Carden, Crook Comedian/Chapter 5

T was noon when Joe Carden crept from bed and hurried to his bath. He ordered breakfast sent up from the near-by restaurant that supplied meals, and ate it slowly and with evident relish. Nifty Burke, he knew, had been gone for several hours. Nifty had work to do, and after it was done he could rest while Joe Carden did his share.

Just as the crook comedian finished dressing, the telephone rang.

“Hello!” he called.

“Boss?” Nifty’s voice asked.

“Yes.”

“Good guessing, boss. I even followed our man home, and he’s there now. I’ll meet you where you said.”

“Be there in less than half an hour, Nifty.”

Carden hung up the receiver and observed himself in the full-length mirror in his bedroom. He was dressed in a blue suit of conservative cut, wore wide black shoes and a soft black hat. From a pocket of the coat he took a policeman’s shield, glanced at it, and returned it. Then, chuckling again, he started toward the door. Once more the telephone rang.

Carden looked disconcerted as he took down the receiver. He feared what the message would be.

“Hello!” he called.

“How is Mr. Carden to-day?”

It was a woman’s voice that asked the question, and Joe Carden shuddered as he heard.

“Who is this?” he asked.

“This is the Nameless One, silly boy. You know perfectly well. I don’t want to bother or annoy you, but I just thought I’d call up and say that I’m glad you were successful last night.”

“What do you mean?” Carden cried.

“You know—the vase. I hope you sold it for a good round sum, Or perhaps you have turned art lover and are going to keep it for yourself.”

“Pardon me, but I do not know what you are talking about,” Carden said.

“Naughty boy! You know very well,”

“When are you going to let me see you?” Carden demanded, changing his tone.

“Some day, perhaps, but not now. Good-by!”

And there came a soft “snap” from her end of the line that told she had hung up the receiver.

Joe Carden dropped weakly into the nearest chair, almost unnerved. More than three months before it had started. This woman had called and said that she was the Nameless One. She seemed to know every move the comedian made.

Every two or three days she would get Joe Carden on the telephone and speak of things he believed no person knew save Nifty Burke and himself. He had tried to trace her calls, and had found that they came from public pay stations.

What was her object? She had not attempted blackmail, or anything of the sort. She had refused to let Carden meet her. She had said that she admired many of the things he had done, but did not care to meet him personally.

Joe Carden was beginning to fear her. She seemed to know everything that he did. And he was haunted by the idea that some fine day she would make demands that he would have to grant to protect himself. But as yet she had been nothing but pleasant, had voiced no threat of any nature.

“She must be shadowing me closer than Sam Marter ever did,” Carden told himself. “Well, I suppose I’ll understand it some day. And I’ll wager that I’ll not like it when I do!”

Take this last message of hers, for instance. The affair of the Chinese vase had been planned carefully, and Joe Carden failed to understand how she could have learned anything concerning it. The more he thought about it, the more he worried. It would have been bad enough to have had some person he knew aware of his nefarious actions; it was a great deal worse to be at the mercy of some mysterious stranger.

Carden left his apartment and hurried down to the street. Two blocks away he engaged a taxicab, and in this he rode uptown to a certain square. There he paid the chauffeur and dismissed the cab, and walked another block, where Nifty Burke met him on the corner.

“Well?” Carden asked.

“Razelus must have got busy early this morning,” Burke reported. “I was on the job early and watched. Roger Belcher got down there about ten o’clock, and was inside the shop for an hour. He drove away and went to his bank, me after him in a taxi. Then he went back to the old shop again. That bird of a Razelus probably made him pay in cash instead of with a check.”

“Undoubtedly,” Carden said.

“Belcher came from the shop the last time with a small package that was about right to hold the vase. I followed him again, and he drove straight home. He was there a few minutes before I telephoned, and I think he’s there yet.”

“Good enough! Go home, Burke, and get some sleep. I’ll be back there in a couple of hours or so. See anything of Marter?”

“Not a glimpse, and I was keepin’ my eyes open for him, too.”

Nifty Burke hurried away, and Joe Carden walked to the other corner of the square and .got another taxicab. The address he gave the chauffeur was within a block of the residence of Roger Belcher.

Carden sank back against the cushions and puffed at a big black cigar. He wanted to look like an ordinary police detective, and he hoped that he did. He was going to call on Mr. Belcher and tell that gentleman a few things, and maybe ask a question or two.

Reaching his destination, he paid the chauffeur and walked slowly up the famous avenue. The mansion of Roger Belcher had an atmosphere of money about it, yet to Joe Carden, who knew a few things about architecture, it was no less than an atrocity.

Carden did not hesitate. He passed through the bronze gates and hurried up the front steps, having made sure that there was nobody in the neighborhood as he did not want any one to observe him. He rang the bell, and waited.

“I want to see Mr. Belcher,” he told the servant who answered the ring.

“I am afraid that he is busy, sir,” the servant retorted, sizing up Joe Carden and sniffing a bit.

“He’s not too busy to see me,” Carden persisted. “Tell him that it is a man from police headquarters who wants to warn him about his art stuff.”

His statement seemed to impress the servant, who immediately ushered Joe Carden into a waiting room and departed. Within five minutes he had returned.

“Mr. Belcher will see you, sir,” he said.

Joe Carden followed him through the hallway and up the stairs to the second floor. The apartment into which he was shown was a sort of glorified office, with valuable tapestries on the walls and furniture of the heaviest mahogany.

Roger Belcher sat before his massive desk, puffing at a cigar and frowning after the accepted manner of a king of finance. Joe Carden, however, failed to be impressed. He chuckled softly to himself, though his manner was courteous in the extreme as he crossed the room and bowed to the master of the house.

“The servant says that you are from police headquarters,” Belcher snapped. “What do you wish with me, please?”

Joe Carden sat down leisurely and glanced across the long desk at his man.

“Mr. Belcher, you are known as a patron of the arts,” he said. “It is common knowledge that you purchase art treasures whenever you have the chance, and now have quite a collection.”

“Got the finest private collection in town, bar one, and I’ll have that beaten inside another year,” Belcher growled.

“Exactly, sir. I want to warn you that there are some clever thieves at work who make a specialty in art treasures.”

Belcher threw back his head and laughed raucously.

“Young man, I do not worry about such persons,” he said. “I have my collection well protected.”

“Of course, I know exactly how it is protected,” Joe Carden said. “Your scheme of protection is an excellent one, but these thieves are unusually clever, I am given to understand.”

“My dear sir, I defy any thief in the world to get away with any of my treasures without sounding an alarm that will cause a riot,” Belcher declared. “I have paid special attention to the matter of protection, an additional precaution to the insurance I carry. Some of my things are worth more than any amount of money, and insurance would scarcely compensate me were they stolen. I’m pleased that your department should take this interest in me, but I feel confident that I shall suffer no loss.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Belcher,” Joe Carden said, “but you are not the only collector in the city who has that idea. And just last night a certain one suffered a great loss.”

“You amaze me!”

“It is the truth, I assure you. You are acquainted with Gordon Burlington, are you not?”

“Oh, I know of him,” Belcher admitted, showing plainly that the mention of Burlington’s name annoyed him.

“Recently he purchased a certain Chinese vase, the only one of its kind in the world, and one of great value.”

“I know of it.”

“And last night it was stolen,” Joe Carden said.

“Stolen!” Belcher cried.

He overacted a bit, and Joe Carden was quick to notice it. The crook comedian knew at once that Belcher was aware of the theft of the vase, and that Nifty Burke had guessed correctly when he said that Belcher had purchased it.

“Yes, it was stolen,” Carden said. “And we are informing all collectors and lovers of art objects to be careful in their purchases in the near future.”

“No real collector, no man who knew about such things, would buy that vase,” Belcher declared. “They’d know, of course, that it was stolen goods.”

“Um!” Joe Carden grunted. “Some man with money enough might buy it just to possess it, though he would not dare show it to his friends or exhibit it in a museum.”

“That might be possible, of course.”

“Some man who hated Gordon Burlington, let us say, might purchase it just to have the laugh on Burlington. For instance, you might do such a thing.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It is well known in certain circles that you have no love for Burlington, Mr. Belcher.”

“I have not—that is true. I think he’s an ass, if you want to know.”

“And you’d buy the vase, if you got the chance, eh?”

“But it is stolen goods, you know. I’d have small protection if I did such a thing.”

“Mr. Belcher, I happen to know that you did just that thing!”

Joe Carden’s voice rang out, and Belcher sat up straight in his chair.

“What do you mean?” he cried. “Do you want me to call a servant and have you shown the door?”

“I scarcely think you’ll do that, Mr. Belcher. It is not necessary that what I know goes further.”

“Um! Suppose you explain yourself.”

“I know of the deal, that is all. I know where you got the vase—but do not blame Razelus, for he did not betray you. He is afraid for his own skin, if you ask me.”

“And you think that I have bought a stolen vase—is that it?” Roger Belcher demanded.

But neither his words nor his manner appeared to disconcert Mr. Joe Carden.

“I know that you bought it,” Carden said. “And I don’t care a lot. I can forget it, of course. And I’m really making the rounds of all collectors of art objects to sound a warning. So—if you just be careful”

“Young man, I have some influence in this city. Suppose I take a notion to have you kicked out of your job?”

“You might do it, sir. But there is a district attorney who happens to be honest, and I understand that he has small love for you. I believe he recently made the statement that you were a business crook, and that he’d get you sooner or later. Yes, you might have me kicked out—in time. But, before you did”

Joe Carden stopped in the middle of the sentence, took a cigarette from his pocket, and lighted it deliberately.

“So you are here to blackmail me?” Belcher asked.

“My dear sir, I am here to do nothing of the sort. I am here to warn you about that vase. As a friend, let me give you a tip to keep it well hidden. I’m the only man, in addition to Razelus and yourself, who knows about the affair. One other may have an idea, but he is a friend of mine—also a busy man.”

“Well, we may as well come down to cases,” Belcher said. “I find it always is the better way. How much do you want?”

“I haven’t said that I want anything.”

“Nonsense! What’s your price? Since we are alone, I don’t mind telling you that I have the vase, but all the cops in the world couldn’t find it.”

“Possibly not; but old Razelus could be forced to confess that he sold it to you—to save his own hide.”

“I have plenty of money. I could take care of Razelus if he was threatened.”

“Not if he had the proper amount of fear in his heart,” Joe Carden said. “He could go on the stand and make a jury believe that he was an innocent purchaser, and that he had sold the thing to you for a small sum, not knowing what it really was—but that you did know when you bought it.”

“Small sum, eh?”

“You paid in cash, didn’t you? That was a mistake. How can you show that it was not a small sum?” Carden asked.

“All right! If I buy you, do you stay bought?”

“I don’t want you to buy me. You may pay me a fee for profesional [sic] advice, if you like.”

“What’s the advice?” Belcher wanted to know.

“Keep that vase where it cannot be found readily, until this thing blows over. Let me show you how to hide the thing.”

“I’ll take care of the vase. What’s the fee?”

“Suppose you mention it.”

“A thousand dollars,” Belcher said. “I’ve bought police officers before, and that is the standard price.”

Joe Carden looked serious for a moment. He had fought against police officers all his life, yet he respected them for a body of hard-working, honest men, save for a scoundrel now and then such as might be found in any line of work. And he did not like to hear a man like Roger Belcher intimating that police officers could be bought wholesale.

“Very well,” he replied. “Cash, of course. And I’ll see that everybody follows a blind trail. Ill have them looking for that vase in Europe within ten days.”

“Good enough! Come here to-morrow at this time, and I’ll have the coin for you.”

Joe Carden grinned. “I’m not making any deals to-morrow—it’s my day off,” he announced.

“Very well. But the thousand is all that you get, young man. Don’t come running to me every week or so for funds.”

“The thousand closes the deal,” Carden said.

Belcher crossed the room to his safe, opened it, and returned with a sheaf of bills in one hand. He counted out a thousand dollars and tossed the currency across the table to Joe Carden.

“Don’t even know your name,” he growled.

“Smith will do,” Carden replied, grinning. “And now that we are partners in crime, you’d better listen to my advice. Where are you keeping the thing?”

“I’ll attend to that.”

“And I’ll bet you’re keeping it just where a cop would look the first thing. Give me a glance at it, will you? It must be a peach to be worth so much. I saw something about it in the paper Sunday.”

Belcher regarded him for a moment, and then got up and went to another big desk in one corner of the room. He opened a lower drawer and took out the vase.

Joe Carden looked at it carefully, exclaiming at its beauty, and handed it back.

“I’d have to have a lot more money than I’ve got now before I’d pay a big sum for a thing like that,” he said.

“Perhaps you don’t understand such things.”

“Possibly I do not,” Carden replied, grinning a little. “Well, I’ll leave you now—no use wasting any more of your time. And don’t you worry too much, Mr. Belcher—don’t worry at all. Everything will be strictly all right!”

There was a double meaning to that last remark, but Roger Belcher knew nothing of it. And Joe Carden went from the mansion and walked to the nearest corner, where he signaled the chauffeur of an unengaged taxicab.

“That Chinese vase has netted me three thousand dollars already, and I’ve only started,” he told himself as the taxi carried him downtown. “Some little vase!”