AGAIN THE TAN SATCHEL
Swearing fervently, Alderson grabbed the telephone and called for
Podmore at the Queen's Hotel. A few stuttering words of explanation
and the 'phone went dead once more as Podmore banged up the receiver at
his end.
Nickleby arrived first. He strode in through the outer office, leaving
a trail of awed employes in his wake. Alderson, who had rushed forward
to meet him, fell back a step as the banker entered the private office
and banged the door behind him with a force which nearly broke the
glass in the partition. He carried in his hand the tan satchel and
forthwith slammed it down upon the desk and took to pacing back and
forth in speechless wrath. His face was ghastly, his eyes blazing, his
mouth drawn down in an ugly sneer as he turned at last upon the
dumfounded detective.
"You--you blithering idiot!"
"Easy, brother. Keep your shirt on, see!" advised the Brady operative
with justifiable resentment. "There aint nothin' been taken out o'
that there grip while I was watchin' it, that's a cinch. Say, 'bo,
what was in it, anyways?"
Alderson caught Nickleby's eye and shook his head in warning. Nickleby
stepped across the room, opened the satchel and flung out upon the
table a package of blank brown wrapping paper, cut to the size of
bank-notes and fastened together with rubber bands. He pointed his
finger at it contemptuously.
"Instead of the legal papers which were in that satchel when it left
this office, there's what we found when Ferguson and I opened it. Now,
explain that, will you? No, wait! 'Phone your chief to come over here
himself at once; I think he'd better hear what you have to say. What's
your name?"
"McCorquodale. An' I takes no lip from nobody, see!"
While the man was at the telephone Jimmy Stiles knocked on the door to
report that he had delivered the satchel safely to its destination. It
was an amazed youth who was yanked unceremoniously into the room by the
coat-collar while the irate Nickleby blazed forth anew. He took hold
of the bookkeeper's shoulders and was shaking the frightened young man
in speechless fury when Podmore came in.
"Here, here, leave him alone!" he commanded sharply as he stepped
between them. "What crazy nonsense is this, J. C.?"
No fuss or fury about Hugh Podmore in time of stress. It was Podmore's
way to turn calm and cold and calculating in proportion to the extent
to which any given crisis disturbed him. The news which had reached
him over the 'phone from the incoherent Alderson had been grave enough;
but he was much the coolest of the three most vitally concerned in this
mysterious miscarriage of carefully laid plans. The first thing he did
was to have Alderson clear the outer office of stenographers and junior
clerks. He suggested that Alderson dismiss them for the afternoon, and
began at once to question the bookkeeper and the detective who had
followed him. The two recitals agreed in every particular.
Podmore at once despatched the detective to the Union Station in
Nickleby's car to find Clayton at all costs and arrest him if he would
not come otherwise.
"Tell us all you know about this man, Jimmy. Take your time," advised
Podmore kindly. "No occasion to get scared stiff."
Stiles said he had not known Clayton very long--just a few days, in
fact. He had met him for the first time last Sunday at All Saints'
Mission, where Jimmy was an usher. On Monday night there had been a
social gathering of the younger members of the church in the Sunday
School and Clayton had attended that and seemed to enjoy himself. He
had made friends with everybody quickly and seemed to fit in so readily
that he had been accepted without question by everybody, from the
pastor down. He was an American who had come north to visit relatives
and was on his way back to Philadelphia. He expected to return
shortly, he had told Stiles, and might decide to locate here
permanently. He was in the hardware business, somewhere near
Philadelphia.
"All right, Jimmy, that will do. Now, better wait outside till your
friend arrives. It all seems straight enough so far as you're
concerned," and Podmore closed the door on him with a smile of
encouragement; for young Stiles looked as if he needed encouragement.
"You've scared the wits out of him, J. C. That won't get us anywhere,"
he reproved when the three were alone.
"I don't trust anybody----"
"Wait," commanded Podmore with upraised hand. He stepped over to the
table quickly and closely scrutinized the tan satchel. Finally he drew
attention to the triangular mark which he had scratched on one end with
his pocket-knife. "It's the satchel O.K. Now, who opened it?"
"Ferguson. I gave him the key, as you suggested, and he opened it in
front of me. And so help me, that stuff there was all that was in it.
The money was gone. I tell you I never felt so much like a fool----"
Nickleby broke off with an oath, still smarting under the jibes which
the caustic Mr. Ferguson had levelled at him, and beneath which the
President of the Interprovincial had writhed in humiliation. "Somebody
took that money out on the way over, Podmore."
"N--ot necessarily, J. C.," said Podmore judicially. "Wait, now.
Think, man. Were you there when Stiles----?"
"Of course I was."
"----when Stiles handed the satchel to Ferguson? Did you see him do
it?"
"Why,--no, not exactly. I was out in the general office when the kid
took it in to Ferguson. What are you driving at?"
"Talking to anybody out there?"
"Yes. I ran into McAllister, of the _Recorder_, and I was so surprised
at seeing the editor of that yellow sheet there--well, he got quizzing
me about one or two matters."
"How long after Stiles left you before you joined Ferguson?"
"Oh--five minutes, maybe. Why, what's all that got to do with it?" He
regarded the look of triumph upon Podmore's face with some astonishment.
"It's as clear as daylight to me, J. C. In that five minutes almost
anything might have happened. Many of the world's great events have
happened in less than that. Hasn't it occurred to you that the package
of money might be removed from the satchel and the paper substituted in
Ferguson's office? The lock might have been sprung, you know."
Nickleby stared, his beady eyes narrowed in a frown of thought. Then
he slapped the table with his open palm.
"By----!" he ejaculated.
"I'm inclined to fancy the whole thing is a cleverly arranged scare
which those fellows have chosen to throw into us in order to protect
themselves," went on Mr. Podmore, nodding with satisfaction at his own
logic. "You can understand that, surely. If I am guessing correctly,
they have succeeded in providing a fine denial of the fact that there
ever was such a thing as our contribution to the Campaign Fund."
"I told you!" cried Alderson excitedly. "The Hon. Milt said he
wouldn't have anything to do with it. He said we'd contribute at our
own risk, didn't he?"
Nickleby rounded on him.
"Shut up, you jackass!" he ordered angrily.
Podmore's eyebrows arched a trifle at this admission. Already he had
surmised something of the kind. The Honorable Milt was nobody's fool,
he knew. For the matter of that, neither was Hughey Podmore.
"They'll be expecting us to keep our mouths shut and let things take
their course," he continued, choosing to ignore the interruption. "The
money's not lost, Alderson. They'll keep on swearing up and down that
they haven't got it, of course; but that's just the coy way in which
these things are handled. It's my opinion that the sacrifice of that
million bags of peanuts up the elephant's trunk will ensure a good
performance when the circus starts."
"I believe you've struck it, Pod," nodded Nickleby slowly.
"I'm sure of it," agreed Mr. Podmore, allowing himself a little laugh
of satisfaction. "Hadn't Frank better write Brady a cheque and get rid
of him? He's probably waiting outside, and we don't want him nosing
into anything."
This seemed to meet with the approval of the others, and when the check
was ready the head of the Brady Detective Agency was called in and
handed a cigar, the cheque and some plausible explanations which
enabled him to return to his office with no hard feelings. Detective
Brady never found it an inconvenience to receive money.
The air had cleared wonderfully by the time Detective McCorquodale
arrived with Robert Clayton in tow--so much so that both anxious
gentlemen were somewhat surprised at the smiles which greeted them. If
anything further were needed to convince Nickleby that he had been too
hasty in his conclusions, this frank, clean-cut young American supplied
it, and as the brief interview progressed the President of the
Interprovincial approached as near to geniality as his naturally
suspicious and cynical nature ever ventured. The detective had found
Clayton just preparing to descend the stairs to his train; but he had
come readily enough when the circumstances were explained to him.
"I do hope none of you gentlemen suspect my young friend here in
connection with this inexplicable matter," were his first words as he
stood with a hand on Stiles' shoulder. He spoke earnestly, his grave
eyes searching their faces, one after another. "I haven't known Jimmy
very long, of course; but I know honesty when I see it and I'd stake my
life that he has had no hand in this--this strange disappearance which
I understand has upset you all. May I ask just what the contents of
this satchel were? Was it a sum of money or----?"
"No, no, it's all right, Mr. Clayton," volunteered Nickleby rather
hurriedly,"--just some legal documents which can be duplicated; the
puzzle is why anybody should take them. The delay in connection with
some business matters which their loss will entail is the only thing
that concerned us; but we find that it is not as bad as we thought, and
we regret very much causing you this inconvenience."
Robert Clayton made a gesture of deprecation.
"That's the last consideration, gentlemen," he smiled. "For my own
satisfaction, I would like to state candidly a little about myself.
Under the circumstances it is your right to know."
What he had to say merely substantiated what Jimmy Stiles had told them
already. He was returning from a visit to his uncle on a Western
Ontario farm, and had remained over in the city for a few days on his
way home. While out for a Sunday morning constitutional he had been
attracted to All Saints' Mission by its resemblance to the little
church he attended at home. There he had been welcomed so cordially by
Jimmy Stiles and others that it had been a great pleasure to him.
He described in detail his meeting with Jimmy, and their harmless chat
in the Jessup Grill. He produced his travelling bag and insisted on
opening it for inspection despite the fact that there was no
possibility of confusing its travel-worn leather with the tan satchel.
It contained merely the usual travel accessories, a magazine and a box
of cigars. The latter Clayton insisted upon passing around. He then
produced his business card and chatted for a moment with Alderson about
conditions in the building trade in Pennsylvania, asking many questions
about prospects in hardware lines in Ontario.
So that when at last he took his departure, laughing away apologies, he
left behind him a most favorable impression. Detective McCorquodale
departed next with a real cigar between his teeth and a feeling of
satisfaction in the recognition that he was no longer a "blithering
idiot." Stiles was told to "knock off for the day and go fishin'," and
accepted Podmore's five-dollar bill only when it was forced on him.
When the trio were alone once more Alderson produced a bottle and three
glasses.
"To the Campaign Fund," he laughed, holding his glass aloft.
"And the future of the Government," added J. Cuthbert Nickleby.
"And of ourselves," said Podmore reverently.
It was thus that they parted for the second time that afternoon.
Mr. Hugh Podmore went directly to his hotel. Not until he was safe in
his own room did he permit any unusual elation to show in his manner.
Once he had locked the door, however, and pulled down the
window-blinds, he threw himself upon the bed and indulged in a toss of
unrestrained mirth. Still very much amused, he felt in his pocket for
the key of the old walnut wardrobe with which his room was furnished,
unlocked it and lifted out a tan satchel.
Assuredly. In all fairness to himself he had to admit that it had been
about as neat a piece of work as he had ever known. For a first
attempt it had been carried through with credit, cleverly planned and
as cleverly executed. Everything had gone like a clock. Robert
Clayton, alias "Tuxedo Bob," had performed his end of it with
commendable finish, and Podmore felt that he had made no mistake in
hiring him to come on from Chicago. Fifty thousand dollars! It wasn't
a bad afternoon's work--not at all bad!
Setting the satchel upon the table, Mr. Podmore sank into the easy
chair and lighted a cigarette with a slow smile of satisfaction. The
smile lingered as he ran over the whole thing. Neat was not the word;
artistic was better. Clayton had "happened" in at All Saints' Mission
quite opportunely. Quite. It was proof of his ability that in three
days he had established himself so firmly in the friendship of young
Stiles. Poor, scared, white-faced kid!
And the duplicate satchels? An old trick, of course; but in simplicity
lay success. Podmore had purchased those two identical
imitation-leather satchels some days ago. In one he had placed the
package of brown paper, cut to banknote size and held by rubber bands,
and in a certain position on the outside of the satchel he had
scratched a triangular identification mark with his pocket-knife; the
other tan satchel he had delivered to the Alderson Construction
Company's office. There it had received the currency in Alderson's
elaborately sealed linen envelope, and there in front of the others
Podmore had marked it ostentatiously for identification--the same
triangular mark in the same position on the outside of the satchel.
When the bookkeeper went into the Jessup Grill Clayton had the
duplicate satchel which contained the worthless brown wrapping
paper--had it hidden under his raincoat. When Stiles had dropped the
other satchel close alongside the raincoat on the floor he had played
right into Clayton's hand, that being the very position for which
Clayton was manoeuvring; an unobtrusive kick of the foot flopped the
raincoat over the satchel which contained the money, so that Clayton
had picked it up quite simply, leaving the duplicate satchel for Stiles.
Clayton had made straight for the Union Station, first stopping at the
hotel where Podmore had hurried from the construction company's office
and was waiting to receive the money satchel. At the hotel Clayton had
picked up his own personal travelling bag and had gone over to the
depot to wait for the Brady detective to find him in due course.
Podmore had not opened the precious satchel, the 'phone having rung
with Alderson's hurry-up message just as he had reached his room.
Chucking the tan satchel inside the wardrobe, he had gone back to
Alderson's office immediately to engineer the covering up and to quiet
the troubled waters.
It was not every day that such a golden opportunity of acquiring fifty
thousand dollars presented itself. It was rarely that it could be done
without the risk of discovery. But Mr. Hugh Podmore had recognized in
this very secret contribution for election purposes a sum of money
which was outlawed for the time being, which for obvious reasons dare
not be claimed publicly by either side in the secret transaction.
Ergo, it was any man's money who could lay hands on it. Ergo, it
belonged to Mr. Hughey Podmore!
The beauty of it was that the idea of Ferguson removing the contents to
provide a denial of the whole contribution was so patently the clever
thing to do, that it was a wonder Ferguson had not thought of it
himself when there was such need of secrecy. Nickleby had accepted the
suggestion at once as the solution of the mystery.
Ferguson was stupid. Even Nickleby--admirable as was his
smoothness--had fallen right into the clever trap prepared for him. If
Nickleby did discover the truth, Podmore could give him the laugh. Let
Friend Nickleby just start something and he'd find himself in several
varieties of hot soup before he knew it. For did not Little Hughey
know all about the crooked deal by which the worthy J. Cuthbert had
ousted old Nat Lawson from the presidency of the Interprovincial Loan &
Savings Company? He did! You bet he did! Let Nickleby interfere with
these pickings of Little Hughey and he would be shown a thing or two
that would cost him a lot more than a measly fifty thousand!
That had been a delicate touch--making Nickleby carry the key to the
satchel across to Ferguson's office. The key to satchel number two, it
was! Nickleby had been on hand throughout. Oh, they had nothing on
Hughey Podmore in this thing, absolutely noth----!
Podmore's cigarette teetered on his lower lip. With a sudden lunge he
grabbed for the tan satchel on the table. He went to the window and
threw up the shade. Slowly he turned the satchel around, examining it
minutely, his amazement growing. It was undoubtedly the same satchel
exactly, so far as he could see,--except for one little disparity.
There was no sign of the identification mark, no scratched triangle on
either end!
Thoroughly mystified, Podmore fished out the tiny key that belonged to
satchel number one. It would not fit!
With an oath he seized a hairbrush, smashed both lock and brush,
slipped the catches and yanked open the satchel. Inside lay a roll of
old newspapers, tied at the ends with dirty white string!
That was--ALL!
Hughey Podmore wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. For once he
was completely non-plussed. He sank back into the chair and lighted
another cigarette with a hand that shook ridiculously. For a very long
time he sat there, smoking cigarettes and staring blankly at the wall,
lighting each fresh one with the butt of its predecessor, end on end.