The Brass Bowl by Louis Joseph Vance

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The short and thick-set body, however, seemed to have no particular
appreciation of the beauties of nature as exhibited by West One-hundred and
Eighteenth Street on a summer's evening. If anything, he could
apparently have desired a cooling breeze; for, after a moment's doubtful
consideration, he unbuttoned his waistcoat and heaved a sigh of relief.

Then, carefully shifting the butt of a dead cigar from one corner of his
mouth to the other, where it was almost hidden by the jutting thatch of his
black mustache, and drawing down over his eyes the brim of a rusty plug
hat, he thrust fat hands into the pockets of his shabby trousers and
lounged against the polished pillar even more energetically than before: if
that were possible. An unromantic, apathetic figure, fitting so naturally
into his surroundings as to demand no second look even from the most
observant; yet one seeming to possess a magnetic attraction for the eyes of
the hall-boy of the apartment hotel (who, acquainted by sight and hearsay
with the stout gentleman's identity and calling, bent upon him a steadfast
and adoring regard), as well as for the policeman who lorded it on the St.
Nicholas Avenue corner, in front of the real-estate office, and who from
time to time shifted his contemplation from the infinite spaces of the
heavens, the better to exchange a furtive nod with the idler in the hotel
doorway.

Presently,--at no great lapse of time after the short and thick-set man had
stowed away his watch,--out of the thronged sidewalks of Seventh Avenue a
man appeared, walking west on the north side of the street and reviewing
carelessly the numbers on the illuminated fanlights: a tall man, dressed
all in grey, and swinging a thin walking stick.

The short, thick-set person assumed a mien of more intense abstraction than
ever.

The tall man in grey paused indefinitely before the brownstone stoop of the
house numbered 205, then swung up the steps and into the vestibule. Here he
halted, bending over to scrutinize the names on the letter-boxes.

The short, thick-set man reluctantly detached himself from his polished
pillar and waddled ungracefully across the street.

The policeman on the corner seemed suddenly interested in Seventh Avenue;
and walked in that direction.

The grey man, having vainly deciphered all the names on one side of the
vestibule, straightened up and turned his attention to the opposite wall,
either unconscious of or indifferent to the shuffle of feet on the stoop
behind him.

The short, thick-set man removed one hand from a pocket and tapped the grey
man gently on the shoulder.

"Lookin' for McCabe, Anisty?" he inquired genially.

The grey man turned slowly, exhibiting a countenance blank with
astonishment. "Beg pardon?" he drawled; and then, with a dawning gleam of
recognition in his eyes: "Why, good evening, Hickey! What brings you up
this way?"

The short, thick-set man permitted his jaw to droop and his eyes to
protrude for some seconds. "Oh," he said in a tone of great disgust,
"hell!" He pulled himself together with an effort. "Excuse _me_, Mr.
Maitland," he stammered, "I wasn't lookin' for yeh."

"To the contrary, I gather from your greeting that you were expecting our
friend, Mr. Anisty?" And the grey man smiled.

Hickey smiled in sympathy, but with less evident relish of the situation's
humor.

"That's right," he admitted. "Got a tip from the C'miss'ner's office this
evening that Anisty would be here at seven o'clock lookin' for a party
named McCabe. I guess it's a bum tip, all right; but of course I got to
look into it."

"Most assuredly." The grey man bent and inspected the names again. "I
am hunting up an old friend," he explained carelessly: "a man named
Simmons--knew him in college--down on his luck--wrote me yesterday. There
he is: fourth floor, east. I'll see you when I come down, I hope, Mr.
Hickey."

The automatic lock clicked and the door swung open; the grey man passing
through and up the stairs. Hickey, ostentatiously ignoring the existence of
the policeman, returned to his post of observation.

At eight o'clock he was still there, looking bored.

At eight-thirty he was still there, wearing a puzzled expression.

At nine he called the adoring hall-boy, gave him a quarter with minute
instructions, and saw him disappear into the hallway of Number 205. Three
minutes later the boy was back, breathless but enthusiastic.

"Missis Simmons," he explained between gasps, "says she ain't never heard
of nobody named Maitland. Somebody rang her bell a while ago an' apologized
for disturbin' her--said he wanted the folks on the top floor. I guess yer
man went acrost the roofs: them houses is all connected, and yuh c'n walk
clear from the corner here tuh half-way up tuh Nineteenth Street, on Sain'
Nicholas Avenoo."

"Uh-huh," laconically returned the detective. "Thanks." And turning on his
heel, walked westward.

The policeman crossed the street to detain him for a moment's chat.

"I guess it's all off, Jim," Hickey told him. "Some one must've tipped that
crook off. Anyway, I ain't goin' to wait no longer."

"I wouldn't neither," agreed the uniformed member. "Say, who's yer friend
yeh was talkin' tuh, 'while ago?"

"Oh, a frien' of mine. Yeh didn't have no call to git excited then, Jim.
G'night."

And Hickey proceeded westward, a listless and preoccupied man by the vacant
eye of him. But when he emerged into the glare of Eighth Avenue his face
was unusually red. Which may have been due to the heat. And just before
boarding a down-town surface car, "Oh," he enunciated with gusto, "_hell_!"

* * * * *

One A. M.

Not until the rich and mellow chime had merged into the stillness did the
intruder dare again to draw breath. Coming as it had the very moment that
the door had closed noiselessly behind her, the double stroke had sounded
to her like a knell: or, perhaps more like the prelude to the wild alarum
of a tocsin, first striking her heart still with terror, then urging it
into panic flutterings.

But these, as the minutes drew on, marked only by the dull methodic ticking
of the clock, quieted; and at length she mustered courage to move from the
door, against which she had flattened herself, one hand clutching the knob,
ready to pull it open and fly upon the first aggressive sound.

In the interval her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness. The study
door showed a pale oblong on her right; to her left, and a little toward
the rear of the flat, the door of Maitland's bed-chamber stood ajar. To
this she tiptoed, standing upon the threshold and listening with every
fiber of her being. No sounds as of the regular respiration of a sleeper
warning her, she at length peered stealthily within; simultaneously she
pressed the button of an electric hand-lamp. Its circumscribed blaze
wavered over pillows and counterpane spotless and undisturbed.

Then for the first time she breathed freely, convinced that she had been
right in surmising that Maitland would not return that night.

Since early evening she had watched the house from the window of a
top-floor hall bedroom in the boarding-house opposite. Shortly before seven
she had seen Maitland, stiff and uncompromising in rigorous evening dress,
leave in a cab. Since then only once had a light appeared in his rooms; at
about half-after nine the janitor had appeared in the study, turning up the
gas and going to the telephone.

Whatever the nature of the communication received, the girl had taken it to
indicate that Maitland had decided to spend the night elsewhere; for the
study light had burned for some ten minutes, during which the janitor
could occasionally be seen moving mysteriously about; and something later,
bearing a suitcase, he had left the house and shuffled rapidly eastward to
Madison Avenue.

So she felt convinced that she had all the small hours before her, secure
from interruption. And this time, she told herself, she purposed making
assurance doubly sure....

But first to guard against discovery from the street.

Turning back through the hall, she dispensed with the hand-lamp, entering
the darkened study. Here all windows had been closed and the outer shades
drawn--O'Hagan's last act before leaving with the suit-case: additional
proof that Maitland was not expected back that night. For the temperature
was high, the air in the closed room stifling.

Crossing to the windows, the girl drew down the dark green inner shades
and closed the folding wooden shutters over them. And was conscious of a
deepened sense of security.

Next going to the telephone, she removed the receiver from the hook and let
it hang at the full length of the cord. In the dead silence the small
voice of Central was clearly articulate: "_What number? Hello, what
number_?"--followed by the grumbling of the armature as the operator tried
fruitlessly to ring the disconnected bell. The girl smiled faintly, aware
that there would now be no interruption from an inopportune call.

There remained as a final precaution only a grand tour of the flat; which
she made expeditiously, passing swiftly and noiselessly (one contemplating
midnight raids does not attire one's self in silks and starched things)
from room to room, all comfortably empty. Satisfied at last, she found
herself again in the study, and now boldly, mind at rest, lighted the brass
student lamp with the green shade, which she discovered on the desk.

Standing, hands resting lightly on hips, breath coming quickly, cheeks
flushed and eyes alight with some intimate and inscrutable emotion,
she surveyed the room. Out of the dusk that lay beyond the plash of
illumination beneath the lamp, the furniture began to take on familiar
shapes: the divans, the heavy leather-cushioned easy chairs, the tall clock
with its pallid staring face, the small tables and tabourettes, handily
disposed for the reception of books and magazines and pipes and glasses,
the towering, old-fashioned mahogany book-case, the useless, ornamental,
beautiful Chippendale escritoire, in one corner: all somberly shadowed and
all combining to diffuse an impression of quiet, easy-going comfort.

Just such a study as _he_ would naturally have. She nodded silent
approbation of it as a whole. And, nodding, sat down at the desk, planting
elbows on its polished surface, interlacing her fingers and cradling her
chin upon their backs: turned suddenly pensive.

The mood held her but briefly. She had no time to waste, and much to
accomplish.... Sitting back, her fingers sought and pressed the clasp of
her hand-bag, and produced two articles--a golden cigarette case and a
slightly soiled canvas bag. The Maitland jewels were returning by a devious
way, to their owner.

But where to put them, that he might find them without delay? It must be
no conspicuous place, where O'Hagan would be apt to happen upon
them; doubtless the janitor was trustworthy, but still.... Misplaced
opportunities breed criminals.

It was all a risk, to leave the treasure there, without the protection of
nickeled-steel walls and timelocks; but a risk that must be taken. She
dared not retain it longer in her possession; and she would contrive a way
in the morning to communicate with Maitland and warn him.

Her gaze searched the area where the lamplight fell soft yet strong upon
the dark shining wood and heavy brass desk fittings; and paused, arrested
by the unusual combination of inverted bowl and super-imposed book. A
riddle to be read with facility; in a twinkling she had uncovered the
incriminating hand-print--incriminating if it could be traced, that is to
say.

"Oh!" she cried softly. And laughed a little. "Oh, how careless!"

Fine brows puckered, she pondered the matter, and ended by placing her own
hand over the print; this one fitted the other exactly.

"How he must have wondered! He is sure to look again, especially if...."

No need to conclude the sentence. Quickly she placed bag and case squarely
on top of the impression, the bowl over all, and the book upon the bowl;
then, drawing from her pocket a pair of long grey silk gloves, draped one
across the book; and, head tilted to one side, admired the effect.

It seemed decidedly an artistic effect, admirably calculated to attract
attention. She was satisfied to the point of being pleased with herself: a
fact indicated by an expressive flutter of slim, fair hands.... And now,
to work! Time pressed, and.... A cloud dimmed the radiance of her eyes;
irresolutely she shifted in her chair, troubled, frowning, lips woefully
drooping. And sighed. And a still small whisper, broken and wretched,
disturbed the quiet of the study.

"I can not! O, I can not!... To spoil it all, _now_, when...."

Yet she must. She must forget herself and steel her determination with the
memory that another's happiness hung in the balance, depended upon her
success. Twice she had tried and failed. This third time she _must_
succeed.

And bowing her head in token of her resignation, she turned back squarely
to face the desk. As she did so the toe of one small shoe caught against
something on the floor, causing a dull jingling sound. She stooped, with a
low exclamation, and straightened up, a small bunch of keys in her hand:
eight or ten of them dangling from a silver ring: Maitland's keys.

He must have dropped them there, forgetting them altogether. A find
of value and one to save her a deal of trouble: skeleton keys are so
exasperatingly slow, particularly when used by inexpert hands. But how to
bring herself to make use of these? All's fair in war (and this was a sort
of war, a war of wits at least); but one should fight with one's own arms,
not pilfer the enemy's and turn them against him. To use these keys to
ransack Maitland's desk seemed an action even more blackly dishonorable
than this clandestine visit, this midnight foray.

Swinging the notched metal slips from a slender finger, she contemplated
them: and laughed ruefully. What qualms of conscience in a burglar
self-confessed! She was there for a purpose, a recognized, nefarious
purpose. Granted. Then why quibble?... She would not quibble. She would be
firm, resolute, determined, cold-blooded, unmindful of all kindness and
courtesy and.... She would use them, accomplish her purpose, and have done,
finally and for ever, with the whole hateful business!

There was a bright spot of color on either cheek and a hot light of anger
in her eyes as she set about her task. It would never be less hideous,
never less immediate.

The desk drawers yielded easily to the eager keys. One by one she had them
open and their contents explored--vain repetition of yesterday afternoon's
fruitless task. But she must be sure, she must leave no stone unturned.
Maitland Manor was closed to her for ever, because of last night. But here
she was safe for a few short hours, and free to make assurance doubly sure.

There remained the despatch-box, the black japanned tin box which had
proved obdurate yesterday. She had come prepared to break its lock this
time, if need be; Maitland's carelessness spared her the necessity.

She lifted it out of a lower drawer, and put it in her lap. The smallest
key fitted the lock at the first attempt. The lid came up and....

Perhaps it is not altogether discreditable that one should temporarily
forget one's compunctions in the long-deferred moment of triumph. The girl
uttered a little cry of joy.

Crash!--the front door down-stairs had been slammed.

She was on her feet in a breath, faint with fear. Yet not so overcome
that she forgot her errand, her success. As she stood up she dropped the
despatch-box back into the drawer, without a sound, and, opening her
hand-bag, stuffed something into it.

No time to do more: a dull rumble of masculine voices was distinctly,
frightfully audible in the stillness of the house: voices of men conversing
together in the inner vestibule. One laughed, and the laugh seemed to
penetrate her bosom like a knife. Then both strode across the tiling and
began to ascend, as was clearly told her by footsteps sounding deadened on
the padded carpet.

Panic-stricken, she turned to the student lamp and with a quick twirl and
upward jerk of the chimney-catch extinguished the flame. A reek of smoke
immediately began to foul the close, hot air: and she knew that it would
betray her, but was helpless to stop it. Besides, she was caught, trapped,
damned beyond redemption unless ... unless it were not Maitland, after all,
but one of the other tenants, unexpectedly returned and bound for another
flat.

Futile hope. Upon the landing by the door the footsteps ceased; and a key
grated in the wards of the lock.

Blind with terror, her sole thought an instinctive impulse to hide and so
avert discovery until the last possible instant, on the bare chance of
something happening to save her, the girl caught up her skirts and fled
like a hunted shadow through the alcove, through the bed-chamber, thence
down the hall toward the dining-room and kitchen offices.

The outer door was being opened ere she had reached the hiding-place she
had in mind: the trunk-closet, from which, she remembered remarking, a
window opened upon a fire-escape. It was barely possible, a fighting
chance.

She closed the door, grateful that its latch slipped silently into place,
and fairly flung herself upon the window, painfully bruising her soft hands
in vain endeavor to raise the sash. It stuck obstinately, would not yield.
Too late, she remembered that she had forgotten to draw the catch--fatal
oversight! A sob of terror choked in her throat. Already footsteps were
hurrying down the hall; a line of light brightened underneath the door;
voices, excitedly keyed, bandied question and comment, an unmistakable
Irish brogue mingling with a clear enunciation which she had but too great
reason to remember. The pair had passed into the next room. She could hear
O'Hagan announcing: "No wan here, sor."

"Then it's the dining-room, or the trunk-closet. Come along!"

One last, frantic attempt! But the window catch, rusted with long disuse,
stuck. Panting, sick with fear, the girl leaped away and crushed herself
into a corner, crouching on the floor behind a heavy box, her dark cloak
drawn up to shield her head.

And the door opened.

A flood of radiance from the relighted student lamp fell athwart the floor.
The girl lay close and still, holding her breath.

Ten seconds, perhaps, ticked on into Eternity: seconds that were in
themselves eternities. Then: "No one here, O'Hagan."

The door was closed, and through its panels more faintly came: "Faith, and
the murdhering divvle must've flew th' coop afore ye come in, sor."

The girl tried to rise, to make again for the window; but it was as though
her limbs had turned to water; there was no strength in her; and the
blackness swam visibly before her eyes, radiating away in whirling, streaky
circles.

Even such resolution and strong will as was hers could not prevail against
that numbing, deathly exhaustion. Her eyes closed and her head fell back
against the wall.

It seemed but an instant (though it was in point of fact a full five
minutes) ere the sound of a voice again roused her.

She looked up, dazzled by a gush of warm light.

He stood in the doorway, holding the lamp high above his head, his face
pale, grave, and shadowed as he peered down at her.

"I have sent O'Hagan away," he said gently. "If you will please to come,
now----"

IX

PROCRASTINATION

The cab which picked Maitland up at his lodgings carried him but a few
blocks to the club at which he had, the previous evening, entertained his
lawyer. Maitland had selected it as the one of all the clubs of which he
and Bannerman were members, wherein he was least likely to meet the latter.
Neither frequented its sober precincts by habit. Its severe and classical
building on a corner of Madison Avenue overlooking the Square, is but the
outward presentment of an institution to be a member of which is a duty,
but emphatically no great pleasure, to the sons of a New York family of any
prominence.

But in its management the younger generation holds no suffrage; and is not
slow to declare that the Primordial is rightly named, characterizing the
individual members of the Board of Governors as antediluvians, prehistoric
monsters who have never learned that laughter lends a savor to existence.
And so it is that the younger generation, (which is understood to include
Maitland and Bannerman), while it religiously pays its dues and has
the name of the Primordial engraved upon its cards, shuns those deadly
respectable rooms and seeks its comfort elsewhere.

Maitland found it dull and depressing enough, that same evening, something
before seven. The spacious and impressive lounging-rooms were but sparsely
tenanted, other than by the ennuied corps of servants; and the few members
who had lent the open doors the excuse of their presence were of the
elderly type that hides itself behind a newspaper in an easy chair and
snorts when addressed.

The young man strolled disconsolately enough into the billiard-room, thence
(dogged by a specter of loneliness) to the bar, and finally, in sheer
desperation, to the dining-room, where he selected a table and ordered an
evening paper with his meal.

When the former was brought him, he sat up and began to take a new interest
in life. The glaring head-lines that met his eye on the front page proved
as bracing as a slap in the face.

"'The Maitland Jewels,'" he read, half aloud: "'Daring Attempt at Burglary.
"Mad" Maitland Catches "Handsome Dan" Anisty in the Act of Cracking His
Safe at Maitland Manor. Which was Which? Both Principals Disappear.'"

A dull red glow suffused the reader's countenance; he compressed his lips,
only opening them once, and then to emit a monosyllabic oath, which can
hardly have proved any considerable relief to his surcharged emotional
nature.

The news-story was exploited as a "beat"; it could have been little else,
since nine-tenths of its "exclusive details" had been born full-winged from
the fecund imagination of a busy reporter to whom Maitland had refused an
interview while in his bath, some three hours earlier. Maitland discovered
with relief that boiled down to essentials it consisted simply of
the statement that somebody (presumably himself) had caught somebody
(presumably Anisty) burglarizing the library safe at Maitland Manor that
morning: that one of the somebodies (no one knew which) had overpowered the
other and left him in charge of the butler, who had presently permitted his
prisoner to escape and then talked for publication.

It was not to this so much that Maitland objected. It was the illustrations
that alternately saddened and maddened the young man: the said
illustrations comprising blurred half-tone reproductions of photographs
taken on the Maitland estate; a diagram of the library, as fanciful as
the text it illuminated, and two portraits, side by side, of the heroes,
himself and Anisty, excellent likenesses both of the originals and of each
other.

Mr. Maitland did not enjoy his dinner.

Anxious and preoccupied, he tasted the dishes mechanically; and when they
had all passed before him, took his thoughts and a cigar to a gloomy corner
of the smoking-room, where he sat for two solid hours, debating the matter
pro and con, and arriving at no conclusion whatever, save that Higgins was
doomed.

At ten-fifteen he began to contemplate with positive pleasure the prospect
of discharging the butler. That, at least, was action, something that he
could do; wherever else he thought to move he found himself baffled by the
blank darkness of mystery, or by his fear of publicity and ridicule.

At ten-twenty he decided to move upon Greenfields at once, and telephoned
O'Hagan, advising him to profess ignorance of his employer's whereabouts.

At ten-twenty-two, or in the midst of his admonitions to the janitor,
he changed his mind and decided to stay in New York; and instructed the
Irishman to bring him a suit-case containing a few necessaries; his
intention being to stay out the night at the club, and so avoid the
matutinal siege of his lodgings by reporters and detectives.

At ten-forty-five a club servant handed him the card of a representative of
the _Evening Journal_. Maitland directed that the gentleman be shown into
the reception-room.

At ten-forty-six he skulked out of the club by a side entrance, jumped
into a cab and had himself driven to the East Thirty-fourth Street ferry,
arriving there just in time to miss the last train for Greenfields.

Denied the shelter alike of his lodgings, his club, and his country home,
the young man in despair caused himself to be conveyed to the Bartholdi
Hotel, where, possessed of a devil of folly, he preserved his incognito by
registering under the name of "M. Daniels." And straightway retired to his
room.

But not to rest. The portion of the mentally harassed, sleeplessness, was
his; and for an hour or more he tossed upon his bed (upon which he had
thrown himself without troubling to undress), pondering, to no profit of
his, the hundred problems, difficulties, and disadvantages suggested or
created by the events of the past twenty-four hours.

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