Intrusion of Jimmy Read online

  clumsy watcher, he had seen always the self-satisfied figure of

  McEachern. If there had been anything subtle about the man from

  Dodson's, he could have forgiven him; but there was not. Years of

  practise had left Spike with a sort of sixth sense as regarded

  representatives of the law. He could pierce the most cunning

  disguise. But, in the case of Galer, even Jimmy could detect the

  detective.

  "Go on," he said.

  Spike proceeded.

  "Well, de odder mug, de one down an' out on de floor wit' de irons

  on--"

  "Galer, in fact," said Jimmy. "Handsome, dashing Galer!"

  "Sure. Well, he's too busy catchin' up wit' his breat' to shoot it

  back swift, but, after he's bin doin' de deep-breathin' strut for a

  while, he says, 'You mutt,' he says, 'youse is to de bad. You've

  made a break, you have. Dat's right. Surest t'ing you know.' He puts

  it different, but dat's what he means. 'I'm a sleut', he says. 'Take

  dese t'ings off!'--meanin' de irons. Does de odder mug, de vally

  gazebo, give him de glad eye? Not so's you could notice it. He gives

  him de merry ha-ha. He says dat dat's de woist tale dat's ever bin

  handed to him. 'Tell it to Sweeney!' he says. 'I knows youse. Youse

  woims yourself into de house as a guest, when youse is really after

  de loidy's jools.' At dese crool woids, de odder mug, Galer, gits

  hot under de collar. 'I'm a sure-'nough sleut',' he says. 'I blows

  into dis house at de special request of Mr. McEachern, de American

  gent.' De odder mug hands de lemon again. 'Tell it to de King of

  Denmark,' he says. 'Dis cop's de limit. Youse has enough gall fer

  ten strong men,' he says. 'Show me to Mr. McEachern,' says Galer.

  'He'll--' crouch, is dat it?"

  "Vouch?" suggested Jimmy. "Meaning give the glad hand to."

  "Dat's right. Vouch. I wondered what he meant at de time. 'He'll

  vouch for me,' he says. Dat puts him all right, he t'inks; but no,

  he's still in Dutch, 'cos de vally mug says, 'Nix on dat! I ain't

  goin' to chase around de house wit' youse, lookin' fer Mr.

  McEachern. It's youse fer de coal-cellar, me man, an' we'll see what

  youse has to say when I makes me report to Sir Tummas.' 'Well, dat's

  to de good,' says Galer. 'Tell Sir Tummas. I'll explain to him.'

  'Not me!' says de vally. 'Sir Tummas has a hard evenin's woik before

  him, jollyin' along de swells what's comin' to see dis stoige-piece

  dey're actin'. I ain't goin' to worry him till he's good and ready.

  To de coal-cellar fer yours! G'wan!' an' off dey goes! An' I gits

  busy ag'in, swipes de jools, an' chases meself here."

  Jimmy wiped his eyes.

  "Have you ever heard of poetic justice, Spike?" he asked. "This is

  it. But, in this hour of mirth and good-will, we must not forget--"

  Spike interrupted. Pleased by the enthusiastic reception of his

  narrative, he proceeded to point out the morals that were to be

  deduced there-from.

  "So, youse see, boss," he said, "it's all to de merry. When dey

  rubbers for de jools, an' finds dem gone, dey'll t'ink dis Galer guy

  swiped dem. Dey won't t'ink of us."

  Jimmy looked at the speaker gravely.

  "Of course," said he. "What a reasoner you are, Spike! Galer was

  just opening the door from the outside, by your account, when the

  valet man sprang at him. Naturally, they'll think that he took the

  jewels. Especially, as they won't find them on him. A man who can

  open a locked safe through a closed door is just the sort of fellow

  who would be able to get rid of the swag neatly while rolling about

  the floor with the valet. His not having the jewels will make the

  case all the blacker against him. And what will make them still more

  certain that he is the thief is that he really is a detective.

  Spike, you ought to be in some sort of a home, you know."

  The Bowery boy looked disturbed.

  "I didn't t'ink of dat, boss," he admitted.

  "Of course not. One can't think of everything. Now, if you will just

  hand me those diamonds, I will put them back where they belong."

  "Put dem back, boss!"

  "What else would you propose? I'd get you to do it, only I don't

  think putting things back is quite in your line."

  Spike handed over the jewels. The boss was the boss, and what he

  said went. But his demeanor was tragic, telling eloquently of hopes

  blighted.

  Jimmy took the necklace with something of a thrill. He was a

  connoisseur of jewels, and a fine gem affected him much as a fine

  picture affects the artistic. He ran the diamonds through his

  fingers, then scrutinized them again, more closely this time.

  Spike watched him with a slight return of hope. It seemed to him

  that the boss was wavering. Perhaps, now that he had actually

  handled the jewels, he would find it impossible to give them up. To

  Spike, a diamond necklace of cunning workmanship was merely the

  equivalent of so many "plunks"; but he knew that there were men,

  otherwise sane, who valued a jewel for its own sake.

  "It's a boid of a necklace, boss," he murmured, encouragingly.

  "It is," said Jimmy; "in its way, I've never seen anything much

  better. Sir Thomas will be glad to have it back."

  "Den, you're goin' to put it back, boss?"

  "I am," said Jimmy. "I'll do it just before the theatricals. There

  should be a chance, then. There's one good thing. This afternoon's

  affair will have cleared the air of sleuth-hounds a little."

  CHAPTER XXIII

  FAMILY JARS

  Hildebrand Spencer Poynt de Burgh John Hannasyde Coombe-Crombie,

  twelfth Earl of Dreever, was feeling like a toad under the harrow.

  He read the letter again, but a second perusal made it no better.

  Very briefly and clearly, Molly had broken off the engagement. She

  "thought it best." She was "afraid it could make neither of us

  happy." All very true, thought his lordship miserably. His

  sentiments to a T. At the proper time, he would have liked nothing

  better. But why seize for this declaration the precise moment when

  he was intending, on the strength of the engagement, to separate his

  uncle from twenty pounds? That was what rankled. That Molly could

  have no knowledge of his sad condition did not occur to him. He had

  a sort of feeling that she ought to have known by instinct. Nature,

  as has been pointed out, had equipped Hildebrand Spencer Poynt de

  Burgh with one of those cheap-substitute minds. What passed for

  brain in him was to genuine gray matter as just-as-good imitation

  coffee is to real Mocha. In moments of emotion and mental stress,

  consequently, his reasoning, like Spike's, was apt to be in a class

  of its own.

  He read the letter for the third time, and a gentle perspiration

  began to form on his forehead. This was awful. The presumable

  jubilation of Katie, the penniless ripper of the Savoy, when he

  should present himself to her a free man, did not enter into the

  mental picture that was unfolding before him. She was too remote.

  Between him and her lay the fearsome figure of Sir Thomas, rampant,

  filling the entire horizon. Nor is this
to be wondered at. There was

  probably a brief space during which Perseus, concentrating his gaze

  upon the monster, did not see Andromeda; and a knight of the Middle

  Ages, jousting in the Gentlemen's Singles for a smile from his lady,

  rarely allowed the thought of that smile to occupy his whole mind at

  the moment when his boiler-plated antagonist was descending upon him

  in the wake of a sharp spear.

  So with Spennie Dreever. Bright eyes might shine for him when all

  was over, but in the meantime what seemed to him more important was

  that bulging eyes would glare.

  If only this had happened later--even a day later! The reckless

  impulsiveness of the modern girl had undone him. How was he to pay

  Hargate the money? Hargate must be paid. That was certain. No other

  course was possible. Lord Dreever's was not one of those natures

  that fret restlessly under debt. During his early career at college,

  he had endeared himself to the local tradesmen by the magnitude of

  the liabilities he had contracted with them. It was not the being in

  debt that he minded. It was the consequences. Hargate, he felt

  instinctively, was of a revengeful nature. He had given Hargate

  twenty pounds' worth of snubbing, and the latter had presented the

  bills. If it were not paid, things would happen. Hargate and he were

  members of the same club, and a member of a club who loses money at

  cards to a fellow member, and fails to settle up, does not make

  himself popular with the committee.

  He must get the money. There was no avoiding that conclusion. But

  how?

  Financially, his lordship was like a fallen country with a glorious

  history. There had been a time, during his first two years at

  college, when he had reveled in the luxury of a handsome allowance.

  This was the golden age, when Sir Thomas Blunt, being, so to speak,

  new to the job, and feeling that, having reached the best circles,

  he must live up to them, had scattered largesse lavishly. For two

  years after his marriage with Lady Julia, he had maintained this

  admirable standard, crushing his natural parsimony. He had regarded

  the money so spent as capital sunk in an investment. By the end of

  the second year, he had found his feet, and began to look about him

  for ways of retrenchment. His lordship's allowance was an obvious

  way. He had not to wait long for an excuse for annihilating it.

  There is a game called poker, at which a man without much control

  over his features may exceed the limits of the handsomest allowance.

  His lordship's face during a game of poker was like the surface of

  some quiet pond, ruffled by every breeze. The blank despair of his

  expression when he held bad cards made bluffing expensive. The

  honest joy that bubbled over in his eyes when his hand was good

  acted as an efficient danger-signal to his grateful opponents. Two

  weeks of poker had led to his writing to his uncle a distressed, but

  confident, request for more funds; and the avuncular foot had come

  down with a joyous bang. Taking his stand on the evils of gambling,

  Sir Thomas had changed the conditions of the money-market for his

  nephew with a thoroughness that effectually prevented the

  possibility of the youth's being again caught by the fascinations of

  poker. The allowance vanished absolutely; and in its place there

  came into being an arrangement. By this, his lordship was to have

  whatever money he wished, but he must ask for it, and state why it

  was needed. If the request were reasonable, the cash would be

  forthcoming; if preposterous, it would not. The flaw in the scheme,

  from his lordship's point of view, was the difference of opinion

  that can exist in the minds of two men as to what the words

  reasonable and preposterous may be taken to mean.

  Twenty pounds, for instance, would, in the lexicon of Sir Thomas

  Blunt, be perfectly reasonable for the current expenses of a man

  engaged to Molly McEachern, but preposterous for one to whom she had

  declined to remain engaged. It is these subtle shades of meaning

  that make the English language so full of pitfalls for the

  foreigner.

  So engrossed was his lordship in his meditations that a voice spoke

  at his elbow ere he became aware of Sir Thomas himself, standing by

  his side.

  "Well, Spennie, my boy," said the knight. "Time to dress for dinner,

  I think. Eh? Eh?"

  He was plainly in high good humor. The thought of the distinguished

  company he was to entertain that night had changed him temporarily,

  as with some wave of a fairy wand, into a thing of joviality and

  benevolence. One could almost hear the milk of human kindness

  gurgling and splashing within him. The irony of fate! Tonight, such

  was his mood, a dutiful nephew could have come and felt in his

  pockets and helped himself--if circumstances had been different. Oh,

  woman, woman, how you bar us from paradise!

  His lordship gurgled a wordless reply, thrusting the fateful letter

  hastily into his pocket. He would break the news anon. Soon--not

  yet--later on--in fact, anon!

  "Up in your part, my boy?" continued Sir Thomas. "You mustn't spoil

  the play by forgetting your lines. That wouldn't do!"

  His eye was caught by the envelope that Spennie had dropped. A

  momentary lapse from the jovial and benevolent was the result. His

  fussy little soul abhorred small untidinesses.

  "Dear me," he said, stooping, "I wish people would not drop paper

  about the house. I cannot endure a litter." He spoke as if somebody

  had been playing hare-and-hounds, and scattering the scent on the

  stairs. This sort of thing sometimes made him regret the old days.

  In Blunt's Stores, Rule Sixty-seven imposed a fine of half-a-crown

  on employees convicted of paper-dropping.

  "I--" began his lordship.

  "Why"--Sir Thomas straightened himself--"it's addressed to you."

  "I was just going to pick it up. It's--er--there was a note in it."

  Sir Thomas gazed at the envelope again. Joviality and benevolence

  resumed their thrones.

  "And in a feminine handwriting," he chuckled. He eyed the limp peer

  almost roguishly. "I see, I see," he said. "Very charming, quite

  delightful! Girls must have their little romance! I suppose you two

  young people are exchanging love-letters all day. Delightful, quite

  delightful! Don't look as if you were ashamed of it, my boy! I like

  it. I think it's charming."

  Undoubtedly, this was the opening. Beyond a question, his lordship

  should have said at this point:

  "Uncle, I cannot tell a lie. I cannot even allow myself to see you

  laboring under a delusion which a word from me can remove. The

  contents of this note are not what you suppose. They run as follows-

  -"

  What he did say was:

  "Uncle, can you let me have twenty pounds?"

  Those were his amazing words. They slipped out. He could not stop

  them.

  Sir Thomas was taken aback for an instant, but not seriously. He

  started, as might a man who, stroking a cat, receives a sudden, but

  trifling scratch.
/>
  "Twenty pounds, eh?" he said, reflectively.

  Then, the milk of human kindness swept over displeasure like a tidal

  wave. This was a night for rich gifts to the deserving.

  "Why, certainly, my boy, certainly. Do you want it at once?"

  His lordship replied that he did, please; and he had seldom said

  anything more fervently.

  "Well, well. We'll see what we can do. Come with me."

  He led the way to his dressing-room. Like nearly all the rooms at

  the castle, it was large. One wall was completely hidden by the

  curtain behind which Spike had taken refuge that afternoon.

  Sir Thomas went to the dressing-table, and unlocked a small drawer.

  "Twenty, you said? Five, ten, fifteen--here you are, my boy."

  Lord Dreever muttered his thanks. Sir Thomas accepted the guttural

  acknowledgment with a friendly pat on the shoulder.

  "I like a little touch like that," he said.

  His lordship looked startled.

  "I wouldn't have touched you," he began, "if it hadn't been--"

  "A little touch like that letter-writing," Sir Thomas went on. "It

  shows a warm heart. She is a warm-hearted girl, Spennie. A charming,

  warm-hearted girl! You're uncommonly lucky, my boy."

  His lordship, crackling the four bank-notes, silently agreed with

  him.

  "But, come, I must be dressing. Dear me, it is very late. We shall

  have to hurry. By the way, my boy, I shall take the opportunity of

  making a public announcement of the engagement tonight. It will be a

  capital occasion for it. I think, perhaps, at the conclusion of the

  theatricals, a little speech--something quite impromptu and

  informal, just asking them to wish you happiness, and so on. I like

  the idea. There is an old-world air about it that appeals to me.

  Yes."

  He turned to the dressing-table, and removed his collar.

  "Well, run along, my boy," he said. "You must not be late." His

  lordship tottered from the room.

  He did quite an unprecedented amount of thinking as he hurried into

  his evening clothes; but the thought occurring most frequently was

  that, whatever happened, all was well in one way, at any rate. He

  had the twenty pounds. There would be something colossal in the

  shape of disturbances when his uncle learned the truth. It would be

  the biggest thing since the San Francisco earthquake. But what of

  it? He had the money.

  He slipped it into his waistcoat-pocket. He would take it down with