The Master Mind - ebook

I. IMPOSSIBLE. AND YET

IT was a gusty, windy day in December, with a fine drive of snow in the air, which had already whitened the pavements, when I dropped into the station and nodded to Sergeant Harrington.

Dan’s signal phone rang as I slipped off my coat, and he reached for the receiver even as he answered my nod. A moment later he threw it back on the hook with a bang, and spoke to me: “Wait a minute, Glace. If you beat it out the back, you can catch the wagon. There’s the divil to pay up to the Merchants’ Bank.”

His hand went out and pressed a button which signaled the patrol garage, and another which summoned an inspector and several other officers from an adjoining room.

They came on the jump. I struggled back into my coat.

Dan bawled the address, and we turned away in a bunch to the rear, where the motor was already throbbing at the door. Without ceremony we swarmed in. There were Bryce, the inspector; Johnson, a detective, and a roundsman whom Bryce directed to come along. Also there was myself. Bryce recognized me with a grin. “Who let you in on this?” he wanted to know.

“Dan said I might as well come along,” I answered as we skidded around a corner, and the chauffeur opened up the car. “If you don’t want me, stop, and I’ll get out.”

“Haven’t time,” grinned the inspector, his eyes twinkling. “You and Dan rather stand in–don’t you, Glace?”

“Why not?” I challenged. “Doesn’t the Record handle you fellows right?”

“Oh, I’m not objectin’, son,” said the inspector. “Gad, Jerry will have us in the ditch if he does that again!”

We had lurched about a corner in a manner to make us all cling to the seat and hold our breaths until the car straightened out again.

“What’s wrong at the Merchants’?” I asked when I was sure we were still on four wheels.

“I guess you heard as much as I did,” returned Bryce; “but at this rate we ought to find out pretty soon. Let’s see; Mulcally is on that beat right now.” He turned and glanced out of the front of the patrol. “There’s a crowd on the pavement in front of the bank, at any rate, an’ I can see Mulcally’s helmet among ‘em. Here we are.”

The patrol shot up to the curb and stopped with a slide. We all piled out, and I got my first chance to size matters up: A great limousine car stood in front of the side door of the bank, which had two entrances, opening upon two streets. It was manifestly the private car of somebody of wealth, for it was of the latest model and luxurious in every part. Between it and the door of the bank was a crowd, collected as such gatherings always will collect when something unusual happens; and on the curb, standing so as to half face the crowd and half guard the limousine, was Officer Mulcally, holding a disheveled and hatless youth.

The arrival of the patrol caused some little widening out of the close-pressed mass of the morbidly curious, and Bryce, Johnson, and the roundsman pushed their way rapidly to Mulcally’s side. I followed along.

“What’s wrong here, Mulcally?” began Bryce as soon as he was within speaking distance of the patrolman. At his words the prisoner raised his face, and my heart stopped. For a moment I think I lost some of the conversation which occurred immediately about me, for the face of the man–white, drawn, and horror- stricken–was that of Connie’s brother, Billy Baird.

He was standing with his wrist linked to that of the burly Mulcally by a chain of handcuff, his clothing awry and torn as though from a struggle. His hat lay battered and dented upon the foot-board of the limousine, and his dark-reddish hair was tousled and mussed until it hung in crooked tendrils over his deathly white brow. For just a moment his eyes met mine, and both terror and appeal looked out of them.

Mulcally’s voice brought me back to the realization that I was probably missing something most important. Controlling myself and my emotions as best I could, I motioned Billy to keep still, and tried to hear what the officer was saying to Bryce.

“And so”–I caught up the thread of his statement–“jist as I come around the corner, sor, I sees this felly standin’ with wan foot on the step of the autymobile here. I comes down, an’ jist as I was passin’ I looked at him agin, ‘cause I thought it was funny he’d keep standin’ there like that in the storm. Then I sees there is another felly in the autymobile, an’ I walks over. Well, this here felly didn’t pay no attention till I was most to him; then he turns around, an’ I see his face was awfully white an’ funny, an’ I notices that he has a spanner in his hand.

“‘Oh, hello, officer!’ says he. ‘Somebody’s killed the shoofer!’

“Course, sor, I got pretty busy at that, an’ I looks in the auty. There was that felly who’s there yet, layin’ back, propped up in a seat, wid the whole side of his head caved in. I makes this felly give me the spanner, an’ sure enough it had blood and some hair stuck on it. Well, the shoofer was still warm an’ bleedin’, an’ I reckon I saw the whole business, only this felly didn’t know I was lookin’ when he struck him wid the spanner. I jist put the cuff on him and telyphoned for the wagon, an’ that’s all. There can’t be no mistake, ‘cause I seen the whole thing.”

Billy broke the silence which followed. “It’s a lie!” he cried wildly. “He never saw me do it, because I didn’t do it, and I don’t know who did. I tell you I didn’t do it. You ask Glace, here, if I’d do a thing like that! He’ll tell you. Why, I can prove it myself. I was on my way to the branch of the Fourth National over on Grant and Market, and I had stopped to deliver a package for President Carlton at this bank. I was so rattled I never thought to tell the policeman here, but they’ll tell you inside that I was delivering the package when this man was killed.”

Bryce turned to me. “Do you know him, Glace?” he inquired.

I nodded. “He’s Will Baird from the Fourth National, all right,” I hastened to assure him. “I’ve known him for years. He never did this thing, Bryce.”

“I tell you I saw him,” Mulcally cut in. “He was bendin’ over this shoofer wid the spanner in his mitt when I seen him.”

“I’d just found him, and the spanner was on the seat beside him, when I found he was dead. I picked it up,” protested Billy. “I tell you I was in the bank. I’d just come out.”

“You can tell all that in court,” Bryce checked him. “What were you goin’ to the branch bank for?”

“I was taking a transfer of funds to them from the main bank,” Billy replied somewhat more quietly.

“Where is it now? In the cab?” asked Bryce.

“I suppose so. I was so shocked when I saw Sardon was dead that I never gave the money a thought.”

“Suppose you look, Potter,” suggested Bryce to the roundsman, who had accompanied us from the station; and the man climbed into the car beside the body of the chauffeur and carefully searched for the package which Billy had said he was taking to the branch bank. In a moment he emerged with a cynical grin on his face.

„ ‘Tain’t there, sir,” he declared.

The officers exchanged glances then. “How much was there in this package?” Bryce asked Baird.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” Billy responded promptly enough.

“What was it in?”

“In a heavy pigskin grip, double-locked with padlocks. Sardon had stepped into the car to guard it while I went into the bank here to deliver the other package.”

“You didn’t see any such grip as that, did you, Mulcally?” the inspector asked.

“Nuthin’ at all, sor. If it was here, it went away before I looked into the car.”

“Let me see the spanner,” said Bryce.

He took it in his hand, and turned it over. One end was stained with blood, which was congealing in the cold air, and stuck to it by the same blood were some short brown hairs. Bryce nodded and stepped over to the limousine which he entered, with Johnson at his heels.

The crowd began to press in closer to Mulcally and his prisoner, muttering. Bryce paused long enough to order Potter to clear the street. As he was turning back I asked him if I might come, too, and he assented with a nod.

Inside the car we three gave our attention to the body. It was that of a slightly built, foreign-looking fellow, apparently French, as his name would indicate. He was dressed in a dark, bottle-green livery with goggles and gauntlets, and a green cap which now lay on the floor of the car. His feet were encased in puttees of leather, and some snow still clung to the soles. Down the left side of his face some blood had trickled from the wound where the spanner had crushed in his temple. Bryce now laid the spanner over this spot and nodded to Johnson. The hair on the spanner, like that on Sardon’s head, was short and brown. A moment later the detective pointed to the man’s throat, upon which were some marks which looked greatly like finger- prints.

“Whoever killed him choked him, and then beat his head in,” said Johnson. “Looks like the kid might have done it while some pal of his made a sneak with the bag. What you think, Bryce?”

“Looks like a safe bet now,” the inspector replied.

While they talked I had been nosing about the car, and had found the half-burned butt of a cigarette. I showed it to Bryce.

“See if he has any more on him,” I suggested, nodding to the dead chauffeur.

The officers set to work searching his clothes. They found several cigars, but no cigarettes, tobacco, or papers for making them.

“Somebody probably left it in the car and it wasn’t swept out,” said Bryce at the end of the examination. “Does your friend smoke cigarettes?” He jerked his arm toward Billy.

I shook my head. Just at the time I couldn’t speak, for while they had been hunting through Sardon’s clothing I had picked up the man’s right hand, which was still encased in its gauntlet, and discovered that which interested me far more than any cigarette: The gloves had fastened with a patent catch, and caught in the lowest fastening of the one I held was a little tuft of dark-reddish hair.

My heart came up into my throat, and I glanced out of the window to where Billy was still standing beside the patrolman. As far as I could see, the hair in the catch of the gauntlet and that on Billy’s head was of the same shade.

Suddenly I felt strangely sick. I knew that for months Billy had been grouching about his inability to make more money. I had known of others in his position who had yielded to a sudden mad temptation. Could Connie’s brother have–I refused to allow even myself to complete the question. Believe it I would not! There remained but one thing to do. Very slowly and carefully, with my eyes on Bryce and Johnson, who were now preparing to leave the limousine, I slipped down my hand and drew out the little mass of hairs from the catch, intending to take them away.

For once fate was unkind to me as it seemed. Bryce saw my move, and just as I was congratulating myself on my own deftness his voice exploded all my confidence:

“I’ll take whatever that is, Glace.”

Caught in the act, my face showed my guilt. Bryce put out his hand and rather meekly I surrendered the few hairs into his palm. He glanced at me, and then out of the window and smiled dryly: “Where did you get them?” he asked.

“Caught on the fastening of Sardon’s gauntlet,” I told him. “But if you’re thinking they’re Baird’s hairs I’ll bet money you’re wrong.”

Bryce fastened me with a keen glance. “You seem to be a pretty good friend of his,” he remarked, poking the hairs on his palm. “Now, these look like a mighty good match to me. What do you know about the youngster, Glace?”

In that moment I decided to follow Dual’s plan and tell the truth. I looked the inspector straight in the eye. “He’s my future brother-in-law,” I answered slowly.

Bryce whistled softly. “I don’t wonder you’re hard hit,” he said after a moment. “Deuce take it, it’s too bad! So that’s why you were trying to cover up the hairs?”

“See here,” I begged, “there’s enough there for both of us. Split them with me, Bryce! I wasn’t trying to frustrate justice as you think, but I knew how it would look. I knew you’d consider it as additional evidence against Billy, while I believe they came from a different head. I wanted them as a possible clue, and I tried to get ‘em. Well, give me a couple and keep the rest. I’d like to clear the boy if I can.”

I suppose I seemed like a sentimental fool to Bryce, who now seemed fully satisfied of Billy’s guilt, for he smiled in a rather tolerant fashion at my request, then gravely handed me two hairs. “There’s a couple, just to show you I recognize your feelin’s,” he remarked, handing them over. “Wrap ‘em up, an’ we’ll be gettin’ out.”

I wrapped those two hairs up in a bit of copy-paper as tenderly and as carefully as though each one had been an article precious beyond price, and stowed them away in a pocket-folder I carried. Bryce also wrapped his and put them away, and we all left the limousine.

The inspector spoke to Mulcally: “You made a good pinch, all right, Denny. We just found some red hair caught on Sardon’s gauntlet which matches your man’s thatch. We may as well be putting him in the wagon now, I guess. And, by the way–whose limousine is this, anyway?”

“It belongs to President Carlton of our bank,” Billy put in.

“Sardon was Carlton’s own chauffeur?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” directed Bryce. “Take ‘im away!”

But Baird vigorously protested at this. “I told you I was in this bank when Sardon was killed,” he reasserted. “Aren’t you at least going to give me a chance to prove that to you?”

Bryce and Johnson paused and whispered together. “We may as well see what the stall is,” Johnson finally decided in a low voice. “Just wait a minute, Denny, an’ we’ll settle the matter right now.”

As though his words had been a signal, the revolving door in the storm entrance of the bank turned out a uniformed messenger, who ran down the steps glancing from Johnson to Bryce. “Which of you officers is in charge here?” he asked as he reached the street.

“I am at present,” said Bryce.

“Then I was to ask you to step inside a minute, sir. Our cashier wants to see you before you go away.”

“Lead me to him,” assented the inspector, and turned to Mulcally. “May as well bring your man inside, Denny, till we see what they want.”

We all passed up the steps and entered the bank. I took the occasion to walk at Billy’s side, and he turned his troubled eyes to me at once. “My God, Gordon, what am I going to do?” he whispered. “This is awful! You know I didn’t do it, don’t you? And yet they seem to have the goods on me, too. What will Connie think? Oh, I wish to God they’d killed me instead of Sardon! This will queer me at the bank and send me to jail at least. What am I going to do?”

“Keep cool and don’t talk so much,” I told him. “I know you didn’t do it, old man, and Connie won’t give it a moment’s belief. We’ll work it out, all right. Now, brace up!”

I tried to speak with confidence and inspire him with some of the same feeling as we entered the bank. The trouble was I didn’t see myself just where everything was leading. If only I could have had a few minutes’ talk with my friend, Semi Dual– Of only one thing did I feel certain, and that was that Billy could not have done the foul deed of which he now stood suspected. Yet I knew that, against Mulcally’s sworn word that he had caught him in the act, his chances of vindication would be slight.

Meanwhile, the page had led us across the general banking floor to a room at one side, whose door was lettered with the one word “Cashier,” and was now tapping upon that door.

A voice bade us enter, and a moment later we were within the room.

A gray-haired man in pince-nez glasses, with a keen yet kindly face, half rose, as we entered, and fixed his eyes upon Baird.

“What is the meaning of all this, Billy?” he asked.

“I’m under arrest, sir,” said Billy. “When I left here, after giving you that package, I found Mr. Carlton’s chauffeur dead in his car, and the bank’s bag of money gone. I was examining Sardon to be sure he was dead when I was arrested, Mr. Grier.”

“Our patrolman found him hanging over the chauffeur with a bloody spanner in his hand,” explained Bryce. “He was insisting that he was in the bank when the man was killed, and demanding that we bring him inside for you to verify his statement when your messenger came out after us. Now, let me ask you if this young fellow–Baird–brought you a package this morning, like he says he did?”

“He certainly did,” responded Grier, and I felt my heart leap at his words. “It was concerning that that I wanted to see you, inspector.”

“What about it?” asked Bryce.

If my heart had leaped before, it fell to the very depths now as the cashier replied: “That is the peculiar thing. It purported to be a bundle of valuable securities, according to Baird, who said he had been instructed to deliver it to me in person. Naturally, as soon as he had gone, I opened it, and discovered that it contained nothing but strips of blank paper, folded into document size.”

Bryce sat down in a chair and regarded the cashier of the Merchants’ Bank for a long minute, placing his hands together so that the pointed finger-tips aimed straight to the official. “You’ve known this lad for some time?” he spoke at last.

“Certainly. For some years.”

“So that he had the full confidence both of his employers and you?”

“Naturally. He often acted as messenger, and handled funds between the banks.”

Bryce nodded. “It’s all deucedly clever,” he announced. “This chap, Baird, and his pal, whoever he was, decided to make a haul. They fixed it so as to make it appear that he had an alibi. He come in here an’ left the chauffeur on guard; then he goes out, quietly croaked the chauffeur, and his pal ducked with the swag. They counted on its appearing that it was the work of a gang, and that Baird had really discovered the chauffeur was dead when he went out again. The trouble was, Mulcally here pinched him with the spanner in his hand just after he’d done for the chauffeur. Mr. Grier, your package was this fellow’s alibi, that’s all.”

“But that seems clumsy to me, and certain of question,” objected Grier.

“Most likely they’d have claimed that the package was sent out from the Fourth National after Baird was in the car, and trusted that, to support their claim, it was the work of a gang,” said Bryce, with a smile.

“That’s just what happened!” cried Baird.

Bryce continued to smile at the cashier. “You see, sir. He’s going to try and stick it out along the original lines. We learn about what to expect in our work.”

Grier shook his head sadly. “I admit it looks bad, inspector, but I hate to think of anything like that of Baird.”

“Fifty thousand looks like a lot to a boy,” said Bryce.

There came a tap on the door. Then it swung slowly open. “I beg your pardon,” came a voice which thrilled me, “but I was looking for Mr. Gordon Glace.”

The next moment Semi Dual stepped into the room.