The Black Bag by Louis Joseph Vance (snow like ashes txt) 📕

darkening. Then, to

Dorothy, “You understand, I trust, what this means?” he demanded. “I offer

you a home—and a good one. Refuse, and you work for your living, my girl!

You’ve forfeited your legacy—”

 

“I know, I know,” she told him in cold disdain. “I am content. Won’t you be

kind enough to leave me alone?”

 

For a breath, Calendar glowered over her; then, “I presume,” he observed,

“that all these heroics are inspired by that whipper-snapper, Kirkwood. Do

you know that he hasn’t a brass farthing to bless himself with?”

 

“What has that—?” cried the girl indignantly.

 

“Why, it has everything to do with me, my child. As your doting parent, I

can’t consent to your marrying nothing-a-year…. For I surmise you intend

to marry this Mr. Kirkwood, don’t you?”

 

There followed a little interval of silence, while the warm blood flamed in

the girl’s face and the red lips trembled as she faced her tormentor. Then,

with a quaver that escaped her control, “If Mr. Kirkwood asks me, I shall,”

she stated very simply.

 

“That,” interposed Kirkwood, “is completely understood.” His gaze sought

her eyes, but she looked away.

 

“You forget that I am your father,” sneered Calendar; “and that you are a

minor. I can refuse my consent.”

 

“But you won’t,” Kirkwood told him with assurance.

 

The adventurer stared. “No,” he agreed, after slight hesitation; “no,

I shan’t interfere. Take her, my boy, if you want her—and a father’s

blessing into the bargain. The Lord knows I’ve troubles enough; a parent’s

lot is not what it’s cracked up to be.” He paused, leering, ironic.

“But,”—deliberately, “there’s still this other matter of the gladstone

bag. I don’t mind abandoning my parental authority, when my child’s

happiness is concerned, but as for my property—”

 

“It is not your property,” interrupted the girl.

 

“It was your mother’s, dear child. It’s now mine.”

 

“I dispute that assertion,” Kirkwood put in.

 

“You may dispute it till the cows come home, my boy: the fact will remain

that I intend to take my property with me when I leave this room, whether

you like it or not. Now are you disposed to continue the argument, or may I

count on your being sensible?”

 

“You may put away your revolver, if that’s what you mean,” said Kirkwood.

“We certainly shan’t oppose you with violence, but I warn you that Scotland

Yard—”

 

“Oh, that be blowed!” the adventurer snorted in disgust. “I can sail

circles round any tec. that ever blew out of Scotland Yard! Give me an

hour’s start, and you’re free to do all the funny business you’ve a mind

to, with—Scotland Yard!”

 

“Then you admit,” queried Brentwick civilly, “that you’ve no legal title to

the jewels in dispute?”

 

“Look here, my friend,” chuckled Calendar, “when you catch me admitting

anything, you write it down in your little book and tell the bobby on

the corner. Just at present I’ve got other business than to stand round

admitting anything about anything…. Cap’n, let’s have that bag of my

dutiful daughter’s.”

 

“‘Ere you are.” Stryker spoke for the first time since entering the room,

taking the valise from beneath the chair and depositing it on the table.

 

“Well, we shan’t take anything that doesn’t belong to us,” laughed

Calendar, fumbling with the catch; “not even so small a matter as my own

child’s traveling bag. A small—heavy—gladstone bag,” he grunted, opening

the valise and plunging in one greedy hand, “will—just—about—do for

mine!” With which he produced the article mentioned. “This for the discard,

Cap’n,” he laughed contentedly, pushing the girl’s valise aside; and,

rumbling with stentorian mirth, stood beaming benignantly over the

assembled company.

 

“Why,” he exclaimed, “this moment is worth all it cost me! My children,

I forgive you freely. Mr. Kirkwood, I felicitate you cordially on having

secured a most expensive wife. Really—d’you know?—I feel as if I ought to

do a little something for you both.” Gurgling with delight he smote his fat

palms together. “I just tell you what,” he resumed, “no one yet ever called

Georgie Calendar a tight-wad. I just believe I’m going to make you kids a

handsome wedding present…. The good Lord knows there’s enough of this for

a fellow to be a little generous and never miss it!”

 

The thick mottled fingers tore nervously at the catch; eventually he got

the bag open. Those about the table bent forward, all quickened by the

prospect of for the first time beholding the treasure over which they had

fought, for which they had suffered, so long….

 

A heady and luscious fragrance pervaded the atmosphere, exhaling from the

open mouth of the bag. A silence, indefinitely sustained, impressed itself

upon the little audience,—a breathless pause ended eventually by a sharp

snap of Calendar’s teeth. “Mmm!” grunted the adventurer in bewilderment.

He began to pant.

 

Abruptly his heavy hands delved into the contents of the bag, like the paws

of a terrier digging in earth. To Kirkwood the air seemed temporarily thick

with flying objects. Beneath his astonished eyes a towel fell upon the

table—a crumpled, soiled towel, bearing on its dingy hem the inscription

in indelible ink: “H�tel du Commerce, Anvers.” A tooth-mug of substantial

earthenware dropped to the floor with a crash. A slimy soap-dish of the

same manufacture slid across the table and into Brentwick’s lap. A battered

alarm clock with never a tick left in its abused carcass rang vacuously as

it fell by the open bag…. The remainder was—oranges: a dozen or more

small, round, golden globes of ripe fruit, perhaps a shade overripe,

therefore the more aromatic.

 

The adventurer ripped out an oath. “Mulready, by the living God!” he raged

in fury. “Done up, I swear! Done by that infernal sneak—me, blind as a

bat!”

 

He fell suddenly silent, the blood congesting in his face; as suddenly

broke forth again, haranguing the company.

 

“That’s why he went out and bought those damned oranges, is it? Think of

it—me sitting in the hotel in Antwerp and him lugging in oranges by the

bagful because he was fond of fruit! When did he do it? How do I know? If I

knew, would I be here and him the devil knows where, this minute? When my

back was turned, of course, the damned snake! That’s why he was so hot

about picking a fight on the boat, hey? Wanted to get thrown off and take

to the woods—leaving me with this! And that’s why he felt so awful

done up he wouldn’t take a hand at hunting you two down, hey?

Well—by—the—Eternal! I’ll camp on his trail for the rest of his

natural-born days! I’ll have his eye-teeth for this, I’ll—”

 

He swayed, gibbering with rage, his countenance frightfully contorted, his

fat hands shaking as he struggled for expression.

 

And then, while yet their own astonishment held Dorothy, Kirkwood,

Brentwick and Stryker speechless, Charles, the mechanician, moved suddenly

upon the adventurer.

 

There followed two metallic clicks. Calendar’s ravings were abrupted as if

his tongue had been paralyzed. He fell back a pace, flabby jowls pale and

shaking, ponderous jaw dropping on his breast, mouth wide and eyes crazed

as he shook violently before him his thick fleshy wrists—securely

handcuffed.

 

Simultaneously the mechanician whirled about, bounded eagerly across the

floor, and caught Stryker at the door, his dexterous fingers twisting in

the captain’s collar as he jerked him back and tripped him.

 

“Mr. Kirkwood!” he cried. “Here, please—one moment. Take this man’s gun,

from him, will you?”

 

Kirkwood sprang to his assistance, and without encountering much trouble,

succeeded in wresting a Webley from Stryker’s limp, flaccid fingers.

 

Roughly the mechanician shook the man, dragging him to his feet. “Now,” he

ordered sternly, “you march to that corner, stick your nose in it, and be

good! You can’t get away if you try. I’ve got other men outside, waiting

for you to come out. Understand?”

 

Trembling like a whipped cur, Stryker meekly obeyed his instructions to the

letter.

 

The mechanician, with a contemptuous laugh leaving him, strode back to

Calendar, meanwhile whipping off his goggles; and clapped a hearty hand

upon the adventurer’s quaking shoulders.

 

“Well!” he cried. “And are you still sailing circles round the men

from Scotland Yard, Simmons, or Bellows, or Sanderson, or Calendar, or

Crumbstone, or whatever name you prefer to sail under?”

 

Calendar glared at him aghast; then heaved a profound sigh, shrugged his

fat shoulders, and bent his head in thought. An instant later he looked up.

“You can’t do it,” he informed the detective vehemently; “you haven’t got a

shred of evidence against me! What’s there? A pile of oranges and a peck

of trash! What of it?… Besides,” he threatened, “if you pinch me, you’ll

have to take the girl in, too. I swear that whatever stealing was done,

she did it. I’ll not be trapped this way by her and let her off without a

squeal. Take me—take her; d’you hear?”

 

“I think,” put in the clear, bland accents of Brentwick, “we can consider

that matter settled. I have here, my man,”—nodding to the adventurer as he

took up the black leather wallet,—“I have here a little matter which

may clear up any lingering doubts as to your standing, which you may be

disposed at present to entertain.”

 

He extracted a slip of cardboard and, at arm’s length, laid it on the

table-edge beneath the adventurer’s eyes. The latter, bewildered, bent over

it for a moment, breathing heavily; then straightened back, shook himself,

laughed shortly with a mirthless note, and faced the detective.

 

“It’s come with you now, I guess?” he suggested very quietly.

 

“The Bannister warrant is still out for you,” returned the man. “That’ll be

enough to hold you on till extradition papers arrive from the States.”

 

“Oh, I’ll waive those; and I won’t give you any trouble, either…. I

reckon,” mused the adventurer, jingling his manacles thoughtfully, “I’m a

back-number, anyway. When a half-grown girl, a half-baked boy, a flub like

Mulready—damn his eyes!—and a club-footed snipe from Scotland Yard can

put it all over me this way,… why, I guess it’s up to me to go home and

retire to my country-place up the Hudson.” He sighed wearily.

 

“Yep; time to cut it out. But I would like to be free long enough to get in

one good lick at that mutt, Mulready. My friend, you get your hands on him,

and I’ll squeal on him till I’m blue in the face. That’s a promise.”

 

“You’ll have the chance before long,” replied the detective. “We received

a telegram from the Amsterdam police late this afternoon, saying they’d

picked up Mr. Mulready with a woman named Hallam, and were holding them

on suspicion. It seems,”—turning to Brentwick,—“they were opening

negotiations for the sale of a lot of stones, and seemed in such a precious

hurry that the diamond merchant’s suspicions were roused. We’re sending

over for them, Miss Calendar, so you can make your mind easy about your

jewels; you’ll have them back in a few days.”

 

“Thank you,” said the girl with an effort.

 

“Well,” the adventurer delivered his peroration, “I certainly am blame’

glad to hear it. ‘Twouldn’t ‘ve been a square deal, any other way.”

 

He paused, looking his erstwhile dupes over with a melancholy eye; then,

with an uncertain nod comprehending the girl, Kirkwood and Brentwick, “So

long!” he said thickly; and turned, with the detective’s hand under his arm

and, accompanied by the thoroughly cowed Stryker, waddled out of the room.

 

III–-THE JOURNEY’S END

 

Kirkwood, following the exodus, closed the door with elaborate care and

slowly, deep in thought, returned to the table.

 

Dorothy seemed not to