The Million Dollar Mystery Part 40

"She ought to be separated from her companion. We have left them alone for a whole week, so Jones will not worry particularly. A mighty curious thing has turned up. Before Hargreave's disappearance not a dozen persons could recollect what Jones looked like. He was rarely ever in sight. What do you suppose that signifies?"

"Don't ask me," shrugged the man of medicine. "I shouldn't worry over Jones."

"But we can't stir the old fool. We can't get him out of that house.

I've tried to get that maid to put a little something in his coffee, but she stands off at that. She says that she did as she agreed in regard to Florence, but her agreement ended there. We have given the jade five thousand already and she is clamoring for the balance."

"Have you threatened her?" asked Olga.

Braine smiled a little. "My dear woman, it is fifty-fifty. While I have a hold on her, it is not quite so good as she has on me. We are not dealing with an ordinary servant we could threaten and scare. No, indeed; a shrewd little woman who desperately wanted money. And she will be paid; no getting out of it. She will not move another step, one way or the other, after she receives the balance. Hargreave will have a pretty steep bill to pay when the time comes."

"She has no idea where the million is?"

"If she had, she's quite capable of lugging it off all by herself,"

said Braine.

The doctor laughed.

"Olga," went on Braine, "you must look at it as I do; that it is still in the middle of the game, and we have neither lost nor won."

"How do you know that Hargreave may not have at his beck and call an organization quite as capable if not as large as ours?" suggested the physician.

"That is not possible," Braine declared without hesitation.

"Well, it begins to look that way to me. We've never made a move yet that hasn't been blocked."

"Pure luck each time, I tell you; the devil's own luck always at the critical moment, when everything seems to be in our hands. Now, we want Florence, and we've tried a hundred ways to accomplish this fact and failed. The question is, how to get her away from her companion?"

"Simple enough," said the doctor complacently.

"Out with it, if you have an idea."

The doctor leaned forward and whispered a few words.

"Well, I'm hanged!" Braine laughed and slapped the doctor on the shoulder. "The simplest thing in the world. Mad dog wouldn't be in it. I always said that you had gray matter if you cared to exert yourself."

"Thanks," replied the doctor dryly. "I'll drop down there to-morrow, if you say so, ostensibly to see the other patient. It will make a deuce of a disturbance."

"Not if you scare the hotel people."

"That is what I propose to do. They will not want such a thing known.

It would scare every one away for the rest of the season. But of course this depends upon whether they are honest or in the hotel business to make money."

Again Braine laughed. "Bring her back to New York alone, Esculapius, and a fat check is yours. Nothing could be simpler than an idea like this. It's a fact; no man can think of everything, and you've just proved it to me. I've tried to do a general's work without aids.

Olga, does any one watch me come and go any more?"

"No; I've watched a dozen nights. The man has gone. Either he found out what he wanted or he gave up the job. To my mind he found out what he wanted."

"And what's that?"

"Heaven knows!" discouragedly.

"Come, doctor, suppose you and I go down to Daly's for a little turn at billiards?"

"Nothing would suit me better."

"All aboard, then! Good night, Olga, keep your hair on; I mean your own hair. We're going to win out, don't you worry. In all games the minute you begin to doubt you begin to lose."

That same night Norton sat at his desk, in his shirt sleeves, pounding away at his typewriter. From time to time he paused and teetered his chair and scowled over his pipe at the starlit night outside. Bang!

would go his chair again, and clickity-click would sing the keys of the machine. The story he was writing was in the ordinary routine; the arrival of a great ocean liner with some political notables who were not adverse to denouncing the present administration. You will have noticed, no doubt, that some disgruntled politician is always denouncing the present administration, it matters not if it be Republican or Democratic. When you are out of a good job you are always p.r.o.ne to denounce. The yarn bored. Norton because his thoughts were miles southward.

He completed his story, yanked out the final sheet, called for a copy boy, rose and sauntered over to the managing editor's door, before which he paused indecisively. The "old man" had been after him lately regarding the Hargreave story, and he doubted if his errand would prove successful.

However, he boldly opened the door and walked in.

"Humph!" said the "old man," twisting his cigar into the corner of his mouth. "Got that story?"

Norton sat down. "Yes, but I have not got it for print yet. Mr.

Blair, when you gave me the Hargreave job you gave me carte blanche."

"I did," grimly. "But, on the other hand, I did not give you ten years to clear it up in."

"Have I ever fallen down on a good story?" quietly.

"H'm, can't remember," grudgingly.

"Well, if you'll have patience I'll not fall down on this one. It's the greatest criminal story I ever handled, but it's so big that it's going to take time."

"Gimme an outline."

"I have promised not to," with a grimness equal to the "old man's."

"If a line of this story trickles out it will mean that every other paper will be moving around, and in the end will discover enough to spoil my end of it. I'll tell you this much: The most colossal band of thieves this country ever saw is at one end of the stick. And when I say that counterfeiting and politics and millions are involved, you'll understand how big it is. This gang has city protection. We are running them all into a corner; but we want that corner so deep that none of them can wriggle out of it."

"Umhm. Go on."

"I want two months more."

The "old man" beat a tattoo with his fat pencil. "Sixty days, then.

And if the yarn isn't on my desk at midnight, you--"

"Hunt for another job. All right. I came in to ask for three days'

leave."

"You're your own boss, Jim, for sixty days more. Whadda y' mean counterfeiting?"

"Those new tens and twenties. If I stumble on that right, why, I can turn it over without conflicting with the other story."

"Well, go to it."

"I'm turning in my regular work, day in and day out, and while doing it I've gone through more hairbreadth escapes than you ever heard of.