RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
Blue Book, November 1947, with "The Passing of the Sphinx Emerald"
In Santa Fe, the story of this malign and
magic jewel,
which began in Ancient Egypt, comes to its strange
conclusion.
SIR EVART BUCKSON was one of those Englishmen whom John Buchan loved to depict—a large man, powerfully built, as agile in his thirties as a boy of eighteen, and well poised. He had calm features and keen hazel eyes. He looked up sharply as Bill Stuart entered the room of his New York hotel.
"I've seen you before," he observed. "How d'ye do? Stuart is the name?"
"Yes, sir. I was in Egypt with the American Air Forces—you had command of the field where we were putting our ships together and making deliveries."
The calm features lighted up. "Oh, yes—I remember. You're the chap who got hold of a mummy somewhere and dressed him up at the wheel of a plane and raised no end of a riot! The war seems long past now, eh?"
Stuart assented, laughing. "I saw in the papers you were stopping here, and took the liberty of calling."
"Right. Glad you did. A spot of brandy, what?"
"Thanks, no. I didn't come to beg a drink," Stuart replied a bit stiffly.
Sir Evart gave him another look—level, guarded.
"Aye? Sit down, lad. Let's have it."
Stuart lighted a cigarette.
"I've had an airfield job since the war—top mechanic," he said. He too showed level-headed poise. He had a quiet manner, but his dark eyes held a flash; his features—the right cheek lightly scarred—were crisp, his lips tight and thin. "I've a couple of sisters out West; no one else. The job folded last week. I've hung around town, hoping to get a word with you. That's the situation."
Sir Evart nodded, and wisely said nothing. Stuart went on.
"You see, I'm not too flush; but I have enough. I had a great pal in Egypt named Morrison; he was killed later over Tunis. A pilot—his sister lives here in town. She has a batch of stuff he sent home from Cairo—relics and what-not. He wrote her that some of them might be valuable. You're a world authority on Egyptian antiquities, so I wondered if I might ask you about two or three of them. You see, Miss Morrison could use money, but I haven't the faintest notion where to sell 'em. I tried the Metropolitan and got laughed at."
He leaned back, finished.
Sir Evart smiled.
"Stuart, let me be mercifully cruel. Your boys in Africa got rooked, no end. They went out and bought curiosities—knives, jewels, everything, and were stuck with the finest lot of fakes ever assembled. That's one thing; here's another: My job's folded too. Our people are getting out of Egypt, or have got; my Helwan museum job was washed up with the rest. That's why I'm in your country, lecturing. Oh, I'm not broke! But we're on short commons in England, you know."
"I'm asking for advice, not help," said Stuart.
"Quite; don't flare up, my lad. You're welcome, God knows, to the advice; I'm trying to break things easily, telling you not to expect too much. Here, take one of these."
Stuart accepted one of the opulent Abdallahs offered him.
"There are several things your pal might have got hold of that'd mean a bit of luck," pursued the Englishman, "and I'm not the man to reject possibility. The mummy of Queen Hatshepsu, f'rinstance, has never been found. Or consider gems: the signet of a king might be well worth while, although the gyppies turn out some remarkable fakes. Or the Sphinx Emerald, supposedly dropped into the Nile—"
"What's that?" Stuart asked, leaning forward.
"Quite a remarkable emerald, an ancient Egyptian stone and therefore of pale color, which turns up from time to time. Some remarkable stories connected with it. One of your American magazines has printed them, I understand. This is a stone of extraordinary nature and quite large. The tale goes that it exerts a peculiar effect upon one who gazes into it. Nothing occult or that sort of thing, but psychology—I believe a kind of auto-hypnosis. The very odd thing about this emerald is that the flaws are abundant, as is usual in beryl, but come together in the center to form the perfect but tiny image of the Great Sphinx—hence the name given it."
"Morrison got that stone," said Stuart quietly.
"Eh—good God!" Sir Evart sat up as though electrified. "Did I hear you aright?"
"I said Morrison got it, yes. It's among the stuff he sent home. I thought it green glass formed about a tiny Sphinx."
"Upon my word! I—why, I can hardly believe it!" Sir Evart stared. "Where is it now?"
"Oh, Miss Morrison has it. I've met her several times and have seen the junk he collected." Stuart pulled at his cigarette. "You say it's an emerald? Has it any particular value?"
"Has it? One of the ancient Egyptian crown jewels! The factitious value is nil, owing to its poor color—but the fictitious value is anything one cares to name." The Englishman was no longer impassive. "I say, Stuart—this must be checked up at once, you know! Real beryl is readily distinguished. Not worth a farthing if it's a replica, but if real the value is colossal! Where on earth did your friend find it?"
"Some Arab fished it out of the Nile. He bought it with other things." A thrill shot through Stuart as he sensed the other's excited interest. "Look here: Miss Morrison has an apartment upon Riverside Drive—same one her brother had before the war. I can run up there in a taxi and get it—"
Sir Evart lit a fresh cigarette.
"Easy, now," he said. "Let's look at it calmly, Stuart. The original gem was lost fairly recently, just after the war—lost in the Nile. It can't be the same one your friend got, therefore. It was unset, a cabochon the size of a garden pea—"
"Hold on!" intervened Stuart. "Morrison was in Cairo after the war, too. He was killed a year or two later, not during the fighting, in an accident. And you've just described his emerald perfectly."
"Evidently I misunderstood you. But you'll not get it; I'll go with you and see it where it is." With an effort, Sir Evart regained his calmness. "Let me get my notes first. I've a description of it somewhere. Can't rush at this, you know—a famous stone and all that; must know if it's the real thing. If so, then Bernard Lattimer the collector is the man for it; his collection is world-renowned. Have a drink, compose yourself—back in a moment or so."
Left alone, Stuart scrupled not to pour himself a drink; he needed it.
Penny Morrison, he knew, needed money badly; if this yarn were true, the thing would be a godsend for her.
The Englishman came back into the room, holding a page of typed notes, and insisted on going over them aloud, in a droning voice. The stone was said to be of five carats and a fraction, of poor cut and color, its center showing the image of the Sphinx in profile, formed by flaws. That was to be expected; an unflawed emerald, like a really blue diamond, was almost unknown in the world of gems. The man was making a very real effort at self- control, fighting against credence.
"Remember, Stuart, we're dealing with a famed historical jewel," he stated, "and replicas must have been made, poor imitations; if this is beryl it will answer to simple tests. Until it does, we can't be certain. I don't want you to be misled."
Stuart laughed. "It's all new to me, Sir Evart. Are you lecturing here, by the way?"
"Not at once; my engagements begin out West; Lattimer—the collector whom I mentioned—lives somewhere out there. Well, if you're ready—"
They descended to the street, piled into a cab, and Stuart gave the address of Penny Morrison. It was a fifteen-minute drive from Park Avenue. As they rode, he told Sir Evart about Penny—supporting herself precariously by music, with nothing except what little her brother had left her. They drew up before her apartment-building. Another two minutes saw them in her apartment.
Penny was a head shorter than Stuart; she was gowned in gold- touched maroon; her masses of brownish hair, her vivacious and alive features, her sparkling, alert eyes, were pleasing. Her voice was soft.
WITHOUT mentioning the emerald, Stuart told their errand.
"Sir Evart has agreed to look over the stuff," he concluded, "but he'll be brutally frank about it."
"That's very kind," said Penny. "I'll appreciate it, indeed. I'm well aware that Egyptian tourists usually get stung in their purchases, and I doubt if any of these things have much value. I have everything together—excuse me while I go after them."
She hurried from the room. Sir Evart glanced at the piano, the pictures, the worn rug on the floor, and lighted an Abdallah.
"Gad!" he murmured. "A remarkably nice young woman, Stuart. Teaches music, eh? You know, if that thing proves real, it'll positively be a wrench to sell it to Lattimer. I'd give my right arm to have it myself—but can't afford it, worse luck."
"Have you considered the difficulty of making a replica?"
"Aye; that's a sticker. You see, when the French were in Egypt around 1800 they got hold of the stone; then it vanished, went out of sight. The story says that it turned up briefly just after the war—some chap unearthed it, then dropped it into the Nile. It's known by hearsay, and figures in history and romance no end, but there are no photographs of it. Leonardo da Vinci left a drawing of it, I believe."
Stuart frowned. "Doesn't seem logical—the disappearance, I mean."
"That's Africa for you, my boy. Even people disappear. There was that young Dutch woman, Alexine Thynne—the richest woman in Europe—who vanished in the Sahara in the 1860's, supposedly killed by her own guides. Other things like that, many of them—"
He broke off and rose as Penny returned, bringing a small handbag. This she placed on a dropleaf table, whose burden of music Stuart transferred to the piano.
"Here you are," she said brightly. "Everything's unwrapped."
Sir Evart drew up his chair and opened the bag, to display a miscellaneous mass of burial beads, small images, seals and other such trinkets. He began to turn them over with his fingers.
"I thought you said there was an emerald in the lot, Stuart?"
"Oh!" A cry escaped from Penny. "I forgot all about it—that man was here only this morning! He took it to have it expertised."
With a sound like a ripping balloon, Sir Evart drew back from the table.
"So! The thing we most wanted to see, is gone!"
"I'm sorry," blurted the girl, dismay in her face. "He said that if genuine it might be worth all of a hundred dollars."
"A thousand pounds—five thousand dollars, at the least!" the Englishman broke in. "Well, what's done is done. We can't help it if you've sold the stone."
"But I haven't!" she cried tragically. "He gave a receipt for it and promised he'd return in a day or two. He's a well-known person; he's just returned from a buying trip to Egypt."
"His name?"
She stared blankly and bit her lip.
"I—I don't remember. Wait! I have his card and the receipt. Let me get them for you."
She hurried out again, and Sir Evart spread his hands.
"You see, Stuart? There's a fate about this thing. The stone knocks about, over half the world, and we come to see it. A man is ahead of us by a few hours—doesn't buy it, just carries it off. Spotted it for what it is, by Jove!"
"It must have been the real thing, then," Stuart said. "But if she didn't sell it to him, then she's not lost it."
"Stuff and nonsense!" snorted the Briton. "We're not dealing with a piece of real estate, man, but with an inestimable jewel, a unique museum piece of enormous value, which can be slid into one's vest pocket—"
Penny returned, breathless, and thrust at them a receipt and a card. The receipt was for one presumed emerald of about five carats, taken on approval. The card, bearing a Madison Avenue address, was printed:
James L. Hartley
Jewels de Luxe—Curios
"Good! A Madison Avenue shop!" cried Stuart. "We can go there right now. How did the man find you, Penny? Why did he come here?"
"He—he said he had met my brother in Egypt," she answered.
Sir Evart broke in: "Very well. Get your things, and we'll go see the chap."
"Ready in a moment," she replied, and hurried off. Sir Evart tapped the card and gave Stuart a beetling look.
"Rather obvious. This chap heard in Egypt about the find, about the sale to an American, obtained the address and ran the thing down—you see? Something fishy about all this. The card is not engraved, but printed; a bad sign. If this fellow Hartley knows the stone for what it is, he's no ordinary dealer."
"Do you know the man?"
"I can't say. I never heard of this name, at all events."
"You suspect something crooked?"
"I don't know. Anything is possible—any sort of fraud, rookery, or downright rascality. I may be wrong, but I'd wager pounds to dollars that your young lady does not see the Sphinx Emerald again in a hurry."
"I'll take the bet," snapped Stuart. "No crook like that is going to—"
"Easy!" The other laid a compelling hand on his wrist. "No jumping at conclusions, please; a very unwise habit. First let us gather evidence, then act upon it, my friend. Remember, Hartley must be an extraordinary person to have recognized the Sphinx Emerald or even to have heard of it. We don't know yet that he did. I am going to make a cast in the dark."
So saying, he produced his notebook, tore out a leaf, wrote down something, and folded it twice. He passed the little square to Stuart, just as Penny returned in hat and coat.
"Hold that, Stuart. Tell me, Miss Morrison: Was your visitor of this morning a very slender gentleman with a particularly large hooked nose and bushy eyebrows?"
"Yes, black brows," she said. "He wore a very large seal bloodstone ring and had fine hands. He spoke with a slight accent, but I can't say just what it was."
Sir Evart laughed.
"Come along, then, let's go to his shop, and after that to my hotel for tea."
They quickly found a taxi, and to ease the tension, Stuart spoke to Penny of her plans.
"You said that you had a chance to sublease the apartment—"
"Yes, I could step out tomorrow and turn it over to friends," she assented. "Not that I want to do so, of course. I've nowhere else to go, so it's only a temptation."
Sir Evart darted her a quick glance.
"Don't be too sure, miss. It may be a very lucky thing. Well, here we are, so out with you! And I suggest that you let me do the talking."
Before them was a shop-window glittering with jewelry and trinkets.
STUART was prepared for black-browed rascality. Instead, the man who removed his jeweler's glass and greeted them across the counter was frail, blond, quite pleasant until Hartley's name was mentioned; then he fired up with obvious indignation.
"Ach! It is that man again! Look you, he has a marvelous knowledge of stones. He argued me into letting him use this address, and now I have trouble all the time. It was a big mistake. You are from the police?"
"No," replied Sir Evart. "We merely want to find Mr. Hartley."
"But there is something wrong, yes? I see it in your eyes! Well, he is gone! He took a plane this noon to fly West and said he would not be back. I have washed my hands of him."
Penny Morrison caught her breath, but Sir Evart only smiled.
"Very well, sir. Let me have his address, and we'll trouble you no more."
"Good. I can do that. For a few days only, he said, he would be at the El Portal Hotel in Santa Fe, New Mexico."
"Thank you; nothing further, then."
OUT in the street, the Englishman spoke brusquely.
"Come along—not far to my hotel. We can talk there."
To Stuart it was quite evident that, so far as Hartley went, the goose was cooked. The man had taken French leave, counting on two or three days' leeway before the police got after him. This in itself was rather conclusive evidence that the emerald was an emerald, but Sir Evart seemed to have something up his sleeve. However, the Englishman said nothing until they reached his hotel and gained his rooms. Then he ordered tea, went to the phone and spoke lengthily with the porter's office, and came back with a cheerful air to settle down at the table between his two guests.
"Now I'll trouble you for that bit of paper, Stuart—thanks." Sir Evart spread it out. "There's our man's proper name—John Monckton. Either of you know him?"
Neither did.
"A man of pre-war distinction and brilliance; a rascal of the first water, Dutch or English by birth, concerned in a number of shady transactions abroad—an international crook, and very able."
"Who's jumping at conclusions now?" asked Stuart.
"I'm talking facts, not theories, my dear fellow. Further, Bernard Lattimer lives in or near Santa Fe. The connection is quite obvious. Monckton, alias Hartley, put the emerald in the mail, addressed to himself at El Portal Hotel, then popped aboard a plane; he's quite safe, even if pursued, you see. A smart rascal."
Penny leaned forward. "Then—then you think he stole the emerald?"
"Sure of it. He'd not take such risks without a large prospective gain."
The tea arrived; also a porter with a sheet of paper for Sir Evart, who took and studied it reflectively. When they were alone again and Penny was pouring the tea, he resumed:
"You have several alternatives, Miss Morrison. It's your affair and I don't want to influence you. You may turn it over to the police, which will involve no end of publicity; you'll punish Hartley, but may not get the stone back."
"Doesn't sound attractive," she commented. "What else?"
"Hm! I must leave tomorrow to lecture in Denver; from there I can be in Santa Fe by flying, on Sunday. I know Lattimer fairly well. The porter informs me he can get one reservation for seven tonight, on a plane reaching Santa Fe early in the morning. Your American connections are rather marvelous, you know. Well, it all depends on what your wishes are. Since you've brought me into the matter—do I stay in?"
"That's up to you," Penny replied, smiling. "I think you should."
"Good. Frankly, I foresee a very active time ahead. Hartley is no fool. I fancy you'll be amazed when you learn how much Lattimer is willing to pay for the emerald."
"You say he's a friend of yours—" began Stuart.
"Friendship doesn't enter into collecting. Lattimer is a retired genius; where his collection is concerned, he doesn't regard the law. If I could steal the crown jewels out of the Tower, he'd buy 'em like a shot."
"Well, see here," broke in Stuart. "Hartley knows Penny here, by sight. You have a lecture date. I can take tonight's plane, reach Santa Fe in the morning, and grab Hartley. He doesn't know me, won't suspect me."
"Basically sound, as a proposal. What about it, Miss Penny?"
She nodded. "It's my game and I ought to play it, but I suppose—"
"Follow on by a later plane," Stuart suggested. He met her eyes and read their hesitation aright. "Sublease the apartment if you like—no, damn it! We've neither of us got the means, Sir Evart, and that's flat. Costs money to travel, you know."
The Englishman nodded, his eyes sparkling.
"Right. I've a few hundred to spare—No, Miss Penny, wait a moment! You agree to let me handle the stone—say, on commission—and I'll advance expenses. This is going to be a brisk game, I warn you; Hartley's a bad enemy to take on. I'll enjoy it no end. Yes? Then we're in alliance. Hold on a sec—I'll make sure of that reservation."
He rose and went to the telephone. Penny looked at Stuart uncertainly.
"I suppose it's the best way, really, but I don't want to trouble you—"
"Nonsense!" He broke into a laugh. "I'm tingling, for the first time in weeks! I wouldn't miss this show for anything. While not broke, I'm pretty well bent, and it's fine to have him come to the rescue; he's a grand chap, Penny. What's more, if I'm out West I can land a drafting job with the Douglas people. Things work out, you see."
SIR EVART returned, rubbing his hands.
"All settled; reservation's in your name, Stuart. The pursuit of the Sphinx Emerald is under way! Miss Penny, you can come West with me tomorrow. At Kansas City you change to another plane that will drop you at Santa Fe while I go on to Denver. You'll join Stuart a day ahead of me, then. I'll assume your expenses and can stand Stuart a hundred dollars for expenses—his reservation is charged to me. Right?"
Stuart nodded. "I'll go as I stand; a phone call will take care of my clothes and effects."
"Then we'll toast our luck." Sir Evart lifted his cup, beaming over it. "If I were Hartley, I'd have dropped that stone in the air mail, so it should be delivered to him sometime tomorrow; mind that!"
"Which should make him liable for a Federal offense," assented Stuart.
"Careful, now, my lad! Miss Penny doesn't fancy police business. We're not out to punish anyone—we're after that emerald, and I'm trusting to your level head. A bit of beryl not as large as your little fingernail, remember."
"I get you, sir. Penny gets there sometime Saturday, you sometime Sunday. Do you want me to contact Lattimer?"
"Contact? Oh! Get in touch with him, eh? No, better not unless things go amiss. I can't tell you what to expect. You have a head—use it. Here's your hundred."
Stuart pocketed the roll of money handed him. The bus for his plane would leave downtown at six; he had time to spare.
The three sat talking. To Stuart, who knew Penny fairly well, the radiance behind her poise was a marvelous thing, like sunlight behind a chinked wall. He liked the expert way Sir Evart Buckson brought her out. He liked everything about her; he had, ever since meeting her, thought her a rare and precious thing. She was no tricky finagling female, but frank, level-eyed, genuine.
To Buckson he gave similar credit. Close to forty, Stuart reckoned, but with a youthful spring to his step, a reflective, calm eye, a lift of the spirit; one to depend upon in a pinch, for advice and for action. Practical, yes, yet not material. That reflective gaze was touched with spirituality. The man had not been knighted for making money, but for some things he had written about the Egyptian religions—Stuart could not remember exactly what. There were depths to him.
His phone call made, the safety of his few belongings assured, Stuart stepped into the bathroom and washed. He caught sight of himself in the glass. Unevenly browned by work in the sun, not by a sun lamp, his knobby features were pleasantly relieved by a hint of laughter about his steady eyes.
"No beauty prizes for you," he muttered with a sniff, "but you do get things done, old ugly-mug!"
He rejoined the others and took another cup of tea. It was a pleasant change from the universal coffee.
"Drink it fast," said Penny, glancing at her watch. "I'll walk to the terminus with you. Those buses go on the dot, remember." She turned to their host. "You've turned me topsy-turvy this afternoon. I can be ready to leave with you tomorrow, by fast work, but tell me one thing: is it worth it? You mentioned a thousand pounds—"
Sir Evart took her hand. "My dear, the world I knew is all changed; institutions and men are different, values are different, nothing is the same. Yet I honestly believe that sum is the veriest minimum. You may get more."
"Thanks to you. Now, let's have all this on a business footing, please. You must have a share of all benefits—"
He laughed. "A commission, then?"
"Right. Twenty per cent is the usual art commission. Sufficient?"
"Far too much."
"Not a bit of it; so that's settled." She flung a glance at Stuart. "Ready, tea-guzzler?"
With thanks and cheery farewells to Sir Evart, they gained the street and turned toward Forty-second. Penny was brisk, cheerful, decisive.
"I like your English friend. He has an air—I think he's a magician who enchants everything around him!"
"That's the advantage of having money." Stuart spoke a trifle bitterly. "I don't like being on him for expenses. I don't like being broke. I want a stake."
Her laugh rang clear. "Bosh! So do I, but I'm not fretting over it. Don't get sour. Don't get to thinking the world's down on you!"
"I have my reasons, as you very well know," he cut in. "And to think I'm on my way West—a most amazing, incredible thing!"
"Precisely." She took his arm. "It's all out of this world. This morning I woke up sane; tonight I'll be a lunatic. And going West tomorrow—me, Penny Morrison! Oh, I just thought of something that Chuck wrote me before he died. Said he had sent an emerald, and added: 'Be careful not to look at it too long.' What could he have meant?"
"I don't know—or yes, I do, too!" Stuart remembered what Sir Evart had said about the peculiar hypnotic effect exerted by the Sphinx Emerald, and quoted it. "Must have some reference to that quality of fancied influence. Mystics surround famous gems with all sorts of bosh, you know. Don't take any stock in it."
She laughed. "I didn't even know that was the emerald he meant; I thought it a bit of glass, really! We can be terrible fools, can't we?"
"Darling fools." Stuart had his own ideas about Penny Morrison and did not hesitate to voice them. "Wholly adorable, my dear. But if you'll accept my advice, we should have the cops step in, pinch this guy Hartley and hold him till you arrive. The emerald would be seized when delivered at the hotel there. That's the sensible thing to do."
She pressed his arm. "Stop and think, Stuart! The newspapers would be filled with the wildest sort of stories, and then questions would be asked. How did the emerald get into this country? Was it loot? Well, I don't know. Chuck got it in, and he's dead, and I don't intend to have his name dragged in the mud for a dozen emeralds. Do what our friend said—use your head!"
"Okay. Tomorrow's Friday, you'll arrive on Saturday, and I'll have the blasted thing to put in your hand when you get there! So be sure to look in your box when you reach the hotel; I'll reserve a room for you."
Their parting was lighthearted, even gay. Stuart barely had time to buy a safety razor and a tube of shaving-cream; then he was in a different world, passing through the terminus to the bus, the roaring city locked out.
On his way to Santa Fe—and what?
The future worried him little; how to get the emerald scarcely gave him a second thought. Hartley was a crook who had bamboozled Penny, that was all. Stuart vaguely reflected that he might have to knock the fellow down and take it away from him, and then dismissed the matter. He was far more concerned with the job he hoped to get in the far West; and before he leaned back in his seat that night and went to sleep, he had written the letter applying for it.
All in all, a good day's work well done, he told himself.
WITH something of this same feeling, he rolled into Santa Fe in early daylight. The air was cold, high, crystal- clear; wood-smoke curled above the city; the tips of the Sangre de Cristo mountains were radiant with sunrise beams. He had a glimpse of the Plaza, of the ancient Palace of the Governors; then the bus spewed him forth in El Portal's courtyard, in modern luxury and pseudo-Spanish surroundings.
A room, reserved from New York, was waiting. He tubbed, shaved, went down to an early breakfast and was ready for the street hours before the shops opened; he wanted a shirt, clean linen, a few odds and ends. His suit was his best, and good enough. Having mailed his letter about the job, he went to the desk and reserved a room for Penny, arriving on the morrow, and one for Sir Evart, due on Sunday.
"By the way, I have a friend who should have reached here yesterday or last night," he said to the clerk. "The name is Hartley. What's his room number?"
The clerk disappeared and came back with a shake of the head.
"No such person here at all, Mr. Stuart."
The dismayed Stuart insisted; so did the clerk, who thereupon phoned two other local hotels. No such person anywhere.
Stuffing his pipe, Stuart abandoned argument, strolled out into the morning sunlight, and made his way to the Plaza. He found an empty bench and sat down, eying the shops around the square and puffing at his pipe as he thought. Hartley had left this address in New York, but this meant little. Perhaps he did not want to be reached at all from New York. He might be using his real name of Monckton, or any other.
"Hm! First blood to the enemy," thought Stuart. "The game's not so easy. After all, it was only a guess that he had sent the stone by mail, but probably he did so. Then I'd better try the name of Monckton."
The shops were opening, now, as time passed. He stepped into a drugstore, called the hotel, and asked to speak with Mr. Monckton. No such guest was there. Stuart hung up, made the round of the shops, bought the clean linen he needed, and thoughtfully footed it back to the hotel. He bought a morning newspaper and settled down in a lobby chair, though reading was a pretense.
This was a knockout. For a little he was frightened. Hartley might not have come here at all; the proximity of Bernard Lattimer to this spot might have completely deluded Sir Evart. However, Stuart bluntly refused to accept this possibility.
Perhaps Sir Evart had gone off the deep end. Better to throw overboard all his notions and look at facts. According to the shop jeweler, he had gone to Santa Fe—no name mentioned; and had taken a plane West. He might have stopped at a dozen places before ending at Santa Fe. He had left Penny Morrison, the emerald in his pocket, and had then wound up his affairs in New York and caught a noon plane. That was quick work.
"Registering a package by mail takes time," thought Stuart. "Why—hell's bells! He never sent the gem by mail; he lacked the time! We got off on the wrong foot. He may not be here for a week. He's far too smart to pull the obvious trick of a crook; and in fact we don't even know as yet that he is a crook."
IT was all very sobering; and, before Stuart had finished
glancing over his newspaper, something else occurred to put a
complete damper on all exuberance. A page summoned him; at the
desk he was handed a telegram. He tore it open, then went back to
his chair and reread it with stupefaction. It had come from New
York, and read:
WIRE FROM HARTLEY CHICAGO STATES ALLEGED EMERALD BEING RETURNED AIRMAIL WITH APOLOGIES. ADVISE.—PENNY
Stuart filled his pipe and lighted it. So Hartley was in
Chicago! Abruptly, he caught at one word: alleged. The alleged
emerald, Hartley called it! That was a bit of a giveaway. Had
he not had Hartley described to him as a super-smart rascal,
Stuart might have swallowed this; but obviously Hartley had, in
using this word, implied that the stone now being returned was
not genuine.
"It doesn't click, somehow," Stuart told himself, frowning at the message. "The guy is in Chicago, and therefore we're all off base. Hm! Penny wants me to advise her. I'll have to be sharp about it, time being two hours later in New York than here. No time to stop and think—"
He looked up. The desk clerk, trying to catch his eye, was beckoning. He rose and went back to the desk.
"Mr. Stuart! Weren't you asking last night about a friend named Hartley? We've just had a wire from him; he's at Chicago, and arrives here at midnight. Thought you'd like to know."
"Yes, indeed! Thanks a lot. Give me a telegraph blank, will you?"
Things were clearing, Stuart mused, as he addressed the wire to Penny. Mr. Hartley, all unwitting, had put a big spoke in his own wheel, in reserving hotel space. He had flown to Chicago—why? Never mind that. He was heading for Santa Fe right enough, and using his own name. Stuart made the telegram emphatic:
CHANGE NO PLANS COME ALONG ARRANGING FOR PACKAGE TO FOLLOW.—STUART.
"Get this off immediately, please no delays. Thanks." He handed over the message, said he would later leave a note for his friend Hartley, took his packages to his own room, and after changing, went out for a walk. He did not regret his impulsive action.
"Now let's get off to a new start," he told himself, as he walked along the Plaza and the narrow streets beyond. "Hartley is a bad egg—smooth, crafty, but not brainy at all. He hears in Egypt about the finding of a certain stone or bit of glass with a tiny Sphinx inside. He traces it to New York and loses no time seeing it and grabbing it. Then what? He doesn't look for any pursuit by a woman. The chief possible purchaser lives near here, so he starts for here but makes a stop-off at Chicago. Why? For something important. I might guess why, but that's bad luck, so I won't. Meantime, I'm here. Am I going to sit around wasting my opportunity or am I going to use my head and keep my eye on the ball? Damned if I know!"
Too bad the police were ruled out; to grab Hartley and the emerald on arrival would be the sensible thing. Still, Penny had her reasons. So what? It was maddening to think of the man arriving with the jewel in his waistcoat pocket and nothing happening; something must happen!
Hartley, from Chicago, had wired Penny that the gem was being returned, in order to gain time and freedom from any pursuit. He must be tapped on arrival, then; he must be looted before his suspicions were aroused, and there was only one way to do it—the simplest, most direct way.
His mind made up, Stuart went back to the hotel. He left a call for eight that evening, then pulled down his blinds and got into bed. Before he knew it, he was asleep, and did not waken until his telephone summoned him.
Eight o'clock—and he felt ravenous. He bathed, dressed, got downstairs before the dining-room closed, and ordered a substantial dinner, to which he did full justice. Afterward, he went out and found a movie, which entertained him until eleven. Then back to the hotel, where he discreetly braced the night clerk about the arrival of an expected friend. The hotel bus would be in from the airport, he learned, a few minutes past midnight. Stuart settled down in a chair, his evening beginning where that of others was ending. He was alert, fresh, nimble- witted. Knowing what had to be done, he was entirely ready to do it, with no wasted effort.
The lobby emptied. Time dragged: Stuart walked about, studied the Indian sand-paintings here and there about the lobby floor, eyed the window displays of the lobby shops. His pipe was in his coat pocket. The minutes passed; twelve o'clock came and went. He lit a cigarette and took a chair near the stairs. The hotel had no elevator, being of only two rambling stories, in Spanish style.
There was a stir at the entrance; the doors swung, a bus- driver entered, carrying a bag, a man with him. Both went to the desk. Presently a bellman came toward the stairs, bag in hand, the new arrival behind him: a smallish man; under his hatbrim was a striking set of features, hooked nose, bushy black brows. "Hartley," sure enough! Stuart rose, stubbed out his cigarette, and followed them up the stairs, unhurried.
THE upper corridor was obscured. A door opened, lights inside
were switched on. Stuart came past, noted the number of the door,
went on down the corridor to the turn, waited a little, headed
back. The room door was closed. He halted, pulled his hat over
his eyes, and knocked.
The door was opened.
"Telegram, Mr. Hartley," Stuart said—and pushed the door with his foot so that it flew open. He stepped inside, right hand in his coat pocket gripping his pipe in ominous outline, and closed the door behind him.
Hartley stared at him.
"You can't get away with it," said Stuart. "That stop in Chicago didn't fool anybody. Turn around, face to the wall. Get your hands up—fast!"
HIS words were enough to break down Hartley, who gasped and
obeyed the order. Stuart came close behind him.
"Don't get careless or I'll put a bullet into you." Reaching around with his free hand, Stuart began to explore his victim's pockets, speaking the while to keep Hartley from pulling himself together. "So you mailed the imitation emerald back from Chicago, eh? Very clever bit of work. I suppose you got a bit of glass made up and sent back."
"I'll see you jailed for this!" Hartley spoke thickly, furiously.
Stuart met the threat with a laugh.
"Not likely. Hold still, now! You wouldn't like the cops to be asking you any questions, would you? Now I think we have everything—but I don't want your personal effects, so hold still while I weed 'em out. Don't move."
A small box in the waistcoat pocket—that should be it, but he could not take chances. With his one hand, he opened it, saw a pale green shimmer bedded in cotton, and pocketed it. The wallet and other items he had removed, he tossed to the nearby bed.
Then a sharp rap at the door startled him.
"Easy! Stay as you are."
With the command, he stepped back and opened the door. A stranger stood there, a man whose floppy brown hat, sprigged with a small feather, was drawn down over his eyes.
"Mr. Hartley here?" he asked.
Stuart opened the door wide.
"Sure thing. Walk in."
The other entered; as he did so, Stuart squeezed past, pulled shut the door and went down the hall fast. He ran, and no one followed. There was no outcry. His room was in the other wing of the hotel. He gained it without incident, shut the door upon himself; he was alone—and triumphant!
His writing-table had a desk light. He switched it on, and before it put the little cardboard box in which reposed the emerald. He sat down and examined this; it was the same stone he had noted among Chuck Morrison's effects—pale green in hue, an uneven cabochon in shape, with something dark in the center. At this he gazed with some interest. On holding the stone close to the light, he fancied it had the shape of the Sphinx.
"The stone's a deeper green underneath it. Hm! Should have a glass to enlarge it." He laid down the emerald, lit a cigarette, and with a smile looked at his plunder. The little box was unmarked. "Apparently I hit the nail on the head, too: the guy arranged to have a near-replica made in Chicago and sent to Penny."
Abruptly he remembered something that sobered him. That caller at Hartley's room—who had it been? Some friend who expected his arrival? Oh, the hell with it! Another crook or two mattered nothing.
"If there's any need, I can confess openly: this was stolen property and I was recovering it," he thought. He picked up the tiny box; it seemed a bit heavy. He took out the packed cotton, and beneath it found an unrimmed enlarging-glass—evidently to assist in examining the stone.
Picking it up, he held the emerald beneath it. The Sphinx- figure leaped out; he almost gasped at sight of it, thus, perfect in form. Under the glass, too, the whole body of the gem took on new form and coloring: The minute crystalline striations, the flaws, the tiny angular bubbles—who ever heard of angular bubbles? Yet there they were!—gave him a sensation of surprise, even of delight. Instead of a dot of beryl, here he had a vista of green beneath the light, thanks to the enlarging- glass. He gazed into it for a long time, and experienced a queer upheaval of emotions. He imagined things passing before his very eyes. Astonished, he removed the glass and looked at the stone. No, nothing except a spot of greenish beryl.
Under the glass again, this expanded. Stuart wondered how the emerald could be distinguished from glass; he was ignorant of the fact that this green color, persisting true under artificial light, was one evidence. Singular fancies crept through, or came from, those green vistas. Really a double cabochon in form, this crystal had depth; the light glinted across those verdant expanses, refraction tempted the imagination, and the least change of position instantly gave birth to fresh illusions.
At the start, the sensation was not unpleasant: an uplift, a sense of power, an ecstasy such as rare old wine might engender in the spirit. But it changed. Uneasiness stole upon him, a vaguely troubling worry tormented him. He sought the cause, and there was none, visibly. Yet it remained and grew more intense. Something seemed very wrong. The sensation sharpened imperceptibly until it was acute. An odd idea took shape in his mind, as though whispers were coming to him from the emerald.
He had the stone; nor did he feel that in getting it he had acted wrongly. Yet he had taken the law into his own hands, beyond all question. His uneasiness became a definite feeling of blame, of self-accusation. This was disturbing; so was the notion of reparation, as though he had done something for which he must pay. All folly, of course. But, remembering what had been said about self-hypnosis, and Chuck Morrison's warning to Penny, Stuart abruptly tore himself from the glass and gave up his gazing. He glanced at his watch and felt a start of alarm. He had been busied with this emerald, not for a few minutes, but for two solid hours!
He dropped the stone in its bed of cotton, put down the glass, and placed them on the table. His uneasiness and troubled worry were gone at once. He locked his door, laughing at his own ridiculous notions. Thought of Hartley caused him no foreboding. Of course Hartley could discover who had been hanging about the lobby so late, and might well guess at the identity of the robber. He might even attempt some return blow—but that was nonsense. The man was in no position to strike back. Sir Evart's talk of his cleverness was bosh.
Unworried now, blissfully satisfied, Stuart disrobed, switched off his light, and stretched out in bed, feeling unaccountably tired. He fell asleep almost at once, and so profound was his slumber that nothing disturbed him until the bedside telephone rang and rang again.
This was at noon the next day.
SLEEPILY, his head heavy and feeling like a solid marble mass, Stuart got hold of the phone. He managed to make out that the desk clerk was calling him.
"I think you reserved space for today, Mr. Stuart, for a Miss Morrison?"
"Eh? Oh, for Penny—sure thing!"
"We thought you might like to know that we just had a wire from her saying she would arrive by air at three-thirty this afternoon."
"Oh, fine! Thanks a lot."
Stuart hung up, yawned, and then glanced at his watch with incredulous horror. Noon! Impossible!
He jumped out of bed and staggered. Then he noticed an odd sort of odor in the room, sweet and sickish. He became aware of his stuffed-up head, his sluggish senses, and suddenly wanted fresh air. He had forgotten to open his window. Making his way to it, he shoved it wide open and drank in the fresh sunny air with quick relief. Almost at once his head began to clear.
Bewildered, he pulled a chair to the window and sat down. Something had happened, but he could not figure out what it was. Last thing he remembered was sitting and gazing at the emerald. He remembered the warning sent to Penny by her brother: "Be careful not to look at it too long." Auto-hypnosis? No, that would not cause such queer effects. Might have something to do with it, of course; but there had definitely been something in the room—
His vagrant gaze touched upon the writing-table. He blinked at it; he rubbed his eyes, got up and stared. His senses cleared. The table was empty; the little box and the glass were gone.
Now he understood. He got under the shower, his brain steadied, he came back and dressed, in a savage mood. By some odd kink, what stuck in his mind was a floppy brown hat sprigged with a red feather—a friend who had arrived to meet Hartley. A man who is not alone can manage anything.
Leaving the room, he lit a cigarette and started downstairs, suppressing a groan and an oath. Not clever, eh? He had been a fool to laugh at them. They had worked fast and efficiently, injecting through the keyhole into the room some soporific and then unlocking the door and walking in to get the emerald. By not opening his window, he had played into their hands; no doubt they had shot enough dope into the room to pretty near kill him.
At the desk, his inquiries sadly confirmed all this. Yes, Mr. Hartley had checked out early, before five o'clock, in fact—had paid for his room and gone to visit friends. He had left no forwarding address. With this to sauce his meal, Stuart sought the dining-room and secured lunch. Nice news with which to greet Penny at three-thirty! Now he was back where he had started—except that he was a trifle wiser.
What now—the police? Definitely not. Lattimer? He had been quietly warned off by Sir Evart. Yet he felt an urgent pull toward action. Hartley had arrived at midnight and could have had no sleep since; until evening, at least, the man would be resting. This, as Stuart could see, was his only chance to get anything accomplished, to repair his own folly.
He made his way back to the desk, and there got hold of the clerk with whom he had just spoken.
"Perhaps you can help me. I missed my friend Hartley last night. He skipped out this morning before I was up—checked out about five, you said. It just occurred to me that he might have taken a taxi. If he did, and you can locate the driver, I might find my friend after all."
A bright idea, said the clerk; it might work. He summoned a bellman, telephoned, learned that a taxi had been called that morning, and set about locating it. This was not hard; calls at that hour in Santa Fe were not common. Within ten minutes a little man in a driver's cap sought him out.
"I took two men and a bag from here at five this morning," he said. "I hear you want to locate them?"
"That's right, if they're still in town," assented Stuart.
"I reckon so. I took 'em to a place on the north side."
"Got your car here? Let's go," Stuart said impulsively.
"Ain't much of a place—just a big trailer where a guy lives."
Two minutes later they were bumping toward a newly built-up section where buildings thinned and ran into brownish stretches of open country at the very edge of the city. The roads became unpaved trails. Bleak hills ran over the horizon.
"That's it," said the driver, and pointed to a reddish-brown trailer, without a car, standing in a field to the right, isolated and alone. "I'll have to stop here; can't trust my tires in that stubble."
"I'll walk over." Stuart thrust a bill at him. "Wait for me."
He left the car and started across the field toward the trailer, which was closed and apparently empty. Wooden steps mounted to the door at one end. Coming close, Stuart saw that this door stood open an inch or two. Curious, he walked over to it, ascended the wooden steps, and knocked. No answer; nothing was heard. He gave the door a push—and as it opened upon horror, his heart skipped a beat.
Directly before him, on the floor of the trailer, sat a man leaning against the far wall, holding a revolver cocked in his lap. Staring-eyed, the man had bled to death, as a blackened pool of blood on the floor indicated all too surely, from a wound apparently in his thigh or back. Beside him was a floppy-brimmed brown hat adorned with a sliver of feather; this was the man who had come to Hartley's room in the hotel.
STUART took it in at a glance; the wide fixed eyes, the
ghastly pallor, told of death. He caught his breath; then
something white caught his eye. Beside the body, as though fallen
from the lax, free hand, was the little box that had contained
the Sphinx Emerald. It still contained it. In the fall, the lid
had become dislodged and Stuart could see a flash of green.
The truth flashed across his brain. Hartley and this unknown had together obtained the stone from his room and had come here; then had got into a fight over the loot. This man had seized it, had been wounded, and had sunk down here. Hartley, ignorant of approaching death, had skipped out hurriedly without the emerald—and here it was!
Stuart did not stop to think. Police, investigations, folly—nothing occurred to him. He took one step forward, reached down, and picked up the stone from the little box. He touched the man, whose body was stiff and cold, then hastily drew back. He drew the door shut and descended the steps, and strode toward the waiting taxi.
"Nobody home?" queried the driver as he came up.
"Door's unlocked, but nobody answered me," said Stuart, and climbed in. "Back to the hotel, I guess. Anyhow, I'll know where to come next time."
He sat back on the cushions and shivered. The stone was in his pocket; but realization of his own stupidity was appalling. True, no one seemed near; the bright sunlight revealed no threat in any direction; yet investigation must come, and when it came this taxi-driver would recall his name and he would be thrust into it.
Well, that could be met and faced; Stuart, with an effort, forced down his heart-hammerings. Hartley would return sooner or later, but certainly would not report the matter to the police. That would result only from curiosity of neighbors. There was no immediate menace.
Still, when he got out at the hotel he was in a sweat. He gave the driver a fat tip, and the man chuckled.
"Thanks, Mister. That brings it up to just the right figure for El Paso."
"Eh?" Stuart frowned. "What d'you mean by that?"
"I been saving up tips and so forth. I got a brother down to El Paso and I want to visit him for a month, and this is my last job for a while. Now I can get off tomorrow. I was raised down there and it'll be good to see old friends."
"Driving down?"
"When we got roads like glass, I sure ain't wasting coin on railroad fare! Well, thanks a lot."
He drove away, and Stuart turned into the hotel. A feeling of vast relief surged through him. There went his only immediate chance of being drawn into the murder mystery—for such it would be called, no doubt.
"Strictly speaking, my duty is probably to report the matter," Stuart told himself. "If the man were alive, I'd have to do it. But he's dead. I can do him no good by putting the cops on Hartley, and might do myself and Penny a lot of harm. So I'll just stand pat."
He looked at his watch—three o'clock! Procuring an envelope at the desk, he addressed it to Penny, slipped the emerald inside, sealed it, and gave it to the desk clerk to put in her box. She would find it there on arrival, as he had promised her. Somewhat tickled by this conceit, he went out to the street, stopped at the first jewelry-shop, and bought an enlarging-glass. With this in his pocket he came back to the hotel and sought his room. As he sat, lost in thought, Stuart was aware of an avid desire to have that emerald here and to gaze again into its depths. He shrugged off the desire almost angrily, and not without a trace of fear. The thing was almost uncanny—what strange sensations he had experienced from it last night!
Yet in his heart he knew it was not uncanny at all; he had simply been stirred into recognition of his own fears. In general, the close view of the stone had inspired a fine brave sensation which he craved to repeat; not hypnotic, but an awakening of his own innate consciousness. Stuart had too much common sense to credit any occult influences.
HE was wakened from his abstraction by the telephone, and picked it up to hear Penny's voice.
"Hello, stranger! I'm here. And no one to meet me—not even a guy standing at the hotel door! You're a grand greeter, I don't think!"
"Hi, Penny. It's grand to hear your voice," he replied. "I left a green orchid in your box as promised."
"I got it, Bill. And I'm thrilled, honest: your crimes are forgiven."
"Thanks. Have a good trip? When do I see you?"
"Swell trip, old boy. You don't see me for the next half-hour, I hope. After that, name your time."
"Thirty-one minutes, then. Meet you in the lobby. And, Penny— Don't leave that green thing lying around in your room. Tuck it away somewhere."
"Okay, Bill."
He hung up; the world had changed. Her voice had altered everything, and even bitter memories lessened. He was back to reality now, and before he realized, he was whistling cheerfully.
Penny was prompt to the minute. Her alive, sparkling personality was like charged wine to him; yet the eagerness in all she said and did was pleasantly restrained by an alert, hard realism; she could dream, yet kept her dreams within limits.
"I want to see everything—just walk and talk and look around!" she exclaimed. "I've never been here before, and it's interesting. You can tell me how you got the stone back, as we go."
"No." Stuart ushered her out to the street. "Let it wait. Sir Evart will be here tomorrow; then's time enough to talk about it. After dinner tonight I'll introduce you to the emerald; but now we'll just have a look at Santa Fe before the sun goes down."
Churches, acequias, buildings — Stuart himself had not realized what there was here to see, and "doing" the town in company with Penny made time fly. At twilight they returned to the hotel, celebrated the occasion with a cocktail, and a little later met in the dining-room for dinner.
"I'm really curious, Bill," Penny said across the table with a smile, "about how you got hold of the emerald. Do you expect me to wait until Sir Evart gets here?"
He nodded soberly as he met her dancing eyes.
"Yeah, guess you'll have to. No particular reason for secrecy—it's just that things happened pretty fast and I'm not at all sure of my ground. This business may be more risky than it appears, too."
"Okay, I'll be good. Is our friend Hartley here?"
"Not here, I trust, but he's somewhere around. I figure that he went to someone he knew in Chicago and ordered a reasonable imitation of the emerald sent you, trusting you'd accept it as the original."
"And I would have, of course, except for you and Sir Evart. I've left instructions for any airmail to be forwarded here. Tomorrow's Sunday—well, it might come any time; depends on how long it would take to make the replica and get it to me. Sir Evart will get in tomorrow, too."
Stuart again nodded thoughtfully. Before he could reply, a page appeared and gave him a card with a word.
"A gentleman gave me this for you, sir. He's waiting for a reply."
Astonished, Stuart glanced at the writing on the card, then was astonished anew. It read:
Can you give me a few moments when you finish dinner, please?
John Monckton.
Stuart blinked. He looked at the page.
"Where's this man—in the lobby?"
"Yes, sir."
"Okay. Tell him yes; I'll see him there."
THE page departed. Stuart met Penny's gaze.
"You don't seem exactly enthusiastic over your visitor, Bill."
"I'm not," he replied. "It's Hartley, using his real name of Monckton. Wants to see me. Maybe he saw you dining here with me. He could easily learn my name from the hotel desk, of course. If he saw you, he'll probably be prepared for trouble."
She looked around. "Impossible. The lobby's not in view from here."
Seeing this to be the case, Stuart breathed more freely. He was in fear lest she be pulled into the affair, and said so frankly. She laughed.
"Nonsense! That man evidently takes me for a fool, and I'd like to express my opinion of him to his face. However, I'll not interfere."
"Then suppose you let me leave first. I'll draw him off into a corner so he won't notice you when you come out. Right now he probably has his eye on the dining-room entrance. You go to your room, and after a few minutes I'll come there."
She nodded assent. Dessert and coffee arrived. Stuart made no haste; he was thankful that Penny fired no questions at him. This was an amazing action on the part of Hartley and rather knocked him off balance. He wished fervently that Sir Evart were here, then could have kicked himself for the wish.
"What the hell! I'm not an idiot," he reflected. "I can handle the guy as well as anyone else could, so I'd better do it."
He called for the check, signed it, and rose, conscious of Penny's gaze.
"Well, see you later," he said, and departed.
THE visitor was not far to seek. Stuart caught sight of him standing at the desk and talking with the clerk, and went straight up to him. Hartley saw his approach and nodded.
"Suppose we sit down and be comfortable," said Stuart, and headed for a far corner that was unoccupied. Hartley laughed slightly.
"I wasn't sure you'd know the name of Monckton, Mr. Stuart."
"Oh, I'm slightly conversant with affairs," Stuart said lightly, and switched around an armchair. He placed an ash-holder within reach, produced and lit a cigarette, and seated himself. Without doing so obviously, he now had Hartley seated with his back to the dining-room entrance.
"Well," he said, "what's the nature of your business with me?"
Hartley, in animation, was quite pleasant and perfectly calm.
"I don't think we need do any fencing, Mr. Stuart. When you stopped in at the trailer today, I was in a nearby house and saw you. I returned later to the trailer and the emerald was gone. I don't need to refer to the events of last night."
Stuart met his gaze, and smiled.
"Nor this morning. I don't think you'd better, indeed! You certainly had your nerve to go back there after I had stopped in."
Hartley shrugged. "Never mind. You came there, found what was inside, and by that fact placed yourself in what might prove a very unpleasant position."
"Nuts!" said Stuart. "You'd be in a lot worse position if I talked up."
"That might be argued. However, I'm not here in order to indulge threats. It occurs to me that you must be a practical person, and I wish to speak with you as such, without evasions or false pretenses."
"Good!" agreed Stuart cheerfully. "Threat and counter-threat really wouldn't get us anywhere—so go right ahead."
He spoke lightly; but he was conscious of danger. This man was putting a pleasant face on things, that was all. With each word uttered, Stuart was more impressed with actual peril, with craft, with weighty potentiality on Hartley's part. Behind the affable mask lurked hard, cold steel; he could feel it actively. This fellow was no lightweight; he had a lot on the ball.
"Just who you are, I don't know." Hartley spoke without haste, lighting a cigar with care and attention. "From your words to me last evening, you obviously know all about the Sphinx Emerald. How you got on to me, I don't know either, or care; that's all beside the point. The main thing is that you're here, and at this moment you have the emerald."
"You may be mistaken about that," Stuart said quietly. "I might be a detective."
The other snorted gently.
"You'd not be talking about it. I'm not a fool! You're a friend of Miss Morrison, granted. That's enough. I've made mistakes; now I want to approach you fairly and squarely and without animosity, with a view to settlement."
Stuart was faintly amused.
"Go ahead, if you have an objective."
"Very definitely.... As a precious stone, that emerald is practically worthless. As a historical piece and a unique stone, it is priceless. I know why you're here, of course; about here live people who buy such things. That's why I'm here, naturally. In the hills about Santa Fe are millionaires, retired business men, collectors of all sorts."
As he talked, Hartley smiled thinly. "Where wealth is, the vultures gather. I can handle the stone to much better effect than can you. I'm not alone in this affair; I have friends on the way here now. I risk little in talking with you thus. Understood? Very well. I offer you half the proceeds to throw in with me and hand over the emerald. I have five hundred dollars in my pocket this minute to give you, as an advance. Yes or no, Mr. Stuart?"
No longer amused, Stuart's reaction was thoughtful. A movie hero, he reflected, would betray indignant rage at this offer of bribery, but he was not insulted; he was no hero.
"Have you an alternative?" he asked.
"Certainly; I leave that to your imagination. I'm not coming up in my offers, you know. This is your one and only chance to come in with me."
"Refused."
"Very good; that's all, then."
Hartley rose, nodded, walked away.
WITH mingled emotions, Stuart watched him go out of the hotel.
Hartley was willing to pay five hundred to get the emerald. Then
why had he not bought it in the first place? Uncertainty, of
course.
"I won't get that much, even if Sir Evart does sell it," Stuart told himself. "In fact, the thing belongs to Penny—I don't want any money out of it. And now what? Of course he'll try some other scheme. I'd better warn Penny immediately and get that emerald into safety."
He went to the house telephone, called Miss Morrison's room, and thrilled to Penny's response.
"Hello, Bill! Everything all right?"
"Oh, sure!"
"Good; I was anxious about it. Is our friend still there?"
"Yes; he just left. Will you come down and meet me in the writing-room? The hotel might deem it highly improper if I came to you."
"At once, my good cautious Sir Tristram, at once!"
"And bring that green thing with you."
"Naturally; it is now my second self."
Stuart turned from the phones. He became aware of a bellboy and a man heading for him; his nerves jumped as the bellboy made an unmistakable gesture toward him. The man was a stranger—tall, of distinguished appearance, with white hair and mustache, but remarkably hale and hearty.
"Mr. Stuart?" the stranger spoke up. "My name is Lattimer. I have a wire here from Sir Evart Buckson, who arrives tomorrow, so strangely interesting that I've come to look you up. I understand that you have the Sphinx Emerald."
Mentally, Stuart drew sharply back.
"If I had, I wouldn't discuss it with you," he said. "I don't know that you're Mr. Lattimer; to me you're a stranger. You'll have to excuse me until Sir Evart is here to speak for himself."
Made aware of his ungraciousness by the other's expression, he offered a swift half-apology.
"Sorry; I don't mean to antagonize you—I've been deviled right and left. Five minutes ago a prize crook was here, bold as brass, on the same trail."
Lattimer started slightly.
"Indeed! You're quite right, Mr. Stuart. I don't blame you in the least, and I applaud your caution. I sha'n't urge you a whit. Kindly give my card to Sir Evart when he arrives, and ask him to call me immediately. It's important."
Stuart took the pasteboard handed him, and instantly repented his own lack of courtesy. He had no chance to speak further; Lattimer bowed slightly and turned away, walking swiftly to the entrance. Stuart glanced at the card: Bernard Lattimer, with a phone number. He turned toward the writing-room, frowning, angry at himself yet not regretting his action.
"Maybe I'm a fool, maybe not, but no harm done anyhow," he reflected.
Five minutes later, seated at a writing-room desk with Penny beside him, he told her of the two visitors.
"I don't get it—any of it," he said irritably. "I'd like to crawl in a hole and pull it in after me, until Sir Evart shows up."
"But why?" she demanded, wide-eyed.
"Too much of a squeeze—getting into murder is too much for me," he replied and confusedly broke off. "Well, let it pass. Here's an enlarging-glass. Remember what Chuck wrote you about gazing into that emerald? It says things to you. Get the stone under this writing-light and look into it."
She looked at him. "Bill Stuart, you're not washing me up like that! Murder? Well, I'll stick to my bargain and ask no questions till Sir Evart gets here; but you are certainly going to do some talking tomorrow, let me warn you, and don't try to renege then!"
She opened her handbag, took out the emerald and set it on the desk where it got the full benefit of the light. With the glass Stuart handed her, she focused on the stone and uttered an exclamation.
"Oh—the Sphinx! Why, Bill, that's wonderful—perfect as can be, too!"
"Get a good steady look—right into the heart of the stone!" he advised, settling back and getting out his cigarettes. "I'll stop chattering and let you get the full effect."
HE sat smoking and silent, watching her, liking her capacity
for silence. She had nothing to say, and did not break into
unnecessary spurts of words. Also, he liked to look at her
face.
That replica—if it were a replica—ought to be along pretty soon, he reflected, since speed would have been an essential part of Hartley's scheme to keep his victim satisfied and unthinking. It would be interesting to see if an exact replica had been made; one of glass could be turned out quickly, no doubt. If so, he wondered how the real could be told from the false. Without a glass, they would probably look exactly alike. Still, the tiny Sphinx-figure could hardly be duplicated so exactly.
The girl caught her breath. She was interested now; the thing had taken hold of her. She steadied, and settled down to intent gazing. So, thought Stuart, it had not been merely his fervid imagination last night! The play of emotions in her face was fascinating to see, but he could not read them.
"I see what you mean, Bill," she murmured. "Wonderful!"
"Tell me what you get, when you feel like it," he put in, and she nodded.
Time passed; she sat entranced, and remembering how oblivious he had himself been to the passing of time, Stuart waited patiently. At length she straightened up and sighed, then turned to him, radiance in her face.
"Bill, I—I can't give this up!" she breathed. "At least, of course I must—but I'll hate to do it. Why, it seems to inspire such downright beauty—that's the only word for it: beauty! That can't be what Chuck meant."
"I didn't get that at all," dissented Stuart. "I tell you: probably it's different with everyone—causes a sort of auto-suggestion, merely wakens what's latent in the mind! That stands to reason, Penny. There's nothing eerie or occult about it; you can no doubt get the same effect by looking into any gem with a glass. In this one the flaws are so marked that it's not like an empty crystal, but a full one."
"Maybe," she agreed doubtfully. "Yet it's a lovely sensation. I'd like to go on and on looking—I'm like a child with a delightful new toy!"
"I know that feeling—I'd the same craving, yet I had been sitting for two hours with it last night. And that's bad, my dear; it's a yielding to the infatuation, to the dominance of the stone. You're going to put it up right now. There's only one safe place for it—in the hotel safe. And since you're the owner, come along and deposit it."
She grimaced at this, then looked at him, perplexed.
"You weren't in earnest about—about murder?"
"Absolutely. I took it out of a dead's man's hand, if you must know."
At this, she shivered, then thrust the glass at him.
"All right, take it. We'll go to the desk. I don't understand this, any of it. I think I'm a bit afraid, to be honest."
"I think you'd better be, and that's honest too," he said gravely, and rose. "I'm pretty thoroughly balled up about Hartley's words and everything; until Sir Evart comes, I'll be all at sea. You be sure to lock your door tonight. This thing has me jittery, I admit."
They sought the desk together. Here Penny wrapped the Sphinx Emerald in her handkerchief and put it into the big envelope the clerk handed her, sealed it, wrote her name where indicated, and turned to Stuart.
"A breath of this crisp, wonderful air, before turning in. Eh?"
They sauntered out to the street. Stuart kept his eyes open, saw nothing alarming, and after a turn about the Plaza they came back to the hotel. As they came in the clerk held up a hand to Stuart.
"I think you made a reservation for tomorrow—a Mr. Buckson?"
"Yes—Sir Evart Buckson."
"Just had a wire from him. He'll be here about noon. Good- night!"
Stuart saw Penny home, left her at the door, and they arranged to meet at nine in the morning for breakfast. He went to his own room, opened the window, and read himself to sleep with a magazine. Yet he slept poorly, waking often, and when he closed his eyes he dreamed unpleasantly. At a little after eight he phoned Penny.
"Good morning! How's everything?" he inquired, on getting her.
"Just lovely! No bugaboos or nocturnal prowlers, thanks."
He hung up.
"I'm a fool," he told himself happily. "Worrying over nothing. Letting a little chiseling crook throw a man-sized scare into me! Now, the hell with all that! No more nonsense. There's not a thing Hartley can do, without tying himself up even more rigidly, so I'd better forget him. And yet—that man in the trailer was certainly dead as a door-nail!"
An ugly fact; but its importance lessened with sunlight and breakfast and a radiant Penny. While they were at the table, a page fetched Stuart a yellow envelope, and he signed for it, with a grimace.
"Word that our boss won't get here," he predicted, tearing at it. "Or that his plane is down somewhere or—Whoops! Look at this—would you look at it!"
He waved the telegram at her; they read it together: a long night-letter from the Douglas people, in reply to the letter he had sent on his arrival here. Not only did it welcome his inquiry and request him to name an arrival date in California, but it was signed by one S. E. C. Bloom.
"Old Razz Bloom!" Stuart exclaimed delightedly. "He was with me in Egypt, see? And I never dreamed he was with that company! Say, this is luck of the finest kind, Penny! I'm fixed for good! Wants me as his assistant—great! Now we can eat, sure enough!"
"We?" she queried.
"Er—rhetorically speaking," Stuart evaded in some confusion. "Me for the West Coast, you bet! I'll wire back that I can start work the end of the week; Sir Evart should clean up the emerald business in a day or so."
Nice theorizing, anyway.
WHEN Sir Evart Buckson arrived, Stuart and Penny were at the airport to meet him. In her purse Penny carried a tiny box that arrived by special delivery airmail, forwarded from New York to catch her here on this bright Sunday morning. In the box and carefully bedded in cotton was the replica of the Sphinx Emerald which Hartley had caused to be made in Chicago—a replica of the gem now reposing in the hotel safe, so perfect in hue and shape that it would have fooled Stuart even on close scrutiny! The tiny figure of the Sphinx was well made.
"It would have tricked me completely," said Penny. "Is it an emerald, Bill?"
"Can't be," said Stuart. "Sir Evart said that Chuck's find was a unique stone. Tuck it away. When we get back to the hotel you get hold of the real one, and we'll spring 'em both on Sir Evart at lunch."
She nodded.
The genial Briton met them delightedly and gave Stuart a questioning look.
"Everything under control, at the moment," said Stuart. "I have a taxi here, so hop in and we'll go to the hotel. Your bag can follow. I take it the first thing is a square meal."
"You're a mind-reader," said Sir Evart.
"We've a lot of talking to do, too," put in Penny. "And Mr. Lattimer wants you to call him at once. He came to the hotel last night and Bill rather shoved him off. I think Bill's been seeing things in his sleep."
"More correct than you know," chuckled Stuart. "We'll talk at the table."
At the hotel, Sir Evart checked in, got some mail that awaited him, and disappeared into a phone booth. He came out, looking grave.
"Lattimer will come here later this afternoon," he said. "So until then we can catch up on happenings."
They settled at a table a little apart from others, and when the ordering had been accomplished, Stuart went into his story. Penny laid on the table the real and false emeralds, and Sir Evart examined them through a jeweler's glass while he listened.
"You're sure that man in the trailer was dead?" he asked then.
Stuart nodded to the sharp question.
"Cold and stiff. But that's not all. Last evening, or rather yesterday, Hartley was here openly, using his real name of Monckton—"
He went on to tell of the astonishing interview. Penny, who had been rendered speechless by his story of the trailer, watched him with anxious eyes. Sir Evart listened closely but made no comment until Stuart had finished.
"I don't pretend to understand it," he vouchsafed, with a shake of the head, "but when you monkeyed with Hartley you burned your fingers. He's hot stuff; yet I fancy we need lose no worry over him."
Stuart laughed. "I'm losing none—unless he accuses me of murdering his pal."
"Forget it! A sneak thief—that's his level. Your only danger was lest the taxi-driver talk; but the man's gone away, and I think you've nothing to fear. Hartley won't try to accuse you, since he can't stand any investigation himself. He has no doubt seen Miss Morrison here and thinks you're acting for and with her. He may have already seen and recognized me, also. Anything's possible, but don't worry."
"Just what do you propose doing?"
"First, accept your unuttered challenge to pick the true from the false." Sir Evart regarded the two emeralds with a smiling glance. "Second, unpack—or first unpack, then play with the stones. Third, meet Lattimer and get rid of responsibility and probably of the Sphinx Emerald as well. In this wild and woolly West of yours, it's a bit perilous to have the thing kicking about loose."
Stuart grinned. "You expect scalping parties to jump out from behind every bush, do you? Hardly likely, in a hotel like this!"
They all laughed together. The Briton had accomplished his purpose of turning the subject from the gravely ominous to a lighter aspect.
After the meal Stuart accompanied Sir Evart to his room, where Penny promised to join them in five minutes. He perceived that the older man was not so carefree. Sir Evart took his arm gravely.
"Now that we're alone I can speak plainly. I didn't want to alarm Miss Penny, you see. I must tell you that our friend Hartley or Monckton is somewhat noted for his ruthless ingenuity and persistence. If the emerald were not worth a farthing he would still pursue it indefatigably. Thank heaven, we should be done with the affair today! It's a perilous business, I'm afraid."
His bluff, sturdy personality was heartening. He said what he thought, without waste of words. Stuart scarcely shared his prescience of danger—he refused to consider Hartley as a threat—yet he had a certainty that they were not through with the man.
Sir Evart emptied his single bag quickly, and Penny appeared. The early afternoon sun poured in at the window, and into the flood of light Sir Evart moved his writing-desk. On it he laid the Sphinx Emerald and its duplicate.
"Now for your challenge to differentiate these two gems!" he said cheerfully, with his best professional lecturing manner. "You'll note that they have a cabochon or round-top shape, yet there are facets visible. I'm about to impart to you an extremely simple test, most valuable to all jewelers, especially where a faceted stone is concerned, yet it can be applied even where there are no facets. The two gems are side by side in the direct sunlight."
From his pocket he took a white card.
"Now, I'll hold this card thus, a few inches from the gems, in the direction of the sun, so as to get the reflections from within the gems on the card. The reflections of certain material, such as diamond or glass or garnet, are single. Other material, beryl for example, is double-refractive—that is, the reflecting facets throw double images. Look closely as I move the card from one gem to the other. Emerald is double-refracting, though only feebly—"
He focused with the card to get the reflection. As he moved it from one gem to the other, Stuart could instantly perceive the difference in the refractions.
"IT'S clear as can be!" exclaimed Penny, and touched one.
"This is glass—it must be the replica!"
"Correct," said Sir Evart. "The test is quite sure. The card merely assists the eye, you see—an expert can look into the gem and examine the facets for himself, but the doubling of the lines is not always easy to perceive. I'll take this real gem and be responsible for it. In fact, I'm most anxious to examine it. Stuart, suppose you take the glass replica. We'll keep them quite separate."
With a nod, Stuart dropped the fake into his pocket, not bothering with the box and cotton. Sir Evart sat down and lengthily examined the emerald through his glass.
"Remarkable!" he said at last. "It's obvious why credulous people have credited this stone with occult powers. All rank bosh, of course! I noticed that the imitation has bubbles, too, but not angular ones. They're created by striking the material before it cools off. Quite simple; but in dealing with gems, simplicity is usually very clever. I take it, my dear, you still wish to dispose of the genuine stone?"
Penny smiled. "I do and I don't. It's a lovely plaything; but if it's as valuable as you say, I need the money. And after Bill's story, it does give me a shiver."
"Right; then we'll attend to it. Don't however, blame the stone for the things that happen," said the older man earnestly. "It, and every other famous gem, has no doubt a history passing through many phases of death and murder. After all, death is not really tragic; it's an ordinary concomitant of all life. This gem, with its microscopic Sphinx, is unique."
"What will happen to it?" Stuart queried thoughtfully. "I mean, how will it end? An end must sometime come, whether it just drops out of sight or is crushed or falls into the ocean—"
Sir Evart smiled. "Well, it dropped into the Nile rather lately—yet here it is before us. Gems last for thousands of years, but I suppose they do some day come to an end of some sort. Lattimer will certainly be deeply interested in this stone. He's a wealthy man and can afford to pay well; so for us, I presume the gem will come to an end in his collection, at least temporarily. He lives outside the city a little way—I've never seen his house. It's said to be very fine."
Glass in eye, he bent over the stone again. His fascination was entirely understandable to Stuart and Penny.
"Do you suppose that Hartley, or Monckton, looked into it?" said Penny.
Sir Evart straightened, pushed the stone away as though repulsing it.
"Certainly. Its influence is extraordinary, he fell under it, and that would account for his mad persistence in pursuing it. This color is poor at first sight, but the stone has deeper spots and proper cutting would improve it vastly, in value. It'll be interesting to see Lattimer's reaction to the stone. Well, my friends, suppose that we settle the whole problem this afternoon. What are your plans?"
"I don't know—I haven't thought about it," confessed Penny.
"I have; you've brought me luck, Sir Evart, or the emerald has." Stuart laughed. "An old Army pal is with an airplane company on the West Coast, and I've secured a place, thanks to him, with them."
"Congratulations! You're going out right from here?"
"I think so. I may get married first."
"Eh?" Sir Evart shot him a look. Stuart was aware of Penny's gaze, but carefully avoided meeting it. "Who's the lucky girl?"
"Well, it's not settled. I haven't asked her yet. I'm merely hoping."
The Briton laughed heartily. "Well, the best luck in the world! Er, Miss Penny?"
Penny looked down. "Oh, I'm sure—yes, of course!" she said.
At this instant the telephone rang. Sir Evart answered.
"Oh, yes, yes; send him up, please!" He put down the instrument. "Lattimer. Now we'll see shortly."
"Want me to clear out?" asked Stuart. "After all, I'm an interloper."
"My dear fellow, don't be absurd!" exclaimed Sir Evart warmly. "We're all in this together. A company matter, as it were, so sit down."
Stuart relaxed.
LATTIMER arrived; he and Sir Evart greeted each other warmly;
he shook hands with Penny, and his eyes twinkled at Stuart, who
laughed as their hands met.
"I'm frightfully sorry about my rudeness last night," said Stuart. "I was jittery, that was all."
"Don't mention it," said Lattimer. "I know just how you were feeling, Stuart. They found a dead man today on some property I own, and I had to look him over—just came from there. Some poor devil in a trailer—What's wrong? Do you people know anything about the case?"
"I do," said Stuart. "Too much, in fact. Sit down and I'll give you the yarn. Since it concerns the emerald, you're entitled to it anyhow. At least, I presume it's the same man; corpses aren't strewn by wholesale over New Mexico. A reddish-brown trailer on the north edge of town? Bled to death?"
"From a knife-wound in his hip—correct. Well, this is most amazing!" Lattimer seated himself. Despite the white hair he was vigorous and full of life, keenly alert. Well balanced, thought Stuart; an idealist, perhaps a bit ruthless.
"Yes," he went on, "the fellow was merely a transient who had camped on my land with his trailer—a guest of mine, as it were. I think the police got his name, but it meant nothing to me."
"It might have, except for Stuart, here," Sir Evart said, and got out his Turkish cigarettes. "Go ahead, Stuart, and say your say."
The latter complied, again recounting the happenings since his landing here. It seemed that Lattimer had vaguely heard of Monckton or Hartley, but did not know him; over the trailer story he evinced a keenly absorbed interest, and became wide awake at hearing of Hartley's call at the hotel.
"Good!" he exclaimed then. "Something will come of that, I predict; there'll be some fun. This rascal is a sharp 'un. I venture that he already knows of my connection with you."
"You seem pleased," put in Penny.
Lattimer smiled, his eyes sparkling.
"I am, young lady. I enjoy life, and that means the conflicts of life. This chap Hartley sets himself against the world? Excellent! Let him make good or take the consequences! Life in these parts is raw and rich; things happen. Here's a rascal kills his pal—and that dead man in the trailer must be paid for."
Every eye was upon him. "Indeed?" Sir Evart asked. "A crime, you mean?"
Lattimer nodded. "Precisely. How or why it'll be paid for remains to be seen; I'm not speaking of the law, understand. I imagine from all you say that Hartley will act with vicious speed and precision, perhaps this very day. Good; let's leave it at that."
Stuart, wondering at the man, spoke out.
"Well, if you'll enjoy a tussle with Hartley, you're welcome to it. We'll be glad to present you with the feud."
Lattimer smiled. "Right! Look here, now. My house is empty, my servants are away till tomorrow—a Mexican couple do for me—but it's a good house, well stocked. These hillside and cañon roads are a bit ticklish at times, to strangers. I suggest that you let me run you all out there now and cook up a spaghetti supper for you, display some of my specimens, and bring you back later. Eh? Can do?"
"I fancy so." Sir Evart nodded. "It'd be a treat, for my part."
Penny nodded. "It would indeed, and I might come in handy at the supper."
"Done, then!" cried Lattimer with a lusty, hearty ring in his voice. "And if we have any interference from Mr. Hartley, we'll make him welcome also! It'll take an hour to run out there to Spider Cañon. But I'm forgetting something—I came here to look at the Sphinx Emerald, my friends. Aren't you going to show it?"
HE moved to the desk by the window, stuck a jeweler's glass in
his eye, and proceeded to examine the stone. No one spoke. Stuart
saw that the visitor had become tense, absorbed, utterly
concentrated, a slow amazement growing in his manner as the stone
took hold of him. Sir Evart looked on keenly, and met Penny's eye
with a nod and a smile.
At length Lattimer removed the glass, and looked up.
"I'd have taken oath that no such stone could exist," he said slowly. "But it does. Here's the proof." He held a match to his pipe, puffed it alight, and leaned back. "I've heard of the Sphinx Emerald," he went on. "Fantastic little pastiches, historic tales—never believed 'em. Now I do."
"Then it's real!" exclaimed Penny.
Lattimer nodded at her.
"Yes, my dear. Real. Worthless as a gem, priceless as what it is. I congratulate you on owning such a thing. What price have you set on it?"
"That's for Sir Evart to say," she replied. "I know nothing of prices."
Lattimer looked at the Briton. "He does. What say, Sir Evart?"
"Hm! I had thought of asking a thousand pounds."
"I'll give double that—nine thousand dollars. Eh?"
"Done."
To lighten the tension that was upon the room, Stuart reached out to the desk and laid beside the emerald its imitation.
"I'll kick in with Hartley's contribution to the pot," he said. "They should go together."
Lattimer unfolded a check-book and clipped a pen.
"I suggest, Sir Evart, that since it's Sunday, we might visit the desk together with the check. The manager knows me quite well and he'll handle it; you'll get the cash first thing in the morning. Eh?"
The Briton nodded, not too happily.
"If I were wealthier, I'd never let the gem go to you—even though it belongs in your collection!"
Lattimer chuckled and handed over the check. Sir Evart endorsed it and displayed it to Penny. From his pocket the collector produced some bits of soft tissue, in which he wrapped the Sphinx Emerald and its replica.
"My car's outside," he said. "Suppose we meet there in five minutes. Ready, Sir Evart? We'll have to locate the hotel manager."
They departed together. Penny started for the door; Stuart checked her.
"Wait; I want a word. You're a rich woman; going to buy a Cadillac with your new wealth, I suppose?"
She looked at him.
"Wealth? A few thousand dollars? Half that price goes to you, of course."
"We had no such agreement. Nix on that: nayo, hoss!"
She smiled. "Since you're dropping into groovy cat language, I'll just igg your nayo, Mr. Stuart. You've nothing to say about it."
"I control my bank account, and sha'n't take what's not mine."
"Half that money, after Sir Evart's commission comes out, goes to you," she said firmly. "You most certainly earned it, and then some! Since that is now settled, hadn't you better run along and look up the prospective bride?"
He nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, I'm doing that—doing it right now. Okay—I'll take your money—in fact, I have to do it, since that's my only salvation."
Her brows lifted as she scrutinized him. "I don't get you—or, to keep groovy, I don't dig you. What gives?"
"Forget that stuff and be yourself, Penny," he said, regarding her seriously. "This is a new rôle for me; I had to jump at any possible approach. And the job would be impossible if you were wallowing in riches and me just a mechanic or something of the sort. That's why I must take you up and reduce your wad by half—if you agree to it."
"What on earth are you jabbering about?" she demanded, a twinkle in her eyes.
"You, darling. I'm in earnest—do I have to spell it all out? Go on my knees? It ain't done these days! Admitted, I'm no brilliant whirlwind, but I do love you. I want you to go along westward the whole way and get married with real orange blossoms in your hair. Will you do it?"
She broke into a smile. "I just had to make you say it, Bill."
"Say what?"
"'I love you'—and sure I'll do it!"
SUDDENLY Penny tore herself free with a horrified cry.
"Bill! I must get ready—we have to meet them at the car!"
"Right," said he. "And I must see at the desk about plane reservations. Okay, dear—one more for luck—"
Another two minutes and he was making his way to the desk. At a discreet hint from the clerk he wiped lipstick from his cheek; then he found no reservations available until a three A.M. plane, which would land them in Los Angeles Monday noon. There ensued a hasty conference with Sir Evart and Lattimer and the hotel manager regarding finances. This resulted in a general exchange of checks, Lattimer's check being honored by the hotel and others issued in exchange, to the general satisfaction of everyone. Penny showed up in time to receive her money, Stuart took up his reservations for Los Angeles, and Lattimer promised to deliver them at the hotel in ample time to make the plane.
With that, they all piled out to Lattimer's big car and got off amid laughter and congratulations, a merry foursome forgetful of everything except the moment.
Lattimer, whose family was away, lived only a few miles outside the city, but the road was one of wonders. He drove past elaborate residences of millionaires and famed artists, displayed the restored ruins of cliff-dwellers along sheer rock walls, showed them scenic glories in the long sunset, and finally entered Spider Cañon. Here the road to his hillside home was narrow and required the most cautious driving, but he took it at fair speed with a laugh of unconcern.
"A road isn't dangerous if you know it, and I'm a good driver," he declared. "And no one else lives here—it's practically a private road, you see. A drop would mean a three- hundred-foot fall, but I don't intend to drop, so rest easy.... Here we are."
The house showed ahead: a huge hillside structure of timber and adobe, the walls decorated with colored tiles. They drove into a huge courtyard large enough for a dozen cars. All was spacious, and the interior of the house was softly gay with rich Chimayo and other Indian weaves.
Everything here was electric. The kitchen and dining-room were on a separate level, and with four people to take hold, supper became a joyous thing. Penny got a great caldron of spaghetti boiling; a sauce was mixed, wine was produced, and places were set in the dining-room, where Lattimer touched off a ready-laid fire in the corner hearth.
Time flew rapidly. Presently the meal was dished up; and under the soft indirect lights of the dining-room the four gathered about it hungrily. Sir Evart launched into stories, Lattimer capped them, Stuart spoke of flying in Egypt, and everyone ate enormously. Coffee and cigars for the men put an end to the meal. Penny offered to clean up, but all pitched in and lightened the labor.
At last Lattimer led the way to his "den"—a luxurious room fully thirty feet long, on the uphill side of the house. Here were more precious Indian weaves and cabinets of old silver and the now extinct turquoise of New Mexico; and against this background, gems. Precious stones, ancient and modern, beautiful and ugly, most of them in cabinets recessed in the wall and invisible until opened, when lights switched on.
Here were gems of all descriptions, from matrix to finished and polished stone; curios of form and cutting and color from every part of the world. Some were historic stones, some were priceless, many were worthless yet of intense interest as a matter of curiosity and replete with story. One cabinet of emeralds had every known variety—ancient Egyptian and Siberian, even some of the actual stones seized by Pizarro's men from the Incas, and upon these Lattimer waxed garrulous. He was a walking mine of information, for his knowledge was erudite and beyond exhaustion.
"All this is positively incredible!" exclaimed Sir Evart, lost in marveling admiration. "But isn't it dangerous for you and your family to live here in the wilderness amid a treasury of gems, unprotected?"
Their host chuckled. "Well guarded, if not protected. These cabinets are of steel. Only one at a time can be opened; the others are protected by a master switch that sets electronic devices at work. Try to break into them and your picture is taken and a general alarm is given at Santa Fe. The house is fireproof; hence, insurance is low."
"But one cabinet at a time might be looted?"
"Might be, yes: only under certain conditions, and even then every highway would be guarded by State police within twenty minutes—and hereabout there are few highways, my friend." Lattimer took the Sphinx Emerald from his pocket, placed it on the desk; beside it he put the replica.
"Actually, these two might be stolen," he went on, "yet nothing else could be touched. Once these have been photographed and placed in a cabinet, they're as safe as all the others. Here, take fresh cigars; the evening's young, and I'll show you a bit of scientific magic."
On the desk he placed what looked like a stereopticon, connecting it to a wall socket. It faced a bare spot on the opposite wall fifteen feet distant.
"This is actually an electronic enlarger of use in examining any translucent stone or crystal," he went on. "It assesses flaws, color values, and so forth; at the moment, we'll simply view the emerald, which is translucent, and the glass replica, which appears the same but is really transparent. Stuart, will you click that switch near the door, please?"
Stuart complied and the room was plunged into darkness, broken only by the glimmer of the stereopticon and the glow of light on the opposite wall. Lattimer put the replica into his machine; the glowing expanse became a soft green. This, as Lattimer focused the light, showed the flaws in the glass very faintly.
"Poor," said their host. "Obviously glass, not a crystalline structure, and no life in the color; it's artificial and singly refracting, showing little. Watch the difference when I slip in the real beryl."
The replica came out; the wall expanse showed clear white light—then, as the Sphinx Emerald went in, a murmur of astonishment and delight broke from them all.
Now the glowing expanse became alive as the light was focused. The color had depth, the flaws took on form and shape, the background stretched interminably; the stone itself, with all its magic perspective, was in this enormous enlargement. Clear stood the Sphinx, composed of the stone's various flaws. The color values blended delicately in shades of green.
One sensed patterns in the blending, exactly as when gazing into the emerald under a glass. Stuart felt the same sensations—the uplift and ecstasy, the odd uneasiness. He heard Penny's murmur about its glorious beauty; he caught Sir Evart's praise of its feeling of power and wisdom; yet he did not like it.
Lattimer shifted the stone; the whole scene changed, yet to Stuart the feeling persisted. The strange angular flaws took on new forms, the color deepened.
Lattimer's voice broke upon the darkened room with a touch of awe.
"My friends, we're seeing what no one in the world has ever before glimpsed—the living heart of this emerald! It's a thing beyond words. No wonder it takes hold of a person like a magic draught! I shall work with this stone in different degrees of light, register it in every angle, plumb all its secrets, gain from it a full and complete record of its mystery—"
In the partial darkness of the room there was movement. Lattimer's voice abruptly fell silent; feet clattered on the floor. A new voice rose, hoarse and excited, in deadly menace:
"No, you don't! Stand still—don't move—on with those lights, Jack!"
It was the voice of Hartley—or Monckton.
"QUIET, everyone!" This was Hartley again. He stood beside Lattimer, an ugly automatic pistol in one hand, slowly swinging it about. He said something to Lattimer, who stepped away and disconnected his machine. Hartley, with his free hand, fumbled until he got the Sphinx Emerald free, and pocketed it.
At the doorway stood another man, a mask on his face, pistol in hand. Neither Stuart nor Sir Evart moved; Lattimer moved toward a chair and spoke composedly.
"Do as he says, please. I want no bloodshed; insurance will cover the loss of the stone."
Hartley twisted a lip at him.
"Aye, that's all you think of—money! This stone's worth dying for a hundred times—and to you it means only money. You fool!"
The look of him was pure tension. His features were drawn and twitchy, his eyes were wild, enlarged, showing the whites beneath the pupils, and he was livid. His companion spoke up.
"If you've got it, let's go. Don't touch a thing else here, mind."
Hartley must have witnessed the enlarged view of the stone; it had maddened him. He snarled when Lattimer said:
"I'll give you a fat sum and let you go unsought, if you'll give up that—"
"Be damned to you!" Hartley's voice bit and seared. "You and your money! As though I'd sell out to you, after trailing this thing here from Egypt!" His words shrilled with added vehemence; their slight trace of accent was intensified; he waved the pistol to and fro, almost in a frenzy, as he went on:
"Sell—buy and sell—that's all you swine know! As though I'd give up that emerald at any price! It's mine; it stays with me. One of the great things of the world! Let me go unsought, would you? That's a joke! You couldn't keep me from getting the stone—now get it back if you can! All right, Jack—get outside and start the car. I'll be along in two minutes."
Watching everyone intently, Hartley backed away toward the door; his companion turned and disappeared. Stuart made a motion as though to rise. Lattimer shook his head.
"Don't," he said quietly. "Never oppose a mad dog. Let others do it."
Stuart relaxed at the words, wondering at their meaning, but Hartley vented a snarl.
"You fool! 'Mad dog' if you like, but smarter than the lot of you! I warn you, don't start in pursuit of me, or you'll suffer. Don't stir from your chairs for a good five minutes; mind the caution, or you'll be sorry. There's blood on this stone already, and there'll be more if you force me—"
He stood glaring at them for a moment. Stuart was not minded to dare that madman's weapon, especially since Lattimer seemed to have some scheme in mind. Hartley put out his free hand to the electric switch.
"Five minutes, now," he repeated warningly. Click! The room went dark. Upon the sudden blackness rose the voice of Lattimer:
"Steady, everyone!"
A moment passed. Stuart came to his feet; the switch clicked again and the lights came on. Sir Evart was swearing softly. Lattimer smiled and stepped rapidly to the desk.
"Sorry you had this experience, Miss Morrison. I'll soon have the police after those fellows." He lifted the telephone and listened; his face changed. "Hello! Clever gentry; the wire's cut.... Who has the time?"
Stuart glanced at his watch. "Five to twelve."
"Hm! My car's outside—another in the garage. There's a house three miles from here where I can get a phone and rout out the State police. I can get you back to your hotel."
"Forget it!" broke in Stuart. "I'm going with you and see this thing to a finish!"
"I want to see it finished, too—after all, they got the emerald, my emerald," said Penny. "I'll wait here until you come back, Mr. Lattimer. Let our plans go; they don't matter now."
Lattimer broke into a laugh. "But you can't stay alone—eh, Sir Evart? Right; you two stop here; Stuart and I will take a flyer. You two make yourselves at home."
"But they got the emerald!" wailed Penny.
"Cheer up—we got the cash," Stuart put in. "And if Lattimer doesn't get the stone back, he'll collect insurance."
Lattimer beckoned, and Stuart followed. Lights snapped on; they went through the house to the courtyard. Lattimer opened the garage and went inside. He came out carrying a rifle and handed this to Stuart.
"Can you use it? Good man! There's a place where we can see their car, far below us; no hurry, either. No other car on this road, you know, no chance of any mistake. Cripple them if we can, then call the cops. Hop in!"
Stuart examined the rifle, then obeyed. Lattimer's door slammed, the engine roared, they were moving. The lights flung a broad beam on the turn and the road; the car slid away, the house vanished. The magazine rifle was loaded; a dropping fire would carry for an incredible distance, Stuart knew.
He felt let down, almost cheated. He realized that in this State of vast distances and few highways the State police could quickly close all roads; yet it had all been so simple, so lacking in dramatic values! Hartley was gone with the gem, but the police would collar him; another phase in the history of the Sphinx Emerald would be closed. Was that all?
The car slowed at a bend. Lattimer spoke calmly.
"Your ball, Stuart! Look down, past the right fender—you'll see the car lights down there when it comes. Better set your sights high and give 'em all you can. It'll be a chance shot, anyhow—a good half-mile below us; you'll have about ten seconds in which to fire."
Watching, Stuart steadied his rifle, cocked it, waited. Lattimer had shut off the engine; the night was quiet. A fool thing, he reflected; no one could hope to hit anything this way—
A THRILL seized him. Far below appeared radiance—the
fore-light of a coming car. His nerves leaped; he lifted the
rifle. The radiance grew into a stronger light; this became two
headlights. Stuart aimed as well as he could, pressed the
shoulder-butt close, and fired. The weapon kicked and
kicked—he got in four shots in all before the target
vanished.
"Excellent!" approved Lattimer, starting the engine. "Any sort of hit, if it does nothing else, will mark their car beyond escape. Throw the rifle anywhere in back; now we'll bend all energies to getting hold of the cops. Afraid I'll have to wake up everybody in that house too, before I can get to the phone."
He had to do exactly that.
Stuart sat in the car out under the stars for what seemed an interminable time. A cautious native had let Lattimer into the house, a tiny shack above the road, and the rest was silence. Presently the glow of a cigarette announced Lattimer, who came to the car with a jovial excitement.
"Upon my word, Stuart, I believe we've got 'em!"
"You got the cops?"
"Oh, sure! And more: Headquarters had just received a complaint by phone from old Tom Parkhurst, who lives up on Gaspar Road by the abandoned Mexican smithy, that a broken-down car had stopped by there. A shooting had taken place, and there's a dead man in the car." The engine had roared into life as Lattimer spoke, and now the lights went on and the car jumped. "We can get there ahead of the police. It's our man, no doubt of it; the two bandits had a row—"
The rest was lost in a rush of wind, as the car leaped into speed.
Stuart said nothing; he just hung on and hoped for the best, as Lattimer took the cañon curves at mad speed, evidently determined to beat the State police to the spot in question. After all, he thought grimly, the Sphinx Emerald might yet come back to its lawful owner!
The car swooped into cañon dips, took the upgrades with zooming power. If it was mad driving, it was also skillful. Lattimer grunted out scraps of speech: the abandoned smithy had been taken over by an old artist named Parkhurst, who lived in a shack nearby, and kept up the smithy for the sake of its picturesque appearance; a lonely spot and ripe for murder.
Stuart hoped that his bullets had done no murder. Not that he had the least compunction, but the idea of pouring lead into a car on the lonely highway rankled in him. Five miles had been covered, he reckoned, when a word from Lattimer told him the smithy was just ahead and warned him to have the rifle ready—needless warning! A light flickered at them—here was old Parkhurst pottering about a car that stood just off the highway. He hailed them with gleeful recognition of Lattimer.
"You beat the cops to it!" he sang out. "Look-a- here—funny how this car got crippled; looks like bullets had ripped this rear tire—"
"Never mind that," put in Stuart. "What about the dead man?"
"Shooting took place right here," said Parkhurst. "That's what woke me up. Feller's in the back seat. Here's the flashlight. You can have him; one look was enough for me! He got shot in the face at close range, like he had tried to kill the driver and got his needin's himself."
"That apparently is precisely what happened," said Lattimer, taking the light and looking into the car. "This is the man who was with Hartley, Stuart. Let the cops have him—but I want to know where Hartley is! He can't be far away. He didn't come up to your house, Tom?"
"No," said Parkhurst. "But if you ask me, the trail from here to the smithy in them trees is plain to see. The other man is liable to be hurt too; there was more'n one shot fired."
"Then a wounded grizzly would be safer to look up than our friend," said Lattimer. "Give me that gun, Stuart. You take the flashlight and throw it on the trail."
This last was no more than a path heading in among the trees toward a half-visible structure, the smithy.
"It ain't locked," sang out Parkhurst. "You fellers better wait for the cops, too. Liable to run into hot lead yonder."
Stuart disregarded him and started along the path, shooting the light well ahead. Lattimer followed closely. A wide front door of the smithy stood ajar.
Lattimer uttered a word of warning.
"He may shoot at the light. You'd better keep back."
Stuart thought so himself; however, he was not saying so.
"I'll take it edgeways," he replied. "You wait till I light up the place."
He slipped to the side of the entrance, threw his light suddenly into the interior, and followed around the edge of the door—
"Thanks for the light," said Hartley. "I need it. Don't shut it off."
The man stood there, unmasked, insolent, defiant. Beside him was the hood of the smithy; all trace of past fires was gone from the bed. Against the anvil Hartley leaned, a small sledge in his hand. Upon the flat face of the anvil was a spot of green.
"I've got you covered, Monckton!" came Lattimer's voice.
Hartley looked up and laughed.
"Don't be more of a fool than you naturally are," he riposted. "My pal got me! Stay back, that's all! A minute more is all I need, and I'm good for that. I said you'd never regain the emerald, and you sha'n't."
Stuart saw now that there was something dark around the man's feet! Blood—a pool of it forming.
"I'm going," went on Hartley, "and the emerald's going with me, understand? Gad, what luck finding this place ready and waiting for me. The gods must have arranged it.... I'm finished; my blasted pal tried to do for me and get away with the stone, but he wasn't man enough to manage it—nor are you, damn you!"
"Stop!" cried Lattimer. "Don't be a madman! I'll make no charges against you. Turn back the stone, take the money I offered—I'll see that you're taken care of!"
Hartley laughed. "Go to hell!" his voice shrilled. "I'm done for, and I'm taking the emerald with me; that's more than you can do!"
The sledge lifted in his hand—not high—above the greenish spot on the anvil. Lattimer came forward with a rush—but too late. The sledge fell, toppled to the floor, and Hartley lost balance and sprawled forward upon it.
The green spot had gone; only a greenish dust remained.
LATTIMER was at the wheel of his car, heading home, Stuart was beside him. "He beat us," Lattimer said. "Poor crippled, insane devil! His mind was warped, he was crazy about that stone—and to be honest with you, I don't blame him! It was a unique stone, like nothing else in the world; and now it's gone. Nothing now but bits of green dust, and a memory."
"You regret it; I don't," said Stuart. "I think you regret even Hartley's death. I don't; he was bad medicine. It was a stone, nothing more. I'm looking ahead to life, achievement—"
Lattimer laughed.
"A bit of stone—nothing more!" he said softly. "That is one viewpoint. What an epitaph, for a wonder of the world!"
"We can't help our different feelings," Stuart replied. "There's a wonder of the world waiting for me, up at your house, that I wouldn't swap for a dozen Sphinx Emeralds."
"And perhaps you're right, Stuart. I still have the replica, remember. I think I'll present it to the young lady—as a wedding gift, eh?"
And he laughed—but his laughter still was instinct with a sigh.