THE ROBBERY IS DISCOVERED.
George Chard slept on the bank premises. The keys of the bank safes were
kept by the manager during the day, but when he left the office for his
private residence they remained in the custody of his junior. George made
it a particular rule to see that his superior officer opened the safe in
the morning.
The manager’s carelessness was a continual source of uneasiness to the
young man, who had been brought up in the strict commercial school, where
carelessness is down as the cardinal sin.
During banking hours the keys were sometimes left in the safe, sometimes
hung upon the wall, and more often carried about loose in the manager’s
pocket.
It happened one day, previous to the opening of the story, that while
his assistant was absent from the office, a particular friend of the
manager’s came in and invited him across the road for a drink.
The manager had been having a night, consequently the suggestion of a
whisky and soda came at the right moment.
Without waiting to put on his coat, he stepped across the road with his
friend.
As he passed into the bar parlour a little squat man, with a cast in his
eye, entered the bank. He had not been long in the town, but he was full
of religious zeal, and was always addressing the townspeople in order to
save their souls.
He was standing with his back to the counter, devoutly whistling a hymn,
when the manager re-entered.
The little man explained that the Lord had moved him to come and ask
a small subscription towards his religious crusade. He was doing the
Lord’s work, and the smallest remuneration from the Devil would be most
thankfully received.
The manager donated a shilling, and the crusader, after piously promising
that the shilling would be put to his dear brother’s credit in Heaven,
picked up the hymn where he had left it and went out. His squint eye was
elevated towards the insulators on the telegraph posts as he walked along
the street, and a light of satisfaction gleamed therein. He might have
been thanking Heaven for some fresh mercy or thinking out a scheme for
wireless telegraphy.
Whatever his thoughts were, he carried in one hand a piece of wax, and on
the wax was the newly-made impression of a key.
* * * * *
About a week later, George Chard in Assam silk and helmet paused at
the door of the office. Although it had thundered and stormed up the
river the night previously, it was a suffocating morning. The mercury
at Wharfdale stood already at ninety in the shade, and the vapoury
atmosphere seemed to take all the energy out of one’s body.
George looked across to the islands in the river and hungered for
the shade of their jungles, where the day might be worn through in
comparative coolness.
A boat put out from the bank upstream, and he recognised Nora Creyton
in a white frock and sun-bonnet rowing gently towards the point of the
furthest island, whereon, as George knew well enough, she was used to
spend many a hot forenoon under the fig trees with a book for company.
George sighed drearily and entered the bank.
The manager came down and unlocked the safe.
Then occurred the crisis of the young man’s life.
Five hundred pounds in sovereigns laid upon the floor of the safe the
night previously by the manager in the presence of his assistant, were no
longer there!
The canvas bags containing the money had disappeared. Yet the door of the
safe had certainly been locked.
The manager’s face expressed blank astonishment, anger, incredibility.
George Chard’s face was pale and anxious.
This was a serious matter. The manager’s influence might avert the anger
of the directors from his own head, but would not it descend upon George?
Might he not be held responsible? He had slept upon the premises that
night, as usual, and during that night the money must certainly have been
removed.
These ideas flashed through his mind instantly, but the thought that he
might be directly accused of dishonesty had not yet occurred to him.
At first the two men had refused to credit their senses. They hurriedly
unlocked the other safe, pulled out the ledgers, opened the drawers,
counted their petty cash, which had not apparently been touched, and in a
sort of forlorn hope checked their previous day’s figures.
The money was undoubtedly gone.
The manager sank into a chair and wiped his forehead with a trembling,
nervous hand.
George went round the room, examined the fastenings of the windows,
turned and re-turned the key in the lock of the outside door leading into
the street.
“Whoever has done it,” he cried, “must have come in by the front way.
They could not get through the back without me hearing them.”
“Let us see if there are any signs of footprints,” said the manager,
going to the door.
The rain had obliterated Jean Petit’s tracks. He had come and gone
like a cat in the darkness, opening both the outer doors and the safe
noiselessly with his skeleton keys while George Chard slept soundly in
the next room.
His accomplice had waited under the shadow of the river bank half a mile
up stream, and the boat had taken them quietly away with the gold.
“If anybody came in,” mused the manager, presently, “they must have come
in by the outside door.”
“If!” repeated George. “There can be no doubt about it!”
But the word had brought him a strange thrill of apprehension.
Good God! Was it possible?
He endeavoured to catch the manager’s eye.
“What do you mean by saying if?” he demanded suddenly.
The eye—it was always inclined to be shifty and uncertain under a direct
look—remained averted.
“Nothing,” replied the manager, “only this is a very serious matter
for——” he hesitated, and added, “for both of us?”
“Someone got in with a false key,” exclaimed George, positively,
“unless——”
He stopped.
An idea had come to him.
“Unless what?” asked the manager.
It was his turn to look at George.
“Unless,” said George, injudiciously, “someone got in with the key of the
door.”
“And opened the safe?” said the manager.
“With the key of the safe,” added George, meeting him square in the face.
The man was not guilty, as far as the direct robbery was concerned; but
there were many little acts of carelessness which he would prefer should
not come to the ears of the directors. He had the favour of the Inspector
certainly, but a bank robbery is a bank robbery, and the fact remained
that five hundred pounds had been removed from a safe of which he held
the key, and the safe showed no signs of violence. But George Chard had
also had possession of the key at different times.
And the manager resolved inwardly that if suspicion fell on anyone,
it would not be upon him. In his heart he probably believed that his
subordinate was innocent, but in his heart he was also a coward.
“It is a deuce of a mess,” he observed presently, in a friendly tone,
“but we must stick together.”
“Yes,” replied George, abstractedly.
“Our evidence,” the manager went on, watching the young man narrowly,
“will have to tally.”
“What evidence?” asked poor George, whose mind was in a whirl.
“Any evidence we may have to give! There is bound to be an inquiry.”
“I will tell the truth,” cried the other. “I can do neither more nor less
than that.”
The manager reflected. The telling of the truth meant possibly the
telling of those certain acts of carelessness of which he was at that
moment painfully conscious.
“That’s right!” he replied, amiably; “we must both tell the truth.”
So after some further thought, he went over to the telegraph office and
wired:—
“Five hundred sovereigns unaccountably missing from bank safe.
Locked safe yesterday afternoon before leaving. Found locked
on opening bank this morning, but money gone. Chard says slept
premises last night. Await instructions.”
The same afternoon came a reply wire bidding the manager place the
matter in the hands of the police, and the Northern Inspector of the Bulk
and Bullion received instructions to proceed to Wharfdale at once and
make full inquiries into the alleged robbery.
George Chard thought of his years of service that day, and of his mother
and the girls.
Before midday all Wharfdale knew that the bank had been robbed, and the
news had travelled up and down the river before sunset.
Business in the little riverside town was practically adjourned for
that day. The citizens gathered in groups or sat on their heels under
the shade of a tree opposite the bank door, formulating theories and
discussing them.
The religious crank took advantage of the opportunity to address the
assemblage upon the state of its immortal soul. Despite the great
earnestness of his prayerful speech, little attention was paid to him.
It was old Dugald M’Donald who first whispered the theory that perhaps
the coves in the bank knew more about where the money had gone to than
anybody else.
Dugald put out this view of the matter with a mysterious wink which would
have convinced any twelve men in the place.
The audience agreed that, after all, Dugald had no doubt hit the mark,
and, thus encouraged, the astute M’Donald with many a “Mind, I’m no’
for sayin’ that it is so,” put forward enough arguments to shake the
reputation of an archangel.
As people shouted for Dugald, he became less discreet and choice in
his hints, and before nightfall Wharfdale was evenly divided into three
factions.
The first faction held that the manager had taken the money. The second
faction was convinced that it was George Chard, basing their conclusions
on the assumption that because the latter was quiet and reserved he must
be deep and clever, and capable. The third party contended that the
manager and George were in a conspiracy together. Some went so far as to
say that the manager got £350, and George £150, the swag being divided
according to seniority.
Everybody was convinced that there would be more sensational developments.
Consequently Wharfdale hung around the bank premises sympathising at
every opportunity with its two officials, and offering its services
generally to the bank and the police.
People who met at the post-office exchanged views on the bank robbery. It
was the first that had ever occurred in Wharfdale, and the evil rumours
probably arose from the fact that the inhabitants felt it as a general
stigma on their own honesty, so that it was not long before Dan Creyton
overheard a qualified hint which roused his Irish anger.
He took his hat and went down to the bank.
George was sitting on his stool with an open ledger before him, but the
pen did not move upon its pages. Dan took his friend’s hand and held it
as he had done once before in a day of trouble.
George listened to what Dan had to say to him, by way of sympathy. It
seemed that there was a fire in his throat, but it was only when he
spoke that Dan knew how badly he was hurt. Then Dan Creyton shook hands
with George again and went away.
“This has got to be cleared up,” Dan told himself in a resolute voice as
he went up the street. “He can’t have any indefinite charge like that
hanging over him. Neither can the other fellow!”
At that moment he came face to face with the “other fellow,” who had been
taking more whisky than was good for him. Dan stopped him and unburdened
his mind. He was perhaps the only man in Wharfdale who would have dared
to do it, because he was the only man who was convinced that George Chard
was innocent. Nor did he suspect the manager, whom he believed to be too
great a coward to run risks. But Dan had not exchanged a dozen sentences
with the man before he knew that he was quite prepared to sacrifice
George to save himself. The knowledge brought him more anxiety than he
cared to confess. But his anxiety reached a climax when Rumour, in a
female tongue, sharp and bitter, told him that a warrant was to be issued
for the arrest of his friend, George Chard!
Dan stood by the door of the office irresolute. He turned at his sister’s
voice. She had just rowed over in the cool of the afternoon breeze to get
their tea ready.
George Chard was to have sat to table with them. Dan, who guessed at many
things, could not see his way clear for the moment; but when it occurred
to him that if he were not the news-bearer another would be, and before
long he called his sister in.
“I have something to tell you, Nora,” he said, simply; “better sit down.”
“What is it?” she asked. “You look worried; is anything wrong. The heat
to-day has been awful!”
“I haven’t felt it,” said Dan. “It is not the heat; something else. The
bank has been robbed!”
“Robbed! The bank! Tell me!” she cried, springing up. “Has anything
happened? Is George Chard hurt?”
Nora’s hand grasped her bodice tightly. Her face was pale. A wild concern
showed in her eyes.
Dan noticed these things, and his mouth tightened.
“No.” he said, “he is not hurt in body, but in mind. His character—”
“Character!” ejaculated the girl, wonderingly. “What! What do you mean,
Dan; I don’t understand?”
“Five hundred pounds have been removed from the safe!” said Dan, tersely.
“The money was put there yesterday. George had the keys in the afternoon.
Bullen went away early, I believe. When he went to the safe this morning
the money was gone!”
“Gone! But who could have taken it, Dan?”
He explained the circumstances of the robbery.
“Could not the doors have been opened with a skeleton key?” asked Nora.
There was a note of exaggerated anxiousness in the inquiry at which Dan
would have smiled under more pleasant circumstances.
“No doubt,” he said, “they could, and were; but the trouble is that the
keys are never out of the possession of one or other of them.”
“But I cannot see——” Nora began and stopped, looking closely into her
brother’s face.
“No, nor I,” mused Dan. “But one thing is certain: George Chard never had
anything to do with it!”
“George Chard!” cried Nora, all her woman’s feeling rising up in her
soul, “Who says George Chard had anything to do with such a thing? Who
dare say——”
“Hush, Nora!” interrupted Dan, gently. “They are already saying it!”
Nora was Irish, too, and a great wrath grew upon her.
“Do you mean to tell me that you stood by and listened to a cruel lie
like that? It is a lie, a malicious, horrid lie, and I—I—I. Oh, I’ll tell
them so! Tell them in their teeth!
“George Chard a thief! Good God! Who could be so wicked to dream of such
a thing! The best, the bravest—and truest—why, Dan,” she blurted out,
“Don’t you know I LOVE HIM! I love him more than anything or anybody on
earth!”
And Nora, her face as red as fire, threw her arms round Dan’s neck and
burst into a perfect maelstrom of thoroughly feminine sobs.