Christopher And The Clockmakers Part 7

"To land the jewels, you mean? I can't tell you that, sir. It's too early in the game."

"I suppose so. It was a foolish question."

Evidently the inspector was of the same opinion, for he made no answer.

"Well, that's all, Hollings," announced the great man, turning to his clerk. "You may go now."

"I hope and pray the ring may be recovered, sir. I shall not have a happy moment until it is."

"All that must rest with the police. The case is in their keeping now,"

was his employer's terse reply.

In the meantime, Mr. Norcross had not said anything at all. He seldom did say anything. But as the group rose to depart, he dragged himself up out of his chair and, as if giving his blessing to the enterprise, remarked:

"Good luck to you, Inspector!"

"Thank you, sir."

Then Christopher, his father and the Chief entered the elevator and afterward the car that took them to headquarters.

Here the boy had displayed before him an array of photographs from which he had not the slightest trouble in picking that of the man with the scar; but his sharp-nosed companion he was unable to identify.

"I thought I'd recognize him anywhere," lamented Christopher. "His hair was so black and thick that--"

At the words, the inspector jumped a little.

"Ha!" exclaimed he. "Tony wore a wig, did he?" He opened a drawer. "Any of these look like him?"

He pa.s.sed to Christopher a handful of pictures.

"There he is," cried the lad presently, choosing one out of the lot.

"There he is! Only he didn't have his gla.s.ses on."

"I fancy he isn't dependent on them all the time," chuckled the inspector. "Well done, my boy. Yes, that's Tony when he's dressed up.

The reason you didn't recognize him was because in the other picture he wasn't. Clothes do not make the man, but wigs, gla.s.ses, and things change him a good deal. That's all, gentlemen. I now have all the information I wish, and need not detain you."

"I suppose I shall be notified when any news is obtained," said Mr.

Burton, rising. He wasn't used to being dismissed in this curt fashion.

When any dismissing was to be done, it was usually he who did it.

"Yes, sir. As soon as anything definite is known. _Good_ morning!" But to Christopher he reached out a detaining hand. "You've done uncommonly well, sonny," he whispered. "Don't worry because you didn't land the chaps. I'm only thankful you didn't give them the chance to shoot you.

We'll have the birdies yet."

"Shall I have to go to court?"

"Court? Perhaps. But, Lord! A boy that can tell as straight a story as you needn't fear that. It's not half as bad as being stood up to face me."

"I didn't mind you at all."

"I'm glad of that. I don't want my job to turn me into an ogre. There are people who don't feel that way about me." He laughed slyly. "Don't you fret about being haled into court. Several persons besides ourselves wish to meet those two distinguished gentlemen we are after. When we get them they will have to be shipped to Chicago and various other cities.

You stand a slim chance of having any very extensive acquaintance with them."

The voice of Mr. Burton, who was loitering impatiently outside, was now heard calling:

"Christopher! Christopher!"

"That's your dad. He's getting tired of cooling his heels in the corridor. He isn't used to it. Better trot along, sonny. Somebody might mistake him for a questionable character and run him in."

The inspector's hearty "Haw, haw!" lent to his laughter the suspicion that he found something intensely humorous about Mr. Christopher Mark Antony Burton, third, senior partner of the firm of Burton and Norcross.

CHAPTER V

CHRISTOPHER ASTONISHES HIMSELF

It does not take long for news to travel, and when Christopher entered the shop the next morning it was to find himself quite a hero. On every hand clerks saluted him with such greetings as:

"Well, how is Sherlock Holmes to-day?"

"Have you been landing any more bandits, Mr. Christopher?"

"Joined the secret service yet, Master Christopher?"

Poor Christopher, who was none too proud of the part he had played, was a good deal abashed; nevertheless he tried to accept the banter cheerfully, perceiving that it was kindly intentioned. But the glory of it paled at last, and, weary of such jests, he fled to seek out McPhearson, who, he felt sure, would offer him no flattery.

The Scotchman was so busy toiling over the bracket clock with the chimes that he did no more than glance up when the boy dropped down on the stool opposite.

"I hear you did a pretty bit of work yesterday," he at last remarked.

"No, I didn't. On the contrary I was darn stupid. I had the chance to be a hero, but I m.u.f.fed it."

"They didn't seem to think so downstairs," was the clockmaker's laconic retort.

"Oh, I didn't do much of anything, honest I didn't, Mr. McPhearson. I just happened along at the right time--or, perhaps--at the wrong,"

explained the boy with an embarra.s.sed laugh.

"Apparently it was decidedly at the wrong," observed the old man, continuing to file with extreme care a bit of bra.s.s he held between his fingers.

Christopher watched, admiring the speed and skill of his gnarled fingers.

"How's she getting along?" ventured he after a long silence.

"She's about O. K. now. Running fine--I'm just tinkering the catch on the door, for even Richard Parsons cannot coax things into wearing forever. She'll go home to-day."

There was a sigh from the Scotchman.