The Bartlett Mystery. Tracy Louis
had to exercise an iron self-control to keep a tremor out of his utterance.
“You dare not refuse,” persisted the woman.
The Senator glanced around in a scared way. Clancy thought for an instant that he meant to dart back into the security of the club. After an irresolute pause, however, he moved somewhat apart from the crowd of sightseers. The two stood together on the curb, and clear of the flood of light pouring through the open doors. Clancy edged after them. He gathered a good deal, not all, of what they said, as both voices were harsh and tinged with excitement.
“This very night,” the woman was saying. “Bring at least five hundred dollars – If the police… Says he will confess everything… Do you get me? This thing can’t wait.”
The Senator did not even try now to conceal his agitation. He looked at the gaping mob, but it was wholly absorbed in the stream of fashionable people pouring out of the club, while the snorting of scores of automobiles created a din which meant comparative safety.
“Yes, yes,” he muttered. “I understand. I’ll do anything in reason. I’ll give you the money, and you – ”
“No. He means seeing you. You need not be afraid. He says you are going to Mr. Van Hofen’s yacht at nine o’clock – ”
“Good Lord!” broke in Meiklejohn, “how can he possibly know that?” Again he peered at the press of onlookers. A dapper little man who stood near was raised on tiptoe and craning his neck to catch a glimpse of a noted beauty who had just appeared.
“Oh, pull yourself together!” and there was a touch of scorn in the woman’s manner as she reassured this powerfully built man. “Isn’t he clever and fertile in device? Haven’t the newspapers announced your presence on the Sans Souci? And who will stop a steward’s tongue from wagging? At any rate, he knows. He will be on the Hudson in a small boat, with one other man. At nine o’clock he will come close to the landing-stage at Eighty-sixth Street. There is a lawn north of the clubhouse, he says. Walk to the end of it and you will find him. You can have a brief talk. Bring the money in an envelope.”
“On the lawn – at nine!” repeated the Senator in a dazed way.
“Yes. What better place could he choose? You see, he is willing to play fair and be discreet. But, quick! I must have your answer. Time is passing. Do you agree?”
“What is the alternative?”
“Capture, and a mad rage. Then others will share in his downfall.”
“Very well. I’ll be there. I’ll not fail him, or you.”
“He says it’s his last request. He has some scheme – ”
“Ah, his schemes! If only I could hope that this will be the end!”
“That is his promise.”
The woman dropped the conversation abruptly. She darted through the line of cars and made off in the direction of Sixth Avenue. Senator Meiklejohn gazed after her dubiously, but her tall figure was soon lost in the traffic. Then, with bent head, and evidently a prey to harassing thoughts, he crossed Fifth Avenue.
Clancy sauntered after him, and saw him enter a block of residential flats in a side street. Then the detective strolled back to the club.
Most of Van Hofen’s guests had gone. The policeman grinned and muttered in Clancy’s ear:
“The Senator’s a giddy guy. Two of ’em at wanst. Mrs. Tower’s a good-looker, but I didn’t think much of the other wan.”
Clancy nodded. His black and beady eyes had just clashed with those of a notorious crook, who suddenly remembered an urgent appointment elsewhere.
Fifteen minutes later Senator Meiklejohn returned. He entered the club without being waylaid a second time. Clancy consulted his watch.
“Keep a sharp lookout here, Mac,” he said, sotto voce. “While I was away just now Broadway Jim showed up. He’s got cold feet, and there’ll be nothing more doing to-night, I think. Anyhow, I’m going up-town.”
In Fifth Avenue he boarded a Riverside Drive bus. The weather was mild, and he mounted to the roof.
“Now, who in the world will Senator Meiklejohn meet on the landing-stage?” he mused. “Seems to me the chief may be interested. Five hundred dollars, too! I wonder!”
CHAPTER II
A DARING CRIME
It was no part of Detective Clancy’s business to pry into the private affairs of Senator Meiklejohn. Senators are awkward fish to handle, being somewhat similar to whales caught in nets designed to capture mackerel. But the Bureau is no respecter of persons. Men much higher up in politics and finance than William Meiklejohn would be disagreeably surprised if they could read certain details entered opposite their names in the dossiers kept by the police department. Still, it behooved Clancy to tread warily.
As it happened, he was just the man for this self-imposed duty. Two Celtic strains mingled in his blood, while American birth and training had not only quickened his intelligence but imparted a quality of wide-eyed shrewdness to a daring initiative. When he and the bluff Steingall worked together the malefactor on whose heels they pressed had a woeful time. As one blood-stained rascal put it in a bitter moment before the electric chair claimed him for the expiation of his last and worst crime:
“Them two guys give a reg’lar fellow no chanst. When they’re trailin’ you every road leads straight to Sing Sing. The big guy has a punch like Jess Willard, an’ the lil ’un a nose like a Montana wolf.”
It was Clancy’s nose for the more subtle elements in crime which brought him to the small châlet on the private pier at the foot of Eighty-sixth Street that night. He could not guess what game he might flush, but he was keen as a bloodhound in the chase.
Meanwhile, Senator Meiklejohn encountered Ronald Tower the moment he re-entered the palatial club. By this time he seemed to have regained his customary air of geniality, being one of those rather uncommon men whose apparent characteristics are never so marked as when they are acting a part.
“H’lo, Ronnie,” he cried affably, “I met Helen as she left for the theater. She has an inquiring mind, but I headed her off. By the way, will you be at this luncheon to-morrow?”
“Not I,” laughed Tower. “I’m barred. She says I have no head for business, and some deep-laid plan for filling the family coffers is in hand.”
The Senator obviously disliked these outspoken references to money-making. He squirmed, but smiled as though Tower had made an excellent joke.
“Try and get the ukase lifted,” he urged. “I want you to be there.”
“Nothing doing,” and the other grinned. “Helen says I resemble you in everything but brain power, Senator. I’m a good-looker as a husband, but a poor mutt in Wall Street.”
They laughed at the conceit. The two men were curiously alike in face and figure, though a close observer like Clancy would have classed them as opposite as the poles in character and temperament. Meiklejohn’s features were cast in the stronger mold. They showed lines which Ronald Tower’s placid existence would never produce. The Senator was suave, too. He seldom pressed a point to the limit.
“Helen’s good opinion is doubly flattering,” he said. “She is a bright woman, and knows how to command her friends.”
Tower glanced at a clock in the hall.
“Time we were off,” he announced. “Come with me. I’m taking Johnny Bell, I think.”
“Sorry. I have an important letter to write. But I’ll join before the crowd cuts in.”
The Senator hurried up-stairs. He must take the journey alone, and snatch an opportunity to attend that mysterious rendezvous while the Sans Souci’s gig was ferrying some of the bridge-players to the yacht.
Owing to a slight misunderstanding Tower missed the other man, and traveled alone in his car. On that trivial circumstance