Stamped in Gold/Chapter 7

T was a busy day for Peter Correlly,—much busier, as it proved, than he had expected. When he suggested that he had not heard of Professor Cavan until the previous day he was, of course, exaggerating. What he meant was that Professor Cavan had interested him yesterday for the first time. Everybody knew the little man with the straggling, cobweb beard, the bald pate, the lank gray hair, the big steel-rimmed spectacles, and, greatest eccentricity of all in one who had turned professor, the comfortable bank balance.

The door had scarcely closed upon his visitor when Wilbur Smith, despite his abstraction, identified Professor Cavan. Yet his forgetfulness was excusable, since his mind was running on crime and criminals, and it was very difficult to associate this brilliant little scholar with the mundane affairs of crime detection.

“Cavan? Cavan?” thought Wilbur Smith, his eyes cast up to the ceiling. “Why, of course; he is the classical man—Peter is going to discover all about Hades,” and he chuckled.

If there was any man in the world who might know who Hades was, might help to elucidate the mystery which was puzzling the cleverest pair in the department, it was John Octavius Cavan.

Both society and the learned professions had taken the little man to their bosom when he had arrived from the old world three years ago. His erudition, his eloquence, plus his comfortable fortune, had been his credentials. He had been offered a chair in three universities and had declined—politely, eloquently, but positively.

He lived in expensive apartments on Riverside Drive, with a butler, a kitchen man, and a couple of women servants, and his prosperity gave the lie to the suggestion that the scholastic profession was without profit. Even Peter, who was not impressed by most things, was taken aback when, in answer to his ring, the door of the apartment was opened by an impressive butler, a typical English servant of stout build and polite manner.

He found the little professor sitting behind a big oak table, which was littered with papers, books open and books closed. When Peter was ushered into the room by the butler, the old man was writing, his head bent low over the table. He looked up, straightened himself, picked up Peter's card, and read it again in a near-sighted way, then he pushed his spectacles to his forehead and leaned forward with a smile.

“Sit down, sit down, Mr. Correlly,” he said. “James, put a chair for this gentleman. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Thanks, no,” said Peter. “That is a dissipation which I have not acquired.”

“What a pity!” said the professor, shaking his head, “what a great, great pity! It is the most wonderful stimulant in the world. That will do, James. You can go.”

When the door was closed he looked at the card again.

“Now, Mr. Correlly,” he said, “I understand that you have come to consult me on a matter of Greek mythology. In fact”—he looked up with a quizzical smile—“you want to consult me about The Golden Hades.”

Peter, excellent actor as he was, was startled. Nobody outside the office had mentioned The Golden Hades, which was, as he thought, a secret shared only by the heads of the department. The professor enjoyed the effect of his words.

“Come, come, Mr. Correlly,” he said, “I am not clairvoyant. I only read the newspapers very diligently. There was some reference to the matter in yesterday's Evening Scream,” said the professor. “Apparently a letter was received by a newspaper editor”

“I remember,” said Peter. “Of course, Mr. Smith had it.”

“That's right,” said the professor, “according to the newspapers. Now, Mr. Correlly, what can I do for you?”

“I won't ask you, professor, to tell me who Hades or Pluto was, because I've enjoyed the dubious advantage of a college education, and among the fragments of knowledge which I have carried away from that institution is a bowing acquaintance with classical history.”

The old man inclined his head. “So I gather,” he said.

Peter did not ask him how he had gathered the fact, but went on:

“I understand, professor, that you are acquainted with such of the ancient cults as have survived to, or been revived in, this present century.”

The professor nodded. “I certainly have an extensive acquaintance with survivals,” he said, “and it is most extraordinary how many have come down, with their devotees, their priests, and their rituals, even to the present day. For example,” he said, “in Norway there are still Troll worshipers—the Troll being a sort of devil who has passed into the literary legendary of Scandinavia. In Russia we have a large number of people who practice secret rites to Baba Yaga, another mythological creature who I think is to be identified with the Greek deity Cronus. In England and America there are a number of disagreeable people, of unpleasant antecedents, who worship one or the other members of the Greek mythology.”

“When you say 'worship,' what exactly do you mean?” asked Peter.

“I mean they worship these beings as reverently as the Parsee worships the sun.”

“And they endow them with supernatural qualities?” asked the incredulous Peter.

“Certainly,” replied the professor. “Now take the case of your Hades. There are two or three groups of Hades worshipers. For some reason or other, Pluto, which is his other name, has a fascination beyond all the other gods.”

“And are there such people here in America, in the State of New York?”

“Absolutely,” said the professor with a twinkle in his eye; “some conscious and some unconscious. Do not forget that Pluto is the god of wealth,” he finished, chuckling.

“Let me ask you a plain, blunt question, professor,” said Peter. “You're well acquainted with the best people in New York; do you know any of them who are worshipers of Hades? Before you reply,” Peter hastily added, “let me tell you that for the moment I do not ask for their names.”

“I would gladly give you them if I knew them,” said the professor, “but happily, my activities do not lie in the direction of the study of eccentric cults. I merely know they exist because I have heard of them in a round-about way; but where the congregation of the faithful is to be found—why, Heaven only knows!”

He rose abruptly and offered his hand.

“Good-by, Mr. Correlly!” he said, and Peter, who had had no intention of going, found himself being ushered from the apartment.

He dined with Sharpe that night in the chief's favorite restaurant.

“I was hoping that you'd get Cavan to help you,” said the chief. “I've been talking with an assistant to the district attorney all the afternoon. He came down to know what The Golden Hades was all about, and he's a pretty worried man. Cavan would have been of the greatest assistance, because, as the attorney tells me, he is one of the shrewdest and cleverest all-round men he has ever met.”

“There wasn't a chance to make any proposition,” said Peter. “I had hardly got beyond the pleasant introductions before he hustled me out.”

“It is a pity,” said the chief.

“Anyway,” Peter went on, “I don't know what we could put up to him that would induce him to help. He has plenty of money, and as likely as not he has told us all he knows.”

“Have you cleared up the question of the fellow who gave the money to the property man at the theater?”

“I've cleared up two matters that were rather worrying me,” said Peter. “Both the property man's story and Fatty's story are true. The billman was billing posters of a new film. It was about money, and the advertisers had arranged that round the central picture should run a border made up of treasury bills; that is to say, pictures of bills that looked in the distance like money. And the billman went out from his office without taking the border. He had arranged for his son to meet him at a station where the poster was to be exhibited, and to bring along his lunch.

“The boy came by appointment, and told his father that on the way he had met a man who had thrust something into the bag he was carrying. On examining this they found that the something was a big bunch of money. The billman first thought they were intended to be pasted up as a border. He did paste one border of thousand-dollar bills, which we are now engaged in soaking off. He took the rest of them home, thinking that they were such good imitations that they would suit Alwin's property man, whom he had an acquaintance with, and who, he knew, was always looking for stage money.”

“Then Fatty's story was true?”

“Perfectly true,” said the other. “Evidently the billman's son was the kid that Fatty met when I was chasing him. And this I will say” he went on, but stopped, his eyes fixed on the door.

A girl was strolling leisurely to her table through the crowded restaurant, and in her wake came the preoccupied Mr. Bertram. But it was only for the girl that Peter had eyes. In evening dress her serene beauty was dazzling. Then she turned her head and saw him. She bowed, and Peter was on his feet instantly. He saw her speak to her father, and George Bertram turned and bowed vaguely in their direction. Then she passed to the inner restaurant.

“Sit down, Peter. You're attracting attention.”

It was only then Peter realized that he was still standing.

“That's Bertram and his daughter, isn't it? I gather that you fixed that matter to their satisfaction.”

But Peter was watching the door. He was curious to know, for no particular reason that he could analyze, who were to be the other guests at the dinner party. He saw several Johnnies, very red of face and in a mighty hurry—Johnny had never kept time in his life; he saw a woman whom he did not know but whom the chief recognized as a society leader; and then:

“Why, look who's here!” said Peter in admiration.

The last of the party to enter was Professor Cavan—a strutting little figure in evening dress. His coat thrown over an arm and a tall hat in his hand, he passed through the restaurant, conscious that all eyes were on him and patently proud of the fact.

“I wonder if he would help if he knew,” said Peter half to himself, but speaking aloud.

“Why don't you ask him?” said Sharpe.

“I will one of these days,” replied Peter.

It was Sharpe's practice to sit long over his meal; but it was Peter's habit to miss the dessert because dinner was invariably too long. He made his excuses to his chief, took his hat from the cloakroom, and went out into the street.

It occurred to him then that this was the restaurant from which Frank Alwin had disappeared. Such a kidnaping would have been impossible at this early hour. The sidewalks were filled with people, and a policeman stood a few yards away, his hands behind him, watching the traffic with a proprietorial air. A few yards from the entrance to the restaurant a beautiful limousine was drawn up, and standing near the hood, talking over his shoulder with the chauffeur, Peter recognized the professor's butler. He asked the question of the doorman and was told that the car was Professor Cavan's. His curiosity impelled him to a close inspection. The servant recognized him and touched his hat.

“Good evening, sir,” he said. “You're the gentleman who called at the house? The professor is dining.”

“I know,” replied Peter. “This is a beautiful car.”

“Yes,” said the man. “It is a Henault, one of the best imported cars in New York. You should get the professor to let you take a trip in her. She is a very smooth-running machine.”

Peter laughed. “Why, I don't know the professor well enough to beg a joy ride from him,” he said, “but it is certainly a handsome car.”

“The interior cost a small fortune to fit up,” said the man proudly.

He opened the door of the limousine and stepped in.

“The light isn't working. The professor snapped a wire with his umbrella, and we didn't notice it until we came out to-night. But feel these down cushions”

“Hi”

Peter, with one foot on the step, turned. A man came out of the shadow with unsteady steps.

“Hullo, Correlly,” he said boisterously, “dear old boy, how are you?”

Peter turned. The man was obviously intoxicated. It was so unusual to be called by his surname—only Sharpe ever used it—that he was curious to know the man who was taking such a liberty.

“How's dear old Smith?” said the man thickly, and slipped and would have fallen, but Peter caught him and held him in his arms, his drooping head upon the detective's shoulder.

“Hold up, inebriate,” said Peter sternly, “you're not allowed to sleep on the department.”

“How's old Smith?” said the languid man. His voice died down to a sleepy mumble, but Peter heard all that the man said.

Thus they stood for a few seconds, the servant watching the scene with a certain amount of amusement. By this time the attention of the policeman had been called to the encounter, and he strolled across.

“Take this man,” said Peter authoritatively. “I'll give you a hand with him as far as the next block.”

“A lot of fuss over a simple drunk,” said the professor's butler. He was a disappointed man. He had expected a much more exciting end to the adventure.

So had the drunk. “Peter,” he was saying in the other's ear, “if you had gone into that car you would have had a headache—I'm Alwin.”