Читать книгу The Folded Paper Mystery - Footner Hulbert - Страница 8

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When Fin, flying blindly from the scene of the murder, found that he had reached the ferry terminal without being followed, he paused to try to take stock of the situation. But his brain was spinning like a teetotum; it was impossible for him to think clearly. He was shocked upon looking into the mirror of a slot-machine to catch a glimpse of his own face. Pale, haggard and wild-eyed, no wonder people in the street had stared.

Under the circumstances an honest man’s first impulse is to communicate with the police. But Nick Peters when the first attack was made on him had been so desperately averse to seeking the aid of the police he must have had a good reason for it. Fin felt that he owed it to his dead friend to find out what his reason was, before going counter to his wishes. On the other hand if he delayed notifying the police it would leave him open to grave censure, if not to the suspicion of having murdered the man himself? He could decide nothing.

In addition to the confusion of his thoughts, his heart was heavy with grief for the loss of his friend, and the self-accusation still rang in his ears: If I had acted with better judgment I might have saved him!

In his helplessness the young man remembered Amos Lee Mappin. At such a moment the thought of that humane, cool-minded man was like a ray of light in impenetrable gloom. Of all men living Mappin, the expert in crime, the high-minded gentleman, was the best qualified to advise in such a crisis. Fin made up his mind to consult him before taking any other step. How thankful he was he had such a friend.

He took the tube to Manhattan and a taxi to Mappin’s apartment. Taxis during the last twenty hours had taken all his money, but he reflected that he could certainly borrow from his well-to-do friend in such an emergency.

Mappin lived in one of the big apartment houses overhanging the cliffs bordering the east river. In addition to the luxuries common to such houses, this one provided its tenants with a yacht landing in the basement. You approached the building through a slum, but the windows of Mr. Mappin’s vast living-room on the twentieth floor commanded a panorama that embraced the whole river between the Queensboro’ and the Williamsburgh Bridges.

Fin found his friend serenely breakfasting out on his lofty balcony in a flowered dressing-gown. Mr. Mappin was a small man always beautifully turned out in a style that held a true line between the conspicuous and the common. He had a neat round belly, a round bald head, and he wore round spectacles with thin gold rims. It was his passion to treat himself—and his friends, to the best in life, and he had the means to satisfy it; good pictures, fine bindings, incomparable wines and cigars. A dilettante in the fine old sense. He wrote for the love of writing. His infrequent books did not sell by the hundreds of thousands, but they were instinct with a grace and wisdom that made them prized by the discriminating the world over. Mr. Mappin was a bachelor.

He exclaimed in dismay at the sight of his young friend’s white face and staring eyes. “Good God, Finlay, what’s the matter? You look as if you hadn’t slept for a week.”

“Matter enough,” muttered Fin.

“Have you breakfasted?”

Fin shook his head. “Can’t stop to eat now.”

“You must eat,” said Mr. Mappin firmly.

“Let me tell you——”

“Not a word until I have ordered your breakfast.”

Mr. Mappin pressed a button that summoned Jermyn. Jermyn naturally was the ne plus ultra among gentleman’s gentleman, and he was a good deal more beside; he was counted a friend by all his master’s friends. He greeted Fin cheerfully.

“A quick breakfast for Mr. Corveth, Jermyn, please,” said his master. “Fruit, bacon and eggs, fresh coffee.”

When Jermyn had retired Mr. Mappin said: “Bring a chair out, Finley, and fire away. You will excuse me if I go on eating. Food chills so quickly in the open air.”

Fin sat down, and pressed his aching head between his hands in an effort to bring some order into his thoughts. He desired to tell a plain and concise tale. He began to talk.

Now, Mr. Mappin prided himself upon never being taken aback by life, but on this occasion his savoir faire deserted him. Fin had not uttered half a dozen sentences before the older man laid down his knife and fork, and stared. “Good God!” he muttered. “Amazing! Amazing!”

It was an immense relief to Fin to get it all off his chest. Mr. Mappin was a wonderful listener. He grasped a situation with half a word. Upon finishing his tale Fin could have wept with gratitude and weariness, and sheer heart-break, but breakfast appeared in the nick of time to give him fresh courage.

Mr. Mappin had Jermyn spread the meal inside, so that while Fin ate he could walk up and down, and question him. He said he required leg action to induce his wits to work properly. Maybe that was why he had provided himself with a living-room fifty feet long. His questions went unerringly to the heart of the matter.

“First of all,” he said briskly, “you must get rid of this notion that you are to blame for Nick Peters’ death. That is merely weak-minded. Suppose you had gone directly to his store what would have happened? They would expect you to go there direct. They were certainly laying for you. They would have got you and Peters both, and would have recovered the brass ball into the bargain.”

Fin began to feel better. “Why did they kill Nick before he got the brass ball back?” he asked helplessly.

“To prevent him from telling you its secret,” Mr. Mappin answered instantly. “Have you got it?”

Fin handed it over. The little man weighed it and studied it. Just a common brass ball that had ornamented a cheap bedstead, but it made their hearts beat fast. It had a hole in the bottom where it had been screwed to the bed. Mr. Mappin thrust the point of an orange stick into the hole and delicately probed it.

“Three-eighths of an inch thick,” he murmured. “One can feel the hard object inside. It has been wrapped in something to protect it.” He pointed out a line showing where the ball had once been sawed in two, then brazed together again and buffed to hide the joining. “An expert worker in metals did it,” he remarked. “Probably Peters himself.... I’ll open it while you eat.”

Fin, however, leaped from the table. They adjourned to the small room that Mr. Mappin called his “shop.” He built ship models in his hours of ease. His present work a quaint galleon of the sixteenth century, complete down to the last tiny detail, rested upon chocks waiting to receive her rigging. All the tools that they required were on hand here. Mr. Mappin screwed the brass ball between the jaws of a vice and started to saw along the faint line that marked the previous joining, stopping often to turn the ball that the saw might not damage its contents. Fin looked on with a fast beating heart.

The two halves finally separated, and they saw a little cotton bag lying within. When Mr. Mappin ripped the stitches, the great emerald slipped out on his palm, and a sigh of satisfaction escaped them both. So far so good. It was not a single emerald, but two matched halves set in gold and put together to form a locket. There was a gold ring in the top to hang it by. Upon being held to the light it was seen to be opaque. A marvellous jewel! Magical green fire gleamed from its depths.

“This in itself would provide the girl with a handsome dowry!” said Mr. Mappin, holding it up by the ring to flash in the sunlight.

“Never mind the emerald!” said Fin breathlessly. “See what’s inside!”

Mr. Mappin found the hidden spring, and the locket opened on his hand. Within it lay a square of white paper folded up small. Mr. Mappin himself forgot the emerald then. It clattered to the bench unheeded while he opened up the paper with trembling fingers. Fin looked over his shoulder, his eyes fairly starting from his head.

A groan of disappointment broke from them both. The paper was blank. Mr. Mappin turned it over and back again. Blank on both sides!

“Oh, God, what a sell!” cried Fin.

Mr. Mappin said nothing.

“They have overreached us!” cried Fin.

“That’s impossible!” said Mr. Mappin sharply. “We are the first to see it.”

“Well, we’re sold somehow.”

“Perhaps not,” said Mr. Mappin thoughtfully; “it may not be as blank as it seems!”

“What!”

“We can’t stop to make tests now. Murder will not wait.”

He locked the emerald and the paper in his safe.