VI
EUGENE'S AT TWO
"Since we don't want to be overheard," remarked Mr. Anisty, "it's no use trying the grill-room down-stairs, although I admit it is more interesting."
"Just as yeh say, sir."
Awed and awkward, the police detective stumbled up the steps behind his imperturbable guide; it was a great honor, in his eyes, to lunch in company with a "swell." Man of stodgy common-sense and limited education that he was, the glamour of the Maitland millions obscured his otherwise clear vision completely. And uneasily he speculated as to whether or not he would be able to manipulate correctly the usual display of knives and forks.
An obsequious head-waiter greeted them, bowing, in the lobby. "Good afternoon, Mr. Maitland," he murmured. "Table for two?"
"Good afternoon," responded the masquerader, with an assumed abstraction, inwardly congratulating himself upon having hit upon a restaurant where the real Maitland was evidently known. There were few circumstances which he could not turn to profit, fewer emergencies to which he could not rise, he complimented Handsome Dan Anisty.
"A table for two," he drawled Maitland-wise, "In a corner somewhere, away from the crowd, you know."
"This way, if you please, Mr. Maitland."
"By the way," suggested the burglar, unfolding his serviette and glancing keenly about the room,—which, by good chance, was thinly populated, "by the way, you know, you haven't told me your name yet."
"Hickey—John W. Hickey, Detective Bureau."
"Thank you." A languid hand pushed the pink menu card across the table to Mr. Hickey. "And what do you see that you'd like?"
"Well …" Hickey became conscious that both unwieldy feet were nervously twined about the legs of his chair; blushed; disentangled them; and in an attempt to cover his confusion, plunged madly into consideration of a column of table-d'hôte French, not one word of which conveyed the slightest particle of information to his intelligence.
"Well," he repeated, and moistened his lips. The room seemed suddenly very hot, notwithstanding the fact that an obnoxious electric fan was sending a current of cool air down the back of his neck.
"I ain't," he declared in ultimate desperation, "hungry, much. Had a bite a little while back, over to the Gilsey House bar."
"Would a little drink?"
"Thanks. I don't mind."
"Waiter, bring Mr. Hickey a bottle of Number Seventy-two. For me—let me see—café au lait," with a grand air, "and rolls. … You must remember this is my breakfast, Mr. Hickey. I make it a rule never to drink anything for six hours after rising." Anisty selected a cigarette from the Maitland case, lit it, and contemplated the detective's countenance with a winning smile. "Now, as to this Anisty affair last night. …"
Under the stimulus of the champagne, to say naught of his relief at having evaded the ordeal of the cutlery, Hickey discoursed variously and at length upon the engrossing subject of Anisty, gentleman-cracksman, while the genial counterpart of Daniel Maitland listened with apparent but deceptive apathy, and had much ado to keep from laughing in his guest's face as the latter, perspiringly earnest, unfolded his plans for laying the burglar by the heels.
From time to time, and at intervals steadily decreasing, the hand of the host sought the neck of the bottle, inclining it carefully above the thin-stemmed glass that Hickey kept in almost constant motion. And the detective's fatuous loquacity flowed as the contents of the bottle ebbed.
Yet, as the minutes wore on, the burglar began to be conscious that it was but a shallow well of information and amusement that he pumped. The game, fascinating with its spice of daring as it had primarily been, began to pall. At length the masquerader calculated the hour as ripe for what he had contemplated from the beginning; and interrupted Hickey with scant consideration, in the middle of a most interesting exposition.
"You'll pardon me, I'm sure, if I trouble you again for the time."
The fat red fingers sought uncertainly for the timepiece: the bottle was now empty. The hour, as announced, was ten minutes to two.
"I've an engagement," invented Anisty plausibly, "with a friend at two. If you'll excuse me? Garçon, l'addition!"
"Then I und'stand, Mister Maitland, we c'n count on yeh?"
Anisty, eyelids drooping, tipped back his chair a trifle and regarded Hickey with a fair imitation of the whimsical Maitland smile. "Hardly, I think."
"Why not?"—truculently.
"To be frank with you, I have three excellent reasons. The first should be sufficient: I'm too lazy."
Disgruntled, Hickey stared and shook a disapproving head. "I was afraid of that; yeh swells don't never seem to think nothin' of yer duties to soci'ty."
Anisty airily waved the indictment aside. "Moreover, I have lost nothing. You see, I happened in just at the right moment; our criminal friend got nothing for his pains. The jewels are safe. Reason Number Two: Having retained my property, I hold no grudge against Anisty."
"Well—I dunno"
"And as for reason Number Three: I don't care to have this affair advertised. If the papers get hold of it they'll cook up a lot of silly details that'll excite the cupidity of every thief in the country, and make me more trouble than I care to—ah—contemplate."
Hickey's eyes glistened. "Of course, if yeh want it kept quiet" he suggested significantly.
Anisty's hand sought his pocket. "How much?"
"Well, I guess I can leave that to you. Yeh oughttuh know how bad yeh want the matter hushed."
"As I calculate it, then, fifty ought to be enough for the boys; and fifty will repay you for your trouble."
The end of Hickey's expensive panetela was tilted independently toward the ceiling. "Shouldn't wonder if it would," he murmured, gratified.
Anisty stuffed something bulky back into his pocket and wadded another something—green and yellow colored—into a little pill, which he presently flicked carelessly across the table. The detective's large mottled paw closed over it and moved toward his waistcoat.
"As I was sayin'," he resumed, "I'm sorry yeh don't see yer way to givin' us a hand. But p'rhaps yeh're right. Still, if the citizens'd only give us a hand onct in a while"
"Ah, but what gives you your living, Hickey?" argued the amateur sophist. "What but the activities of the criminal element? If society combined with you for the elimination of crime, what would become of your job?"
He rose and wrung the disconsolate one warmly by the hand. "But there, I am sorry I have to hurry you away. … Now that you know where to find me, drop in some evening and have a cigar and a chat. I'm in town a good deal, off and on, and always glad to see a friend."
At another time, and with another man, Anisty would not have ventured to play his catch so roughly; but, as he had reckoned, the comfortable state of mind induced by an unexpected addition to his income and a quart of champagne, had dulled the official apprehensions of Sergeant Hickey.
Mumbling a vague acceptance of the too-genial invitation, the exalted detective rose and ambled cheerfully down the room and out of the door.
Anisty lit another cigarette and contemplated the future with satisfaction. As a diplomat he was inclined to hold himself a success. Indeed, all things taken under mature consideration, the conclusion was inevitable that he was the very devil of a fellow. With what consummate skill he had played his hand! Now the pursuit of the Maitland burglar would be abandoned; the news item suppressed at Headquarters. And it was equally certain that Maitland (when eventually liberated) would be at pains to keep his part of the affair very much in shadow.
The masquerader ventured a mystical smile at the world in general. One pictured the evening when the infatuated detective should find it convenient to drop in on the exclusive Mr. Maitland. …
"Mr. Anisty?"