Bromley Barnes Detective Page 2

  "But what about yourself--don't you think you'd better retire?"

  "No; I've got something to do."

  And after the faithful one had gone to bed, and his snores were punctuating the silence of the night, Barnes sat at the window of his room with the curtain drawn, gazing out upon the dome of the Capitol, and thinking. A jar, filled with stogies was by his side, and at intervals he leaned over and mechanically picked up a fresh cigar and lit and smoked it. Barnes was more than a detective, active or retired. He was a patriot, and love of country burned in his breast. He was not the flag-waving, hip-hip-hurrah, spread-eagle, vociferous type of American, but rather the kind who thinks deeply and calmly, and believes that upon the success of the experiment made by the Fathers of the Republic depends the hope of the oppressed of all nations.

  He thought of this during the long vigil of the night, and he felt that he would be willing to run any risk to preserve this Government in all of its integrity. The dome of the Capitol seemed to him to symbolize all that was best in the nation. It was a beacon of hope, a light house for the world. In the meantime he was thinking of the problem that faced him. Who had taken the treaty? Where was it? Why had they taken it? Where was it now? And how could it be recovered? Hundreds of reasons and solutions flashed through his mind. One impossibility after another was rejected, until finally, with a shout of joy, he jumped to his feet. He had a theory that covered the whole story, and would lead to the recovery of the thirteenth treaty--under certain contingencies.

  He noticed that it was daylight. The first gray streaks of dawn were beginning to streak the noble outlines of the Capitol dome. He took that as a good augury, and the next moment his spirits were cheered still more by hearing the cheerful morning greetings of Clancy from the adjoining room. A bath and breakfast, and Barnes was ready for the big job. It really started the moment the detective picked up a business directory and began skimming through its pages. Presently he called to his assistant:

  "Take these names and addresses, Clancy--and see that you get them right."

  In quick succession he called off a list of firms in Washington, and then closed the directory with a bang. After that, he paced the floor for several minutes thinking and apparently forgetful of the presence of his lieutenant. When he halted, it was to get down on one knee and open the little safe in a corner of the apartment. He reached in and brought out a red-covered book, much thumb marked.

  "The book of spies," commented Clancy, with a smile.

  "Yes," said the old man, looking up as if he had just recalled the presence of the red-haired one, "the man--or the woman--I want is in this book. I wonder if I can pick out the right one?"

  "I--I hope so," was the fervent comment.

  "The first thing we have to do is to make calls on the persons whose business addresses I have given you," said Barnes, meditatively, "and after that I'll decide whether to go after two of these spies, or whether to invoke the Secret Service and arrest all of the eighty-seven on suspicion."

  "The eighty-seven?"

  "Yes, that's precisely the number of names I have in this book."

  "It's a big job."

  "That's the least part of the difficulty. But I'm fearful of the drag net method. The very fish we want may slip through the meshes."

  Barnes and Clancy divided the list of addresses they had obtained from the business directory, and after the old man had given his assistant explicit directions, they started out on what the investigator called his "canvass for a clew." It was a long and tiresome task, and it was late in the afternoon when they met again. Clancy was dejected. His red hair seemed lusterless, and for a wonder he appeared to have lost his hopefulness. But the face of the old man was shining like the morning sun. He clapped Clancy on the shoulder.

  "There's nothing like meditation before investigation, my boy. I've found the first clew, and it fits into my midnight dream like a bit of marble in a mosaic."

  "What are you going to do now?"

  "I'm going for the two suspects whose names were in my book of spies. And you're going with me. I want your moral and physical support."

  It was dusk when the two men entered the hallway of an apartment house in the northeastern section of Washington. Barnes pressed an electric button beneath a card on which was engraved the name of Mortimer Myers. A feminine voice came through the speaking tube a moment later, and in answer to his inquiry, informed him that the gentleman in question was not at home.

  "Nevertheless," said the old man, with a significant glance at his assistant, "we're going to call on Mr. Mortimer Myers."

  The house was not sufficiently modern to boast of an elevator, and they trudged laboriously up three flights of stairs. Barnes was puffing when he reached the landing, and he mentally resolved to begin physical exercise at the first opportunity. He tapped smartly on the first door in view, and it was opened a few inches by a pale-faced woman with frightened eyes.

  "We're calling on Mr. Myers," began the old man genially, "we--"

  Before he could say any more, the woman started to close the door.

  "He's not in," she exclaimed.

  But the old man placed a determined foot across the surface and was in the room, followed by Clancy, before the scared-looking female had time to realize what was going on.

  "How--how dare you come in here?" she cried, trembling with fear and anger.

  "Pardon the intrusion," replied Barnes, smoothly, "but our business is urgent. We must see Mr. Mortimer Myers."

  "I told you," she said, with quivering lips, "that he was not at home."

  While she was speaking, the detective was making a rapid survey of the room. It was plainly furnished with a walnut wardrobe in one corner. Something about that article of furniture attracted the attention of Barnes. He turned to Clancy with a smile.

  "Have you anything that will serve as a target?"

  The young man looked at his chief curiously. He wondered if he was taking leave of his senses. But, nevertheless, he pulled an envelope from his pocket.

  "Will this do?"

  "Yes, it's just the thing. Now pin it on that wardrobe over there."

  Clancy followed instructions.

  The old man retreated to the far end of the room and produced a small revolver from his hip pocket. The woman advanced toward him with an agonized look on her face.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to try a little experiment; I'm going to try and hit the bull's eye."

  She gave a shriek.

  "Don't shoot; for God's sake, don't shoot!"

  At the same moment the door of the wardrobe was shoved open, and a man emerged, looking sheepish and much disheveled. Bromley Barnes pocketed his pistol and smiled ironically at the unmasked one.

  "I'm sorry that it was necessary to call you from your retirement, but my business would not wait."

  Mr. Mortimer Myers gave a silly laugh.

  "I--I didn't want to see any visitors. What do you want?"

  Barnes looked at him intently and spoke with great deliberation.

  "I want the portfolio you picked up in the rooms of the Committee on Foreign Relations yesterday afternoon."

  The man went pale beneath his dark skin. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue, and after a moment, said:

  "I--I don't know what you are talking about."

  "Oh, yes, you do. I want that portfolio, and I want it right away."

  Mr. Mortimer Myers was gradually regaining his self-possession. When he spoke again, it was in a more defiant tone:

  "I haven't got the article you speak about, and I haven't been near the rooms of the Committee on Foreign Relations. I can account for every minute of yesterday."

  "Ah!" said the old man, significantly, "an alibi!"

  "Yes," retorted the other, raising his voice, "an alibi, if you want to call it that. And now, I'd like to know what you mean by breaking into my rooms in this way. A man's home is his castle and--"

  "Yes," was the purring r
esponse, "even a wardrobe may be a man's castle--sometimes."

  Barnes was moving about the room with seeming aimlessness, but as the suspect dropped his eyes the detective reached over to a table, and furtively picking up a white blotter, slipped it in his pocket.

  "I'll not bandy words with you, sir!" exclaimed Myers.

  "All right," said Barnes, with an air of resignation and implied defeat, "if you won't help us we'll have to say good day."

  He left the room with Clancy, and as soon as they reached the sidewalk they started in the direction of Barnes' quarters near the Capitol. Not a word passed between them until they were safely in the cozy apartments. It was then that Clancy ventured to say:

  "I thought you had two suspected spies on your list. This one and another."

  "Yes," admitted Barnes, absently, "Myers and a woman, but as the woman happened to be in the room with him it won't be necessary to make a special call on her."

  "And yet you left both of them without getting any results."

  The investigator smiled benignly.

  "They'll be watched day and night--I've arranged for that. And as for results, let's take a look at this blotter.'

  As he spoke, he drew the little square of absorbing paper from his pocket. It had evidently been freshly used. The ink marks on it were meaningless at first, but presently, with the aid of a magnifying glass, they deciphered the following:

  drapsaG ot uoy ees

  prahs net

  It must have taken at least thirty minutes to bring out all of the faint lines on the blotter, but finally Barnes turned to his assistant with a smile and had him hold the blotter in front of the mirror. What they beheld from the reflection was faithfully transmitted to paper, and when the missing links were supplied, it said:

  "Gaspard:

  Will see you at ten sharp to-night."

  "My boy," said the old man, triumphantly, "all that we have to do from now until the end of the chapter is to watch and wait."

  "Not here?"

  "Oh, not here. The scene of our activities will be transferred to another part of the town. In the meanwhile, let me see that blue book."

  The veteran investigator carefully studied the list of the names and addresses of the foreign diplomats residing in the city of Washington. Barnes knitted his brows. The volume evidently did not give him the information he desired. But presently he turned to the back of the book and there he found some written memoranda in the copper-plate hand of Cornelius Clancy, and a few newspaper clippings in the form of "futures." The red-headed and hopeful one had kept the directory of diplomats up to date. The very last insertion told of the arrival in the country of Baron Gaspard, who was to represent the new European Alliance at Washington. He had visited the Capital to lease a home, was now in New York, and was expected to return to Washington that evening.

  Five minutes later Barnes and Clancy were in a taxicab speeding in the direction of Georgetown.

  The mansion selected by Baron Gaspard was one of the finest in the national Capital. He was to present his credentials to the Secretary of State at high noon on the following day, and to be received by the President immediately thereafter. His fame was international, and it was quite appropriate that his official home should be in keeping with the importance of his official standing. To-night there seemed to be unusual activity about the neighborhood of the new embassy. More than one vehicle with the coat-of-arms of a foreign nation drove up, and as it paused in the graveled roadway a liveried footman with a high silk hat, a long blue coat and brass buttons, hastened to open the doors of the carriage and escort the visitors to the vestibule of the mansion.

  At precisely ten o'clock a hired taxicab made its way creaking and groaning to the front of the Baron's home, and when it stopped who should alight but Mr. Mortimer Myers. He drew his loose raglan overcoat about his body protectingly, and peered around with the air of a man who is fearful and ill at ease. But while he hesitated, the tall-hatted and brass-buttoned footman came down the pathway and saluted him in military, if not diplomatic, style. He leaned over and whispered to the dark-skinned one:

  "The Baron wants to see you alone--follow me to the lodge."

  Mortimer breathed a sigh of relief, and immediately trailed after the liveried one. The lodge was a one-story stone building at the other entrance to the embassy grounds. A single light was burning in the structure, and the two men could see a bulky form within. The footman opened the door and Mortimer entered. To his surprise, the uniformed one followed him and locked the door from the inside. The spy thought this strange, but he stepped forward with the intention of speaking to Baron Gaspard--and gazed into the muzzle of a revolver in the hands of Bromley Barnes.

  "Trapped!" he gasped, and glanced in the direction of the embassy butler who had led him into the cage. But the high hat and the blue coat had already been discarded, and he saw only the freckled face, the dancing blue eyes, and the red head of Cornelius Clancy.

  "Now," he heard the stern voice of the old investigator saying, "I'll have that portfolio!"

  Slowly and with trembling fingers he unbuttoned his overcoat and from within its folds he produced a black leather portfolio on the outside of which, in ornate silver, were the initials "J. T. B."

  "Secretary Brewster's bag!" gasped the astonished Clancy.

  The words were scarcely out of his mouth before Barnes grabbed the portfolio and opening it, brought out the thirteenth copy of the great treaty. The next minute he pushed the door ajar and whistled softly. Two Secret Service men appeared and accepted the prisoner.

  "If he dares to make an outcry," said Barnes, sternly, "shoot him on the spot."

  While they were going off with Mr. Mortimer Myers, the faithful Clancy was staring at the black leather portfolio like a man in a trance. Barnes laughed at the young man's amazement.

  "It's a perfect imitation of the original, son," he said. "The minute Secretary Brewster told me his story, I knew he had been flim-flammed by the old trick of the bank sneak thieves. A customer is counting his money at a side desk. The crook comes along, and dropping a note on the floor, tells the victim he has lost some of his money, and while he stoops down to pick it up the sneak gets off with the roll."

  "But when Secretary Brewster arose, his portfolio was still there."

  Barnes smiled.

  "Not his portfolio but one that is an exact duplicate. The only flaw was that it was new while Brewster's, as you will note, was partly worn from constant use. I detected that much in my rooms, and when I went to one of the leather shops and found that Mr. Mortimer Myers had ordered a portfolio with the initials 'J. T. B.' on it I knew that that part of the case was complete."

  "How did you know Myers was in the wardrobe in his room?"

  "He gave himself away--the end of his coat was sticking out of the edge of the door."

  "And the woman--"

  "Is his accomplice who did the trick with the handkerchief at the Capitol."

  "Chief," said Clancy, after a moment of hesitation, "you got the treaty all right, but you can't prove anything on Baron Gaspard. You didn't let the thing go far enough."

  "I let it go as far as I dare--my contract was to keep that treaty out of foreign hands. But you're right about one thing, Clancy. The job isn't quite finished. A conspiracy is like a weed--it's got to be torn up by the roots. After you've given that butler's rig back to your Tipperary friend, go to my rooms and you'll see the climax of this little drama."

  As they parted, Barnes went directly to the door of the embassy and asked for Baron Gaspard. The diplomat, a florid-faced man with a waxed mustache and a goatee, appeared in a few moments and demanded brusquely:

  "What do you want?"

  "Baron," said Barnes, in a low voice, "Mr. Mortimer Myers finds it impossible to reach here and wishes you to accompany me to a rendezvous he has selected."

  The man shrugged his shoulders.

  "But that is out of the question--he must come to me."

  "But it is a physi
cal impossibility. He bids me say that you will never forgive yourself if you do not respond. I have a conveyance here. It will not take many minutes."

  The detective spoke with great earnestness, and pointed to the taxicab which still waited in front of the embassy. After a slight hesitation, the Baron shrugged his shoulders--and agreed. In fifteen minutes they were in the bachelor apartments of Bromley Barnes. The rooms appeared to be vacant. The diplomat looked about him and exclaimed impatiently:

  "Come, come, my man, I'm in a hurry."

  "You understand what he was to hand you, I suppose. A very, very important document."

  The representative of the European Alliance, in his eagerness, was taken off his guard.

  "Yes," he cried irritably, "the treaty--the copy of the Pauline treaty!"

  Barnes bowed.

  "The gentleman that has that document is here."

  As he spoke, he drew aside the curtain of the adjoining room and Baron Gaspard was confronted by John T. Brewster, the American Secretary of State.

  The Baron turned as white as a sheet, and when he spoke it was in a husky voice:

  "I--I have made a great blunder!"

  "Yes, Baron," was the cheerful reply, "and in diplomacy a blunder is worse than a crime."

  On the evening of the day of these stirring events, the newspapers carried two stories of sensational importance. The first told of the consummation of the great treaty involving the purchase of the Pauline Islands, and the second announced that Baron Gaspard, prince of diplomats, who had come to represent the European Alliance in Washington, would not even present his credentials, but would return home on the first available steamship. One rumor said that the Baron had been personally affronted by the Secretary of State, and another that he was persona non grata to the American Government. But, however that may be, the Pauline-American treaty was hailed everywhere as a wonderful triumph of statesmanship, while the Gaspard-Brewster affair remained one of the world's greatest diplomatic mysteries.

  II

  ADVENTURE OF THE BOLTED DOOR

  The day of days had arrived--the day when Hugh Helverson was to give a private view of the marvelous contrivance which was to end the submarine peril. The old inventor had spent a month of trying days and sleepless nights in the workshop of his modest cottage on the Woodley Road, and this morning all of official Washington was on the tip-toe of expectation.