The Burnham House was one of Baltimore's older hostelries. It still preserved the atmosphere of earlier times when it had reigned among the elite.
Now, although its clientele was largely commercial, it continued to be the Baltimore home of travelers who remembered times of yore.
The famous old decorations still adorned the walls. The commodious lounging rooms were quiet spots frequented by guests who enjoyed the hospitality of the time-honored hotel.
Most of the persons in the gilded lobby were commercial travelers. In fact, they so predominated, that it was not difficult for a shrewd observer to pick out all who did not belong to that class.
Such an observer was watching now, from the vantage point of a tall-backed chair that rested against a marble-faced pillar. He was a young man of clean-cut appearance, who expressed a very general interest in what was going on before him.
A tall, stoop-shouldered individual weaved his way up to the lobby and spoke to the clerk. After a short conversation, this man strolled to a corner and stood in speculation.
The tall man was directly under the observation of the watcher by the pillar, who, glancing from the corners of his eyes, had an excellent opportunity to study the lanky person. It was evident that the stoop-shouldered one was worrying about something. He seemed impatient and ill at ease.
His long, prying nose showed him to be a talkative type, and one who had a penchant for mingling in the business of others. His furtive eyes gave him a suspicious appearance.
He made a good subject for a character analyst.
Too much concerned with matters pertaining to himself to notice that he was under observation, this man suddenly strode across the lobby to the cigar counter. He purchased a handful of perfectos, and made off in the direction of the smoking room.
There, ensconced in a corner, he lighted a cigar and stared steadily at the mural decorations. So preoccupied was he that he did not notice the arrival of another person — the man who had been watching him in the lobby.
"Have you a match?"
The simple question made the gawkish man start. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a pack of paper matches. He gave them to the one who had asked for them.
"Thank you, Mr. Powell."
The man raised his stooped shoulders. A hunted expression came over his face. His eyes gleamed with suspicion. He stared at the speaker, who returned his gaze with a frank and friendly air.
"My name isn't Powell," the man declared in a low, tense voice.
"Not on the hotel register," was the young man's reply. "There you have written your name as Wallace Weldon. The first name is correct; the last is not. You should have listed yourself as Wallace Powell, unless — "
"Unless what?" the tall man interrupted.
"— unless you prefer not to be known in Baltimore," the other finished. Powell sank back in his chair and stared toward the ceiling; but his mind was still on what the stranger had said.
"Suppose," said Powell, "that I do not care to be known in Baltimore. How does it concern you?"
"It does not concern me at all."
"Then why mention it?" Powell persisted.
"Because it concerns you — and your immediate welfare. More so, perhaps, than you suppose." The young man's voice was firm.
Again the hunted eyes flashed. Powell looked about to see if they were alone. Then he spoke in a low, but demanding, tone.
"Why are you watching me?"
"I told you why," came the answer. "For your own good!"
"What are you? A detective?"
"No. I have no concern whatever with the law."
Powell saw that the man's eyes were frank. He believed him. Then he laughed, in a disgruntled manner.
"It wouldn't matter if you were a detective," he said. "I've done nothing wrong. Whatever I do is always legitimate. I've got nothing to worry about."
"No?"
The peculiar accent of the question puzzled Powell. It increased his nervousness. He wanted to know who this man was.
"What is your name?" he demanded bluntly.
"Harry Vincent," was the reply. "The same name in Baltimore as in New York."
"I never heard of you," Powell countered.
"You might have — if I had been in Paris a few weeks ago!"
Powell did not reply. He became restless, and chewed his lips. He wanted to question the stranger further, but seemed unwilling to begin. Harry Vincent saved him the trouble.
"When you were in Paris," said Harry quietly, "you met an old friend — a man much older than yourself, and one who was much wealthier. I refer to Herbert Brockley."
Powell did not reply.
"Brockley died while he was there," continued Harry, in a reminiscent tone. "His death was a sudden one. He was murdered. It was a shock to you."
"It was a shock," admitted Powell.
"Before he died, Brockley gave you something. What, I do not know. I presume, however, that it involved information of a certain sort. It may have explained, to some degree, why Brockley died.
"Of course, the cause of his death has been traced to Parisian criminals — Apaches. But you know something which underlies it all."
"Where did you get that idea?" asked Powell, with a hollow laugh.
"My source of information is my secret," replied Harry, "just as your fund of information is your secret. Perhaps a fair exchange would be to our mutual liking."
"Not to mine," declared Powell. "What I know, I keep to myself. What I have learned" -
he caught himself — "what I may have learned was given to me in confidence. That's enough, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Harry calmly. "But sometimes, people learn too much. Herbert Brockley did.
He passed the information on to you."
The amazement that swept over Wallace Powell showed that the remark had struck home.
The man began to clench his fists nervously. He started to rise; then sat down.
He looked at Harry Vincent; but his eyes were more than hunted. They were beseeching.
Harry detected their expression. He followed it to advantage.
"Powell," he said, "I never met you before. But you may consider me a friend. You can also assume me to be a friend of Herbert Brockley's.
"There are reasons why I wish to learn who caused his death. I believe that you can tell me. You owe that to Brockley, don't you?"
"Perhaps," said Powell slowly. "But that makes you a detective, doesn't it?"
"Not a bit of it," declared Harry emphatically. "Look here, Powell. I know what you're after. Money!
You can't be blamed for that.
"I don't happen to need cash" — he pulled a massive roll of bills from his pocket, and Powell stared goggle-eyed at the yellow-backed currency — "and, furthermore, I'm willing to spend some. How does that sound?"
"How much do you want to pay for what I know?" demanded Powell, completely off his guard because of the money.
"How much are you getting for it?" quizzed Harry, thrusting the roll of bills back into his pocket. The cash out of view, Powell's attitude changed. He became close-mouthed, giving way to a short laugh.
"Think this over, Powell," declared Harry. "I am out to obtain certain information — which I think you have. I intend to get it — although it may take a long while, and cause serious consequences in the meantime. To save myself that trouble, I am willing to pay you a substantial sum.
"I take it that you have already made plans to sell your knowledge. That does not concern me. You are quite welcome to go through with your deal. Whatever I pay you, will be extra." A sudden light came into Powell's glance. Harry's words had struck a responsive chord. Avaricious, Powell immediately began to figure excess profits. He was a man who lived by his wits, and this was too good an opportunity to miss.
"Furthermore," continued Harry, "our transaction can take place in the security of this hotel, which is a great advantage to you. I doubt that your other — client, shall I call him? — is offering you that consideration."
"Let me think this over," said Powell. "I'm too much worried about — well, just worried — "
"About the other deal," interposed Harry quietly. "I'll tell you something, Powell. If a man came to you and offered to work this with you, you'd be willing to split fifty-fifty with him.
Just because you are worried.
"Well, suppose I make that offer. Only, instead of collecting fifty per cent, I'll pay you that amount! How does that sound?"
Powell's eyes gleamed, but he still hesitated. Harry quickly continued with his offer.
"The reason I know so much," Harry was saying, "is because I've been well posted regarding you and your methods. You're not a crook, but you have been in some shady deals.
Your specialty is gaining information and supplying it to certain interested parties.
"You reason that if a man knows facts and wants to tell them, he can do so and collect money for it. Particularly, when the crime of blackmail does not begin until after his own transaction has ended.
"That sizes you up, doesn't it?"
Powell smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
"In the case of Brockley," continued Harry, "you fell into certain information. You have said that you consider it to be yours. It involves a crime committed in France — where you were not molested by the police.
"You came to America, and you reason that you can do what you see fit with what you know. I was waiting for you in New York. I watched you there.
"You held one mysterious phone conversation from a pay station. Because of it, you came to Baltimore. I came also."
"Why didn't you talk to me in New York?" asked Powell.
"Because I wanted to make sure you were going through with the deal," responded Harry.
"You came here yesterday. Knowing what I do of you, I realized by your actions that you are springing the deal tonight. Those road maps that you were consulting — "
Harry's voice drifted away. Powell turned to look at the speaker. He saw that Harry Vincent was smiling. Wallace Powell realized that this man had the goods.
"Just one point more," said Harry. "Whatever you are doing must necessarily depend upon what you received from Herbert Brockley.
"If I were a detective, I could arrest you now, and find out all you know. I could have obtained the articles by theft. But I preferred to deal with you direct."
"Why?"
"Because I am anxious to know all about the persons with whom you are dealing!"
"All right," declared Powell suddenly. "I'll think this over. Let's say you're right." He grinned as he spoke.
"There's no witnesses here, and I can deny anything later.
"I'm out for dough. Your offer sounds good. I'm going somewhere. I'd like to have a pal.
If you'll put up fifty per cent of what I'm getting, I'll consider it."
"How much money?" questioned Harry.
"I'm shooting for ten grand," said Powell. "That means, five thousand simoleons is what you've got to pay."
"That's agreeable to me."
"I'm going up to think it over," declared Powell. "There's two reasons besides cash why I'm willing to work with you. You're wise enough to know what they are, so I'll spill them.
"One is because you've got me more worried than I was. I'm going out on this deal, but I've been hesitating. I can't wait much longer.
"And that gives the second reason. You're wise to me, and if I want to dodge you completely, I'll have to welsh on the other proposition. But I want to be sure that I'll get my five grand from you."
"You'll be as sure of it as you are of the ten thousand you're after." Powell nodded without thinking. It was evident that Harry Vincent had cleverly contrived to arouse the man's suspicious nature.
"It's ten o'clock now," said Powell thoughtfully. "I'm going to wait another hour. I'll think things over — up in my room. I want to be alone a while."
"Wait a moment," said Harry. "I'll make terms with you first. How about letting me in on everything right now. Taking your five thousand — "
"Nix!" exclaimed Powell. "Spill you the ten-grand lay? That don't work. I'm taking you in with me as partners. You've got work to do — you'll have to earn the dough you're spending."
"You want me to go with you?" Harry asked.
"You bet I do," Powell replied. "That gives you the dope you want firsthand."
"And," added Harry, "also protects you a bit."
"That's just it. When we get to the place, you slip me the cash. Then I'll go in and get the ten grand, leaving what I've got!"
"That works the other way," smiled Harry. "I want to know exactly what you're going to leave. You show me what you're taking in, so I can check up on your story.
"You can take the five thousand dollars with you. I'll be waiting for you. I won't blow."
"You might — "
"Not a bit of it. Because I want to know who you're dickering with, and get some other facts from you. I'll let those wait until you join me."
"All right," agreed Powell.
"Get this straight, Powell!" Harry's voice was emphatic. "We're both taking chances tonight. I'm shooting fair, and I expect you to do the same. It's to your advantage.
"Remember this. You're taking no more chances with me than you are where you're going. I'm sticking with you. Understand?"
"Right," answered Powell, "but I won't be ready for a while. I want to mull this over, and I've got to go up to my room. Where will you be?"
"Here in the lobby."
Wallace Powell arose and extended his hand. Harry Vincent accepted it. The gawky man moved forward, and Harry stood aside to let him pass.
They were finishing their handclasp, and Harry was at Powell's side. A number of road maps were extending from Powell's right coat pocket. One of them was on the point of falling.
Instinctively, Harry plucked it with his left hand, and it came free of the pocket. Harry's left hand dropped behind his back as Powell walked away. The man, fortunately, did not turn to look back.
"Perhaps I made a mistake," thought Harry, as he stood alone. "If he finds this missing, he may suspect, and call off the deal. But then" — his chain of thought changed — "if this means anything and Powell knows it's gone, he'll be anxious to work with me quick — because he'll be afraid I'll get there ahead of him!" Sitting at a smoking table, Harry Vincent unfolded the road map, and a smile came to his lips. The map was marked. Off from a main road extended a thin, penciled line, leading toward the town of Herkimer. Harry noted at one spot, the beginning of a fork, the line continued to the right. Then, at a spot marked with a cross line, was a tiny road leading off, and the letter "X" at the end of it. What was the cross line? A bridge? The letter must surely indicate a house. Harry Vincent had obtained the advance information that he wanted. He was still willing to spend the five thousand dollars to learn all that Wallace Powell knew!