The Mystery of the Secret Band

Mr. Gay let out a low whistle. What a list that was! No wonder Mrs. Hilliard was worried!

He took from his pocket the other slip of paper, which the detective at the Ritz had just given to him.

“Gold-mesh handbag containing $200.

2 pearl rings…”

“If this woman, this Mrs. Ferguson, is responsible for all this, she certainly ought to be kept behind prison bars for the rest of her life,” he thought. “But we’ll see – we’ll see…”

His train passed through a small town, and from his window Mr. Gay could see the Christmas decorations in the houses. How he wished that he and Mary Louise could both be at home, taking part in the happy celebrations! Trimming the tree, filling the stockings, eating the turkey dinner together! But there would be more Christmases, he reminded himself, and the whole family would be together on New Year’s Day.

It was dusk when he arrived in Baltimore and he took a taxi straight to the Hotel Phillips. He engaged a room for he meant to take a shower and have his dinner there, even if he did not remain all night.

A few minutes later he was interviewing the hotel detective in his private office.

“Is there a Mrs. Ferguson staying here?” he asked, after he had shown his badge.

“Yes, there is,” replied the other man. “She came two days ago with two daughters and four other girls as guests. They have a suite of rooms on the ninth floor and are planning to stay over Christmas.”

“Has anything been stolen since their arrival?” questioned Mr. Gay.

The other detective’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

“Yes. A roll of bills, two hundred dollars, I believe it amounted to, and a valuable stamp collection. Last night. But surely – ”

“I have reasons to suspect Mrs. Ferguson and her accomplices,” stated Mr. Gay. “Other hotel robberies lead us to believe she is the leader of a band of hotel thieves.”

“But we are on the track of another suspect. A man we found wandering into the wrong room last night and excusing himself by the old gag of saying he was drunk.”

“Maybe he was drunk!”

“Possibly. We couldn’t get any sense out of him. But I believe that he was just a darned good actor. Another fellow got away – an accomplice, I think, who is known to be a stamp collector. We’re on his trail.”

“I’d like to search the Ferguson woman’s rooms,” announced Mr. Gay. “Can I have your help?”

The man hesitated. He hated to antagonize wealthy guests who were bringing so much money into the hotel; yet when he recalled the expression of Mrs. Ferguson’s eyes he remembered that he had distrusted her. So he reluctantly consented to the other detective’s request.

Taking one of his assistants with him, the hotel detective led Mr. Gay to the ninth floor and knocked at Mrs. Ferguson’s door. From within sounds of laughter and gay music could be heard. As the door opened, the three men saw the girls playing cards in the sitting room of the luxurious suite. A radio was grinding out jazz.

With a shrewd glance at the girls, Mr. Gay realized immediately that they were not the same type as his daughter’s friends at Riverside. They were older, too, although they were painted and lipsticked to appear young.

“Mrs. Ferguson,” began the hotel detective, “I must apologize for interrupting your card game, but I have to go through with a routine. Last night some valuables were stolen from one of our guests, and I have promised him to make a thorough search of each room. You understand, of course, that no slight is meant to you or to your guests. The girls can go on with their game, if you will just permit us to look around.”

Mrs. Ferguson, who was, Mr. Gay thought, one of the ugliest women he had ever seen, drew herself up proudly.

“I very much resent it,” she replied haughtily. “In fact I forbid it!”

“You can’t do that,” answered the detective coolly. “For even if you decide to leave the hotel, your things will be searched before you go. But please don’t be unreasonable, Mrs. Ferguson! Suppose that you, for instance, had been robbed of that beautiful diamond ring you are wearing. Wouldn’t you want us to do everything in our power to get it back for you?”

“I wouldn’t want guests – especially women and girls – subjected to such insults as you were offering me and my young friends and relatives! Besides, I thought you were already pretty sure of your thief.”

“We’re not sure of anything. Will you submit peacefully, Mrs. Ferguson, or must we call in the police?”

The woman looked sullen and did not answer; the detective stepped across the room and locked the door. Mrs. Ferguson turned her back and wandered indifferently towards the bare Christmas tree in the corner. It was standing upright in a box of green, but it had not been trimmed. A pile of boxes beside it indicated the ornaments with which it would probably soon be decorated.

Mr. Gay, always the keenest observer, sensed that fact that Mrs. Ferguson had some special interest in those boxes, and his first shrewd surmise was that valuables were somehow concealed within them. Therefore, he kept his eye glued on that corner of the room.

“I guess you’ll have to stop your games, girls,” said Mrs. Ferguson, “since these men mean to be objectionable. Of course, we’ll move to another hotel immediately, so you can all go and get your things packed… Pauline, you take care of these balls for the tree. Men like this wouldn’t care whether they were smashed or not! They have no Christmas spirit.”

“Some hotel!” muttered Pauline, with an oath under her breath. But she got up and went towards the Christmas tree.

“Wait a minute!” ordered Mr. Gay. “I’m looking into those boxes.”

Mrs. Ferguson laughed scornfully.

“They just came from the ‘Five and Ten,’” she said. “They haven’t even been unwrapped. And I warn you men, if you break them, you can replace them! It’s not easy to get through the crowds now, either.”

Detective Gay smiled. “I’ll take the responsibility,” he promised as he untied the string of the top package. As Mrs. Ferguson had stated, it contained nothing but bright new Christmas-tree balls.

But when he lifted the second box in the pile – a huge package as big as a hat box – he knew immediately that it was too heavy to contain Christmas-tree ornaments. Nevertheless, his countenance was expressionless as he untied the string.

A great quantity of tissue paper covered the top of the box; this Mr. Gay removed, and from beneath it he drew forth a shabby blue book.

“Is this the stamp album?” he asked the hotel detective.

The other man gasped and rushed to Mr. Gay’s side.

“Yes! Yes!” he cried. “That’s it! See if the stamps are still in it.”

With a quick movement Pauline Brooks took two steps forward and snatched the book from the detective’s hands.

“That’s my album!” she exclaimed. “If you don’t believe it, look at the name in the front.” Triumphantly she turned to the first page and displayed the inscription:

Pauline Brooks,

Christmas, 1931.

From Aunt Ethel.

Detective Gay laughed scornfully.

“You can’t fool us that easily, Miss Brooks,” he said. “Examine the ink in the handwriting for yourself! It’s fresh… You can’t pass that off for three years old.”

Pauline looked calmly into her accuser’s eyes.

“Maybe it is,” she retorted. “But I don’t have to write my name in my books the minute I get them, do I?”

“Hand it over!” commanded the hotel detective, while Mr. Gay continued his search of the Christmas boxes. At the bottom of the pile he found the gold-mesh handbag with two pearl rings inside it. But he did not discover any of the lost money.