The Triple Trail

CHAPTER II WICKROFT TALKS

ONE hour had passed since Stanton Treblaw’s departure. Wickroft was still in the room with the crimson curtains. Seated at a table, the secretary was going over cards in little filing boxes.

This was Wickroft’s regular morning routine. After the mail had been read and answered, Treblaw invariably left the secretary alone. The old man had hired Wickroft for the job of classifying a huge collection of letters and manuscripts.

As a rule, Treblaw went for a walk in the morning. This procedure left the house in charge of Wickroft, Baxter and Anna, the cook. On days when it rained, Treblaw remained indoors, but usually stayed in an upstairs room. Hence Wickroft was never disturbed in his morning routine.

Something in the secretary’s sly attitude showed that he counted on the fact that he was left alone. He had peered from the curtains in a manner that indicated usual procedure.

Moreover, he betrayed a satisfied expression because of Treblaw’s absence. It was plain that Wickroft was waiting for something to occur; that he felt he ran no risk in stealthy practice while his employer was absent from the house.

But at the end of the full hour, anxiety began to register itself on Wickroft’s countenance. As he handled the filing cards, the secretary looked occasionally toward the telephone that rested on a corner table.

Fifteen minutes more ended Wickroft’s work with the files. Rising from the table, the young man began to pace the floor. His lips were twitching nervously. His eyes were more troubled than crafty as they turned to look at a big clock on the wall.

Then came an expected sound: the ringing of the telephone bell. Pounding to the corner table, Wickroft seized the instrument and raised the receiver to his ear. He waited for a dozen seconds. Then he spoke.

“HELLO…” Cautiousness filled Wickroft’s voice. “This is the residence of Mr. Stanton Treblaw…”

A pause. Then a low, steady voice responded. Its tone was obviously disguised.

“It’s all right, chief,” informed Wickroft. “The old boy’s gone out. No chance of him cutting in on the upstairs phone.”

“Gone out?” came a growl over the wire.

“Yes.” Wickroft’s tone was eager. “Not for a walk, though. It’s raining heavy out here. He’s gone to New York, chief.”

“Signet?”

“You guessed it, chief. Another letter this morning. Thirty grand is the offer. I’ll give you the details.”

“Go ahead.”

“The letter was like the others,” spoke Wickroft, in a low tone. “It told Treblaw to bring the Cellini manuscripts to New York. Goliath Hotel — an ad in the Classic — same details as before. But this time, the letter offered thirty thousand dollars.”

Wickroft paused. There was no response. Anxiously, Wickroft queried:

“Did you get that, chief?”

“Yes,” — a growl over the wire — “keep on. I’m listening.”

“Treblaw packed,” resumed Wickroft, “and he headed out for New York. He’s going through with the deal. That means he’ll be at the Hotel Goliath.”

Again, Wickroft paused. Hearing nothing, he was about to put another query; then, fearing that it would annoy his chief, he proceeded.

“I was right about those manuscripts not being here,” asserted Wickroft. “The old man didn’t take anything with him except the Signet letters and the Burson file. It’s a sure bet that he’s got the Cellini stuff buried somewhere in New York.

“There’s nothing out here that’s worth much. But he’s never said anything about a safe-deposit vault. Maybe one of his friends has the manuscripts. Tilton, maybe. But that’s only a guess.

“He’ll have to shoot straight with Signet, though. Because the letters told him to have the manuscripts ready. To put the ad in the Classic and to either expect Signet or wait for a reply. Like a return ad. You know the details.”

Again, Wickroft paused. This time he could think of nothing further to say. The growled voice came across the wire:

“What else?”

“Nothing much,” returned Wickroft. “Only one thing: A letter from Burson. I didn’t get a chance to read it. Treblaw stuck it in his pocket and never gave it to me to file. But it wasn’t important. Just a reply to Treblaw’s last letter, when he paid their bill for investigation. They said they’d be glad to have further business from him. That’s all.”

AS Wickroft paused, a checking statement came across the wire. The voice at the other end was severe; almost accusing.

“You said that you did not see the Burson letter. Yet you have told me its contents.”

Wickroft’s face twitched. He had heard this sharp, checking tone before. It worried him.

“I didn’t explain it right, chief,” he protested, nervously. “Honestly, I didn’t see the letter — the Burson letter, I mean. It was the old man who read it; but he mentioned what was in it, see?”

Wickroft paused. Beads of perspiration were forming on his forehead. He was afraid that this cold-toned chief did not believe his statement. He wanted a response; he received silence instead.

“Did you hear me, chief?” queried Wickroft, anxiously. “You understand now, don’t you?”

“I understand.” The growled response was almost sarcastic. “Remember, though, what I expect from you.”

“I know, chief,” blurted Wickroft. “I’m playing straight. I know what happens to double-crossers. I’m on the level! Honestly! — on the level—”

“See that you keep that way,” came a growled admonition. The interruption made Wickroft quiver. “Go ahead. What else?”

“Nothing, chief,” responded Wickroft. “All I want to know is what I’m to do now. It’s all set for you to get those letters. They’re worth a million, Treblaw says, to the man who can use them. Like this Signet. But if you go after them, that leaves me here—”

“Remain where you are,” came the cold interruption. “You are safe. You know nothing. You will hear from me later.”

“All right, chief. I’ll play it through. But — but if—”

This time a click was the interruption. The man at the other end had terminated the call. Wickroft stood aghast; then, with shaking hand, he hung up the receiver.

SETTING the telephone on the table, Wickroft began to pace the room. Anxiety had replaced his satisfaction. His lips were moving as he mumbled to himself. But as he continued his solitary reasoning, the treacherous secretary began to regain his crafty smile.

“You are safe. You know nothing.”

Automatically, Wickroft repeated his chief’s assurance. The words, half aloud, gave him courage. After all, Wickroft’s position was a most tenable one.

The tool of a master crook, Wickroft had never met the chief who ruled him. Until some months ago, Wickroft had been a legitimate secretary, skilled at classifying collections.

Then had come a mysterious telephone call. An offer of easy money if he would play a crooked game. Wickroft had accepted it. Coming into the employ of Stanton Treblaw, he had been ready to aid in theft or robbery.

Treblaw’s collection of letters and manuscripts had proven of comparatively small value, so far as Wickroft could see. Then had come the messages from Signet.

Treblaw, taking Wickroft in his confidence, had spoken of other manuscripts — ones of high value — that the old man kept elsewhere than in this house. Signet wanted an old manuscript. One that had been written by Benvenuto Cellini; one of several such scripts that mentioned art treasures not discussed in Cellini’s famous autobiography.

Wickroft, responding to regular calls from the chief who had bribed him, was quick to pass along the information. While Treblaw dickered with Signet; while the old man had British investigators studying the European curio market, Wickroft had been keeping a supercrook posted on the game.

At last the payoff was due. Treblaw had decided to deliver. The old collector had gone to New York. There he would pick up the manuscript that Signet wanted; there he would negotiate with the would-be purchaser.

The game was out of Wickroft’s hands. The secretary chuckled as a frown erased itself from his brow. The chief was right. Wickroft, back here at Droverton, could pretend that he knew nothing. Even if the Signet messages came to light, along with the Burson correspondence, Wickroft could pretend that Treblaw had conducted these secretly. That would be a logical story; one that would pass muster.

Smugly, Wickroft smiled. His period of vigil had ended. His crooked chief would do the rest. The only cloud that formed upon Wickroft’s face was due to another thought. Wickroft was wondering how great his reward would be.

There was no link between himself and the master of crime. Did that mean that his chief — a man whom he had obeyed without meeting — might let him down when it came to a share of the spoils?

The idea troubled Wickroft for a few moments. Then he recalled payments that he had already received: Cash, in letters that had come to his old address in New York. He had been worth money then; surely he would be worth more, now that he had delivered the goods.

Besides that, Wickroft saw how he could make trouble for the master crook. Even without jeopardizing his own position. Suppose the deal went through — with Treblaw losing his thirty thousand dollar prize. Suppose the unknown crook dropped Wickroft cold. What then?

Wickroft smiled. He realized that he could trump up some story. Talk of bribery that he had not accepted. Hazy clues that would start the law on the trail of the master criminal. All the while, with no direct link between himself and the supercrook, Wickroft could play the part of a faithful secretary to Treblaw. A helping aid; not a traitor.

The smile broadened as Wickroft stopped beside a curtained window and peered through at brilliant sunshine which had supplanted the morning’s rain. He was confident that his criminal chief would deliver him his share. That would be the only wise policy.

Wickroft chuckled as he drew the curtains open. He turned off the electric light and returned to the filing table. Resuming work in the clear illumination of daylight, the traitor became methodical in his task. He could afford to wait; to continue his inconspicuous part while men of crime were dealing with Stanton Treblaw.