Ainslee's Magazine//The Gem Collector/Chapter 7
CHAPTER VII.
Jimmy dressed for dinner in a very exalted frame of mind that night. It seemed to him that he had awakened from a sort of a stupor. Life was so much fuller of possibilities than he had imagined a few days back. The sudden acquisition of his uncle's money had, in a manner, brought him to a halt. Till then the exhilarating feeling of having his hand against the world had lent a zest to life. There had been no monotony. There had always been obstacles, One may hardly perhaps dilate on the joys of toil in connection with him, considering the precise methods by which he had supported himself; but nevertheless his emotions when breaking the law of the United States had been akin to those of the honest worker in so far that his operations had satisfied the desire for action which possesses every man of brains and energy. They had given him something to do. He had felt alive. His uncle's legacy had left him with a sensation of abrupt stoppage. Life had suddenly become aimless.
But now everything was altered. Once more the future was a thing of importance, to-morrow a day to be looked forward to with keen expectation.
He tried to throw his mind back to the last occasion when he had seen Molly. He could not remember that he had felt any excessive emotion. Between camaraderie and love there is a broad gulf. It had certainly never been bridged in the old New York days. Then the frank friendliness of which the American girl appears to have the monopoly had been Molly's chief charm in his eyes. It had made possible a comradeship such as might have existed between men. But now there was a difference. England seemed to have brought about a subtle change in her. Instinctively he felt that the old friendship, adequate before, was not enough now. He wanted more. The unexpected meeting, following so closely upon Spike's careless words in London, had shown him his true feelings. Misgivings crept upon him. Had he a right? Was it fair? He looked back at the last eight years of his life with the eye of an impartial judge. He saw them stripped of the glamour which triumphant cunning had lent them; saw them as they would appear to Molly.
He scowled at his reflection in the glass. “You've been a bad lot, my son,” he said. “There's only one thing in your favor; and that is the fact that you've cut it all out for keeps. We must be content with that.”
There was a furtive rap at the door.
“Hullo?” said Jimmy. “Yes?”
The door opened slowly. A grin, surmounted by a mop of red hair, appeared round the edge of it.
“Well, Spike. Come in. What's the matter?”
The rest of Mr. Mullins entered the room.
“Gee, Mr. Chames, I wasn't sure dat dis was your room. Say, who do youse t'ink I nearly bumped me coco ag'in out in de corridor? Why, old man McEachern, de cop. Dat's right!”
“Yes?”
“Sure. Say, what's he doin' on dis beat? Youse c'u'd have knocked me down wit' a bit of poiper when I see him. I pretty near went down and out. Dat's right. Me heart ain't got back home yet.”
“Did he recognize you?”
“Sure! He starts like an actor on de stoige when he sees he's up against de plot to ruin him, an' he gives me de fierce eye.”
“Well?”
“I was wondering was I on Third Avenue, or was I standing on me coco, or what was I doin', anyhow. Den I ups off and chases meself up here. Say, Chames, can youse put me wise? What's de game? What's old man Mcchern doin' stunts dis side for?”
“It's all right, Spike. Keep calm. I can explain. Mr. McEachern owns the house.”
“On your way, Mr. Chames! What's dat?”
“This is is his house we're in, now. He left the force three years ago, came over here, and bought this place. And here are again, all gathered together under the same roof, like a jolly little family party.”
Spike's open mouth bore witness to his amazement.
“Den all dis”
“Belongs to him? That's it. We are his guests, Spike.”
“But what's he goin' to do?”
“I couldn't say. I'm expecting to hear shortly. But we needn't worry ourselves. The next move's with him. If he wants to say anything about it, he must come to me.”
“Sure. It's up to him,” agreed Spike.
“I'm quite comfortable. Speaking for myself, I'm having a good time. How are you getting on downstairs?”
“De limit, Mr. Chames. Honest, I'm on pink velvet. Dey's an old gazebo, de butler, Keggs his name is, dat's de best ever at handing out long woids. I sit and listen. Dey calls me Mr. Mullins down dere,” said Spike, with pride.
“Good. I'm glad you're all right. There's no reason why we shouldn't have an excellent time here. I don't think that Mr. McEachern will turn us out, after he's heard one or two little things I have to say to him. Just a few reminiscences of the past which may interest him. I have the greatest affection for Mr. McEachern, though he did club me once with his night stick; but nothing shall make me stir from here for the next week at any rate.”
“Not on your life,” agreed Spike. “Say, Mr. Chames, he must have got a lot of plunks to buy dis place. And I know how he got dem, too. Dat's right, I comes from old New York meself.”
“Hush, Spike, this is scandal!”
“Sure,” said the Bowery boy doggedly, securely mounted now on his favorite hobby horse. “I knows, and youse knows Mr. Chames. Gee, I wish I'd bin a cop. But I wasn't tall enough. Dey's de fellers wit' green in der banks. Look at dis old McEachern. Money to boin a wet dog wit', he's got, and never a bit of woik for it from de start to de finish, An' look at me, Mr. Chames.”
“I do, Spike, I do.”
“Look at me. Getting busy all de year round, woiking to beat de band all””
“In prisons oft,” said Jimmy.
“Dat's right. And chased all roun' de town. And den what? Why, to de bad at de end of it all. Say, it's enough to make a feller”
“Turn honest,” said Jimmy. “You've hit it, Spike. You'll be glad some day that you reformed.”
But on this point Spike seemed to be doubtful. He was silent for a moment; then, as if following upon a train of thoughts, he said: “Mr. Chames, dis is a fine big house.”
“Splendid!”
“Say, couldn't we”
“Spike!” said Jimmy warningly.
“Well, couldn't we?” said Spike doggedly. “It ain't often youse butts into a dead-easy proposition like dis one. We shouldn't have to do a t'ing excep' git busy. De stuff's just lying about, Mr. Chames.”
“I have noticed it.”
“Aw, it's a waste to leave it.”
“Spike,” said Jimmy, “I warned you of this. I begged you to be on your guard, to fight against your professional instincts; and you must do it. I know it's hard, but it's got to be done. Try and occupy your mind. Collect butterflies.”
Spike shuffled in gloomy silence.
“'Member dose jools we got in de hotel de year before I was copped?” he asked at length irrelevantly.
Jimmy finished tying his tie, looked at the result for a moment in the glass, then replied: “Yes, I remember.”
“We got anudder key dat fitted de door. 'Member dat?”
Jimmy nodded.
“And some of dose knock-out drops. What's dat? Chloryform? Dat's right. An' we didn't do a t'ing else. An' we lived for de rest of de year on dose jools.”
Spike paused.
“Dat was to de good,” he said wistfully.
Jimmy made no reply.
“Dere's a loidy here,” continued Spike, addressing the chest of drawers, “dat's got a necklace of jools what's wort' two hundred thousand plunks.”
“I know.”
Silence again.
“Two hundred thousand plunks,” breathed Spike.
“What a necklace!” thought Jimmy.
“Keggs told me dat. De old gazebo what hands out de long woids. I could find out where dey're kept dead easy.”
“What a king of necklaces!” thought Jimmy.
“Shall I, Mr. Chames?”
“Shall you what?” asked Jimmy, coming out of his thoughts with a start.
“Why, find out where de loidy keeps de jools.”
“Confound you, Spike! How often am I to tell you that I have done with all that sort of thing forever? I never want to see or touch another stone that doesn't belong to me. I don't want to hear about them. They don't interest me.”
“Sorry, Mr. Chames. But dey must cop de limit for fair, dose jools. Two hundred t'ousand plunks! What's dat dis side?”
“Forty thousand pounds,” said Jimmy shortly. “Now, drop it.”
“Yes, Mr. Chames. Can I help youse wit' de duds?”
“No, thanks, Spike; I'm through, now. You might just give me a brush down, though, if you don't mind. Not that. That's a hair brush, Try the big black one.”
“Dis is a dude suit for fair,” observed Spike, pausing in his labors.
“Glad you like it, Spike.”
“It's de limit. Excuse me. How much of de long green did youse pungle for it, Mr. Chames?”
“I really can't remember,” said Jimmy, with a laugh. “I could look up the bill and let you know. Seventy guineas, I fancy.”
“What's dat—guineas? Is dat more dan a pound?”
“A shilling more. Why?”
Spike resumed his brushing,
“What a lot of dude suits youse could get,” he observed meditatively, “if youse had dose jools.”
“Oh, curse the jewels for the hundredth time!” snapped Jimmy,
“Yes, Mr. Chames. But, say, dat must be a boid of a necklace, dat one. You'll be seeing it at de dinner, Mr. Chames.”
Whatever comment Jimmy might have made on this insidious statement was checked by a sudden bang on the door. Almost simultaneously the handle turned.
“P'Chee!” cried Spike. “It's de cop!”
Jimmy smiled pleasantly.
“Come in, Mr. McEachern,” he said, “come in. Journeys end in lovers meeting. You know my friend, Mr. Mullins, I think? Shut the door, and sit down, and let's talk of many things.”