Chapter XII Tim Crapsey’s Plot - Dave Porter and his Double by Edward Stratemeyer
“Who are you talking to, Port?” questioned a man who was resting on the bed in the room which Ward Porton occupied.
“Didn’t I tell you not to call me by that name, Crapsey?” returned the former moving-picture actor, as he closed the door softly and locked it.
“What’s the difference when we’re alone?” grumbled the man called Crapsey, as he shifted himself and rubbed his eyes.
“It may make a whole lot of difference,” answered Porton. “I’ve just made a big discovery.”
“A discovery?” The man sat up on the edge of the bed. “Discovered how to git hold of some money, I hope. We need it.”
“You remember my telling you about that fellow who looks like me–the fellow named Dave Porter?” went on the former moving-picture actor. “Well, he’s here in this hotel. And he and three of his chums have the rooms next to this one.”
“You don’t mean it?” and now Tim Crapsey showed his interest. “Did they see you?”
“Not much! And I don’t intend that they shall,” was the decided reply.
“Did you know the other fellows?”
“Yes, they are the regular bunch Porter travels with. I’ve got to keep out of sight of all of them. From what they said they are evidently snowbound here on account of this blizzard, so there is no telling how long they will stay,” added the former moving-picture actor in disgust. “Confound the luck! I suppose I’ll have to stay in this room a prisoner and let you get my meals for me.”
“This fellow’s being here may not be such a bad thing for you,” remarked Tim Crapsey. “Maybe you can impersonate him and touch the hotel clerk for a loan of ten or twenty dollars.”
“I am not going to run too many risks–not with so many of those fellows on hand. If I had only Porter to deal with it might be different,” returned Ward Porton. “Just the same, I’m going to keep my eyes open, and if I can get the best of him in any way you can bet your boots I’ll do it.”
In the meanwhile Dave and his chums had rejoined the girls and Dr. Renwick and his wife in the parlor of the hotel, and there all made themselves as much at home as possible. There was quite a gathering of snowbound people, and a good deal of the talk was on the question of how long the blizzard might last.
“Some of the people here are going to try to get over to Pepsico,” said one man. “That is only a mile and a quarter from here, and they are hoping to get the train that goes through that place about one o’clock in the morning.”
“The train may be snowbound, too,” returned another; “and if it is those folks will have their hard tramp to Pepsico for nothing.”
Outside it was still snowing and blowing as furiously as ever. All the street lights were out, and so were the electric lights in the hotel, so that the hostelry had to depend on its old-time lamps for its illumination. But the lamps had been discarded only the year before so it was an easy matter to bring them into use again.
Not to keep the good doctor and his wife up too long, Laura told Mrs. Renwick that they would retire whenever she felt like it. About half past ten good-nights were said and the girls went upstairs with the lady, followed presently by the doctor. The boys remained below to take another peep out at the storm.
“It’s a regular old-fashioned blizzard,” announced Dave.
“And no telling how long we’ll be stalled here,” added Roger. “Quite an adventure, isn’t it?” and he smiled faintly.
“Well, we can be thankful that we weren’t caught somewhere along the road,” broke in Phil.
“That’s it!” came from Ben. “Why, if we had been caught in some out-of-the-way place, we might be frozen to death trying to find some shelter.”
The two rooms which the chums occupied on the third floor of the hotel were connected, and before they went to bed the youths all drifted into the one which was to be occupied by Dave and Ben, for here it was slightly warmer than in the other room, and the lamp gave a better light. It seemed good to be together like this, especially on a night when the elements were raging so furiously outside. The former school chums talked of many things–of days at Oak Hall, of bitter rivalries on the diamond, the gridiron, and on the boating course, and of the various friends and enemies they had made.
“The only one of our enemies who seems to have made a man of himself is Gus Plum,” remarked Dave. “He has settled down to business and I understand he is doing very well.”
“Well, Nat Poole is doing fairly well,” returned Ben. “I understand his father owns stock in that bank, so they’ll probably boost Nat along as rapidly as his capabilities will permit.”
“Nat was never the enemy that Plum and Jasniff and Merwell were!” cried Phil. “He was one of the weak-minded kind who thought it was smart to follow the others in their doings.”
“This storm is going to interfere with our studies, Dave,” announced Roger. “Not but what I’m willing enough to take a few days’ rest,” he added with a grin.
“We’ll have to make up for it somehow, Roger,” returned our hero. “We’ve got to pass that examination with flying colors.”
“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 Basswood 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, shaggy 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 Basswood 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 Crapsey, 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 Crapsey. 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 ship ’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 Crapsey 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 Crapsey. 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 Basswood 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 Basswood 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 Crapsey 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 snowbound here, and we can’t get away any quicker than they can.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken, Port–I mean Mr. Jones,” Crapsey 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. Basswood into thinking I am Dave Porter. You must remember that since I got those things in Porter’s name at those stores, the whole crowd are on their guard.”
“Well, you can’t gain anything in this world without takin’ chances,” retorted Tim Crapsey. “If I looked like that feller I’d take the chance in a minute. Why, jest see what we could make out of it! If you can git your hands on those miniatures, I’ll take care of the rest of it and we can split fifty-fifty on what we git out of the deal.”
Ward Porton mused for a moment while Tim Crapsey eyed him closely. Then the former moving-picture actor leaped softly to his feet.
“I’ll do it, Tim!” he cried in a low voice. “Come ahead–let us get out of this hotel just as soon as possible. And on the way downstairs I’ll see if I can’t lift that cap and overcoat.”