A light tap at the door and his sergeant came in, a smooth-moving little man, with eyes sometimes light blue and innocent, sometimes dark blue and sharp. The Chief knew no one else would enter then, so he did not look up.
The sergeant showed a card, “Mr. Wayland Morrison Ball,” but the Chief wouldn’t read.
“Who is it, Mac? What does he want?”
“It’s a squeal, Chief, about a gold watch.”
“Well, why don’t it go to the detective bureau?”
“Just read the name, Banker Ball.”
The Chief rose to his feet, hastily pulled on his boots, put on his collar, cuffs, and snapped on his cravat, while the sergeant held the coat. When the Chief had wound down into that, he went to a glass, buttoned up the uniform, touched his hair and went to his roll-top desk. When he was seated, he leaned his head on his hand, put on a dreamy, far-away look, and the sergeant nodded.
“All right, then, send him in,” said the Chief.
And so Mr. Ball found him, pondering and absorbed. The sergeant retired.
“Chief Reilly?”
No answer.
“Mr. Reilly, I believe.”
The Chief nodded and waved the gentleman to a chair. A minute more of brown study, and the Chief pushed a button three times.
A detective came in and stood beside the desk at attention, till the Chief came out of his pre-occupation.
“Where are the men who are working on that jewel robbery now?”
“They are shadowing the thief along the water-front.”
“At this moment?”
“At this moment.”
“Well, you warn them that the thief will take the Pennsylvania ferry and buy tickets in Jersey City for Washington. Arrest him on this side.”
The man saluted and went out.
The Chief seemed satisfied that that case was disposed of. He rose, thought a moment more, and nodded approval. His hand was playing with the banker’s card; his eye happened to catch it, read it, then turned slowly up under his heavy brows at the banker who had got up on his feet with the Chief.
“Mr. Ball?”
“Wayland Morrison Ball.”
“Banker?”
“Eleventh National Bank.”
“Right,” the Chief said, slowly nodding his head. “Eleventh National Bank.” He went to the window, his back to the banker, then he came about, leaned against his desk.
“Did you ever get back,” he said, indifferently, “the bonds — three, I think, yes, three C. B. & Q.’s — stolen two years ago?”
“No.”
“Might just as well. They were negotiated in Chicago a week before you missed them, got into circulation, and were soon in reputable hands.”
The banker was amazed. That case had never been reported to the police. A detective agency was called in, and though its men worked hard, they never got the slightest clew to the thief or the property till the railroad company’s transfer clerk caught the bonds at dividend time.
“The boy made a fool mistake, didn’t he, taking bonds?” asked the Chief, still rather absently. “Never stole again, I suppose?”
“Why, we never knew who took them,” the banker said. “Do you mean to say the thief was an employee? Is an employee?”
“He will never do it again, I think,” the Chief said. “I should dismiss all thought of it. Take that chair.”
The Chief sat down at his desk, leaned his head in his hand, but this time he set his eyes keenly on the banker’s face, all alert and attention.
“Now,” he said, “what is the trouble today?”
The banker had gathered himself and was taking the chair indicated. It was near the desk and the light fell on the banker’s face; the chief’s was in the shadow.
“Robbed?”
“Yes, of a gold watch, given me by my father, and as a present from him I treasure it beyond its true value. But—”
The Chief lifted his hand deprecatingly.
“Where were you and how did it happen?”
“I was crossing the bridge, and—”
“One moment, Mr. Ball. Which way were you going?”
“From Brooklyn here. I hardly ever go to Brooklyn.”
“What time did you reach the bridge?”
“Eleven-fifty-five. I know that because I looked at my watch as I took the bridge car. That’s how I know I lost it on the bridge. You see—”
“When did you miss the watch?”
“As I stepped off the car on this side.”
“The car was crowded, ladies and gentlemen and some workmen. The watch was taken from the chain and the clasp and the chain was put back in place. This was last night?”
The banker was nodding affirmatively to each statement, and his eyes flattered the Chief as he loved to be flattered, by astonishment and wonder shown as a child shows these emotions.
“Your name was on the case inside, and your father’s?”
“Yes. ‘John Henry Ball to his son, Wayland Morrison Ball. Dec. 3, 1879.’ It is a heavy hunting case Geneva watch—”
The Chief got up and walked to the window.
“Everybody in the car — except the working people — was talking—”
“Talking and laughing in the several groups—”
Chief Reilly turned back, thinking again.
“Can you be in your office to-morrow at 12:30 o’clock?” he asked at length.
“Yes.”
“The watch will be delivered to you then.”
The banker knew how to behave in most of the crises of life, but he was uncomfortable now. He would have liked to ask some questions, to express some thanks, to praise the official a little frankly; but the Chief seemed to be absorbed already in something else, so Mr. Ball stepped back, bowing.
“I shall be obliged, Chief Reilly, for this service, I assure you. Good-day.”
The Chief dropped his head as if mechanically bowing, and the banker reached the door. It opened before him, and he went out to his carriage, which bore him swiftly away to his office.
“Mac,” said the Chief, when the sergeant returned to him, “who’s working the bridge now?”
“I don’t know, unless it’s the Keg Kelly mob; but no, you told them to haul off, didn’t you?”
“Yes, and after that I warned the Hen and Chickens off.”
“Maybe they’ve gone back.”
“Send Thompson in.”
Thompson came, hurrying up from court. He was a fat, but clean man of forty, and he looked more like a thief than an actor, for his face, though square and smooth shaven, was red and irregular, with small, damp pink eyes. His “plain clothes” were a bit “tough” in style.
The Chief eyed the detective up and down, slowly, angrily.
“Some of your friends on the bridge have been robbing a friend of mine, Banker Ball. A fine, big gold watch, with the man’s name on it.”
Thompson moved uneasily from one foot to the other, he rolled his hat around his hand — and he hung his head. He glanced up shiftily twice, as if he thought of an answer, but he made none.
“I want it,” said the Chief. “I want you and the watch here at ten o’clock to-morrow morning.”
The detective went out. The Chief pulled off his boots, coat and collar and lay down on the lounge.
When Thompson left the Chief’s office, he went down in the basement where half a dozen detectives were lounging about. He spoke to them, asking first the same question the Chief put to the sergeant, “Who is working the bridge?” All offered suggestions, and Thompson discussed them with his friends. Then he walked down to the Criminal Court building, where his “side-partner,” Tarney, was. Tarney was on the witness stand, so Thompson moved about among the lawyers in the court-room. He spoke to each alone, earnestly, inquiring first, then saying something emphatic. They all seemed to answer in about the same way, each shook his head, lifted his hands helplessly and then nodded. When Tarney was told to “step down,” Thompson drew him out into the corridor, and they held a long consultation leaning up against a pillar. They whispered, speaking eagerly, then silent, then enthusiastically again, till they separated.