Читать книгу Officer 666 - Barton Wood Currie - Страница 19

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The little Jap was still posed in an attitude of bewilderment as the two outside doors slammed and Officer 666 went down the front steps to resume the tread of his beat and the breaking of fragile hearts.

When he did emerge from his trance he returned to the task of getting the great room in order with the same snappy energy he had displayed when the uniformed minion of the law broke in upon him. He had removed the covers from the chairs and was dusting off a great carved chest that stood against the wall to the right of the doorway when the door bell rang. Bateato jumped and then waited for a second ring. Stepping warily out into the hallway, he looked to see if it was the grim official in blue and buttons.

“Ha!” he exclaimed. “No more police,” and he shot to the door and opened it for that debonnair young gentleman who was one day to inherit the mustard millions of Old Grim Barnes.

“Hello there, Bateato,” Whitney Barnes greeted the little Jap cordially. “Did your master show up yet?”

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“He no come,” grinned Bateato, shutting the door and leading the way into the room he had been preparing for his master’s arrival. As Whitney Barnes stepped into the room the Jap asked:

“’Scuse me, Mr. Barnes––you see Mr. Gladwin?”

“No, nor his double, Thomas Smith of the Ritz; but he asked me to meet him here at 5 o’clock, Bateato.”

“Ees sair!” lisped the Jap, with a bob of the head; then dived back to his occupation of making the long deserted room look presentable.

As Bateato followed his master’s friend into the room he switched on the full glare of electric lights that depended from the ceiling or blazed through the shades of many lamps. Whitney Barnes blinked for a moment, and then started as his gaze was directed to the walls hung with masterpieces.

The work of Rubens, Rembrandt, Coret, Meissonier, Lely, Cazzin, Vegas, Fragonard, Reynolds and a score others of the world’s greatest masters leaped across his vision as he turned from wall to wall, revolving on his heel.

“Whew!” he ejaculated. “I didn’t know that Travers went in for this sort of thing. He certainly is the secretive little oyster when he wants to be.”

Still studying the portraits and landscapes and allegorical groups, he voiced to Bateato a sudden thought.

“By the way, Bateato, do you know what it was that brought your master back in this strange fashion and the reason for all this secrecy?”

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“No, sair,” responded the Jap.

“Well, it’s damned peculiar!” muttered the young man to himself, and proceeded on a tour about the room to examine more closely its wealth of art treasure. He had been engaged in this way about five minutes when the door bell rang and Bateato cried:

“Here Mr. Gladwin now.”

“How do you know that Bateato?” quizzed the young man absently, his attention being gripped by a stunning aphrodite rising from the sea in a glory of nudity and rainbows.

The Jap paused a second on his way to the door, and replied:

“’Cause no one know he home but Mr. Barnes. Thees house close up much long time and Mr. Gladwin make papers say he in Egypt.”

In the same breath in which he maximed this volley of words the little Jap projectiled himself from the room.

“His deductions are marvellous,” said Whitney Barnes, solemnly addressing a bronze bust of Philip of Macedon. He turned in time to meet the brisk entrance of Travers Gladwin, alias Thomas Smith of the Ritz.

The two shook hands warmly and looked into each other’s faces with quizzical smiles. They were about of an age, both unusually good looking and bearing themselves with that breezy, confident manner that is characteristic of young men who have been coddled in swan’s-down all their lives.

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“Well, well, well, Travers!”

“Hello, Whitney, old boy!”

The greeting sprang from their lips simultaneously, and after he had tossed his hat and cane to his valet Travers Gladwin continued:

“Didn’t expect to see me so soon, did you, old scout?”

“I should say I didn’t. Why, when I got that telegram of yours to call up Thomas Smith at the Ritz it certainly was some jar to my delicate nervous system.”

Travers Gladwin laughed and rubbed his hands.

“Did it, though?” he cried. “Gave you a real thrill, eh?”

“Exact and specific––a real thrill.”

“Well, you’re lucky––a surprise and a thrill. I’d give anything for a real surprise––I’ve hunted this little planet’s four corners for one and failed to connect.”

“If you can’t achieve ’em you seem to be in the business of manufacturing ’em. Come along now, what’s all this thundering mystery. I’m shot to pieces with curiosity. What’s happened to make you come home like this?”

“Watkins!” replied Travers Gladwin curtly.

“Watkins! What Watkins? Who’s Watkins?”

“Watkins is my man––I mean, Watkins was my man before I found out that he was systematically robbing me.”

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“Oh, I remember now. A jolly good servant, though. So he robbed you, did he? But they all do.”

“Yes, but they don’t always get found out––caught with the goods, as the police say. I caught Watkins with the goods and sacked him.”

“But you don’t mean to tell me that you came kiting home from the pyramids and the lovely Sahara desert just because this chap Watkins was dishonest?” said Whitney Barnes, in tones of incredulity.

“No, Whitney,” replied Gladwin, dropping into a chair and puckering his forehead with a frown. “Watkins was only the start of it. I got rid of him six months ago. But while I was on my way to Egypt I learned that Watkins and my lawyer had been in some sort of a secret correspondence before I gave Watkins the bounce.”

“What lawyer? Not ‘Old Reliable’ Forbes? Why, I thought he wore a certified halo.”

“So did I, but I’ve got news to the contrary, and you know he has charge of everything for me––keeps all my securities––has a power of attorney––signs checks and all that.”

“That sounds bad,” said Whitney Barnes, sympathetically. “The old saint could come pretty close to ruining you.”

“Now you’ve hit it,” assented Gladwin. “So I’ve come home to investigate––sleuthing expedition, you might say. Didn’t want him to hear I was coming 55 and climb out. Now you’ve got the answer to the gumshoe riddle. My plan is to lie low and have you look him up. Nothing else on foot, Whitney? Haven’t gone into mustard or Wall street, have you?”

It was Whitney Barnes’s turn to construct a frown and take on an air of intense seriousness, while his friend smiled at him, thinking it was one of his humorous moods.

“Can’t say I have anything definite on foot,” said Barnes slowly, “but the pater has given me a rather important commission to fulfil, though not exactly in mustard.”

“Well, then,” said Travers Gladwin with a trace of annoyance, “I’d better call on somebody else. I”––

“Nothing of the sort,” broke in Whitney Barnes. “It may fit right in with my plans. It’ll keep me circulating round a lot and that’s just what I want––that and what Bateato is bringing,” as the little brown man entered the room on the run, bearing a silver tray, decanter and glasses.

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