PAGE 7
The Yeggman
by
Maloney regarded Craig with the air of an expert who could afford to patronise a good amateur – but after all an amateur. Kennedy said nothing, and of course I took the cue.
“Yes,” agreed Blake, “you see, our original hypothesis was a pretty good one. Meanwhile, of course, the police are floundering around in a bog of false scents.”
“It would make our case a good deal stronger,” remarked Kennedy quietly, “if we could discover some of the stolen jewellery hidden somewhere by Mrs. Branford herself.” He said nothing of his own unsuccessful search through the house, but continued: “What do you suppose she has done with the jewels? She must have put them somewhere before she got the yeggman to break the safe. She’d hardly trust them in his hands. But she might have been foolish enough for that. Of course it’s another possibility that he really got away with them. I doubt if she has them at Grattan Inn, or even if she would personally put them in a safe deposit vault. Perhaps Delarue figures in that end of it. We must let no stone go unturned.”
“That’s right,” meditated Maloney, apparently turning something over in his mind as if it were a new idea. “If we only had some evidence, even part of the jewels that she had hidden, it would clinch the case. That’s a good idea, Kennedy.”
Craig said nothing, but I could see, or fancied I saw, that he was gratified at the thought that he had started Maloney off on another trail, leaving us to follow ours unhampered. The interview with Blake was soon over, and as we left I looked inquiringly at Craig.
“I want to see Mrs. Branford again,” he said. “I think we can do better alone to-day than we did last night.”
I must say I half expected that she would refuse to see us and was quite surprised when the page returned with the request that we go up to her suite. It was evident that her attitude toward us was very different from that of the first interview. Whether she was ruffled by the official presence of Blake or the officious presence of Maloney, she was at least politely tolerant of us. Or was it that she at last began to realise that the toils were closing about her and that things began to look unmistakably black?
Kennedy was quick to see his advantage. “Mrs. Branford,” he began, “since last night I have come into the possession of some facts that are very important. I have heard that several loose pearls which may or may not be yours have been offered for sale by a man on the Bowery who is what the yeggmen call a ‘fence.'”
“Yeggmen – ‘fence’?” she repeated. “Mr. Kennedy, really I do not care to discuss the pearls any longer. It is immaterial to me what becomes of them. My first desire is to collect the insurance. If anything is recovered I am quite willing to deduct that amount from the total. But I must insist on the full insurance or the return of the pearls. As soon as Mr. Branford arrives I shall take other steps to secure redress.”
A boy rapped at the door and brought in a telegram which she tore open nervously. “He will be here in four days,” she said, tearing the telegram petulantly, and not at all as if she were glad to receive it. “Is there anything else that you wish to say?”
She was tapping her foot on the rug as if anxious to conclude the interview. Kennedy leaned forward earnestly and played his trump card boldly.
“Do you remember that scene in ‘The Grass Widower,'” he said slowly, “where Jack Delarue meets his runaway wife at the masquerade ball?”