Chapter XXXIX Hamersley Takes a Hand
Jock Hamersley, after leaving his friend, entered the club briskly, and, having freshened up a little, took the elevator to the dining room. It was early, but his appetite had been making itself felt for some time, so he did not wait for a congenial companion to sit at his table.
The result was that he finished the meal and descended again to the lower floor before seven. Here he strolled about a little, chatting briefly with one or two friends, but with his mind altogether on the problem which faced Barry Lawrence.
When Jock once got something well fixed in his mind it was extremely difficult to find room for anything else. The more he considered the scheme of tripping up the mysterious persons who had been following Lawrence, the more he liked it, and the more anxious he was to put it into operation. He knew that Barry would not be likely to show up much before eight, and consequently, after fretting and fuming impatiently for some ten or fifteen minutes, he decided to take a stroll to use up the intervening time, with the added hope that something more might occur to him.
Leaving word with the hall man that he would be back shortly, he slipped into his coat and sallied forth into the street. For a moment he hesitated; then, turning to the right, he walked briskly toward Fifth Avenue.
He had scarcely reached the corner, and had not even decided which way to turn, when suddenly a man, coming up behind, touched him lightly on the arm.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said a voice in his ear, “but have you any idea where I can find Mr. Barry Lawrence?”
Whirling about in surprise, Hamersley saw, standing beside him, a slim, slight individual of medium height, smooth-shaven and dressed in an inconspicuous manner. He was holding an envelope in one hand; and Jock first sized him up as a clerk from some banking or brokerage house. He was about to answer freely, when he suddenly recalled the varied assortment of men who had been trailing Barry of late, and paused.
“What do you want him for?” he asked abruptly, at length.
“The chief wanted me to give him this,” the stranger explained promptly, holding up the letter. “Said it was most important he should have it at once. He isn’t at his hotel, and they don’t know where he’s gone.”
“Humph!” grunted the big chap. “Who’s your chief?”
“Mr. Marvin, of Kane & Marvin,” was the swift response.
Hamersley knew the Wall Street firm very well, and, having no notion of Barry’s affairs, it seemed quite possible that the latter might be doing business in that quarter. Nevertheless, a vague, intangible suspicion made him hesitate, and in that fortunate pause a conviction suddenly flashed into his mind which almost took his breath away.
The fellow beside him was none other than the detective who had inveigled Lawrence into the empty house on Twenty-fourth Street the very night before.
Jock remembered his friend’s description perfectly, and, moreover, recalled Barry’s having said that he was the identical man who had sat next to them at the Belmont café. There could be no mistake. This was, indeed, the man, and Hamersley’s first feeling was one of infinite regret that the chance they had been seeking should come when Lawrence was not on hand to take advantage of it.
On the heels of that, however, came a swift determination to work the trick alone. He could do it if only he kept his head and handled the situation cleverly. He would do it, and give Barry the surprise of his life. With a tremendous effort to keep his voice casual and careless, he plunged into the game.
“I see,” he said. “But what gave you the idea that I could tell you anything about him?”
“Mr. Marvin said he belonged to a college club on Forty-fourth Street,” the unknown returned glibly. “When I asked for him back there, they said he wasn’t a member, but that he sometimes came in with you. That’s what made me hustle out after you. I want to get rid of the thing and beat it home to supper.”
His easy tone was most convincing, and, had he not been perfectly sure of his identification, Jock would never have dreamed that anything was out of the way. For a second he hesitated, digging into his brain for some plausible means of finding out more. Unfortunately Jock’s brain was of the slow-moving variety which so often accompanies big, brawny bodies, and nothing occurred to him.
“Sorry I can’t help you,” he said at last; “but I haven’t an idea where he is now. He’s going to meet me at the Yale Club at half past eight or so. Why don’t you come around then and see him?”
“Half past eight! I can’t hang around till then. Still, I suppose I’ll have time to get supper and come down afterward, won’t I?”
“I should think so,” Hamersley returned, with an affectation of indifference he was far from feeling.
“I’ll do it,” the stranger said decidedly, thrusting the letter into his pocket. “Half past eight, you say? Much obliged for the information.”
With a quick nod, which Jock returned, he started briskly up the avenue, leaving the Yale man staring, helplessly after him in a perfect agony of indecision. He wanted to follow the fellow, and yet he realized how utterly futile such a thing would be. The man would be wise to the game before he had gone a block, and that would probably spoil everything.
What should he do? What could he do? The man was rapidly getting away from him, and Hamersley fairly danced on the pavement as he tried frantically to think.
It was at this moment that he caught sight of “Shrimp” Bradley briskly crossing the avenue.