Chapter IV — At the Burnham House
The Burnham House was one of Baltimore's older hostelries. It still preserved the atmosphere of earlier times when it had reigned among the elite.
Now, although its clientele was largely commercial, it continued to be the Baltimore home of travelers who remembered times of yore.
The famous old decorations still adorned the walls. The commodious lounging rooms were quiet spots frequented by guests who enjoyed the hospitality of the time-honored hotel.
Most of the persons in the gilded lobby were commercial travelers. In fact, they so predominated, that it was not difficult for a shrewd observer to pick out all who did not belong to that class.
Such an observer was watching now, from the vantage point of a tall-backed chair that rested against a marble-faced pillar. He was a young man of clean-cut appearance, who expressed a very general interest in what was going on before him.
A tall, stoop-shouldered individual weaved his way up to the lobby and spoke to the clerk. After a short conversation, this man strolled to a corner and stood in speculation.
The tall man was directly under the observation of the watcher by the pillar, who, glancing from the corners of his eyes, had an excellent opportunity to study the lanky person. It was evident that the stoop-shouldered one was worrying about something. He seemed impatient and ill at ease.
His long, prying nose showed him to be a talkative type, and one who had a penchant for mingling in the business of others. His furtive eyes gave him a suspicious appearance.
He made a good subject for a character analyst.
Too much concerned with matters pertaining to himself to notice that he was under observation, this man suddenly strode across the lobby to the cigar counter. He purchased a handful of perfectos, and made off in the direction of the smoking room.
There, ensconced in a corner, he lighted a cigar and stared steadily at the mural decorations. So preoccupied was he that he did not notice the arrival of another person — the man who had been watching him in the lobby.
"Have you a match?"
The simple question made the gawkish man start. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a pack of paper matches. He gave them to the one who had asked for them.
"Thank you, Mr. Powell."
The man raised his stooped shoulders. A hunted expression came over his face. His eyes gleamed with suspicion. He stared at the speaker, who returned his gaze with a frank and friendly air.
"My name isn't Powell," the man declared in a low, tense voice.
"Not on the hotel register," was the young man's reply. "There you have written your name as Wallace Weldon. The first name is correct; the last is not. You should have listed yourself as Wallace Powell, unless — "
"Unless what?" the tall man interrupted.
"— unless you prefer not to be known in Baltimore," the other finished. Powell sank back in his chair and stared toward the ceiling; but his mind was still on what the stranger had said.
"Suppose," said Powell, "that I do not care to be known in Baltimore. How does it concern you?"
"It does not concern me at all."
"Then why mention it?" Powell persisted.
"Because it concerns you — and your immediate welfare. More so, perhaps, than you suppose." The young man's voice was firm.
Again the hunted eyes flashed. Powell looked about to see if they were alone. Then he spoke in a low, but demanding, tone.
"Why are you watching me?"
"I told you why," came the answer. "For your own good!"
"What are you? A detective?"
"No. I have no concern whatever with the law."
Powell saw that the man's eyes were frank. He believed him. Then he laughed, in a disgruntled manner.
"It wouldn't matter if you were a detective," he said. "I've done nothing wrong. Whatever I do is always legitimate. I've got nothing to worry about."
"No?"
The peculiar accent of the question puzzled Powell. It increased his nervousness. He wanted to know who this man was.
"What is your name?" he demanded bluntly.
"Harry Vincent," was the reply. "The same name in Baltimore as in New York."
"I never heard of you," Powell countered.
"You might have — if I had been in Paris a few weeks ago!"
Powell did not reply. He became restless, and chewed his lips. He wanted to question the stranger further, but seemed unwilling to begin. Harry Vincent saved him the trouble.
"When you were in Paris," said Harry quietly, "you met an old friend — a man much older than yourself, and one who was much wealthier. I refer to Herbert Brockley."
Powell did not reply.
"Brockley died while he was there," continued Harry, in a reminiscent tone. "His death was a sudden one. He was murdered. It was a shock to you."
"It was a shock," admitted Powell.
"Before he died, Brockley gave you something. What, I do not know. I presume, however, that it involved information of a certain sort. It may have explained, to some degree, why Brockley died.
"Of course, the cause of his death has been traced to Parisian criminals — Apaches. But you know something which underlies it all."
"Where did you get that idea?" asked Powell, with a hollow laugh.
"My source of information is my secret," replied Harry, "just as your fund of information is your secret. Perhaps a fair exchange would be to our mutual liking."
"Not to mine," declared Powell. "What I know, I keep to myself. What I have learned" -
he caught himself — "what I may have learned was given to me in confidence. That's enough, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Harry calmly. "But sometimes, people learn too much. Herbert Brockley did.
He passed the information on to you."
The amazement that swept over Wallace Powell showed that the remark had struck home.
The man began to clench his fists nervously. He started to rise; then sat down.
He looked at Harry Vincent; but his eyes were more than hunted. They were beseeching.
Harry detected their expression. He followed it to advantage.
"Powell," he said, "I never met you before. But you may consider me a friend. You can also assume me to be a friend of Herbert Brockley's.
"There are reasons why I wish to learn who caused his death. I believe that you can tell me. You owe that to Brockley, don't you?"
"Perhaps," said Powell slowly. "But that makes you a detective, doesn't it?"
"Not a bit of it," declared Harry emphatically. "Look here, Powell. I know what you're after. Money!
You can't be blamed for that.
"I don't happen to need cash" — he pulled a massive roll of bills from his pocket, and Powell stared goggle-eyed at the yellow-backed currency — "and, furthermore, I'm willing to spend some. How does that sound?"
"How much do you want to pay for what I know?" demanded Powell, completely off his guard because of the money.
"How much are you getting for it?" quizzed Harry, thrusting the roll of bills back into his pocket. The cash out of view, Powell's attitude changed. He became close-mouthed, giving way to a short laugh.
"Think this over, Powell," declared Harry. "I am out to obtain certain information — which I think you have. I intend to get it — although it may take a long while, and cause serious consequences in the meantime. To save myself that trouble, I am willing to pay you a substantial sum.
"I take it that you have already made plans to sell your knowledge. That does not concern me. You are quite welcome to go through with your deal. Whatever I pay you, will be extra." A sudden light came into Powell's glance. Harry's words had struck a responsive chord. Avaricious, Powell immediately began to figure excess profits. He was a man who lived by his wits, and this was too good an opportunity to miss.