The Chase of the Golden Plate (2 page)

CHAPTER III

Stuyvesant Randolph, millionaire, owner of Seven Oaks and host of the masked ball, was able to tell the police only what happened, and not the manner of its happening. Briefly, this was that a thief, cunningly disguised as a Burglar with dark lantern and revolver in hand, had surreptitiously attended the masked ball by entering at the front door and presenting an invitation card. And when Mr. Randolph got this far in his story even
he
couldn't keep his face straight.

The sum total of everyone's knowledge, therefore, was this:

Soon after the grand march a servant entered the smoking room and found the Burglar there alone, standing beside an open window, looking out. This smoking room connected, by a corridor, with a small dining room where the Randolph gold plate was kept in ostentatious seclusion. As the servant entered the smoking-room the Burglar turned away from the window and went out into the ballroom. He did not carry a bundle; he did not appear to be excited.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later the servant discovered that eleven plates of the gold service, valued roughly at $15,000, were missing. He informed Mr. Randolph. The information, naturally enough, did not elevate the host's enjoyment of the ball, and he did things hastily.

Meanwhile—that is, between the time when the Burglar left the smoking-room and the time when he passed out the front door—the Burglar had talked earnestly with a masked Girl of the West. It was established that, when she left him in the conservatory, she went out the front door. There she was joined by the Burglar, and then came their sensational flight in the automobile—a forty horsepower car that moved like the wind. The automobile in which the Burglar had gone to Seven Oaks was left behind; thus far it had not been claimed.

The identity of the Burglar and the Girl made the mystery. It was easy to conjecture—that's what the police said—how the Burglar got away with the gold plate. He went into the smoking-room, then into the dining room, dropped the gold plate into a sack and threw the sack out of a window. It was beautifully simple. Just what the Girl had to do with it wasn't very clear; perhaps a score or more articles of jewelry, which had been reported missing by guests, engaged her attention.

It was also easy to see how the Burglar and the Girl had been able to shake off pursuit by the police in two other automobiles. The car they had chosen was admittedly the fastest of the scores there, the night was pitch dark, and, besides, a Burglar like that was liable to do anything. Two shots had been fired at him by the lumpy courtier, who was really Detective Cunningham, but they had only spurred him on.

These things were easy to understand. But the identity of the pair was a different and more difficult proposition, and there remained the task of yanking them out of obscurity. This fell to the lot of Detective Mallory, who represented the Supreme Police Intelligence of the Metropolitan District, happily combining a No. 11 shoe and a No. 6 hat. He was a cautious, suspicious, far-seeing man—as police detectives go. For instance, it was he who explained the method of the theft with a lucidity that was astounding.

Detective Mallory and two or three of his satellites heard Mr. Randolph's story, then the statements of his two men who had attended the ball in costume, and the statements of the servants. After all this Mr. Mallory chewed his cigar and thought violently for several minutes. Mr. Randolph looked on expectantly; he didn't want to miss anything.

“As I understand it, Mr. Randolph,” said the Supreme Police Intelligence at last, “each invitation-card presented at the door by your guests bore the name of the person to whom it was issued?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Randolph.

“Ah!” exclaimed the detective shrewdly. “Then we have a clue.”

“Where are those cards, Curtis?” asked Mr. Randolph of the servant who had received them at the door.

“I didn't know they were of further value, sir, and they were thrown away—into the furnace.”

Mr. Mallory was crestfallen.

“Did you notice if the card presented at the door by the Burglar on the evening of the masked ball at Seven Oaks bore a name?” he asked. He liked to be explicit like that.

“Yes, sir. I noticed it particularly because the gentleman was dressed so queerly.”

“Do you remember the name?”

“No, sir.”

“Would you remember it if you saw it or heard it again?”

The servant looked at Mr. Randolph helplessly.

“I don't think I would, sir,” he answered.

“And the Girl? Did you notice the card she gave you?”

“I don't remember her at all, sir. Many of the ladies wore wraps when they came in, and her costume would not have been noticeable if she had on a wrap.”

The Supreme Intelligence was thoughtful for another few minutes. At last he turned to Mr. Randolph again.

“You are certain there was only
one
man at that ball dressed as a Burglar?” he asked.

“Yes, thank Heaven,” replied Mr. Randolph fervently. “If there'd been another one they might have taken the piano.”

The Supreme Intelligence frowned.

“And this girl was dressed like a Western girl?” he asked.

“Yes. A sort of Spirit-of-the-West costume.”

“And no other woman there wore such a dress?”

“No,” responded Mr. Randolph.

“No,” echoed the two detectives.

“Now, Mr. Randolph, how many invitations were issued for the ball?”

“Three or four hundred. It's a big house,” Mr. Randolph apologised, “and we tried to do the thing properly.”

“How many persons do you suppose actually attended the ball?”

“Oh, I don't know. Three hundred, perhaps.”

Detective Mallory thought again.

“It's unquestionably the work of two bold and clever professional crooks,” he said at last judicially, and his satellites hung on his words eagerly. “It has every ear-mark of it. They perhaps planned the thing weeks before, and forged invitation-cards, or perhaps stole them—perhaps stole them.”

He turned suddenly and pointed an accusing finger at the servant, Curtis.

“Did you notice the handwriting on the card the Burglar gave you?” he demanded.

“No, sir. Not particularly.”

“I mean, do you recall if it was different in any way from the handwriting on the other cards?” insisted the Supreme Intelligence.

“I don't think it was, sir.”

“If it had been would you have noticed it?”

“I might have, sir.”

“Were the names written on all the invitation-cards by the same hand, Mr. Randolph?”

“Yes: my wife's secretary.”

Detective Mallory arose and paced back and forth across the room with wrinkles in his brow.

“Ah!” he said at last, “then we know the cards were not forged, but stolen from someone to whom they had been sent. We know this much, therefore—” he paused a moment.

“Therefore all that must be done,” Mr. Randolph finished the sentence, “is to find from whom the card or cards were stolen, who presented them at my door, and who got away with the plate.”

The Supreme Intelligence glared at him aggressively. Mr. Randolph's face was perfectly serious. It was his gold plate, you know.

“Yes, that's it,” Detective Mallory assented. “Now we'll get after this thing right. Downey, you get that automobile the Burglar left at Seven Oaks and find its owner; also find the car the Burglar and the Girl escaped in. Cunningham, you go to Seven Oaks and look over the premises. See particularly if the Girl left a wrap—she didn't wear one away from there—and follow that up. Blanton, you take a list of invited guests that Mr. Randolph will give you, check off those persons who are known to have been at the ball, and find out all about those who were not, and—follow that up.”

“That'll take weeks!” complained Blanton.

The Supreme Intelligence turned on him fiercely.

“Well?” he demanded. He continued to stare for a moment, and Blanton wrinkled up in the baleful glow of his superior's scorn. “And,” Detective Mallory added magnanimously, “I will do the rest.”

Thus the campaign was planned against the Burglar and the Girl.

CHAPTER IV

Hutchinson Hatch was a newspaper reporter, a long, lean, hungry looking young man with an insatiable appetite for facts. This last was, perhaps, an astonishing trait in a reporter; and Hatch was positively finicky on the point. That's why his City Editor believed in him. If Hatch had come in and told his City Editor that he had seen a blue elephant with pink side-whiskers his City Editor would have
known
that that elephant was blue—mentally, morally, physically, spiritually and everlastingly—not any washed-out green or purple, but blue.

Hatch was remarkable in other ways, too. For instance, he believed in the use of a little human intelligence in his profession. As a matter of fact, on several occasions he had demonstrated that it was really an excellent thing—human intelligence. His mind was well poised, his methods thorough, his style direct.

Along with dozens of others Hatch was at work on the Randolph robbery, and knew what the others knew—no more. He had studied the case so closely that he was beginning to believe, strangely enough, that perhaps the police were right in their theory as to the identity of the Burglar and the Girl—that is, that they were professional crooks. He could do a thing like that sometimes—bring his mind around to admit the possibility of somebody else being right.

It was on Saturday afternoon—two days after the Randolph affair—that Hatch was sitting in Detective Mallory's private office at Police Headquarters laboriously extracting from the Supreme Intelligence the precise things he had not found out about the robbery. The telephone-bell rang. Hatch got one end of the conversation—he couldn't help it. It was something like this:

“Hello! … Yes, Detective Mallory. … Missing? … What's her name? … What? … Oh, Dorothy! … Yes? … Merritt? … Oh, Merryman! … Well, what the deuce is it then? …
SPELL IT!
… M-e-r-e-d-i-t-h. Why didn't you say that at first? … How long has she been gone? … Huh? … Thursday evening? … What does she look like? … Auburn hair. Red, you mean? … Oh, ruddy! I'd like to know what's the difference.”

The detective had drawn up a pad of paper and was jotting down what Hatch imagined to be the description of a missing girl. Then:

“Who is this talking?” asked the detective.

There was a little pause as he got the answer, and, having the answer, he whistled his astonishment, after which he glanced around quickly at the reporter, who was staring dreamily out a window.

“No,” said the Supreme Intelligence over the phone. “It wouldn't be wise to make it public. It isn't necessary at all. I understand. I'll order a search immediately. No. The newspapers will get nothing of it. Good-by.”

“A story?” inquired Hatch carelessly as the detective hung up the receiver.

“Doesn't amount to anything,” was the reply.

“Yes, that's obvious,” remarked the reporter drily.

“Well, whatever it is, it is not going to be made public,” retorted the Supreme Intelligence sharply. He never did like Hatch, anyway. “It's one of those things that don't do any good in the newspapers, so I'll not let this one get there.”

Hatch yawned to show that he had no further interest in the matter, and went out. But there was the germ of an idea in his head, which would have startled Detective Mallory, and he paced up and down outside to develop it. A girl missing! A redheaded girl missing! A redheaded girl missing since Thursday! Thursday was the night of the Randolph masked ball. The missing Girl of the West was redheaded! Mallory had seemed astonished when he learned the name of the person who reported this last case! Therefore the person who reported it was high up—perhaps! Certainly high enough up to ask and receive the courtesy of police suppression—and the missing girl's name was Dorothy Meredith!

Hatch stood still for a long time on the curb and figured it out. Suddenly he rushed off to a telephone and called up Stuyvesant Randolph at Seven Oaks. He asked the first question with trepidation:

“Mr. Randolph, can you give me the address of Miss Dorothy Meredith?”

“Miss Meredith?” came the answer. “Let's see. I think she is stopping with the Morgan Greytons, at their suburban place.”

The reporter gulped down a shout. “Worked, by thunder!” he exclaimed to himself. Then, in a deadly, forced calm:

“She attended the masked ball Thursday evening, didn't she?”

“Well, she was invited.”

“You didn't see her there?”

“No. Who
is
this?”

Then Hatch hung up the receiver. He was nearly choking with excitement, for, in addition to all those virtues, which have been enumerated, he possessed, too, the quality of enthusiasm. It was no part of his purpose to tell anybody anything. Mallory didn't know, he was confident, anything of the girl having been a possible guest at the ball. And what Mallory didn't know now wouldn't be found out, all of which was a sad reflection upon the detective.

In this frame of mind Hatch started for the suburban place of the Greytons. He found the house without difficulty. Morgan Greyton was an aged gentleman of wealth and exclusive ideas—and wasn't in. Hatch handed a card bearing only his name, to a maid, and after a few minutes Mrs. Greyton appeared. She was a motherly, sweet-faced old lady of seventy, with that grave, exquisite courtesy which makes mere man feel ashamed of himself. Hatch had that feeling when he looked at her and thought of what he was going to ask.

“I came up direct from Police Headquarters,” he explained diplomatically, “to learn any details you may be able to give us as to the disappearance of Miss Meredith.”

“Oh, yes,” replied Mrs. Greyton. “My husband said he was going to ask the police to look into the matter. It is most mysterious—most mysterious! We can't imagine where Dollie is, unless she has eloped. Do you know that idea keeps coming to me and won't go away?”

She spoke as if it were a naughty child.

“If you'll tell me something about Miss Meredith—who she is and all that?” Hatch suggested.

“Oh, yes, to be sure,” exclaimed Mrs. Greyton. “Dollie is a distant cousin of my husband's sister's husband,” she explained precisely. “She lives in Baltimore, but is visiting us. She has been here for several weeks. She's a dear, sweet girl, but I'm afraid—afraid she has eloped.”

The aged voice quivered a little, and Hatch was more ashamed of himself than ever.

“Some time ago she met a man named Herbert—Richard Herbert, I think, and—”

“Dick Herbert?” the reporter exclaimed suddenly.

“Do you know the young gentleman?” inquired the old lady eagerly.

“Yes, it just happens that we were classmates in Harvard,” said the reporter.

“And is he a nice young man?”

“A good, clean-cut, straightforward, decent man,” replied Hatch. He could speak with a certain enthusiasm about Dick Herbert. “Go on, please,” he urged.

“Well, for some reason I don't know, Dollie's father objects to Mr. Herbert's attentions to her—as a matter of fact, Mr. Meredith has absolutely prohibited them—but she's a young, headstrong girl, and I fear that, although she had outwardly yielded to her father's wishes, she had clandestinely kept up a correspondence with Mr. Herbert. Last Thursday evening she went out unattended and since then we have not heard from her—not a word. We can only surmise—my husband and I—that they have eloped. I know her father and mother will be heart-broken, but I have always noticed that if a girl sets her heart on a man, she will get him. And perhaps it's just as well that she
has
eloped now since you assure me he is a nice young man.”

Hatch was choking back a question that rose in his throat. He hated to ask it, because he felt this dear, garrulous old woman would have hated him for it, if she could have known its purpose. But at last it came.

“Do you happen to know,” he asked, “if Miss Meredith attended the Randolph ball at Seven Oaks on Thursday evening?”

“I dare say she received an invitation,” was the reply. “She receives many invitations, but I don't think she went there. It was a costume affair, I suppose?”

The reporter nodded.

“Well, I hardly believe she went there then,” Mrs. Greyton replied. “She has had no costume of any sort made. No, I am positive she has eloped with Mr. Herbert, but I should like to hear from her to satisfy myself and explain to her parents. We did not permit Mr. Herbert to come here, and it will be very hard to explain.”

Hatch heard the slight rustle of a skirt in the hall and glanced toward the door. No one appeared, and he turned back to Mrs. Greyton.

“I don't suppose it possible that Miss Meredith has returned to Baltimore?” he asked.

“Oh, no!” was the positive reply. “Her father there telegraphed to her today—I opened it—saying he would be here, probably to-night, and I—I haven't the heart to tell him the truth when he arrives. Somehow, I have been hoping that we would hear and—and—”

Then Hatch took his shame in his hand and excused himself. The maid attended him to the door.

“How much is it worth to you to know if Miss Meredith went to the masked ball?” asked the maid cautiously.

“Eavesdropping, eh?” asked Hatch in disgust.

The maid shrugged her shoulders.

“How much is it worth?” she repeated.

Hatch extended his hand. She took a ten-dollar bill, which lay there and secreted it in some remote recess of her being.

“Miss Meredith did go to the ball,” she said. “She went there to meet Mr. Herbert. They had arranged to elope from there and she had made all her plans. I was in her confidence and assisted her.”

“What did she wear?” asked Hatch eagerly.

“Her costume was that of a Western Girl,” the maid responded. “She wore a sombrero, and carried a Bowie knife and revolver.”

Hatch nearly swallowed his palate.