Homepage
Login
Profile
BookClubs
dmBox
Read Ebook: The Million-Dollar Suitcase by MacGowan Alice Newberry Perry
Font size:
Background color:
Text color:
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page Prev Page
Ebook has 2360 lines and 86437 words, and 48 pages
"Well," said Anson sullenly, "that's what he's paid for. How long is it going to take him?"
I made no attempt to answer that fool question; Cummings spoke for me, lawyer fashion, straddling the question, bringing up the arguments pro and con.
"Your detective asks for publicity to assist his search. You refuse it. Then you've got to be indulgent with him in the matter of time. Understand me, you may be right; I'm not questioning the wisdom of secrecy, though as a lawyer I generally think the sooner you get to the police with a crime the better. You all can see how publicity and a sizable reward offered would give Mr. Boyne a hundred thousand assistants--conscious and unconscious--to help nab Clayte."
"And we'd be a busted bank before you found him," groaned Knapp. "We've got to keep this thing to ourselves. I agree with Whipple."
"It's all we can do," the president repeated.
"Suppose a State bank examiner walks in on you Monday?" demanded the attorney.
"We take that chance--that serious chance," replied Whipple solemnly.
Silence after that again till Cummings spoke.
"Gentlemen, there are here present twelve of the principal stockholders of the bank." He paused a moment to estimate. "The capital is practically represented. Speaking as your legal advisor, I am obliged to say that you should not let the bank take such a risk as Mr. Whipple suggests. You are threatened with a staggering loss, but, after all, a high percent of money lost by defalcations is recovered--made good--wholly or in part."
"Nearly a million dollars!" croaked old Sillsbee.
"Yes, yes, of course," Cummings agreed hastily; "the larger amount's against you. The men who can engineer such a theft are almost as strong as you are. You've got to make every edge cut--use every weapon that's at hand. And most of all, gentlemen, you've got to stand together. No dissensions. As a temporary expedient--to keep the bank sufficiently under cover and still allow Boyne the publicity he needs--replace this money pro rata among yourselves. That wouldn't clean any of you. Announce a small defalcation, such as Clayte's bond would cover, so you could collect there; use all the machinery of the police. Then when Clayte's found, the money recovered, you reimburse yourselves."
"But if he's never found! If it's never recovered?" Knapp asked huskily; he was least able of any man in the room to stand the loss.
"What do you say, Gilbert?" The attorney looked toward the young man, who, all through the discussion, had been staring straight ahead of him. He came round to the lawyer's question like one roused from other thoughts, and agreed shortly.
"Not a bad bet."
"Well--Boyne--" Whipple was giving way an inch at a time.
"It's a peculiar case," I began, then caught myself up with, "All cases are peculiar. The big point here is to get our man before he can get rid of the money. We were close after Clayte; even that locked room in the St. Dunstan needn't have stopped us. If he wasn't in it, he was somewhere not far outside it. He'd had no time to make a real getaway. All I needed to lay hands on him was a good description."
"Description?" echoed Whipple. "Your agency's got descriptions on file--thumb prints--photographs--of every employee of this bank."
"Every one of 'em but Clayte," I said. "When I came to look up the files, there wasn't a thing on him. Don't think I ever laid eyes on the man myself."
A description of Edward Clayte? Every man at the table--even old Sillsbee--sat up and opened his mouth to give one; but Knapp beat them to it, with,
"Clayte's worked in this bank eight years. We all know him. You can get just as many good descriptions as there are people on our payroll or directors in this room--and plenty more at the St. Dunstan, I'll be bound."
"You think so?" I said wearily. "I have not been idle, gentlemen; I have interviewed his associates. Listen to this; it is a composite of the best I've been able to get." I read: "Edward Clayte; height about five feet seven or eight; weight between one hundred and forty and one hundred and fifty pounds; age somewhere around forty; smooth face; medium complexion, fairish; brown hair; light eyes; apparently commonplace features; dressed neatly in blue business suit, black shoes, black derby hat--"
"Wait a minute," interposed Knapp. "Is that what they gave you at the St. Dunstan--what he was wearing when he came in?"
I nodded.
I heard a chuckle from Worth Gilbert.
"That description," I said, "is gibberish; mere words. Would it bring Clayte up before any one who had never seen him? Ask Captain Gilbert, who doesn't know the man. I say that's a list of the points at which he resembles every third office man you meet on the street. What I want is the points at which he'd differ. You have all known Clayte for years; forget his regularities, and tell me his peculiarities--looks, manners, dress or habits."
There was a long pause, broken finally by Whipple.
"He never smoked," said the bank president.
"Occasionally he did," contradicted Knapp, and the pause continued till I asked,
"Any peculiarities of clothing?"
"Oh, yes," said Whipple. "Very neat. Usually blue serge."
"But sometimes gray," added Knapp, heavily, and old Sillsbee piped in,
"I've seen that feller wear pin-check; I know I have."
I was fed up on clothes.
"How did he brush his hair?" I questioned.
"Smoothed down from a part high on the left," Knapp came back promptly.
"On the right," boomed old Anson from the foot of the table.
"Sometimes--yes--I guess he did," Knapp conceded hesitantly.
"Oh, well then, what color was it? Maybe you can agree better on that."
"Sort of mousy color," Knapp thought.
"O Lord! Mousy colored!" groaned Dykeman under his breath. "Listen to 'em!"
"Well, isn't it?" Knapp was a bit stung.
"House mousy, or field mousy?" Cummings wanted to know.
"Knapp's right enough," Whipple said with dignity. "The man's hair is a medium brown--indeterminate brown." He glanced around the table at the heads of hair under the electric lights. "Something the color of Merrill's," and a director began stroking his hair nervously.
"No, no; darker than Merrill's," broke in Kirkpatrick. "Isn't it, Knapp?"
"Why, I was going to say lighter," admitted the cashier, discouragedly.
"Never mind," I sighed. "Forget the hair. Come on--what color are his eyes?"
"Blue," said Whipple.
"Gray," said Knapp.
"Brown," said Kirkpatrick.
They all spoke in one breath. And as I despairingly laid down my pencil, the last man repeated firmly,
"Brown. But--they might be light brown--or hazel, y'know."
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page Prev Page