It was a woman’s voice who answered him. We all turned to see Mrs. Edith Kemper standing there, fully gowned, calm, cool, collected.
“We certainly do not know it,” she said. “Mr. Jenkins has been suspected of crime, has been framed up a number of times, but is absolutely square and honest. He is innocent of all the charges which have been made against him, and he is not wanted for any crime in California. My attorney is on his way out here and will appear for Mr. Jenkins if you care to make any charge. I will go his bond in any amount.”
The officer looked at her, his eyes sticking out of his head until they seemed to catch the reflection of the light from all four sides.
“You… you know who he is, and yet he is here in this house!”
“Why certainly. Mr. Jenkins is a friend of the family, and I admire and respect him greatly. We have constantly been after him to pay us a visit and are proud and honored that he has done so.”
The woman was magnificent as she stood there, a calm smile of amusement flickering about her lips, good humored tolerance for official stupidity in her drawling voice. At her side stood Helen, her arm about the older woman’s waist. Bobo was crouching, tense in the background, listening with anxious ears, ready to fight or run as his master should indicate.
Loring Kemper stifled a yawn.
“Really, gentlemen. It is late, and if you have nothing further…”
The telephone rang, a harsh, imperative ring.
Kemper answered it, then motioned to the officer in charge. That bewildered individual placed the receiver to his ear, listened intently for a moment, then snorted.
“Three buttons in the heel of a shoe!” he exclaimed, “oh go on home. We’re all being framed by someone who is trying to make a goat of the department or else we’re goin’ dippy. Buttons, eh? That’s a hell of a place to keep buttons, but we ain’t had no report of a big button robbery lately. Go on home. Forget it.”
He hung up, turned, looked me over, shook his head dubiously, then motioned to the men. “Come on, boys.”
They turned and trooped out, their heavy footfalls clattering and clumping down the stairs and into the night.
I turned to Mrs. Kemper. She was smiling graciously.
“Oh you children,” she said, and shook her head. “Of course I have a very abnormal memory for faces. I study features. I recognized Mr. Jenkins as soon as I saw him, as the man who had been featured in one of the Sunday Supplements some time ago as the famous Phantom Crook. Nothing would be more natural than that I should watch the safe. You see there is a place back of the bookcase where one can stand and, by moving one of the books, see through the glass door. When Mr. Jenkins was by himself I always managed to be behind that case.
“I saw Mr. Jenkins substitute the imitation gem tonight and was about to make some complaint to the police when I determined to await developments. At least there was no need for alarm until he tried to leave the house. Then I saw another man enter the house and steal the imitation. I commenced to get a glimmering of an idea, and when Mr. Jenkins returned and replaced the original I felt that he was a gentleman who appreciated the obligations of a guest.
“Shortly afterward the police telephoned that they had a tip there was something wrong in the house and were coming out. I welcomed the suggestion. I thought perhaps they had captured the man who stole the imitation.”
Kemper, himself, smiled.
“You know, Jenkins, for a man who was supposed to know nothing of a dog’s psychology, you talked quite fluently on the subject while holding my attention between eleven and twelve.”
The girl watched them narrowly, looking from one to the other, apparently in a daze. I bowed and smiled.
“In that case I need not detain you any longer. Explanations are cumbersome and embarrassing. I think, though, I’d leave that gem in the private safe of your jeweler for the next few weeks. I am familiar with that safe. It is a good one.”
Kemper grinned. “High recommendation,” he said briefly.
“As for you, Helen. Please trust me to this extent. Go tomorrow with the administrator of your father’s estate, the best handwriting expert in the city, your lawyer and a notary public, also have a special representative from the district attorney’s office. Go to Don G. Herman, ask him if he has any claim against your father’s estate. If he has, demand that he produce the evidence thereof and swear to the claim then and there. Have the handwriting expert make an examination of those notes.”
She watched me, white, wide-eyed.
“Ed, how in the world did you ever know of those notes? It can’t be done, Ed. They are genuine. I know I found a confidential letter from my father. It was worrying over them that hastened his death.” I frowned at her.
“Helen, please promise me that you will do as I say.”
Mrs. Kemper studied my face.
“She will do just as you have suggested, Ed,” she said, and there was something of respect, almost of awe in her voice. Again I bowed.
“Under those circumstances I’ll be going. I am glad to have been of some slight service, and, the same time, to have protected myself against the machinations of a couple of crooks.”
Kemper extended his hand.
“You know, Jenkins, you’ve done a lot for me. I’m not good at words. Can there by any question of compensation, a check for a few thousand?”
I had no need to answer the question. His wife flashed him one look, and answered for me.
“You forget, Loring, that Mr. Jenkins is a gentleman, a gentleman who has been our guest. I can only suggest this, Mr. Jenkins… oh, I’m going to call you Ed, and be done with it… if you ever are hard pressed for a hotel, or if you can ever spare us the time, we shall be only too glad to have you run out here any time and stay as long as you can. I feel quite sure you will be safe from any petty annoyances here.”
Damn it, she meant it! I smiled at the thought, and I’ve chuckled over it since, Ed Jenkins, wanted by the police, dodging justice, and actually being the house guest of Mr. and Mrs. Loring Kemper, the most select of the ultra select of San Francisco society.
“We really want you, Ed,” she said.
I grinned as I started for the stairs.
“You haven’t said good bye to your sweetheart, Ed,” came the flapper tones of Helen Chadwick, and the next minute she was in my arms, a bundle of flying little femininity.
“Please don’t go. Stay with us here for a few days.” The words came in a whisper. I gently unlocked her arms.
“Folks, I appreciate your hospitality, but, after all I am a crook, and known as such. I’d suggest you fire your secretary, and now, good-night.”
I walked down the stairs, keeping my head well to the front. From behind me came a quick sob. Bobo stayed behind for a minute, whining, trying to attract my attention, but I walked on out into the night. A good kid has no business getting mixed up with a crook. After a minute the dog came on the run. From behind me came Mrs. Kemper’s voice.
“Ed, I want you to visit us again—”
I closed the door and noticed the first streaks of dawn coming in the east. I’d send over for my baggage. Right then I wanted to get away. Being a free-lance crook has its advantages, but my chest felt a trifle heavy as I swung in behind the steering wheel.
I laid low until the evening papers came out, then I read the headlines—.
“PROMINENT POLITICIAN ARRESTED FOR FORGERY AND PERJURY… NOTES DECLARED PALPABLE FORGERIES BY HANDWRITING EXPERTS… SOCIETY LEADER SIGNS COMPLAINT… LORING KEMPER SWEARS TO WARRANT FOR ARREST OF DON G. HERMAN AND PROMISES TO ASSIST PROSECUTION IN EVERY WAY… PROMINENT FAMILY BLACKMAILED BY FORGERIES.”
I read the article that followed with some considerable satisfaction, then I sent Don G. Herman a wire care of the county jail. It was brief and to the point, and it was sent collect.