Stamped in Gold/Chapter 10

ROFESSOR CAVAN was cleaning six apostle spoons. He was in his shirt sleeves, which were pulled up to expose his skinny arms. A big white apron was tied about his waist, and he was reciting to himself in a reedy whine. His good-looking English butler sat on the edge of the table, pulling at a large cigar. His kitchen man, who was smoking a rank pipe, was busy at the table repairing a rubber stamp.

“Rosie,” said the butler, “if you don't stop that infernal row I'll give you a crack on the head.”

“Let him sing,” said the other, “let him dance; let him do anything but talk.”

The professor smiled. “You boys would be in trouble. if I couldn't talk,” he said. “I doubt if there's any man in this city who has my line of conversation.”

“And ain't they proud of it?” growled the butler through his cigar. “Rosie, you've a pretty good opinion of yourself and your oratory. If you were as clever as you think you are, you would never have seen the inside of an English jug.”

“If I'd never seen the inside of an English jug,” said Cavan, or Cavanagh, “I should never have met you, my lad. If we hadn't sat together on the same bench, sewing mail bags for the honor and glory of the King of England, you would have been breaking safes at a hundred pounds a time, and been pinched twice out of every three times.”

“It is very likely,” said the butler carelessly. “What would Sam have been doing?”

Sam at the table looked up. “I should have been faking old masters and. selling them,” he said. “It is a nice, quiet way of earning a living, and I wish I'd never seen any other.”

“You've a lot to growl about. How often have I told you that if you want to make big money you must take big risks?”

“Not the kind of risks you'd take, Tommy,” said the other, and he shivered. “I'll never forget that woman Laste.”

A frown gathered on the butler's face.

“It was her own fault,” he said. “If she had pulled off my handkerchief she'd have recognized me. It was me or her. What do you say, Rosie?”

The professor viewed a glittering spoon critically. “Well,” he said, with some caution, “I'm such an old gentleman that really it doesn't matter to me what happens. I'd as soon go to the electric chair—a novel and a scientific method of dispatch which is wholly painless, according to such information as I can secure—as I'd spend the rest of my life in an American jail. If I may say so, Tom,” he said apologetically, “you're precipitate.”

“The whole thing was your fault,” interrupted the butler violently. “Didn't you tell that fool banker to hide his money, and the gods would take it and give it to the poor?”

Rosie nodded.

“I didn't tell him to put it between the leaves of his daughter's books,” he protested. “I didn't know that she was sending the books back to the store, did I? You should have let it go. There was plenty more coming.”

“We've all muddled it a bit,” said the man at the table gloomily. “It wasn't Rosie's idea that the money should be shot in the air from a bow—it was yours, Tom.”

“It was my idea that you should be there to get it,” said the other grimly.

“I'd have been there if I'd known where it was falling,” said the other, calmly resuming his occupation, “and I was on to the man as soon as I saw him running.”

The professor chuckled. “A very good joke,” he said, “dee-lightful! A person who trafficked in counterfeit bills. Very reprehensible!”

He put down the spoon suddenly and looked up at the butler, twisting his head like an inquisitive hen.

“Do you know that I nearly got into very serious trouble? I only discovered it the other day.”

“What was that?” asked the butler, stifling a yawn.

“Miss Bertram asked me to change a thousand-dollar note, and I changed it, giving her”

“Not the phony money?” said the man on the table sharply. “You old fool, you didn't do that?”

“Quite an accident, my dear boy,” said the professor airily, resuming the polishing of his spoons, “I explained it away satisfactorily.”

The man at the table rose.

“What you guys have got to understand,” he said, “and what doesn't seem to have penetrated the bone under your hair, is that there's a time to finish everything and clear out. I've seen some of the best men at the game caught by going after a little too much.”

Tom Scatwell looked at the other through narrowed eyelids. “I haven't got what I want,” he said quietly, “and there's no backing out till I get it. We've money—yes. It cost a devil of a lot to get it, but the money was worth spending. We've sunk thousands in financing Rosie and setting him up in his position as a society man—that limousine cost five thousand and the furniture in the apartment cost twelve—but that's beside the point. We have the money, but there's a bigger thing still, The old man is getting nervous—isn't he, Rosie?”

The professor nodded. “Skeptical is a better word,” he said sadly. “He is uneasy and worried. He asked me last night if the gods did not interest themselves in anything except the spending of money. That was bad.”

“Some day he'll open his mouth and blow gaff,” said Tom Scatwell, “and then it'll be good-by for all of us. We must shut his mouth unless we all want to go to the chair. Oh, you needn't look like that,” he went on. “We're all in it.”

“My dear Thomas,” said the professor, “I am not in it, if you are referring to the crime of willful murder. Violence is contrary to my principles and methods. Any dick will tell you that I have never given the slightest trouble to any representative of the law; that I have not so much as hurt a child in the pursuit of any graft which attracted me. I am a faker,” he said with modest pride. “I admit it. I make money out of the occult, because the technicalities of the occult are at my finger tips.. I had not the slightest idea two years ago when George Bertram and I discussed the possibilities of the old gods exercising influence upon the modern world, that it would turn out as big a thing as it has.”

“Is he mad?”

It was the man at the table who asked, and the professor stroked his chin. “I don't think so,” he said. “He is just impressionable—out of business hours.”

Tom Scatwell laughed quietly. “Is a man who works a system at Monte Carlo mad?” he asked. “Are people who believe in 'hunches' mad? Are fellows who won't sit thirteen at table, who refuse to go under ladders, are they mad? Maybe it is madness of a kind. No, he is not mad, but he's got his soft side. With most men the soft side runs to women. Look at the hundreds of well-conducted, nice-looking, clean-talking business men who come into town every day, who discuss religion and art and all that stuff as sanely as Rosie would. And then get some woman or other to tell you the truth about them. And you'll think they're madder than Bertram. I know a man in this city'—he paused and shook his head regretfully—“if I wasn't in a hurry I'd make him pay for my knowledge—a respectable half millionaire, with a wife and family, who is stark, raving mad over a flat-footed manicurist. with a face as ugly as sin.”

There was a ring at the bell, and the man at the table rose, slipped on his brass-buttoned jacket, and went out. He came back in a few minutes.

“The superintendent's brought the glazier,” he said, and as Rosie began to slip off-his apron in a hurry, he continued: “Don't worry—he's a dago and doesn't count.”

“How did those windows get broken, Rosie?” asked Scatwell.

It was evident that he was the real boss of the household.

“Boys!” said Rosie briefly, “three in one afternoon—it is disgraceful. And yet they say that New York is the best-policed city in the world.”

“It took a pretty hefty boy to reach a third-story window,” growled Scatwell. “I suppose the young devils used sling shots.”

“It was an extraordinary occurrence,” said Rosie. “I was sitting at my table reading, for the third time, that delightful volume of Gibbon's—you should read it, Tom—the style is limpid, the construction faultless—when crash! went the window. I immediately leaped to my feet”

“Oh, be short!” snarled Tom. “Nobody expects that you would leap to your head! Did you see the boys that did it?”

“I did not,” said Rosie, his dignity offended.

Scatwell slipped from the table and walked into the big sitting room. A lean, dark-skinned man, with a mop of black hair and a chin which apparently had not felt a razor for a week, was working at the broken window.

Scatwell was not easily shocked but he could only look at the man in speechless amazement, so extraordinary was his resemblance to the man, who, above all, he regarded as his most dangerous enemy.

Presently he spoke. “Hullo, Joe,” he said. “How long are you going to be?”

The man grinned and shook his head. Fumbling in his blouse, he produced a stained and soiled card and handed it to the other. Scatwell read: “This man does not speak English.”

“Italian, eh?” said Scatwell in that language.

He lay hidden for four long years in Naples, and had not wasted his time.

“Yes, signor,” replied the man instantly. “I have only been in the United States for a month. I came straight from Stressa to my brother, who has good work here. It is beautiful to hear my language spoken again. My brother mostly speaks American, and all his friends are the same.”

“You would like to make plenty of money?” asked Scatwell.

The idea that had come to him was little short of an inspiration.

“Yes, signor, I would like to make very big money and go back to my own home at Stressa,” said the man. “My wife has not come to this place, and I promised her I would go back to her in three years. Yes, I would do anything for money if it were honest, signor. You understand that I come of a very respectable family.”

“Have no fear about that,” said Scatwell in Italian. “But I would like to play a joke on a friend, you understand, and perhaps you could help me.”

He left the man at his work and walked quickly back to the pantry, where his two companions were, and shut the door behind him.

“Have you seen the dago? Have you had a good look at him?” he asked eagerly.

The other was surprised at his excitement.

“Yes, I saw him.”

“Did you notice anything about him?”

Tom hesitated. “Nothing particular. Go and look at him, Rosie.”

The professor did not trouble to pull off his apron, but went out of the room and presently came back.

“Well?” asked Scatwell.

“Well,” answered Rosie, “I don't see anything remarkable about him. Really I don't, my dear fellow.”

“Then look at him again, you bat,” said Scatwell. “Why, the man is almost the double of Correlly.”

“Correlly? Do you think it is Correlly?” said Rosie in alarm. “Perhaps he's come here disguised.”

“Don't be a fool; I merely said he was like Correlly.”

“But what if he is?” asked Sam.

“He'll be very useful to us, and to me in particular,” said Scatwell. “Suppose we got him to cut that hair of his, and we doll him up? Why, he'd pass for Correlly anywhere.”

Mr. Samuel Featherstone put down his rubber stamp and strolled into the sitting room to give the smirking workman the once over. He returned full of praise for Scatwell's scheme.

“I don't say that this fellow is like Correlly,” he said, “because I haven't seen Correlly close enough to swear to him feature by feature. But”—he faced Scatwell squarely—“what is the idea?”

“Yes, that's it,” said the professor. “We want to know what's the idea, Tom. We don't care to risk anything new—and we've had enough and too much of this funny business. I agree with Sam that the sooner we skip the better for us.”

“You can skip out if you want to,” said Scatwell, “but you don't skip before you've seen this through. I tell you that I'm out for the biggest stake of all, and I've half won.”

“There will be certain difficulties with the girl,” said the professor. “She won't accept without hesitation the command of the—er—gods.”

“She'll accept the commands of her father,” said Scatwell, “and if I can get this wop to work with me, it is as good as done. Suppose she knows that her father is mixed up in this Golden Hades fake, and that we can put him in the pen as an accomplice to murder? What do you think she's going to do to shut our mouths, eh?”

“Where does Correlly come in?” asked Sam.

“You'll find out all about that,” replied the other vaguely. “The point is, will the dago take on the job, and will you all stand by me if he does?”

“What's the good of asking a question like that?' snarled Featherstone. “We've got to stand by you, haven't we? Go and put it up to him.”

The window repairer expressed his doubt—indeed, his suspicion.

“It may be a joke, signor, but in my country it is the sort of joke that would put me in the hands of the Carabinieri. I do not like those kind of jokes. I am a stranger to your country, but I know that your police would be very sore.”

“You're not asked to do anything illegal, you poor boob,” said Scatwell. “You've nothing to do but to dress yourself in fine clothes and be seen about. If anybody speaks to you, don't answer them. There's a thousand dollars for you in this.”

Still the man shook his head. “I don't like it at all. Perhaps it would be better if you got somebody who speaks your language,” he said.

At fifteen hundred dollars, however, he wavered, and at two thousand he fell. He was quick enough to take up the idea once Scatwell had propounded the details. He listened and asked intelligent questions, but to the suggestion that he should live under the same roof as the three, he turned a deaf ear.

“I see very well, signor,” he said, “that I cannot return to my brother's house, because that would excite comment, and the people would talk. Maybe you could get me a little place to sleep, but here I would not stay, nor is it wise. Your joke would be no joke if I were seen to leave here.”

“He's right,” said Rosie, “perfectly right. He could have the room that we hired for Sam when he was playing chauffeur for Wilbur Smith.”

Guiseppe Gatti—such was the name he gave—was conducted to the lodging, and the professor, having secured a photograph of Peter which was printed in a newspaper in the previous year, took the man's measure with his own hand and procured the clothes. Guiseppe insisted upon having his own barber, a compatriot whom he could trust, and when, at ten o'clock that night, a knock came at the door, which Featherstone opened, that worthy nearly collapsed.

“Why, why!” he stammered, “Mr. Correlly!”

But the newcomer answered in Italian, and the dazed Featherstone led the visitor to Scatwell's room.

“Say, look at him,” he said. “Rosie, who is this?”

Scatwell jumped up, his eyes shining.

“I knew I was right,” he said. “Why, that would deceive even Smith himself. Stoop, Guiseppe, so. Hunch your shoulders over like this”—he gave an imitation—“and when you walk you've got to drag your feet a little.”

For two hours they coached him in the manners and mannerisms of Peter Correlly, and at the end of that time Scatwell pronounced him perfect.

“Suppose anybody speaks to me?” asked the man. “What shall I say?”

“Nobody will speak to you,” said Scatwell. “If they do, you must not reply. Very soon I will take you to a young lady, and then to every question I ask you you shall answer: Yes—y-e-s.”

“Yis,” said the man.

“A little more practice,” said the exultant Scatwell, “and half of Bertram's roll is as good as in my pocket.”

It was on the next afternoon that Peter Correlly came face to face with José Bertram. She was her old self, bright and tantalizing, and she showed no trace of the grief which had crushed her on the previous day, and Peter marveled not a little.

“How do you do, Mr. Correlly? I saw you this morning walking on Broadway, but you took no notice of me.”

“On Broadway?” said Peter. “I was not on Broadway this morning. In fact, I have scarcely left my office since last night.”

He observed that the professor was eying him with unusual interest.

“What is the matter, professor?”

Peter smiled and put his hand to his chin, which was ornamented by a small square of sticking plaster. “I cut myself thi smorning [sic],” he said. “Is anything wrong with it?”

“No, no, Mr.—I've forgotten your name already. No, no, Mr. Correlly, I was merely looking at you, but thinking of something else, something entirely different.”

Peter smiled and turned to the girl.

“I suppose you're a very busy man, Mr. Correlly,” she said, “not too—not too busy, I hope,” and there was a significance in her words—almost an appeal.

Peter shook his head. “Not so busy that I cannot interest myself in the affairs of my friends,” he said. “You will remember”

“I remember,” she said hurriedly.

She thought he was going to quote his telephone number, but in this she was wrong.

There was nothing more to talk about, and it seemed to him that she wanted to end the interview, almost as though she found the strain of acting a part too much for her endurance. But the meeting had given her strength, had endowed her with just the quality of courage she required.

They left Peter and came to the portals of the Inter-State Bank. Here she stopped.

“I'm going in to see my father,” she said, turning to her companion. “I do hope, professor, that you will add your voice to mine. You cannot believe—it is impossible that an intelligent man like you can believe—such abominable things.”

The little fellow spread out his arms in a gesture of helplessness.

“I can only believe what I know to be true, my dear young lady,” he said. “There are certain mysteries which are hidden from the ordinary human eye, which are visible only to those who are gifted.”

“By the gods?” she suggested dryly.

“By the gods,” he repeated in all solemnity.

She set her lips tightly.

“Then I take it that you are not going to help me cure father of these hallucinations.”

“If they were hallucinations, yes,” he said, “but, my dear young lady, they are not hallucinations. Your dear father is specially favored, I assure you. Why, I myself,” he spoke solemnly and deliberately, “heard Pluto speak—yea, speak in clear, unmistakable language—to your father.”

She looked at him incredulously, and he met her gaze unflinchingly.

“Surely you're joking,” she said. “You have heard an idol—a statue—speak?”

He inclined his head.

“When did Pluto learn English?” she asked.

“The gods know all languages,” replied the professor soberly.

With a shrug of her pretty shoulders she turned abruptly away, and the professor rode back to his apartments with a smile which did not leave his lips until he got home.

He had much to report and Scatwell listened with satisfaction to his subordinate's description of the interview with Correlly.

“You've got to be careful, though, boys,” said the professor, pulling a short pipe from his tail coat pocket and lighting it. “If you make Correlly suspicious, and his double is seen too much abroad, why, there'll be some inquiries made, and the wop will be pinched. Where is he now?”

“Gone back to his lodging,” said Scatwell. “He's been gone an hour or so.”

“There's one thing I want to tell you,” said the professor, remembering. “Correlly has cut his cheek, level with his lips, on the left side, and he wears a small square of sticking plaster. You might put Tony on to that if you see him again. And what's more, he's much too well dressed. That fellow Correlly looks more like a tramp. You've got to be careful—a fashionable-looking Correlly will attract attention.”

Scatwell nodded. “Sam, run round to that fellow's lodging and tell him he's not to come out except by night. And, say, tell him to put a bit of sticking plaster on his left cheek. Show Sam where, Rosie,” and Rosie illustrated the exact position, the size and the shape of the patch.

Sam went forth on his errand to find Signor Guiseppe Gatti throwing dice against himself, wearing on his smooth face an expression of unutterable boredom.