A LONG CHASE
Seven Mile Beach, on the Jersey coast, was the place where Larry had
once had an assignment to cover a story about a wreck of a steamship,
and was also his starting point in the hunt for Mr. Potter, the missing
millionaire. It was there he had met Bert Bailey, an old fisherman, who
had helped him.
And it was toward Seven Mile Beach that Larry now turned his attention.
No sooner had he received the telegram than he reached for a timetable
of trains that ran to that rather-out-of-the-way coast resort.
“Can you make it this afternoon, Larry?” asked Mr. Emberg.
“Well, there’s a train that will bring me there after midnight,”
answered the young reporter. “I’ll take that.”
“Hadn’t you better wait until to-morrow?” suggested the city editor.
“No indeed!” exclaimed Larry. “I’ve done enough waiting on this case as
it is. I want to get busy. This may be the beginning of the end. If
that’s Witherby hiding there I’ll soon be after him, and, if I don’t
find the million dollars, I’ll get the thief, anyhow, and a corking
good story, too.”
“Do you think this clew will amount to anything?”
“Well, it’s hard to say. Naturally I’m hopeful, and when I hear of a
queerly acting man, in a lonely fishing hamlet, who is spending a lot
of money, it makes me think it might be Witherby. Of course, it may not
be, but I’ve got to make sure. I’ll let you know by wire as soon as
anything developes.”
In order to lose no time, Larry telephoned to his mother that he had to
go out of town, and would not be back for several days perhaps. Then,
having sent a boy up to get a few of his clothes in a valise, while
Larry himself arranged about buying a ticket to Seven Mile Beach, the
young reporter was ready to start.
He had a last talk with the bank president, telling him of the new
developments.
“I’m sure I hope something comes of this!” exclaimed Mr. Bentfield.
“Things will come to a crisis soon, if we don’t find the thief. All
our employees are uneasy, from being virtually under suspicion, and I
don’t know how long I can keep up the innocent, little deception about
Witherby being away on business. They will soon suspect that he had
fled, and that he is the one who took the million.”
“And yet, with all that, he may be innocent,” said Larry, “though I
don’t believe it.”
“Certainly he is the only one, in all the bank, on whom such strong
suspicion has fallen,” declared the president. “And, though the
officers are still keeping a careful watch, not one of the other
clerks shown any guilty uneasiness, nor has any one of them shown a
disposition to go away, unannounced.”
“If any one does flee, I had better be notified,” suggested Larry. “You
can send a telegram in care of Bert Bailey.”
It was a long, and not very pleasant, ride to Seven Mile Beach. Most
of it had to be made after dark, and Larry dozed fitfully in his seat,
half thinking and half dreaming, of the bank mystery on which he had
worked so faithfully.
The car was almost deserted, for there was not much travel at this time
of night. It was close to twelve o’clock, and Larry knew that he must
be near his destination. He dozed off, and awoke suddenly, to hear a
dash of rain against the window. Almost at the same moment the train
came to a sudden stop.
“Something’s wrong!” exclaimed Larry, sitting up. He had traveled
enough to know that the application of the air brakes with such force
did not mean an ordinary stop. And, peering out into the darkness, as
best he could, he could see no sign of a station.
The young reporter was about to go out, and see what was the trouble,
when a brakeman came in, and Larry made inquiry of him.
“Something went wrong with the engine,” was the answer. “They only give
us half-worn out locomotives on this division, anyhow.”
“Will we be held up long?”
“Until morning I guess.”
“How far are we from Seven Mile Beach?”
“About three miles.”
“Then I’m going to walk. I’m in a hurry.” Larry made up his mind that
the least delay that could be avoided ought to be, if he was to capture
the thief. “Witherby may skip any moment, night or day,” he reflected.
“Walk! In this rain?” asked the brakeman, as there came a patter of
drops against the window. “I wouldn’t. I’m going to make myself snug
in here. There’s nothing we can do, the engineer says, and they can’t
get another locomotive to us until morning. This division goes to sleep
after ten o’clock I guess. Walk, in this rain? I guess not!”
“You would if you were a newspaper reporter,” thought Larry grimly, as
he reached for his valise in the rack over his head.
It was not a very inviting prospect that lay before him. The night was
dark, and the rain came down heavily. The railroad ran along the beach
at this point, and Larry knew that by following the strand he would
eventually come to his destination, and the little cabin where Bert
Bailey lived. Fortunately he had an umbrella, but as he stepped off
the train he found that the wind was blowing in from the sea with such
violence that it whipped the drops up under the umbrella, making it all
but useless.
Larry never forgot that long, dismal walk. When he had passed the
locomotive, at which the fireman and engineer, with flickering
lanterns, were tinkering, and got beyond the rays of the headlight, it
seemed as if he had been plunged into a damp pit of blackness. Off to
the left the waves rolled and thundered on the sand, and overhead was
the rain, while the wind blew with increasing violence. Larry kept to
the railroad track, the walking being better there than on the sand.
“Whew! This is fierce!” he exclaimed, as a gust, stronger than any of
the preceding ones, nearly tore the umbrella from his grasp. “This
is the worst I’ve struck in a long time. But I’ve got to keep on. If
Witherby hasn’t skipped out yet, this storm may keep him back.”
Larry trudged on. He was almost wet through, and he was beginning to
feel chilly though it was summer. But he knew that his tramp must soon
end and, a little later, he saw the dim outlines of the few houses that
composed the little hamlet where Bailey, the fisherman, lived.
“I hope he has a fire, and can give me some hot coffee,” mused Larry,
as he stumbled on in the darkness. “This place has not changed much
since I was here before. I don’t see any sky-scrapers,” he added, “and
the taxicab service seems to be put out of commission by the rain.”
He swung away from the track now, and cut across the sands toward the
fisherman’s cabin. He looked, but could make out no light in it.
“He’s gone to bed I guess,” thought the reporter. “Well, I’ll have to
rouse him. I suppose I should have sent him a message saying I was
coming, but I didn’t have time.”
He knocked on the door, and waited. There was no response.
“Jove! I hope he isn’t away from home,” thought Larry. “I don’t know
where else I could stay to-night.” He looked around on the storm-swept
waste of sand, and knocked again. This time a voice called:
“Who’s there?”
“Larry Dexter,” was the answer. “I came down after I got your telegram,
Mr. Bailey. Where’s the queer man with the money?”
“Oh, land-lubber’s luck!” exclaimed the fisherman, as he struck a
light, and opened the door. “Good land, Mr. Dexter! And to think of
you coming down all this way in the storm! Oh, Davy Jones! Oh, lee
scuppers!”
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Larry, surprised at the fisherman’s
words and actions. “Is anything wrong?”
“The man’s skipped!” exclaimed Bert Bailey.
“Skipped?” cried Larry.
“Yep. Lit out late this afternoon. I sent you a wire after my first
one, but I guess you didn’t get it. Sit down by the fire, and I’ll tell
you about it while I make coffee, and get you something to eat. To
think of your coming down all this way, and getting fooled. It’s too
bad!”
The kitchen fire was going, and the fisherman turned on the drafts to
brighten it. Soon a pot of coffee was boiling, while Larry got rid of
some of his wet garments.
“Now tell me about the man,” he urged. “Maybe, after all, he isn’t the
one I’m after.”
“He was a fellow of about your size, and he wore a sandy moustache,”
said the fisherman. “He had a valise with the letters ‘H. W.’ on the
end, though he gave it out that his name was Thomas Dawson. He walked
with a limp.”
“Pshaw, then it can’t be Witherby!” cried Larry, who had been hopeful
when he heard about the sandy moustache. “That is, unless he adopted
the limp as a disguise. But go on. Tell me more.”
“He came here a few days ago,” went on the fisherman, “and hired a
small cabin of me. Gave it out that he wanted a rest. But, say, you
ought to have seen him spend money!”
“Did he?” cried Larry eagerly, all his old suspicions reviving. “How
much. Was it in thousand-dollar bills?”
“No; I couldn’t say they was,” replied Bert Bailey slowly. “But he sure
was lavish. Why, he used to buy five-cent cigars at the store, and
everybody around here smokes twofers.”
“Twofers?”
“Yes, two for five cents, you know, an’ they’re expensive enough for
anybody. An’ then this feller give Hank Solomon half a dollar one day,
jest for rowin’ him out in the bay after fish. He didn’t git none,
neither. Why, fifty cents! Hank never gets more than twenty-five. Say,
that feller was just made of money!”
Once more Larry’s heart sank. Clearly the old fisherman, with
exaggerated ideas of the value of money, had brought the reporter down
on a wild-goose chase.
“You said in your telegram that he acted strangely,” said Larry, to
Bert Bailey. “What did you mean?”
“Well, I guess you’d call it queer if you went past his cabin at all
hours of the night, and heard him ravin’ about a big theft, and the
loss of papers, and all such. Sometimes he’d be yellin’ for some one to
unhand him, whatever that is, and again he’d yell suthin’ about he must
git them papers. Once I heard him cry out: ‘Officer, do your duty!’
Now, if that ain’t queer I’d like to know what is.”
“You heard him say these things?” asked Larry, a new idea coming into
his mind.
“Sure I did. He was talkin’ in his sleep I reckon, for it was mostly at
night I’d hear him. Then, too, he went about as if he didn’t know what
to do next--sort of lookin’ up at the clouds, and talking to himself.
Oh, he was queer, all right, and he certainly blew in his money. I
remembered you said you’d like to hear when there was any news down
here, and so I telegraphed you. I’m sorry, though, you had your trip
for nothing, but late this afternoon that feller went off, bag and
baggage.”
“I don’t know that I’ve had my trip for nothing,” said Larry, all
excitement once more. “In fact, I’m beginning to believe now that this
man is the very one I’m after.”
Briefly he told about the theft of the million dollars, and the
disappearance of Witherby.
“Whales’ teeth and lobsters’ tails!” cried the fisherman. “A million
dollars! No wonder he bought five-centers! Whew!”
“Do you know where he went?” asked Larry, eagerly.
“No, but maybe you can find out at the depot, in the mornin’, where
his ticket was to. The place ain’t open now. And so you think he’s the
thief?”
“I’m almost sure of it. He probably came here as the most
out-of-the-way place he could find, to be under cover for a day or so.
His talk, in his sleep probably, was because he has been continually
fearing arrest for the last month. His conscience troubles him. I’ll
get right after him in the morning.”
Larry fell into an uneasy sleep, and as soon as it was daylight he paid
a visit to the cabin that the mysterious man had occupied. The reporter
hoped to find some sort of a clew, nor was he disappointed.
Among some odds and ends of trash, in a box, were the pieces of a
torn envelope. Barry fitted them together, and got the name “Harrison
Witherby.” The envelope had been addressed to him in Hackenford.
“By Jove!” cried the young reporter in delight. “It _was_ Witherby who
was here! The trail is still good! Now if I can only find out where
he’s gone!”
He hurried to the railroad station and made inquiries of the ticket
agent. That official remembered the mysterious man very well, for he
did not sell many tickets to strangers.
“And where did he go?” asked Larry, with beating heart.
“To Chicago,” was the unexpected answer.
“You’ll never get him now!” exclaimed Bert Bailey, who went to the
depot with the reporter.
“Yes I will!” cried Larry determinedly. “Give me a ticket.”
“Where to?” asked the agent.
“To Chicago. I’m going there on the next train!”