Chapter XVII.MissingWhen 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 theAlsace. 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 theAlsace. 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!”
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 theAlsace. 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 theAlsace. 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!”