The Silver Scourge

CHAPTER III THE SILK-HAT CROOK

MANHATTAN’S lights made a glorious vista from the eighteenth floor of the Gargantuan Hotel. Through the open window of a lighted room in the middle of a luxurious suite, two men had an excellent opportunity to view the glittering sights. They, however, were concerned with other matters.

One man, tall and of medium weight, was standing before a full-length mirror. Immaculately garbed in a full-dress suit, he was surveying the set of his attire. Finally, he glanced at his own face, and gave himself a pleasing smile.

His countenance was a handsome one, well formed and featured. Dark-brown eyes peered from beneath thin black eyelashes. A trim, neatly pointed black mustache added to the man’s dapper look.

The other occupant of the room was a stocky, hard-faced fellow who was plainly dressed in street clothes. A depreciating grin showed upon this man’s lips as he watched the mustached man finish his fastidious preparations.

“Always playing the dude,” commented the watcher. “Well, it’s your business, Silky. Stick to it.”

The handsome man turned from the mirror, and spoke sarcastically as he viewed his heavy-set companion.

“It’s my business,” he declared, “and it shows a profit. Maybe you could get into better money, Tim, if you tried to play a part. But that mug of yours — say, I wouldn’t keep you as a valet two minutes if I didn’t need to have you around on this job. You’re a giveaway. Come over here!”

“Silk” grabbed the stocky man by the shoulder, and drew him to the mirror. Both were standing so that they could survey their own faces. The contrast was evident

“A fine pair,” jeered the man who wore the dress suit. “Silk Elverton and Tim Mecke. One a gentleman; the other a roughneck — if you go by appearances.”

“But both of us crooks,” growled the rough-faced man.

“Certainly,” retorted Silk. “You’ve hit it exactly, Tim. Appearances count, particularly when they are meant to deceive. Look at the situation we are in right now. I’m going where the swag lays — like a gentleman. I couldn’t take you along with me on a bet, even as a servant.”

“I got by as your valet when we came in here.”

“You did that. By keeping your mouth shut and managing not to laugh when I referred to you as my man. Well, I had to bring you along, and we’re checking out tonight.”

Silk Elverton slipped a cigarette in a holder. He applied a match; then picked up a light coat and a silk hat, which lay upon a chair. Dropping the coat over his left arm, Silk donned the hat and pointed toward the corner.

“Come, Timothy!” he said, in an affected tone. “You must be more prompt, my man. Bring me my walking stick! Be quick!”

TIM MECKE laughed as he picked up a gold-headed cane and handed it to Silk Elverton. The rough-faced fellow who posed as valet pro tem stared at the high hat which rested neatly upon Silk’s head.

“No wonder they call you Silk,” he commented. “That shiny topper — say, it’s nifty, all right. You’ve got the real idea, this smooth-crook business. You don’t have to convince me.”

“All right,” returned Silk, in a brusque tone. “Let’s get this straight, now, Tim. You opened up 2116 with that phony key. Duffy and his mob will get in there all right. The diagram I made is waiting for them, eh?”

“Right.”

“You stick here. I’ll fix everything. I’ll buzz you when it’s set. Then I’ll ring the room where they are. If there’s any hitch up at the convention, I’ll tip you off. Then you can slide up to 2116 and put Duffy wise.”

“You don’t think there’ll be any trouble?”

“Probably not. I looked over the lay last night. But I’m not taking any chances. Have everything packed so we can leave after I come back. Taking the steamship back to jolly old England, you know.”

“A good stall.”

Silk Elverton smiled at Tim Mecke’s last words. Putting his cane in his left hand, Silk tapped his right hip pocket, to make sure that he had a small revolver.

“Say,” he remarked, “I wish I could tell those goofs I was a duke or a baron or what not. But it would be too risky. I’m just Ronald Elverton to them, but that’s big enough. They’re all tickled to have a swanky Britisher at this convention. You ought to see the saps when I start to drawl about dear old London.”

“You look like an Englishman, Silk.”

“Why not? I wouldn’t pretend to be one if I couldn’t play the part. Listen, now when I come back, we move out with dignity. After that, you can scram and join up with Duffy Bagland. You’re the go-between, and I’ll lay low until I hear from you — with my cut out of the haul.”

“You’ll get it, Silk.”

Silk’s eyes flashed as he stared at Tim Mecke.

“You’re right I’ll get it,” he said coldly. “There’s nobody ever stopped me from getting what I worked for. Well” — Silk’s lips formed a smile, and his voice altered its tone — “I’m waggling along. Cheerio!”

Jauntily, Silk Elverton strolled from the suite. He adjusted a monocle to his right eye, and carefully arranged the ribbon which led from the glass to his pocket. He stopped at the elevators, and boarded an upward-bound car that stopped for him.

Nods of greeting came from several men who were in the elevator. These were staid businessmen of middle age, who, like Silk, wore evening clothes. The difference lay in the fact that Silk’s attire seemed natural to him, while the others gave the impression of being ill at ease in their regalia.

“Ballroom floor,” announced the operator.

The occupants of the car stepped out. Silk Elverton went to a checkroom and left his coat, hat, and cane. Still wearing his monocle, he placed a fresh cigarette in the holder, and strolled toward a room at the end of the corridor.

THE ballroom occupied the center third of this floor; tonight, it was closed. The corridor which Silk took opened into a long, narrow room that was adjacent to the ballroom. This was the first of several smaller connecting rooms.

All along were convention exhibits. Signs displayed in each room announced that this affair was conducted by the United Silverware Manufacturers’ Association. The exhibit booths contained many forms of table equipment, but now most of the exhibitors were packing. Silk Elverton continued through until he came to the third room.

Each of the rooms that the well-dressed man went through had a side door opening into the closed ballroom. But in the last room of the tier, there was another door that led into a small room, which had no other entrance. Above that door was a sign which read:

Silk Elverton strolled through the door. A gorgeous array of glittering tableware met his eye. Spread upon tables and shelves were plates of solid gold. Also on exhibit were knives and forks of the same precious metal.

Silver, too, had its place in this exhibit. There were white plates larger than the golden ones. Silver samovars, huge tureens, solid sets of cups and saucers — all combined to make a glorious display.

Detectives were on hand, guarding the valuable collection.

Silk Elverton knew the history of these articles, and he heard continued comments from other persons who were viewing the objects. This tableware had been carried from the Winter Palace of the Russian Czar, saved by trusted servants. It had been sold to aid the Royalist cause; a wealthy American had purchased the bulk of the gold and silver service.

As a special attraction, the collection had been put on display at this convention. Valued as gold and silver alone — eliminating the workmanship — the tableware was worth many thousands of dollars.

Some one announced that the exhibit would be closed until later in the evening. Silk joined the persons who were filing into the outer room. He paused there, and shrewdly watched a detective close and lock the door.

An urging voice impelled the lingerers out through the tier of three rooms. Silk, among the last to go, noted the detective lock the door of the third room also.

That was exactly what Silk Elverton had expected. He had noted the procedure on the night before.

Sauntering on through the tier, he reached the corridor and joined a group of prosperous-looking men who were engaged in conversation.

“Ah! Mr. Elverton!” exclaimed one man. “Have you met Mr. Kendall?”

“Not as yet,” replied Silk.

The introduction was made. Silk found himself shaking hands with a big, bluff man whose air was one of importance, and whose face was stern and unyielding.

SILK learned that this was Foulkrod Kendall, whose silverware factory in New Avalon was one of the largest and most substantial in the United States. Kendall, in turn, was informed that Ronald Elverton was the special representative of Highby-Tyson, Limited, a famous firm in London.

“Glad to meet you, Elverton,” announced Kendall, in a pompous tone. “it’s time that your concern took notice of just what we Americans are doing.”

“I am the first British delegate to this convention,” admitted Elverton. “It has been a remarkable experience. It has, indeed. Really, I shall make every effort to be present at your next annual function.”

Foulkrod Kendall, now that the introduction was ended, resumed a discussion that had been temporarily dropped. He faced one of his companions with a challenging air, and put a blunt question.

“Just what was it you were asking about Kendallware?”

“I was saying, Mr. Kendall,” the man returned, “that the Sterling mark on silver is essential to the discriminating purchaser. Kendallware does not bear it—”

“It bears the name of Kendall,” came the stern interruption.

“An excellent name,” admitted the disputant. “But you must admit that unless you have the Sterling standard, it is inferior. If your ware is of Sterling quality, why not mark it so—”

“You have seen my exhibit,” interposed Kendall. “You have noted the weight, the quality of my solid silver. That should convince you that it is Sterling.”

“Yes, Mr. Kendall; but you are selling Kendallware at a remarkably low figure for Sterling silver. I cannot see where a profit is really possible.”

“Therefore, you call for the Sterling mark.”

“Exactly.”

“Thank you for the suggestion. It will appear upon Kendallware in the future.”

“And the price will be the same?”

“The same.”

Doubting headshakes came from men in the group. Kendall glowered. He seemed to note a challenge that was not voiced. He demanded the answer.

“I hope,” he remarked coldly, “that no one will suggest that my alloy is not of Sterling quality. Its weight; its ring; those should convince you. Remember, gentlemen, the silver market is declining. I buy large quantities of metal.”

“You can’t sell Sterling silver at that price, Mr. Kendall,” said one man abruptly. “I should like to see an actual test of Kendallware’s silver content.”

“I can give it,” declared Kendall.

“Perhaps,” was the retort, “but I can assure you that if I conducted the test, I would purchase Kendallware without your knowledge — and would not use the articles which your factory supplied for test purposes.”

Kendall clenched his fists. Then, with an imperious look, be shrugged his shoulders and turned away from the crowd. Men exchanged glances; then the group broke up. Only Silk Elverton remained.

He approached Kendall and spoke affably.

“I say,” he remarked. “This is interesting — quite. I have heard much of the merits of Kendallware. It strikes me that those chaps are a bit put out because you have stolen the march on them.”

“That’s just it,” growled Kendall. His glare faded as he surveyed this one supporter. “It must annoy you, Mr. Elverton, to see such stupidity here in New York. These fellows have reached the point where they think that competition no longer exists in the silverware market. I’ll show them! Sterling silver — Kendallware — for two thirds the prices they ask! That’s my answer, sir!”

“Remarkable,” praised Elverton. “Highby-Tyson will be greatly interested when I tell them of this. My congratulations, Mr. Kendall. I must depart. I hope to see you later in the evening.”

Kendall watched Elverton as he strolled away. A smile appeared upon the silverware manufacturer’s face.

Kendall did not see the smile in which Silk was indulging. As he walked along, the smooth crook muttered to himself.

“Say,” he mumbled, “that big-money boy has got something. I’ll bet it would be sweet if I could spring an idea on him. But I—”

Silk shrugged his shoulders slightly and kept on. He had other and more important matters on his mind tonight. No use of considering elusive possibilities when real ones lay very close at hand.

Silk passed the closed entrance to the ballroom. He sauntered down the farther corridor, and paused to eject his cigarette from the holder.

SILK was at the open door of an empty room which lay on the side of the ballroom opposite the exhibit tier. This spot was to be the beginning of his work.

He looked around and saw that no one was noticing him. Foulkrod Kendall was still in sight, but the big man was talking to another person who had approached him.

Easily, Silk edged behind the cover of a potted palm. Then, with quick, stealthy tread, he entered the empty room. On tiptoe he moved to the door that led into the ballroom. It was locked.

Silk smiled. From beneath his immaculate white vest, he drew a kit of small tools. He started on the lock. It opened under persuasion.

Cautiously, Silk stepped into the ballroom. He peered past the edge of the door; he saw no one in the corridor. The palm partially hid the opening through which he had gone.

Softly, Silk closed the door and stood alone in the ballroom. The place was dim, lighted only by a dull glow that came through corridor transoms. Silk smiled as he stole across the room.

The smile would have faded had the crook known what was taking place in the room which he had left. Scarcely had the door closed before some one moved beyond the palm tree in the corridor. A man stepped into the dim light of the empty room, and followed the course which Silk had taken.

The pursuer waited at the side door to the ballroom. He was allowing time for Silk Elverton to proceed further on his quest. While he was waiting, the man kept looking back toward the corridor, and the light that came from there revealed his features.

The man who was trailing Silk Elverton was Foulkrod Kendall, the millionaire tableware manufacturer!