Creighton began pulling at his waxed moustache. “Since Breen’s been so damn careless, I can at least be frank. You’re here by The Mogul’s invitation. The Mogul, part of whose business it is to know everything the police would like to know, has learned of the courage and quick-wittedness you displayed at the dance hall and in connection with the Bradshaw business. He suggested that you be brought into our circle. His identity and whereabouts must remain a secret to you until you have graduated from the actors’ class to the ranks of those who can also direct. For the present you will be under orders to me. That’s all I can say.”
“I like it here,” said Rita, “I think I’ll stay.”
That night, in her comfortable bedroom in Creighton’s home, Rita vowed again her terrible vow against The Mogul. She was now in one of the inner circles of his scheme of operations; she felt that circumstances would inevitably bring her to the circle’s centre and face to face with the man who had taken her brother’s life.
A kindly Fate helped her to win her way quickly into the complete confidence of her associates in crime. As Rita suspected, the Creightons first used her as a bait to lure philanderers to their ruin. The first victim offered by Fate was so detestable a specimen that Rita actually enjoyed the part she played in the slaughter.
Rinault was his name; he was the florid, flabby, fat type, with a wrinkled, greasy stout neck. We will gloss over the details of his brief courtship. Rinault was not original; he mingled braggadocio with flattery and indulged in all the inanities of his breed. He made two mistakes; he wrote letters to Rita and, in a careless moment some years back, he had married.
That made it easy for Creighton. After Rita had ten letters, she was excused from bothering further with Rinault. Creighton handled the dangerous work — the negotiations for the purchase of the missives. The deal netted four thousand dollars.
After that first success, Rita became a member in good standing in bad society. No secrets were withheld from her; she was of the initiate. She got to know the members of the organization and the nature of their work. The ramifications of the organization astounded her; there was no type of crime in which The Mogul did not dabble.
He was a systematic gentleman. His followers were divided into cliques, each of which specialized in one particular type of crime. Each clique was bossed by one of The Mogul’s personal representatives — Henry Wortz was head of the counterfeiters, Tony Iglano was generalissimo of a strong-arm squad, Frank Yost directed the dips, George Geiger, an ex-jeweler, acted as fence, Rudie Breen was the safe expert, and Harry Harker managed the crew that trafficked in drugs. Add the Creightons, experts in the gentle art of blackmail, and your list of The Mogul’s lieutenants is complete.
Naturally Rita was often in a position where she could have betrayed one or more of her delightful companions to the authorities, but she sat tight till all possible doubt of her trustworthiness was removed. Then finally there was presented to her the chance to lop off — without risking self-betrayal — a most important branch of The Mogul’s organization. And once this feat was accomplished, the incidents of her career led swiftly to a startling and dramatic denouement.
IX
It was the solicitude of Sergeant Alan Nevins — one time fiance, more recently “stranger” to Rita — that made her first triumph possible. Rita had put him on his honor to attempt no interference with her plans; but a little thing like honor is of no moment to a gentleman who happens to be in love and who thinks his fair lady is in danger.
So the dishonorable Mr. Nevins tried to track his wandering girl to her lair, in which fell purpose he had no luck at all till he heard, through police channels, that a Miss Rita Daly had been questioned in connection with the disappearance of one J. Stanley Bradshaw. Nevins had her watched by a friend on the department, and it was his lover-luck that said friend was busy spying on the day Rudie Breen took Rita to the Creighton home.
The Creightons, it may be said, had no standing at headquarters; they had never been finger-printed or mugged, no one on the cops knew anything about them. Proving again that a fellow can be a good crook without help from the police.
But Nevins decided, in view of Rita’s avowed and terrible intentions, that the Creightons must be phoney in some respect or otherwise Rita wouldn’t be living with them. To shadow the Creighton home was next to impossible; however Nevins did pass through their block in a taxi every evening at about seven-thirty.
After two weeks, his persistence was repaid. The Creightons, with Rita, came out of their home, got into their car and headed downtown. Nevins, in the taxi, followed.
The two cars crossed the Queensborough Bridge and drove into the pretty Long Island suburb of Kew Gardens. Creighton’s car finally stopped before a beautiful, many-gabled house on Willow Avenue. A few minutes later, Nevins’ taxi sped past.
Some fifteen minutes later, Mr. Franklin, of 117 Willow Avenue, received a phone call from his friend, Captain Webb, of the Kew Gardens Police Station. Captain Webb wanted to know whether Mr. Franklin objected to having a pleasant young man sit on his porch or in his library for about an hour or so that night. Mr. Franklin said:
“Sure, let Mr. Nevins come. No; I don’t know much about Geiger. I think he’s in the jewelry business. But I don’t like him — he’s too noisy.”
So it came about that Rita Daly, sitting at an open window in the parlor of Geiger’s home at 120 Willow Avenue, was startled to see a good-looking young man whom she recognized at once, walk into the gateway of the Franklin house across the street. There was a light in the Geiger parlor, so that Rita, framed by the window, was clearly visible. The young man paused momentarily under the arc-lamp before the Franklin house; he looked up at Rita and instinctively began to tip his hat. While in this process, he undoubtedly recalled that he was a “stranger” to her; therefore, after his hat was raised, he scratched the top of his head and then walked on into the house.
A few minutes later, a light was turned on in the library of the Franklin home. The library was on the first floor front. Although the shade was drawn, there was a shadow upon it; a man sat near the window. His pompadour betrayed his identity.
Our heroine frowned. So... that’s the kind of a gentleman Mr. Nevins was, eh? That was his idea of honor — to swear by all the alphabet not to butt into her business and then to chase her all the way to Kew Gardens and shadow her from a house across the street.
It was while Rita was trying to decide whether to cut Mr. Nevins dead for ever and aye, or to waylay him and give him an earful, that she heard Harry Creighton asking, “How much to you expect to get for the stuff, George?”
“Thirty-five thousand, anyway,” replied Geiger.
“They are worth at least sixty,” protested Judith Creighton.
“The shape of the diamond in the lavaliere is too unique — it’ll be recognized at once, unless it’s recut,” explained Geiger. “And recutting is an expensive operation and reduces the value of the stone to us.”
“When is Ashley coming?” asked Creighton.
“Ten-thirty.”
“Sorry we can’t stay,” from Creighton. “But we’ll have to leave at ten to make Bronxville at eleven. Miss Jahn is a meticulous ass and insists that her guests be on time. I might worm more out of Ashley.”
“Some day when I’m rich,” said Rita, "I'm going to become one of Geiger’s customers.”