The Overland was several hours late; it was nearly four o’clock of a
foggy April afternoon before Brainard emerged from the ferry station with
his big valise in his hand. His first intention had been to go to a
hotel and there deposit his bag and make inquiries. The miner had urged
him to accompany him to the old “Palace.” “They say it’s finer than ever
since the quake.” But Brainard, reflecting that it was Saturday
afternoon and considering that a few hours’ delay might mean the loss of
two days, shook hands with his fellow travelers and turned to the
telephone booths to discover Krutzmacht’s city address. When he had
memorized the street and number he started up Market Street, still
carrying his bag. He was astonished to see how thoroughly the city had
recovered from its disaster in little more than a year. There were large
gaps in the business blocks, to be sure, but it was a lively, substantial
city with a great deal of building going forward, especially in the noisy
erection of tall steel buildings. The very sight of these ambitious
structures inspired courage!
After a short walk Brainard found himself at the entrance of a large, new
building on Sutter Street that corresponded with the number he had
memorized. He stood on the curb for a few moments staring up at the
windows. Now that he had reached his goal, a trace of his former habit
of despondency came over him, making him hesitate before the final
effort, but shaking himself free from the old morbidness he walked
briskly into the building. When he emerged from the elevator on the top
floor, the boy pointed down the corridor. “The last one on the right,”
he said.
Brainard passed a number of offices whose doors bore in small black
letters the names of different companies,—“Pacific Northern Railroad,”
“Great Western Land and Improvement Company,” “The Shasta Corporation.”
At the extreme end of the corridor was a door with the simple lettering,
“Herbert Krutzmacht.” The plain black letters of the name had something
of the same potency that the signature at the bottom of the power of
attorney had. Like that, like the sick man himself who had painfully
gasped out his last orders, they were a part of the substantial realm of
fact. So far, at least, the dream held! There was a real man named
Krutzmacht, engaged in important business enterprises, and from what
Brainard had learned on the train he knew that there was a crisis in his
affairs.
With his hand on the door-handle he paused. His heart beat fast, and he
looked around him nervously as if expecting to see an officer of the
court lurking somewhere in the corridor. There was no one on this floor,
however. The quiet of a late Saturday afternoon had settled down on the
busy building, but within the private office Brainard could hear the slow
click of a typewriter. He pushed open the door and entered.
It was a large, rather barely furnished room, evidently used as an
ante-room to other offices. Near the window a young woman was seated at
a desk, lazily examining a mass of papers and occasionally tapping the
keys of a machine, with the desultory air of an employee killing time at
the end of the day. She was a distinctly good looking woman, Brainard
observed, although no longer young, with abundant coarse black hair,
fresh complexion, and decidedly plump.
The stenographer looked up from her work at Brainard with a start as if
she had been expecting some one, but quickly composed herself.
“Well, what is it?” she asked with a peculiar intonation that indicated
hostility.
Brainard was at a loss for a reply and stood gaping at the stenographer
foolishly. He had not thought of meeting a woman. He had known few
women, and he lacked confidence in dealing with them.
“Is—is Mr. Krutzmacht in?” he stammered awkwardly, and cursed himself for
the silly question.
The woman gave him a suspicious look and answered shortly:
“No, he ain’t.”
“Oh,” the young man remarked, looking about the office. Near the
stenographer’s desk was a door partly open, which led into an inner room.
In the farther corner of this room could be seen the projecting corner of
a steel safe. This Brainard felt must be his goal, and he unconsciously
stepped toward the door of the inner office. The woman rose as if to bar
his further progress and snapped irritably:
“What do you want here?”
“Why, I just want to talk to you,” he replied as amiably as he could.
“Cut it short then, young man. I haven’t any time to waste in
conversazione.”
“You don’t seem very busy!” Brainard observed smiling.
“I’m always busy to strangers, little one—I do my day-dreaming outside of
office hours.” She thrust the metal cover on her machine with a clatter.
“See?”
“Oh, yes, I see,” Brainard replied and again tried to approach the inner
office. The stenographer confronted him alertly and folding her arms
demanded:
“What’s your game, anyway, young man? If you’re one of those lawyers—”
“No, I’m no lawyer,” Brainard said laughing. “Guess again!”
“Haven’t the time. It’s Saturday afternoon, and this office is supposed
to be closed at one o’clock.”
“So it is Saturday—I’d almost forgotten the fact.”
The stenographer eyed him very sourly and observed coldly:
“Where do you keep yourself that you don’t know the day of the week? Go
home, young man, and think it over.”
Brainard saw that in this national game of “josh” he could make no
progress against such an adept and came bluntly to the point:
“Are you in charge of Mr. Krutzmacht’s office?”
“What’s that to you?”
“Because I’ve been sent here by Mr. Krutzmacht to—”
“Sent here by Mr. Krutzmacht—the one you were asking for just now? . . .
Try something else, sonny.”
Brainard felt foolish and completely baffled. He wanted to strangle the
woman and throw her out of the window. But aside from the fact that she
appeared to be vigorous and of a fighting disposition he realized that
the less disturbance he made the greater chance he would have of carrying
through his mission successfully. It is not clear what the outcome
between the two would have been, if at that moment there had not appeared
from the inner office an elderly man whose mild face had a worried look.
Brainard noted the man’s near-sighted, timid air and regained his calm.
“Here’s a young feller, Mr. Peters, who says he’s looking for Mr.
Krutzmacht,” the girl said.
“Mr. Krutzmacht is not in the city,” the man said nervously.
“Yes, I know that!” Brainard replied easily. “You see I was sent here by
Mr. Krutzmacht himself.”
“You come from Krutzmacht!” the man gasped in excitement, while the
woman’s face expressed incredulity. “Where is he? We’ve been
telegraphing all over the country the last week trying to locate him.
Mr. Snell has just gone east—left this office only an hour ago—to see if
he can find him.”
Brainard reflected that the Overland Limited had probably served him a
good turn by being late; for he judged that the fewer persons he had to
deal with in the present emergency the easier it would be for him to
accomplish his purposes. This mild-mannered, flustered clerk did not
look formidable. His tones gained confidence.
“Mr. Krutzmacht,” Brainard explained glibly, “has met with an
accident—not a serious one, I hope. He is in good hands. He has sent me
out here to get some papers that he wants from his safe.”
“But, but,” the bewildered clerk stammered, “don’t you know that the
court—”
“They’ve fixed up a receivership, I know,” Brainard interrupted, “that’s
the reason perhaps—”
“I’ve been expecting ’em in here all the afternoon,” the clerk said
nervously, looking at the door. “Then there’ll be the devil to pay
generally.”
“All the better!” Brainard exclaimed. “Let’s get busy before they
arrive.”
“But who are you, anyway?” the old man demanded with a sudden access of
caution.
Brainard merely smiled at the worried old man. He was more and more at
his ease, now that he knew the caliber of the timid old clerk, and though
he felt the necessity of haste in his operations, if an officer of the
court was momentarily expected to make a descent upon Krutzmacht’s
private office, yet he spoke and acted with calm.
“Suppose we lock these outer doors—if you think any one is likely to
interrupt us—and then we can proceed undisturbed.”
He shot the brass bolt in the door through which he had entered and
glanced into the inner office, but apparently this one had no exit upon
the corridor. Meanwhile the stenographer was whispering vehemently to
the old clerk, who looked at the intruder doubtfully and seemed
irresolute. Brainard leisurely pulled down the shade over the glass
window in the door.
“There!” he said. “Now we are ready.”
He took the sheet that bore Krutzmacht’s signature from his pocket and
held it out to Peters. “Want my credentials? That’s a power of attorney
Mr. Krutzmacht dictated and signed just before I left him.”
He waited for the clerk to adjust his glasses and read the hastily penned
sheet, thinking what he should do if by chance the old man refused to
recognize it. He did not feel disturbed. The ride across the continent
had rested him bodily and mentally. The good meals and the unwonted
luxury of eating and sleeping without care, which had been his daily
companion for all the years he could remember, had given him a fresh
spirit. He could think quickly and with precision; he felt himself amply
capable, full of power to meet any emergency that might rise—for the
first time in his life.
“What do you want to do?” Peters asked, handing back the power of
attorney. He seemed somewhat reassured by the sight of his master’s
signature at the bottom of the scrawl.
“Mr. Krutzmacht wanted me to get the stuff out of his safe—I suppose it’s
the one in there?”
“But—but,” the clerk protested. “If the court has granted this
injunction, I don’t suppose I ought to—”
“That’s just why you ought!” Brainard interrupted impatiently. “Don’t
you see this is Krutzmacht’s one chance of getting his property out of
their reach? Once the court puts hands on it, there won’t be much left
for the owner!”
Without further delay he strode into the inner office, saying lightly:
“Krutzmacht is keeping out of sight for the present—until trouble blows
over, you see.”
“The safe’s locked,” the clerk objected weakly, “and no one here has the
combination. Mr. Snell didn’t leave it.”
Without taking the trouble to reply, Brainard walked over to the heavy
steel door and began twirling the knob as if he had opened office safes
all his life. The clerk and the stenographer stared while the little
nickel wheel revolved in Brainard’s fingers. When finally the bolts shot
back and the door swung open, Peters gasped:
“But how will you get all that stuff out of here?”
“Just bring me that bag from the other room, will you please?” Brainard
asked the stenographer. As she turned unwillingly to fetch the bag,
there came a loud, resolute knock at the door of the outer office.
“There!” the old clerk exclaimed.
The stenographer started for the door, but Brainard with one leap
overtook her, pushed her back into the inner room, and closed the door.
Again the knocking on the outside door came, even more insistently, and
the knob was rattled as if the visitor was determined to gain entrance.
The three in the inner office stood still listening, not speaking.
Brainard noticed an angry red flush spread over the woman’s features. As
no further knocking came after a few moments, Brainard turned to the
stenographer sternly.
“You can sit at that desk, miss. I’ll answer the door. Come on, Mr.
Peters, and show me the most important things in here—the papers
Krutzmacht’s enemies would hate to lose. You know them, don’t you?”
“Some of them,” the clerk admitted, rather doubtfully, his eyes running
over the close-packed shelves of the vault. “They’re ’most all valuable
in here, I suppose. The general papers are kept in the other vault
downstairs. But the most important are in these drawers.”
He pulled out several receptacles that seemed crammed with engraved
certificates and legal papers.
“Mr. Krutzmacht kept all his personal papers up here where he could get
at them day or night,” he explained. “I guess it’s all valuable to some
one!” he concluded hopelessly.
“I can’t put it all in that bag,” Brainard observed, his eye running over
the contents of the well-filled vault. “Well, let’s try the drawers
first—the cream is likely to be there.”
He began to pass out the contents of the drawers to the clerk, who shoved
them hastily into the large valise. But before Brainard had quite
finished the second tier of drawers, the bag was almost filled with
crisp, tightly packed bundles of securities and legal papers. There
remained books and other rows of documents. Brainard looked at some of
them impatiently, trying to decide what could best be left behind. At
last he exclaimed:
“It’s no use my trying to pick it over. I might leave the best of the
lot. I must have a small trunk. Can you get me one, Peters? While you
are gone I will fetch it all out here and sort it over. . . . No, don’t
go out that way!” he exclaimed, as the clerk started for the outer door.
“Where does that go?” He pointed to a small door behind the corner of
the safe.
“It’s the fire escape,” Peters explained timidly.
“Just the thing!”
He opened the door and peered out into the dark, inclosed well down which
ran one of the modern circular fire escapes.
Brainard handed Peters a bill, and shoved him toward the door. After the
clerk had gone, Brainard turned to his task, and emptied the safe in a
few minutes. Then he began to sort the books and papers and securities
into piles for convenient packing, stuffing the bonds and stocks, which
he judged to be the most valuable part of the loot, into his valise.
There had been no movement by the stenographer for some time, and
Brainard had almost forgotten her presence. Suddenly, while he was in
the safe, he heard a slight sound outside, like the movement of a woman’s
dress. He jumped to his feet. The stenographer, with one hand on the
desk telephone, was about to take off the receiver.
“Put that down!” Brainard ordered, and added more gently, “What are you
telephoning for?”
“Just going to call up a friend,” the woman replied pertly, and started
to take the receiver off the hook again.
Brainard cleared the intervening space in a bound, and snatched the
instrument from the woman’s hand.
“You’ll have to wait a while to talk to your friend!”
“What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked angrily.
“You can see—packing up some papers. You might give me a hand.”
“Say,” she replied without moving, “I don’t believe that yarn you told
old Peters.”
“Oh, you don’t?”
“Not for one minute!”
“Well, what will you do about it?”
The girl tapped sullenly with her foot, without replying.
“Want to let that friend of yours know about me?” Brainard continued
meaningly. As the stenographer tossed her head and moved again toward
the telephone, he added, “Come over here where I can watch you! Quick
now, pack those bundles into the bag.” As she still hesitated, defying
him, he said sharply, “Get down on your knees and go to work!”
She whimpered, but fell to her knees. They worked silently for several
minutes. The vault was stripped bare. The smaller papers were packed
into the bag, and the bulkier stuff was stacked on the floor, ready to be
thrust into another receptacle.
Brainard glanced at his watch. Peters had been gone more than a quarter
of an hour. Had he been detained, or had he become suspicious and
decided to get advice before going any farther? Brainard considered
departing with what he had already packed in his bag, which he judged was
the more important part of the safe’s contents.
“I guess it’s about time for me to be going home now,” the stenographer
remarked, plucking up her courage. “I’ll leave you and Mr. Peters to
lock up.”
“You want to see that friend badly, don’t you?” Brainard asked. “Not
quite yet; the day’s work is not over yet. Be patient!”
He did not dare to trust her beyond his sight, nor did he think it wise
to leave her behind him. The girl walked idly to the window, then edged
along the wall. Beside the safe there was a recess, from which the rear
door opened. When the stenographer reached this, she, darted for the
door.
“Good-by!” she called. “I guess the police will take care of you!”
The little door fortunately stuck. Before she could open it, Brainard
had dragged her back into the room.
“You’re just a common second-story man!” she cried angrily.
“Exactly! How clever of you to penetrate my disguise! I’m a car-barn
bandit—Texas Joe—anything you please! But before you skip, I want you to
look through those drawers in the vault, to see if I have missed
anything.”
He shoved the surprised woman into the empty vault, and swung the door.
As the bolts shot back into place, a muffled cry escaped from within.
Brainard called back:
“Save your breath! There’s enough air in there to keep you alive for
some hours; and I’ll see that you get out in plenty of time to join that
friend for dinner. Just keep quiet and save your breath!”
A sob answered him from the vault.