Sing Sing Nights Read online

She answered him in the same low tone: “It was the man whom I described to you in the conservatory — the clubman to whom father is so partial that I’m sure he is going to try to induce me to marry him: Mr. Cawthorne — Mr. Wellington Cawthorne.”

  Casperson emitted a soft whistle. Wellington Cawthorne — W.C.; Aloysius Silvester — A.S. Yellow Moth. It was plain beyond everything now. He weighed another question, then put it:

  “Shirley, did any member of your family know what costume Mr. Cawthorne was to come in? And where does he live?

  She paused, evidently thinking. “Well, Wilk, as to your first question, he and Malcolm, at the last musicale, when Mr. di Paoli played, had an extended discussion of the subject of novel masquerade suits. It is quite probable that Malcolm was aware of how Mr. Cawthorne intended to come costumed. He lives at the Plaza Hotel, near Lincoln Park.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been a great help. Be patient, dear, I’ll tell you all in time. Before long I’ll try to speak to you again by ‘phone. Good-bye.”

  He hung up, and, dropping back into his seat, heaved a sigh of relief. Somehow, the thought that Malcolm had been a thief — a thief of his own sister’s necklace — hadn’t hurt Casperson so much, realising as he did the desperation of the young fellow; but the fact that young Eldredge had conspired to draw down suspicion on Casperson was the thrust that hurt. But a grim smile played on his face as the more comforting explanation and theory sifted into his consciousness.

  This is how Casperson now reconstructed the affair: Malcolm, preparing to steal his sister’s necklace at her birthday ball, had arranged his plan long ahead of time, using his knowledge of some connection existing between Wellington Cawthorne and Professor Aloysius Silvester. How he had known of that connection was doubtful at this point of the investigation. Had Cawthorne, at the Eldredge home, mentioned his acquaintance, or perhaps some impending deal with the famous moth-collector? However the knowledge was obtained, Malcolm’s intentions were to get Cawthorne out of the hall at the time he stole the necklace, and thus clear the boards for him, Casperson, who all the time he had seemed to favour. Unfortunately, Cawthorne had arrived late at the ball, Casperson had come garbed also as a yellow moth, and he had been the one to rush madly out of the place, interpreting the signature A.S. as that of Arthur Sennet. Oh, what a jumble of circumstances!

  From this point Casperson’s mind roved to the matter of the dead Silvester and the dying, rubber-stamped accusation he had left behind him: “Find Ushi — he knows.” Of a sudden he sprang to his feet.

  “Eureka!” he cried. “Eureka! I’ve found it at last. The man was dying, weak. He was — ”

  He stopped. Out in the hall was the sound of footsteps followed by a sharp staccato tapping at the door. He looked in that direction and called, “Come in!”

  The door opened, and a man in smart clothes, carrying a cane, looked hesitatingly in. His face riveted itself immediately upon the telephone on the wall close by the door, and he even glanced at the number plate carefully. He was clean and neat, his eyes held a sharp, ratlike look, with a pronounced suggestion of shiftiness in them. And his face! It was of a peculiar cast — flat, squat, almost Chinese.

  He was the first to speak. “Am I addressing Mr. Wilk Casperson?” he asked.

  CHAPTER XV

  A STEEL-BACKED PROPOSITION

  THE newcomer entered and closed the door carefully behind him. “Like to have a few words with you, Casperson, if you’ve a minute or so. Tried to get you on your ‘phone many times to-day, but wasn’t successful.”

  “I see. Have a seat,” Casperson pointed to a chair across the room. The stranger, however, ignored the proffered chair, and dropped into a hard, straight one directly between Casperson and the door. “What did you say your name was?”

  The other placed his cane across his knees. “Name hardly matters,” he replied pleasantly. He smiled, splitting his peculiar moonface so that it showed two rows of white, smooth, wolfish-looking teeth. He gazed about the room solicitously, then spoke in cold, level tones — so low that they could hardly penetrate the walls or the door.

  “Casperson, I read about your stunt in the paper this morning. I must congratulate you. It was a master stroke. But may I ask one question: why did you lose your nerve and beat it? You should have stashed it somewhere in the place.”

  Casperson, aghast, stared at his visitor. “A master stroke. Should have stashed it,” he repeated. “Look here — who are you and what are you driving at?”

  The visitor smiled again; into his eyes came a wolfish light. “I mean that if I had pulled the stunt off — if you hadn’t got to it before me — I’d never have jumbled things by trying to make a get-away. You fool, don’t you know that you’ve been followed all day by detectives, watching your every move?”

  Casperson slid to the edge of the chair. “Say, what are you driving at? And once more, who are you? Are you a reporter? What do you mean by my ‘making a get-away’? You’re assuming out and out that I stole the necklace at the Eldredge ball last night.”

  The moon-faced man smiled. “Chuck it, Casperson, chuck it. It was a bully stunt. I had expected to turn the trick myself, but when I got to my dance with her young ladyship, it was gone. In other words, you beat me to it. And when I read about it in the papers this morning, I couldn’t quite figure out whether you were my superior or my inferior, on account of your getting panic-stricken and trying to get out of the place.”

  It was on Casperson’s lips to break out into some strong language, but he held himself together with all his might. He studied the fellow in front of him, trying to fathom what errand it was he had come on.

  “Well, what is it you want, anyway?” he asked quietly.

  “My dear boy, would it interest you to know that there’s a man posted at the corner now, watching this room of yours like a hawk? Do you realise at all that you’ve as much chance of disposing of that necklace as a snowball down below? Do you know how I got into this house? Do you know that I made the roof at the end of the block where the partly built flat building stands, crossed the housetops, noted the terminals of the two sets of ‘phone wires entering this house, came down the trapdoor in the top floor bathroom, and found your room by inquiring from someone on the second floor, who thought I came in by the street door, admitted by the honourable landlady?”

  “No.” Casperson was lost in bewilderment.

  “Do you know that the man watching this place, waiting, keeping you in the background until the minute you try to cash in on that necklace, doesn’t even know that I’m here? Never mind who I am. If he had seen me come in he’d have pinched me sure — had the whole house raided, I guess. And you’d have picked ten years in the pen from the mess. However, all this bores you. Enough for me to say that I’m going out the same way I came in. And I’m going to retrace my path across the roofs. And I’m going to have that necklace with me when I leave. I’m going to place that string of sparklers quick for you, and for better money than you can realise on it alone. I’m going to clear you — put you in a position where they can dog your steps for the next year and get nothing on you. I’m going to charge you just half of what I turn it over for, as my bit for helping you out. Now do you see why I dropped in on you?”

  Casperson gritted his teeth. He rose, stepped to the window, and looked up the street. There, leaning against a lamp-post and staring abstractedly down the street, was a solitary figure who had the undoubted bearing of a detective. And Casperson had seen enough of them in old newspaper days. He shook his head slowly. Thus far he hadn’t even realised that he was being followed from place to place. But this man, this crook, was smarter than he.

  He retraced his steps to his chair and looked toward the man across from him. “So there was a crook in costume at that ball. Which — which one were you?”

  The flat-faced man laughed grimly. “It’ll all come out in a few days or so when the wop comes back to Chicago. So you not remember me, eh, Meestair Caspairson? Di Paoli w’at playa
da fina musica, eh?”

  A grim shadow of a smile snowed on Casperson’s face. “Di Paoli!” he exclaimed. “And you were the clown in red silk?” He stared at the other with a trace of admiration in his face. “I am sorry to say,” he went on, “that your little trip across the roofs isn’t going to do you much good. It’s evident that one crook at that ball failed to get what he was after, else he wouldn’t make a roof-top trip to a man watched by detectives. No; I can’t deal with you, and wouldn’t if I could. In simpler language, I — did — not — get — that — necklace. Is that enough?”

  The flat-faced man broke into a snarl. “No monkey business now. I told you I’d split half with you, and I’ll do it. You fool, can’t you see you’ll trip yourself up trying to fence the thing? Can’t you even guess the position you’re in?”

  “I have spoken,” Casperson replied quietly. “So you had better go. You had — ”

  He stopped. The other had drawn from the pocket of his coat a gleaming revolver. His face was now that of an animal, snarling, beastlike. “Cough up!” he snapped. “Cough up, and be quick about it! I didn’t come across these roofs to monkey with you. Produce, I tell you!”

  Casperson pointed to the window. “Suppose I go to that window and call for help. What then?”

  The crook showed his teeth again. “Always the fool,” he half snarled, half groaned. “When they find Moonface Eddy Chang in this room they’ll give you ten years. I’ll tell ‘em you knew me from ‘way back and called me here to get my help in disposing of that stolen necklace. I’ll send you to the pen for ten years on the strength of that statement — and Moonface won’t get a stretch of even a week out of it if he turns State’s evidence. Now do you see where you get off?”

  Casperson stroked his chin, still watching that villainous-looking revolver.

  “Where did you get your ticket to the masquerade?” he asked desperately, sparring for a moment’s delay in which he could think, could evolve some plan to get this man out of the place without any commotion.

  “Don’t worry your head about where I got that ticket,” returned Moonface. “You’d know too much that wasn’t good for you if I told you.” He stood up and jerked back his coat-sleeve, pinning his finger upon the trigger of the weapon. “Now, you dub, are you going to produce those sparklers or not? Are you — ”

  His words were sharply broken off. The clock on the mantel was chiming the hour of three. But that was not the cause of the interruption. The door back of Moonface had opened suddenly, and a red-haired man had leaped in on him, pinioning both of his arms behind him. Moonface was helpless. The revolver clattered to the floor from the impact of body against body. Then came the voice of MacTavish, speaking to Casperson:

  “Got here on time, Casp; a little bit before, in fact.” He looked down into the face of the snarling figure which he held with two brawny arms. “Thought you were down in South America, Moonface. Anyway, I’m glad to see you back again. What’s the game up North this time? I heard your little story to Casperson — the last half of it, anyway; the keyhole leaked.” He paused, getting his breath, which was coming fast, on account of the sharp struggle. Then, with a quick motion, he flung the crook to the floor. “Out with it! Tell us, and tell us quick, where you got your ticket to that Eldredge mask ball?”

  CHAPTER XVI

  “DOUBLE-CROSSED”

  A DEATHLY silence followed MacTavish’s gruff command, a silence in which the crook, lying on the floor, stared sullenly out in front of him. He rose clumsily to his knees, but, even as he did so, he peeped slightly toward the door. The plain-clothes man, however, with a low, hard chuckle turned and snapped the key in the lock. Then he dropped it into his pocket, and turned as the slim fellow got to his feet.

  “Moonface, the Department at Chicago knows all about you. About a year ago a paper was stolen from the Consulate at Buenos Aires — a paper worth a good deal to some foreign Government. It wasn’t a United States affair at all, but if that certain little South American Government knew that we had one of the two men known to have pulled that stunt — Eddy Chang, the quarter chink, and Cecil Gryce — they’d have requisition papers out in no time — for you, anyway. Say, Moonface, were you ever in a South American jail?”

  The crook’s lips trembled; he passed a hand over his forehead, to which beads of moisture had sprung. “Fate forbid — a South American jug.” He stiffened up. “Say, what do you want to know? Do I walk out of here free if I tell you what — you want to know?”

  “I’ll promise you — Casperson here as witness — that you’ll not be taken back to South America,” said McTavish; “but we might not be done with you for several days or weeks.” He paused. “Well, Moonface, who’d you get that engraved ticket from that you used to get into the ball?”

  Moonface sank into a chair and drew up one knee in his hands. “It was given to me by Cecil Gryce,” he announced reluctantly; “the fellow who was mixed up in that Buenos Aires theft. He’s living in Chicago, at the Plaza Hotel, under the name of Wellington Cawthorne. He was invited to that ball, and accidentally got two tickets. Called me in — we’ve been in touch since we came back from South America — and he fixed it up with me to go to the ball and take the part of Niccolo di Paoli, one of the Eldredge circle. I went made up as a clown, covered with grease paint, and I signed di Paoli’s name on the card. It didn’t take me long to figure the girl the easiest of ‘em all, on account of the looseness of the string on her neck. I signed up for a dance as di Paoli, but when I went to claim my dance the necklace was gone and the little chicken never even knew it. Some one ahead of me had lifted it. A while later came the alarm. And to-day I found in the papers about this guy.” He indicated Casperson. “So I decided to play him for the goods he got out of that place. He’s your man all right — unless you’re in this game yourself.”

  “Nix on that stuff,” snapped MacTavish. “Now, see here: why were you doing this stunt at the mask ball? How much was this Gryce — or Wellington Cawthorne — to get out of it, since he paved the way for the theft?”

  Moonface cleared his throat. His face grew troubled. “Here’s all I know of it: Gryce, or Cawthorne — call him what you please — claims that someone in this burg had something that was worth a hundred thousand cold to him if he could get his fingers on it. But he claimed that he couldn’t steal it. He says there was no way to get it but to cough up what this someone wanted — ten thousand dollars in cold cash. I was to cop out a bunch of big sparklers worth fifty thousand or more in one haul at the ball, hand ‘em over to him so that he could raise the ten thousand from a fence, and he’d turn our money over again for ten times the amount.”

  For a few minutes nothing was said. Then MacTavish spoke: “All right, Moonface. You’ve given the information we want. But now I’m going to make you do a little work. And remember — no monkey business! Get funny, and in stir you go in a minute and from there to South America; but work with us, and you’ll probably slip out of Chi a sadder and wiser man,” He went to the telephone and looked up a number. “Mr. Wellington Cawthorne in?” he asked when he had got it. “Not in? Thank you.”

  He hung up and turned from the instrument. “Thus far, so good. Get your hat on, Casp. We’re going over to the Plaza to watch Moonface and Cawthorne accuse each other of all sorts of trickery.”

  “What the — ” began Moonface, but a look from MacTavish silenced him effectively and quickly.

  Then the three men started out toward Clark Street and North Avenue. As they moved along MacTavish laid down a few orders and directions to the crook, who was pacing between him and Casperson, and Moonface not only meekly acquiesced, but produced a newly-made key, which he declared Cawthorne had given him so that he might wait in the latter’s room at any hour of the day or night. Reaching the fashionable hostelry on the edge of Lincoln Park, they all went in, and MacTavish, his hand still on Moonface’s arm, went up to the switchboard girl. “Will you ring Mr. Cawthorne’s room, please?” he said to her.

>   She depressed a key, and repeated the motion several times. Finally she turned from the board with its flashing lights. “Not in yet.”

  MacTavish looked around the floor. “Where is your house detective?” he asked.

  She pointed across the lobby. “That’s him, standing near the pillar in front of the cigar counter.”

  MacTavish and the house detective fell to talking in low voices some distance away from the nervous Moonface and the somewhat bewildered Casperson. After a while the detective took from his pocket a large copper key and led the way to the elevator, Casperson and the man at his side trailing along.

  Upstairs the hotel officer unlocked the door of a splendidly furnished room on the fifth floor. The other three men stepped in. A second later the door was closed and locked behind them. MacTavish, with one look toward the near-by clothes closet, motioned to Moonface.

  “Now, remember, my friend, no monkey business here. Remember what you’re to do. You’re supposed to have a key, which accounts for your waiting in here. And if any wink or significant sign takes place in here the house detective is waiting down the hall. Incidentally he’ll follow you from here after you take Gryce out on some pretext, and rearrest you as soon as you’ve parted from him. You’ll be locked up for a day or so — probably no more. That’s all.” He threw open the door of the closet. “Step in, Casp, and we’ll wait for our friend, Mr. Wellington Cawthorne.”

  Inside the partly closed closet the outer room was visible through the long crack running up and down the side of the door which held the hinges. For a long, long time they waited. Casperson was beginning to get fidgety. At last the sound of footsteps came from the hall. Moonface half turned in his damask rocking-chair. The door opened.

  Casperson, peering through the crack over MacTavish’s shoulder, was barely able to make out a huge, pink-skinned man with light hair and blue eyes, standing at the door. As he caught sight of Moonface he closed the door quickly and entered. Then Casperson had to change his position slightly in order to see what went on.