Джордж Энгланд: Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 62, No. 2, October 3, 1931

Carrington took the box, laughing, dropped it back into the safe and rejoined them. “It’s a kick to know that you own the finest diamonds in the world,” he said. “ You’ve traveled all over the world, Sheringham, but I’ll bet that’s unsurpassed. Right here in little old New York!”

“In spite of what you say,” said Sheringham, “it would give me the willies to have it in that safe. As Peg said, you could open that safe with a sardine key.”

“Nonsense,” said Carrington.

Sheringham rubbed tips of his fingers together thoughtfully. “I’ll bet you a ten spot against another highball that I can open it while you’re mixing a drink.”

“Done!” laughed Carrington.

Sheringham rose and went over to the safe, rubbing the ends of his fingers on the rough surface of his coat. “I once took a course in safe-cracking from a convict I knew,” he said. “I used to be pretty good at it.” His slender fingers manipulated the dial, caressingly, gently. The millionaire and his daughter watched him interestedly. It took Sheringham about a minute and a half. He turned away from the open safe door nonchalantly and crossed to the cellarette to pour himself another drink. “Almost easier without the sardine key,” he said.

“I’ll be damned,” said Carrington.

“You see,” said the explorer, “it might just as well be hung on the chandelier. That thing is pie for a clever safe man.”

Carrington was unperturbed. “All I can say is that it’s a fortunate thing that you’re an honest man, Sheringham.”

“It is most fortunate,” agreed Sheringham, taking a deep swallow from his glass.

Mr. Sheringham strolled down the avenue till he came to a lofty office building. His, lips were twisted into an even broader smile than usual as he entered the elevator and asked to be let out at the fourth floor. One of the plate-glass doors bore the legend “Paradise Gardens. Walk in.” Mr. Sheringham walked in to what was a small, but very complete barroom. There were several fables about, at one of which sat a man. He was a thin, wiry individual, dressed in a dark suit and wearing a tweed cap pulled well down over his eyes. He was playing solitaire. A cigarette with an inch-long ash hung between rather flabby lips. Now and then he inhaled and then blew the smoke out through his nostrils.

Sheringham nodded to the bartender. “Manhattan for me, Joe,” he said and crossed to the table where the card player sat. He took the chair opposite him. The card player looked up. His black eyes were set too closely together and there was an unpleasant, almost mad look in them.

“Hello,” he said, the cigarette still between his lips. Then he went back to his card playing. There was a bulge under his left arm-pit which meant to the skilled observer that he was armed.

Sheringham waited in silence until the barman brought his cocktail. He sipped it for a moment or two, and then put it down.

“Well, Kid,” he said slowly, “the set-up is complete. It’s going to be easy.”

Kid Cronin continued to study the cards without looking up. The cigarette had burned down so close between his lips that he seemed in imminent danger of being scorched. Presently he took a fresh one from a package in his pocket and lit it from the finished stub.

“Spill it,” he said. His voice was a harsh, croaking discord. His eyes were still riveted on the cards. Sheringham was undisturbed by the apparent lack of interest on Cronin’s part.

“Things have turned out better than we could have hoped,” he said. “The Carringtons have unwittingly collaborated with us by giving a large reception to which I am invited. You and Macfee will be present in the guise of additional waiters or footmen or some such thing. We will set the time for the robbery at a quarter to twelve. At that time you will be stationed near the front door. Macfee will be in the cellar. He will handle the lights.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Our luck was stretched a little further. Carrington showed me where he kept the necklace. He even let me open the safe and leave my fingerprints all over it.”

Cronin looked up sharply, his black eyes narrowed to pin-points. “What’s the idea?”

“I told him the necklace would be easy to steal. He is just stubborn enough to leave it where it is now that I’ve demonstrated how simply it could be done. Moreover I can open the safe on Thursday night and leave as many prints as I want to. Carrington and his daughter will both swear that I left them to-day. It’s really a break.”

Cronin grunted. “If you had the necklace in your hands why didn’t you make a break for it and save all this rigmarole?”

“Simply because I don’t care to spend the rest of my days on the dodge. You forget, Kid, that it is my social standing that has made this racket possible. No, I shall be on hand after the theft on Thursday, ready to offer my help and experience in the capture of the thief.”

Kid Cronin shuffled the cards. When he spoke the cigarette bobbed erratically between his lips. “Get down to the details,” he rapped.

Sheringham sipped his cocktail. “At the given moment, after Macfee has done his bit, I open the safe which, now that I know the combination, will take about fifteen seconds. I slip to the door and pass the necklace to you.”

“Yeah? And then what?”

Sheringham drummed with his fingers on the edge of the table. “Kid, I want you to get the most conspicuous automobile you can find. Bright colors — something that will be easily identified. I want you to delay your getaway until you are sure that the car has been seen by several people. Then you drive away like mad.”

“Yeah? And then what?”

“Well, then, Kid, the truck will be waiting about two blocks away and before the chase is organized you will disappear from the face of the earth.”

“I get you,” said the Kid, without looking up.

“You slip away at once and go to the usual place,” concluded Sheringham, “and the thing is done.”

Very gently the Kid caressed the bulge under his arm. Sheringham’s lips smiled, but his eyes were steely. “Yes, Kid,” he said softly, “if you have to.”

The Kid looked up and for the first time he took the cigarette from between his lips. He smiled broadly, and in those close-set eyes was an expression of delighted cunning. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“O. K.,” he croaked.

Jim Garth’s fingers trembled slightly as he carefully adjusted the black dinner tie he was wearing. To-night! To-night might be the first step in his promised squaring of accounts with Basil Sheringham. Hewes was certain that the man with the green eye-glass would take this opportunity of the reception to pull off his little stunt. Garth’s dark eyes were burning as he gazed at his own reflection. All the bitterness and anguish that had been his for the last year welled up within him at the prospect of coming face to face with Sheringham once more. Perhaps this was to be his hour.

Martin Hewes, who sat languidly in an arm chair watching his young partner put the finishing touches to his evening attire, indulged in a troubled smile. He studied the ash of his cigarette for a moment or two.

“I know what this night means to you, Jim,” he said slowly. “But remember, for our purposes, restraint and finesse are essential. You can’t act too quickly, Jim, or the fat will be in the fire.”

Garth’s lips tightened. “I’ve waited a year, Martin. I guess I’ll be able to keep myself in check for a few hours. Of course Sheringham won’t pull this alone. Dollars to doughnuts his man, Macfee, will be there in some capacity or other.”