An Amiable Charlatan Part 39

"We are within a few yards," he said, "of the jeweler's shop that contains more valuable gems than any other establishment in the world. We are at the present moment within forty yards of a million pounds' worth of jewels. When you come to reflect upon the character and the past of our friend Dagger Rodwell, you will understand the significance of that fact."

I was beginning to share Mr. Bundercombe's obvious excitement. I, too, had the feeling that we were on the brink of an adventure. He made me stand up against the wall, by the side of the window, so that I could see down into the street. He himself was farther back in the room.

"Follow my lead closely in everything, Paul!" he directed. "Meantime keep your eye glued on the pavement. If things turn out as I expect there will be a gray touring motor car outside Tarteran's shop in the course of a few minutes. From that car will descend Dagger Rodwell. He will enter Tarteran's. Watch, then, as though your very life depended upon it!"

I squeezed myself against the wall and looked down upon the never-ending procession. The street was continually blocked with motor cars and taxicabs. On the other side of the way streams of people were moving all the time. I recognized many acquaintances even in those few minutes. And then suddenly I saw the gray motor car. I held out my hand to Mr.

Bundercombe.

Without the slightest attempt at concealment, the man Mr. Bundercombe had called Dagger Rodwell alighted from the motor and stood for a moment looking into the windows of Tarteran's shop before he entered. He was faultlessly dressed in morning clothes, smoking a cigarette and carrying a silver-headed cane.

After some hesitation he entered the shop. Mr. Bundercombe drew a little breath. He had been looking at another part of the street.

"Now things are beginning to move," he observed softly. "Come here, Paul!"

He pulled aside a little curtain behind which was a sort of cubicle--an easy chair, a manicurist's stool and a table.

"Step inside here," he whispered; "quickly!"

I obeyed him, and in an instant he had entered a similar one. We were scarcely there before I heard the sound of a key in the door. Through a c.h.i.n.k in the curtain I saw Miss Blanche. She pushed back the latch and stood for a moment as though listening, her face turned toward the stairs up which she had come.

If I had had any doubt but that tragedy was afoot that morning it would have been banished by a glance at her face. She was terribly pale; her hands were shaking. Rapidly she withdrew the pins from her hat, hung it upon a peg and smoothed her hair in front of the looking-gla.s.s. Then, though her hands were trembling all the time, she filled a bowl with hot water and arranged a manicure set on a little table.

Once or twice she stopped to listen. Once, as though drawn by some fascination she was powerless to resist, she moved to the window and looked down into the street. Mr. Bundercombe remained motionless and I followed his example. At the back of my cubicle was a window from which I could still gain a view of the pavement. The streets were thronged with people, and I noticed that the motor car, which at first I had missed, was standing in a side street, almost opposite.

Suddenly I saw the man, for whose reappearance I was so earnestly waiting, step casually out on to the pavement. He attempted to cross the street and was quickly lost to sight in a tangle of vehicles. A second later I could have sworn that I saw him back again at the entrance to the pa.s.sage below.

Then I heard a shout from the pavement and I distinctly saw him clamber into the motor car, which shot off as though it had started in fourth speed. An elderly gentleman, who had rushed from the shop, was halfway across the street already. There was a chorus of shouts; traffic was momentarily suspended; a policeman started running down the side street.

Then I turned away from the window. There were sounds closer at hand--a footstep on the stairs, swift and gentle.

In a moment the door of the little manicure room was opened and closed.

Dagger Rodwell stood there, pale and breathless. Not a word pa.s.sed between him and the girl. He dashed into the third of the little cubicles, and it seemed to me that in less than thirty seconds he reappeared.

The change was marvelous. He was wearing a tweed suit and a gray Homburg hat. His eyegla.s.s had gone. Even his collar and tie seemed different. He sat down before the girl and held out his hand. They listened. There was plenty of commotion in the street--no sound at all on the stairs.

"We've done it!" he muttered. "They're after the car! They'll catch Dolly!"

"He'll bluff it out!" she whispered.

"Sure! Don't let your hands tremble like that, you little fool! We're safe, I tell you! Get on with your work."

Now the two were three or four yards away from the cubicle in which I was, but almost within a couple of feet of Mr. Bundercombe's. From where I was sitting I saw suddenly a strange thing. I saw Mr. Bundercombe's left arm shoot out from behind the curtain. In a moment he had the man by the throat. His other hand traveled over his clothes like lightning.

It was all over almost before I could think. Rodwell was on his feet with a livid mark on his throat, and Mr. Bundercombe had stepped back with a little shining revolver in his hand which he was carefully stowing away in his pocket.

"Sorry to be a trifle hasty, Mr. Rodwell," he said. "I saw the shape of this little weapon in your pocket and it didn't seem altogether agreeable to me. We are not great at firearms over this side, you know."

Blanche and Rodwell stared at him. To complete their stupefaction I stepped out of my cubicle.

"What sort of a game is this?" Rodwell muttered, though he was pale to the lips. "Blanche----"

He turned toward her with sudden fierceness. She sat there, wringing her hands.

"Mr. Bundercombe!" she exclaimed feebly. "Mr. Bundercombe!"

"So this is your silly old fool, is it?" Rodwell hissed. "This is the old fool you could twist round your finger, who found the money for your manicure parlor, and who was in love with you, eh? What are you, anyway?"

he added, turning furiously upon Mr. Bundercombe. "A cop? Is this why you were trying to put up to me a few weeks ago?"

Mr. Bundercombe waved aside the accusation.

"Nothing of the sort!" he declared.

"Then what is it you want?" Rodwell demanded. "Is it a share of the swag you're after?"

Mr. Bundercombe shook his head.

"I am afraid," he sighed, "there will not be any swag."

Rodwells face was the most vicious thing I had ever looked on; yet he kept his head. Mr. Bundercombe and I were an impossible proposition to an unarmed man.

"In the first place," Mr. Bundercombe said, "I must congratulate you most heartily on your scheme. I saw your double bolt across the road and jump into the car. Everyone's eyes were upon him. They never saw you slip round into the pa.s.sage. Your double is, I presume, well supplied with an alibi and evidences of respectability?"

Rodwell nodded shortly.

"It's his own car and he's an automobile agent," he replied. "He'd been in the next shop. The people there will be able to swear to him--he gave them plenty of trouble on purpose."

"And you," Mr. Bundercombe murmured, "have the necklace?"

"I have!" Rodwell snapped. "What about it? I've got to divide with the girl here. How much do you want?"

"Only the necklace!" Mr. Bundercombe replied.

Mr. Rodwell's geographical description of where he would see Mr.

Bundercombe first is too lurid for print. Mr. Bundercombe, however, only shook his head, with a gentle smile upon his lips.

"If you're not a cop and you won't stand in, what in the name of glory are you?" Rodweil spluttered at last.

"I am afraid I must describe myself as a meddler," Mr. Bundercombe confessed; "an intervener. I stand midway between the law and the criminal. I sympathize wholly with neither. I admire the skill and courage you have shown to-day, but I also sympathize with the head of that establishment whom you have relieved of possibly many thousand pounds'

worth of diamonds. I could not--"

Rodwell made his effort, but Mr. Bundercombe was more than ready.

Intervention on my part was quite unnecessary. Mr. Bundercombe's left arm shot out like a piston-rod and the unfortunate victim of his blow remained on the carpet, with his hand to his cheek.

"Quite in order, of course," Mr. Bundercombe remarked, "but absolutely useless. Boxing was my only sport when I was a young man, to say nothing of my remarkably athletic young companion. It won't do, Rodwell! You'd better hand over the jewels. Give them to Miss Blanche and she'll hand them to me. They're in a morocco case, I think, in your trousers pocket."

Rodwell produced them sullenly.

"It's your fault, you miserable little fool!" he muttered to Blanche. "I ought to have known better than to have let you into the thing. Fancy taking him for a mug!"

Mr. Bundercombe smiled a pleased smile.