and all, for the price of that one little splinter of black fire. Winton Stokes was so proud of it that he wouldn’t have traded it for all the rest of his possessions—and that was plenty.
There had been more loss of life from trying to get that stone than there is from traffic accidents in a big city. All of our big guys tried it. Then, it was given up as impossible. No one could get it; not with Winton Stokes as the owner.
But I told them that there was nothing impossible to Steve Hawkins, the master-criminal. I had made up my mind to succeed where all had failed. They laughed at me for giving up my brilliant hold-up career and slaving as Winton Stokes’ valet. During the two years of my working at his New York residence, I never once got even a hint of where the Night King was hidden, no matter how hard I tried. I don’t believe anybody on earth knew that secret, except Winton Stokes. But I waited and played the part of as honest a guy as they make ’em. I was a model valet and just as sweet and white as sugar. Then, finally, my big chance came—and oh! How it did come!
I wanted to show them all an unusual crime to knock them cockeyed with amazement. And they were amazed, though not quite in the way I had expected. But just try to mention the Night King case to the New York cops and see what happens!
It started like this: Winton Stokes was going on a trip to San Francisco. He was engaged to some charming little girl who lived there. I’ve seen her picture on his desk. A blonde little thing, with a smile like a glass of champagne and legs like a hosiery ad. Winton Stokes was to marry her there, in her home town. But I knew something else about this trip of his, something that no one knew, but me, and Stokes, and his girl.
I learned it in a very simple manner, but the news was as unexpected to me as a fresh orchid in a garbage can. You may be sure that for two years I’ve been opening secretly all of Winton Stokes’ letters that I could lay my hands on. So I opened this particular one that he had ordered me to mail. I don’t remember a word of it, except one sentence, and here is the sentence that took hold of my brains, memory and consciousness so as to knock out everything else I had on my mind:
“My dearest one, I’ll bring with me, as my wedding gift, the thing that has been my most precious possession, but isn’t any more—not since I looked into the blue diamonds of your eyes—I’ll bring the Night King, that you asked me about once.”
Oh boy!
The first thing I did when I read this was to take a deep breath. The second—to swear, energetically. The third—to laugh. The big fool! To give that stone away like this to a woman! Just like him, too.
Well, here was my chance.
In the day that followed I turned my brain upside down and back again, trying to figure out a way to accompany him on this trip. But I didn’t have to think much. He saved me the trouble.
I was called into his study on that beautiful spring morning. He was sitting in a deep, Oriental chair, his legs crossed, a long cigarette between his lips, looking at me with half-closed eyes.
“Williams,” he said (this being the name I had adopted), “you might be interested to know that in three days you are leaving with me for San Francisco.”
There must have been something funny in my face, for he added:
“What is it? Are you surprised?”
I muttered something about how grateful I was for the honor. Fact is, I was so grateful that I almost felt like sparing him and not touching his diamond at all!
“Your services have been most satisfactory during the time you have worked for me and I chose you to accompany me on this trip,” he explained, adding, “I trust you more than my other men.”
Now, I had to act and act quick. After some careful deliberation, a plan was ready in my mind, a brilliant plan that only a bright thinker like me could have devised.
That evening, I made my way to a certain part of New York, very far
There had been more loss of life from trying to get that stone than there is from traffic accidents in a big city. All of our big guys tried it. Then, it was given up as impossible. No one could get it; not with Winton Stokes as the owner.
But I told them that there was nothing impossible to Steve Hawkins, the master-criminal. I had made up my mind to succeed where all had failed. They laughed at me for giving up my brilliant hold-up career and slaving as Winton Stokes’ valet. During the two years of my working at his New York residence, I never once got even a hint of where the Night King was hidden, no matter how hard I tried. I don’t believe anybody on earth knew that secret, except Winton Stokes. But I waited and played the part of as honest a guy as they make ’em. I was a model valet and just as sweet and white as sugar. Then, finally, my big chance came—and oh! How it did come!
I wanted to show them all an unusual crime to knock them cockeyed with amazement. And they were amazed, though not quite in the way I had expected. But just try to mention the Night King case to the New York cops and see what happens!
It started like this: Winton Stokes was going on a trip to San Francisco. He was engaged to some charming little girl who lived there. I’ve seen her picture on his desk. A blonde little thing, with a smile like a glass of champagne and legs like a hosiery ad. Winton Stokes was to marry her there, in her home town. But I knew something else about this trip of his, something that no one knew, but me, and Stokes, and his girl.
I learned it in a very simple manner, but the news was as unexpected to me as a fresh orchid in a garbage can. You may be sure that for two years I’ve been opening secretly all of Winton Stokes’ letters that I could lay my hands on. So I opened this particular one that he had ordered me to mail. I don’t remember a word of it, except one sentence, and here is the sentence that took hold of my brains, memory and consciousness so as to knock out everything else I had on my mind:
“My dearest one, I’ll bring with me, as my wedding gift, the thing that has been my most precious possession, but isn’t any more—not since I looked into the blue diamonds of your eyes—I’ll bring the Night King, that you asked me about once.”
Oh boy!
The first thing I did when I read this was to take a deep breath. The second—to swear, energetically. The third—to laugh. The big fool! To give that stone away like this to a woman! Just like him, too.
Well, here was my chance.
In the day that followed I turned my brain upside down and back again, trying to figure out a way to accompany him on this trip. But I didn’t have to think much. He saved me the trouble.
I was called into his study on that beautiful spring morning. He was sitting in a deep, Oriental chair, his legs crossed, a long cigarette between his lips, looking at me with half-closed eyes.
“Williams,” he said (this being the name I had adopted), “you might be interested to know that in three days you are leaving with me for San Francisco.”
There must have been something funny in my face, for he added:
“What is it? Are you surprised?”
I muttered something about how grateful I was for the honor. Fact is, I was so grateful that I almost felt like sparing him and not touching his diamond at all!
“Your services have been most satisfactory during the time you have worked for me and I chose you to accompany me on this trip,” he explained, adding, “I trust you more than my other men.”
Now, I had to act and act quick. After some careful deliberation, a plan was ready in my mind, a brilliant plan that only a bright thinker like me could have devised.
That evening, I made my way to a certain part of New York, very far