Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

In a week or two the details of the treaty would be known, so that instead of the bottom falling out of the rush — as so often happens — and the market collapsing, holders would realize that they had only to wait to insure the stability of their purchase.

Smith was beaten.

He could buy on a market rising like a rocket, if he wished, and get his brokers to pay anything demanded on the floor; but his tremendous scheme for acquiring vast wealth with a gesture had failed. Whoever had bought on the day before Bordington handed Smith the copy of the treaty had already made a large fortune, and must make more.

By noon Che Fiangs stood at ten shillings. Nobody could say what they would be by night time. Manchester, Birmingham and Glasgow had only stray packets of a few hundreds on offer. Paris and New York were buying. There seemed no sellers anywhere. Such is the rapidity with which a substantial rumor flashes through the financial meshes of the world.

At midday Kitty arrived, looking very cool and radiant in a simple white gown. Smith met her in the palm court, for she pointed out that it was hardly seemly for her to go up to his suite. He was morose.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Has somebody let you down?”

“Badly. The stock deal’s off. I could still make money, if I wished, but somebody’s queered the pitch as far as money for nothing is concerned.”

Kitty laughed. It was a very musical laugh, but it did not lighten the heart of William Smith, as it should have done. “Have you seen the three gentlemen I mentioned?” she asked.

He nodded curtly. “Yes.” His eyes were curiously interested for a moment. “You seem to hit the high spots, my girl. Danson couldn’t say enough. Is it right that you’re the holdup man who cleaned out Ikey Levenheim after he’d double crossed his partner in crime, Horman?”

“If Danson stud so?” observed Kitty demurely. “You see, it’s so easy robbing thieves. They think they’re clever. I shouldn’t have touched Ikey, only I learned that he was cheating Horman, his accomplice, who was doing all the work. So I sat by and let Ikey cheat to the limit, and then I just helped Ikey get rid of the spoils. It was very simple — because Ikey had to keep on bolting for fear of Horman. He couldn’t come back and raise things against me.”

Smith rubbed his chin. “Well, if anybody can put one on Levenheim they deserve a medal. I’m pleased to know you. I’ve decided to take you in — not fifty fifty — but sixty forty. I get the big end.”

“It ’ll do,” said Kitty calmly. “I mentioned equals because it’s always better to ask for more than you expect. What’s the move now that the stock deal’s off?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got to think. A funny thing’s happened. That fool, Trevelyan, has gone and got lost. I telephoned a place I know last night, asking for him, and he hasn’t been seen for three days.”

“Bolted?” asked Kitty laconically.

“Hardly. There’s no reason why he should. He stood for a percentage on this deal.”

Kitty shrugged her shoulders. “Then he’s not lost. He’s probably away somewhere.”

“But he was told to stand by. My men usually do what they’re told to do.”

There was a doubt in Smith’s voice which caused Kitty to look at him quickly. “You’re thinking of that fellow, Pink,” she said. “He can’t possibly have done anything to Trevelyan. I should say he’s never heard of him. He’s not starting the systematic wipe-out business — working up from the bottom.”

Smith confessed: “I was thinking of him. I’m beginning to wonder if I got rattled a bit — what with Pink coming, and this deal dropping through. I’ve got to think about the deal. I want to know who put me away, and who has queered the pitch.”

They chatted for a little while, and at last Smith said: “I can’t ask you to lunch. I don’t want to be seen about with you too much. It’s a rule of mine. Give me an address, and I’ll notify you when you’re wanted.”

Kitty handed him a card. It contained an address in Kensington. “I’ve got a service flat there,” she explained.

She was preparing to leave when a boy walked through the palm court calling a number in that peculiar sing-song voice which appears to be a requisite gift with all hotel page boys. Smith lifted his hand, and the boy came over to him.

“The man is waiting, sir,” he said.

Smith took the sealed envelope the boy held, opened it, glanced at the letter inside, for what seemed to Kitty an overlong time, and then took out his wallet. From the wallet he extracted a five-pound note.

“Give the man this, and tell him there is no answer,” he said.

The boy, with a look of surprise, accepted the note, and departed on his errand. Smith glanced across at Kitty.

“This is disturbing,” he said. “I’ve got here a message in code. It’s from Brixton prison. It’s been smuggled out to a certain address, and passed on to me. Trevelyan sent it.”

“He’s caught?” asked Kitty quickly.