The Brass Bowl by Louis Joseph Vance

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In the blackness of that hour a disk of light shone out luridly against the
tapestry of memory. Within its radius appeared two hands, long, supple,
strong, immaculately white, graceful and dexterous, as delicate of contour
as a woman's, yet lacking nothing of masculine vigor and modeling; hands
that wavered against the blackness, fumbling with the shining nickeled
disk of a combination-lock.... The impression had been and remained one
extraordinarily vivid. Could her eyes have deceived her so?...

"Thoughtful?"

She nodded alertly, instantaneously mistress of self; and let her gaze,
serious yet half smiling, linger upon his the exact fractional shade of an
instant longer than had been, perhaps, discreet. Then lashes drooped long
upon her cheeks, and her color deepened all but imperceptibly.

The man's breath halted, then came a trace more rapidly than before. He
bent forward impulsively.

... The girl sighed, ever so gently.

"I was thoughtful.... It's all so strange, you know."

His attitude was an eager question.

"I mean our meeting--that way, last night." She held his gaze again,
momentarily, and----

"Damn the waiter!" quoth savagely Mr. Anisty to his inner man, sitting back
to facilitate the service of their meal.

The girl placated him with an insignificant remark which led both into a
maze of meaningless but infinitely diverting inconsequences; diverting, at
least, to Anisty, who held up his head, giving her back look for look,
jest for jest, platitude for platitude (when the waiter was within hearing
distance): altogether, he felt, acquitting himself very creditably....

As for the girl, in the course of the next half or three-quarters of an
hour she demonstrated herself conclusively a person of amazing resource,
developing with admirable ingenuity a campaign planned on the spur of a
chance observation. The gentle mannered and self-sufficient crook was taken
captive before he realized it, however willing he may have been. Enmeshed
in a hundred uncomprehended subtleties, he basked, purring, the while
she insinuated herself beneath his guard and stripped him of his entire
armament of cunning, vigilance, invention, suspicion, and distrust.

He relinquished them without a sigh, barely conscious of the spoliation.
After all, she was of his trade, herself mired with guilt; she would never
dare betray him, the consequences to herself would be so dire.

Besides, patently,--almost too much so,--she admired him. He was her hero.
Had she not more than hinted that such was the case, that his example, his
exploits, had fired her to emulation--however weakly feminine?... He saw
her before him, dainty, alluring, yielding, yet leading him on: altogether
desirable. And so long had he, Anisty, starved for affection!...

"I am sure you must be dying for a smoke."

"Beg pardon!" He awoke abruptly, to find himself twirling the sharp-ribbed
stem of his empty glass. Abstractedly he stared into this, as though
seeking there a clue to what they had been talking about. Hazily he
understood that they had been drifting close upon the perilous shoals of
intimate personalities. What had he told her? What had he not?

No matter. It was clearly to be seen that her regard for him had waxed
rather than waned as a result of their conversation. One had but to
look into her eyes to be reassured as to that. One did look, breathing
heavily.... What an ingenuous child it was, to show him her heart so
freely! He wondered that this should be so, feeling it none the less a just
and graceful tribute to his fascinations.

She repeated her arch query. She was sure he wanted to smoke.

Indeed he did--if she would permit? And forthwith Maitland's cigarette case
was produced, with a flourish.

"What a beautiful case!"

In an instant it was in her hands. "Beautiful!" she iterated, inspecting
the delicate tracery of the monogram engraver's art--head bended forward,
face shaded by the broad-brimmed hat.

"You like it? You would care to own it?" Anisty demanded unsteadily.

"I?" The inflection of doubtful surprise was a delight to the ear. "Oh!...
I couldn't think of accepting.... Besides, I have no use for it."

"Of course you ain't--_are_ not that sort." An hour back he could have
kicked himself for the grammatical blunder; now he was wholly illuded;
besides, she didn't seem to notice. "But as a little token--between us----"

She drew back, pushing the case across the cloth; "I couldn't dream...."

"But if I insist----?"

"If you insist?... Why I suppose ... it's awfully good of you." She flashed
him a maddening glance.

"You do me pro--honor," he amended hastily. Then, daringly: "I don't ask
much in exchange, only----"

"A cigarette?" she suggested hastily.

He laughed, pleased and diverted. "That'll be enough now--if you'll light
it for me."

She glanced dubiously round the now almost deserted room; and a waiter
started forward as if animated by a spring. Anisty motioned him imperiously
back. "Go on," he coaxed; "no one can see." And watched, flattered, the
slim white fingers that extracted a match from the stand and drew it
swiftly down the prepared surface of the box, holding the flickering flame
to the end of a white tube whose tip lay between lips curved, scarlet, and
pouting.

There! A pale wraith of smoke floated away on the fan-churned air, and
Anisty was vaguely conscious of receiving the glowing cigarette from a hand
whose sheer perfection was but enhanced by the ripe curves of a rounded
forearm.... He inhaled deeply, with satisfaction.

Undetected by him, the girl swiftly passed a furtive handkerchief across
her lips. When he looked again she was smiling and the golden case had
disappeared.

She shook her head at him in mock reproval. "Bold man!" she called him; but
the crudity of it was lost upon him, as she had believed it would be. The
moment had come for vigorous measures, she felt, guile having paved the
way.

"Why do you call me that?"

"To appear so openly, running the gauntlet of the detectives...."

"Eh?"--startled.

"Of course you saw," she insisted.

"Saw? No. Saw what?"

"Why.... Perhaps I am mistaken, but I thought you knew and trusted to your
likeness to Mr. Maitland...."

Anisty frowned, collecting himself, bewildered. "What are you driving at,
anyhow?" he demanded roughly.

"Didn't you see the detectives? I should have thought your man would have
warned you. I noticed four loitering round the entrance, as I came in, and
feared...."

"Why didn't you tell me, then?"

"I have just told you the reason. I supposed you were in your disguise...."

"That's so." The alarmed expression gradually faded, though he remained
troubled. "I sure am Maitland to the life," he continued with satisfaction.
"Even the head-waiter----"

"And of course," she insinuated delicately, "you have disposed of the
loot?"

He shook his head gloomily. "No time, as yet."

Her dismay was evident. "You don't mean to say----?"

"In my pocket."

"Oh!" She glanced stealthily around. "In your pocket!" she whispered.
"And--and if they stopped you----"

"I am Maitland."

"But if they insisted on searching you...." She was round-eyed with
apprehension.

"That's so!" Her perturbation was infectious. His jaw dropped.

"They would find the jewels--known to be stolen----"

"By God!" he cried savagely.

"Dan!"

"I--I beg your pardon. But ... what am I to do? You are sure----?"

"McClusky himself is on the nearest corner!"

"_Phew_!" he whistled; and stared at her, searchingly, through a
lengthening pause.

"Dan...." said she at length.

"Yes?"

"There is a way...."

"Go on."

"Last night, Dan"--she raised her glorious eyes to his--"last night, I ...
I trusted you."

His face hardened ever so slightly; yet when he took thought the tense
lines about his eyes and mouth softened. And she drew a deep breath,
knowing that she had all but won.

"I trusted you," she continued softly. "Do you know what that means? I
trusted _you_."

He nodded, eyes to hers, fascinated, with an odd commingling of fear and
hope and satisfied self-love. "Now I am unconnected with the affair. No one
knows that I had any hand in it. Besides, no one knows me--that I--steal."
Her tone fell lower. "The police have never heard of me. Dan!"

"I--believe----"

"I could get away," she interrupted; "and then, if they stopped you----"

"You're right, by the powers!" He struck the table smartly with his fist.
"You do that and we can carry this through. Why, lacking the jewels, I _am_
Maitland--I am even wearing Maitland's clothes!" he boasted. "I went to his
apartments this morning and saw to that, because it suited my purpose to
_be_ Maitland for a day or two."

"Then----?" Her gaze questioned his.

"Waiter!" cried Anisty. And, when the man was deferential at his elbow:
"Call a cab, at once, please."

"Certainly, sir."

The rest of the corps of servants was at the other end of the big room.
Anisty made certain that they were not watching, then stealthily passed the
canvas bag to the girl. She bent her head, bestowing it in her hand-bag.

"You have made me ... happy, Dan," came tremulously from beneath the
hat-brim.

Whatever doubts may have assailed him when it was too late, by that remark
were effaced, silenced. Who could mistrust her sincerity?...

"Then when and where may I see you again?" he demanded.

"The same place."

It was a bold move; but she was standing; the waiter was back, announcing
the cab in waiting, and he dared not protest. Yet his pat _riposte_
commanded her admiration.

"No. Too risky. If they are watching here, they may be there, too." He
shook his head decidedly. The flicker of doubt was again extinguished; for
undoubtedly Maitland had escorted her home that morning; her reference had
been to that place. "Somewhere else," he insisted, confident that she was
playing fair.

She appeared to think for an instant, then, fumbling in her pocket-book,
extracted a typical feminine pencil stub,--its business-end looking as
though it had been gnawed by a vindictive rat,--and scribbled hastily on
the back of a menu card:

"_Mrs. McCabe, 205 West 118th Street. Top floor. Ring 3 times._"

"I shall be there at seven," she told him. "You won't fail me?"

"Not if I'm still at liberty," he laughed.

And the waiter smiled at discretion, a far-away and unobtrusive smile that
could by no possibility give offense; at the same time it was calculated to
convey the impression that, in the opinion of one humble person, at least,
Mr. Maitland was a merry wag.

"Good-by ... Dan!"

Anisty held her fingers in his hard palm for an instant, rising from his
chair.

"Good-by, my dear," he said clumsily.

He watched her disappear, eyes humid, temples throbbing. "By the powers!"
he cried. "But she's worth it!"

Perhaps his meaning was vague, even to himself. He resumed his seat
mechanically and sat for a time staring dreamily into vacancy, blunt
fingers drumming on the cloth.

"No," he declared at length. "No; I'm safe enough ... in _her_ hands."

* * * * *

Once secure from the public gaze, the girl crowded back into a corner
of the cab, as though trying to efface herself. Her eyes closed almost
automatically; the curve of laughing lips became a doleful droop; a crinkle
appeared between the arched brows; waves of burning crimson flooded her
face and throat.

In her lap both hands lay clenched into tiny fists--clenched so tightly
that it hurt, numbing her fingers: a physical pain that, somehow, helped
her to endure the paroxysms of shame. That she should have stooped so
low!...

Presently the fingers relaxed, and her whole frame relaxed in sympathy. The
black squall had passed over; but now were the once tranquil waters ruffled
and angry. Then languor gripped her like an enemy: she lay listless in its
hold, sick and faint with disgust of self.

This was her all-sufficient punishment: to have done what she had done, to
be about to do what she contemplated. For she had set her hand to the plow:
there must now be no drawing back, however hateful might prove her task....

The voice of the cabby dropping through the trap, roused her. "This is the
Martha Washington, ma'am."

Mechanically she descended from the hansom and paid her fare; then,
summoning up all her strength and resolution, passed into the lobby of the
hotel and paused at the telephone switchboard.

VIII

DANCE OF THE HOURS

Four P. M.

The old clock in a corner of the study chimed resonantly and with
deliberation: four double strokes; and while yet the deep-throated music
was dying into silence the telephone bell shrieked impertinently.

Maitland bit savagely on the gag and knotted his brows, trying to bear it.
The effect was that of a coarse file rasped across raw quivering nerves.
And he lay helpless, able to do no more toward endurance than to dig nails
deep into his palms.

Again and again the fiendish clamor shattered the echoes. Blinding flashes
of agony danced down the white-hot wires strung through his head, taut from
temple to temple.

Would the fool at the other end never be satisfied that he could get no
answer? Evidently not: the racket continued mercilessly, short series of
shrill calls alternating with imperative rolls prolonged until one thought
that the tortured metal sounding-cups would crack. Thought! nay, prayed
that either such would be the case, or else that one's head might at once
mercifully be rent asunder....

That anguish so exquisite should be the means of releasing him from his
bonds seemed a refinement of irony. Yet Maitland was aware, between
spasms, that help was on the way. The telephone instrument, for obvious
convenience, had been equipped with an extension bell which rang
simultaneously in O'Hagan's quarters. When Maitland was not at home the
janitor-valet, so warned, would answer the calls. And now, in the still
intervals, the heavy thud of unhurried feet could be heard upon the
staircase. O'Hagan was coming to answer; and taking his time about it. It
seemed an age before the rattle of pass-key in latch announced him; and
another ere, all unconscious of the figure supine on the divan against the
further study wall, the old man shuffled to the instrument, lifted receiver
from the hook, and applied it to his ear.

"Well, well?" he demanded with that impatience characteristic of the
illiterate for modern methods of communication. "Pwhat the divvle ails ye?"

"Rayspicts to ye, ma'am, and 'tis sorry I am I didn't know 'twas a leddy."

"He's _not_."

"Wan o'clock, there or thereabouts."

"Faith and he didn't say."

"Pwhat name will I be tellin' him?"

"Kape ut to yersilf, thin. 'Tis none of me business."

"If ye do, I'll not answer. Sure, am I to be climbin' two flights av
sthairs iv'ry foive minits----"

"Good-by yersilf," hanging up the receiver. "And the divvle fly away wid
ye," grumbled O'Hagan.

As he turned away from the instrument Maitland managed to produce a sound,
something between a moan and a strangled cough. The old man whirled on his
heel. "Pwhat's thot?"

The next instant he was bending over Maitland, peering into the face drawn
and disfigured by the gag. "The saints presarve us! And who the divvle are
ye at all? Pwhy don't ye spake?"

Maitland turned purple; and emitted a furious snort.

"Misther Maitland, be all thot's strange!... Is ut mad I am? Or how did
ye get back here and into this fix, sor, and me swapin' the halls and
polishin' the brasses fernist the front dure iv'ry minute since ye wint
out?"

Indignation struggling for the upper hand with mystification in the
Irishman's brain, he grumbled and swore; yet busied his fingers. In a trice
the binding gag was loosed, and ropes and straps cast free from swollen
wrists and ankles. And, with the assistance of a kindly arm behind his
shoulders, Maitland sat up, grinning with the pain of renewing circulation
in his limbs.

"Wid these two oies mesilf saw ye lave three hours gone, sor, and I c'u'd
swear no sowl had intered this house since thin. Pwhat does ut all mane, be
all thot's holy?"

"It means," panting, "brandy and soda, O'Hagan, and be quick."

Maitland attempted to rise, but his legs gave under him, and he sank
back with a stifled oath, resigning himself to wait the return of normal
conditions. As for his head, it was threatening to split at any moment, the
tight wires twanging infernally between his temples; while the corners of
his mouth were cracked and sore from the pressure of the gag. All of which
totted up a considerable debit against Mr. Anisty's account.

For Maitland, despite his suffering, had found time to figure it out to his
personal satisfaction--or dissatisfaction, if you prefer--in the interval
between his return to consciousness and the arrival of O'Hagan. It was
simple enough to deduce from the knowledge in his possession that the
burglar, having contrived his escape through the disobedience of Higgins,
should have engineered this complete revenge for the indignity Maitland had
put upon him.

How he had divined the fact of the jewels remaining in their owner's
possession was less clear; and yet it was reasonable, after all, to presume
that Maitland should prefer to hold his own. Possibly Anisty had seen
the girl slip the canvas bag into Maitland's pocket while the latter was
kneeling and binding his captive. However that was, there was no denying
that he had trailed the treasure to its hiding-place, unerringly; and
succeeded in taking possession of it with consummate skill and audacity.
When Maitland came to think of it, he recalled distinctly the trend of the
burglar's inquisition in the character of "Mr. Snaith," which had all been
calculated to discover the location of the jewels. And, when he did recall
this fact, and how easily he had been duped, Maitland could have ground his
teeth in melodramatic rage--but for the circumstance that when first it
occurred to him, such a feat was a physical impossibility, and even when
ungagged the operation would have been painful to an extreme.

Sipping the grateful drink which O'Hagan presently brought him, the young
man pondered the case; with no pleasure in the prospect he foresaw. If
Higgins had actually communicated the fact of Anisty's escape to the
police, the entire affair was like to come out in the papers,--all of
it, that is, that he could not suppress. But even figuring that he could
silence Higgins and O'Hagan,--no difficult task: though he might be
somewhat late with Higgins,--the most discreet imaginable explanation of
his extraordinary conduct would make him the laughing stock of his circle
of friends, to say nothing of a city that had been accustomed to speak of
him as "Mad Maitland," for many a day. Unless....

Ah, he had it! He could pretend (so long as it suited his purpose, at all
events), to have been the man caught and left bound in Higgins' care.
Simple enough: the knocking over of the butler would be ascribed to a
natural ebullition of indignation, the subsequent flight to a hare-brained
notion of running down the thief. And yet even that explanation had its
difficulties. How was he to account for the fact that he had failed to
communicate with the police--knowing that his treasure had been ravished?

It was all very involved. Mr. Maitland returned the glass to O'Hagan
and, cradling his head in his hands, racked his brains in vain for a
satisfactory tale to tell. There were so many things to be taken into
consideration. There was the girl in grey....

Not that he had forgotten her for an instant; his fury raged but the higher
at the thought that Anisty's interference had prevented his (Maitland's)
keeping the engagement. Doubtless the girl had waited, then gone away in
anger, believing that the man in whom she had placed faith had proved
himself unworthy. And so he had lost her for ever, in all likelihood: they
would never meet again.

But that telephone call?

"O'Hagan," demanded the haggard and distraught young man, "who was that on
the wire just now?"

Being a thoroughly trained servant, O'Hagan had waited that question in
silence, a-quiver with impatience though he was. Now, his tongue unleashed,
his words fairly stumbled on one another's heels in his anxiety to get them
out in the least possible time. "Sure, an' 'twas a leddy, sor, be the v'ice
av her, askin' were ye in, and mesilf havin' seen ye go out no longer ago
thin wan o'clock and yersilf sayin' not a worrud about comin' back at all
at all, pwhat was I to be tellin' her, aven if ye were lyin' there on the
dievan all unbeknownest to me, which the same mesilf can not----"

"Help!" pleaded the young man feebly, smiling. "One thing at a time,
please, O'Hagan. Answer me one question: Did she give a name?"

"She did not, sor, though mesilf----"

"There, there! Wait a bit. I want to think."

Of course she had given no name; it wouldn't be like her.... What was he
thinking of, anyway? It could not have been the grey girl; for she knew him
only as Anisty; she could never have thought him himself, Maitland.... But
what other woman of his acquaintance did not believe him to be out of town?

With a hopeless gesture, Maitland gave it up, conceding the mystery too
deep for him, his intellect too feeble to grapple with all its infinite
ramifications. The counsel he had given O'Hagan seemed most appropriate to
his present needs: One thing at a time. And obviously the first thing that
lay to his hand was the silencing of O'Hagan.

Maitland rallied his wits to the task. "O'Hagan," said he, "this man,
Snaith, who was here this afternoon, called himself a detective. As soon
as we were alone he rapped me over the head with a loaded cane, and, I
suspect, went through the flat stealing everything he could lay hands
on.... Hand me my cigarette case, please."

"'Tis gone, sor--'tis not on the desk, at laste, pwhere I saw ut last."

"Ah! You see?... Now for reasons of my own, which I won't enter into, I
don't want the affair to get out and become public. You understand? I want
you to keep your mouth shut, until I give you permission to open it."

"Very good, sor." The janitor-valet had previous experiences with
Maitland's generosity in grateful memory; and shut his lips tightly in
promise of virtuous reticence.

"You won't regret it.... Now tell me what you mean by saying that you saw
me go out at one this afternoon?"

Again the flood gates were lifted; from the deluge of explanations and
protestations Maitland extracted the general drift of narrative. And in the
end held up his hand for silence.

"I think I understand, now. You say he had changed to my grey suit?"

O'Hagan darted into the bedroom, whence he emerged with confirmation of his
statement.

"'Tis gone, sor, an'--."

"All right. But," with a rueful smile, "I'll take the liberty of
countermanding Mr. Snaith's order. If he should call again, O'Hagan, I very
much want to see him."

"Faith, and 'tis mesilf will have a worrud or two to whispher in the ear av
him, sor," announced O'Hagan grimly.

"I'm afraid the opportunity will be lacking: ... You may fix me a hot
bath now, O'Hagan, and put out my evening clothes. I'll dine at the club
to-night and may not be back."

And, rising, Maitland approached a mirror; before which he lingered for
several minutes, cataloguing his injuries. Taken altogether, they amounted
to little. The swelling of his wrists and ankles was subsiding gradually;
there was a slight redness visible in the corners of his mouth, and a
shadow of discoloration on his right temple--something that could be
concealed by brushing his hair in a new way.

"I think I shall do," concluded Maitland; "there's nothing to excite
particular comment. The bulk of the soreness is inside."

* * * * *

Seven P. M.

"Time," said the short and thick-set man casually, addressing no one in
particular.

He shut the lid of his watch with a snap and returned the timepiece to his
waistcoat pocket. Simultaneously he surveyed both sides of the short block
between Seventh and St. Nicholas Avenues with one comprehensive glance.

Presumably he saw nothing of interest to him. It was not a particularly
interesting block, for that matter: though somewhat typical of the
neighborhood. The north side was lined with five-story flat buildings,
their dingy-red brick façades regularly broken by equally dingy brownstone
stoops, as to the ground floor, by open windows as to those above. The
south side was mostly taken up by a towering white apartment hotel with
an ostentatious entrance; against one of whose polished stone pillars the
short and thick-set man was lounging.

The sidewalks, north and south, swarmed with children of assorted ages,
playing with that ferocious energy characteristic of the young of Harlem;
their blood-curdling cries and premature Fourth-of-July fireworks created
an appalling din: to which, however, the more mature denizens had
apparently become callous, through long endurance.

Beyond the party-colored lights of a drug-store window on Seventh Avenue,
the electric arcs were casting a sickly radiance upon the dusty leaves of
the tree-lined drive. The avenue itself was crowded with motor-cars and
horse-drawn pleasure vehicles, mostly bound up-town, their occupants
seeking the cooler airs and wider spaces to be found beyond the Harlem
River and along the Speedway. A few blocks to the west Cathedral Heights
bulked like a great wall, wrapped in purple shadows, its jagged contour
stark against an evening sky of suave old rose.

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