While he was wondering how to set about his business, he was startled by a sound behind him. From the cover of a chaise longue at the far end of the room a small, thin man raised himself. Trent knew in a moment it was the Baron von Eckstein. He relaxed his tense attitude and walked with a friendly smile to the other man. He had mentally rehearsed the rôle he was to play. But the Baron surprised him.
“Hip, hip, ’ooray!” hiccoughed the aristocrat.
There was not a doubt as to his condition. He swayed as he tried to sit up straighter. His eyes were glazed with drink.
CHAPTER XV
THE BARON LENDS A HAND
“Hip, hip, ’ooray!” said the Baron again, and sank back into bibulous slumber. By his side on a tray was a half-emptied bottle of liqueur cognac and an open bottle of champagne. He had evidently been consuming over-many champagne and brandy highballs. Anthony Trent considered him for a few moments in silence. He saw a way out of his difficulties and a certain ironical method of fooling investigation which pleased him more than a little.
In a tall tumbler he mixed brandy and champagne—half and half—and poked the little Baron in the ribs. The familiar sight of being offered his favorite tipple made the trembling hand seize the glass. The contents was absorbed greedily, and the Baron fell back on the chaise longue.
The well-worn phrase “dead to the world” alone describes the condition of the Baron, who had married a brewery. Trent raised the man—he could have weighed no more than a hundred pounds—in his strong arms and carried him across to the dressing table. And with the Baron’s limp hands he opened the jewel case. Therefrom he extracted a necklace of diamonds set in platinum. What else was there he did not touch. He had a definitely planned course of action in view. The Baron’s recording fingers closed the box. It would be as pretty a case of finger-prints as ever gladdened the heart of a central-office detective. The Baron was next carried to the chaise longue. He would not wake for several hours. It would have been quite easy for Trent to make his escape undetected. But there was something else to be done first. He locked the door of the Venetian bedroom and then took up the telephone receiver. His carefully trained memory recorded the accent and voice of the Baron von Eckstein as he had heard it during an evening at the theater.
He called a telephone number. Fortunately it was a private wire connecting with the central.
“I wish to speak to Mrs. Adrien Beekman,” he said when at length there was an answer to his call.
“She is in bed,” a sleepy voice returned. “She can’t be disturbed.”