# The Chinese Jewel/Chapter 1

pp. 3–7.

### CHAPTER I. WHEN EVIDENCE LOOKS BLACK.

BACK in New York had come Billy Steele with one grim purpose steadfastly and stubbornly held. Day after day, night after night, stern and alert and unflagging, he strove to get the goods on the man whom, in his heart, he held to be the very king: of crooks. The star man of Ferguson's detective agency had but the one determination; the time had come when some man must bring “King” Tom Reagan to book, and that man must be Billy Steele. He was like the ancient Roman senator with the hatred of Carthage: an must be destroyed.”
Returning from San Francisco, Steele had brought back with him a bitter sense of having been worsted by Tom Reagan, the burning knowledge that he had failed dismally in his real work, the clearness of vision to see that Reagan had used him as his most convenient tool. For a man of Steele's vocation to digest such an experience was to have in his mouth the taste of wormwood. No longer was it an impersonal duello between a bold lawbreaker and a representative of justice; the affair had become a man-to-man one as well.
True, Steele had recovered for the San Francisco bank the bulk of its stolen money. But he had brought no man to the dock for the double crime; he had seen the murderer of the night watchman go on his way unmolested. And, moreover, he had seen again the light of triumph in Reagan's eyes. The entire story he had told to two men in the California city, setting forth the parts played by Reagan himself, as well as by Tony Waldron, “Gaudy” Kelley Jimmie the Crook, and the rest of them. He had recounted everything to the Western police chief; the officer had stared at him curiously a moment when he had finished, and then, with the hint of a sneer in his voice, had said briefly: “I see.” From him Steele had gone to President Merivale, of the Merchants' National, and eventually Merivale had bestowed upon him a narrow-eyed look of suspicion and had even, dryly and laconically, spoken in the police chief's own words: “I see.” Steele's blood was still hot with anger when he boarded the Overland Limited at the Oakland pier; by the time he had arrived in New York again that anger had hardened and solidified into a purpose of adamant.
It was an ugly knowledge that those men had chosen the obvious and false explanation and had felt assured that he had taken bribe money from Reagan. The situation galled. Steele, used to the vicissitudes of his walk in life, bore it all, contenting himself by saying that men who knew him would know better than Merivale and the Western chief of police.
Then he told the already twice-told tale to his chief, Ferguson, in the latter's offices on Broadway. For a long time Ferguson said nothing, just sitting behind his square desk staring at his star man, his brows bunched up, his square fingers tapping noiselessly. After that long silence, which at first Steele did not understand, he said bluntly:
“I hope to Heaven, Billy Steele, that when King Reagan goes up the river you'll be the man to get the goods on him.”
Not the words so much as the tone made Steele bend forward and demand:
“Just what's back of that remark, chief? Let's have it!”
But Ferguson looked uncertain, even troubled. He shook his head, got a cigar from a drawer of his desk, and at last blurted out:
“You're no fool, Steele. Just keep your eyes open.”
And Steele, being no fool, kept eyes, ears, and mind open. Going from the office to his own rooms, he did a great deal of thinking. He reviewed the occurrences of the last few days, seeking to see each separate happening as other men would have seen them. He had gone West on a case of bank robbery and murder which the police of two cities suspected Tom Reagan of engineering. All the way across the continent, without Steele's knowledge, that same Tom Reagan had been his fellow passenger from the Grand Central Station to the Sixteenth Street mole. Reagan had sat tight in his drawing-room; had had his meals served him there; had amused himself with his papers, his cigars, and his schemes. How was the police world to know that the detective had no knowledge of the criminal's nearness during those four days? It was known, because Steele himself had thrice told it, that a letter intrusted to him by Reagan had vitally aided in running to earth Tony Waldron; it was known that Reagan had driven with him to President Merivale's home that night Steele returned the bank's money. And in the end, simply telling a true and unbelievable tale, Steele had sworn that Reagan himself was in this case guiltless.
Clearly enough now Steele saw that in all of this there was ample cause for suspicion in the minds of strangers. Reagan's powerful influence had long ago been felt; before now other men had Been bought and silenced by the very interest they had begun by opposing. A new anger kindled in Steele's heart; he saw that already Reagan had gone a long way toward discrediting him. Reagan had realized he could not bribe him, and had chosen the other means of drawing an enemy's claws. Steele, all along, had been looking keenly, single-mindedly for one thing—the evidence to convict Reagan on any of a number of counts. Given time, the man making so stubborn a search is apt to find what he seeks. But meanwhile he is in very grave danger of being blinded to other things if his searching is too eagerly intent. Look for a pin upon the floor and you fail to note the pattern of the carpet, though there be great red roses.
All this Steele began to understand. But one further incident was required and forthcoming before he realized how bent on this phase of his scheming Reagan was and to what lengths he would proceed in his thoroughgoing fashion.
In his room, after his talk with Ferguson, Steele sat long, hunched over a pipe, his eyes frowning at the floor and seeing Only Reagan smiling at him in a sort of sneering triumph. Yes, it was a man-to-man fight now, and Reagan's power was enormous. The man was rich even in New York; he had brains, ambitions, and was unscrupulous. He played always for big stakes, and, though he defied the law and jeered at its agents, he always won. Other lawbreakers who knew the man's strength gave him a wide berth. Petty thieves came to him for aid and it was given; if a few bolder spirits dared to cross the trail of his plans with their own, he ruined them and they died at the hands of a thug or fell into the iron grip of the courts. In either case Reagan went on his path, and each passing year found him more powerful, more wealthy, seemingly more secure in a position which from its very nature should have been eminently precarious.
Such was the man against whom Steele pitted himself. He had the satisfaction of knowing that with Reagan's enmity he had the man's respect. For Reagan, so stilled in measuring men, knew that Steele was head and shoulders above any of those numerous sleuthhounds of the law who bayed over his tracks; he knew Steele for a man of culture and natural keenness whetted by a university education and a great deal of deep study of criminals and criminology; he knew him for a young lawyer who had discovered that his interest was in criminals rather than in crime in the abstract. In fact, Reagan's full realization of just these matters had shown itself in his attempts to get Steele out of the running.
“He wants me off his trail the worst way,” pondered Steele over his pipe, gone cold. “Why should he be so set on it—unless he's getting ready for something new right now?”
He had not seen Reagan since the two had parted in San Francisco; he did not even know if Reagan were again in New York. It struck him that there was a very simple way of knowing. He caught up his telephone from the table at his elbow and called Reagan's home number. It was Havens, Reagan's secretary, who answered.
“It's Steele, Havens,” he said crisply. “May I have a word with Mr. Reagan?”
“He's gone out, Mr. Steele,” came Havens' suave voice. “Any message?”
“No. I just wanted a word with him. Don't know when he will be in, do you?”
Havens laughed.
“You know Mr. Reagan,” was all he said.
Steele put the telephone down. Well, Reagan had returned. No doubt by now he was busied again with whatever he had briefly laid aside for the trip to San Francisco or with whatever had arisen recently. Steele looked at his watch; only six-forty-five. He caught up his hat and stick, suddenly determined to have a look at King Tom Reagan before he went to sleep that night. There was the chance of finding him dining at the Newton.
At the Newton, at his accustomed table, he found him. Dining alone, much fluttered about by waiters, Reagan sat over his Evening Record. Steele went to a vacant table across the room, from which he could watch the man whom he meant to keep in view as much as possible from now on. Frequently Reagan looked up from his paper to glance keenly about the room as though in search of an expected face; twice he scrawled a note on a leaf from his notebook and handed it to his waiter, who hurried away with it. Once a page, knowing just where to find him, came straight to his table, delivering him a message upon a scrap of paper. Reagan glanced at what was written thereon, folded it, and put it into his pocket. Steele watched him pay his check and light his big fat cigar. Still, as though waiting, Reagan sat at his table.
Not once had he looked directly in Steele's direction. The room was slowly filling with diners; many occupied tables that intervened between the two men. And yet Steele received the impression, which grew into a certainty, that Reagan had seen him and even kept him in view out of the tail of his eye.
A score of guests were filling the entrance from the lobby when Reagan, suddenly seeming hurried, got to his feet. He made his way rapidly among the tables, his big, powerful body and masterful bearing drawing to him the many eyes which always paid tribute to the unusual in the man. Still he did not appear to have noticed Steele, who, all the time, watched him narrowly. So observantly, in fact, that he noted that Reagan's right hand was closed so as to hide something in his palm.
Suddenly Reagan swerved and bore straight down upon Steele. Now there was a look of laughter in the piercing eyes, a look which baffled Steele. Steele looked around curiously; at that moment he noted that among those who were just entering were two men whom he knew well—Johnnie Margrave, a brother worker at Ferguson's, and Lieutenant Kilgore, of the regular police force. Further, he marked how both men were watching not only Reagan intently, but himself as well.
Now Reagan came swiftly to Steele's table. He did not stop, merely pausing for a brief instant. He thrust out his hand; for the second Steele thought he was offering to shake hands, and on the impulse of the moment half put out his own. Briefly Reagan's fingers appeared to grope, to fumble. Then what he held tightly clasped fell to the tablecloth in full view of the room, and Reagan passed on and hurried out without turning. And Steele, briefly uncertain, stared at what Reagan had left behind him. Looking up, he saw that both Margrave and Kilgore had seen the whole thing, and probed into his face for the answer. Reagan had presented him with five crumpled one-hundred-dollar bank notes.
In a flash Steele knew what the thing looked like, what it savored of, and his face went a slow red under the eyes turned upon him. He did perhaps the natural thing: he put his hand over the bank notes as though to hide them. Then he drew back quickly, as though they scorched his flesh, and looked defiantly at Margrave and Kilgore. The two, their expressions altering abruptly from wonder and suspicion to downright disgust, swung about and went out. They had seen enough.
Then Steele sat back, holding himself in check, choking down his heady anger. He had his coffee and cigar, letting the money lie where it was.
“Another trick for King Reagan,” he admitted coolly when at length he recovered his poise. He took up the five hundred dollars and put it into his pocket. “But it cost him five hundred to do it. And this same five hundred I am going to use when it's needed as expense money to get him right.”
The next morning he reported the episode to his chief. Ferguson already knew. Further, listening to Steele's account, he made no attempt to hide his own thoughts. In his look and in his blunt words Steele read more than the vague suspicion of yesterday. To-day Ferguson fully believed that his star man had joined forces with King Reagan.
Steele got to his feet; his eyes went suddenly hard and stern.
“You will accept my resignation, Mr. Ferguson,” he said hotly. “From now on I'm working for Billy Steele.”
“So I imagined,” Ferguson replied dryly.
Steele went out. And from that moment on, if he accomplished nothing else in all the years of his life left to him, he made up his mind to get King Tom Reagan.