“His name,” I told Gregory Ford, with great assurance, “was Farron Bronson.”
And Gregory Ford was startled.
“Bronson!” He sort of straightened, and the ragged end of the cigar clapped against his huge nose, which explained, perhaps, why he kept it unlighted. “Bronson, eh? I don’t like to think it but it may be so.
“Three years ago — yes. He was the greatest jewel thief in Europe; but, you see, no one knew Aronson more than as a name except one man, an old-timer called Colonel Stallings.
“Stallings built up an organization of high-class crooks for Bronson. They caught Stallings, but he wouldn’t talk and he died in prison not long ago.
“They say Bronson tried one more robbery without Stallings that went blooey. He left his own fingerprints on a safe and committed his first murder — a girl. He went to pieces. Last heard of him was in the slums of Paris, broken, down and out. It don’t seem reasonable that he could come back. Perhaps he has. Anyway, I have his fingerprints with me now.” And Gregory tapped his breast pocket.
“But, to get back to the Mayfair — the messenger with the diamond left the bank, guarded by two picked men from Scotland Yard. Right in front of Hudson’s Jewelry Shop, he was stopped by two men. He was shot to death without warning and one of the two men grabbed the bag. In the exchange of shots that followed, a Scotland Yard man was killed, as was one of the holdup men. The other one, who grabbed the bag, was wounded so badly that he had to be helped to the scaffold when he was hanged — and there you are.”
“But if the men were caught, what became of the Mayfair diamond?”
“There was a third man, who lay hidden outside that jewelry store — by the next building — beneath an iron grating in the sidewalk; an iron grating which was opened far enough for a man to receive the bag containing the diamond, and leave with it by the cellar below. The position of the rusty grating after the shooting; the broken lock on the rear door of the cellar in that adjoining building, are all we — or rather, the English police, have. But, at that, it was not much of a price to pay for such a prize. Two dead men, who won’t have to share in the profits, and a famous diamond worth, as it stands in the open market, at least four hundred thousand dollars.”
“Why tell me all this?”
“It’s history. You can read it in any of the papers of a few months back. You’re a detective — or people think you are — which serves the same purpose, though others may simply call you a gunman. You’re in Baltimore under an assumed name. I’m in Baltimore under my own. And Rita Haskins, a known diamond smuggler, is in Baltimore — was, or is, in this hotel — and not so long ago was in this room with you.”
“And if she was, where does she fit in? The robbery took place in London. Rita, as you say, may be a jewel thief — but there are hundreds of other jewel thieves in America, you know.”
“Sure,” he admitted. “Thousands, I daresay. But only one who stood on the end of the gangplank when the Mauretania sailed for America, within ten hours after the robbery.”
“And she was searched when the ship docked in New York.”
“No, she wasn’t. Because, you see, she did not sail. Now, that’s expensive — and don’t often happen, you know. Yet it happened twice on the sailing of the Mauretania that day six months ago. One other passenger who booked his passage did not sail. Maybe that had something to do with Rita changing her mind also.”
“And you found out the name of the other passenger who did not sail?”
“Certainly,” said Gregory Ford. “He was the secretary to Charlie Remington. He was, I am fairly certain, the man who lay hidden beneath that grating and escaped through the cellar door with the broken lock. He was the man who decided to take it all for himself. Four hundred thousand dollars. Not bad work for an amateur.”
“So you think Rita is in on this?” I asked.
Gregory Ford stroked one of his chins and tried to look clever. “And Rita is ready to make a deal with me. It’s a question of price.”
“And you tell me all this!”
“Sure. If Rita came to see you, she came for the same reason she came to see me. Just a question of the highest bidder. We might knock down on the price, Race. We might even work together. It ain’t a one-man job. It takes brains as well as a gun.”
“How about Charlie Remington pulling this deal himself?”
“He was home at the time, but he disappeared from London that night when the Scotland Yard men went to question him. He didn’t have a hand in it. Once the proposed sale and the robbery became known he was ruined. Big shots in the city were on his notes for close to one million dollars. He got hold of fifty thousand dollars cash and disappeared. They haven’t heard of him since.”
Gregory stretched himself to his full height, yawned and grinned.
“How did the diamond get into America?” I asked. “Every well-known crook must have been watched.”
“It is at a point like that where a real detective shows his stuff. Here’s the way I dope it. This secretary who got the diamond through the grating, who double-crossed Bronson, Rita Haskins, or whoever was in on the deal, must have worked for Remington under an assumed name. When he got the diamond, he simply resumed his real name and sailed home under his own passport.
“Now, Rita Haskins knew this man’s real name and she wants $25,000 to spill it to me. I don’t know if it’s worth it — if I could trust her. But, mark my words, Remington’s secretary had that Mayfair diamond and Bronson was after it and after him.”
“And what was this secretary’s name?”
“Oh, hell — everybody knows that. He called himself Carl Fisher. What’s the matter, Race?”
9
Maybe there was something the matter. Maybe I did suspect it all along — maybe I didn’t. My client, Hulbert Clovelly alias Carl Fisher, was the present holder of the Mayfair diamond. He was wanted in England, for a bit of a necktie party, for the murder of the Scotland Yard man. He might even have shot him down from the grating. My client was— Oh, hell! that was what got me. Any way you looked at it, the girl I had saved was involved. But Gregory was talking.
“Well — I’ve unloaded a chestful to you. Now it’s your turn. Who’re you working for in this — the man who wanted to buy the rock? He’d do anything to get it.”
“No. I’m working alone, I think.”
“You think!” Gregory Ford sneered. “And a twenty-five thousand dollar reward offered by the insurance company for the return of the Mayfair diamond. You think!”
“It’s not a bad bit of change.” I pretended indifference, but I certainly was interested.
“You’re hot stuff in a back alley — with spitting lead, Race. A fool for courage and a remarkable aptitude for placing bullets between lads’ eyes. But you’re over your head now, Race. Rita Haskins will make a monkey out of you. This takes brains. You better come in with me. I’ll take care of you on the reward, and I’ll pay you well. You know more than you’ve told me. But don’t forget I know more than I’ve told you too. Here’s your chance for sure money. I want Carl Fisher.”
“I’d let you know later.” I yawned, and my eyes blinked. “I’m dead tired now.”
And, strange as it may seem, Gregory got the idea and left.
The next morning I checked out fairly early. I didn’t want to see Gregory Ford. Gregory would have an interest in me. Rita would have an interest in me. And as I thought that out I went down the steps — and saw Gregory Ford.
He was standing a bit down the street from the hotel and his back was to me. But I knew him. And I was sure of him because of the girl he held by either arm, shaking her — apparently pleasantly to the casual passerby — but, somehow, I thought differently.