Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 18, No. 3, September 18, 1926

I

“Ah, good morning, Detective Crook,” exclaimed Sir Arthur Trentby, extending his hand cordially. “It’s very good of you to have come so promptly after my SOS. Will you arrest me?”

The detective looked keenly into the gray eyes that smiled into his, and he noted the trouble behind the smile. This did not surprise him, for people only sent for him when they were in trouble.

“I’ll be happy to arrest you, Sir Arthur,” he responded also smiling, “when you’ve proved your guilt.”

“Oh, but that’s perfectly easy,” answered Sir Arthur. “Just come along to my bedroom, and you shall see the evidence.”

Trentby Hall was, humanly speaking, a lopsided affair. From one side, as they crossed the spacious lounge, emanated the warmth of home, but from the other side — the larger, last wing — came the chill of emptiness and disuse. Sir Arthur glanced at his guest and explained:

“The penalty of inheriting a place too big for one, Mr. Crook,” he observed. “We have made one side cozy, but the other side we leave rigidly to itself.”

“We?” queried Crook.

“Myself and my niece. She has lately come to look after me, to keep house for me, and to minister to me.” The light tone still dominated, but the shadows were there. “As a matter of fact — well, well, the bedroom will tell you everything.”

A few seconds later, they reached it, and Sir Arthur threw the door open. Instinctively, the detective’s eyes flashed round the room and fastened on the most significant object — a massive silver cup of beautiful design and workmanship, standing somewhat incongruously on a small table by the bed.

“Right first time,” murmured the baronet, following the detective’s gaze. “I see you know your job.”

“That’s a fine piece,” commented Crook. “Where did you get it?”

“God knows!” replied Sir Arthur. “I woke up yesterday morning, and there it was.”

“It sounds like kleptomania,” said Crook.

“Coupled with loss of memory, and, one prays, a guiltless soul,” added Sir Arthur. “But the medical and moral sides of this needn’t worry you. I believe I had a great-grandfather who was a bit of a rascal, and I myself got shell-shock in the war. It’s the practical side, however, I want you to help me with. Who does that belong to? And what the devil can I do in the future to keep myself out of trouble?”

Crook crossed to the table, took up the silver cup and examined it.

“It’s really a lovely thing,” he said. “I should imagine the owner will soon be after it!”

“Damn it, I hope so,” retorted the unfortunate kleptomaniac. “But I can’t expect him to be as lenient as the last.”

“Oh! Who was the last?”

“A new neighbor of mine, who lives across the park. I dined there a fortnight ago, and came away with a golf snuff-box. Louis Quinze — most valuable.”

“Yes, it sounds valuable,” nodded Crook. “What did your neighbor say?”

“He was a sportsman!” exclaimed Sir Arthur enthusiastically. “I should never have known it was his if he hadn’t mentioned the loss casually a few days later. I wish you could have seen his eyes when I produced the missing article! I explained my little habit, and he refused to accept any apology. Yes, George Tappan’s a sportsman. Well, Doanes, what is it?”

A butler was hovering in the passage outside.

“Mr. Tappan, sir,” said the butler.

“Eh? Oh — tell him I’ll be down in a minute,” jerked Sir Arthur, and, as the butler disappeared, turned back to Crook with a wry laugh. “Looks as though I don’t need you, after all,” he grunted. “At least — not for this case!”

They descended to the hall. Mr. Tappan was a large, jovial man, with ruddy cheeks and leather gaiters, and he responded to the introductions affably. He looked a little awkward immediately afterward, however, and asked whether if Sir Arthur were busy, he should call again a little later.

“No — come into my study,” replied the baronet. “I’ve an idea I know your business — and I’ve just confided my little... er... weakness to my friend Mr. Crook here.”

Mr. Tappan’s awkwardness did not depart.

“Look here — I’d better come back later,” he murmured.

“No, you won’t!” retorted Sir Arthur, as he opened his study door and almost pushed his visitor in. “I want to get this over!” When the door was closed, he inquired bluntly: “Well, have you lost anything?”

“I have,” answered Mr. Tappan, with a glance at Crook. “You want me to speak of it?”

“Yes,” nodded Sir Arthur. “And I’ll help you on your way. Is it a silver cup?”

“Yes — an Elizabethan silver cup,” answered Mr. Tappan, his ruddiness increasing slightly.

“There you are!” exclaimed Sir Arthur almost triumphantly. “What did I tell you? I’ve got your cup in my bedroom, Tappan. Am I to be arrested this time?”

“Don’t be a fool!” growled the other. “Of course, not.”

“I said he was a sportsman, Mr. Crook!”

Crook smiled, but the sportsman shook his head protestingly.

“That’s nonsense,” he remarked. “How could I act any differently? Kleptomania’s a fairly common disease — only some of ’em try to get away with it!” He smiled at his little joke.

“Besides, I’ve not proved that the cup is mine yet. It’s got to be fourteen and one-half inches high, it’s got to have a sort of acorn device around it, and the hallmark’s got to be 1585. Otherwise, I make no claim.”

“Now you’re talking nonsense,” retorted the baronet. “It’s hardly likely that you’d lose a silver cup on the same day that I took one from somebody else, is it? However, I’ll bring the confounded thing down, and then we can see whether it tallies.”

It did tally. It stood fourteen and one-half inches from the polished desk surface on which it was stood, acorns and oak leaves bulged ingeniously around its upper part, and the hall-mark said, 1585.

After Mr. Tappan had departed, Sir Arthur looked at the detective blankly.

“Now you see how it goes,” he remarked. “If I can’t check this habit — if it gains on me — what’s going to be the outcome? It isn’t likely I’ll confine my attentions to Tappan. I’ll do something bad, and at best there’ll be a scandal. At worst — well, I dare say you know better than I what the worst will be!”

Detective X. Crook nodded gravely. He well knew what the worst was like. The baronet suddenly flushed.

“I beg your pardon!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t mean—”