Mirage
Storm realized later when the dawn brought coherency of thought that
it was blind instinct alone, not conscious will, which had enabled him
to shield the death blow that had been given him from George
Holworthy’s peering eyes. The crumbling of his air castles had left
him stunned, and he remembered nothing of the rest of the interview
save that George had moralized interminably and in leaving at last had
harked back to the Millard boy. Surely he would not have droned on of
trivialities had he gleaned an inkling of the tumult in his host’s
brain!
Until the morning light stole in at the windows Storm paced the floor
in a frenzy of consternation. He had one slender hope: that the false
Du Chainat would be apprehended. If he appeared against the scoundrel
or entered a complaint the resultant revelation of how easily he had
been fleeced would be a bitter pill to swallow. Old Langhorne would
recall that conversation of the previous day, and it would be his turn
to smile, while Foulkes and George would descend upon him with galling
criticism and reproach.
He could endure it all, however, if only it would mean the recovery of
his money or even a portion of it! As his hope of getting away
vanished, the absolute need of such escape grew in his thoughts until
it assumed the proportions of an obsession. He felt as if something he
could not name were tightening about him slowly but inexorably and he
struggled wildly to free himself from the invisible fetters.
If he had to stay on at the trust company, suffer George’s continual
presence, run the daily gauntlet of mingled sympathy and curiosity of
his friends, he should go mad! Other men lived down tragedies, went on
in the same old rut until the end of time, but he could not.
And then all at once the truth burst upon him! If Leila had died a
natural death as the world supposed; if she had been taken from him in
the high tide of their love and happiness, he might have gone on with
existence again in time with no thought of cutting himself adrift from
the past. It was the secret knowledge of his guilt which was driving
him forth, which rendered unendurable all the familiar things of his
every-day life!
Yet he must endure them! Unless the bogus Du Chainat were caught there
was no way out for him.
Unconscious of irony, his breast swelled with virtuous indignation at
thought of the swindler and dire were the anathemas he heaped upon the
departed one. He searched the papers feverishly, made what inquiries
he dared without drawing undue attention to himself and haunted the
Belterre grill for news, but all to no avail; and as day succeeded day
he developed a savage moroseness which rebuffed even George’s
overtures. He would take no one into his confidence; there would be
time enough for admitting that he had played the fool when the
miscreant was caught. If he were not, Storm determined to accept the
inevitable in silence; but day by day the obsession of flight
increased. Somehow, at any price, he must get away!
The papers still played up the pseudo Du Chainat as further exploits
of that wily adventurer were brought to light, and the press gleefully
baited the police for their inability to discover whither he had
flown. The flickering hope that he would be apprehended died slowly in
Storm’s breast, and the blankness of despair settled upon him.
One morning Nicholas Langhorne sent for him, and before the president
spoke Storm sensed a subtle difference in his manner. The pompous
official attitude seemed to have been laid aside, for once a warmly
personal note crept into his voice.
“Sit down, Storm; I want to have a little talk with you.” The other
seated himself and waited, but Langhorne seemed in no hurry to begin.
He took off his glasses, wiped them, replaced them and then sat
meditatively fingering a pen. At last he threw it aside and turned
abruptly to face his subordinate.
“Storm, I knew your father well. We both started here away down on the
lowest rung of the ladder, and although he soon branched out into a
wider, less conservative field we never allowed our friendship to
flag. It was on his account that we took you, and because of his
memory you were given preference over more experienced men.”
He paused and Storm stiffened, but he replied warily:
“I am aware of that, Mr. Langhorne. I hope that I have executed my
duties——”
Langhorne waved him to silence.
“I have no complaint to make. I sent for you because my personal
interest in you as the son of my old friend has caused me a certain
amount of disquietude. When you came to me a fortnight ago and
requested that I arrange an immediate mortgage on your suburban
property I waived the usual procedure and complied at once. It was not
my province to question your need or use of the money, although I knew
of your previous unfortunate ventures, and I hoped that you had not
again been ill-advised.
“A week later—ten days ago, to be exact—you came to me and mentioned a
person named Du Chainat, whom you said had been in negotiation with
Mr. Whitmarsh. This Du Chainat, or rather the man impersonating him,
has been exposed as a swindler on a rather large scale. I trust that
you yourself did not fall a victim to him?”
Storm’s eyes flashed, but he held himself rigidly in control. Bleat to
this fathead and give him an opportunity to gloat? He would see him
damned first!
“Hardly, Mr. Langhorne.” He allowed the ghost of a smile to lift the
corners of his mouth. “The investment I had in mind was quite another
sort.”
Langhorne frowned doubtfully.
“You appeared to take it for granted that I knew this Du Chainat. May
I ask what your motive was in mentioning him to me?”
Storm hesitated and then replied with seeming candor:
“Well, if you want the truth, Mr. Langhorne, I—er, I believed that you
yourself were one of his intended victims.”
“I, sir?” The president stared.
“Yes. I met this man in the Rochefoucauld grill one night, and he
worked his usual game; told me of the loan he was attempting to
negotiate and said Whitmarsh had turned it down because it wasn’t a
big enough proposition for him. Du Chainat, as he called himself,
showed me your letter, and as I had reason to distrust him I ventured
to mention the matter to you, thinking that I might be of service in
warning you of the whispers I had heard against him.”
“My letter?” Langhorne gripped the arms of his chair. “I never wrote a
letter to the man in my life!”
“When you denied having heard of him,” Storm continued, unmoved by the
other’s expostulation, “I naturally concluded that you resented my
intrusion into your private affairs, and said nothing more. The man
was exposed in the evening papers that very night, as I remember.”
“You saw a letter purporting to have been written by me?” the
president demanded.
“I would have been willing to swear to your signature, Mr. Langhorne,”
replied Storm.
“Forgery!” The clenched hand came down upon his desk. “That signature
was forged! I’ll look into this when the fellow is caught. His
effrontery is astounding! What was the gist of this letter, Storm?”
“An intimation that you would advance the loan,” he responded dully.
There was no mistaking now the sincerity of the other’s indignation.
“The letter was a forgery, of course, as you say, but it was a
remarkably clever one. The signature was almost identical in every
detail with yours.”
“I wish you had told me of this before!” The president fumed. “This
may cause a vast amount of trouble. However, I am glad to be assured
that you were not victimized by this person. By the way, this is not
my custom—in fact it is emphatically against my rule, especially where
officers of the company are concerned—but I shall be glad to make an
exception in your case, Storm. I may be able to give you a little
advance information, strictly confidential, you understand, on a
certain investment later, if you are looking for one.”
“Thank you, Mr. Langhorne. I’m not thinking of making any just now.”
He smiled again, reading the other’s motive, and added pointedly: “I
have mentioned the Du Chainat letter to no one else, of course, nor
shall I do so.”
The president flushed but dismissed him with forced cordiality, and
Storm returned to his own sanctum in a bitter mood. Even the small
satisfaction of believing that Langhorne, too, had fallen for the
alluring proposition was denied him!
At noon, as he left the trust company building to go to the luncheon
club of which he was a member, he collided with Millard.
“Hello, there! Just coming in to see you.” The little man’s usually
apoplectic face was pale, and his small, beady eyes shifted nervously
beneath Storm’s gaze. “Where are you off to?”
“Lunch,” replied the other briefly. Confound the little golf hound! It
was he who got him into the Du Chainat affair!
“Then have it with me, do!” Millard urged. “I want to talk to you.
Let’s run in to Peppini’s where we can be quiet.”
Storm was on the point of refusal, but something in the other’s manner
made him change his mind.
“If you like.” He turned, and Millard fell into step beside him.
“How’s the golf coming along?”
“Hang golf!” Millard exploded. “I’ve had other things on my mind,
Storm, old chap! I’ve been in the very devil of a hole, and Mrs.
M.—well, you know what she is when she has got anything on me! I
haven’t had a minute’s peace.”
“What’s the trouble?” Storm asked perfunctorily as they entered the
little restaurant and made for a corner table. Millard did not reply
until the waiter had taken their order and departed. Then he leaned
confidentially across the table.
“It’s all about the scoundrel, Du Chainat,” he began. “You remember
him; chap I introduced to you in the Rochefoucauld. By Jove, I owe you
an apology for that!”
“Not at all.” A hidden thought made Storm’s lips curl in grim humor.
“We are all of us apt to be mistaken in the people we think we know.”
“That’s what I say!” corroborated Millard eagerly. “How’re you going
to tell a crook nowadays? The fellow took me in absolutely! And now,
to hear Mrs. M. talk you would think I had been in league with him!”
“You tried to get her to go into one of his schemes, didn’t you?”
Storm asked. The other nodded gloomily.
“I did, and I shall never be permitted to hear the last of it!” he
observed. “That isn’t what is worrying me, though. You see, I
introduced him around pretty generally, and if any of my friends fell
for his graft I should feel personally responsible. There you are, for
instance; that’s what I wanted to see you about, Storm; I hope to the
Lord that you didn’t——”
“Not by a damn sight!” Storm retorted savagely. Was he to go through a
repetition of the scene with Langhorne? “What do you take me for? I’m
not looking to line the pockets of every adventurer that comes along.”
Millard winced.
“All right, old chap, only I was anxious. You seemed interested that
night.”
“I was, in the man himself; he was a new type to me, but I don’t mind
telling you now that I didn’t trust him.” Storm smiled patronizingly.
“I don’t wonder his little proposition looked good to you. It did to
me; too good. Money isn’t so scarce for a legitimate deal that a man
has to offer one hundred per cent profit in three months. You would
have realized that yourself if you had stopped to think. The trouble
with you was that the man’s personality blinded you, Millard. I’ll
admit that he was a plausible rascal, but if anyone had been fool
enough to fall for his game they deserved what was coming to them.”
“I suppose so,” Millard mumbled shamefacedly. “Anyhow, they’ve got him
now.”
“What!” Storm sat back in his chair.
“Fact. I’ve just come from Police Headquarters.” Millard nodded,
visibly cheered by the impression his announcement had made. “It has
been established beyond a doubt that he is on board the _Alsace_ en
route for France. He’ll be arrested the moment they reach Havre.”
Storm’s brain whirled, yet he strove mightily to command himself.
Millard must not know, must not guess! Could it be after all that luck
had not deserted him? Hope had died so utterly that he found it
difficult to believe this sudden turn of fortune.
“How can they be sure?” he stammered. “There may be some mistake.”
“Not a chance!” Millard, his equanimity restored, chattered on. “His
movements have been traced from the moment he left the hotel until he
walked up the gangplank, and they’ve got him dead to rights. Nervy of
him to go back to France when he knew the Government was out after
him, wasn’t it? I suppose he banked on that; that they would never
dream he would dare to return. He’s under a different name, of course,
and all that, but the detectives have been in wireless communication
with the captain of the _Alsace_ and there isn’t a loophole of escape
for him. He is cornered like a rat in a trap and a good job, too!”
The garrulity of his companion had given Storm time to collect
himself. He must learn all that he could and yet not seem too eager.
He shrugged.
“His cleverness didn’t get him far, did it?” he remarked with
elaborate carelessness. “Let’s see; the _Alsace_ sailed three days
ago, if I am not mistaken.”
“Four,” the other corrected him. “She won’t reach port for another
three days, however; traveling slow, for there has been a report of
some floating mines having been sighted in her path. It is just a wild
rumor, of course; the sweepers gathered them in pretty thoroughly
after the war. Don’t know what they’ll do about extraditing him, for
both countries want him badly. The main thing his victims want, I
imagine, is to get their money back.”
In this Storm concurred heartily but in silence. After a pause he
observed, still in that detached, bored tone:
“I fancy that won’t be difficult, if he has it with him.”
“He has,” Millard affirmed. “He must have cleared more than half a
million, they tell me at Headquarters, and they’ve proved that he
didn’t dispose of any of it here. Think of it! Half a million in cash!
I wonder how he planned to explain it to the custom’s officials on the
other side?”
“He could stow it about him, I suppose,” Storm responded absently. “If
he had laid his plans carefully and believed himself immune from
suspicion he would have no reason to anticipate a personal search.
What on earth were you doing at Headquarters?”
Millard squirmed uneasily.
“We-ell, when all this racket came out about Du Chainat I felt that it
was my duty to go down and tell all I knew about the fellow. In the
course of justice, you know, old chap——”
“Precisely,” Storm grinned. “You had rather identified yourself with
him, hadn’t you? I don’t blame you for clearing your own skirts. It
would be deucedly awkward for you if some of these people you
presented him to——”
“Don’t!” protested Millard. “How was I to know? He came to me with a
forged letter purporting to be from Harry Wheeler, of Boston. I
haven’t seen Harry in years; wouldn’t know his handwriting from Adam,
but it looked all right. When I explained, they understood the
situation immediately at Headquarters, I assure you.”
“Don’t ‘assure’ me, Millard; I know you!” Storm laughed; then his face
sobered. “How is everyone out at the Country Club?”
“Fine!” Millard waxed enthusiastic at the welcome change of topic.
“We’ve taken on some more members; a new family or two from out Summit
View way, and a most attractive widow. We talk of you a lot, Storm.
You can’t think what a gap your poor wife’s death and your leaving us
has made in the community! She was a wonderful little woman! You’ve no
idea how she is missed.”
“I think I have,” Storm responded quietly.
“Oh, forgive me, old chap!” Millard flushed with honest contrition.
“You more than anyone else in the world must feel—but I’m glad to see
that you are not taking it too hard.”
Storm shot a quick glance at him. Was there a suggestion of criticism
in the other’s tone?
“One cannot always see,” he said stiffly. “Sometimes a thing cuts too
deep to show on the surface. But I can’t talk about it even yet,
Millard. I can’t find words.”
He couldn’t. One thought alone was racing through his brain. His sixty
thousand was safe, after all! It would be given into his hands again,
and he would be free! Free from these hypocritical mouthings about a
dead past, these constant reminders of the old life!
What a fool he had been to disclaim so emphatically to both Langhorne
and Millard the fact that he had been victimized! How they would laugh
at him when the truth came out! Well, let them! Unconsciously he
squared his shoulders. He would have the last laugh, sixty thousand of
them! God, what a reprieve!
The afternoon passed in a glamor of renewed hope and revived plans. No
more trifling with investments for him! When once the money was safely
in his possession again he would throw up his position without a day’s
delay and catch the first steamer that sailed, no matter for what port
she cleared. Anywhere! Any war-riddled, God-forsaken corner of the
globe would be heaven after this caged existence, surrounded by
potential spies—and judges!
He was dimly aware that those with whom he came in contact that
afternoon gazed at him curiously, but for once he was heedless of
their possible criticism. The exalted mood lasted throughout his
solitary dinner, and on returning to his apartments he ignored a
painfully spelled message which Homachi had left requesting him to
call up ‘Mr. Holworti’ and paced the floor in utter abandonment to the
joy which consumed him.
His days of slavery and imprisonment were over! Just at the moment
when life had looked blackest to him and all hope was gone, the
shackles were struck from him and the way lay open to a new existence.
Never again would he decry his luck! His capital, which had shrunk to
insignificance before the wild idea of doubling it, now loomed large
before him. It meant freedom, life!
He would go to the Far East. Many changes were bound to come there,
many opportunities would arise in the general upheaval of worldwide
readjustment to the new order of things, and the colorful atmosphere
there had always held a fascination for him. Europe would do later,
but at first he would lose himself in the glamor of a new world.
He halted, drawn from his reverie by the sound of confused, raucous
shouting in the street, and realized vaguely that it had been going on
for some time. His apartment was on the ground floor, and he opened a
window of the living-room and leaned out. The Drive seemed deserted,
but on the block below he descried two retreating figures with flat
white bundles beneath their arms.
Their shrill call came again to his ears.
“Wuxtry! Turr’ble disaster! . . . All on board!”
A train wreck, perhaps. Storm was withdrawing his head when from the
second newsboy came the cry which struck terror to his heart.
“French steamer wrecked at sea! Awful loss of life!”
The _Alsace_! For a moment Storm stood as though petrified; then,
turning, he dashed hatless from the apartment and out into the street.
The newsboy raced toward him and he tore a paper from the grasp of the
foremost, thrust some silver into his hand and made for the apartment
once more. He dared not halt beneath a street lamp to read the staring
headlines; he must be secure from observation behind closed doors when
he learned the truth.
It might be some other ship. It must be! Fate would not hold out this
promise of a reprieve to him only to snatch it away just as his
fingers closed upon it!
Again in his apartment, he approached the lamp and spread the paper
out with shaking fingers. There in bold black letters which seemed to
dance mockingly before him he read:—
“S. S. Alsace Lost at Sea. No survivors.”
He tried to read on, but the letters ran together before his eyes, and
he dashed the paper to the floor. The walls of his prison closed in
upon him again, stiflingly, relentlessly! The cup had once more been
dashed from his lips, and a groan of utter despair surged up from his
heart while the bitterness of death settled upon him.