Part 17 (1/2)
”I'm afraid this storm will interfere with the art critics who were to look at those miniatures,” put in Ben. ”Oh, dear! I wish we knew just what those little paintings were worth.”
”I hope they prove to be worth at least a hundred thousand dollars,”
said Phil. ”That will be a nice sum of money for you folks, Ben.”
”Right you are!” answered the son of the real estate dealer.
The youths were tremendously interested in the miniatures, and a discussion of them ensued which lasted the best part of half an hour.
Ben described some of the pictures as well as he was able, and told of how they were packed, and of how they had been placed in the Ba.s.swood safe, waiting for the critics that Mr. Wadsworth had promised to bring from the city to his home to inspect them.
”Well, I suppose we might as well turn in,” said Roger, presently, as he gave a yawn. ”I must confess I'm tired.”
”Come ahead, I'm willing,” announced Phil; and then he and the senator's son retired to the next room.
”O pshaw! what do you suppose I did?” exclaimed Dave to Ben, while the pair were undressing. ”I left my overcoat and my cap on the rack in the lower hallway. I should have brought them up here.”
”I did the same thing,” answered his chum. ”I guess they'll be safe enough. All the folks in this hotel seem to be pretty nice people.”
”I don't suppose there are any blizzard pictures among those miniatures, Ben?” observed Dave, with a laugh just before turning in.
”There is a picture of one army officer in a big, s.h.a.ggy uniform which looks as if it might be worn because of cold weather,” answered Ben; and then, as the miniatures were very close to his heart, the youth began to talk about them again.
This discussion lasted for another quarter of an hour, after which the chums retired and were soon deep in the land of slumber.
Although none of our friends knew it, every word of their conversation had been listened to eagerly by Ward Porton and the man with him. They had noted carefully all that had been said about the Ba.s.swood fortune, and about the miniatures having been placed in the real estate dealer's safe awaiting inspection by the critics who were to visit Mr. Wadsworth at his mansion. Both had noted also what Dave had said about leaving his overcoat and his cap on the rack on the lower floor of the hotel.
”A hundred thousand dollars' worth of miniatures!” murmured Tim c.r.a.psey, after the sounds in the adjoining room had ceased. ”Say, that's some fortune, sure enough!”
”But pictures! Humph, what good are they?” returned Ward Porton, in disgust. ”I'd rather have my fortune in something a little more usable.”
”Oh, pictures are not so bad, and miniatures can be handled very easily,” answered Tim c.r.a.psey. His small eyes began to twinkle. ”Jest you let me git my hands on 'em, and I'll show you wot I kin do. I know a fence in New York who'll take pictures jest as quick as anything else.”
”And what would he do with them after he got them?” questioned Ward Porton curiously.
”Oh, he'd s.h.i.+p 'em 'round to different places after he got 'em doctored up, and git rid of 'em somehow to art dealers and collectors.
Of course, he might not be able to git full value for 'em; but if they're worth a hundred thousand dollars he might git ten or twenty thousand, and that ain't bad, is it?” and Tim c.r.a.psey looked at Ward Porton suggestively.
”Easy enough to talk, but how are you going to get your hands on those miniatures?” demanded the former moving-picture actor, speaking, however, in a low tone, so that none of those in the next room might hear him.
”I jest got an idee,” croaked Tim c.r.a.psey. He was a man who consumed a large amount of liquor, and his voice showed it. ”Didn't you hear wot that chap said about leaving his coat and hat downstairs? If you could fool them shopkeepers the way you did, then, if you had that feller's hat and coat, and maybe fixed up a bit to look like that photograph you had of him, you might be able to go to the Ba.s.swood house and fool the folks there.”
”I don't quite understand?”
”I mean this way: We could go to Crumville and you could watch your chance, and when the coast was clear you could git a rig and drive over to the Ba.s.swood house and go in quite excited like and tell 'em that this Mr. Wadsworth was a-want-in' to see them miniatures right away,--that a very celebrated art critic had called on him, but couldn't stay long. Wanted to ketch a train and all that. You could tell 'em that Mr. Wadsworth had sent you to git the miniatures, and that he had said that he would return 'em jest as soon as the critic had looked 'em over. Do you ketch the idee?” and Tim c.r.a.psey looked narrowly at his companion.
”It might work, although I'd be running a big risk,” said Ward Porton, slowly. Yet his eyes gleamed in satisfaction over the thought. ”But you forgot one thing, Tim: We are s...o...b..und here, and we can't get away any quicker than they can.”
”That's where you're mistaken, Port--I mean Mr. Jones,” c.r.a.psey checked himself hastily. ”I heard some folks downstairs talkin' about going over to Pepsico to ketch the one o'clock train. That goes through Crumville, and if we could ketch it we'd be in that town long before mornin'. We could fix up some story about the others bein' left behind here, and Dave Porter comin' home alone. They can't send any telephone message, for the wires are down, and I don't know of any telegraph office here where they could send a message that way.”
”If we were going to try it we'd have to hustle,” announced Ward Porton. ”And it's a fierce risk, let me tell you that,--first, trying to get to the railroad station, and then trying to bluff Mr. and Mrs.