TERROR ISLAND
Maxwell Grant
CHAPTER I. A CROOK IS TRAPPED
AN elderly man was seated, stoop-shouldered, at a massive desk. Behind him was a closed safe; to his left, a pair of French windows, wide open, that led to a screened veranda. The room was lighted, for it was after dusk; and there was a reason for the open windows, because the night was excessively warm. When occasional breezes came, they floated in from the veranda.
The light from the room repaid that service by casting its soft glow beyond the outside screen. The illumination revealed the long, crinkly leafed branches of palm trees against the porch.
The man at the desk was James Tolwig, a New York millionaire. The room in which he sat was the study of his spacious Florida bungalow. Though less than a dozen miles from Miami, James Tolwig enjoyed a most secluded location; and that fact pleased him. It was one reason why he had chosen to stay in Florida during the off season.
James Tolwig's forehead was furrowed in a puzzled frown. The elderly man was studying a telegram; he stroked his chin as he read the message. The wire was from Havana; its message simply read:
POSTPONE PURCHASE UNTIL NINE O'CLOCK.
S.
There were footsteps from the hallway. Tolwig pushed the telegram beneath a book; he looked up to see a stolid-faced servant enter, bringing a tray with two tall glasses. Ice clinked as the servant approached the desk. Tolwig gestured.
'Place the tray here, Lovett,' he ordered, in a testy tone, 'then tell Mr. Bagland that I want to see him. Where is Bagland, anyway? Bah! He claims to be an efficient secretary, but he is never about when I need him -'
Tolwig cut his denunciation short as a tall, smiling-faced man stepped in from the veranda. The arrival was the missing secretary; out for a stroll, Bagland had arrived just in time to hear his employer's words. Tolwig indulged in a slight smile of his own; he motioned for Bagland to be seated.
Lovett stopped at the door; there, the servant turned about and adjusted his rumpled white jacket. He was waiting for further orders. Tolwig dismissed him with a wave of his hand. As soon as the servant's footsteps had faded in the hallway, Tolwig pointed to the door.
Without a word, Bagland arose and closed the door; the secretary came back to the desk and picked up one of the tall glasses. Tolwig took the other glass.
APPARENTLY, Tolwig and his secretary were on most friendly terms, despite the millionaire's harsh statement a few minutes before. As further proof of their accord, Tolwig produced the telegram that he had hidden from Lovett's view. Handing the wire to Bagland, Tolwig spoke.
'This arrived while you were out,' stated the millionaire quietly. 'What do you make of it, Bagland?'
The secretary studied the telegram. He smiled.
'You must have talked too much,' decided Bagland, 'when you made that short trip to Havana a few days ago.'
'I did mention my intended purchase,' nodded Tolwig, 'but I did not state from whom I intended to buy. I said nothing concerning George Dalavan.
'Neither does this telegram,' observed Bagland. 'Probably the man who sent it has never heard of Dalavan. But he may know about the Lamballe tiara; if so, he knows that someone intends to swindle you.'
'Unless the telegram is a hoax,' rejoined Tolwig. 'What should I do about it, Bagland?'
For reply, the secretary crumpled the telegram and threw it into the wastebasket.
'Forget it,' he declared. 'We already have the goods on Dalavan. We can handle him ourselves. It is after half past eight; Dalavan is already overdue. If we happen to wait until nine o'clock, all right. If not -'
Bagland paused. A bell was tingling; Lovett's footsteps answered, outside the door. The servant was on his way to the front door to admit the visitor. Bagland's smile broadened; in low tones, the secretary whispered:
'George Dalavan.'
TWO minutes later, Lovett ushered the visitor into the study. George Dalavan was a man of heavy build, brisk in manner and of military appearance. His hair was short clipped; so was the black mustache that he wore. His whole face was ruddy; the color was natural and not the effect of sunburn. Most conspicuous, however, was the narrowness of his eyes.
They peered sharply from each side of a thin-bridged nose, as Dalavan darted a look toward Bagland, who was now seated at a table in the corner. Then Dalavan concentrated upon Tolwig; he gave a cheery smile as he reached across the desk to shake hands with the millionaire.
'I've brought it,' announced Dalavan, in a smooth tone. He lifted a square-shaped suitcase and placed it upon the desk. 'The tiara once owned by the Princess de Lamballe, favorite of Marie Antoinette.'
Opening the case, Dalavan removed a glittering coronet. Diamonds gleamed brightly in the light. Tolwig received the tiara with both hands; he nodded as he studied the magnificent crown-like object.
'I saw this tiara once before,' remarked Tolwig, dryly. 'That was in Paris, when the tiara was the property of the Duke of Abragoyne. I doubted that he would ever part with it.'
'You know those French nobility,' returned Dalavan. 'They hang on to their jewels, until they go broke. Then they part with them for a song. Fifty thousand dollars is small money for a piece like this one, Mr. Tolwig.'
'Quite true,' agreed Tolwig. He opened a desk drawer and drew out a sheaf of bills. 'Here is the exact amount. Count the money, Dalavan, and give me a receipt for it.'
Dalavan counted the money, which was all in bills of high denomination. He threw a restless glance toward Bagland. The secretary's back was turned; for Bagland was busy at his table.
Dalavan reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. Hurriedly, he thrust it out of sight; found another sheet and used it to write a receipt. Tolwig received the written paper and slowly shook his head.
'This is not sufficient,' declared the millionaire. 'The receipt merely states that you have received fifty thousand dollars for a jeweled tiara. You should specify more than that, Dalavan. You should call it the Lamballe tiara.'
'Why?' laughed Dalavan. 'You, yourself know that it is the Lamballe tiara.'
'Suppose,' conjectured Tolwig, 'that I should show the tiara to the Duke of Abragoyne? Suppose that he should tell me that it had been stolen from him?'
DALAVAN'S lips tightened; then the mustached man demanded:
'Why should you show the tiara to the duke?'
'Ah!' exclaimed Tolwig. 'You admit, then, that the tiara was stolen?'
'I admit nothing, Mr. Tolwig. I have sold numerous curios. People never question where and how I obtained them.'
Dalavan paused, then resumed in a purring tone.
'Listen, Mr. Tolwig,' he urged, 'you're not the first big buyer that I've reasoned with. You want this tiara. You'd never have had a dog's chance to get it, if someone hadn't lifted it from the French duke's strong-box. It's yours now; bought and paid for, at less than half its value.
'I've convinced others before you. You've heard, no doubt, of Cholmley Clayborne, the big steel man from Chicago. He bought a swell tapestry that came straight from Buckingham Palace. He's keeping mum. Tyler Loman, the movie magnate, bought a collection of rare gold coins from me. They came from the Munich Museum and he knows it. That doesn't matter.
'I didn't steal this tiara. I saved it. The fellows who had it were going to smash it up and sell the chunks. What you are actually doing, Mr. Tolwig, is to save this fine tiara from destruction. You should thank me for giving you the opportunity.'
Dalavan's smooth talk had no effect upon Tolwig. Hunched behind his desk, the millionaire clasped both hands and tilted his head. Quietly, he put a single question:
'Then you admit that the tiara was stolen?'
'Sure,' returned Dalavan. 'I admit it. I've told you what other collectors do. They keep what they know to
