THE LAWYER LIFTED INTO ANOTHER SPHERE
Loide lifted himself on his elbow and looked round. Then he
remembered--he was in his room at the New York hotel.
He had entered the room and then--of course, some one had sprung on him
from behind.
A horrible thought smote him. He plunged his hand into his breast pocket
and screamed with rage--the pocket was empty!
The notes were gone!
He sprang to his feet and thought.
What should he do? Give information to the police--would it be safe?
He had--foreseeing possession again--written the Bank of England
withdrawing the stop on the notes, saying they were now in his client's
possession.
How then was he to account for the holding of them himself? Would not
unpleasant inquiries be made?
Would he be able to answer them--without danger?
Had all his labor been in vain? How had the robber possibly known that
he had these notes in his possession?
At the money changer's he had purposely only spoken of one.
He knew it was not the work of a common hotel thief, for his studs,
watch, and loose money had not been touched. It must have been some one
who knew.
He would, at that moment, have cheerfully given one of the missing notes
to know who the thief was.
He was afraid to go to the police, to say that he was an English lawyer
bringing the money over to his client, Depew, and that he had been
robbed, because if there was a real Depew, he would step forward and
claim the money, and he--Loide--would be worse off than ever.
Besides, what explanation of his attempt to cash the one note could he
give?
There was the thousand pounds fortunately saved from the robbery. This
was safe in the money changer's hands. He looked at his watch. By the
time he reached the banker's office, time would have elapsed, the reply
cable would probably be back.
He would secure the thousand pounds first, and consider what he should
do about the others after.
He took a car to Broadway and entered the banker's office.
The money changer looked at him.
"You haf come back--alone, eh?"
"Alone?--yes. I told you I was a stranger in New York."
"Dat vos so. But you haf frents here--frents anxious to meet wit you."
"What do you mean? What nonsense are you talking? Have you got a cable
back from England?"
"No, mine frent, nor did I cable out there--I saves the oxpense."
"You----"
"You see, von of the peeples vat is so anxious to meet mit you, he comes
in directly you leaf here."
"My--friend?"
"Oh, yes. He know you quite well. He say to me, 'Dat vos my very goot
frent, Meestair Loide, the lawyer, of London, England, eh?'"
"Said--that--to--you?"
"Ogsactly. I say, 'Yes, dat vos so.' Den your frent he answers that he
came after you about stolen notes. He say, 'Dat I change him.' I smile.
He go out to seeks you. I am much surprised to see you alone here all
by yourself."
"Alone!"
"Yes, because he say that he tink to-day he arrest you."
"Arrest me!"
"Dat is a way vid detectives; dey do dat wid peoples vot steals bank
notes."
"Steals!"
"So."
"This is a trick! Give me back my note."
"Your note?"
"Yes--damn you--give me back my money."
"Shacob," the money changer called to his assistant sitting in the glass
office behind, "will you oblige me by ring up the call for the police."
"Police," said Loide.
"So."
"What the devil do you mean?"
"Vait, mine frent. Do not get oxcited. It is big mistakes. Vait till the
police come. They explain tings bettaire."
"Curse you!"
"So--if it please you, it pass the times."
"I shall go to my lawyer," he was making for the door as he spoke, "you
shall pay for this."
"Ogsactly."
Loide disappeared. He saw a couple of policemen coming along the
sidewalk, and promptly jumped on a car going in the opposite direction.
It took him the way of the hotel. There would be time to go in, get his
bag, and leave before the police turned up there.
There was a little money left in the bag; he must secure that.
He got his key in the hotel office, and was carried in the elevator to
his floor.
Locking himself in his room, he tore open his bag, and threw the
contents on the floor.
Papers--he crammed them into the grate, and, applying a match, set them
burning. He destroyed everything which would link him with the name of
Loide.
Then he started to resume the disguise which had been so successful on
the boat. He would be safe in it, he thought.
He would wait for the police, and give another name and--and then there
flashed to his memory the recollection of the register! He had signed
there his full name, Richard Loide. His signature would convict him.
He sank with a groan on the bed. What should--what could he do?
The police were on his track without doubt, or why the call at the
money changer's? What a fool he had been to set foot in America--how
could he set foot out of it?
If he was to escape, there was no time to be lost. He took his bag in
his hand and passed out into the passage.
Looking over the staircase, he saw on the ground floor two policemen
talking to the hotel clerk. Was he too late?
One of the officers stepped into the ever moving elevator. Slowly he was
being borne upwards.
What should he do? The thought occurred to him that they would find his
room empty, and think him gone.
He would hide--on the floor above. They would not think of searching
there.
He sprang into the elevator--he should have waited for the next up
coming car--the floor was nearly level with his knees when he jumped.
The result was that he slipped, staggered, and fell prone on the floor
of the lift, his head projecting.
Before he could move, the floor of the compartment reached the next
floor of the building.
There was a scream of agony, a sudden wrenching jerk which shook the
lift and halted the powerful machinery for half a moment, and then the
cars went on in their old automatic way.
But when the policeman alighted on the floor on which room No. 14 was
situate, he was horrified to see a bleeding human head staring him in
the face, and marked the trail of blood across the floor leading to it,
while the policeman below was equally shocked when the lift reached the
ground to see the headless trunk of a human body lying on the floor.
The coroner's jury brought in the usual verdict.
Loide had at one time feared death by hanging, English fashion; later by
electrocution, American fashion; he had never feared a French
performance--the guillotine--and yet, after all, decapitation was his
end.