The Unconsidered Trifle
Baffled fury that was half despair swept over Storm at Millard’s
words, but he controlled himself by a mighty effort. More vital than
at any moment in the past was his need now of quick, coherent thought,
and he forced himself to rise above the crushing blow. The bills were
numbered and traceable! He should have thought of that! But the gold!
The gold!
His throat was dry and parched, but he dared not lift his glass lest
the shaking of his hand betray him. He swallowed and forced a laugh,
but it sounded strained and unnatural in his own ears.
“Is that the big secret?” He was mortally afraid that his voice would
crack, but it was evident that so far the others had noted nothing
amiss; and emboldened he went on: “Good Lord, Millard, the criminals
may be plain thugs, but are your friends at Headquarters such utter
fools as to think they wouldn’t realize the bills were numbered? They
won’t take any chances on them, you may be sure of that. It was the
gold they were after! No attempt was made to check up on that, was
there? I mean, it wasn’t a fresh coinage or anything of that sort,
with some mark that could be traced?”
Ages seemed to pass before Millard slowly shook his head, crestfallen
that his news had been so tamely received.
“No,” he admitted. “But there isn’t such a lot of gold in circulation,
you know. Anyone trying to get rid of it in large quantities will be
open to suspicion. Besides, there hasn’t been a line in the papers
about the bills being spotted, and you can’t credit gangsters and
highway robbers with the intelligence you or I would have. It is ten
to one those bills will show up before long.”
Storm drew a deep breath and in a quick gesture raised his glass and
drained it. How much of that hoard for which he had risked all was in
the now useless banknotes and how much in precious gold? His whole
future hung on the answer. He had counted it so carefully when he
stored it away! Why couldn’t he remember?
He opened his lips to voice the query, but George forestalled him.
“I have maintained from the very beginning that Jack Horton was not
assaulted by mere gangsters or thugs,” he remarked. “I don’t believe
there was any struggle; I told Norman so. The condition of the body as
the papers described it could have been due to its having been flung
over the wall; all except the single blow on the back of the head
which caused death, of course. I tried to see the body at the
undertaker’s on Sunday, just to satisfy myself on that point, but it
had already been shipped. I tell you, I think poor old Jack was taken
unawares by that one foul blow when he thought he was safe among
friends; or with one supposed friend, for that matter. It would have
taken only one man to commit the crime, if Jack trusted him
sufficiently to place himself in his hands.”
Millard had been listening with all his ears, and now he brought his
hand down on the table with a blow which made the glasses tinkle.
“By Jove, I believe you’ve got it!” he exclaimed. “It’s hard to see
how a man constantly on guard as he was could have been spirited off
the train from Poughkeepsie against his will, and he wasn’t killed
until hours later. Now if he had met a friend—— I must really suggest
that at Headquarters!”
“Another cigar?” The urbane host, quite his old self again, smiled as
he leaned across the table. “Try some of that 1812 brandy, Millard;
you’ll appreciate it. Old George here has been full of theories since
Horton’s murder, but I am afraid they are not practicable, and you
won’t find much sympathy for amateur efforts at Headquarters. I think
myself that the body was brought there in a machine from the Lord
knows what distance and thrown over the wall, but beyond that who can
tell?”
“Well, there is something in support of that theory.” Millard bristled
again with an assumption of his former importance. “Just between
ourselves, it is known that a machine came tearing down the Drive at a
little after one o’clock that night going to beat the devil and it
must have passed that spot. The occupants were yelling and carrying
on, and the policeman who tried to hold them up at One Hundred and
Tenth Street thought they were just a bunch of drunks out on a joy
ride. I don’t mind telling you they’ve been scouring the city for that
machine ever since.”
Storm gazed into his liqueur glass with inscrutable eyes. He
remembered that car and its roisterous crew. It had passed just
before. . . . He roused himself to hear George’s dogged, mildly
insistent tones.
“It isn’t logical to suppose that people on such an errand would draw
attention to themselves. I don’t mean that Jack walked deliberately at
that time of night to the spot where he was found murdered, but——”
“It is possible that he may have done just that.” Millard paused to
sniff the bouquet of his brandy with the air of a connoisseur and
added: “The policeman on the beat reported that two men passed him
going north on the Drive toward that identical spot at approximately
the hour of the murder. They were walking briskly and talking together
in a casual sort of way, and he did not notice them particularly; but
from what description he was able to give, one of them might have been
Horton.—I say, old chap, you _have_ done it! That cognac is worth its
weight in gold!”
The stem of Storm’s glass had snapped between his fingers. That
policeman! Thank the fates they had not passed him beneath the street
lamp! In spite of himself his mind had been diverted from thought of
the money by Millard’s revelations; but the latter’s final word
recalled it, and as he dropped the broken fragments of glass upon a
plate he murmured:
“Habit of mine. These are Potter’s glasses, too! All this is highly
interesting, but it won’t lead anywhere. The authorities will do well
to keep their efforts centered on the recovery of that money. By the
way, how much of it was in bills and how much in gold?”
“Only about ten thousand in gold, I believe,” Millard responded
carelessly. “The more ignorant of the miners for whose wages the money
was intended demand gold, you know; they hoard it away and take no
stock in paper certificates, but they are in the minority. Roughly
speaking, a hundred thousand of it was in greenbacks.”
A hundred thousand of his capital swept away at a word! Storm could
have flung himself upon that smiling, selfsatisfied wretch across the
table in bitter rage and disappointment! A hundred thousand; only a
paltry ten thousand left, little more than enough to get him out of
the country! What next would the cursed fates have in store for him?
Then a swift thought made his blood run cold. He should have
remembered that the bills would be spotted, of course; that was the
one flaw in his reasoning. The fact remained that he had not done so,
however. What if he had not gotten Millard here to-night and loosened
his tongue? If he had not been so providentially forewarned, all the
structure he had so carefully built up might have fallen about him and
carried him to ruin beneath it at his first attempt to make use of his
newly acquired wealth!
“I wonder if it could have been Jack Horton and another man whom the
policeman saw?” George cogitated. “That couple walking, I mean? If it
were, it would bear out my theory. Of course, we don’t know who
Horton’s intimates were of late years, nor what he could have been
doing up in this part of the city so long after he should have been on
his way; but it is not impossible, as you say. The policeman doesn’t
remember hearing anything a little later? A cry or anything of that
sort? Why on earth didn’t he follow them? Two men on that lonely
stretch of drive at such an hour! He might have known there would be
foul play——!”
“My dear George!” Storm laughed, but his hand shook as he refilled
Millard’s glass so that a drop or two of the pale golden liquid fell
on the cloth. “Don’t try to endow the Department with supernatural
powers of divination! You and I have taken many a midnight stroll on
the Drive since I took over Potter’s rooms here. Would you have had a
policeman dog our footsteps to see that we didn’t murder each other?
It is inconceivable that it could have been Jack Horton; remember that
his bag, with the hat and pistol inside, were found in the Grand
Central Station. If he had been killed out there where he was found it
would have been far simpler for his murderers to have left them there
with the body and just made away with the money.”
To this George found no answer, but Millard smiled a trifle crookedly
as he set down his glass, and a knowing leer spread over his flushed
countenance.
“Something more was found in the bag besides the hat and pistol,” he
observed. “This isn’t supposed to be known, but I’ve got inside dope
on it straight from Headquarters. Lot of old newspapers were wadded
around the pistol. You might say there would be nothing in that, but
there was something funny about those newspapers; the outside sheet
was missing from every one of them!”
Storm drew a deep breath that was almost a sob and a great fear
gripped him. Only three nights before when they were packing the trunk
to be sent back to Greenlea, they had used the outer sheets of those
same newspapers, and the old doubt returned to him. Had George
noticed? He had said nothing, and his manner as Storm recalled it
conveyed no intimation that his thoughts had been even momentarily
distracted from the discussion then under way. Storm stole a furtive
glance at him, but George seemed not to have heard. He was playing
idly with the cigar-lighter, and his face wore a frown of labored
concentration.
If it were only possible to silence Millard! But the latter continued
with evident relish:
“And why was it missing? Because those papers weren’t bought haphazard
at a news-stand; they’d been delivered from day to day by a regular
vendor, and the outer sheets had been removed because they bore the
name of the person to whom they had been consigned.” Millard produced
a small notebook from his pocket and ruffled its pages importantly.
“Look here! I jotted down the dates of those papers: May
twenty-eighth, thirtieth, thirty-first, and June first, third and
fourth, of this year, too! Not so old, eh? They come down to within a
day or two of the murder! I guess that’s bad evidence! Those
newspapers had been delivered to the person who packed that bag, old
chap, or he wouldn’t have been so infernally careful, and he is one of
those who murdered Horton!”
“You cannot trace parts of newspapers if they have no distinguishing
mark on them!” Storm said hastily, casting about in desperation for a
change of theme. “Your friends at Headquarters are remarkably
painstaking, but have they considered the possibility that Horton may
have stopped over in New York to see this girl in whom he was
interested, and been waylaid——?”
“There’s not a chance of that.” Millard shook his head. “She has told
all she knows, and it has been proven that he never went near her;
never even communicated with her, although so many hours elapsed
between the time his train reached the city and the murder. Oh, it’s a
poser, all right, but they’ll solve it. I’ll win my wager yet, old
chap.”
He cast a wavering and reluctant eye upon the clock and rose.
“You’re not going yet?” Storm asked mechanically. “Have another
smoke——?”
“Must be getting on if I’m going to catch the midnight, and if I don’t
there’ll be the deuce to pay!” Millard’s tone was frankly regretful.
“Wish I could stay and make a night of it, dear boy, but you know how
it is! You know how I’m situated! It’s been some evening, though,
hasn’t it? I envy you, Storm; such rooms, such a cook, and call your
soul your own!”
“Yet I am anxious to start on my trip,” Storm remarked. “I want to get
away——”
“I know, dear old boy! Memories!” Millard heaved a lugubrious sigh. “I
don’t blame you, but we’ll all look forward to having you with us
again. I’ll look in on you before you start, of course.——Coming my
way, Holworthy?”
“Eh?” George glanced up with a start, as if suddenly aroused, his
near-sighted eyes blinking. But Storm intervened.
“Oh, George will stop for another smoke and a chat. It is early for
him yet, you know; he’s a bachelor!”
He fairly hustled his departing guest into his coat in fear lest
George should insist upon accompanying him. They must not leave
together, presenting an opportunity for Millard to expatiate on his
theme of the newspapers! Dense as he was, few things escaped George.
He might have only subconsciously noted the trivial episode of the
other night; but would he remember it later? Storm felt the moisture
start suddenly upon his forehead, and the smoke-wreathed air seemed
dense and choking.
“Yes, I—I’ll stay a little while,” George said absently. “You don’t
know that policeman’s number, do you, Millard? The one who passed
those two men on the Drive?”
“No, but I fancy you’ll find him out there almost any night about the
same time.” Millard paused at the door. “Run out to Greenlea and dine
with us soon, Holworthy; I suppose it is no good asking you, Storm?
Well, thanks for a top-hole evening and don’t forget our wager!”
The door closed behind him at last, and Storm turned to face his
remaining guest with the cold fear still clutching at his heart.
“Beastly bore, Millard,” he commented, lighting a cigarette with a
critical eye on the hand that held the match. God, how it trembled!
Had George seen? “That is a rotten way for a host to talk, I know, but
he gets on a fellow’s nerves with his everlasting chatter. I made the
wager with him to shut him up, but it had the opposite effect.
Personally, I don’t believe he knows anything more of what is being
done in the case than is given out to the press; they certainly
wouldn’t take a he-gossip of his stamp into their confidence at
Headquarters. He made all that stuff up just to create an impression.”
George shook his head slowly.
“I don’t know. He must be right about the numbered bills. I thought of
that myself and wondered why the papers didn’t make a point of it. The
men, too, on the Drive; I would like to have a talk with that
policeman.”
“Are you going to turn detective, too?” Storm’s laugh grated
unpleasantly on his own ears.
“No, but I believe if the authorities followed that lead they would be
on their way to the truth,” George responded gravely. “I can’t help
feeling that I’m right about poor old Jack. He would never have taken
his hand off his number if he had not been absolutely sure of his
company.”
“It seems to me that you are a little over-confident of the character
of a man you haven’t seen in twenty years!” Storm sneered, his
equanimity partially restored. It was evident that George suspected
nothing. “How do you know what he might have done, what impulses may
have guided him?”
“A man’s whole nature doesn’t change, even in a generation,” the other
observed. “I studied him at college as I did the rest of the crowd,
and subsequent events have proved that my judgment in any of them
wasn’t far wrong. Moreover, the testimony of this Saulsbury girl, of
his employers and everyone who was associated with him in these later
years bears out my estimate of him. Jack was done in at a single blow
by someone he knew and trusted, and I say it is a damned shame and
outrage!”
“Well, don’t get excited about it,” his host advised coolly. “It won’t
help the poor chap now, you know. I take more stock myself in that
story of the motor car on the Drive than the possibility of one of the
two pedestrians having been Jack.”
“The fact that the bag was found at the terminal, of which you
reminded me, would have no more bearing on the theory that his body
was brought there than that he had walked to the spot where he was
murdered,” George contended tenaciously. “Odd about those papers which
were stuffed into the bag, wasn’t it? About the outside sheets being
missing, I mean. They were for the twenty-eighth, thirtieth and
thirty-first of May, and the first, third and fourth of June, he said;
didn’t he? I wish I had thought to ask him what newspapers they were.
It presents a rather nice little problem.”
Storm’s breath fluttered in his throat, but he contrived to reply with
an assumption of carelessness.
“Oh, that’s nothing! Newspapers cannot be traced. That was just a mere
detail.”
George had heard, after all, but the incident of the previous Saturday
night had utterly escaped him! In the wave of relief which swept over
him Storm felt ironically that he had never before appreciated the
virtue of his old friend’s density. But for his slow wit and lack of
imagination the man sitting there smoking so placidly before him might
have been his accuser!
“Mere details left unguarded are what show up many a criminal,” George
remarked sententiously. “The unconsidered trifles are what turn the
scale of evidence against an intelligent man more often than a big
error in judgment.”
Storm writhed inwardly, but the mask of half-contemptuous amusement
still veiled his face.
“It doesn’t take much intelligence to hit a man over the head!” he
observed. “You’re talking through your hat, George. If they succeed in
landing the murderers, which I very much doubt, you’ll find your
theory knocked to smithereens. Horton may have left the train in
company with a crowd he trusted, all right, but remember he has led a
rough sort of life for years in mining camps and collieries, and his
associates are bound to have been men of a coarse, elemental stamp.
They have probably laid for him for weeks, planned this ahead and made
their get-away before the body was even discovered.”
“Well,”—George rose with a touch of weariness in his manner—“I must
get home. Time will tell, but I’ve a feeling that poor old Jack’s
murder will be avenged. I was sorry to hear that you have planned an
immediate departure. You won’t reconsider and try a fishing trip with
me first? It might buck you up and give you a fresh outlook on
things.”
Storm shook his head.
“Thanks, old man, but I’ve got to get away from everything and
everyone, even myself. I can’t bring her back, and I can’t forget
while there is anything about to remind me of the old life.”
“I suppose you are right,” George admitted slowly. “I am afraid you
will regret it, though, from a monetary standpoint. Look in on me
to-morrow at the office if you get time, Norman. Good night.”
After he had gone Storm shot the bolt in the door and dashing into his
bedroom pushed aside the panel which concealed the safe. He must see
for himself if it were true that all but a mere fraction of his money
would be forever useless to him.
Homachi had departed hours before, the shades were drawn and in his
solitude Storm spread the packets of bills out upon the bed and
counted them feverishly. It was true! A hundred thousand dollars which
would have meant years of ease and luxurious travel had been
transformed by the magic of a few words into mere worthless scraps of
green paper!
The numbers upon them seemed to dance diabolically before him, and
wild thoughts of the possibility of erasing them flashed through his
mind, but he realized the futility of such a hope. He knew nothing of
the use of acids or chemicals in such a procedure, and to take anyone
into his confidence was unthinkable even had he known where or how to
find a man for the task.
Then a quick revulsion of feeling came, and his mercurial spirits
rebounded. The money those bills represented was not lost to him
forever! In spite of Millard’s boast that their numbers were known,
there would be plenty of places in far-away corners of the globe where
they would be accepted without question. As long as they were genuine,
the money changers of Japan and Egypt and even the cosmopolitan
continental centers would not look for the numbers upon them, and he
had more than sufficient gold to get him out of the country and to
some haven where he might safely begin to turn this paper into coin of
the realm.
Had his fortune been in gold it would have been impossible, through
its sheer weight, for him to have transported even a quarter of it.
The greenbacks in any event were far safer. No bag for him! He could
fasten those packets beneath his coat over his heart where he could
feel them with each beat!
He laughed aloud at Millard’s cocksure statement. He would show them
all!
George’s attitude worried him, however. The former had all the
obstinacy of the man of few ideas, and Storm knew that he would cling
to his theory of Horton’s death through any amount of argument and
ridicule. The fact that that theory was dangerously near the
truth—was, in so far as it went, the truth itself—did not tend to
allay his anxiety. If once the merest inkling of the real identity of
the murderer came to George, it would mean the end. That coincidence
of the newspapers would have been sufficient to arouse his suspicion
if he had noticed the fact of the missing parts the other night. It
was sheer luck that he had not done so; but would that luck hold in
other respects?
Storm lay for long hours staring into the darkness and grappled with
the new problem which confronted him. Dense as he was, George had felt
that there was something deeper than mere grief back of Storm’s
determination to leave the country. Suppose, after he had gone,
George’s eyes were opened to the truth? Storm well knew that no corner
of the globe could hide him from the authorities and the agents of the
Mid-Eastern, and George had a queer, old-fashioned sense of justice.
If he suspected, he would speak! Perhaps it would be as well to defer
his departure and stick to George until the affair had completely
blown over; but Great Heavens, what a bore!
He was not yet free! The bonds which held him were invisible,
intangible, yet he felt their pressure and writhed beneath it. God!
Would he ever succeed in breaking them? Must he be forever a prisoner
in these chains of his own forging?