A VISIT TO THE BANK.
The journey to and from the suburban hotel had occupied considerable
time, and it was almost one o’clock before the detective returned to
the Windermere.
The clerk saw him enter the lobby and called him to the desk. He was
informed of the telephone message and of Patsy’s call at the hotel. He
realized, of course, that one of his assistants had been trying to get
in touch with him, but he did not know that it was in connection with
that particular case.
Moreover, something came up which made it necessary for him to
disregard Patsy’s injunction to remain in until he could be reached.
“Mr. Crawford hasn’t come back yet, Mr. Mortimer?” the clerk asked.
“The gentleman seemed to know him, too.”
The detective had turned away from the desk, but he faced about and
shook his head.
“I’m afraid that Crawford will not be back for some time,” he replied.
“He was taken very ill while we were out together, and I had to remove
him to a hospital. I’m not quite sure what’s the matter with him.
I’m afraid, though, that it’s some sort of fever which he may have
contracted in South America.”
The hotel clerk looked startled. “It’s nothing very serious, I hope?”
he said.
“I trust not,” was the reply. “The hospital people feel sure that it
isn’t contagious, if that’s what you mean.”
Again he started to leave the desk, but the clerk once more detained
him. “A messenger came from the Standard National Bank about half an
hour ago,” the young man explained. “He asked for either Mr. Stone or
Mr. Crawford, and said it was very important. Mr. Stone was in his room
in the small hours of the morning, I understand, but he isn’t there
now, and nobody seems to have seen him about the building this morning.”
A little glint came into Nick’s eyes, but the clerk did not notice it.
“The Standard National is near here, isn’t it?” he inquired, although
he knew perfectly well.
“Yes, it’s just around the corner,” and the clerk indicated the
direction.
“Then I think I’ll drop around there. I can give them some information
about Crawford, anyway; besides, we’ve come to know each other pretty
well.”
His manner was careless, but inwardly he attached a great deal of
importance to the bit of information which by chance had come his way.
It suggested one of the possibilities he had feared, namely, that
Follansbee would try some trick to get possession of a large sum of
money belonging to one or the other of the partners, or both.
It being Saturday, he found the bank closed when he reached it, but
most of the employees were still on hand, and his knock soon brought a
response. He mentioned his business to the clerk who opened the door,
and a few moments later he was led into the cashier’s room. The bank
official had expected either Stone or Crawford, and his face betrayed
his disappointment. His manner was another proof that something out of
the ordinary had occurred, or was impending.
Nick drew a card front his pocket and held it out silently. As soon as
the cashier saw the name, “Nicholas Carter,” his eyes widened.
“There’s nothing wrong, Mr. Carter, I hope?” he asked quickly. “I was
very doubtful of honoring the check, but I had Mr. Stone’s own note to
justify me.”
From the desk at his elbow he picked up a sheet of paper bearing the
Hotel Windermere heading, and held it out. Nick glanced at the big,
careless scrawl.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve seen specimens of Stone’s writing, and I don’t
think there’s any doubt that this is his.”
The cashier then extended a check marked “paid,” and made out to “S.
Follansbee.”
There were probably several men among New York City’s five millions who
had the right to that name and initial, but it seemed perfectly safe to
eliminate all but one. It was the sum called for, however, that riveted
the detective’s attention at once and caused him to fairly gasp.
“Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars!” he ejaculated. “Great Scott!
That practically cleans out Stone’s account, doesn’t it?”
“It leaves only twenty-five or thirty thousand, I believe,” was the
worried answer.
The detective was still examining the check, and the cashier watched
the keen face for a few moments.
“You seem greatly startled by the amount, Mr. Carter,” he ventured
presently. “Please tell me if there’s anything out of the way. I had my
doubts about it—owing solely to the size of the check; therefore I kept
the man waiting until I had sent around to the hotel to make sure, but
neither Mr. Stone nor his friend Mr. Crawford, who also has a large sum
on deposit, was within reach.”
“Did Follansbee present the check?”
“Oh, no. It was a young man who looked like a rather superior sort of
servant, and who spoke English with a slight accent—German or Austrian,
I think. The check was endorsed, as you see, and the man brought with
him not only that note purporting to be signed by Mr. Stone, but also
one from Doctor Follansbee on St. Swithin’s stationery. Here it is.”
He handed Nick another sheet, bearing Follansbee’s signature under an
authorization to cash the check for his agent.
“That’s undoubtedly genuine,” the cashier went on. “I called up Doctor
Follansbee at the hospital, and he assured me that everything was
regular. There didn’t seem to be anything to do but to take his word
for it, owing to his position and reputation. It seemed very queer,
though, and I couldn’t understand why he didn’t send the check to his
own bank and let it take the usual course.”
“You cashed it, then, in currency?”
“Yes, the man brought along a hand bag and carried away the money in
it.”
“Did you mark any of the bills?”
“Yes; many of those of large denomination. I felt compelled to take
that precaution, although it seemed foolish. There were too many of
them, though, to mark anywhere near all.”
Carter leaned forward suddenly, and, holding Stone’s note and the check
together, placed them in front of the cashier.
“Do you notice any striking peculiarities about these two documents?”
he asked.
The bank official scrutinized them carefully.
“I don’t quite know what you mean,” he said at length. “Oh, I think
I see. All except the signature of the check seems to be written in
another hand—more like Follansbee’s than Stone’s. Is that it?”
“That the most obvious,” the detective answered. “It hints that Stone
was foolish enough to sign a blank check or something of that sort.
That isn’t all, though. One would naturally assume that the check and
Stone’s note authorizing the payment had been written at the same
time, yet I’d swear the ink on this check is older—perhaps several
days older—than that on the note. What’s more, I happen to know that,
although this note is written on hotel paper, the ink used is not the
shade of that furnished at the Windermere.”
“By George!” muttered the cashier. “This is getting serious. You don’t
mean to tell me that Doctor Stephen Follansbee is a scamp?”
“These things speak for themselves, don’t they?” Nick asked quietly.
“And there are other straws which show the way the wind is blowing.”
“What, for instance?”