THE CLEW OF THE BRICKS
For a moment Larry did not know what to do. It seemed almost unnatural
that, at the very moment when his long quest should have been partly
successful, the very man whom, above all others, he wanted to capture,
should stand before him.
“Are you sure--very sure?” he whispered to Miss Mason.
“Quite sure,” she replied. “I remember because I was alone here at the
time, and as I came up from a distant part of the store I saw this man
standing here at the pile of valises, examining them. I hurried up to
wait on him, for we don’t like customers to be kept waiting, and none
of the clerks was at hand then. It was then I sold him the valise.”
“And you’re sure this is the same man?” asked Larry again.
“Almost positive,” she replied, still whispering. “I saw his back
first, and, though I have not a very good memory for faces, I can very
often recognize persons by their forms. I’m sure this is the same man.
He has on the same kind of coat, and----”
“I wonder what I’d better do?” interrupted Larry. “If that’s the
fellow, he had something to do with the robbery, and he ought to be
questioned, if nothing more. I wonder if I can send a message to police
headquarters from here, and keep watch of that man so he doesn’t get
away?”
“I’ll telephone for you,” offered the girl eagerly. “I’d like to do you
a favor after what you did for me. You stay here, and watch that man.
I’ll call up the police. We have branch ’phones on every floor. Wait
for me.”
Just as she was about to hurry away, and when another moment would have
brought about a curious complication of affairs, the man about whom
they were talking suddenly turned around. He had been looking at some
steamer trunks, and, apparently having about decided on the kind he
wanted, he looked around for a clerk to wait on him. This gave Larry
and Miss Mason a good view of his face, and the girl in a tense whisper
at once exclaimed:
“Oh, Mr. Dexter! I’ve made a mistake! That isn’t the man at all. Oh,
don’t summon the police!”
“Not the man!” whispered Larry hoarsely.
“No! It looked like him, when he had his back turned, but, now that I
see his face, I know he isn’t the same one.”
“Are you sure?” asked Larry, not wanting to be balked after all his
hard work. “Think well, now! Is that the man who bought the valise?”
“No, he isn’t the same one,” replied the girl. “That man had a beard,
and this one is smooth-shaven.”
There was no doubt about that, for the man, who had turned and was
looking squarely at Larry and the girl, had no sign of beard or
moustache. And then Larry gave a gasp.
“Why! Why!” he whispered. “That’s the man we met in the subway! The
man who jostled you--whom I shoved off the train platform. Don’t you
remember him?”
“Indeed I do!” exclaimed the girl. “I still limp a little because of
him stepping on my foot. But see! He’s looking right at us! Oh, what
shall I do?”
The mysterious man unexpectedly solved the problem for them, for, no
sooner had he caught sight of Larry and the girl, than he gave a start,
and turned hurriedly aside. A moment later he fairly ran down an aisle
leading toward an elevator.
“Well, what do you think of that?” gasped Larry.
“He was afraid,” declared Miss Mason.
“Of me, or you, or--both of us?” asked Larry. “Are you sure he wasn’t
the man to whom you sold the valise?”
“Almost positive. That man had a black beard.”
“It might have been a false one,” suggested the reporter.
“I do not think so,” the girl answered. “I have been in some amateur
theatricals, and I can tell a false beard when I see one. His was real.
No, that young man wasn’t the one.”
“Then why did he run?” asked Larry suspiciously.
“Maybe he thought you would take after him,” suggested Miss Mason, with
a smile. “He doubtless remembered how you treated him after he jostled
against me.”
“Well, that may be the reason,” agreed Larry, doubtfully.
“I’m sure of it,” said Miss Mason.
“Then I guess I’m at the end of my rope,” said the young reporter,
after a bit. “That wasn’t the man who bought the valise, though he
looked like him from the back. The one who bought it had a black beard,
but as there must be thousands of men in New York who have the same
kind of whiskers, that clew isn’t of much account. I guess I’ll have to
go back to the bricks.”
“The bricks?” questioned the girl wonderingly.
“Yes, the bricks that took the place of money. They’re my next clew.
I’ll begin work on them. There’s no use chasing after that fellow,” and
he nodded in the direction taken by the rude chap. “Though if I see him
in the subway again I’ll make him behave. I suppose, Miss Mason, there
is no other way of tracing the man who bought this valise?” he asked,
after a pause.
“No, it was a cash sale, and he did not give his name. If I could only
give you a better description of him!”
“Well, perhaps it wouldn’t help much,” said Larry. “I’m sure I’m much
obliged to you for what you did. Now I’ll go back to the bricks.
Anyhow, I’ve got a good story out of it. I don’t suppose you want your
picture in the paper, as the girl who sold the million-dollar valise.”
“Would it help you any?” she asked.
“Indeed it would!” exclaimed Larry fervently.
“Then you may have it, though I don’t like publicity,” she replied.
“But I haven’t one here.”
“I’ll call at your house for it,” said Larry quickly, and thus he got
her address.
Larry wrote a good article, and of course secured a “beat” out of the
valise story. It was run with Miss Mason’s picture, and made quite a
sensation, being copied by the other less fortunate papers.
But now, indeed, Larry seemed “at the end of his rope.” The valise clew
had ended in a blind lead, for naturally it was out of the question to
seek a man with a black beard, and with no other description to go by.
Still, Larry looked over all the men employed by the bank that had been
robbed. None of them had black beards, and he was farther off from the
trail than ever. But he did settle one important point, and that was
the knowledge that the man who had acted so rudely in the subway was a
messenger employed by the Consolidated National.
This man, whose name Larry learned was Harrison Witherby, was employed
as a “runner.” That is, he took checks, notes, bills, and so forth,
from his bank to others, or to the Clearing House, where, each day,
banks in New York exchange their depositors’ checks put in for
collection, for drafts on their own bank, and so strike a balance.
Witherby was not in the bank much, and that is how it happened that
Larry had not before noticed him. His duties kept him busy outside.
“And so he’s the man with whom I had the run-in,” mused the young
reporter. “Well, the less I have to do with him the better. Now to see
what I can do with the bricks.”
Naturally, President Bentfield was disappointed when Larry reported
that the valise clew had amounted to nothing.
“Well, keep on,” he advised the young reporter.
“I will,” promised Larry. “Something may turn up later. Have you heard
anything?”
“Not a thing. The police seem completely baffled. We have every
employee under strict watch, but it has resulted in nothing. None of
them has gone away, or shown any inclination to leave. Their records
are perfect as far as we can learn. It is a great mystery.”
“Well, I’ll see what clew the bricks give me,” spoke Larry.
“You’ll find them in the closet where the valise was,” said the
president, who was on his way out of his office. “Go right in, Larry.
My private office is open.”
The young reporter stepped in, carrying the valise from which he had
hoped so much, but which had only proved a baffling clew. He tossed it
into the closet, and picked up the bundle of bricks, in their newspaper
wrappings. He intended to take them home to look at them. Later he
intended on calling at a number of brick yards to learn, if possible,
where the bricks had come from.
As he was going out of the president’s office he almost collided with a
young man, and a moment’s glance showed Larry that it was Witherby, the
uncouth runner.
“Oh, I--er--I didn’t know you were here!” exclaimed the young man with
whom our hero had had the encounter in the subway. “What are you doing
in the president’s private office?”
“He told me to go there,” said Larry coldly, not caring to give his
real reason.
“That’s right,” spoke the president’s private messenger, coming up at
this moment. “Mr. Dexter was sent in here to get----”
“To get some private papers!” exclaimed Larry quickly, with a wink at
the messenger. The latter was in the confidence of the president, and
it had been agreed that Larry’s mission was to be kept as secret as
possible from the other bank employees.
“Oh, all right,” stammered Witherby. “I----”
“Did _you_ want anything?” asked the messenger quickly.
“I--er--Director Wilson asked me to see if Mr. Bentfield was in,” was
the stammering answer. “He wants to see the president.”
“Well, Mr. Bentfield has gone for the day,” spoke the messenger. “Good
afternoon, Mr. Dexter,” and he ushered out Larry, who carried the load
of bricks, while Harrison Witherby, with a black look at our hero, went
back to his own department.