Found
When, a few minutes later, they came down the steps of the building,
Millard was still descanting on the infallible methods of the bureau
they had just quitted; but Storm was silent, although in his heart he
gave grudging assent to the eulogy. They were thorough, for a fact; he
had not anticipated such extensive work on the part of the police in
so short a time. The alarm sent out at sundown from Pennsylvania for
the missing man, and by midnight his record known and the house in
which his sweetheart lived placed under surveillance!
To Millard and himself as mere curious visitors no information had
been dropped, and he had an uneasy idea that the mental reservation
indicated by Captain Nairn’s attitude concealed a far deeper knowledge
of the case than had been given out to the press. In the latter’s
manner, especially when they shook hands at the moment of departure,
he felt that, had the Captain chosen to speak, he might have learned
something of vital importance to himself. Had the bag been already
discovered at the station, and was the porter’s memory for faces more
keen than he had judged? Were detectives even now scouring the city
for a man of his personal description?
“I’ll wager that telephone message had something to do with the Horton
affair,” Millard remarked suddenly. “Maybe he was caught then!”
Storm roused himself from his meditations with a start.
“Why do you think that?”
“Well, you see, I’ve watched the Captain before,” replied Millard.
“You saw how quickly his expression could change when he wanted it to.
By Jove, that chap should have been an actor! He put me over the jumps
for a solid hour, I don’t mind telling you, when I went in to explain
about my acquaintance with Du Chainat, and although he did it in a
perfectly courteous, kid-glove manner I felt as limp as a rag when I
came out. His expression ran the gamut from bland incredulity to
direct accusation, and if I had had anything to confess he would have
broken me down absolutely. Those fellows at Headquarters could force a
confession from the cleverest crook in Christendom!”
“And what has this to do with the telephone message to-day?” Storm
inquired in bored disgust at his companion’s garrulousness.
“Everything, my boy!” Millard retorted. “While he was talking to Big
Jim’s daughter just now and drawing her out, his face was alive with
expression, but after he had heard the first few words which came to
him over the ’phone he looked absolutely blank and wooden. He got some
information right then that he did not mean to convey, or I am very
much mistaken. I say, there was something rather fine, wasn’t there,
about that girl?”
“She was rather pretty,” Storm admitted, with a shrug.
“I don’t mean that!” exclaimed the other impatiently. “She was gotten
up like a circus queen! I mean her attitude, her loyalty toward your
friend Horton. Jolly white of her, I thought it!”
“Oh, when a woman is in love!” Storm sneered and added in cold
displeasure, “Don’t call Horton my friend, please. I doubt still that
this fellow is the one I knew at college.”
“But the Captain told you he was at Elmhaven——”
“After I had myself informed him that there was a chap of that name
there; don’t forget that, Millard. A mere play to the gallery.” Storm
laughed. “Captain Nairn is highly successful, I have no doubt, in
cases of lost children and runaway girls, but I must confess I see no
basis for your remarkable faith in the powers of the Department.
They’ve failed in other cases just as they will in this.”
“You wait and see!” Millard’s tone was distinctly ruffled. “I’ve known
the Commissioner’s secretary for years and I’m going to get him to let
me in on this case from the inside and watch how they work it. I’ll
bet you fifty dollars they get that man Horton!”
“_And_ the hundred thousand?” Storm was still laughing, but there was
a reckless glint in his eyes.
“And the hundred thousand!” Millard repeated with emphasis.
“Any time limit?”
“Oh, well, if the fellow succeeds in getting out of the country——”
Millard hedged.
“Shall we say six months?—Done! Come up and dine with me at my rooms
on Tuesday night, and we’ll let George Holworthy hold the stakes.”
Storm held out his hand in a sudden volatile accession of cordiality.
“Good-bye, and thanks for a most interesting afternoon, old man,
really!”
After he had left Millard, however, a quick revulsion of mood came and
he cursed the impulse which had led him to extend the invitation. The
voluble little man bored him horribly, but he had felt an impish
desire to goad him on in his laudation of the Department, and to seal
the compact of the wager within a few feet of where the money lay
securely hidden had seemed a great joke at the moment. It might be a
wise move, at that, to keep in with Millard if the latter managed
through his boasted friendship with the Commissioner’s secretary to
obtain any inside information on the progress of the case. He would be
sure to retail it in defense of his argument, and in spite of his
sense of security Storm determined to be forewarned of any possible
danger.
He dined alone at an old down-town hotel which he frequented when the
mood for solitude came upon him. It was a Stately place with an air of
faded grandeur about it, left far behind in the upward march of the
city, but still retaining a remnant of its ancient patronage.
As he sat over his coffee, Storm idly studied the diners scattered
about at the nearby tables. They were elderly for the most part with a
solid air of conscious rectitude and well-being, and they ate with the
deliberation and grave relish due to the reputation of the cuisine. A
shining bald pate above a coat of magisterial black at the next table
caught Storm’s eye by its glistening expanse. The man was sitting back
luxuriously reading a paper which he held outstretched to aid some
defect of vision, and over one ample shoulder a few letters of the
headline jumped out in staring type.
“—ton’s Body——”
Storm caught his breath, and for a moment the page wavered and blurred
before his eyes. Could it mean Horton’s body? Had it been discovered?
He craned his neck, leaning as far forward and to one side as he
dared; but by a perverse fate the older man moved also, his shoulder
effectually concealing the rest of the message.
Storm cursed him softly beneath his breath, still maneuvering
desperately to read the lines so tantalizingly withheld from him.
Confound the old dotard! If he would shift that paper only a bit to
one side, hold it a matter of a few inches higher, the whole article
could be read, for he sat so near that even the small type would be
plainly legible to Storm’s sharp eyes.
While he writhed impotently the unconscious reader turned the page,
and in the flirt of the paper Storm caught a fleeting glimpse of the
last word on the headline. It looked like “Found,” but he dared not
trust the evidence of that swift glance. He felt an almost
uncontrollable impulse to stride across to the other man and tear the
paper from his hands; but the reader must have lost the thread of the
article in which he was engrossed, for even as Storm struggled with
his maddened impatience he turned back, raising the paper so that the
whole upper part was in plain view.
“Horton’s Body Found.”
His instinct had been right, after all! Storm’s heart hammered in his
chest, and for a second time his vision blurred, only to clear the
next instant; and he read without effort through to the end of the
brief news item. It told only what he of all men already knew, what he
had wished the world to learn.
The older man folded his paper, yawned, and departed, and Storm called
for his check and strolled out of the hotel with a serenely detached
air; but although the night was warm he shivered as if a sudden chill
had swept over him. That phase of the investigation was over; now the
search would begin in earnest for the black bag.
Suddenly he recalled Millard’s conviction about the telephone message
which Chief Nairn had received in their presence and the added
reservation in the latter’s manner when he bade them good-bye. Millard
must have been right; that message was a report of the finding of the
body!
As he journeyed homeward he felt a sense of relief that the suspense
was over. Horton was no longer lying out there—but what did Horton
matter? He was dead and that was an end of it. How easily his skull
had caved in beneath the force of that single blow! How easily the
whole thing had been accomplished!
But was the money really safe in his apartment now that the search
would narrow down to the bag and its contents? Would it not be wiser
if he were to hire a safe-deposit box somewhere under an assumed
name——? But even as the thought came he negatived it. Wise or not, he
realized that he could not know a moment’s rest with the money for
which he had risked so much out of his immediate possession. He would
wait until the bag was discovered and the news of it had been
forgotten and then slip unostentatiously away. This might come at any
day; he must be prepared.
Thank heaven he had mentioned his proposed trip to George long before
Horton crossed his path once more! Now his suddenly announced decision
would call forth no surprise from that devoted friend, and George
could be depended upon in the depths of his innocence to explain the
situation to any curious acquaintances.
“Poor old Norman!” he would say, shaking his head sadly. “Went all to
pieces over the loss of his wife. Health gave out completely, you
know; couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, racked with nerves! Sea voyage is
the best thing for him, and he’ll come back a new man.”
Storm laughed at his own conceit, but by morning his resolve had
strengthened and definite plans began to form themselves in his mind.
When he was safely away—in Japan, perhaps,—he would change some of the
banknotes at a foreign branch of one of the banking houses and send
back a draft to old Foulkes to take up that mortgage on the Greenlea
house with Langhorne; he could get a far better price for the property
unencumbered.
Still later he could write to old George and deputize him to sell it.
George would be pained, of course, but what did that matter? He could
explain that he meant to extend his trip and could never, in any
event, bring himself to a return to Greenlea. He could tell George
also to dispose of what personal belongings still remained of Leila’s
among her friends there and to sell the house as it stood.
The morning papers threw no further light on the subject of Horton’s
murder, yet Storm knew that no stone would be left unturned in the
search for the bag, and he felt that its discovery might be imminent.
A week or two at most after that took place and the whole affair would
vanish from the public mind.
He would be prepared to sail at once, but in cutting absolutely adrift
from the old life he meant in no sense to become a pariah. When he was
satiated with travel he would settle down in some Continental city and
enjoy life untrammeled by memories.
That night he took stock of his own belongings. He had left the
details of his removal from Greenlea in George’s hands, and the latter
had made a free selection. When Storm had weeded them out from
Potter’s effects he looked at the conglomeration in despair. He meant
to travel light, taking only his fresh mourning attire with him, which
could be discarded readily enough as soon as he was away from his
circle of condoling friends; and his old clothes could be given to
Homachi.
But George had added a collection of junk which could not be so easily
disposed of without opening even that credulous individual’s eyes to
the real state of Storm’s mind. His glance swept in exasperation over
the room; that reading lamp, for instance, his favorite edition of
Balzac, the antique clock, the bronze desk set! George’s infernal
sentiment must have directed his choice, for these had all been gifts
from Leila; they couldn’t very well be given or thrown away!
The impulse came to Storm to tumble them all into an old trunk and
ship them back to Greenlea, and his mood demanded instant action. He
might as well get them out of the way now and have done with it! There
would be plenty to do in the days ahead, and at least he would have
the cursed things out of his sight.
Whistling cheerily he took off his coat, dragged the trunk out from
the storeroom and opened it. He had scarcely started upon his task,
however, when there came an insistent double ring at the bell.
George, again! Storm sat down deliberately and swore. But it would not
do to offend him, and the time would be so short . . . .
He rose and opened the door to disclose George, beaming, his arms
filled with awkwardly held paper bags and bundles. As he moved, one of
them crashed down upon the mat and a thin line of white liquid
meandered from it.
“Ouch! There goes the cream, I am afraid!” George’s smile faded, and
he gazed ruefully down at the mess. “I thought we might make a
rarebit, and I stopped——”
“Well, never mind! Come in. There is more cream in the ice chest.”
Storm pulled his guest unceremoniously within and closed the door.
“Homachi can clean the mat in the morning. Here, I’ll take all that
stuff to the kitchen.”
“Just finished a rubber of bridge over at the Abbott’s and as I hadn’t
seen you in two days——” George explained to the empty air. “Why, what
the——!”
His ejaculation reached Storm in the kitchen and the latter returned
to find his guest staring in surprise from the opened trunk to the
disordered room.
“I’m packing up some stuff to send back to Greenlea,” Storm explained
briefly. “All those things Leila gave me, you know; I can’t stand
seeing them around me any longer.”
“I’m sorry. I thought they would make it more homelike for you here,”
George said simply, in honest contrition. “I might have known you
wouldn’t want them about just yet, to remind you——Here, let me help
pack them.”
Storm masked a smile. Old George was almost too easy!
“All right, then, if you want to,” he acquiesced. “Take off your coat
and we’ll pitch in. There is a pile of old newspapers on the pantry
shelf——”
George trotted obediently off and returned with the papers.
“I say, wasn’t that a fierce thing about poor Jack Horton!” he
exclaimed. “You saw it in the papers, of course? He was found
murdered——”
“I know!” Storm interrupted hastily. “Mind what you are doing with
that clock!—Yes, it was very sad, of course, but a chap in his line of
work takes chances, and I suppose he took one too many.”
“It doesn’t seem possible! Poor old Jack!” George’s tone trembled with
real feeling. “It is odd that we should have been talking about him
only two nights ago; I don’t think we’ve even mentioned his name
before in years. And at that very time he was lying dead out there on
the Drive, and no one knew! It’s horrible! Why, we passed twice right
within a few feet of the spot!”
“That’s so, we did,” Storm said slowly.
“Did you see the latest editions of the papers to-night?” George
pursued, and then not waiting for the other to reply, he went on:
“That young girl who was in love with him—Big Jim Saulsbury’s
daughter—gave an interview to the reporters in which she said she
would never rest until his murderers were discovered and convicted.
Big Jim is backing her up, too. He came on here to New York, and
although he refuses to talk for publication it is understood that he
has hired the best private detectives in the country to supplement the
authorities. By Jingo, I hope they get them!”
“Do they think some gang were out after him?” Storm asked.
“They don’t seem to think anything!” George waxed indignant. “I tell
you, things are in a pretty state in this town when a chap can be
decoyed off a train, robbed of a hundred thousand dollars and murdered
in cold blood! Where were the police, I should like to know?”
Storm smiled.
“We had a little talk about crime not so long ago, if you remember,”
he observed. “You didn’t quite agree with me when I suggested that a
person could commit any sort of crime and get away with it if he used
his brains, but this looks like a case in point, eh?”
Suddenly he caught his breath. It had occurred to him that George’s
glance had fallen idly upon the sheets of newspaper with which they
were packing the articles into the trunk, and remembrance came to him.
They were using the outer sheets only from the top of the pile on the
pantry shelf; the inner sheets of those papers were wrapped about
Horton’s pistol in the bag! Had George noted anything unusual? His
manner certainly did not show it, and he was packing with a
preoccupation which boded ill for the safe arrival of the fragile lamp
at Greenlea.
To test him, Storm repeated:
“It looks as if the fellow was going to get away with it in this case,
at any rate.”
“They’ve only just started,” George replied significantly, adding as
he eyed the half-filled trunk: “We should have put those books on the
bottom, but never mind now. Does this desk set go in, too?”
“Yes.” Storm breathed more easily, but his vaunted foresight had
received a shock. Why hadn’t he destroyed those confounded outer
sheets of the newspaper?
The thought brought a swift reminder to him. Why not get rid now of
the cap which Horton had worn on that fateful walk? There was room in
the trunk . . . .
He dashed to the closet.
“Wait a minute, George. When you packed up my things to move in town
you brought along a lot of old clothes that I shan’t have any use for
in a dog’s age. Might as well ship some of them back to Greenlea now
and have done with it.”
“Sure!” responded George equably. “Bring them along.”
Storm returned, his arms filled with a miscellaneous collection of
coats and headgear. Among the latter was a certain cap of thin dark
blue cloth, and as he saw it disappear into the trunk he heaved a sigh
of relief. That, too, was gone! He turned to his companion.
“Oh, did I tell you that I saw Horton’s girl yesterday; this Miss
Saulsbury?”
“Where?” George demanded, staring.
“At Police Headquarters. A friend of Millard showed us around.”
Storm told in detail of the scene at the Bureau of Missing Persons,
and George listened with deep interest.
“Mighty loyal of that girl to stand up for poor Jack when the whole
world was ready to condemn him as an absconder, wasn’t it?” he
commented, as Millard had done. “Even I—well, it did look pretty black
against him, didn’t it? They’ll get his murderers, sure!”
“So Millard thinks. He is crazy about the work of the Department since
he has been given a glimpse behind the scenes, and he swears they
can’t fail.” Storm laughed. “In fact, we have a little wager on about
it, and you are to hold the stakes. He is coming up to dinner next
Tuesday night.”
“Well, for an old friend of Jack, you’ve taken a queer stand, it seems
to me,” George said slowly. “Anybody would think you didn’t want to
see his murderers punished!”
“Not at all!” Storm retorted coolly: “There is nothing personal in
this; it is a purely abstract question. Millard believes in the
infallibility of the Department, and I don’t. What have they done so
far? Horton was last seen alive in Poughkeepsie on Wednesday
afternoon; he is murdered in New York some time that night, and his
body is not even discovered until Friday afternoon. This is Saturday
night, and what progress has been made in the case? Exactly none! They
don’t know how Horton came to be out there on the Drive, who killed
him or where the money is!”
“They’ve found the bag it was in, anyway.”
“What?” Storm stared at him as though he could scarcely believe he had
heard aright.
“Uh-huh. The last edition of all the papers is playing it up big. The
bag with poor old Jack’s hat and a pistol and a lot of old newspapers
inside was discovered in the parcel-checking room of the Grand Central
Station.” George paused and added: “Isn’t that marvelous police work
for you? They must have doped it out that because he disappeared
presumably from the terminal the bag would be found somewhere around
there, and by Jingo, it was! Think of conceiving the idea of searching
the parcel room and then tell me a fellow can get away with anything
in this town when such minds as those are on the job after him!
Wonderful work, I call it! When they find out who checked that bag
there, they’ve got Jack Horton’s murderer!”