Dick Kent on Special Duty 25

Dick Kent on Special Duty 25

A slight pause while Rand cleared his throat and turned more of the

pages.

 

“December 2, 1911.—I’m happy tonight. This afternoon Lipton agreed to

sell me that wonderful Chinese chest. I paid him two thousand dollars

for it without once blinking an eye. At that, I’m lucky to get it.

Lipton wouldn’t have parted with it for twice that sum eight months ago.

I’m afraid he’s been buying so much real estate that he’s short of cash.

Whatever his motive, I’m exceedingly grateful to him.”

 

Wyatt slid forward in his chair.

 

“Yes! Yes!” he exclaimed excitedly. “Read on.”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXIII

LEAVES FROM AN OLD DIARY

 

 

Dick and Sandy turned from their inspection of the treasure.

 

“What’s that you’ve been reading?” Sandy demanded.

 

“Dewberry’s diary.”

 

“Is that the book I handed you a few moments ago?”

 

“Yes,” the answer came from Corporal Rand. “I believe it will prove of

invaluable assistance to us in this case.”

 

The corporal still held the book in his lap, and seemed loath to

discontinue its perusal. The excerpts he had read aloud to Wyatt had

still further excited his curiosity, a curiosity which was shared by the

other policeman. The man from the Peace River Detachment consulted his

watch.

 

“It’s only three o’clock, Rand,” he pointed out. “We still have plenty

of time at our disposal. I’d enjoy hearing more from that book. Why not

continue, corporal?”

 

Rand turned the pages at random, his keen blue eyes glancing over the

contents. In a clear, musical voice he continued:

 

“November 12, 1912.—Why is it that my chest from Honan continues to

fascinate me? Sitting here at home this evening, my thoughts dwelt upon

it. Twice I opened it and removed the trays, one by one, with the rapt

interest of a child; removed them and placed them on the floor beside

me. How indescribably bare it looks. I’m sure it wasn’t like that during

the Ming dynasty.

 

“November 17, 1912.—Today I finished reading Marco Polo’s wonderful

narrative. Very naturally, it turned my thoughts to the chest. I’m

obsessed with a whimsical fancy. My chest, I am quite sure, was at one

time the depository for the jewels and wealth of the great Ming himself.

I visualize all those mysterious compartments overflowing with the

treasure from seven seas. This one contained diamonds; this one rubies;

this one sapphires and emeralds. In the remaining trays there are

quantities of silver and gold. Just to heighten the illusion, I have

placed the contents of three pokes in one of the trays. Then I locked it

up. I, too, shall have my treasure.”

 

Corporal Rand ceased reading. Dick and Sandy laughed.

 

“Queer old duck, wasn’t he?” Dick commented. “Well, I don’t know as I

blame him any. It is mysterious.”

 

Corporal Rand did not reply. He turned a few pages idly, then read

again:

 

“June 2, 1913.—I have found the Crystal Lode. Could scarcely believe my

good fortune. Came upon it more by accident than design. Tremendously

rich. Here and there, I found evidences of the workings of old Dave

Crystal. Will be compelled to keep this a secret. Took out over a

thousand dollars yesterday.”

 

“Whew!” gasped Sandy.

 

Rand was excited too. He turned the pages more quickly.

 

“October 1, 1914.—I’m back at the Crossing earlier than usual this year.

Brought a good deal of gold with me. Raced it in the chest. It will soon

be filled to overflowing. The depository of the great Ming has come into

its own.

 

“November 10, 1914.—Lipton would smile if he knew what I was up to.

Today—the third since my arrival in Edmonton—I converted nearly eight

thousand dollars worth of gold from the Crystal Lode into precious

stones. The jewelers here must think I am mad. Almost overnight, I have

changed my vocation. In place of being a collector of rare old books and

antiques, I have become a connoisseur of gems.

 

“November 12, 1914.—Professor B— of the University of Alberta, had lunch

with me at the Cecil Hotel. Our talk was on various subjects but finally

I led him, rather adroitly, I think, to a topic which, at present, is my

all-absorbing passion. Did Professor B— know anything about jewelry,

precious stones? He did. I have yet to touch upon a subject he is not

interested in. During our conversation, he happened to mention casually

that the Dalton’s, who are very wealthy people here, possess what is

undoubtedly the most valuable sapphire in this country. I think I must

have pricked up my ears at this information. During the rest of the day,

I could think of nothing else. Perhaps tomorrow I shall pluck up enough

courage to go and see Dalton.

 

“November 13, 1914.—The Dalton sapphire is mine. Paid forty thousand for

it. Dalton is not an agreeable person to deal with. I almost came away

without it. Was forced to draw on my account at the Bank of Montreal.

Dalton demanded a certified check and made a number of pertinent

inquiries over the telephone. In spite of his haughty manner, he must

need the money. Didn’t even offer to shake hands with me at parting.”

 

Rand closed the book, pointing at the chest.

 

“It’s easy to see now where he got those things. For years he’s been

converting the gold from the Crystal Lode into precious stones.”

 

“Merely to satisfy a whim,” smiled Wyatt.

 

A moment later Rand resumed reading:

 

“August 8, 1915.—What an inconceivable ass I am. Yesterday in some

unaccountable manner, I lost my note-book. I have been in the habit,

while away on these prospecting trips, of writing each day’s events in a

note-book, and later copying them in my diary at home. Hope no one ever

finds it. ‘My thoughts are precious things’ and I wouldn’t care to have

some fool laughing over them. Also, I fear that in the book I made

mention of the chest. Worse luck!”

 

A sudden silence followed the reading of this last excerpt. Then Wyatt

rose to his feet and began pacing up and down the floor.

 

“That has a direct bearing on this case,” he announced suddenly.

“MacGregor must have found that note-book—or Creel or Frischette.... Any

of those scoundrels. It’s the only possible way they could have learned

of the existence of this chest and the two keys Dewberry carried with

him. I am as sure of that as I am that I am standing here.”

 

“Extremely likely,” admitted Rand.

 

“Of course. And if we can determine which one of those men found the

note-book, we’ll have some valuable evidence.”

 

“It may force a confession from them,” said Rand. “Just before we came

down here, as you remember, Inspector Cameron endeavored to

cross-examine them. It was useless. Well, I haven’t lost hope that we

may succeed next time. I’ll take this diary with me.”

 

“May I look at it?” requested Sandy, holding out his hands.

 

“What about the treasure?” asked Dick. “What will we do with the chest?”

 

“Our inspector will attend to that,” answered Wyatt. “Probably will be

removed to the new Bank of Commerce, just recently established here.”

 

“There are two likely places, where one might find that note-book,”

mused Rand, “—at Creel’s and Frischette’s.”

 

“We can stop at both places on our way back,” suggested Dick.

 

“A good idea. Then there’s MacGregor’s shack too, I—”

 

“Listen to this,” interrupted Sandy, waving one arm about excitedly.

 

In his haste to open it, the diary slipped from his trembling fingers

and fell to the floor. Picking it up, he experienced some difficulty in

finding the right page again. The others waited impatiently. Finally,

Sandy read:

 

“September 28, 1915.—The first heavy snow of the season has come early

this year. Imagine my surprise this morning to wake in a blinding snow

storm. It is driving me away from the Crystal Lode. After breakfast, I

made haste to set out with my two pack-ponies, and arrived at Carson’s

cabin shortly after two. I have always made it a point to stop at

Carson’s whenever possible. They are friendly people. Mrs. Carson is an

Indian, but exceedingly pleasant and well educated. A cook too! I can’t

understand why a couple like that should be afflicted with such hopeless

offspring. Their daughter, about fifteen, is vicious, while their son,

Reynold, two years older, is a young cutthroat, if ever there was one.

This afternoon I found him in my room, quite brazenly going through my

things. It caused me to wonder if, after all, Reynold doesn’t know

something about that lost note-book. I recall that I stopped here just

the day before I discovered it was gone.

 

“September 29, 1915.—I am almost sure that Reynold has it. Today he was

copying something out of a book—a black leather note-book—that looked

suspiciously like mine. He rose when he saw me and beat a hasty retreat.

I can’t accuse him openly just yet, but when I come back this way in the

spring, I intend to lay a trap for him. That young scoundrel really

ought to be put in jail, although I am afraid I never would have the

courage to do it myself. It would break both Mr. and Mrs. Carson’s

hearts.”

 

Sandy paused.

 

“Have you finished? Is that all?”

 

In his eagerness, Corporal Rand stepped over behind the young Scotchman

and looked down at the open book.

 

“No,” answered Sandy, “it is not all. Here is another paragraph, dated

September 30—just a day later.”

 

“I purposely remained at Carson’s one more day. Thought I might be able

to keep an eye on Reynold, catch him again with the book and this time

positively identify it. Unfortunately for me, nothing happened. Carson

sent his son out with an armload of traps in the forenoon, and after

lunch, two prospectors, Emery and MacGregor, stopped for an hour or two

on their way east to Fort Good Faith. Carson introduced both men and we

conversed for a few minutes. Can’t say I liked either one. If I were

forced to choose a person to hang me, I think I’d name MacGregor.

Emery’s face is too vile—even for a hangman’s.”“Ugh!” Dick’s voice trembled. “If only he had known!”