The Black Bag
Morning found Storm with a desperate, hunted look in his eyes still
pacing the floor, his heart sick within him. Why had that blundering
ass, Millard, told him yesterday? Why had he been plunged in the
madness of a fool’s paradise for a few short hours, only to be drawn
back into an existence that had become all the more unbearable by
contrast?
He had contrived a sufficient measure of calmness in the late hours to
read the amplification of the damning headlines. The _Alsace_ was
supposed to have struck one of the floating mines of which she had
been warned, and to have gone down with all on board. No calls for
help had been received by wireless, no survivors picked up. Another
liner, westward bound, had run into a mass of wreckage on the course
of the unfortunate ship; wreckage which denoted a fearful explosion
and fragments of which bore the name “_Alsace_”. That was all; but it
was conclusive, damning to Storm’s last hope.
The morning’s news had little to add save a verification of the ocean
tragedy in a message radioed from a second ship which had encountered
the flotsam of the wreck. It was evident beyond peradventure of a
doubt that the ill-fated _Alsace_ had been blown to atoms, and all on
board must have perished instantly with her.
The article was followed by a copy of the passenger list together with
brief obituaries of the more prominent of the wreck’s victims, and
beneath it was a terse paragraph which verified Millard’s disclosures
of the previous day. The notorious swindler, Jan Martens, alias
Maurice du Chainat, was known to have been on board, and arrangements
had been made to take him in custody upon the arrival of the ship at
her destination; in fact he had been placed nominally under arrest by
the captain of the _Alsace_, as the last wireless message known to
have been sent out from the unfortunate ship announced. It was feared
that the bulk of the money netted by his gigantic swindle had gone
down with him.
Storm left his breakfast untasted, deaf to the polite concern of
Homachi, and took his miserable way to the trust company. God, how he
loathed it all! The very sight of his desk, familiar through long
years of usage, awoke anew the spirit of senseless, futile revolt;
doubly futile now since the mirage of a different future had risen
again only to be blotted out.
In the bitterness of soul which surpassed anything he had known in his
blackest hours, Storm forced himself to go through with the dreary
round; but the close of day found him desperate, at bay. He could not
go on! What was the use, anyway? What did the future hold for him now?
Only memories which rose up in the silent hours to take him by the
throat, from which there could be no escape while life lasted!
With the waning afternoon the sky had become overcast, and twilight
brought a gentle summer rain through which Storm plodded doggedly.
Food was distasteful, the thought of a restaurant was abhorrent to him
in his morose mood, and yet he shrank from hours of solitude in his
apartment. He was afraid of himself, afraid to think, and he longed
desperately for the companionship of a fellow being; not George nor
anyone connected with his life of the past ten years, but someone
unconcerned in his affairs, someone with whom he could talk and
forget.
He had seized upon the trivial excuse of a call at his cigarette
importer’s as an expedient to while away a half hour. The
tobacconist’s shop was just across the street from the Grand Central
Station, and as Storm passed among the arrivals who swarmed out of the
edifice one face in the crowd caught his eye. Little of it was
visible, the collar of his light summer ulster turned up to meet it,
and he tramped along beneath his umbrella without glancing to right or
left.
Storm caught him impulsively by the arm.
“Jack!” he cried. “Where on earth did you drop from?”
The stranger shook him off unceremoniously.
“Your mistake, I’m afraid———” he mumbled.
“I beg your pardon.” Storm stepped aside. “Sorry to have accosted you,
sir. I thought that you were—yes, by Jove! You _are_ Jack Horton!
Don’t you know me, old man?”
The stranger hesitated and then with a hearty ring in his voice which
he checked instantly as he glanced cautiously about him.
“You’ve got me!” he exclaimed with subdued joviality. “I’m Jack, all
right, and of course I know you, Norman, you old scout! I meant to
pass you up, though; fact is, I’ve got no business to stop in town
now. For the love of Pete, if you’ve got nothing to do, take me
somewhere where we can get a bite and have a good old chin without a
lot of folks giving us the once-over!”
Storm was mystified. This pal of his freshman year at college whom
Providence had thrust in his path this night of all nights when he
needed human companionship seemed to be in some strange predicament,
but he did not stop to question. He was only too glad of the promised
relief from solitude.
“Come along! I’ve got just the place. Lord, but it’s good to see you!
We’ll go straight up to my own rooms. My man will have gone, but I can
rustle up some grub and anything else you feel like having.”
He gestured toward the line of waiting taxicabs, but Horton drew back.
“Where are you living?” he asked, with a trace of nervousness.
“Riverside Drive,” Storm replied impatiently. “Come on, old man, your
umbrella’s leaking.”
“Is there a subway station near you?”
“Yes, of course, only a block or two away. But what in the——”
“Never mind now. Let’s go up that way,” his friend proposed. “I’m not
stuck on these taxis under the present circumstances. A lot of the
fellows that drive them are crooks, and you never can tell——. Me for
the subway, and don’t talk too much on the way up, Norman. This is
serious business.”
“All right,” Storm acquiesced shortly. “But let me carry that bag,
won’t you? You’ve got enough with that umbrella and brief case.”
“Not on your life!” responded Horton with emphasis. “I’ll carry it
myself. You lead the way, Norman.”
Storm obeyed. He had known little of Horton in the past and nothing of
how or where the years since their college days had been passed.
Without having much in common, they had traveled in the same crowd
during the first term at the university, and many had been the
scrapes, engendered by Horton’s reckless love of fun and Storm’s
rebellion against discipline, which they had shared.
Horton had been compelled to leave college at the end of the freshman
year by his father’s failure and gradually had dropped from sight of
his old classmates. In the first few years he had been heard of now
and then in widely different parts of the country, employed in
positions of minor responsibility, but of late no news had come and
Storm had forgotten him completely until this passing glimpse of his
face recalled old associations.
In the subway he studied his companion furtively. Horton’s figure had
grown heavier with the years, his face more full but healthily tanned,
while the prominent jaw and clear, steady eyes betokened added
strength of character. Storm speculated on his possible circumstances;
his clothes were of good quality but obviously ready-made, and the
bluff heartiness of his manner suggested an association with men of a
rougher caliber than Storm himself counted among his friends. Here was
a man who had mastered circumstances, not permitted himself to be
enslaved by them! Storm wondered what the other would do in his place.
At least he would not allow penury to hold him chained to an existence
which had become unendurable! Then he dismissed the idea with a shrug.
Horton could never stand in his place; he would not have the
cleverness to cloak murder in the guise of accident, or the quick wit
and self-control to see it through. No one could have done it save
Storm himself!
When they reached his station he touched Horton lightly on the arm to
appraise him of the fact and was amazed at the latter’s quick,
defensive start. What did the man fear? His secretiveness, his evident
intention at first to deny his identity: what could they portend?
Could it be that Horton was a fugitive from justice? Storm smiled at
the thought. Why, he himself, if the world only knew——!
But Horton’s ebullient spirits bubbled over when they emerged on the
street level, and a hasty glance about assured him that no other
pedestrians were near.
“Lord, but it’s good to be in New York again, Norman!” he exclaimed.
“The old burg is the greatest little spot on God’s green earth, let me
tell you! The sight and sound and smell of it get into a fellow’s
blood. Talk about the East a-calling! It’s deaf and dumb compared to
the urge of little old Manhattan!”
“Feel that way about it?” Storm’s lips curled as he remembered his own
glowing, futile dreams of the Far East.
“You bet I do!” Horton shifted his umbrella to grasp more firmly the
small black bag which he was carrying. “Do you know, Norman, there
have been nights down in Mexico and up in Alaska and out on the plains
when I would have given five years of my life for an hour here! Mind
you, it isn’t so much the bright lights—I can’t afford, for more
reasons than one, to cut loose as I used to—but it’s what these
literary cusses call ‘atmosphere’, I guess; there’s something in life
here, any phase of it, that gets under a guy’s skin and makes him itch
to get back!”
“Mexico? Alaska?” repeated Storm with unconscious envy. “You’ve been
about a bit, Jack, haven’t you?”
“Surest thing you know!” The other laughed, adding, as Storm halted:
“This where you hang out? Oh, boy! Some class to you!”
“I took these rooms off the hands of a friend only lately,” Storm
replied, wincing in spite of himself at Horton’s uncouth appreciation.
“I have lived out of town for years.”
He opened the apartment door and switched on the lights, and his
companion gave a low whistle.
“Some class!” he repeated admiringly. “You must have made good,
Norman.”
There was an element of surprise in his tone that nettled his host.
“I’m an official of the Mammoth Trust Company, you know,” he said
loftily. “Let me take your coat, Jack, and just put your bag down
anywhere.”
Horton allowed himself to be divested of his coat and hat, but when he
followed Storm into the living-room he was still carrying the black
bag, which he deposited on a corner of the couch, seating himself
beside it.
“Mammoth Trust, eh?” he repeated. “Your old man was a big bug there at
one time, wasn’t he? I remember you used to talk about it in the old
days; said he was going to get you an easy berth there when you
graduated. By Gad, you did fall in soft!”
Storm flushed at the imputation, although he found no words with which
to deny it. What a rough boor Jack had become! He almost regretted
that he had brought him home. Still, even he was better than no one.
“Cocktail?” he asked suggestively.
Horton shook his head.
“I’m off the fancy stuff,” he replied. “The fact is, I’m not supposed
to be touching anything at all, but I may as well take the lid off
since we’re going to make a night of it. Got any Scotch?”
Storm produced the bottle, siphon and two tall glasses, and went into
the kitchen to crack some ice. His guest followed him to the door
after a quick backward glance at his bag.
“Great little place you’ve got here.” He glanced about him and back at
his host. Then for the first time he noted the latter’s mourning garb,
and his eyes widened. “Look here, Norman, you—you’ve lost someone. Not
your wife——?” Storm nodded.
“You don’t say! I’m confoundedly sorry, old scout!” Horton exclaimed
with real feeling. “I knew you were married, of course; saw your
wife’s picture in the society papers more than once a few years ago.
When you brought me here and I lamped it was a typical bachelor’s
diggings, I didn’t like to ask questions; divorces here are thicker
than fleas below the border, and you never can tell. When did it
happen, Norman?”
“A little over a month ago.” Storm turned to the ice chest as if to
cut off further questions or attempt at sympathy, but Horton was as
impervious to snubs as a good-natured puppy.
“Isn’t it hell?” he soliloquized. “When a fellow’s happy, something
rotten always happens. Beautiful woman, wasn’t she? Any kids?”
“No,” replied his host shortly. “Come on, let’s have our drink and
then we’ll see what we can dig up for dinner. Homachi usually stuffs
the pantry shelves pretty well.”
The glasses were filled and Horton raised his, somewhat uncomfortably
oppressed with the lack of fitting words. Storm forestalled him
hastily.
“I don’t talk much about my trouble, Jack. Let’s try to forget it for
to-night. This is a reunion, and I’m damn glad to have you here! Happy
days!”
Horton nodded and drank deeply, drawing a long breath of satisfaction.
“That’s the stuff!” he approved. “Some kick to it, all right! Do you
ever see anything of the old crowd?”
“I run into one or another of them at the club now and then.” Storm
put down his glass. “I’ll go and investigate the pantry; you must be
starved.”
“I could do with a little nourishment,” Horton acquiesced. “Let me
help you rustle the grub. You don’t look as if you were much of a hand
at it.”
“Are you?”
Horton laughed boisterously.
“Just watch me!” he cried. “I’ve been roughing it for years, in one
way and another; mining camps, oil leases, cattle ranches and even a
tramp steamer.”
“Really? You haven’t told me a thing about yourself yet, Jack. The
last I heard of you, you were working in a bank out in Chicago.”
“Yeah!” Horton snorted disgustedly. “Nice kid-glove-and-silk-hat job;
thirty bucks a week and a bum lung.—Say, where can I put this bag of
mine?”
“Why, leave it here.” Storm stared. “Nobody is going to walk off with
it.”
“Not if I know it, they’re not!” returned his guest with emphasis.
“I’ve got some mighty important stuff in here. Got any place where I
can lock it up? I’d feel easier in my mind——”
“Why, of course!” Storm threw open a closet door. “Here, keep the key
yourself if it will give you any satisfaction. Now come on; I’m
hungry, myself.”
They found the pantry well stocked and made a hearty meal. Storm,
usually an abstemious drinker, poured out a second Scotch and under
its influence grew expansive. He regaled his guest with tales of high
finance, adroitly registering his own importance in the trust company
and his intimacy with men of large affairs. It was only later when
they returned again to the living-room that he became conscious of a
seeming reticence on the part of his friend.
“But tell me about yourself,” he demanded. “Will you smoke? Try one of
these.”
He offered the humidor, and Horton selected a cigar and eyed it almost
reverently.
“A fifty-center!” he exclaimed. “Gee, you’re hitting the high spots,
all right, and I don’t wonder after what you’ve been telling me! As to
myself—well, I’m no great shakes, but I’m not kicking. I’ve had a
pretty good time of it, by and large.”
“But you said something about lung trouble.” Storm lit his own
cigarette and held the match to the other’s cigar. “You certainly
don’t look it now.”
“Fact, though,” Horton nodded. “Good thing, too, or I would have been
a pasty-faced, pretty-mannered bank clerk to this day. It was a
question of living out in the open or dying in a hall room, and the
West looked good to me. I started in as paymaster in a mining camp,
and believe me it was some job for a tenderfoot who had never been
nearer to a gun than across the footlights at a melodrama! I learned
to travel heeled and be quick on the draw and a few other things;
human nature generally. It’s funny the fascination other’s people’s
money has for some folks. Never felt that way myself; I guess that’s
why I’ve usually had charge of the payroll.”
Storm smiled bitterly, his thoughts reverting to the pseudo Du Chainat
and his own money lying now at the bottom of the sea. He had boasted
of his affluence to Horton to soothe his wounded self-esteem at the
latter’s naïve appraisement of him, but his own predicament had
returned with crushing force. Happily, Horton was aware of no lack of
response on the part of the host.
“Yes, _sir_!” he continued. “It’s no credit to me that I’ve run
straight, but it kind of gives a fellow a damned good feeling to know
that folks realize without question that he’s worthy of trust. Why,
right now——!” He broke off and added in a lower tone: “I’m a hell of a
fellow to pin medals on myself! I ought to be miles away this minute
and going fast. Couldn’t resist a glimpse of the old town, though, and
I reckon I can take care of myself. I thought I would just look ’round
a bit and then be on my way, but you came along——”
“And you tried to pass me up!” Storm recalled the other’s furtive
manner. “What is the game, anyway, Jack? Where are you bound for?”
“A jumping-off place back in the Alleghanies.” Horton grimaced. “Some
different from your berth here, isn’t it? You’ve got a nice mahogany
roll-top, I suppose, and nothing on your mind but your hat, while I
travel with my eyes peeled and my finger on the trigger. See this?”
He reached in his hip pocket and produced a blunt-nosed pistol which
winked wickedly in the light.
“Good heavens! What do you carry that thing around with you for?”
Storm gasped.
“Looks like business, doesn’t it? Fact is, I’m pay-master now for one
of the biggest coal companies in Pennsylvania, and when you’ve got
charge of a small fortune every month and an army of Hunkies and
general riff-raff know it, it’s just as well to be on the look-out.”
He laid the weapon on the table and ground out the stub of his cigar
regretfully in the ash-tray. “That was some smoke!”
“Have another,” Storm invited. “I only smoke cigarettes myself, but
these cigars are supposed to be pretty good, I believe.”
“They are that!” his guest agreed with unction. “Lord, I don’t know
when I’ve had a feed like this, and three good hookers of Scotch and
such tobacco!” He lighted a fresh cigar and sprawled back in his chair
with a sigh of content. “This is certainly the life!”
“There’s more Scotch——” Storm began suggestively, but Horton shook his
head.
“Not for mine, thanks. I’m at peace with the world. If it weren’t for
that bag of mine——”
“What’s in it, anyway?” Storm asked idly. “Money for your gang out
there?”
“You’ve guessed it, son.” Horton sat up suddenly. “I’ll show you
something that will make your eyes pop out, for all your big deals!
You fellows who write checks and tear off coupons don’t know what
money is; it is only when you handle the actual coin in bulk that you
realize what it stands for.”
He crossed to the closet and unlocked it while Storm watched him,
diverted in spite of himself at the other’s complacency.
“Here you are!” Horton placed the bag on the table and opened it.
“Have a look!”
Storm obeyed. Packets of yellow-backed bills, sheaves on sheaves of
them, met his gaze, and cylinders of coins. The bag was filled to the
brim with them!
“All gold!” Horton explained, pointing to the cylinders. “Some of the
Hunkies won’t take anything else. Do you know how much I’ve got here,
old scout? One hundred and twelve thousand, five hundred and fifty-two
dollars and eighty-four cents!”