The Victorian Villains Megapack (52 page)

Barney did not finish the sentence. Suddenly he ducked, and grabbing McAllister by the shoulder, pulled him down with him.

“There he is now! Into the trunk! There’s
no other way! Plenty of room!” He shoved his fat companion inside and stepped after him. McAllister, utterly bewildered, tried to convince himself that he was not dreaming. He was quite sure he had taken only one Scotch that morning, but he pinched himself, and was relieved to get the proper reaction. When he became used to the dim light he discovered that he was ensconced in a dress-box of immense proportions, made of basket work, and covered with waterproofing. Placed on end, with a seat across the middle, it afforded a very comfortable place of concealment. Conville turned the key and locked the cover. Then he poked McAllister in the ribs.

“Great joint, ain’t it? Idee of the cap’s. Makes a fine plant,” he whispered, affixing his eye to a narrow slit near the top.

“Sh-h!” he added; “he’s here. There’s another peeper over on your side.”

McAllister followed his example, gluing his eye to the improvised window, and discovered that they commanded the approach to the big Vuitton. And inside that innocent piece of luggage reposed the glory of his uncle’s family, the heirlooms of four centuries! He made an involuntary movement.

“Keep still!” hissed Conville, and McAllis
ter sank back obediently.

A young Anglican clergyman in shovel-hat and gaiters, carrying a dainty silver-headed umbrella in one hand and a copy of
The Churchman
in the other, had approached the counter. He seemed somewhat at a loss, gazed vaguely about him for a moment, and then stepping up to the head baggage-man, an oldish man with white whiskers, addressed him anxiously.

“I say, my man, I’m really in an awful mess, don’t you know! I don’t see my box anywhere. I sent it over from the hotel early this morning, and I’m leavin’ for Montreal at three. The luggage-man says it was left here by ten o’clock. Do you keep all the boxes in this room?”

The head baggage-man nodded.

“Sorry you’ve lost your trunk,” said he. “If it ain’t here we haven’t got it, but like as not it’s mixed up in one of them piles. If you’ll wait for about ten minutes I’ll see if I can find it for your Reverence.”

The Anglican looked shocked.

“Thanks, I’m sure,” he murmured stiffly. He was a slight young man with a monocle and mutton-chops.

“It’s very good of you,” he added after a pause, with more condescension. “Awfully awkward to be without one’s luggage, for I have a se
rvice in Montreal tomorrow, and all my vestments are in my box. I fear I shall miss my train.”

“Oh, I guess not!” replied the baggage-man encouragingly. “I’ll be with you presently. You come in and look around yourself, and if you don’t see it I’ll help you. This way, sir,” and he lifted a section of the counter and allowed the clergyman to pass in.

“My! Ain’t he
clever
!” whispered Barney delightedly.

The clergyman now began a rather dilatory investigation of the contents of the baggage-room, bending over and examining every trunk in sight, and even tapping the one in which they were ensconced with the silver head of his umbrella, but after a few moments, in apparent despair, he took his stand beside the big trunk marked “B. C. L.,” and gazed despondently about him. There was nothing in his appearance to suggest that he was other than he seemed, but Barney directed McAllister’s attention to the copy of
The Churchman
, from the leaves of which protruded two diminutive pieces of string, put there, as it might appear, for a book-mark. And now as the Anglican shifted from one foot to the other, ostensibly waiting for the porter, he placed his hands behind him and took a step or two backward toward the big trunk. Chubby was by this
time all agog. What would the fellow do? He certainly couldn’t be goin’ to shoulder the trunk and try to walk off with it!

Suddenly McAllister saw the daintily gloved hands slip a penknife from among the leaves of the magazine and quickly sever the check from the handle of the trunk. The Anglican altered his position and waited until the baggage-man was once more engaged at the other end of the counter. Again this amiable representative of the cloth shuffled backward until the handle was within easy reach, and with a dexterity which must have been born of long practice deftly tied the two ends of string around it. With a quick motion he stepped away in the direction of the counter, and out from the leaves of
The Churchman
fell and dangled a new check stamped “Waistcoat’s Express, No. 1467.”

“My good fellow,” impatiently drawled the clergyman, approaching the baggage-man, “I really can’t wait, don’cher know. I’ve looked everywhere, and my box isn’t here. I don’t know whether to blame that beastly luggage-man, or whether it’s the fault of this disgustin’ American railroad. It’s evident someone’s at fault, and as I assume that you are in charge I shall report you immediately.”

The elderly baggage-man regarded the robus
t champion of religion before him with scorn.

“Well, son, you can report all you like. I’ve worked in this baggage-room eighteen years, and you’re not the first English crank who thought he owned the hull Central Railroad,” and he turned on his heel, while the clergyman, with an expression of horror, ambled quickly out of the side door.

McAllister had watched this remarkable proceeding with enthusiastic interest, his round face shining with the excitement of a child.

“Jiminy, but this is great!” he exclaimed, slapping Barney upon the back. “And to think of your doin’ it for a livin’! Why I’d sit here all day for nothin’! What happens next? And what becomes of the feller that’s just gone out?”

“Oh, you ain’t seen half the show yet!” responded Conville, pleased. “It is pretty good fun at times. But, o’ course, this is a star performance, and we’re sure of our man. Oh, it beats the theayter, all right, all right! Truth’s stranger than fiction every time, you bet. Now take this Oyster—why he’s a regular cracker-jack! Got sense enough to be an alderman, or president, or anythin’, but he keeps right at his own little job of liftin’ trunks, an’ he ain’t never been caught yet. His pal’ll be along now any minute.”

“How’s that?” inquired Chubby with eagernes
s.

“Why, don’cher see? Jerry’s cut off the reg’lar tag, and now the other feller’ll present a duplicate of the one Jerry’s just hitched on. Great game, ‘Foxy Quiller,’ eh?”

McAllister admitted delightedly that it was a great game. By George, it beat playin’ the horses! At the same time he shivered as he realized how nearly the famous jewels had actually been lost. Wilkins must be an awful bad egg to go and tie up to a gang of that sort!

The baggage-man, serenely unconscious of all that had been taking place behind his back, and apparently not soured by his little set-to with the Englishman, was genially assisting the great American public to find its effects, and beaming on all about him. People streamed in and out, engines coughed and wheezed; from outside came the roar and rattle of the city.

Presently there bounced in a stout person in a yellow and black suit, with white waistcoat and green tie, who mopped his red face with a large silk handkerchief. Rushing up to a porter who seemed to be unoccupied, he threw down a pasteboard check, together with a shining half-dollar, and shouted, “Here, my good feller, that trunk, will you? Quick! The big one with the red letters on it—‘B. C. L.’ They sent it here fro
m the Astoria instead of to the steamboat dock, and my ship sails at twelve. Now, get a move on!”

The porter grabbed the check and the half-dollar, and falling upon the big Vuitton, rolled it end over end out into the street, followed by its perspiring claimant.

“That’s right, that’s right,” shouted the bounder. “Chuck it on behind. Mus’n’t miss the boat!” and throwing the porter another half-dollar, the sportive traveller jumped into the hack, yelling, “Now drive like the devil!” The door closed with a bang, and the vehicle quickly disappeared among the tracks and wagons of Forty-second Street.

McAllister for the first time felt distinctly uneasy.

“Look here,” he whispered feverishly, “is it right to let him walk off like that? Hurry! Open the trunk, or he’ll get away!”

“Sit still, and don’t get excited!” commanded Barney. “It’s all right,” he added condescendingly, remembering that McAllister was unfamiliar with such mysteries. “We’ve got him covered. He couldn’t get away to save his neck. An’ as for follerin’ him, why he’ll carry that trunk half over New York before he lands it where it’s goin’!”

“All right!” sighed the clubman; “you’re the
doctor. But it seems to me you’re takin’ a lot of risk. Your brother officer might lose track of him, or he might drop the trunk somehow, and
then
where would the jewels be?”

“Right exactly where they are
now
,” replied Barney with a grin. “In the office safe at the Waldorf. They ain’t never left the hotel. There wasn’t any need of it, and if I hadn’t taken ’em out I’d’ve had to watch ’em here all night. Now everythin’s all right.

“And say,” he added, chuckling at the joke of it, “I forgot to tell you. Who do you suppose is workin’ with Jerry? Fatty Welch! ‘Wilkins,’ you’d call him. He’s turned up again an’ hooked on, somehow, to the Gov’nor. Me and my side-partner’s been trailin’ ’em both ever since your uncle hit New York. I had the room opposite him at the Waldorf. Yesterday mornin’ I saw Welch pack the jewelry. I was togged out as a bell-boy, and was cleanin’ the winders. The Gov’nor’s kind of figgity you know, and I thought we’d better not mention anythin’ to
him
. Of course I didn’t have any idea
you’d
come waltzin’ along this way.”

McAllister solemnly held out his hand to the detective. He was as demonstrative as his narrow quarters rendered possible.

“Baron,” said he, “you’re a corker! I’ve lea
rned a heap this morning.”

“There’s lots of things you never dream of, Horace,” replied Barney politely.

“Do you remember, Baron, the last time we met asking me to help you nab Wilkins?” continued McAllister. “Well, I’m goin’ to make good. I’ve got him safely locked in a closet at the hotel. He promised not to come back, and now I’m done with him. What do you say to that?”

“Good work!” ejaculated Barney. “Keep it up! In time you might make a pretty good detective.”

From Barney such a concession was high praise, and showed intense appreciation. On their way back to the Waldorf he explained that the “Oyster” was one of a very few “guns” able effectively to make use of a disguise, this being in part due to the fact that he was the son of a clergyman, and educated for the stage.

They were met at the door of the apartment by Lady Lyndhurst.

“Basil has disappeared!” she gasped. “And that awful man in the closet has become so blasphemous that I can’t remain with decency in the room.”

McAllister partially pacified her by stating that the jewelry was entirely safe. He wondered what on earth had become of the Governor. Once i
nside the suite conversation became practically impossible, owing to the sounds of inarticulate rage which proceeded from the closet.

Barney decided to place the valet immediately under arrest and take him to Police Headquarters. The sooner they did so the more likely he would be to “squeal.” He requested McAllister to arm himself with a walking-stick, and to stand ready to come to his assistance if, on opening the door, he should find himself unable to cope with the prisoner alone. Aunt Sophia was relegated to her bedroom, the door leading to the corridor was closed and locked, and the two prepared for the conflict. The detective, of course, had his pistol, which he cocked and held ready.

“Don’t fire till you see the whites of his eyes!” murmured McAllister.

“Fire—nothin’!” muttered Barney, throwing open the closet door.

“Hands up, or I’ll shoot!” yelled the detective, as a fat, wild-eyed individual sprung from within and burst upon their astonished gaze. The Governor-General stood before them.

Speechless with rage, he glowered from one to the other—then in response to their surprised inquiries broke into incoherent explanation. He had waited on guard some ten minutes after McAllister’s departure, and Sophia had gone to her be
droom to finish dressing, when suddenly the expostulations of Morton had seemed to grow fainter. Finally they had died entirely away, and in their place had come terrible gasps and gurgles. He had remembered that there was no means of renewing the air supply in the closet, and had become alarmed. Presently all sounds had ceased. He was convinced that Morton was being suffocated. Opening the door, he had found the valet apparently lying there unconscious, and had dragged him forth, whereupon Morton had suddenly returned to life, and before he knew it had jammed him into the closet and locked the door.

“He was most impertinent, too, when he got on the outside, I can assure you,” concluded Lord Lyndhurst indignantly. “Gave me a lot of gratuitous advice!”

McAllister and the detective endeavored to calm his troubled spirit, and soothe his ruffled dignity, informing him that the jewels had been in the hotel safe all the time. The Governor, however, refused to take any stock whatever in their explanation. Nothing of the sort could possibly have happened in England. It took them an hour to persuade him that they were not lying. The only things that appeared to convince him at all were the disappearance of Morton, a large bump on his own forehead, and the actual presence of the jewe
lry in the safe downstairs. Even then he sent to Tiffany’s for a man to examine it.

Barney he regarded with unconcealed suspicion, subjecting him to an exhaustive cross-examination upon his antecedents and occupation. The Governor declared he was astounded at his impudence. The idea of opening his private luggage! He would address a communication to the authorities! It was little better than grand larceny. It
was
grand larceny, by Jupiter! Hadn’t Conville abstracted the jewels
vi et armis
? Of
course
he had! Damme, he would see if the sacred rights of an English official should be trampled on! It was
trespass
anyway—
Trespass ab initio
! Did Conville know that? It was grand larceny
and
trespass. He would lock him up.