The Chase of the Golden Plate (4 page)

CHAPTER VIII

Whole flocks of detectives, reporters, and newspaper artists appeared at Seven Oaks early next morning. It had been too late to press an investigation the night before. The newspapers had only time telephonically to confirm the return of the plate. Now the investigators unanimously voiced one sentiment: “Show us!”

Hatch arrived in the party headed by Detective Mallory, with Downey and Cunningham trailing. Blanton was off somewhere with his little list, presumably still at it. Mr. Randolph had not come down to breakfast when the investigators arrived, but had given his servant permission to exhibit the plate, the wrappings in which it had come, and the string wherewith it had been tied.

The plate arrived in a heavy paper-board box, covered twice over with a plain piece of stiff brown paper, which had no markings save the address and the “paid” stamp of the express company. Detective Mallory devoted himself first to the address. It was:

MR. STUYVESANT RANDOLPH,

“Seven Oaks,” via Merton.

In the upper left-hand corner were scribbled the words:

From John Smith, State Street, Watertown.

Detectives Mallory, Downey, and Cunningham studied the handwriting on the paper minutely.

“It's a man's,” said Detective Downey.

“It's a woman's,” said Detective Cunningham.

“It's a child's,” said Detective Mallory.

“Whatever it is, it is disguised,” said Hatch.

He was inclined to agree with Detective Cunningham that it was a woman's purposely altered, and in that event—Great Caesar! There came that flock of seven-column heads again! And he couldn't open the bottle!

The simple story of the arrival of the gold plate at Seven Oaks was told thrillingly by the servant.

“It was eight o'clock last night,” he said. “I was standing in the hall here. Mr. and Mrs. Randolph were still at the dinner table. They dined alone. Suddenly I heard the sound of waggon-wheels on the granolithic road in front of the house. I listened intently. Yes, it was waggon-wheels.”

The detectives exchanged significant glances.

“I heard the waggon stop,” the servant went on in an awed tone. “Still I listened. Then came the sound of footsteps on the walk and then on the steps. I walked slowly along the hall toward the front door. As I did so the bell rang.”

“Yes, ting-a-ling-a-ling, we know. Go on,” Hatch interrupted impatiently.

“I opened the door,” the servant continued. “A man stood there with a package. He was a burly fellow. ‘Mr. Randolph live here?' he asked gruffly. ‘Yes,' I said. ‘Here's a package for him,' said the man. ‘Sign here.' I took the package and signed a book he gave me, and—and—”

“In other words,” Hatch interrupted again, “an expressman brought the package here, you signed for it, and he went away?”

The servant stared at him haughtily.

“Yes, that's it,” he said coldly.

A few minutes later Mr. Randolph in person appeared. He glanced at Hatch with a little surprise in his manner, nodded curtly, then turned to the detectives.

He could not add to the information the servant had given. His plate had been returned, pre-paid. The matter was at an end so far as he was concerned. There seemed to be no need of further investigation.

“How about the jewelry that was stolen from your other guests?” demanded Detective Mallory.

“Of course, there's that,” said Mr. Randolph. “It had passed out of my mind.”

“Instead of being at an end this case has just begun,” the detective declared emphatically.

Mr. Randolph seemed to have no further interest in the matter. He started out, then turned back at the door, and made a slight motion to Hatch which the reporter readily understood. As a result Hatch and Mr. Randolph were closeted together in a small room across the hall a few minutes later.

“May I ask your occupation, Mr. Hatch?” inquired Mr. Randolph.

“I'm a reporter,” was the reply.

“A reporter?” Mr. Randolph seemed surprised. “Of course, when I saw you in Mr. Herbert's rooms,” he went on after a little pause, “I met you only as his friend. You saw what happened there. Now, may I ask you what you intend to publish about this affair?”

Hatch considered the question a moment. There seemed to be no objection to telling.

“I can't publish anything until I know everything, or until the police act,” he confessed frankly. “I had been talking to Dick Herbert in a general way about this case when you arrived yesterday. I knew several things, or thought I did, that the police do not even suspect. But, of course, I can print only just what the police know and say.”

“I'm glad of that—very glad of it,” said Mr. Randolph. “It seems to have been a freak of some sort on Mr. Herbert's part, and, candidly, I can't understand it. Of course he returned the plate, as I knew he would.”

“Do you really believe he is the man who came here as the Burglar?” asked Hatch curiously.

“I should not have done what you saw me do if I had not been absolutely certain,” Mr. Randolph explained. “One of the things, particularly, that was called to my attention—I don't know that you know of it—is the fact that the Burglar had a cleft in his chin. You know, of course, that Mr. Herbert has such a cleft. Then there is the invitation-card with his name. Everything together makes it conclusive.”

Mr. Randolph and the reporter shook hands. Three hours later the press and police had uncovered the Watertown end of the mystery as to how the express package had been sent. It was explained by the driver of an express waggon there and absorbed by greedily listening ears.

“The boss told me to call at No. 410 State Street and get a bundle,” the driver explained. “I think somebody telephoned to him to send the waggon. I went up there yesterday morning. It's a small house, back a couple of hundred feet from the street, and has a stone fence around it. I opened the gate, went in, and rang the bell.

“No one answered the first ring, and I rang again. Still nobody answered and I tried the door. It was locked. I walked around the house, thinking there might be somebody in the back, but it was all locked up. I figured as how the folks that had telephoned for me wasn't in, and started out to my waggon, intending to stop by later.

“Just as I got to the gate, going out, I saw a package set down inside, hidden from the street behind the stone fence, with a dollar bill on it. I just naturally looked at it. It was the package directed to Mr. Randolph. I reasoned as how the folks who phoned had to go out and left the package, so I took it along. I made out a receipt to John Smith, the name that was in the corner, and pinned it to a post, took the package and the money and went along. That's all.”

“You don't know if the package was there when you went in?” he was asked.

“I dunno. I didn't look. I couldn't help but see it when I came out, so I took it.”

Then the investigators sought out “the boss.”

“Did the person who phoned give you a name?” inquired Detective Mallory.

“No, I didn't ask for one.”

“Was it a man or a woman talking?”

“A man,” was the unhesitating reply. “He had a deep, heavy voice.”

The investigators trailed away, dismally despondent, toward No. 410 State Street. It was unoccupied; inquiry showed that it had been unoccupied for months. The Supreme Intelligence picked the lock and the investigators walked in, craning their necks. They expected, at the least, to find a thieves' rendezvous. There was nothing but dirt, and dust, and grime. Then the investigators returned to the city. They had found only that the gold plate had been returned, and they knew that when they started.

Hatch went home and sat down with his head in his hands to add up all he didn't know about the affair. It was surprising how much there was of it.

“Dick Herbert either did or didn't go to the ball,” he soliloquised. “
Something
happened to him that evening. He either did or didn't steal the gold plate, and every circumstance indicates that he did—which, of course, he didn't. Dorothy Meredith either was or was not at the ball. The maid's statement shows that she was, yet no one there recognised her—which indicates that she wasn't. She either did or didn't run away with somebody in an automobile. Anyhow, something happened to
her
, because she's missing. The gold plate is stolen, and the gold plate is back. I know
that
, thank Heaven! And now, knowing more about this affair than any other single individual, I don't know
anything
.”

PART II

THE GIRL AND THE PLATE

CHAPTER I

Low-bent over the steering wheel, the Burglar sent the automobile scuttling breathlessly along the flat road away from Seven Oaks. At the first shot he crouched down in the seat, dragging the Girl with him; at the second, he winced a little and clenched his teeth tightly. The car's headlights cut a dazzling pathway through the shadows, and trees flitted by as a solid wall. The shouts of pursuers were left behind, and still the Girl clung to his arm.

“Don't do that,” he commanded abruptly. “You'll make me smash into something.”

“Why, Dick, they shot at us!” she protested indignantly.

The Burglar glanced at her, and, when he turned his eyes to the smooth road again, there was a flicker of a smile about the set lips.

“Yes, I had some such impression myself,” he acquiesced grimly.

“Why, they might have killed us!” the Girl went on.

“It is just barely possible that they had some such absurd idea when they shot,” replied the Burglar. “Guess you never got caught in a pickle like this before?”

“I certainly never did!” replied the Girl emphatically.

The whir and grind of their car drowned other sounds—sounds from behind—but from time to time the Burglar looked back, and from time to time he let out a new notch in the speed-regulator. Already the pace was terrific, and the Girl bounced up and down beside him at each trivial irregularity in the road, while she clung frantically to the seat.

“Is it necessary to go so awfully fast?” she gasped at last.

The wind was beating on her face, her mask blew this way and that; the beribboned sombrero clung frantically to a fast-failing strand of ruddy hair. She clutched at the hat and saved it, but her hair tumbled down about her shoulders, a mass of gold, and floated out behind.

“Oh,” she chattered, “I can't keep my hat on!”

The Burglar took another quick look behind, then his foot went out against the speed-regulator and the car fairly leaped with suddenly increased impetus. The regulator was in the last notch now, and the car was one that had raced at Ormonde Beach.

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed the Girl again. “Can't you go a little slower?”

“Look behind,” directed the Burglar tersely.

She glanced back and gave a little cry. Two giant eyes stared at her from a few hundred yards away as another car swooped along in pursuit, and behind this ominously glittering pair was still another.

“They're chasing us, aren't they?”

“They are,” replied the Burglar grimly, “but if these tires hold, they haven't got a chance. A breakdown would—” He didn't finish the sentence. There was a sinister note in his voice, but the Girl was still looking back and did not heed it. To her excited imagination it seemed that the giant eyes behind were creeping up, and again she clutched the Burglar's arm.

“Don't do that, I say,” he commanded again.

“But, Dick, they mustn't catch us—they mustn't!”

“They won't.”

“But if they should—”

“They won't,” he repeated.

“It would be perfectly awful!”

“Worse than that.”

For a time the Girl silently watched him bending over the wheel, and a singular feeling of security came to her. Then the car swept around a bend in the road, careening perilously, and the glaring eyes were lost. She breathed more freely.

“I never knew you handled an auto so well,” she said admiringly.

“I do lots of things people don't know I do,” he replied. “Are those lights still there?”

“No, thank goodness!”

The Burglar touched a lever with his left hand and the whir of the machine became less pronounced. After a moment it began to slow down. The Girl noticed it and looked at him with new apprehension.

“Oh, we're stopping!” she exclaimed.

“I know it.”

They ran on for a few hundred feet; then the Burglar set the brake and, after a deal of jolting, the car stopped. He leaped out and ran around behind. As the Girl watched him uneasily there came a sudden crash and the auto trembled a little.

“What is it?” she asked quickly.

“I smashed that tail lamp,” he answered. “They can see it, and it's too easy for them to follow.”

He stamped on the shattered fragments in the road, then came around to the side to climb in again, extending his left hand to the Girl.

“Quick, give me your hand,” he requested.

She did so wonderingly and he pulled himself into the seat beside her with a perceptible effort. The car shivered, then started on again, slowly at first, but gathering speed each moment. The Girl was staring at her companion curiously, anxiously.

“Are you hurt?” she asked at last.

He did not answer at the moment, not until the car had regained its former speed and was hurtling headlong through the night.

“My right arm's out of business,” he explained briefly, then: “I got that second bullet in the shoulder.”

“Oh, Dick, Dick,” she exclaimed, “and you hadn't said anything about it! You need assistance!”

A sudden rush of sympathy caused her to lay her hands again on his left arm. He shook them off roughly with something like anger in his manner.

“Don't do that!” he commanded for the third time. “You'll make me smash hell out of this car.”

Startled by the violence of his tone, she recoiled dumbly, and the car swept on. As before, the Burglar looked back from time to time, but the lights did not reappear. For a long time the Girl was silent and finally he glanced at her.

“I beg your pardon,” he said humbly. “I didn't mean to speak so sharply, but—but it's true.”

“It's really of no consequence,” she replied coldly. “I am sorry—very sorry.”

“Thank you,” he replied.

“Perhaps it might be as well for you to stop the car and let me out,” she went on after a moment.

The Burglar either didn't hear or wouldn't heed. The dim lights of a small village rose up before them, then faded away again; a dog barked lonesomely beside the road. The streaming lights of their car revealed a tangle of crossroads just ahead, offering a definite method of shaking off pursuit. Their car swerved widely, and the Burglar's attention was centred on the road ahead.

“Does your arm pain you?” asked the Girl at last timidly.

“No,” he replied shortly. “It's a sort of numbness. I'm afraid I'm losing blood, though.”

“Hadn't we better go back to the village and see a doctor?”

“Not
this
evening,” he responded promptly in a tone, which she did not understand. “I'll stop somewhere soon and bind it up.”

At last, when the village was well behind, the car came to a dark little road, which wandered off aimlessly through a wood, and the Burglar slowed down to turn into it. Once in the shelter of the overhanging branches they proceeded slowly for a hundred yards or more, finally coming to a standstill.

“We must do it here,” he declared.

He leaped from the car, stumbled and fell. In an instant the Girl was beside him. The reflected light from the auto showed her dimly that he was trying to rise, showed her the pallor of his face where the chin below the mask was visible.

“I'm afraid it's pretty bad,” he said weakly. Then he fainted.

The Girl, stooping, raised his head to her lap and pressed her lips to his feverishly, time after time.

“Dick, Dick!” she sobbed, and tears fell upon the Burglar's sinister mask.