THE ARREST
While it was easy for Larry to follow Witherby along the streets,
which, at that hour of the night, were not crowded, it was not so easy
to avoid observation because of that same absence of people. And Larry
certainly did not want the former bank clerk to suspect him.
“For if he does, he’ll know right away what’s up, and he’ll disappear
with the million, and I’ll have all my work to do over again. I
certainly was lucky to spot him this time, and lucky lightning would
never strike twice again like this. I’ve got to keep out of sight.”
It was only by cleverly dodging behind tree boxes, and house-stoops
that the reporter was able to remain unobserved. Several times Witherby
turned sharply, as though he suspected he was being followed, but Larry
was too quick for him.
“My, he lives a good way from the theatre,” thought Larry, as he
followed along, block after block. “I wish I knew what he was doing
there. If I knew which of the performers he cared about, I might be
able to get a line on him that way. Guess I’ll make some inquiries. It
may be----”
Larry had no time to finish his sentence, for Witherby turned suddenly,
and, as Larry was just then under a street lamp, he had to dodge
quickly behind the post.
“I wonder if he saw me?” mused the reporter. “He is certainly
suspicious.”
But this proved to be the end of the chase, for, a moment later,
Witherby went up the steps of a house which bore the sign “_BOARDING_”
in a window. Larry made a mental note of the street and number, and
also looked at the surroundings.
The street was a quiet one, with a number of apartment houses of the
poorer class on either side. The house that Witherby had entered was
near a corner, and this cross street was traversed by a trolley line.
The neighborhood seemed to be an old-fashioned part of the city.
“Well I’ve found his stopping-place,” thought Larry, “and the next
thing is to settle how he’s to be arrested. I can’t go in there, and
get him single-handed, and I haven’t a warrant on which the police
could take him. Nor could a policeman go in there and get him to-night.
In the excitement he might get away with the million, if he had it
hidden in his room, as is likely the case.
“And yet he must be arrested. But how? I think he’s safe enough until
morning, and by then I’ll think of a plan. I hate to leave this
neighborhood, but I’ve got to.”
Larry was in a quandary. Though he was morally certain that
Witherby was the thief, all the evidence against him, so far, was
circumstantial. It might not be wise to arrest him on suspicion, for,
if the charge should fail, then Witherby could sue Larry, the bank, and
the paper for false arrest.
“And we don’t want that to happen,” thought the young reporter. “It
would be bad all around. If I could only get him arrested on some
trivial charge which would hold him until Mr. Bentfield or some bank
official could get here, that would answer. Then they could take the
responsibility.
“By Jove, I have it. I’ll pay him back for what he did to Miss Mason
in the subway. I’ll come back here to-morrow, and wait for him to come
out of that boarding-house. Then I’ll walk past, and pretend that he
collided with me. I’ll accuse him of doing it on purpose. I’ll get into
a fight with him if necessary, and raise such a row that the police
will come. Then I’ll make a charge of assault and battery against him.
That will be sufficient on which to hold him. I’ll wire Mr. Bentfield
right away, to come to Chicago on the first train.”
Now that he had formed a plan of action Larry felt better satisfied.
He hurried to his hotel, and that morning he began his vigil at the
boarding-house. He reasoned that Witherby might come out at any time,
and he wanted to be ready for him.
He had not been waiting more than an hour before a quick glance up the
street, from the corner where he had been standing, as though waiting
for a car, showed him the man he wanted coming down the steps.
Witherby was standing with his back toward our hero, and so did not see
him at first. Larry, hurrying up, reached the foot of the steps just
as the bank clerk came down them. By cleverly lurching forward, Larry
managed to make it seem as if Witherby had collided with him. The force
of the impact was more than Larry had counted on, and Witherby went
down with an exclamation of anger.
Larry decided to act at once. Before the bank clerk could get up the
reporter seized him by the collar, exclaiming:
“What do you mean by running into me? I believe you tried to pick my
pocket! I shall have you arrested!”
Larry assumed a virtuous indignation. Witherby, taken quickly by
surprise, glanced up, and a look of amazement came over his face at
the sight of Larry. The bank clerk had on no disguise, unless a “loud”
checked suit, and a polka-dot velvet vest, of the kind sometimes worn
by theatrical men, could be so called. His hat had rolled some distance
away on the sidewalk.
“What! You here, Dexter?” cried Witherby. “What does this mean? Let go
of me! Let go of me at once!”
But Larry had no such intention. A glance down the street showed him an
officer approaching, and, still keeping hold of Witherby’s collar with
one hand, with the other Larry beckoned for the club-swinging policeman
to hasten.
The officer ran up, exclaiming:
“What’s the row? What’s the trouble here?”
“Nothing!” exclaimed Witherby. “What do you mean by this, Dexter?”
“I make a charge of assault and battery against this fellow,” said
Larry boldly. “He tried to pick my pocket, I think.”
“I did not!” cried Witherby. “It’s all a mistake!”
“Well, I’ll take you both down to the station house, and you can
explain to the captain,” spoke the officer, and a little later, when
the patrol wagon came, Larry and his captive were put into it. This was
just what the young reporter wanted, but Witherby was very angry.
“There is something back of this!” cried the former bank clerk, when
Larry had told of the collision. “You’re not having me arrested for
colliding with you, Dexter. What is it?”
“You’re wanted for robbing the Consolidated Bank of one million
dollars!” said Larry quietly, “and President Bentfield will soon be
here to press the charge. I ask that he be held until then,” he said to
the police captain.
“A million dollars!” gasped the police official. “You don’t mean to say
this is the fellow who is responsible for that big Wall Street bank
mystery?”
Larry nodded.
“Say!” cried Witherby, after an open-mouthed stare at Larry. “You’re
away off! A million dollars! Why, I had no more to do with the taking
of that than you did. I can explain everything if you’ll give me a
chance.”
“You’ll have all the chance you want,” declared Larry. “I’ve got plenty
of evidence against you. I saw the thousand-dollar bill in your room.
I saw you trying on a black beard, I found a sandy moustache in your
room. The bricks that were in the dummy bag came from a new house right
back of you in Hackenford. I traced you to Seven Mile Beach. I traced
you here. You had the million all right. You bought the duplicate
valise of Miss Mason, and I found where you hid it behind the old
ledgers, the one that held the money. I’ve got you right!”
“Say, either you’re crazy, or I am!” exclaimed Witherby simply, when
Larry had finished. “I don’t know any more about that million than
you do, though I can see why and how you suspected me. I did have a
thousand-dollar bill, and I did disguise myself in a false beard and
moustache. But I never knew any of the bricks were near me. I can
explain everything.”
“How?” asked Larry incredulously.
“In the shortest way, by saying that I have become an actor, and that
the false beard and moustache are part of my outfit. I practiced
wearing them back in Hackenford to get used to them, and I wore them
publicly to see if people could detect them. I wanted to get a perfect
make-up for the part I’m playing here.”
“You an actor?” gasped Larry, now all at sea. “So that’s why you were
in the theatre?”
“Exactly, and you’ve made a fine mess of it,” sneered the former bank
clerk. “Though, I admit, perhaps my actions were suspicious. But I can
explain everything.”
“About the thousand-dollar bill, and leaving town so suddenly?” asked
Larry.
“Yes. That bill was given me by Mr. Wilson, one of the bank directors.
He befriended me when no one else would, and he got me my place in
the bank. I always wanted to be an actor, and I only worked in the
Consolidated until I had a chance to get on the stage. I was always
rehearsing in private. Mr. Wilson heard of my ambition, and, as his
father was a celebrated actor, he had sympathy for me and he gave me a
thousand dollars to start my career. That’s where the money came from.
I didn’t want to take the money at first, and thought I might return
it. That’s why I didn’t bank it or change the bill.”
“But why did you leave so suddenly?”
“Because, most unexpectedly, I got the very chance for which I was
waiting. A member of the company playing here left suddenly. The
manager wired for me to come on to Chicago in a few days. It was the
same day Mr. Bentfield sent me out of town, and I did not want to go.
But I went, and I finished up the business for him. Then I hurried back
to my boarding-house, got the thousand dollars and my things, and left.
I went away disguised, as I did not want to stop and explain why I was
leaving, and I did not want to be arrested and detained as a suspect. I
heard about that quiet cabin at Seven Mile Beach, and I went there to
rest up and get letter-perfect in my actor part. What you say Bailey
heard, about me raving, was probably when I was going over my part.”
“But, why didn’t you send some word to the bank about leaving?” asked
Larry, after a moment’s thought.
“Because I knew any explanation I might make would be construed as an
excuse for getting away to avoid suspicion of the theft. I was afraid
they would suspect me if I left, and I was right. I know several of the
clerks who want to leave the bank, but they are afraid to, for fear
they’ll be arrested. I took the first and best chance that came. I
didn’t even tell Mr. Wilson that I was going until I was away. But, as
for that million dollars, I never had a penny of it!”
“Then who took it?” asked Larry weakly. He saw his case, that he had
built up with such care, tumbling apart. He did not know what to do
next. And yet he was rather glad on the whole, for the sake of Grace
Potter, that Witherby was not the thief.
“I didn’t!” declared Witherby, “though I can see now that my use of
beards and moustaches led to that belief.”
“Indeed it did,” declared Larry, remembering the time he had seen the
clerk in the costumer’s at the time of the drug house fire. “I’m sorry
I knocked you down, and caused your arrest. I admit I was suspicious of
you ever since that--er--well, that little fracas in the subway.”
“I’m sorry about that,” admitted Witherby. “I was in a hurry that
morning, and late. Besides I had a terrible toothache, and I didn’t
care much what I did. I wish you’d apologize to that young lady for me.”
“I will,” agreed Larry, who was beginning to have a different feeling
toward Witherby. “She thought sure, from a back view of you in the
store one day, that you were the bearded man who had bought the
duplicate bag.”
“Well, I didn’t. Though I hurried out, as I didn’t want to meet you.
I’m going to write to Mr. Bentfield and Mr. Wilson at once, explaining
everything. I realize that I came away rather unceremoniously, and
under suspicious circumstances. But if I had given the usual notice,
and waited two weeks before leaving, I would have missed the chance to
get on the stage. And I may say that I have started on a successful
stage career.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” spoke Larry. “But I certainly am puzzled. I’ll
have to begin all over again, and I don’t know how to do it.”
“Then I suppose there is no charge to be made?” suggested the police
captain.
“None,” answered Larry, “unless Mr. Witherby wants to get even with me.”
“I’m satisfied to let the matter drop,” was the answer. “I ought to be
at the theatre now for rehearsal. And to think you have been trailing
me, thinking I had the million dollars!”
“Yes, I made a big mistake,” admitted Larry. “But I’ll get the real
thief yet, and find the money.”
“I hope you do,” spoke Witherby. “Come and see me act to-night.”
“I saw you last night, but I didn’t recognize you,” said Larry, with a
smile.
“I took the part of the old servant,” explained the actor, and then the
reporter recognized the character as one of the principal ones in the
play. Witherby had acted well.
“I guess this case is closed so far as we are concerned then,” spoke
the police captain, and, taking the hint Larry and Witherby went out.
Each had a new respect for the other.
“What are you going to do next?” asked the actor.
“I don’t know,” replied Larry. “Get to New York as fast as I can, for
one thing, and then look for new clews.”
He was quite despondent as he went back to his hotel, while Witherby
kept on to rehearsal.
“Telegram for you,” said the hotel clerk, as Larry entered the lobby.
He took it, wondering what it might contain.