  Mr. Gay settled back in his seat in the train with a sense of comfort. He liked traveling; no matter how hard he was working or how difficult the case he was trying to solve, he could always rest on a journey. “I might have brought Mary Lou with me,” he thought. “She would have liked the experience.” But perhaps, he decided, she had wanted to remain on the spot at Stoddard House in case anything new developed. Little did he think as he was speeding along towards Baltimore that his daughter was driving as fast as she could in the opposite direction. Into a new danger which he had not dreamed of! Mary Louise, in her systematic way, had given her father a list of all the valuables to be recovered. Now, at his leisure, he took the paper from his pocket and went over it carefully. “Set of silverware, ivy-leaf pattern, initials S.H. Chinese vase. 5 watches, including one set with diamonds and my own. $550 in cash. Painting by Whistler. Pair of diamond earrings.” Mr. Gay let out a low whistle. What a list that was! No wonder Mrs. Hilliard was worried! He took from his pocket the other slip of paper, which the detective at the Ritz had just given to him. “Gold-mesh handbag containing $200. 2 pearl rings....” “If this woman, this Mrs. Ferguson, is responsible for all this, she certainly ought to be kept behind prison bars for the rest of her life,” he thought. “But we’ll see—we’ll see....” His train passed through a small town, and from his window Mr. Gay could see the Christmas decorations in the houses. How he wished that he and Mary Louise could both be at home, taking part in the happy celebrations! Trimming the tree, filling the stockings, eating the turkey dinner together! But there would be more Christmases, he reminded himself, and the whole family would be together on New Year’s Day. It was dusk when he arrived in Baltimore and he took a taxi straight to the Hotel Phillips. He engaged a room for he meant to take a shower and have his dinner there, even if he did not remain all night. A few minutes later he was interviewing the hotel detective in his private office. “Is there a Mrs. Ferguson staying here?” he asked, after he had shown his badge. “Yes, there is,” replied the other man. “She came two days ago with two daughters and four other girls as guests. They have a suite of rooms on the ninth floor and are planning to stay over Christmas.” “Has anything been stolen since their arrival?” questioned Mr. Gay. The other detective’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “Yes. A roll of bills, two hundred dollars, I believe it amounted to, and a valuable stamp collection. Last night. But surely——” “I have reasons to suspect Mrs. Ferguson and her accomplices,” stated Mr. Gay. “Other hotel robberies lead us to believe she is the leader of a band of hotel thieves.” “But we are on the track of another suspect. A man we found wandering into the wrong room last night and excusing himself by the old gag of saying he was drunk.” “Maybe he was drunk!” “Possibly. We couldn’t get any sense out of him. But I believe that he was just a darned good actor. Another fellow got away—an accomplice, I think, who is known to be a stamp collector. We’re on his trail.” “I’d like to search the Ferguson woman’s rooms,” announced Mr. Gay. “Can I have your help?” The man hesitated. He hated to antagonize wealthy guests who were bringing so much money into the hotel; yet when he recalled the expression of Mrs. Ferguson’s eyes he remembered that he had distrusted her. So he reluctantly consented to the other detective’s request. Taking one of his assistants with him, the hotel detective led Mr. Gay to the ninth floor and knocked at Mrs. Ferguson’s door. From within sounds of laughter and gay music could be heard. As the door opened, the three men saw the girls playing cards in the sitting room of the luxurious suite. A radio was grinding out jazz. With a shrewd glance at the girls, Mr. Gay realized immediately that they were not the same type as his daughter’s friends at Riverside. They were older, too, although they were painted and lipsticked to appear young. “Mrs. Ferguson,” began the hotel detective, “I must apologize for interrupting your card game, but I have to go through with a routine. Last night some valuables were stolen from one of our guests, and I have promised him to make a thorough search of each room. You understand, of course, that no slight is meant to you or to your guests. The girls can go on with their game, if you will just permit us to look around.” Mrs. Ferguson, who was, Mr. Gay thought, one of the ugliest women he had ever seen, drew herself up proudly. “I very much resent it,” she replied haughtily. “In fact I forbid it!” “You can’t do that,” answered the detective coolly. “For even if you decide to leave the hotel, your things will be searched before you go. But please don’t be unreasonable, Mrs. Ferguson! Suppose that you, for instance, had been robbed of that beautiful diamond ring you are wearing. Wouldn’t you want us to do everything in our power to get it back for you?” “I wouldn’t want guests—especially women and girls—subjected to such insults as you were offering me and my young friends and relatives! Besides, I thought you were already pretty sure of your thief.” “We’re not sure of anything. Will you submit peacefully, Mrs. Ferguson, or must we call in the police?” The woman looked sullen and did not answer; the detective stepped across the room and locked the door. Mrs. Ferguson turned her back and wandered indifferently towards the bare Christmas tree in the corner. It was standing upright in a box of green, but it had not been trimmed. A pile of boxes beside it indicated the ornaments with which it would probably soon be decorated. Mr. Gay, always the keenest observer, sensed that fact that Mrs. Ferguson had some special interest in those boxes, and his first shrewd surmise was that valuables were somehow concealed within them. Therefore, he kept his eye glued on that corner of the room. “I guess you’ll have to stop your games, girls,” said Mrs. Ferguson, “since these men mean to be objectionable. Of course, we’ll move to another hotel immediately, so you can all go and get your things packed.... Pauline, you take care of these balls for the tree. Men like this wouldn’t care whether they were smashed or not! They have no Christmas spirit.” “Some hotel!” muttered Pauline, with an oath under her breath. But she got up and went towards the Christmas tree. “Wait a minute!” ordered Mr. Gay. “I’m looking into those boxes.” Mrs. Ferguson laughed scornfully. “They just came from the ‘Five and Ten,’” she said. “They haven’t even been unwrapped. And I warn you men, if you break them, you can replace them! It’s not easy to get through the crowds now, either.” Detective Gay smiled. “I’ll take the responsibility,” he promised as he untied the string of the top package. As Mrs. Ferguson had stated, it contained nothing but bright new Christmas-tree balls. But when he lifted the second box in the pile—a huge package as big as a hat box—he knew immediately that it was too heavy to contain Christmas-tree ornaments. Nevertheless, his countenance was expressionless as he untied the string. A great quantity of tissue paper covered the top of the box; this Mr. Gay removed, and from beneath it he drew forth a shabby blue book. “Is this the stamp album?” he asked the hotel detective. The other man gasped and rushed to Mr. Gay’s side. “Yes! Yes!” he cried. “That’s it! See if the stamps are still in it.” With a quick movement Pauline Brooks took two steps forward and snatched the book from the detective’s hands. “That’s my album!” she exclaimed. “If you don’t believe it, look at the name in the front.” Triumphantly she turned to the first page and displayed the inscription: Pauline Brooks, Christmas, 1931. From Aunt Ethel. Detective Gay laughed scornfully. “You can’t fool us that easily, Miss Brooks,” he said. “Examine the ink in the handwriting for yourself! It’s fresh.... You can’t pass that off for three years old.” Pauline looked calmly into her accuser’s eyes. “Maybe it is,” she retorted. “But I don’t have to write my name in my books the minute I get them, do I?” “Hand it over!” commanded the hotel detective, while Mr. Gay continued his search of the Christmas boxes. At the bottom of the pile he found the gold-mesh handbag with two pearl rings inside it. But he did not discover any of the lost money. “Call the police,” ordered the hotel detective, turning to his assistant. “Gay and I will make a thorough search of this room. And on your way downstairs get hold of Mr. Jones, in room 710. He can come up here and identify his stamp album.” Mrs. Ferguson by this time had slipped into her bedroom, and one by one the girls were following her. Detective Gay, suddenly aware of the fact that the criminals meant to escape by another door, dashed out into the hall just in time to stop them. “Must we use handcuffs?” he demanded, pushing Mrs. Ferguson back into her room and locking the door. The woman did not reply, but she looked at him with an expression of hatred in her eyes. Mr. Gay called into the next room to the hotel detective, who was still making a systematic search. “Can you get me a photographer?” he asked. “O.K.,” was the reply, and the detective put the message through, using the room telephone. “Now, what do you want a photographer for?” demanded Pauline impudently. “Because we’re such pretty girls?” “I want to send your picture to my daughter,” replied Mr. Gay. “I understand that you and she used to be friends.” “Who is your daughter?” “Mary Louise Gay.” “The little rat! If I’d ever realized——” “How smart she is,” supplied Mr. Gay proudly, “you’d have been more careful! Well, Miss Brooks, you’ve been pretty clever, but not quite clever enough. This is the end of your dangerous career.” “I guess we can get out on bail!” she boasted. “I guess you can’t! Not this time, young lady!” The photographer and the police arrived at the same time; Mrs. Ferguson and her band of six had to submit to having their pictures taken and were allowed, under supervision, to pack a few necessary articles of clothing into their suitcases. Then, under the escort of four policemen and the assistant hotel detective, they rode downstairs to the waiting patrol car. Mr. Gay and the hotel detective went on with their methodical search. “Suppose we stop and eat,” suggested the latter. “We can lock up these rooms.” “O.K.,” agreed Mr. Gay. A knock sounded at the door. “I’m Jones—the man who lost the album,” announced the visitor. “Did you fellows really get it?” His question held all the eagerness of the collector. “This it?” queried the hotel detective, holding the worn blue book up to view. “Oh, boy! Is it? I’ll say so! Let’s see it!” He grasped the book affectionately. “We are still hoping to find your money, too,” added Mr. Gay. But the man was hardly listening; his stamps meant far more to him than his roll of bills. “Whom do I thank for this?” he inquired finally, as he opened the door. “My daughter,” returned Mr. Gay. “But she isn’t here, and I’ll have to tell you the story some other time.” During their supper together, Mr. Gay told the hotel detective about Mary Louise and the discoveries she had made which led her to suspect Mrs. Ferguson and Pauline Brooks. He brought the list out of his pocket and crossed off the articles that had been recovered: the gold-mesh bag and the two pearl rings. “Except for the money which was stolen here last night, we probably shan’t find anything else in the rooms,” he concluded. “Mrs. Ferguson has no doubt hidden or disposed of everything which her gang stole from Stoddard House.” Nevertheless, the two men resumed their search after dinner. Deeply hidden in the artificial grass which filled the Christmas-tree box, they found four hundred dollars—the exact amount which had been taken from the Hotel Ritz in Philadelphia and the Hotel Phillips there in Baltimore. But two hours’ more searching revealed nothing else. At ten o’clock the two men decided to quit. Mr. Gay went directly to his room and called Stoddard House on the telephone, asking to speak to Mary Louise. To his surprise it was Mrs. Hilliard who answered him. “Mary Louise did not come home for supper,” she said. “I concluded that she had gone to Baltimore with you, Mr. Gay.” “No, she didn’t. Could she have gone to the movies with any of the girls, do you think?” “Possibly. But she usually tells me where she is going. Of course she may have gone home with the Walder girls, and I know their folks haven’t a phone.” Mr. Gay seemed reassured; after all, he decided, nothing could happen to his daughter now that the criminals were under lock and key. “Well, tell her I’ll take the first train home tomorrow,” he concluded, “and that I have good news for her.” “I will, Mr. Gay,” promised the hotel manager. Disappointed but not worried, he replaced the receiver and went down to the desk to inquire for the picture of Mrs. Ferguson’s band of thieves. Several copies had been struck off, and they were surprisingly good. Mr. Gay chuckled when he thought how pleased Mary Louise would be to see all the criminals lined up together. Taking the pictures with him, he went straight to the offices of Baltimore’s leading newspapers. In a short time he had given the editors the important facts of the capture of the dangerous band, giving the credit to Mary Louise. To one of these newspapers he gave his daughter’s picture—a snapshot which he always carried in his pocket. “Wait till Riverside sees that!” he exulted. “Won’t our family be proud of our Mary Lou!” Mr. Gay slept soundly that night, believing that everything was all right with Mary Louise. Had he but known the agony of spirit his daughter was experiencing he would have returned posthaste to Philadelphia. Mrs. Hilliard, however, was more concerned and spent a restless night. She felt sure that something had happened to Mary Louise, for she was not the sort of girl to go off without mentioning her plans. Even if she had gone to the country with the Walder girls, she would have found a way to telephone. Mary Louise was never thoughtless or selfish. In her worried condition, Mrs. Hilliard awakened twice during the night and went down and looked into the girl’s empty room. At six o’clock she could stand the anxiety no longer, and she called Mr. Gay on the long distance telephone. He was in bed, asleep, but the first ring at his bedside awakened him. He listened to Mrs. Hilliard’s news with a sinking heart, remembering the dreadful thing which had happened to his daughter the previous summer, while she was investigating a mystery of crime. “I’ll take the seven o’clock train to Philadelphia!” he cried, already snatching his clothing from the chair beside his bed. In his haste and his deep concern for his daughter he forgot entirely that this was Christmas morning. When the waiter in the dining car greeted him with a respectful “Merry Christmas, sir,” Mr. Gay stared at him blankly. Then he remembered and made the correct reply. One look at Mrs. Hilliard’s face as he entered Stoddard House told him that there was no news of his girl. Mary Louise had not returned. “The only place I can think of,” said Mrs. Hilliard, “for I’ve already gotten in touch with the Walder girls, is that empty house out in Center Square, where she was hit on the head the night she went there with Max Miller.” “I’ll drive right out there,” announced Mr. Gay immediately. “I guess I can make inquiries at the hotel.... And in the meantime I’ll notify the Philadelphia police, but I’ll warn them not to give out the news on the radio till I get back.... I don’t want to alarm Mary Lou’s mother until it is necessary.” Ten minutes later he was in a taxicab, directing the driver to speed as fast as the law allowed to Center Square. |
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