# The Brass Bowl/Chapter 5
### V INCOGNITO

At noon, precisely, Maitland stirred between the sheets for the first time since he had thrown himself into his bed——stirred, and, confused by whatever alarm had awakened him, yawned stupendously, and sat up, rubbing clenched fists in his eyes to clear them of sleep's cobwebs. Then he bent forward, clasping his knees, smiled largely, replaced the smile with a thoughtful frown, and in such wise contemplated the foot of the bed for several minutes,—his first conscious impression, that he had something delightful to look forward to yielding to a vague recollection of a prolonged shrill tintinnabulation—as if the telephone bell in the front room had been ringing for some time.
But he waited in vain for a repetition of the sound, and eventually concluded that he had been mistaken; it had been an echo from his dreams, most likely. ​Besides, who should call him up? Not two people knew that he was in town: not even O'Hagan was aware that he had returned to his rooms that morning.
He gaped again, stretching wide his arms, sat up on the edge of the bed, and heard the clock strike twelve.
Noon and … He had an engagement at two! He brightened at the memory and, jumping up, pressed an electric call-button on the wall. By the time he had paddled barefoot to the bath-room and turned on the cold-water tap, O'Hagan's knock summoned him to the hall door.
"Back again, O'Hagan; and in a desperate rush. I'll want you to shave me and send some telegrams, please. Must be off by one-thirty. You may get out my grey-striped flannels"—here he paused, calculating his costume with careful discrimination,—"and a black-striped negligée shirt; grey socks; russet low shoes; black and white check tie—broad wings. You know where to find them all?"
"Shure yiss, sor."
​O'Hagan showed no evidence of surprise; the eccentricities of Mr. Maitland could not move him, who was inured to them through long association and observation. He moved away to execute his instructions, quietly efficient. By the time Maitland had finished splashing and gasping in the bath-tub, everything was ready for the ceremony of dressing.
In other words, twenty minutes later Maitland, bathed, shaved, but still in dressing-gown and slippers, was seated at his desk, a cup of black coffee steaming at his elbow, a number of yellow telegraph blanks before him, a pen poised between his fingers.
It was in his mind to send a wire to Cressy, apologizing for his desertion of the night just gone, and announcing his intention to rejoin the party from which the motor trip to New York had been as planned but a temporary defection, in time for dinner that same evening. He nibbled the end of the pen-holder, selecting phrases, then looked up at the attentive O'Hagan.
"Bring me a New Haven time-table, please," he began, "and——"
​The door-bell abrupted his words, clamoring shrilly.
"What the deuce?" he demanded. "Who can that be? Answer it, will you, O'Hagan?"
He put down the pen, swallowed his coffee, and lit a cigarette, listening to the murmurs at the hall door. An instant later, O'Hagan returned, bearing a slip of white pasteboard which he deposited on the desk before Maitland.
"'James Burleson Snaith,'" Maitland read aloud from the faultlessly engraved card. "I don't know him. What does he want?"
"Wouldn't say, sor; seemed surprised whin I towld him ye were in, an' said he was glad to hear it—business pressin', says he."
"'Snaith'? But I never heard the name before. What does he look like?"
"A gintleman, sor, be th' clothes av him an' th' way he talks."
"Well … Devil take the man! Show him in."
"Very good, sor."
​Maitland swung around in his desk chair, his back to the window, expression politely curious, as his caller entered the room, pausing, hat in hand, just across the threshold.
He proved to be a man apparently of middle age, of height approximating Maitland's; his shoulders were slightly rounded as if from habitual bending over a desk, his pose mild and deferential. By his eyeglasses and peering look, he was near-sighted; by his dress, a gentleman of taste and judgment as well as of means to gratify both. A certain jaunty and summery touch in his attire suggested a person of leisure who had just run down from his country place, for a day in town.
His voice, when he spoke, did nothing to dispel the illusion.
"Mr. Maitland?" he opened the conversation briskly. "I trust I do not intrude? I shall be brief as possible, if you will favor me with a private interview."
Maitland remarked a voice well modulated and a good choice of words. He rose courteously.
​"I should be pleased to do so," he suggested, "if you could advance any reasons for such a request."
Mr. Snaith smiled discreetly, fumbling in his side pocket. A second slip of cardboard appeared between his fingers as he stepped over toward Maitland.
"If I had not feared it might deprive me of this interview, I should have sent in my business card at once," he said. "Permit me."
Maitland accepted the card and elevated his brows. "Oh!" he said, putting it down, his manner becoming perceptibly less cordial. "I say, O'Hagan."
"Yessor?"
"I shall be busy for— Will half an hour satisfy you, Mr. Snaith?"
"You are most kind," the stranger bowed.
"In half an hour, O'Hagan, you may return."
"Very good, sor." And the hall door closed.
"So," said Maitland, turning to face the man squarely, "you are from Police Headquarters?"
"As you see." Mr. Snaith motioned delicately toward his business card—as he called it.
​"Well?"—after a moment's pause.
"I am a detective, you understand."
"Perfectly," Maitland assented, unmoved.
His caller seemed partly amused, partly—but very slightly—embarrassed. "I have been assigned to cover the affair of last night," he continued blandly. "I presume you have no objection to giving me what information you may possess."
"Credentials?"
The man's amusement was made visible in a fugitive smile, half-hidden by his small and neatly trimmed mustache. Mutely eloquent, he turned back the lapel of his coat, exposing a small shield; at which Maitland glanced casually.
"Very well," he consented, bored but resigned. "Fire ahead, but make it as brief as you can; I've an engagement in"—glancing at the clock—"an hour, and must dress."
"I'll detain you no longer than is essential. … Of course you understand how keen we are after this man, Anisty."
​"What puzzles me," Maitland interrupted, "is how you got wind of the affair so soon."
"Then you have not heard?" Mr. Snaith exhibited polite surprise.
"I am just out of bed."
"Anisty escaped shortly after you left Maitland Manor."
"Ah!"
Mr. Snaith knitted his brows, evidently at a loss whether to ascribe Maitland's exclamation as due to surprise, regret, or relief. Which pleased Maitland, who had been at pains to make his tone noncommittal. In point of fact he was neither surprised nor regretful.
"Thunder!" he continued slowly. "I forgot to 'phone Higgins."
"That is why I called. Your butler did not know where you could be found. You had left in great haste, promising to send constables; you failed to do so; Higgins got no word. In the course of an hour or so his charge began to choke,—or pretended to. Higgins became alarmed and removed the gag. ​Anisty lay quiet until his face resumed its normal color and then began to abuse Higgins for a thick-headed idiot."
Mr. Snaith interrupted himself to chuckle lightly.
"You noticed a resemblance?" he resumed.
Maitland, too, was smiling. "Something of the sort."
"It is really remarkable, if you will permit me to say so." Snaith was studying his host's face intently. "Higgins, poor fellow, had his faith shaken to the foundations. This Anisty must be a clever actor as well as a master burglar. Having cursed Higgins root and branch, he got his second wind and explained that he was—Mr. Maitland! Conceive Higgins' position. What could he do?"
"What he did, I gather."
"Precisely."
"And Anisty?"
"Once loosed, he knocked Higgins over with the butt of a revolver, jumped out of the window, and vanished. By the time the butler got his senses ​back, Anisty, presumably, was miles away. … Mr. Maitland!" said Snaith sharply.
"Yes?" responded Maitland, elevating his brows, refusing to be startled.
"Why," crisply, "didn't you send the constables from Greenfields, according to your promise?"
Maitland laughed uneasily and looked down, visibly embarrassed, acting with consummate address, playing the game for all he was worth; and enjoying it hugely.
"Why … I … Really, Mr. Snaith, I must confess——"
"A confession would aid us materially," dryly. "The case is perplexing. You round up a burglar sought by the police of two continents, and listlessly permit his escape. Why?"
"I would rather not be pressed," said Maitland with evident candor; "but, since you say it is imperative, that you must know——" Snaith inclined his head affirmatively. "Why … to tell the truth, I was a bit under the weather last night: out with a party of friends, you know. Dare say we all ​had a bit more than we could carry. The capture was purely accidental; we had other plans for the night and—well," laughing shortly, "I didn't give the matter too much thought, beyond believing that Higgins would hold the man tight."
"I see. It is unfortunate, but … you motored back to town."
It was not a question, but Maitland so considered it.
"We did," he admitted.
"And came here directly?"
"I did."
"Mr. Maitland, why not be frank with me? My sole object is to capture a notorious burglar. I have no desire to meddle with your private affairs, but … You may trust in my discretion. Who was the young lady?"
"To conceal her identity," said Maitland, undisturbed, "is precisely why I have been lying to you."
"You refuse us that information?"
"Absolutely. I have no choice in the matter. You must see that."
​Snaith shook his head, baffled, infinitely perturbed, to Maitland's hidden delight.
"Of course," said he, "the policeman at the ferry recognized me?"
"You are well known to him," admitted Snaith. "But that is a side issue. What puzzles me is why you let Anisty escape. It is inconceivable."
"From a police point of view."
"From any point of view," said Snaith obstinately. "The man breaks into your house, steals your jewels——"
"This is getting tiresome," Maitland interrupted curtly. "Is it possible that you suspect me of conniving at the theft of my own property?"
Snaith's eyes were keen upon him. "Stranger things have been known. And yet—the motive is lacking. You are not financially embarrassed,—so far as we can determine, at least."
Maitland politely interposed his fingers between his yawn and the detective's intent regard. "You have ten minutes more, I'm sorry to say," he said; glancing at the clock.
​"And there is another point, more significant yet."
"Ah?"
"Yes." Snaith bent forward, elbows on knees, hat and cane swinging, eyes implacable, hard, relentless. "Anisty," he said slowly, "left a tolerably complete burglar's kit in your library."
"Well—he's a burglar, isn't he?"
"Not that kind." Snaith shook his head.
"But his departure was somewhat hurried. I can conceive that he might abandon his kit——"
"But it was not his."
"Not Anisty's?"
"Anisty does not depend on such antiquated methods, Mr. Maitland; save that in extreme instances, with a particularly stubborn safe, he employs a high explosive that, so far as we can find out, is practically noiseless. Its nature is a mystery. … But such old-fashioned strong-boxes as yours at Greenfields he opens by ear, so to speak,—listens to the combination. He was once an expert, reputably employed by a prominent firm of safe ​manufacturers, in whose service he gained the skill that has made him—what he is."
"But,"—Maitland cast about at random, feeling himself cornered,—"may he not have had accomplices?"
"He's no such fool. Unless he has gone mad, he worked alone. I presume you discovered no accomplice?"
"I? The devil, no!"
Snaith smiled mysteriously, then fell thoughtful, pondering.
"You are an enigma," he said, at length. "I can not understand why you refuse us all information, when I consider that the jewels were yours——"
"Are mine," Maitland corrected.
"No longer."
"I beg your pardon; I have them."
Snaith shook his head, smiling incredulously. Maitland flushed with annoyance and resentment, then on impulse rose and strode into the adjoining bedroom, returning with a small canvas bag.
"You shall see for yourself," he said, depositing ​the bag on the desk and fumbling with the draw-string. "If you will be kind enough to step over here——"
Mr. Snaith, still unconvinced, hesitated, then assented, halting a brief distance from Maitland and toying abstractedly with his cane while the young man plucked at the draw-string.
"Deuced tight knot, this," commented Maitland, annoyed.
"No matter. Don't trouble, please. I'm quite satisfied, believe me."
"Oh, you are!"
Maitland turned; and in the act of turning, the loaded head of the cane landed with crushing force upon his temple.
For an instant he stood swaying, eyes closed, face robbed of every vestige of color, deep lines of agony graven in his forehead and about his mouth; then fell like a lifeless thing, limp and invertebrate.
The soi-disant Mr. Snaith caught him and let him gently and without sound to the floor.
"Poor fool!" he commented, kneeling to make a ​hasty examination. "Hope I haven't done for him. … It would be the first time. … Bad precedent! … So! He's all right—conscious within an hour. … Too soon!" he added, standing and looking down. "Well, turn about's fair play."
He swung on his heel and entered the hallway, pausing at the door long enough to shoot the bolt; then passed hastily through the other chambers, searching, to judge by his manner.
In the end a closed door attracted him; he jerked it open, with an exclamation of relief. It gave upon a large bare room, used by Maitland as a trunk-closet. Here were stout leather straps and cords in ample measure. "Mr. Snaith" selected one from them quickly but with care, choosing the strongest.
In two more minutes, Maitland, trussed, gagged, still unconscious, and breathing heavily, occupied a divan in his smoking-room, while his assailant, in the bedroom, ears keen to catch the least sound from without, was rapidly and cheerfully arraying himself in ​the Maitland grey-striped flannels and accessories—even to the grey socks which had been specified.
"The less chances one takes, the better," soliloquized "Mr. Snaith."
He stood erect, in another man's shoes, squaring back his shoulders, discarding the disguising stoop, and confronted his image in a pier-glass.
"Good enough Maitland," he commented, with a little satisfied nod to his counterfeit presentment. "But we'll make it better still."
A single quick jerk denuded his upper lip; he stowed the mustache carefully away in his breast pocket. The moistened corner of a towel made quick work of the crow's-feet about his eyes, and, simultaneously, robbed him of a dozen apparent years. A pair of yellow chamois gloves, placed conveniently on a dressing table, covered hands that no art could make resemble Maitland's. And it was Daniel Maitland who studied himself in the pier-glass.
Contented, the criminal returned to the smoking-room. A single glance assured him that his victim was still dead to the world. He sat down at the ​desk, drew off the gloves, and opened the bag; a peep within which was enough. With a deep and slow intake of breath he knotted the draw-string and dropped the bag into his pocket. A jeweled cigarette case of unique design shared the same fate.
Quick eyes roaming the desk observed the telegram form upon which Maitland had written Cressy's name and address. Momentarily perplexed, the thief pondered this; then, with a laughing oath, seized the pen and scribbled, with no attempt to imitate the other's handwriting, a message:
"Regret unavoidable detention. Letter of explanation follows."
To this Maitland's name was signed. "That ought to clear him neatly, if I understand the emergency."
The thief rose, folding the telegraph blank, and returned to the bedroom, taking up his hat and the murderous cane as he went. Here he gathered together all the articles of clothing that he had discarded, conveying the mass to the trunk-room, where an empty and unlocked kit-bag received it all.
​"That, I think, is about all."
He was very methodical, this criminal, this Anisty. Nothing essential escaped him. He rejoiced in the minutiae of detail that went to cover up his tracks so thoroughly that his campaigns were as remarkable for the clues he did leave with malicious design, as for those that he didn't.
One final thing held his attention: a bowl of hammered brass, inverted beneath a ponderous book, upon the desk. Why? In a twinkling he had removed both and was studying the impression of a woman's hand in the dust, and nodding over it.
"That girl," deduced Anisty. "Novice, poor little fool!—or she wouldn't have wasted time searching here for the jewels. Good looker, though—from what little he"—with a glance at Maitland—"gave me a chance to see of her. Seems to have snared him, all right, if she did miss the haul. … Little idiot! What right has a woman in this business, anyway? Well, here's one thing that will never land me in the pen."
As, with nice care, he replaced both bowl and book, ​a door slammed below stairs took him to the hall in an instant. Maitland's Panama was hanging on the hat-rack, Maitland's collection of walking-sticks bristled in a stand beneath it. Anisty appropriated the former and chose one of the latter. "Fair exchange," he considered with a harsh laugh. "After all, he loses nothing … but the jewels."
He was out and at the foot of the stairs just as O'Hagan reached the ground floor from the basement.
"Ah, O'Hagan!" The assumption of Maitland's ironic drawl was impeccable. O'Hagan no more questioned it than he questioned his own sanity. "Here, send this wire at once, please; and," pressing a coin into the ready palm, "keep the change. I was hurried and didn't bother to call you. And, I say, O'Hagan!" from the outer door:
"Yissor."
"If that fellow Snaith ever calls again, I'm not at home."
"Very good, sor."
Anisty permitted himself the slightest of smiles, ​pausing on the stoop to draw on the chamois gloves. As he did so his eye flickered disinterestedly over the personality of a man standing on the opposite walk and staring at the apartment house. He was a short man, of stoutish habit, sloppily dressed, with a derby pulled down over one eye, a cigar-butt protruding arrogantly from beneath a heavy black mustache, beefy cheeks, and thick-soled boots dully polished.
At sight of him the thief was conscious of an inward tremor, followed by a thrill of excitement like a wave of heat sweeping through his being. Instantaneously his eyes flashed; then were dulled. Imperturbable, listless, hall-marked the prey of ennui, he waited, undecided, upon the stoop, while the watcher opposite, catching sight of him, abruptly abandoned his slouch and hastened across the street.
"Excuse me" he began in a loud tone, while yet a dozen feet away, "but ain't this Mr. Maitland?"
Anisty lifted his brows and shoulders at one and the same time and bowed slightly.
"Well, my good man?"
"I'm a detective from Headquarters, Mr. ​Maitland. We got a 'phone from Greenfields, Long Island, this morning—from the local police. Your butler——"
"Ah! I see; about this man Anisty? You don't mean to tell me—what? I shall discharge Higgins at once. Just on my way to breakfast. Won't you join me? We can talk this matter over at our leisure. What do you say to Eugene's? It's handy, and I dare say we can find a quiet corner. By the way, have you the time concealed about your person?"
Anisty was fumbling in his fob-pocket and inwardly cursing himself for having been such an ass as to overlook Maitland's timepiece. "Deuced awkward!" he muttered in genuine annoyance. "I've mislaid my watch."
"It's 'most one o'clock, Mr. Maitland."
Flattered, the man from Headquarters dropped, into step by the burglar's side.