Missing
When Homachi, usually as punctual as a time-clock, arrived twenty
minutes late in the morning he found his employer already risen and
attired for the day. His elaborate protestations of apology were
summarily cut short.
“That’s all right, Homachi, only get me some coffee. I’m in a devil of
a hurry this morning.” Storm checked himself. “Er—I cooked a bite for
myself last night and rather messed up things, but I fancy you can
find enough left for breakfast.”
Homachi’s slant eyes widened.
“Any time you want me I stay, sir,” he declared reproachfully. “I
please cook dinner. Unhappy cars no run this morning, sir. I hurry
coffee——”
He slipped away to the kitchen with his noiseless, catlike tread, and
Storm glanced uneasily toward the corner where the bag lay. Could
Homachi have seen it from where he stood in the doorway?
He gulped his coffee hastily when it was prepared, keeping the valet
busy with trivial services lest he enter the bedroom. The man held his
coat for him, presented his hat and stick and then stood waiting to
usher him out. Confound the fellow’s obsequiousness! Was he waiting
purposely to spy upon him? Inwardly fuming, Storm turned with an
assumed start toward the desk in the living-room.
“Forgot those papers!” he muttered for the other’s benefit, adding
carelessly: “Go ahead and clear up the breakfast things, Homachi. By
the way, I shall not be home until late. You may go this afternoon at
the usual hour.”
Homachi bowed and departed while Storm made a pretense of rummaging
through the papers on the desk. How rocky his nerves were! He must
pull himself together, he must be prepared to face the risk of the
next hour.——That fellow was dawdling unconscionably! Would he ever
clear out?
At last Storm heard the sound of running water in the kitchen and the
subdued clatter of dishes. He tiptoed into the bedroom, seized the
bag, and holding it under his coat made for the door.
Luck was with him! The telephone operator sat at the switchboard with
his back squarely turned, and the elevator had ascended. The way was
clear!
Closing the door behind him Storm walked briskly down the hall and out
into the sunshine, swinging the bag casually in plain view. It seemed
to him to be increasing in dimension and weight at every step, to be
growing to colossal size, dragging his arm from its socket! He had
purposely chosen an early rush hour when clerks and shop people would
be hurrying to their work, but he felt that the eyes of every
passer-by were fastened upon him, boring into the burden that he
carried.
Suppose Horton had been followed on the previous night after all by
some emissary of the company whose funds were in his charge? In spite
of the heat of the morning, the thought brought a cold sweat out upon
Storm’s brow. Horton had boasted volubly of the trust reposed in him;
but what if, unknown to him, the company had placed a guard or checker
upon him? Surely it would not be unusual when a man was carrying sums
of such magnitude in cash? Suppose the watcher had lost sight of him
at the terminal the night before; was Storm running too great a risk
by returning to the same station? If the fellow were hanging about and
should recognize the bag——!
A thousand wild apprehensions flashed through his brain, but he fought
them back resolutely. He must get rid of the bag at once, and boldness
was his best course. Every moment that he retained it in his
possession increased his danger, and he could not trail over the town
with it in broad day. Even now the body might have been discovered and
identified and messages might be humming back and forth from
Pennsylvania to New York raising the alarm for the bag and its
precious contents. He could not hesitate; he must go on!
The subway express train was crowded to the doors with a heterogeneous
mass of the city’s toilers, and Storm wedged himself on the platform
of one of the rearward cars among a group of laborers and clerks,
hoping fervently that he might escape recognition before he reached
his destination. Remembering the loaded pistol, he guarded the bag as
well as he was able from the jostling throng, his heart in his mouth
at every lurch of the speeding train. He was glad that he had not
thought to remove the cartridges, for he might have left fingerprints
in handling the weapon; but his nervousness increased as he neared his
station. Dared he trust a porter? Suppose the bag were dropped——
“Grand Central!” called the guard, and Storm braced himself. He must
go through with it now; the moment had come.
He made his way out into the vast terminal and mingled with a crowd of
commuters pouring through one of the gates from an arriving train. His
hat, with its decorous mourning band, was pulled low over his eyes,
and he averted his face, fearing every minute to feel a hand upon his
shoulder and hear his name uttered by some acquaintance; but he passed
on unmolested until he found himself confronted by a red-capped
porter.
“Carry yo’ bag, suh? Taxi, suh?”
Storm eyed the dusky, stolid countenance keenly for a moment, and then
made his decision.
“No, I want the bag checked. Take it to the parcel room, will you?”
“It’ll be a dime, suh,” the porter announced, taking over the burden
nonchalantly.
Storm produced the dime and a quarter more.
“Get me the check as quick as you can. I’m in a hurry.”
The porter scurried off, intent on finishing the job and obtaining a
new client, and Storm followed as well as he was able through the
crowd, keeping his eyes upon the bobbing red cap ahead. He saw the
porter worm his way through a queue of people waiting before a long
counter, saw the bag slammed down upon it to be grasped by a hand from
the other side and disappear. A cry of relief surged up from his
heart, and the impulse to turn and flee before the porter could return
with the check almost overmastered him, but he fought it down. No
question must be raised now about the bag; the porter must have no
cause to recall his appearance later.
“Here yo’ is, suh. Want a taxi?”
Storm pocketed the check, shook his head and turning hurried from the
station in the throng which surged out upon the sidewalk once more. It
was done! No link remained to connect him with the dead paymaster
except the money securely locked away in his safe, and that bit of
numbered cardboard in his pocket. His apprehensions of the early
morning fell from him, and he felt as though he were treading on air.
Now he had only to wait until the news came out and the nine-days
wonder over the murder and the missing money had subsided, and then he
could start upon his journey.
On arrival at the Mammoth Trust Building he went at once to a washroom
downstairs and locked himself in. Then, secure from observation, he
took the parcel check from his pocket. It bore the number “39”, and as
he tore it in strips he wondered whether in the near future those
numerals would stare out at him in scare-head type from the
newspapers. Twisting the strips of thin cardboard together, he touched
a match to them and watched them blaze down to a pinch of smoldering
ashes in the hand-basin. He washed these away carefully, leaving no
slightest smudge behind and then hurried out and up to his office.
More ashes! Ashes now of the last menacing bit of evidence against
himself!
A tiresome conference awaited him, and more than once during its
course Storm had to take a fresh grip on himself to keep from allowing
the secret elation within him to show upon his face. What would they
think, what would they do—these smug-faced, pompous, eminently
conventional members of society who surrounded the table—if they knew
what he had done? Two murders in the space of a few short weeks, two
lives wiped out in the very heart of civilization, and not a question
raised against him, not a breath of suspicion! By God, he was immune,
invincible! He could commit any crime on the calendar and get away
with it! There wasn’t a living soul clever enough to hunt him down! He
was the greatest murderer of the age, the cleverest man in the world!
The madness of exultation had passed when the noon hour came, but his
spirits were still dangerously high. The sedate luncheon club did not
appeal to his mood and he turned into Peppini’s where he had lunched
with Millard only a few days before.
A voice hailed him from the corner table, and Millard himself rose
with extended hand.
“Hello, old chap! I say, if you’re alone won’t you join me?”
To his surprise Storm found himself responding almost jovially.
“If you’ll lunch with me; I see you are just starting. How is
everything out at Greenlea?”
“Fine! We’ve got a new pro. out at the club and he’s running things in
fine shape; but there isn’t much that he can teach us old boys, eh?”
Millard lowered his voice. “I say, you have seen the papers?”
Storm started. Could it be that already——? Then he checked himself
half angrily. What did Millard know of Horton?
“Papers?” he repeated vaguely.
“Yesterday. The loss of the _Alsace_. You remember I told you that Du
Chainat, as he called himself, was on board.”
“Oh, that!” Storm laughed loudly, so loudly that Millard stared at him
in surprise. “Odd thing, wasn’t it? Fancy how the people he swindled
must have felt when they read that he had escaped their clutches!”
Millard looked shocked.
“Terrible thing, I call it,” he said slowly. “It makes a chap believe
that there is such a thing as retributive justice, after all.”
“Bosh!” Storm waved his hand in contempt. “Where is the justice in the
loss of six or seven hundred lives just to drown one rat of a swindler
and sink all his loot with him? It was chance, that’s all. I tell you,
Millard, if a chap is clever enough he can get away with anything
these days.”
“There isn’t any such clever animal!” Millard shook his head. “I tell
you, after what I learned at Headquarters when I went to explain about
my acquaintance with Du Chainat, I wouldn’t like to pull anything in
this town and hope to get away with it. We who live a normal,
well-ordered, conventional existence haven’t the least conception of
their organization down there; it is perfect!”
Storm shrugged skeptically.
“If Du Chainat had been careful enough of the details of his getaway,
I’ll lay you a wager that they would never have discovered he was on
board the _Alsace_. No organization can be flawless; it is the
individual, one-man system that is perfect, if that man has the
mentality and courage and patience. Given such a man, I’d pit him
against the whole Department any day.”
“You wouldn’t if you knew the inner workings of that department, their
tremendous ramifications——” Millard broke off and added eagerly: “I
say, would you care to run over to Headquarters with me sometime? I’ll
introduce you to a chap there who will show you all over the shop, and
you’ll be dumbfounded, as I was, at the thoroughness of their methods
of investigation. It’s an eye-opener, Storm! Of course, if you’re not
interested——”
“But I am,” Storm said slowly. Millard’s suggestion was at once a
challenge and temptation. The authorities, all unknowing, had become
his natural enemies now. To enter their stronghold voluntarily, place
himself in their hands and have them exploit for his benefit the very
weapons which would be turned against him if they but dreamed of what
he had done! No criminal of the century, of the ages, would have dared
such a move! It would be a test, a secret test of his own strength,
but it would be a triumph! “I am tremendously interested, Millard. In
fact, I’d like nothing better. When can you arrange it?” Storm decided
to make a bold test of himself.
“To-morrow, if you can spare an hour. Excuse me, and I’ll ’phone my
friend there and find out the best time to take you through.” The
other rose. “Funny business for two respectable, suburban golf
enthusiasts like us to be poking our noses into the methods of crime
detection, isn’t it? It is fascinating, though, as you’ll admit.”
While he was gone Storm sat back in his chair, a little smile playing
about his mouth. By to-morrow, Horton’s body might have been found; by
to-morrow, at any rate, the alarm would have been sent broadcast for
him and the money which had been in his charge. To hear the affair
discussed perhaps in his presence by these so-called experts; to watch
the machinery in motion which was designed to reveal and crush him and
to know that not in a thousand years would it attain its object, to
face them all and laugh in his soul!
What a tremendous situation! He would have to guard himself carefully,
more carefully than he had that morning; he had noted Millard’s look
of surprise at his laughter when Du Chainat was mentioned; but Millard
was an egregious ass, anyway, and there had been no need of
restraining his amusement. What did he care about Du Chainat now? Was
he not possessed of more than the latter had stolen from him, almost
as much, in fact, as he had promised? Had he not gained it in one
stroke by his own adroitness and nerve? Gad, but to-morrow would bring
the rarest sport in the world!
“At four o’clock!” Millard bustled back to the table. “My friend is a
high official there and it means open sesame all over the place. He
says there is nothing very big on now since the Du Chainat affair went
to the wall; but you never can tell when a sensational case is due,
you know, and you’ll be interested in the workings of their system.
Won’t you come out to Greenlea afterward with me for dinner? We can
put you up for the night——”
Storm shook his head.
“No thanks, old man. I don’t feel quite up to the old surroundings
just yet.” He did not have to inject the tremor in his tone. In the
midst of his exultant thoughts the mention of Greenlea had brought
back a thrill of the old horror, a sudden vision, clearer than it had
come to him for days, of Leila lying there in the den as he had struck
her down. God, would the memory of it never rest? That other blow
struck in the dark only a few hours before seemed less real, less
vivid, than the image which had been mirrored on his brain for the
month past. Was he never to be free from it?—Never, he assured himself
savagely, until he had cut absolutely adrift from all such as this
blundering fool Millard, who kept dragging the past back and spreading
it before him! Ah, well, the time would be short now . . .
“I understand how you feel, of course, Storm. Forgive me.” Millard
nodded sympathetically. “Later on, perhaps, you’ll run out for a few
days?”
“Perhaps.” The tremor was gone from his tones, and Storm’s face was
inscrutable as he took leave of his garrulous companion after
arranging a meeting for the following day. His thoughts had swerved
back into the old, impatient, maddening channel. How soon could he get
away? How long would it be before Horton’s death was established and
the hue and cry for the lost money subsided?
There was no link connecting him, Norman Storm, with his classmate of
twenty years before. There was no reason why he, his constitution
impaired by grief over the accidental death of his wife, should not
resign from his position at the trust company and go in search of
forgetfulness and health on a long sea voyage since, as far as the
world knew, he had ample means left from his father’s estate.
And yet Storm realized all at once that he could not go! He was bound
even more irrevocably than by the lack of funds which yesterday had
oppressed him to the environs of this latest act of his. In vain he
told himself that it was mere morbid curiosity; that he didn’t care,
it couldn’t matter to him how or when the crime was discovered. He
knew in advance what the result of the investigation would be and how
the furore over the disappearance of the money would die out in sheer
lack of evidence upon which to continue the search. Morbid or no,
there was a secret spell upon him, a secret fascination which would
hold him there until the case had run its course and been relegated to
the limbo of forgotten things.
In lesser degree, the same impatience which had filled him during that
night-long vigil when he waited for the servant’s cry to announce
Leila’s death now assailed him to learn of the discovery of Horton’s
body. He bought the early editions of the afternoon papers and scanned
them eagerly, but they bore no reference to such an episode. Had the
body, in its fall down that steep declivity, been arrested by the
branches of some clump of underbrush, to lie concealed perhaps until
autumn stripped the foliage away? The thought was unendurable, the
prolonged suspense would drive him mad!
The money, too, began to worry him. Was its hiding place really
secure? What if Homachi had discovered and made away with it? He tried
to concentrate on the routine work of his office, but the effort was
futile, and at four o’clock he closed his desk and hurried home to his
rooms.
Homachi had departed for the day, and Storm pushed back the panel in
the wall and opened the safe with shaking hands. There lay the neat
piles of bills and roulades of gold just as he had placed them on the
previous night; and the sight of them calmed his jangling nerves like
a potent, soothing draught.
As he stood lost in contemplation of them there came a double ring at
the bell, and he cursed softly beneath his breath as he closed the
safe and pushed the panel back into place. That was George Holworthy’s
ring, and George was the last person he cared to see in his present
mood. Perhaps if he did not reply the other would go away——
But the bell rang again, and resigning himself to the inevitable Storm
opened the door.
“Hello, Norman.” George’s placid face broadened with a smile of
assured welcome. “I stopped in at the trust company for you but they
said you had left early and I was afraid you were ill. You do look
rather seedy.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” Storm answered shortly. “Didn’t sleep very well
last night, that’s all. Come on in.”
“Suppose you come out?” suggested the other. “I’ve borrowed Abbott’s
car and we can run up the road to some quiet little joint for a bite
of dinner; the air will do you good.”
A sense of relief pervaded Storm. He had dreaded the thought of seeing
George seated where Horton had sat last night, smoking the same cigars
and piling up the ashes on the same tray. He assented readily enough
to the plan, and soon they were seated in the little car with George
at the wheel heading up the Drive.
“Where shall it be?” the latter asked. “The manse or Bryan’s or out on
the Post Road?”
Storm did not reply. They were chugging over the viaduct and around
the turn where he and Horton had walked the night before. They were
nearing the top of the incline where the wall sheered down—was that a
crowd collecting there on the path? He strained his eyes ahead and
unconsciously a muttered exclamation arose in his throat. The next
moment they were upon a little group, and he saw it was composed of a
gossipping phalanx of nurse-maids with baby carriages, lingering in
the last, slanting rays of the westering sun.
He sank back with a sigh, and the little car plodded on.
“What’s the matter with you?” George demanded in good-natured sarcasm.
“Getting deaf, or something? I asked you where you wanted to go.”
“Eh?—Oh, anywhere,” Storm responded absently. “As long as it isn’t one
of those jazz places. Don’t go too far; I don’t feel like a long walk
home, and you are bound to strip the gears or do some fool thing.”
“I like that!” the other retorted. “I only did that once to your car
and then Leila——”
He paused, biting his lip, and Storm clenched his hands. He could
have turned and struck the man beside him!—Leila! Greenlea! Damn them
all, would they never allow him to forget, even for a moment? Wasn’t
there enough on his mind—with that body lying somewhere back there
undiscovered and the thought of the alarm which must be even
now manifesting itself out at the Mid-Eastern plant in the
Alleghanies—without recalling that first hideous affair?
“I—I’ve learned to drive all right now,” George amended hastily. “Wait
till we get up to the road where I can let her out and you’ll see!”
The drive thereafter was a silent one. George, dismayed by his
blundering touch upon his friend’s supposed grief, felt contrite and
self-conscious, and Storm was buried in his own thoughts. What would
George say when he read in the papers of Horton’s disappearance? The
two men had not been over congenial at college, for George had
disapproved of the other’s wild pranks, but there had been a certain
camaraderie between them. Storm felt an almost irresistible impulse to
speak Horton’s name, to hear George talk of him. It was madness, he
knew; the fellow had not been mentioned between them for years, and if
he were to do so now the coincidence, in the face of the news which
must soon come, would strike even George’s dull perceptions. Yet as
they drew up at a cosy little inn and settled themselves before a
table on the vine-screened veranda, the desire persisted, dominating
all other thoughts.
Wholly innocent of subtleties as he was, it seemed as though George
himself had some divination of his companion’s mental trend, for as he
glanced about him he remarked:
“This is like old times, isn’t it? Away back, I mean. Doesn’t this put
you in mind of that little place outside Elmhaven where we used to
drive for those wonderful shore dinners in our college days?”
Storm started almost guiltily, but George chattered on:
“What was the name of it?—Oh, Bailey’s! You remember it, don’t you,
Norman?”
“Of course,” Storm responded cautiously. “We had some great old times
there, didn’t we?”
“Rather.” A reminiscent glow came in to George’s faded blue eyes.
“Pretty good crowd, too. I wonder what has become of them all?”
Storm’s hand trembled as he started to raise his glass to his lips,
and he set it down hastily. Horton had uttered those same words only
the night before! With an effort he collected himself and steadied his
voice.
“Let’s see,” he began deliberately. “There were Swain and McKnight and
Van Tries and you and I——”
He paused and George nodded.
“Swain and McKnight are gone, but you’re forgetting Caldwell and
Horton. I haven’t heard of either of them in years, have you?”
Storm shook his head, unable to frame a word. In a quick revulsion of
feeling, he wished fervently that he might change the subject, but his
dry lips refused their office.
“Jack Horton was a wild fellow, but there was no real harm in him,”
George pursued. “Just the irresponsibility of youth, I guess. He’s
probably settled down somewhere now and making good.”
Storm gritted his teeth. ‘Making good’! He could have laughed aloud at
the irony of it. God! if he could only silence George before his
self-control broke down!
“You can’t tell what a man will be in twenty years’ time.” Was that
his own voice speaking so coolly, so casually? “Our old crowd has
scattered all over the face of the globe.—Let’s order; I’m starved.”
The talk drifted off to other topics, to his unutterable relief, but
contrary to his assertion Storm scarcely touched the food which was
placed before him. He hoped that George would take a different route
home, but shrank from suggesting it and instead lapsed into a morose
silence. As they passed again that ominous spot upon which his
thoughts centered, he strove to pierce the darkness, but the path was
deserted and no sound came to his ears but the humming of the motor.
Sleep did not come to him until nearly dawn and he was awakened from a
troubled dream by the sharp, insistent ring of the telephone.
Springing up to reply, he heard George’s excited tones over the wire,
and the words themselves drove all the haze of nightmare from his
mind.
“Say, have you seen the papers yet? I didn’t mean to wake you up, but
this is the damnedest thing! One of the very fellows we were talking
about last night—Jack Horton—is spread all over the front page. He has
been employed of late years as paymaster for the Mid-Eastern Coal
Corporation, and he is missing with a hundred thousand dollars!”