THE IMPOSTOR’S CLEVERNESS.
“You may take that for granted, of course,” Griswold agreed, in
reference to the bogus detective’s last suggestion.
“But Simpson was treasurer of the fund,” Cray interposed. “He worked it
so the bank accepted his authority, and——”
Gordon was studying the millionaire’s face, and was clever enough to
read what he saw there.
“By no means, my dear Cray,” he said. “Simpson didn’t approach the
Hattontown bank in his capacity as treasurer of the fund. He knew
better than to do that—knew that he would have no standing there,
unless identified and backed up by the organization itself. He knew,
too, as I reason it out, that the bank would look for any action to
come from the local newspaper, and would be off its guard if it did,
the _Observer’s_ man being naturally known to the bank officials.”
He was watching Griswold narrowly all the time, and saw that he was on
the right track.
“Mean he had an accomplice on the Hattontown paper?” demanded Cray,
looking startled.
“By no means,” Gordon returned calmly, still using Griswold’s
expression as a guide. “There’s such a thing, though, as impersonation,
my friend.”
It was a venturesome leap, but it proved surprisingly successful.
“By Jove!” ejaculated the millionaire, looking at the supposed Nick
Carter in amazement and with a new respect. “You have hit the nail on
the head, Mr. Carter! How in the world——”
Gordon shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, it was very simple,” he confessed. “I read it all in your face.”
He rightly guessed that that would not make it seem any the less
remarkable in Griswold’s eyes.
“I don’t see how,” declared the millionaire.
“Some stunt!” Cray commented admiringly.
“I did just that, though,” Green Eye assured the millionaire. “Of
course, I saw in advance that Simpson would have been powerless unless
introduced by the manager of your local paper, and supplied with
credentials from the New York office. The credentials might have been
forged, to be sure, but a local introduction would have been out of the
question without the assistance of a confederate to impersonate the
manager, or some one else in authority on the paper. And if there was
any impersonating to be done, it was clear that Simpson could do it
himself. For the rest, I depended upon your expression, Mr. Griswold,
to tell me when I got off the track.”
“It is useless to try to belittle your achievements, sir,” the
millionaire told him. “I consider it an evidence of most unusual
ability. You have hit upon the truth in a manner that has taken my
breath away. You are quite right, Mr. Carter. The trick was turned
by means of impersonation, and the man impersonated was the business
manager of the Hattontown _Observer_. Charles Danby is his name, and,
as it happens, he and Simpson resemble each other more or less. Simpson
pleaded overwork as a result of his extra duties in connection with the
fund, and got permission to be away for a couple of days. Evidently he
lost no time in going to Hattontown, and there he presented himself at
the bank in the guise of Danby.”
“The fellow must have had nerve!” contributed Jack Cray. “Hard to
believe he isn’t a dyed-in-the-wool crook.”
“It’s almost incredible,” Griswold agreed, “but apparently there’s no
room for doubt that Simpson did the whole business. He was known at the
bank, but no one suspected the deception, and the only thing the bank
people can remember that was queer about him was his husky voice, which
he attributed to a cold.
“In the character of Danby, he informed the bank people, and showed a
letter addressed to Danby and signed by Driggs, our vice president.
The letter was perfectly genuine, and had been dictated here, in our
New York office, following Driggs’ acceptance of Simpson’s scheme
for exhibiting the gold. Simpson had managed to get possession of
it, however, before it was sent out, and the real Danby never got a
sight of it. Naturally, the bank officials did not approve. The plan
seemed too spectacular, and altogether too risky. It was none of their
business, though, and they finally agreed to an immediate removal of
the gold.”
“Simpson had a car handy, then?” queried Green Eye.
“Oh, yes, he had an electric outside—said he had just bought it at
secondhand. Hattontown is a place of twenty or thirty thousand, you
know—too large for every one to know the business of everybody else;
consequently, the bank people had no reason to doubt his word.”
“How about guards, though,” Cray broke in.
“There were none,” Griswold answered. “The bank people claim to have
expostulated on that score, but Simpson scoffed at their fears. It was
broad daylight, in a peaceable community, and he had only a few blocks
to go. He assured them, however, that the gold would be carefully
guarded when it was put on exhibition, and reminded them that their
responsibility ended when he had withdrawn the deposit. I forgot to
say, also, that he presented an order on the bank for the withdrawal,
signed by John Simpson, as treasurer.”
“So they packed all this money up, loaded it on the electric, and let
him make off with it alone, did they?” queried Gordon. “It certainly
sounds like small-time stuff. I suppose we can’t blame them, though.
They had plenty of reason to think that everything was straight.
Anything more, Mr. Griswold?”
“That’s practically all, I think,” the millionaire returned. “We
haven’t notified the police, or employed any other detectives;
therefore we have been unable to trace the rascal’s further movements.
The only reason we know all this is that it has come out naturally. One
of the bank officials met the real Danby the next day, and expressed
surprise that he had heard nothing of the gold being put on exhibition.
You can imagine Danby’s consternation, and the confidential reports
that have been flying back and forth since then.”
“Trail begins in Hattontown, then,” Cray mused aloud.
“We may cross it at some other point, though,” hinted Gordon. “Describe
Simpson, please, Mr. Griswold.”
The newspaper proprietor fumbled in his pocket and produced a
photograph, which Gordon took eagerly.
“Seen it already,” Cray informed him. “Face commonplace, easily
disguised.”
The photograph was indeed that of a very ordinary-looking man. He was
a little over forty, one would have said, but looked older. He was
somewhat bald, wore glasses, which would make it difficult to determine
the color and expression of his eyes, and had a rather weak, amiable
face.
In short, he belonged to the traditional clerk or bookkeeper type, and
seemed to be one of those men whose chief object in life is to hold
down some poorly paid position, and to cheerfully make hypocrites of
themselves in order to do so.
With that pictured face before him, Ernest Gordon found it very
difficult indeed to credit Simpson with the cleverness and
resourcefulness which had been so conspicuous in Griswold’s account
of the theft. Still, he knew that such men sometimes had flashes of
brilliancy.
“Let’s hope it’s nothing more than a flash, though,” he told himself.
“If he were to keep up that pace, it might not be such a cinch to
corner him—but he won’t. He’ll have a relapse, and when it comes, he’ll
be an easy mark.”
He continued to examine the face in detail.
“You feel sure his wife does not know of his crime?” was his next
question.
“Certainly not,” was the prompt answer. “That would have been unwise,
under the circumstances, for, in her distress, she would probably blurt
it out to her relatives and friends, and, before we knew it, the whole
thing might get into print. I have inquired about him, of course, and
she may suspect, but that’s all.”
“Her address, please.”
“No. 31 Floral Avenue, New Pelham.”
Gordon jotted it down on one of Nick Carter’s pads.
“Now, will you kindly answer a question that has been puzzling me for
some time?” he went on. “If we catch this man for you—or, rather, when
we catch him—what are you going to do with him? You can’t prosecute,
you know, without letting the cat out of the bag.”