“Where am I, Scuttle?”
“Right there on the front page. The mysterious ambulance figures in another robbery. This time it was shorter, quicker action. They got away with a bag from a bank messenger. The traffic police were notified by a prearranged signal. But the ambulance disappeared. The police have narrowed it down to a district of not more than forty square blocks. They’re making an intensive search of that district.”
Lester Leith took the paper from his valet, crumpled it into a ball and tossed it, unread, into the black cavern of the cold fireplace.
“Well, gang, we’re ready to start.”
“But aren’t you interested in the account of the ambulance, sir?”
Leith shook his head.
“Scuttle, cover both depots, find out every train that leaves after ten o’clock this evening and before eleven thirty. Get me a drawing room on each one of those trains where such accommodations are available. You might mention when you get the tickets that they are for a woman whose weight is somewhat above the average. Scuttle, I want no slip-up in the reservations.”
The valet’s eyes glinted with the light that comes into a cat’s eyes when the cat hears the faint sound of motion just back of a mouse hole.
“Yes, sir. Where shall I get the tickets to, sir?”
“Any place, Scuttle, just so it’s at least four hundred miles away. Pick out various cities, depending upon the direction in which the train’s going.”
“Yes, sir, but there might be fifteen or twenty such trains, sir. It’s the time when most of the crack trains leave.”
“I would estimate the number at somewhere around that figure, Scuttle. Please get me a drawing room on each one of the trains.”
The valet sighed. “Yes, sir.”
“And at precisely nine-two tonight I shall have an errand for you to do, a most important errand.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I shall want you to take these diamonds, the best matched necklace in the city, and show them to an artist in order to have a black and white drawing made. I shall want you to take Mrs. Crane with you. I shall want Mrs. Crane to have a suitcase all packed, ready to travel.”
Sadie Crane regarded him for a minute with a puzzled frown. But she said no word.
The valet fairly oozed eagerness.
“Yes, sir. Your instructions will be obeyed to the letter. At nine-two, sir? May I ask why you fix that particular minute?”
Lester Leith lit a cigarette, blew a smoke ring.
“Because, Scuttle, that happens to be the exact time I wish you to be at the place I am going to send you.”
And Lester Leith walked into his den, stretched himself out in an easy chair, and sent spiraling clouds of blue smoke drifting upward from the end of his cigarette. His eyes followed those twisting spirals of smoke with deep concentration.
Only Louise Huntington, the social secretary, showed no concern or excitement. Her face did not even change expression.
The valet took advantage of the first opportunity to get a telephone. In a guarded tone he apprised Sergeant Ackley of the latest developments.
“What’s this fat woman look like?” asked Ackley. “If she’s going to make a trip we’d better be ready to tail her.”
The undercover man chuckled.
“She tips the beam at three hundred and fifty. If you can’t find that sort of a woman in a drawing room on a train, one of us is crazy.”
“Can that line of chatter,” snapped Sergeant Ackley, “and remember you’re making an official report. We won’t try to tail you. You just go wherever he sends you, but contact the office as soon as you can reach a telephone, and keep us posted. Better rush back now — he’ll be giving that fat dame secret instructions.”
Scuttle laughed again, louder, more jubilantly.
“Sarge, I’ve got my rod, and I’ve got my bracelets. If that lump of tallow can pull anything on me you can start me back to the pavements tomorrow.”
It was precisely seventeen minutes after nine o’clock in the evening. Three faces bent over a glittering necklace of diamonds. There was the heavy face of Scuttle, the valet; the jovial, good-natured face of Sadie Crane, the professional fat woman. And, in addition, there was the sharp, keenly thoughtful face of Stanley Garland, sole owner and proprietor of the Garland Printery.
“Well,” said Garland, “what’s he want done?”
“A black and white drawing,” replied Scuttle.
Garland laughed. “I am an engraver. I have been a sign painter. I have done some art work. But will you tell me why any man should think an artist needed a real diamond necklace to copy from? If there is anything that is sketched entirely different from life it is a diamond. After all, my friends, art is mimicry. And when it comes to sketching light, one must use symbols. And a diamond is imprisoned light.”
And Stanley Garland stood back and snapped his bony fingers, twisted the little cluster of waxed hairs that adhered to his upper lip, and gazed at his two visitors with obvious superiority.
Scuttle shrugged his heavy shoulders.
“I’m obeyin’ orders. He said to take the necklace to you an’ get a receipt. He said for the woman to take a few things and put them in a suitcase and be ready to travel. She’s taking the ten o’clock Flyer.
“Now if you can put any of that stuff together and make sense out of it you can do more than I can. But the wages I get every month come from this chap, Leith, and when he says do something I do it.”
Stanley Garland bristled.
“But I am an artist! I do unique illustrations for place cards. And I take orders from no one. I execute commissions, yes! But orders, NO!”
The fat woman placed a round hand upon the shoulder of the irate printer.
“Aw, be a sport! Give him a break.”
“And a receipt for the diamonds,” reminded Scuttle.
Stanley Garland looked at the diamonds once more.
“Where did he get them? I have heard about this perfectly matched necklace. I did the engraving for the invitations to his side show. But I have heard nothing of the history of this necklace. Who owns it? Where did it come from? What jeweler matched it? Was it purchased or borrowed?”
The undercover man stared gloomily.
“Now, brother, you’re askin’ real questions. We’ve had fifty men trying to find out the same thing for ten days, and they haven’t uncovered a thing.”
“Humph!” said Stanley Garland.
Sadie Crane waddled her impatient bulk across the office that had been fitted up at one end of the printing establishment. She carried her suitcase in her left hand — a suitcase packed under specific instructions from Lester Leith. It contained her professional costume — the jacket and the silk shorts — nothing else.
She walked to the door that opened into the printery — a door that opened inward. She put the suitcase down on the printery side of this door. Beyond gleamed the polished metal of huge presses, the dim perspective of the darkened printery.
Lester Leith had given her a sketch of the floor plan of the establishment. He seemed perfectly familiar with every detail. How Lester Leith had known these things she did not ask. She understood, generally, that Stanley Garland had a uniform method of impressing customers who called in the evening to consult with him upon important assignments. He had the lighting of the office just so, the dim perspective of the printery showing just so, behind the open door, and he always snapped his fingers and twisted his mustache and proclaimed he was an artist.
Lester Leith had advised her of all these things in detail. It was, of course, possible that he had secured the information from Louise Huntington, who had brought several orders to the office of the printery.
Now Stanley Garland made an exclamation of impatience.
“Take back the diamonds. I will tell him when I see him how foolish he is to send such a model. But you can tell him that, having once seen them, Stanley Garland can make a perfect...”