WITHERBY VANISHES
For a moment it seemed as if no one knew what to do. All stood there
looking at the bag that had so suddenly, and so mysteriously, appeared.
“I--I’m actually afraid to open it,” whispered Mr. Bentfield.
“Suppose--suppose the money shouldn’t be there?”
“Very likely it isn’t,” commented the lawyer dryly.
This seemed to galvanize the bank president into action. Quickly he
lifted up the valise, and, as he did so, a change came over his face.
It had been hopeful, now it showed despair.
“The money is gone!” he gasped.
“How do you know?” asked the lawyer sharply.
“The bag is too light-weighted to contain a million, or a large part of
it. See!”
He quickly opened the valise. It was not locked. One look inside showed
that it contained nothing. The thief had taken away the bundles of
bills.
“Are you sure that is the same valise in which the million was
originally packed?” asked Larry. “The one lined with the steel mesh?”
“It’s lined with steel, all right,” answered the banker, “and while
I could not swear that this is the bank’s bag, I am morally certain
it is. Some of the tellers can prove that. But that will be of little
value in court. The fact that the money is gone is of more importance.
“My, my! But this mystery grows instead of solving itself,” he went on.
“To think of finding the bag back of the old ledgers! The plot was well
thought out. How did you come to lift down those books, Larry?”
“It was impulse, at first, that led me to put my hand on them, and when
I found that they were so light, and could be shoved along so easily, I
was suspicious at once.”
“And with good cause,” added the lawyer. “But I can’t quite see how the
trick was worked.”
“Nor I,” admitted Larry. “It is certain, however, that after the
exchange of the bags, the thief brought the one containing the million
in here. Just how soon after the theft can only be guessed at. Then he
cut off the backs of the ledgers, pasted them on the narrow end of the
valise, shoved it in the space the books occupied, and it was as well
hidden as if he had buried it.”
“Better,” commented Mr. Bentfield, “for, if he had buried the money,
the ground would have been disturbed, and some one would have been
suspicious. As it was, no one would ever think of looking behind these
old books. Sometimes several years go by without any one referring to
them. It was a safe place to hide a million dollars, and yet it was
right in the bank!”
“Do you think the million was ever actually there?” asked the lawyer.
“Perhaps not,” admitted Larry. “The thief, after he switched, or
changed, the bags, may have watched his chance, that very night, to
take away the money. Then, to get rid of the empty valise, he may have
put it behind the old ledgers. But he must have planned to do that,
otherwise he would not have had the backs cut away. And he had to
have glue to stick them on the valise. All that indicates the fact of
preparation.”
“Well, the money is gone, that’s certain,” spoke the lawyer dryly. “And
the next thing to consider is, how to arrest the thief, and get it
back. I don’t suppose you now have any scruples about giving Witherby
into custody, Mr. Bentfield?”
“No, and yet I can’t see how the finding of the empty bag proves
anything more against him. I think he is guilty, but the latest
development does not add anything to it.”
“That’s right,” admitted Larry. “But it will make a good story for me.”
“Oh, you newspaper reporters!” exclaimed the lawyer. “All you think of
is to get good newspaper stories.”
“That’s our profession,” answered Larry, with a smile. And yet he could
not help but think of Grace Potter--of the unpleasantness that might
annoy her.
“You had better call up the police at once,” suggested the lawyer
to the bank president, and Mr. Bentfield agreed. Soon he was in
communication with the authorities.
Though it was past midnight, he managed to get on the wire the
detective department in the town where Witherby had gone on the bank’s
business. Mr. Bentfield received the promise that the arrest would be
made at once, and he would be notified as soon as this took place.
“Then we’ll wait here until we get that word,” said the president. “We
can make ourselves comfortable in my private office, and see what the
telephone says.”
They waited, talking at intervals about the strange case. Larry thought
over the points of the story he would write the next day. The finding
of the valise, so strangely hidden, would make sensational reading.
Suddenly there came the tinkle of the telephone bell. Mr. Bentfield
reached for the instrument.
“Yes--yes, this is the Consolidated National,” he answered. “Yes, I’m
the president. What’s that? You went to arrest Witherby, at the hotel
where he was stopping over-night. Yes--yes! Well, go on, hurry up. Did
you get him?”
“What? You didn’t? Why not?”
“He’d gone! What’s that? Do I get you right? He’d gone? Taken an early
morning train for New York? My, that’s strange!”
Mr. Bentfield placed his hand over the transmitter of the telephone,
and, turning to Larry and the lawyer, said:
“He’s gone! Left for New York. They can’t arrest him there.”
“All right,” said the lawyer, who thought quickly. “Tell them
we’ll look after the case from this end. Ring off, and get police
headquarters here. Give them a description of Witherby, and tell them
to watch his boarding place in Hackenford, or have the police there do
it. It would be better to have a New York detective on the case. We’ll
nab him when he comes to get his thousand-dollar bill.”
This request was soon sent over the wire, and word came back that a man
would be detailed to watch the boarding place of the suspected man.
“And that’s all we can do now,” said the lawyer. “Let’s go home.”
Larry paid an early visit to the bank the next morning. He was at once
admitted to Mr. Bentfield’s room.
“Have you heard anything from Hackenford?” asked the reporter.
In reply, the bank president handed him a telegram. It read:
“House carefully watched. Man described did not enter or leave it.”
“He seems to have disappeared,” remarked the president. “What do you
think of it, Larry?”
“I don’t know what to think. But I’m going out to Hackenford, and see
the man who was watching the house. There’s something wrong somewhere.”