Carolyn Wells

The Bronze Hand

Warsaw 2019

Contents

I. The Pinnacle

II. The Passengers

III. The Younger Generation

IV. The Fourth of July

V. The Mystery

VI. The Gloves

VII. The Jeweler’s Bill

VIII. The Dressing Case

IX. The Treasure Hunt

X. Planted?

XI. The Jewels

XII. Stanhope

XIII. Mason, the Friendly

XIV. The Search

XV. The Announcement

XVI. Enter Fleming Stone

XVII. Maisie in Danger

XVIII. The Man in the Library

CHAPTER I

THE PINNACLE

Once upon a time there were four men–all bad. That is, they were each bad, but none was entirely bad. Nobody is.

The four were closely associated in their interests and were of varying types and varying degrees of badness.

One was the Cat’s-paw; one was the Brutal Ruffian; one was the Arch Villain behind it all; and one was the Judas Iscariot, who carried the bag, and who betrayed the whole bunch.

The good in each was more or less discernible. One was awfully kind to his mother, who never had heard of his badness, and wouldn’t believe it if she had. One was generous minded and lavish of gifts. No one ever appealed to him for material help in vain. One was champion of the downtrodden, and always sided with and assisted the under dog in any fight. And one–well, he made it a point of honor always to return a borrowed book. Perhaps his good trait was the most unusual of all.

One was an engaging-looking chap, with deep-set eyes and an irradiating smile. One was plain, but of a strong-featured, though immobile countenance that betokened an indomitable will. One was of fine, ascetic features, which belied his real nature and served as a mask. And one was of nondescript appearance, as most men are.

One had been a fairly well known football player. One had been a Civil Engineer, and was still civil. One was secretly superstitious. And one was addicted to Cross Word Puzzles, Bridge, Chess and Detective Stories, which addictions usually flock together.

The four men figure in this story, also some other men and a few women, who will appear in due course.

Many years ago Kipling wrote:

“The Liner she’s a Lady, an’ she never
looks nor ‘eeds.”

and perhaps the most patrician Lady that ever rode the waves was the liner Pinnacle as she left her New York wharf, one summer afternoon, bound for Liverpool.

Without looking nor ‘eeding, she steamed majestically down the lane of the Hudson, and out to sea.

Many of her passengers, after screeching themselves hoarse with their goodby to friends on the pier, stayed on deck to watch the fading away of the skyscrapers along the Manhattan skyline.

The Pinnacle, as befitted her name, was the last word in steamships. She was, in truth, the very lap of luxury, and the First Cabin passengers, as they crossed her gangplank, represented, perhaps, enough gold to sink the ship.

As was also fitting, Nature had provided a perfect day for the sailing.

Although it was the first day of July, June seemed still to linger, and the blue of sea and sky was gilded by a summer sun, which obligingly tempered its rays by disappearing now and then, behind puffy white clouds.

A delicious breeze added itself to the weather record, and, as an old poet has it,

“All things were teeming with life and with light.”

After the Liberty Statue was passed, the Deck Steward was made suddenly busy explaining why he had assigned to insistent passengers chairs that had been long ago engaged by others.

But the Deck Steward was a pleasant sort, who had a beaming smile and a placating way with him that let him get by with most of his concessions to bribery and corruption.

By tea time, everybody’s chair was labelled and most of the recipient sex had gone to their cabins to examine their flowers and gifts, while the men looked up acquaintances and proffered cigars.

But the call of the tea brought many out to their deck chairs and travelling companions gossiped and compared notes.

“Cox is on board,” said Amy Camper to her husband, as she balanced a tray on her knees and poured tea into two cups.

“Yes, I saw him. Oily Oscar is in fine fettle.”

“Always is. He seems to be alone.”

“I believe he has a secretary or satellite of some sort. I shan’t trouble him, anyway. I say, Amy, Lily Gibbs is with us.”

“Oh, Lord! Can I never escape that woman? Well, she’ll attach herself to Oscar Cox’s train as soon as may be.”

“She’ll do that. Has, in fact–or, at least, her deck chair is directly in front of his. Look.”

Amy Camper dutifully looked, and saw Oscar Cox, the Oil magnate, in a chair in the back row of all, while the sprightly Miss Gibbs was in the next row ahead.

It was Saturday afternoon, and after their tea, all felt relaxed and affable, and the seated ones watched the walkers as they strode by, and in return the walkers discussed their indolent neighbors.

Two young men paced round and round the deck.

They were Pollard Nash and Harold Mallory, and they had known one another just twenty minutes.

Somebody had told one of them to look up the other, and the result was an immediate and mutual liking.

“I wonder who that girl is,” said Nash, as they passed a quiet figure in quiet, smart garb, who was looking dreamily out to sea.

“That’s the fourth girl you’ve wondered about,” remarked Mallory. “You’re a bit of a wonderer, Nash.”

“Yes, I’m always at it. Born wondering, I think. But that girl puts it over all the rest. Princess in disguise, I take it.”

“Not very well disguised, then, for she has all the aloofness and disdain commonly ascribed to royalty.”

“Well, we can’t find out until we can manage to get a proper introduction. That’s the worst of these smashing big boats. Everybody is noli me tangere. I like the old-fashioned little tubs, where you can scrape acquaintance if you want to.”

“They’re more sociable. But I like better the reserve and exclusiveness of these. Who wants all sorts of people bumping into one, with rowdy greetings and all that?”

“Hello, there’s Cox, the oil man. Know him?”

“No, do you?”

“I don’t. But I shall before long. He’s a chap I’d like to talk to.”

“Why don’t you just tell him so? He’s looking bored and probably lonely.”

“He’d pitch me overboard.”

“Maybe not. I dare you to try it. I’ll stand by, to catch you as you go over the rail.”

Egged on by Mallory’s chaff, Nash paused near the chair of the millionaire.

“Mr. Cox, isn’t it?” he said, in careless, affable tone.

“Yes,” said Oscar Cox. “Are we acquainted?”

“Will be, in a minute,” said the imperturbable Nash. “I’m Pollard Nash, and this is my new-found friend, Mallory. You see, Mr. Cox, I could get dozens of people on board to introduce us–but what’s the use?”

Nash was the sort of blue-eyed person whom it is almost impossible to treat coolly. His manner radiated cordiality of a pleasant, disinterested kind and nine out of ten would have been amiably disposed toward him.

Moreover, Oscar Cox was in the best of humors. He had recently achieved something he inordinately desired, he was off for a long holiday, and he had left behind all his business cares and anxieties. His last few weeks had been strenuous, even dangerous, but they were past, and now, at sea, with every dispute settled, every quandary straightened out, and every danger passed, the great man was at peace with himself mentally, morally and physically.

This explained why he chuckled amusedly at Nash’s boldness, instead of swearing at him to get out.

“That’s so,” he returned, smiling at the two men in front of him. “Let’s go to the smoking room, and see what we can do in the way of cementing an acquaintance–perhaps, a friendship.”

As he rose from his chair, he proved to be younger than they had thought him, for his white hair was misleading. As a matter of fact, Oscar Cox was just fifty, and his whole physique denoted that age, but his white hair, though abundant and crisply curly, made him seem older.

He was enormously wealthy, and though there were those who whispered “Profiteer,” yet his friends, and he had many, rated him as merely a shrewd and clever business promoter.

His manners were charming, except when it suited his purpose to turn ugly, and in that rôle, too, he was well versed.

His clothes were irreproachable and his whole air that of a man who was at home in any situation.

The short conversation among the three had been avidly listened to by the lady who sat in front of Cox, the quick-witted and busy-minded Miss Gibbs.

“Come back soon, Mr. Cox,” she called out, and he returned to her merely a smiling nod.

“Damned nuisance,” he remarked, as they stepped into the companion way. “Some women ought to be thrown overboard.”

“She seems objectionable,” said Mallory, who had noted the eager face of the spinster. “But there are delightful looking people on board, quite a few I’d like to know.”

“Easily managed,” Cox assured him. “What I can’t arrange for you, the Captain will. But I’ll put you in with a few. The Campers are good sports–young married people, and they’ll know everybody inside of twenty-four hours. Be at the dance in the lounge tonight, and they’ll do the rest.”

“We’ll surely be there,” Nash declared. “Travelling alone, Mr. Cox?”

“Yes; except for my Guardian Angel, a misbegotten freak who looks after my belongings. Name of Hudder, and stupider than his name. You chaps alone?”

“Yep,” responded Mallory. “I’m on a short but well-earned vacation, and my new-found friend here, is on a longer one, but not so well earned.”

“A lot you know about it,” Nash smiled. “But as half an hour ago you didn’t know me at all, I’ll admit that you read me fairly well.”

“I do. I’ll bet your intimates call you Polly.”

“That, of course,” Cox put in. “How could they help it? A man named Pollard invites that nickname. What’s yours, Mr. Mallory?”

“Hal Mall, as naturally as Polly’s. And I know yours, sir. You’re Oily Oscar.”

“Yes, but thank goodness the adjective refers to material oil, and not to any traits of my character.”

“I can well believe that,” and Mallory smiled quickly. For whatever were Cox’s faults or virtues, he was far removed from the type of man known as oily.

Straightforward, almost blunt in his speech, abrupt in his statements, and positive in his decisions, Oscar Cox was never guilty of soft soap or palaver.

And he was a good story teller. Not a raconteur, that word connotes a long-winded, self-conceited bore, but a quick, graphic talker whose tales had point, pith and brevity.

As the talk drifted to far-off countries, he told of the brave exploits of his nephew and namesake.

“Young Oscar Cox,” he said, “is fearless and often foolishly daring. He’s hunting big game now, in South America somewhere. That is, if the Big Game hasn’t hunted him. He’s on a pretty stiff expedition, and I hope to goodness he’ll get home alive.”

Further details of the youth’s intrepidity were related, and all were amazed when the first bugle call warned of the approaching dinner hour.

Polly Nash and Hal Mall secured a table to themselves in the elaborate Restaurant, and were not surprised to see Cox alone at a table across the room.

And as they gazed with interest at the incoming stream of passengers, they observed some few they already knew, and many others they would like to know.

“Good dancer, are you, Hal?” Nash inquired.

“Best in the world.”

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