Chapter XXIII
At half-past five, Beecher, his brain in a whirl, arrived breathlessly at the office of McKenna. As luck would have it, only Gunther and the detective were there.
“My friend is a little late,” said McKenna, with a quick, jerky glance at the clock.
“Where’s Garraboy?”
“Twirling his thumbs in another room,” said Gunther, laughing. “In a cussing bad humor, too.”
For the second time, McKenna glanced nervously at the clock. Beecher was struck with the mood of restlessness that obsessed him. He passed aimlessly from desk to window and back again, apparently oblivious to their presence, immersed in some calculation that left its outward mark in a deep furrow between the eyebrows, while the cigar between his lips had gone out unperceived.
“Mr. Beecher,” he said suddenly, stopping short, “I’m not sure but what I’ve gone off on a ridiculous tangent—it may be—it may be. Have you still got that envelope I gave you?”
“Yes, in my pocket—here,” said Beecher, surprised, laying his hand on his coat.
“It was a ridiculous thing for me to do,” said McKenna quickly. He made a movement of his hand as though to take it, but repressed it, saying: “All I ask is, don’t open it until I ask you.” Then, still ruffled, he turned away, saying to himself: “Guessing—humph! I’d fire a man for doing that.”
The telephone rang with a message from the outer office and a moment later, to the amazement of both young men, Mapleson, of the firm of Sontag & Company, came in smiling and businesslike.
“How are you, McKenna?” he said affably, shaking hands. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you?”
He was a slender, dark young man of forty-two or three, very graceful, pleasant in voice and fluent in manner, with a sure instinct for ingratiating himself where it best could serve.
“How do you do, Mr. Beecher,” he said on being introduced. “I am very glad to know you, Mr. Gunther. I have the pleasure of knowing your father slightly. The country owes him a great debt for what he’s done in this panic. Well, is there any mystery I can clear up for you?”
He accepted a chair, crossed his legs easily, brought out a gold cigarette-case, offered it with a wave and smiled at their declinations.
“Why, yes, Mr. Mapleson, you can give us a little information,” said McKenna.
“Anything I can do for you, McKenna, glad to do it,” said Mapleson.
“You may remember a ring that was sold by your firm a few months ago to Mr. John G. Slade,” said McKenna directly; “a single ruby, valued, I believe, around thirty thousand dollars.”
Mapleson did not avert his eyes from the glance of the detective, yet without a movement of his body an instant change came in his manner. He drew in a puff of smoke, let it out, nodded carefully and said:
“Yes, known as the Bogota ruby. I remember perfectly.”
“I understand that that ring was brought back within the last ten days and pledged for a considerable amount.”
“Indeed?” said Mapleson. He flung away the half smoked cigarette, and busied himself with selecting another. “Well, what do you want to know?”
“I want to know the name of the person—man or woman—who pledged it.”
Mapleson changed his mind, shut the cigarette-case with a snap, clasped his hands in front of him, thumbs up and pressed against his teeth.
“Can you tell me a little more?” he said at last.
“No, I cannot,” McKenna said frankly.
The eyes of the jeweler wandered from the detective and settled on the face of Beecher. The look made the young man flush. It was as though the smiling, affable confidant of feminine mysteries and intrigues was asking himself what part in all this he were playing.
“Can you tell me for whom you are acting, Mr. Beecher?” he said suddenly.
McKenna made a gesture of warning, interrupting:
“I’m sorry—we cannot.”
“Have you a warrant?” continued Mapleson seriously. “In other words, is this a friendly meeting, or a legal procedure?”
“There is no warrant as yet. It is a case we particularly desire to keep out of court,” said McKenna.
“It is very embarrassing,” said Mapleson frankly, “very. I don’t know quite how to act. Of course, McKenna, considering your relations with our firm, I should always be glad to assist you in any way—you understand that. The present case is different. The ring was not pledged with Sontag & Company, but with me personally. It is a personal matter and a very delicate one.”
“I understand that,” said McKenna, frowning. “And yet I must inform you that I shall probably have to proceed in the usual manner.”
“Of course, if I’m brought into court on a summons,” said Mapleson thoughtfully, “that is different. If I am faced by the fact that a theft has taken place, I can do nothing else but aid the law.”
“But now—”
“At present? No, McKenna, I cannot give you the name of the person that pledged the ring with me. The case seems very complex to me—much more than you may believe; and as nothing is legally charged I prefer to keep my relations confidential.”
“Mr. Mapleson, can you answer this?”
“What?”
“Is your refusal because you believe the intention of the person who pledged it is to restore it to its owner?”
Mapleson turned the question over a long time, whistling softly to himself. Finally he said:
“I don’t know. I know nothing.”
“Can you tell me the amount you advanced on the ring?”
“Yes; I think I can tell you that,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “I advanced twenty-eight thousand dollars.”
“Twenty-eight?” said McKenna, lifting his eyebrows. “Twenty-eight on a ring worth only thirty thousand?”
“It was not a business transaction—entirely,” said Mapleson stiffly.
“Then Sontag & Company knew nothing about it?”
“No.”
“Was the ring pledged the day before Majendie committed suicide?”
“Yes.”
“In the morning?”
“Early in the morning.”
“One final question. The ring is still in your possession?”
“No.”
“It is not in your possession?” said McKenna, with a sudden clearing of his forehead. “Mr. Mapleson, you are answering this because you feel bound—”
“Not at all,” said Mapleson quickly. “The ring was redeemed this morning. I know nothing more about it.”
The speculations which were occasioned by this disclosure were suddenly interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Come!” said McKenna sharply.
An assistant entered the room with two letters. McKenna looked at the first and nodded, and then seeing the address on the second looked up quickly, saying:
“How did this come—this letter for Mr. Beecher?”
“It was sent down from his apartment, I believe, sir. Mr. Beecher’s man brought it, I think.”
“Very well.”
McKenna dismissed him with a gesture, but instead of opening his letter thrust both of them into his pocket.
“That’s all, Mr. Mapleson,” he said with incisiveness. “I’m sorry to have troubled you. It’s quite possible, as you perhaps believe, this case will be settled out of court.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Mapleson non-committally. “I’m always at your service, you know. It’s I who should apologize. Mr. Gunther, remember me to your father. Mr. Beecher, I hope to meet you soon again.”
He shook hands warmly with Beecher, as though the young man had acquired a new value in his eyes, and went out.
The moment the door had shut, McKenna had the two letters out of his pocket.
“Two letters from the same lady,” he said, tossing one to Beecher. “Both messages the same, too, I’ll bet. Of course!”
He laughed and extended the letter to Gunther, who read:
DEAR MR. MCKENNA:
The ring has just been returned. Can I see you at once? Take no further measures.
RITA KILDAIR.
McKenna was a changed man. All the indecision had left him. His eyes were sparkling with pleasure and he was laughing to himself, as he took up the telephone.
“Here, give me Clancy,” he cried impatiently. “Hello. What’s the matter with Brady; hasn’t he come back with that information yet? He has? Well, why the devil—send in the figures! Quick!”
A moment later a slip was in his hand and he was gazing at it eagerly.
“Mr. Beecher, give me half an hour’s start—no, better, three quarters of an hour. Wait—have you got a car? Good. Drive me up to Mrs. Kildair’s as fast as you can get me there.”
“What about Garraboy?” said Gunther. “Is he to go free?”
“Not by a damn sight!” said McKenna joyfully rushing them down the hall. In the office he stopped to say hurriedly: “Clancy, stick by Garraboy—feed him—but keep him close until I telephone you!”