener heard.
There was a fumbling and then a jangling of keys. One was inserted in the lock, withdrawn and another tried. This performance was repeated a dozen times or more. Presently one key fitted and the door was swung cautiously open.
Jimmy pressed himself against the wall, behind the door. He was altogether concealed from the two pairs of sharp eyes that peered suspiciously about the dark room.
With a catlike tread, the strangers entered, pushing the door shut behind them. As the lock snapped. Jimmy reached over and pressed the switch. Instantly the gloom was dissipated with a brilliance that dazzled the eyes of the intruders.
When, with angry exclamations, they recovered the use of their eyes they found themselves looking into the muzzle of an ominous revolver, held by a smiling, muscular young man in evening clothes.
“Please be seated,” invited Jimmy with mock hospitality. “Sorry I didn’t expect this call or I’d have had my man here to take your hats. Or would you prefer to keep them on? Whoa — there! Keep your hands away from your pockets! Put ’em up. Now, that’s better.”
One of the pair had started to reach for his hip pocket, but Jimmy’s sharp order induced him to change his mind. His hands and those of his companion rose ceiling-ward.
“Just sit on that bench there and make yourselves at home,” directed Jimmy.
“See here,” blustered the taller of his prisoners, a thick-set individual whose freshly shaven jowels and chin were blue with beard that showed through the skin. “You can’t—”
Jimmy waved for silence. “Pardon me, for a moment while I telephone,” he interrupted.
Jimmy placed the receiver to his ear.
“Spring 3-1-0-0, please,” he ordered.
The two prisoners half rose from their seats.
“Careful!” barked Jimmy. “This isn’t a glass pistol, you know.”
The pair sank back, their faces distorted with rage.
“Say, Buddy—” one began, with an apparent attempt at friendliness.
“Hello, police headquarters?” Jimmy interrupted. “This is Mr. Van Beuren, of No. — West Eighty-Third Street. I’ve just caught two burglars in my apartment. You’ll send some one over from the West Sixty-Eighth Street station? Fine!”
Jimmy hung up the receiver and turned back to his prisoners. They were almost strangling with pent-up emotions.
“It’s all right, Miss Hanley,” Jimmy called, ensconcing himself in an easy-chair from where he could keep his gun trained on the prisoners. “You can come out now.”
Nearly a full minute passed before the girl answered in a faint voice, which indicated she was on the verge of collapse as a result of her experiences.
“Have you any smelling salts?” she queried through the door.
“Yes,” Jimmy replied. “You’ll find them in the medicine chest in the bathroom off the bedroom.”
He heard Patricia walking away from the door toward the bathroom. “Can’t blame her for being upset after all this,” he thought, and scowled at the girl’s persecutors.
The two were plainly fuming, but the gun in Jimmy’s hands deterred them from action. They remained in their strange postures — seated and with uplifted hands — for five — ten — twelve minutes, when Jimmy became worried about Patricia. Perhaps she had fallen in a faint.
A vigorous knock at the door broke up his thought in that direction.
III
“Come in,” called Jimmy, and two burly bluecoats entered.
Both policemen blinked with amazement at the sight that met their eyes.
“Casey — Bronson — what’s up?” demanded one, the first to recover from his amazement.
The gun in Jimmy’s hand wavered uncertainly.
“Aren’t they burglars?” he asked, dum-founded.
“Burglars!” snorted the blue-chinned prisoner, who answered to the name of Casey. “Tell this fool” — indicating jimmy — “who we are, Perkins.”
The uniformed man grinned.
“I wouldn’t call ’em burglars,” he said to Jimmy. “They’re Casey and Bronson of Inspector McIntyre’s staff.”
“Let’s not waste any more time,” Casey snapped. “The girl’s in there.”
Without waiting for Jimmy to produce the key for which he was fumbling, the four policemen dashed for the door and burst it inward. The light was on — and the room was empty!
Jimmy followed the men into the room.
“How’d she get out?” Casey queried of no one in particular, after satisfying himself that she was neither under the bed or in the closet.
Jimmy answered by pointing to a window concealed by draperies. Casey thrust the covering aside and discovered the open window led onto the fire escape — the same one by which the girl had entered Jimmy’s apartment.
“Not a sight of her,” Casey reported, in a disgruntled tone.
Jimmy found his voice.
“Tell me what it’s all about,” he pleaded.
Casey sent a withering glance in his direction, but deigned to answer.
“That was Pat the Piper. She got that name because she could ‘pipe’ up a story every time she got into a pinch, and the story was so good she usually got out.
“Anyway, she’s one of the cleverest jewel thieves in New York. We’d been on her trail for a week, and to-night we almost got her as she was leaving the home of Mrs. Franklin Maxwell.”
“Mrs. Franklin Maxwell!” This information stunned Jimmy. “Why she told me she was Mrs. Maxwell’s secretary and was taking her jewels to her.”
“She was taking the jewels all right,” Casey said grimly. “But not to Mrs. Maxwell. Not her!”
“We saw her running down the steps with a package under her arm,” the detective continued, “and we started for her. She had a car waiting, and off she went in it down the Drive. We followed.
“Nearly got her, too, but just as we got within twenty-five yards of her she jumped out of the car, which was driven by a man, ran into the alley beside this house, and went up the fire escape. I guess you know the rest.
“But, say,” he concluded, “what tale did she give you?”
Jimmy shrugged, ashamed of his gullibility.
“She said two jewel thieves, supposed to be you, were pursuing her, and she ran up my fire escape. I fell for it, too.”
“Huh,” snorted Casey. “Well, after talking to her, you’d better make sure the fillings are still in your teeth.”
Jimmy grinned mirthlessly.
“The fillings are all right, but the Van Beuren jewels aren’t.”
“What do you mean?” Casey asked.