TURNED DOWN
While Larry Dexter is on his way to the Consolidated National Bank, to
use his wits in order to get the story of the robbery, which it seemed
that the bank officials did not want made public as yet, I will take a
few moments to tell my new readers something of the youth who is to be
the hero of this book.
Many of you have met Larry before. I first introduced him to you in
the initial volume of this series, entitled, “Larry Dexter at the Big
Flood,” and in that I told how Larry, with his mother, his sisters Lucy
and Mary, and his brother James, had come to New York, after the death
of Mr. Dexter, and the selling of the old farm.
Larry had always had an ambition to become a reporter on a big
metropolitan paper, and, after hard work, he succeeded. He began as a
boy who carried copy, or the articles which the reporters write for the
paper, from the editors’ desks to the tubes where it was shot to the
composing room, where the printers set it up.
Larry soon proved that he had a “nose for news,” and he was made
a reporter. From then on his rise was rapid. In the second book,
called “Larry Dexter and the Land Swindlers,” I related some of the
adventures in the great city, and how he got on the trail of a band of
unscrupulous men, and foiled their plans.
Larry soon had almost developed into what is called a “star” reporter.
That is, one to whom comes the honor of working up the big stories of
the day. Instead of covering routine work he would be given difficult
tasks to do, and special articles to write, for that is the test of a
good reporter.
One of the most difficult tasks to which Larry was ever assigned was to
find a certain rich man who had disappeared. In the third volume of the
series, called “Larry Dexter and the Missing Millionaire,” I gave the
details of his hunt for the missing millionaire.
Mr. Hampton Potter, the millionaire, was one day reported as missing.
It seemed a complete mystery, but Larry found out all about, and
even located Mr. Potter himself. The millionaire had disappeared for
business reasons, and in order to perfect certain deals involving large
sums, and, though at first his wife, and his daughter Grace, were much
worried, they finally received a note from Mr. Potter, stating that he
was safe.
But this only served to make matters more complicated, and Larry was
more baffled than ever. During the time the young reporter worked on
the case he became quite well acquainted with Miss Grace Potter, who
was an exceedingly pretty girl. Finally, as I have said, Mr. Potter was
located, and his enemies, who sought to do him harm, were vanquished.
Of course Larry got an exclusive story out of it, in addition to
rendering the Potter family a big service.
“But I guess I’m going to have my own troubles on this bank mystery
robbery,” mused Larry, as he journeyed toward the financial
institution, which was one of the largest in New York city. “If they’re
keeping it quiet, that means there’s something back of it, and the
officials won’t want to give out the story. But I’ve got to get it,
somehow.
“Let’s see, do I know anybody in the Consolidated National?” and Larry
went hastily over his rather lengthy list of acquaintances. For it is
through friends and acquaintances that a reporter often gets his best
news. “No, I can’t recall anybody down there,” Larry went on. “Hold on,
though--why, yes! That’s the very thing! Mr. Hampton Potter is one of
the biggest depositors there. His name ought to have some weight. If I
can’t get at the president, or cashier, in any other way, Mr. Potter
may help me. If the bank has been looted, he’ll know about it as soon
as anybody.
“I hope they haven’t got any of his wealth, though,” and Larry had a
memory of a certain pretty girl to whom wealth meant much, as she had
been used to it all her life. “It would go hard with Grace Potter to be
poor,” thought the reporter, “though I’m sure she’d make the best of
it, if it had to be. That’s what I’ll do. If the bank people won’t give
me the story, I’ll see Mr. Potter,” and with this thought completed
Larry found himself in front of the looted bank in Wall street.
“There doesn’t seem to be much excitement going on,” mused the reporter
as he mounted the bank steps, and noted that everything inside the
institution seemed to be as quiet as is ordinarily the case in moneyed
institutions. Depositors were coming and going as if nothing had
happened, the discount clerks, the bookkeepers, cashiers and tellers
were in their regular places, carrying on the business of the bank.
And yet Larry’s trained observation told him that there was a certain
strained atmosphere over it all.
Not on the part of the depositors. They seemed to know nothing about
it. But the clerks, cashiers, tellers, and, in fact, all the employees,
seemed to be under some nervous strain. It was as if they expected an
explosion at any moment.
“I’d like to see Mr. Wesley Bentfield,” said Larry to a uniformed
porter, or messenger, in the open corridor of the institution. Mr.
Bentfield was the bank’s president, and Larry decided that it was best
to go to the chief officer at once, and not waste time on subordinates.
“The president is very busy,” replied the messenger, with a quick
glance at Larry. “I don’t believe he’ll see you.”
“Just take my card in,” suggested the reporter, handing over a bit of
pasteboard with his own name and that of the _Leader_ on it. “Tell him
it’s very important.”
The uniformed messenger was soon back, and he looked at Larry with
increased respect.
“Mr. Bentfield will see you, sir,” he said.
“I thought he would,” remarked Larry grimly. More than one closed door
has been opened by the magic of a newspaper reporter’s card. Larry
followed the messenger to the president’s private room. The reporter
found the head of the bank, and several other gentlemen, seated in
front of a large table.
One glance was enough to tell Larry that something had occurred--something
serious, to judge by the worried faces of the financiers. The youth
decided to come to the point at once. Looking boldly at Mr. Bentfield,
whom he recognized from having noted his portrait in the papers many
times, Larry said:
“I have information, Mr. Bentfield, that your bank has lost a large sum
of money.”
“Lost? How?” asked the president, as if in surprise.
“By robbery!”
“Who told you?” interposed one of the other men.
“I am not at liberty to say,” replied Larry, for Mr. Emberg, in giving
him the source of the “tip,” had cautioned him to say nothing about it.
In fact, a private detective agency, to which the bank had appealed,
had informed, or “tipped off,” the city editor. As this was not
supposed to be done, naturally the detective who gave the “tip” wanted
to be protected, and a newspaper man always holds inviolate, if so
requested, the source of his information.
“I’m afraid I have no news for you,” spoke the president calmly, yet
Larry noted a nervous twitching of Mr. Bentfield’s hands.
“You mean you _won’t_ tell me,” suggested Larry with a smile. He had
met such obstinacy before.
“We have nothing for the press,” said Mr. Bentfield firmly.
“Then I shall have to get my information elsewhere, I suppose,” went
on Larry calmly. “I might say that I know that this bank has lost a
million dollars----”
“Hush!” exclaimed one of the directors in a startled whisper. “You’ll
start a panic!”
“How can I, if there has been no robbery?” asked Larry quickly.
“Well, er--even the _rumor_ of a robbery might do it, and cause a run
on the bank,” lamely explained the man who had begged Larry to keep
quiet.
“I should be sorry to do that,” spoke the young reporter firmly, “but
I am after this story, and I’m going to get it. If not from here,
then from somewhere else. I would rather have you tell me,” he said,
looking at the president, “as then the facts would be more complete and
accurate. But I am going to get the story, anyhow. I know your bank
has lost a million, and, sooner or later, the facts will come out. Why
don’t you tell me?” he asked of Mr. Bentfield.
“I have no information for the press,” said the president coldly. “I
believe that is all I can say to you. And I think my associates will
agree with me.”
He looked around at the other men, all of whom nodded their heads
gravely. Larry felt that he was “up against it,” as he had feared would
be the case. But he was not done yet.
“Is that your last word?” he asked. “Remember the _Leader_ has reliable
information on this story, and remember, also, that it is bound to come
out. It might better be given straight than to have it pieced out more
or less inaccurately.”
“If you’ve got the story, why don’t you print it?” challenged a little
man with a black moustache. “But I warn you, that if you make trouble
for this bank your paper shall answer for it!”
“We don’t want to make trouble,” said Larry with a confident smile,
“but we want the story, and we’re going to get it! We’ll take our
medicine, too.”
“Impudent reporters!” muttered another director, and Larry smiled. He
was used to this sort of treatment, and was, by this time, hardened to
it.
“There is nothing further for you,” again said the president coldly.
“And, as we are having a directors’ meeting, I shall have to ask you to
leave, Mr. er--Mr. Leader.”
“Dexter, if you please,” corrected Larry with a smile. “Well, you may
read the story in this afternoon’s paper,” he said boldly, as he left.
“Upstart!” snapped the man with the black moustache. “The papers ought
to be suppressed.”
Larry was doing some hard thinking as he went out. He had been turned
down at his first trial, but that had often been the case before, and
it only made him all the more resolved to get the story at any cost.
“I’ll see what Mr. Potter can do for me,” he mused as he hurried down
the steps of the bank. As he did so he saw a young man approaching the
building in a hurry.
“Peter Manton, of the _Scorcher_!” exclaimed Larry, as he recognized
his former enemy. “He’s after the story too! I wonder if I can scoop
him? I hope he doesn’t see me.”
Larry dodged behind an automobile that stood at the curb, and was
successful in getting away as Peter ran up the bank steps.
“The trail is getting hot,” thought Larry. “Other papers have tips
about the robbery! I’ve just _got_ to get that scoop!”