THE CASHIER’S ANNOUNCEMENT.
Spark handed the bag to Clancy, and the latter poured some of the
nitroglycerin into the cup.
Then, crouching under one of the counters, they waited while the
explosive oozed downward about the vault door on the inside.
“Give me the fuse,” said Clancy, emerging from under the counter when a
sufficient period had elapsed.
Again he mounted the stool, fitted a cap to the end of the fuse, placed
the cap in the cup and applied a match.
Both retreated for a short distance.
Presently there came a muffled explosion, resulting in the bursting open
of the vault door.
The alarm was silent, proving that Spark had done his work well.
For several moments, however, neither of the robbers made a move--simply
crouched where they were and listened intently.
There was no sound outside, so it was evident that the explosion had
aroused no one.
“Now for the second door,” said Clancy.
The second door was treated in exactly the same manner as the first, and
within an hour from the time the night watchman had left the bank to
succor the distressed individual on the sidewalk the funds of the
People’s National lay at the mercy of the “yeggmen.”
From his pockets Spark brought out a number of canvas bags.
While these bags were being filled a shout came from the rear of the
bank, followed by two revolver shots--the two reports echoing out almost
as one.
“The devil!” exclaimed Clancy.
“It’s Five Points,” breathed Spark, in a sharp undertone.
Both men hurried to the front door and stood there, revolvers in hand.
Quick steps were heard on the walk, and a face was pressed against the
glass in the upper part of one of the doors.
“Cricket!” exclaimed Clancy, and hastily admitted the newcomer. “What is
it?” he added.
“The outside watchman discovered Five Points, and they had a wrestle and
an exchange of shots,” said Cricket.
“How’s the watchman?”
“Laid out cold, I take it.”
A muffled oath fell from Clancy’s lips.
“And Five Points?” he went on.
“He’s got it bad.”
“Able to get away?”
“Just about. He’s already started.”
“Lay hold of the plunder, you two, and we’ll make a get-away ourselves.”
Spark and Cricket hurried into the vault, and Clancy followed as far as
the stool in the cashier’s cage.
There he halted and calmly got into his coat and put on his hat, all the
time watching the door and listening intently.
The other two emerged from the vault, staggering under the weight of the
bags.
Clancy took one of the bags, and the three walked out of the bank,
fading away into the night like ill-omened wraiths.
It was six o’clock the following morning when a patrolman heard a groan
coming from the alleyway in the rear of the bank.
Stepping in to investigate, he was horrified to find the outside
watchman weltering in a pool of blood.
The wounded man was barely able to speak. He told, gaspingly, of the ill
luck that had befallen him, and added that he believed the bank had been
robbed.
Running to the nearest patrol box, the officer summoned an ambulance,
after which he hurried to the bank.
He found and released the inside watchman, heard his story, and
immediately got in some lively work with the telephone.
The chief of police was notified and also the president of the bank.
The latter, in turn, called up the cashier and as many of the directors
as he could reach by phone.
By eight o’clock there was a gathering of police and bank officials
about the wrecked doors of the plundered vault, the cashier and an
assistant being inside checking up.
At eight-thirty the cashier came out of the vault with a white face.
“They got little for all their pains,” he said, loud enough for the
police officials and a couple of reporters to overhear. “Only about five
thousand dollars, all told.”
A look of relief overspread the faces of the president and the two
directors who were present.
The next moment the president, directors and the cashier stepped into
the president’s private office.
There the cashier acknowledged that he had made a misstatement.
Instead of taking five thousand dollars, the thieves had decamped with
seventy-five thousand dollars.
“We’re a comparatively small and provincial institution,” said the
president, slowly, after a brief interval of silence, “and this loss
will spell ruin for us unless----” He hesitated.
“Unless what?” asked one of the directors, huskily, mopping the sweat
from his forehead.
“Unless we can recover the money before it is generally known that the
cashier made a willful misstatement.”
“The police of this town can never do it,” asserted the other director.
“Shall we go down in our pockets and pay out a good big fee to a man who
might be able to save us?” inquired the president.
“It may be throwing good money after bad,” said the first director,
shaking his head.
“Nevertheless,” said the second director, “I move that we try it,
anyhow.”
“Shall I go ahead?” asked the president.
“Yes,” came from both directors and the cashier.
Ten minutes later the following telegram was speeding over the wires:
“NICHOLAS CARTER, New York City: Bank robbery here. Will you name
your own fee and take the case?
“JULIUS HEPNER.”
“He won’t come,” said Clarkson, one of the directors. “He has all he can
attend to right in New York.”
But Clarkson was wrong, for the following answer came from the great
detective within two hours after the president had wired:
“JULIUS HEPNER, Latimer, Vt.: Coming on first train. Keep hands off
until I get there.
NICHOLAS CARTER.”
It was fate that influenced Nick’s reply, for he did not guess that in
responding to the summons he was going to strike the trail of the man
whom of all others he wished to capture--the missing swindler from the
West who had come East with Ramsay. Ramsay was now under lock and key,
and Nick’s journey to Vermont was to bring him in touch with Ramsay’s
pal.