Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

“Not much. They’ll never be able to get you back to France. You’ve got too much money and too many friends. You can say that you did not know the diamonds were stolen and you may get off with a heavy fine on the smuggling charge.”

Barton held his head in his hands.

“It will ruin me,” he groaned swaying in his chair. “It will wreck my reputation.”

“That’s too bad,” said Heywood dryly. “You have my sympathy.”

“Suppose I refuse?” Barton looked up at his tormentor and there was misery and indecision in his eyes. “Suppose I refuse to convict myself?”

Chapter XIV The Other Half

“Then,” said Heywood in a voice I that dripped honey, “I will back a patrol wagon up to your door in the plain sight of all your august neighbors, haul you down to headquarters and formally charge you with smuggling, robbery, and the reception of stolen property.”

“My God!”

“I’m waiting.”

Barton wrung his flabby hands and I could not help feeling a twinge of sympathy for the fat old crook, although I knew that he did not deserve it. Heywood evidently read my thoughts, for he turned to me and said:

“Tough on you crooks when you get caught. It’s fine as long as you win, but when you lose, it’s hell, eh? Then you come sniveling for sympathy.”

And he winked at me and smiled.

Barton was talking now in a choked, halting voice.

“It was like this,” he said. “Blake, who had been in Paris, learned of these diamonds and hired a man to steal them for him. He came to me with the proposition of getting rid of them. I had done the same thing before, in a small way. I was a fool to listen to him, but I did. I went to Paris and got in touch with the thief, paying the price that Blake had agreed upon for the stones. After I got them I was afraid to try to bring them back.

“Blake had argued that I would never be suspected, but I felt that I was being watched every minute and I almost went crazy with the strain, expecting to be arrested every time I ventured out of the hotel.

“Blake sent a man to me and suggested that if I had lost my nerve I could line up somebody to carry the stuff to New York for me and I found this kid Drummond. He didn’t know what was in the package and he didn’t have sense enough to suspect. He was nabbed and sent to prison.

“I had written to Blake about the arrangement that I had made and the letter went out on the day before Drummond sailed.

“Blake was wild when he found what had happened. When I got back he came here and we had a violent quarrel. He blamed me for the miscarriage of his plans and threatened to ruin me by using the letter I had written to him. He demanded that I pay him the equivalent of his share in the theft and I refused. We fought. I am an old man, but I managed to tear half of the letter out of his hand before my butler arrived and threw him out of the house.

“From that day to this I have known no peace. My God, it’s been terrible. Terrible! I’m glad it’s all over — glad—”

His voice died away to a whisper and he sat shaking like a man with the ague.

“I’ll take your part of that letter,” said Heywood cheerfully.

“What do you want it for?”

“Documentary evidence that you and Blake framed this deal,” said the reporter. “Do you want to leave this lad Drummond to rot in a cell?”

“No, no,” muttered the gem dealer, “that boy’s conviction weighed heavily upon my mind. I... ah... often thought of giving myself up, of making—”

He broke off suddenly, took a key from his pocket with a palsied hand and opened a drawer of his desk. For a moment he pawed through a mass of papers, then he brought forth the torn half of the note.

“Here,” he said dully, “take it.”

Heywood took the paper, looked at it, and then fished the capsule from his vest pocket. He extracted Blake’s portion of the letter and laid the two together upon the desk.

Looking over his shoulder, I read:

Dear Blake:

I delivered the goods to young Drummond aboard the Princess Flavia. Meet him at the wharf in New York and bring the stuff to me as I have arranged to dispose of them. Be careful, as one of my agents tell me we are watched.

Joshua Barton

“That settles that,” said Heywood. “Barton, I know you aren’t going to run away so I’m going to leave you right here until we get Blake and his gang rounded up. If everything breaks well you may get a chance to turn government witness and save your hide. As for this fellow here, I’ll take him down to headquarters for safe keeping.”

And so we marched out of the fine library of Joshua Barton, leaving the old man hunched over his huge desk, down the worn stone steps and up the avenue.

“Doc,” said Heywood when we had turned the corner. “You are a great little actor.”

“You’re not so rotten yourself,” said I. “Are your men ready?”