Stamped in Gold/Chapter 3

AM sorry to disturb you.”

In the gray of the morning Wilbur Smith stood, hat in hand, at the door of a small apartment and the elderly man who had opened the door, clad in an old overcoat which was worn over his pajamas, gazed sleepily upon the unexpected visitor.

“Here is my card.”

The man took it and read.

“Secret service!” he said, startled. “Why, whatever has happened?”

“There's nothing wrong”

“Don't tell me that Maisie”

“There's nothing very wrong in the sense that your daughter is responsible. I suppose Miss Maisie Bishop is your daughter?”

“Come in, sir,” said the man. “Just one minute while I light the gas.”

The little room was furnished neatly but poorly.

“Is it about the money?” said the man anxiously. “I didn't understand it. You see, Maisie asked Mr. Alwin because he had been so kind to her in the past. I was amazed when she brought the money back. I didn't know he was that rich. I thought there must be some mistake. Mr. Alwin has sent you”

Wilbur shook his head.

“Not exactly,” he said. “But if you don't mind I would like to see your daughter.”

He waited in some anxiety and was relieved to hear the girl's voice. Presently she came in, a little pale but looking pretty, he thought. She carried in her hand a little bundle of notes.

“Is it about these?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Mr. Alwin gave them to me,” she said, speaking agitatedly. “I thought there was a mistake, but I didn't think he would send”

“He has not sent anybody, be assured of that. I have really come to see that you are safe,” said Wilbur kindly. “As to the money, you need not worry. I shall want it for a few days. At the end of that time if nothing happens I will return it to you.”

“I hated asking Mr. Alwin at all,” she said, “but daddy has been troubled about money, and we owed a lot of rent. I tried everybody before I asked Mr. Alwin, and I think I should have sunk through the floor with shame if he had refused. It is awful to ask,” she faltered.

“Don't worry about that, please,” said Wilbur with a little smile. “I am only concerned about you, about the danger”

“The danger?” she asked quickly. “What do you mean? You said something about my safety.”

He was examining the notes under the gas. They each bore the yellow stamp.

“These are they,” he said, and drew from his pocket a big bundle of notes which Frank had handed to him. The girl's mouth opened in astonishment at the sight of so much money.

“You see, the numbers are consecutive. I had better take a note of these.”

He jotted some figures down on the leaf of his notebook and tore it out.

“Keep this for reference,” he said. “Those are the numbers of the bills I have taken, and as I say they will be returned to you—if nothing happens. In the meantime,” he drew his own bill fold from his pocket, “you must tell me how much money you wanted to borrow from Mr. Alwin and let me supply your needs.” He saw the flush that rose to the girl's cheek and laughed. “You must take this as a loan from Frank Alwin,” he said, and winced at the thought that Alwin at that moment was probably dead.

She named a sum in a low tone and he extracted the bills from his bill fold and passed them to her.

When he got to his office that morning after two or three hours' sleep he found a group of reporters waiting for him. Wilbur Smith had one way with the press, and it was the way of frankness, which he had found to pay ninety-nine per cent of the time; the one per cent didn't matter anyway.

“Yes, boys, it is perfectly true that Mr. Alwin has disappeared, and so far as I know he has not been seen since last night.” He had been on the phone before coming to the office. “There's a pretty big mystery behind this disappearance, and I think I have some sort of clew.”

“Is there any connection between this crime and the Higgins Tenement Murder?” asked a reporter, and the detective nodded.

“I don't know how that story has got round, but there's a lot of truth in it,” he said. “Alwin is a very good friend of mine, and you may be sure that I am not going to rest until I have tracked him down, as well as the men who took him away. Now, in case you get these facts mixed up, I will tell you just what has occurred,” he added, and related the story of his meeting the actor in the theater, of their supping together, and of Alwin going out to answer a telephone call and disappearing. He made no reference either to the money or to The Golden Hades.

This was a matter, he thought, which could be left over until a future date might provide the press with further material. For the moment he had no desire or intention of warning this mysterious agency, as he would be doing if he let them know that he associated the crime and its predecessors with themselves. Whatever might have been his views, however, they were somewhat altered when a voice to the rear of the group of reporters which surrounded him asked:

“What about The Golden Hades, Smith?”

Wilbur looked up sharply.

“Who's that?” he asked, and a cub reporter was pushed forward.

“We received this at the office this morning,” he said, laying a letter on the detective's table.

Wilbur opened it. Both paper and envelope were of the best quality, and the note it contained was typewritten. It ran:

Wilbur read the note twice.

“When did this come?” he asked,

“About half an hour before I left the office. It was sent up on the tube to the city editor, who opened it and handed it to me,” explained the newspaper man. “What does it mean?”

Wilbur smiled. “I should rather like to know myself, son,” he said. “So far, however, I am in the dark. I'll hold this letter if you don't mind—and even if you do mind,” he said, smiling again.

“But this isn't the first time you have heard of The Golden Hades?” persisted one of the newspaper men. “How much do you know, Mr. Smith?”

Wilbur looked at the young man squarely.

“That is exactly what the gang want to find out,” he said, “and that is just what I am not going to tell you. This note was only sent for that purpose. Maybe Alwin is alive and in their hands, and they are holding him to ransom. Maybe they'll kill him if I go any further in the matter. But this you can bet on, that the object of sending that note to your newspaper was to get you boys to dig out all I knew about The Golden Hades—and I'm not falling for it.”

He shoo-ed the newspaper men out of his room and walked into the office. Gray-haired Sharpe heard the story without speaking.

“It sounds like something unreal,” he said when the other had finished. “It is certainly out of the ordinary.”

“It is rather unusual,” said Wilbur Smith, “and right off all the usual lines. Why, compared with this, the Black Hand is child's play, and a Chinatown murder mystery is as simple as shelling peas.”

The chief rubbed his bristly chin. “Do you know what I would do if I were you?” he said. “I'd get Peter Correlly on this job.”

“Peter Correlly!” said Smith quickly. “Why, of course! I never thought of him. I'll phone him to come over and see me in the office.”

“Where's the money?” asked the chief.

“In my safe. I'll bring it to you.”

Sharpe examined the roll of bills carefully,

“Obviously your first job is to discover how this came into the theater. You've seen the property man, you say?”

“Yes,” replied Smith. “I have yet to interview the billman. He may be able to throw some light upon the matter. I'm taking the money to the subtreasury,” he explained as he wrapped and pocketed the bills, “because I am anxious to trace the notes to the bank which issued them. Once that is done, I may be on the way to discovering the reason why this money made its appearance in such a queer way, and why the holder is in line for trouble the moment he slips the money into his pocket.”

He went back to his office to phone Correlly, then left the building. The officer on duty at the door saw him hail a taxi and go off. Three hours later his seemingly lifeless body was found in a vacant lot over in Brooklyn; and when they got him to the hospital and put him to bed and Peter Correlly searched his clothes, he found the money had disappeared.