He recovered himself first.
“Now Jenkins, you think this over. My chauffeur will drive you back and then you can read over that statement. Take tomorrow and think it over, and come tomorrow night at nine and give me your answer, your final answer. If you’re not here at nine sharp I’ll know that you have turned me down and that’ll be final. Understand, that’ll be final.”
I nodded curtly, said goodnight and left.
He’d overlooked one thing and that was that if I wasn’t going to throw in with him in his scheme he’d left a signed statement in my hands that would enable me to substantiate my story if I should tell all that had transpired. I knew he wasn’t that foolish. There were two answers to that. One of them was that he intended to have me murdered before I could use the statement, the other was… Oh well, there was no use crossing my bridges before I came to them. Because of the trap of the three diamonds I felt that it wasn’t murder that he had in mind. I’d look into the other when I had the time.
The chauffeur deposited me at the corner next to my apartment, but didn’t drive up to the door. I grinned at that. At the start Herman had been so afraid of having any contact with me that he’d used a clever, high-up crook to do a simple little thing like delivering a message to me. Something had brought about a change in him. He even sent his chauffeur for me. I wondered if it was the planting of those three diamonds.
I let myself in, accepted the eager caresses of Bobo, put on my slippers and stretched out on the couch. Leisurely I unfolded the statement he had given me. It was loaded with dynamite all right.
“TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: I HAVE EMPLOYED ED JENKINS KNOWN FROM COAST TO COAST AS THE PHANTOM CROOK, TO GO TO THE RESIDENCE OF LORING KEMPER, ENTER THE SAFE, AND THEN FOLLOW CERTAIN INSTRUCTIONS I HAVE GIVEN HIM. (Signed) DON G. HERMAN.”
It was written in a strong, bold handwriting in purple ink, and the signature wound up with a flourish. It had been handed to me by Don G. Herman himself, and — I smiled, got up, slipped into my pajamas, took a novel, and read myself to sleep.
Shortly after ten the next morning I appeared at the office of the City and County Clerk, and asked for the records of the great register. I wanted to look up the registration card of a party who lived in a certain block in a certain precinct.
After a little delay I got what I wanted. When they left me alone I ran though the cards until I came to that of Don G. Herman. He gave his age as forty-eight, his party affiliation as Republican, and he signed his name, a flowing signature with a flourish at the end.
I took the statement from my pocket and compared the signature and handwriting. I was right. The handwriting on that statement wasn’t that of Don G. Herman. It didn’t even look anything like Herman’s handwriting.
Oh, well, that was just what I expected. It had to either be that way or that he intended to have me murdered before I could ever use that statement. Of course, he figured that I’d fall for the thing being in his handwriting because he gave it to me himself. That’s almost the same as seeing a man write a thing.
I figured I knew about all there was to know to the plot right there, but I was wondering whether I’d better go hand that bird a jolt or pretend to fall into his trap and then find some way of either stealing the bait or of letting Herman get his fingers caught when the trap was sprung.
I went back to the apartment to think things over a bit while I browsed through the morning paper. It was little things like this that showed me I was getting tired of chasing around the country with the hand of every man against me, having to be constantly on my guard. There was a time when I wouldn’t have cared, when I would have gone and sat on a bench in the park all by myself and made up my mind in ten minutes. Now I wanted to have a little apartment where I could call myself at home, have a dog at my feet, a newspaper and leisure to think things out carefully.
It was a sure sign I was commencing to slow down in one way, but I made up for it by doing more accurate thinking. I could look back over a lot of hotheaded mistakes I’d made in the last few years, mistakes that the Ed Jenkins of today would never repeat. I could remember a lot of situations I’d had a hard time working my way out of that would have been easy pickings now.
I was disturbed in my meditations by a gentle knock on the door. Bobo stiffened, took a long sniff, looked up at me inquiringly, but didn’t show his teeth.
I hurried over and opened the door.
There was a girl standing there in the hallway, a little flapper with one of the low, narrow-brimmed hats that sets down on the forehead with just a few curls or bangs peeping out at the sides, and her eyes were playing hide-and-go-seek with me all around the brim of that hat.
I bowed.
“Come, in, madame. What can I do for you?”
It was Helen Chadwick, but it wouldn’t do for me to let her think I recognized her.
She walked right in, and, while I was turning to close the door, stepped over to Bobo and thrust out her dainty hand so the tips of her fingers were right in front of his nose.
She’d done it before I could do anything more than gasp, then, while I was getting my breath to warn her away, she gave a little ripple of her shoulder and her hand dropped on the top of the dog’s head. If there was ever a one-man dog in the world it was this same Bobo, and I held my breath waiting for the fireworks, and wondering if I had bandages and iodine handy.
I got fooled. Bobo stiffened for a minute, then slowly relaxed and looked inquiringly up at me, standing perfectly still under the girl’s hand. She knew dogs, that girl.
She saw the expression on my face.
“Oh, don’t be worried, Mr. Jenkins. I’m all right. You can make friends with almost any dog if you let him smell the tips of your fingers before you try to pet him. Dogs go by scent, and they don’t like to have strangers thrust on them any more than people do. After they become convinced you’re a friend it’s different, and a dog can tell almost what you’re thinking about by smelling your hand, can’t you, doggie?”
In indicated a chair.
“What’s his name?”
“Bobo.”
She laughed, a low, rippling laugh.
“That’s a nice name. You’re a good dog, Bobo.”
With that she gave him one final pat on his head, and blamed if he didn’t wag his tail a bit. She took the chair and Bobo came over and sat by me, looking at the girl.
She heaved a sigh, settled back, crossed her legs and gave me a peep of a fancy garter, ducked her head so her hat brim was just cuting the tops of her eyes, hesitated a bit, then: “I’m Helen Chadwick.”
I arose and bowed.
“You seem to already have my name, Miss Chadwick. I am Ed Jenkins, at your service, and pleased to meet you. What can I do for you?”
She watched me for a minute, then smiled.
“You can marry me this afternoon,” she said, “that is, if you really want to do something for me.”
Damn these flappers, anyway. For once in my life I’d had one slipped over the plate and a strike called before I even had the bat in my hand. I’d expected a lot of tears, maybe a few hysterics, a lot of protestations that she could never, never yield to Herman’s demands and would I please advise her what to do, and couldn’t I prevail upon Mr. Herman to do different, and all of the rest of the old line of chatter, and here the kid sits down, and I say formally “what can I do for you,” expecting that this will be the opening gun in the campaign that’ll wind up by having her throwing hysterics all over the apartment and talking about the power of love, the sanctity of the marriage vows, the blackmailing Herman, and all the rest of it, and she comes back with a casual statement that I can marry her that afternoon.