The Brass Bowl by Louis Joseph Vance

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THE BRASS BOWL

BY
LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

1907

I

DUST

In the dull hot dusk of a summer's day a green touring-car,
swinging out of the East Drive, pulled up smartly, trembling, at
the edge of the Fifty-ninth Street car-tracks, then more sedately,
under the dispassionate but watchful eye of a mounted member of
the Traffic Squad, lurched across the Plaza and merged itself in
the press of vehicles south-bound on the Avenue.

Its tonneau held four young men, all more or less disguised in
dust, dusters and goggles; forward, by the side of the grimy and
anxious-eyed mechanic, sat a fifth, in all visible respects the
counterpart of his companions. Beneath his mask, and by this I do
not mean his goggles, but the mask of modern manner which the
worldly wear, he was, and is, different.

He was Daniel Maitland, Esquire; for whom no further introduction
should be required, after mention of the fact that he was, and
remains, the identical gentleman of means and position in the
social and financial worlds, whose somewhat sober but sincere and
whole-hearted participation in the wildest of conceivable
escapades had earned him the affectionate regard of the younger
set, together with the sobriquet of "Mad Maitland."

His companions of the day, the four in the tonneau, were in that
humor of subdued yet vibrant excitement which is apt to attend the
conclusion of a long, hard drive over country roads. Maitland, on
the other hand, (judging him by his preoccupied pose), was already
weary of, if not bored by, the hare-brained enterprise which,
initiated on the spur of an idle moment and directly due to a
thoughtless remark of his own, had brought him a hundred miles (or
so) through the heat of a broiling afternoon, accompanied by
spirits as ardent and irresponsible as his own, in search of the
dubious distraction afforded by the night side of the city.

As, picking its way with elephantine nicety, the motor-car
progressed down the Avenue--twilight deepening, arcs upon their
bronze columns blossoming suddenly, noiselessly into spheres of
opalescent radiance--Mr. Maitland ceased to respond, ceased even
to give heed, to the running fire of chaff (largely personal)
which amused his companions. Listlessly engaged with a cigarette,
he lounged upon the green leather cushions, half closing his eyes,
and heartily wished himself free for the evening.

But he stood committed to the humor of the majority, and lacked
entirely the shadow of an excuse to desert; in addition to which
he was altogether too lazy for the exertion of manufacturing a lie
of serviceable texture. And so he abandoned himself to his fate, even
though he foresaw with weariful particularity the programme of the
coming hours.

To begin with, thirty minutes were to be devoted to a bath and
dressing in his rooms. This was something not so unpleasant to
contemplate. It was the afterwards that repelled him: the dinner
at Sherry's, the subsequent tour of roof gardens, the late supper
at a club, and then, prolonged far into the small hours, the
session around some green-covered table in a close room reeking
with the fumes of good tobacco and hot with the fever of
gambling....

Abstractedly Maitland frowned, tersely summing up: "Beastly!"--in
an undertone.

At this the green car wheeled abruptly round a corner below
Thirty-fourth Street, slid half a block or more east, and came to
a palpitating halt. Maitland, looking up, recognized the entrance
to his apartments, and sighed with relief for the brief respite
from boredom that was to be his. He rose, negligently shaking off
his duster, and stepped down to the sidewalk.

Somebody in the car called a warning after him, and turning for a
moment he stood at attention, an eyebrow raised quizzically,
cigarette drooping from a corner of his mouth, hat pushed back
from his forehead, hands in coat pockets: a tall, slender,
sparely-built figure of a man, clothed immaculately in flannels.

When at length he was able to make himself heard, "Good enough,"
he said clearly, though without raising his voice. "Sherry's in an
hour. Right. Now, behave yourselves."

"Mind you show up on time!"

"Never fear," returned Maitland over his shoulder.

A witticism was flung back at him from the retreating car, but
spent itself unregarded. Maitland's attention was temporarily
distracted by the unusual--to say the least--sight of a young and
attractive woman coming out of a home for confirmed bachelors.

The apartment house happened to be his own property. A substantial
and old-fashioned edifice, situated in the middle of a quiet
block, it contained but five roomy and comfortable suites,
--in other words, one to a floor; and these were without
exception tenanted by unmarried men of Maitland's own circle and
acquaintance. The janitor, himself a widower and a convinced
misogynist, lived alone in the basement. Barring very special and
exceptional occasions (as when one of the bachelors felt called
upon to give a tea in partial recognition of social obligations),
the foot of woman never crossed its threshold.

In this circumstance, indeed, was comprised the singular charm the
house had for its occupants. The quality which insured them privacy
and a quiet independence rendered them oblivious to its many minor
drawbacks, its lack of many conveniences and luxuries which have
of late grown to be so commonly regarded as necessities. It boasted,
for instance, no garage; no refrigerating system maddened those
dependent upon it; a dissipated electric lighting system never went
out of nights, because it had never been installed; no brass-bound
hall-boy lounged in desuetude upon the stoop and took too intimate
and personal an interest in the tenants' correspondence. The
inhabitants, in brief, were free to come and go according to the
dictates of their consciences, unsupervised by neighborly women-folk,
unhindered by a parasitic corps of menials not in their personal
employ.

Wherefore was Maitland astonished, and the more so because of the
season. At any other season of the year he would readily have
accounted for the phenomenon that now fell under his observation,
on the hypothesis that the woman was somebody's sister or cousin
or aunt. But at present that explanation was untenable; Maitland
happened to know that not one of the other men was in New York,
barring himself; and his own presence there was a thing entirely
unforeseen.

Still incredulous, he mentally conned the list: Barnes, who
occupied the first flat, was traveling on the Continent; Conkling,
of the third, had left a fortnight since to join a yachting party
on the Mediterranean; Bannister and Wilkes, of the fourth and
fifth floors, respectively, were in Newport and Buenos Aires.

"Odd!" concluded Maitland.

So it was. She had just closed the door, one thought; and now
stood poised as if in momentary indecision on the low stoop,
glancing toward Fifth Avenue the while she fumbled with a
refractory button at the wrist of a long white kid glove. Blurred
though it was by the darkling twilight and a thin veil, her face
yet conveyed an impression of prettiness: an impression enhanced
by careful grooming. From her hat, a small affair, something
green, with a superstructure of grey ostrich feathers, to the tips
of her russet shoes,--including a walking skirt and bolero of
shimmering grey silk,--she was distinctly "smart" and interesting.

He had keenly observant eyes, had Maitland, for all his detached
pose; you are to understand that he comprehended all these points
in the flickering of an instant. For the incident was over in two
seconds. In one the lady's hesitation was resolved; in another she
had passed down the steps and swept by Maitland without giving him
a glance, without even the trembling of an eyelash. And he had a
view of her back as she moved swiftly away toward the Avenue.

Perplexed, he lingered upon the stoop until she had turned the
corner; after which he let himself in with a latch-key, and,
dismissing the affair temporarily from his thoughts, or pretending
to do so, ascended the single flight of stairs to his flat.

Simultaneously heavy feet were to be heard clumping up the
basement steps; and surmising that the janitor was coming to light
the hall, the young man waited, leaning over the balusters. His
guess proving correct, he called down:

"O'Hagan? Is that you?"

"Th' saints presarve us! But 'twas yersilf gave me th' sthart,
Misther Maitland, sor!" O'Hagan paused in the gloom below, his
upturned face quaintly illuminated by the flame of a wax taper in
his gaslighter.

"I'm dining in town to-night, O'Hagan, and dropped around to
dress. Is anybody else at home?"

"Nivver a wan, sor. Shure, th' house do be quiet's anny tomb--"

"Then who was that lady, O'Hagan?"

"Leddy, sor?"--in unbounded amazement.

"Yes," impatiently. "A young woman left the house just as I was
coming in. Who was she?"

"Shure an' I think ye must be dr'amin', sor. Divvle a female--
rayspicts to ye!--has been in this house for manny an' manny th'
wake, sor."

"But, I tell you--"

"Belike 'twas somewan jist sthepped into the vesthibule, mebbe to
tie her shoe, sor, and ye thought--"

"Oh, very well." Maitland relinquished the inquisition as
unprofitable, willing to concede O'Hagan's theory a reasonable
one, the more readily since he himself could by no means have
sworn that the woman had actually come out through the door. Such
had merely been his impression, honest enough, but founded on
circumstantial evidence.

"When you're through, O'Hagan," he told the Irishman, "you may
come and shave me and lay out my things, if you will."

"Very good, sor. In wan minute."

But O'Hagan's conception of the passage of time was a thought
vague: his one minute had lengthened into ten before he appeared
to wait upon his employer.

Now and again, in the absence of the regular "man," O'Hagan would
attend one or another of the tenants in the capacity of substitute
valet: as in the present instance, when Maitland, having left his
host's roof without troubling even to notify his body-servant that
he would not return that night, called upon the janitor to
understudy the more trained employee; which O'Hagan could be
counted upon to do very acceptably.

Now, with patience unruffled, since he was nothing keen for the
evening's enjoyment, Maitland made profit of the interval to
wander through his rooms, lighting the gas here and there and
noting that all was as it should be, as it had been left--save
that every article of furniture and bric-à-brac seemed to be sadly
in want of a thorough dusting. In the end he brought up in the
room that served him as study and lounge,--the drawing-room of the
flat, as planned in the forgotten architect's scheme,--a large and
well-lighted apartment overlooking the street. Here, pausing
beneath the chandelier, he looked about him for a moment,
determining that, as elsewhere, all things were in order--but grey
with dust.

Finding the atmosphere heavy, stale, and oppressive, Maitland
moved over to the windows and threw them open. A gush of warm air,
humid and redolent of the streets, invaded the room, together with
the roar of traffic from its near-by arteries. Maitland rested his
elbows on the sill and leaned out, staring absently into the
night; for by now it was quite dark. Without concern, he realized
that he would be late at dinner. No matter; he would as willingly
miss it altogether. For the time being he was absorbed in vain
speculations about an unknown woman whose sole claim upon his
consideration lay in a certain but immaterial glamour of mystery.
Had she, or had she not, been in the house? And, if the true
answer were in the affirmative: to what end, upon what errand?

His eyes focused insensibly upon a void of darkness beneath him,--
night made visible by street lamps; and he found himself suddenly
and acutely sensible of the wonder and mystery of the City: the
City whose secret life ran fluent upon the hot, hard pavements
below, whose voice throbbed, sibilant, vague, strident,
inarticulate, upon the night air; the City of which he was a part
equally with the girl in grey, whom he had never before seen, and
in all likelihood was never to see again, though the two of them
were to work out their destinies within the bounds of Manhattan
Island. And yet....

"It would be strange," said Maitland thoughtfully, "if...." He
shook his head, smiling. "'_Two shall be born,_'" quoted Mad
Maitland sentimentally,--

"'_Two shall be born the whole wide world apart--_'"

A piano organ, having maliciously sneaked up beneath his window,
drove him indoors with a crash of metallic melody.

As he dropped the curtains his eye was arrested by a gleam of
white upon his desk,--a letter placed there, doubtless, by O'Hagan
in Maitland's absence. At the same time, a splashing and gurgling
of water from the direction of the bath-room informed him that the
janitor-valet was even then preparing his bath. But that could
wait.

Maitland took up the envelope and tore the flap, remarking the
name and address of his lawyer in its upper left-hand corner.
Unfolding the inclosure, he read a date a week old, and two lines
requesting him to communicate with his legal adviser upon "a
matter of pressing moment."

"Bother!" said Maitland. "What the dickens--"

He pulled up short, eyes lighting. "That's so, you know," he
argued: "Bannerman will be delighted, and--and even business is
better than rushing round town and pretending to enjoy yourself
when it's hotter than the seven brass hinges of hell and you can't
think of anything else.... I'll do it!"

He stepped quickly to the corner of the room, where stood the
telephone upon a small side table, sat down, and, receiver to ear,
gave Central a number. In another moment he was in communication
with his attorney's residence.

"Is Mr. Bannerman in? I would like to--"

* * * * *

"Why, Mr. Bannerman! How _do_ you do?"

* * * * *

"You're looking a hundred per cent better--"

* * * * *

"Bad, bad word! Naughty!--"

"Maitland, of course."

* * * * *

"Been out of town and just got your note."

* * * * *

"Your beastly penchant for economy. It's not stamped; I presume
you sent it round by hand of the future President of the United
States whom you now employ as office-boy. And O'Hagan didn't
forward it for that reason."

* * * * *

"Important, eh? I'm only in for the night--"

* * * * *

"Then come and dine with me at the Primordial. I'll put the others
off."

* * * * *

"Good enough. In an hour, then? Good-by." Hanging up the receiver,
Maitland waited a few moments ere again putting it to his ear.
This time he called up Sherry's, asked for the head-waiter, and,
requested that person to be kind enough to make his excuses to
"Mr. Cressy and his party": he, Maitland, was detained upon a
matter of moment, but would endeavor to join them at a later hour.

Then, with a satisfied smile, he turned away, with purpose to
dispose of Bannerman's note.

"Bath's ready, sor."

O'Hagan's announcement fell upon heedless ears. Maitland remained
motionless before the desk--transfixed with amazement.

"Bath's ready, sor!"--imperatively.

Maitland roused slightly.

"Very well; in a minute, O'Hagan."

Yet for some time he did not move. Slowly the heavy brows
contracted over intent eyes as he strove to puzzle it out. At
length his lips moved noiselessly.

"Am I awake?" was the question he put his consciousness.

Wondering, he bent forward and drew the tip of one forefinger
across the black polished wood of the writing-bed. It left a dark,
heavy line. And beside it, clearly defined in the heavy layer of
dust, was the silhouette of a hand; a woman's hand, small,
delicate, unmistakably feminine of contour.

"Well!" declared Maitland frankly, "I _am_ damned!"

Further and closer inspection developed the fact that the imprint
had been only recently made. Within the hour,--unless Maitland
were indeed mad or dreaming,--a woman had stood by that desk and
rested a hand, palm down, upon it; not yet had the dust had time
to settle and blur the sharp outlines.

Maitland shook his head with bewilderment, thinking of the grey
girl. But no. He rejected his half-formed explanation--the obvious
one. Besides, what had he there worth a thief's while? Beyond a
few articles of "virtue and bigotry" and his pictures, there was
nothing valuable in the entire flat. His papers? But he had
nothing; a handful of letters, cheque book, a pass book, a
japanned tin despatch box containing some business memoranda and
papers destined eventually for Bannerman's hands; but nothing
negotiable, nothing worth a burglar's while.

It was a flat-topped desk, of mahogany, with two pedestals of
drawers, all locked. Maitland determined this latter fact by
trying to open them without a key; failing, his key-ring solved
the difficulty in a jiffy. But the drawers seemed undisturbed;
nothing had been either handled, or removed, or displaced, so far
as he could determine. And again he wagged his head from side to
side in solemn stupefaction.

"This is beyond you, Dan, my boy." And: "But I've got to know what
it means."

In the hall O'Hagan was shuffling impatience. Pondering deeply,
Maitland relocked the desk, and got upon his feet. A small bowl of
beaten brass, which he used as an ash-receiver, stood ready to his
hand; he took it up, carefully blew it clean of dust, and inverted
it over the print of the hand. On top of the bowl he placed a
weighty afterthought in the shape of a book.

"O'Hagan!"

"Waitin', sor."

"Come hither, O'Hagan. You see that desk?"

"Yissor."

"Are you sure?"

"Ah, faith--"

"I want you not to touch it, O'Hagan. Under penalty of my extreme
displeasure, don't lay a finger on it till I give you permission.
Don't dare to dust it. Do you understand?"

"Yissor. Very good, Mr. Maitland."

II

POST-PRANDIAL

Bannerman pushed back his chair a few inches, shifting position
the better to benefit of a faint air that fanned in through the
open window. Maitland, twisting the sticky stem of a liqueur glass
between thumb and forefinger, sat in patient waiting for the
lawyer to speak.

But Bannerman was in no hurry; his mood was rather one
contemplative and genial. He was a round and cherubic little man,
with the face of a guileless child, the acumen of a successful
counsel for soulless corporations (that is to say, of a high
order), no particular sense of humor, and a great appreciation of
good eating. And Maitland was famous in his day as one thoroughly
conversant with the art of ordering a dinner.

That which they had just discussed had been uncommon in all
respects; Maitland's scheme of courses and his specification as to
details had roused the admiration of the Primordial's chef and put
him on his mettle. He had outdone himself in his efforts to do
justice to Mr. Maitland's genius; and the Primordial in its deadly
conservatism remains to this day one of the very few places in New
York where good, sound cooking is to be had by the initiate.

Therefore Bannerman sucked thoughtfully at his cigar and thought
fondly of a salad that had been to ordinary salads as his 80-H.-P.
car was to an electric buckboard. While Maitland, with all time at
his purchase, idly flicked the ash from his cigarette and followed
his attorney's meditative gaze out through the window.

Because of the heat the curtains were looped back, and there was
nothing to obstruct the view. Madison Square lay just over the
sill, a dark wilderness of foliage here and there made livid green
by arc-lights. Its walks teemed with humanity, its benches were
crowded. Dimly from its heart came the cool plashing of the
fountain, in lulls that fell unaccountably in the roaring rustle
of restless feet. Over across, Broadway raised glittering walls of
glass and stone; and thence came the poignant groan and rumble of
surface cars crawling upon their weary and unvarying rounds.

And again Maitland thought of the City, and of Destiny, and of the
grey girl the silhouette of whose hand was imprisoned beneath the
brass bowl on his study desk. For by now he was quite satisfied
that she and none other had trespassed upon the privacy of his
rooms, obtaining access to them in his absence by means as
unguessable as her motive. Momentarily he considered taking
Bannerman into his confidence; but he questioned the advisability
of this: Bannerman was so severely practical in his outlook upon
life, while this adventure had been so madly whimsical, so
engagingly impossible. Bannerman would be sure to suggest a call
at the precinct police station.... If she had made way with
anything, it would be different; but so far as Maitland had been
able to determine, she had abstracted nothing, disturbed nothing
beyond a few square inches of dust....

Unwillingly Bannerman put the salad out of mind and turned to the
business whose immediate moment had brought them together. He
hummed softly, calling his client to attention. Maitland came out
of his reverie, vaguely smiling.

"I'm waiting, old man. What's up?"

"The Graeme business. His lawyers have been after me again. I even
had a call from the old man himself."

"Yes? The Graeme business?" Maitland's expression was blank for a
moment; then comprehension informed his eyes. "Oh, yes; in
connection with the Dougherty investment swindle."

"That's it. Graeme's pleading for mercy."

Maitland lifted his shoulders significantly. "That was to be
expected, wasn't it? What did you tell him?"

"That I'd see you."

"Did you hold out to him any hopes that I'd be easy on the gang?"

"I told him that I doubted if you could be induced to let up."

"Then why--?"

"Why, because Graeme himself is as innocent of wrong-doing and
wrong-intent as you are."

"You believe that?"

"I do," affirmed Bannerman. His fat pink fingers drummed uneasily
on the cloth for a few moments. "There isn't any question that the
Dougherty people induced you to sink your money in their
enterprise with intent to defraud you."

"I should think not," Maitland interjected, amused.

"But old man Graeme was honest, in intention at least. He meant no
harm; and in proof of that he offers to shoulder your loss
himself, if by so doing he can induce you to drop further
proceedings. That proves he's in earnest, Dan, for although Graeme
is comfortably well to do, it's a known fact that the loss of a
cool half-million, while it's a drop in the bucket to you, would
cripple him."

"Then why doesn't he stand to his associates, and make them each
pay back their fair share of the loot? That'd bring his liability
down to about fifty thousand."

"Because they won't give up without a contest in the courts. They
deny your proofs--you have those papers, haven't you?"

"Safe, under lock and key," asserted Maitland sententiously. "When
the time comes I'll produce them."

"And they incriminate Graeme?"

"They make it look as black for him as for the others. Do you
honestly believe him innocent, Bannerman?"

"I do, implicitly. The dread of exposure, the fear of notoriety
when the case comes up in court, has aged the man ten years. He
begged me with tears in his eyes to induce you to drop it and
accept his offer of restitution. Don't you think you could do it,
Dan?"

"No, I don't." Maitland shook his head with decision. "If I let
up, the scoundrels get off scot-free. I have nothing against
Graeme; I am willing to make it as light as I can for him; but
this business has got to be aired in the courts; the guilty will
have to suffer. It will be a lesson to the public, a lesson to the
scamps, and a lesson to Graeme--not to lend his name too freely to
questionable enterprises."

"And that's your final word, is it?"

"Final, Bannerman.... You go ahead; prepare your case and take it
to court. When the time comes, as I say, I'll produce these
papers. I can't go on this way, letting people believe that I'm an
easy mark just because I was unfortunate enough to inherit more
money than is good for my wholesome."

Maitland twisted his eyebrows in deprecation of Bannerman's
attitude; signified the irrevocability of his decision by bringing
his fist down upon the table--but not heavily enough to disturb
the other diners; and, laughing, changed the subject.

For some moments he gossiped cheerfully of his new power-boat,
Bannerman attending to the inconsequent details with an air of
abstraction. Once or twice he appeared about to interrupt, but
changed his mind: but because his features were so wholly
infantile and open and candid, the time came when Maitland could
no longer ignore his evident perturbation.

"Now what's the trouble?" he demanded with a trace of asperity.
"Can't you forget that Graeme business and--"

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