and gazed fondly at the finest set of burglar's tools in the East.
It was a complete set, made of specially tempered steel, the latest
designs in drills, punches, braces and bits, jimmies, clamps, and
augers, with two or three novelties, invented by Jimmy himself, in
which he took pride. Over nine hundred dollars they had cost him
to have made at - - , a place where they make such things for the
profession.
In half an hour Jimmy went down stairs and through the café. He was
now dressed in tasteful and well-fitting clothes, and carried his
dusted and cleaned suit-case in his hand.
"Got anything on?" asked Mike Dolan, genially.
"Me?" said Jimmy, in a puzzled tone. "I don't understand. I'm
representing the New York Amalgamated Short Snap Biscuit Cracker and
Frazzled Wheat Company."
This statement delighted Mike to such an extent that Jimmy had to
take a seltzer-and-milk on the spot. He never touched "hard" drinks.
A week after the release of Valentine, 9762, there was a neat job of
safe-burglary done in Richmond, Indiana, with no clue to the author.
A scant eight hundred dollars was all that was secured. Two weeks
after that a patented, improved, burglar-proof safe in Logansport
was opened like a cheese to the tune of fifteen hundred dollars,
currency; securities and silver untouched. That began to interest
the rogue-catchers. Then an old-fashioned bank-safe in Jefferson
City became active and threw out of its crater an eruption of
bank-notes amounting to five thousand dollars. The losses were now
high enough to bring the matter up into Ben Price's class of work.
By comparing notes, a remarkable similarity in the methods of the
burglaries was noticed. Ben Price investigated the scenes of the
robberies, and was heard to remark:
"That's Dandy Jim Valentine's autograph. He's resumed business. Look
at that combination knob - jerked out as easy as pulling up a radish
in wet weather. He's got the only clamps that can do it. And look
how clean those tumblers were punched out! Jimmy never has to drill
but one hole. Yes, I guess I want Mr. Valentine. He'll do his bit
next time without any short-time or clemency foolishness."
Ben Price knew Jimmy's habits. He had learned them while working up
the Springfield case. Long jumps, quick get-aways, no confederates,
and a taste for good society - these ways had helped Mr. Valentine to
become noted as a successful dodger of retribution. It was given out
that Ben Price had taken up the trail of the elusive cracksman, and
other people with burglar-proof safes felt more at ease.
One afternoon Jimmy Valentine and his suit-case climbed out of the
mail-hack in Elmore, a little town five miles off the railroad
down in the black-jack country of Arkansas. Jimmy, looking like an
athletic young senior just home from college, went down the board
side-walk toward the hotel.
A young lady crossed the street, passed him at the corner and
entered a door over which was the sign, "The Elmore Bank." Jimmy
Valentine looked into her eyes, forgot what he was, and became
another man. She lowered her eyes and coloured slightly. Young men
of Jimmy's style and looks were scarce in Elmore.
Jimmy collared a boy that was loafing on the steps of the bank as
if he were one of the stockholders, and began to ask him questions
about the town, feeding him dimes at intervals. By and by the young
lady came out, looking royally unconscious of the young man with the
suit-case, and went her way.
"Isn't that young lady Polly Simpson?" asked Jimmy, with specious
guile.
"Naw," said the boy. "She's Annabel Adams. Her pa owns this bank.
What'd you come to Elmore for? Is that a gold watch-chain? I'm going
to get a bulldog. Got any more dimes?"
Jimmy went to the Planters' Hotel, registered as Ralph D. Spencer,
and engaged a room. He leaned on the desk and declared his platform
to the clerk. He said he had come to Elmore to look for a location
to go into business. How was the shoe business, now, in the town? He
had thought of the shoe business. Was there an opening?
The clerk was impressed by the clothes and manner of Jimmy. He,
himself, was something of a pattern of fashion to the thinly gilded
youth of Elmore, but he now perceived his shortcomings. While trying
to figure out Jimmy's manner of tying his four-in-hand he cordially
gave information.
Yes, there ought to be a good opening in the shoe line. There wasn't
an exclusive shoe-store in the place. The dry-goods and general
stores handled them. Business in all lines was fairly good. Hoped
Mr. Spencer would decide to locate in Elmore. He would find it a
pleasant town to live in, and the people very sociable.
Mr. Spencer thought he would stop over in the town a few days and
look over the situation. No, the clerk needn't call the boy. He
would carry up his suit-case, himself; it was rather heavy.
Mr. Ralph Spencer, the phoenix that arose from Jimmy Valentine's
ashes - ashes left by the flame of a sudden and alterative attack of
love - remained in Elmore, and prospered. He opened a shoe-store and
secured a good run of trade.
Socially he was also a success, and made many friends. And he
accomplished the wish of his heart. He met Miss Annabel Adams, and
became more and more captivated by her charms.
At the end of a year the situation of Mr. Ralph Spencer was this:
he had won the respect of the community, his shoe-store was
flourishing, and he and Annabel were engaged to be married in two
weeks. Mr. Adams, the typical, plodding, country banker, approved of
Spencer. Annabel's pride in him almost equalled her affection. He
was as much at home in the family of Mr. Adams and that of Annabel's
married sister as if he were already a member.
One day Jimmy sat down in his room and wrote this letter, which he
mailed to the safe address of one of his old friends in St. Louis:
DEAR OLD PAL:
I want you to be at Sullivan's place, in Little Rock, next
Wednesday night, at nine o'clock. I want you to wind up
some little matters for me. And, also, I want to make you
a present of my kit of tools. I know you'll be glad to get
them - you couldn't duplicate the lot for a thousand dollars.
Say, Billy, I've quit the old business - a year ago. I've got
a nice store. I'm making an honest living, and I'm going
to marry the finest girl on earth two weeks from now. It's
the only life, Billy - the straight one. I wouldn't touch a
dollar of another man's money now for a million. After I get
married I'm going to sell out and go West, where there won't
be so much danger of having old scores brought up against
me. I tell you, Billy, she's an angel. She believes in me;
and I wouldn't do another crooked thing for the whole world.
Be sure to be at Sully's, for I must see you. I'll bring
along the tools with me.
Your old friend,
JIMMY.
On the Monday night after Jimmy wrote this letter, Ben Price jogged
unobtrusively into Elmore in a livery buggy. He lounged about town
in his quiet way until he found out what he wanted to know. From the
drug-store across the street from Spencer's shoe-store he got a good
look at Ralph D. Spencer.
"Going to marry the banker's daughter are you, Jimmy?" said Ben to
himself, softly. "Well, I don't know!"
The next morning Jimmy took breakfast at the Adamses. He was going
to Little Rock that day to order his wedding-suit and buy something
nice for Annabel. That would be the first time he had left town
since he came to Elmore. It had been more than a year now since
those last professional "jobs," and he thought he could safely
venture out.
After breakfast quite a family party went downtown together - Mr.
Adams, Annabel, Jimmy, and Annabel's married sister with her two
little girls, aged five and nine. They came by the hotel where Jimmy
still boarded, and he ran up to his room and brought along his
suit-case. Then they went on to the bank. There stood Jimmy's horse
and buggy and Dolph Gibson, who was going to drive him over to the
railroad station.
All went inside the high, carved oak railings into the
banking-room - Jimmy included, for Mr. Adams's future son-in-law
was welcome anywhere. The clerks were pleased to be greeted by
the good-looking, agreeable young man who was going to marry Miss
Annabel. Jimmy set his suit-case down. Annabel, whose heart was
bubbling with happiness and lively youth, put on Jimmy's hat, and
picked up the suit-case. "Wouldn't I make a nice drummer?" said
Annabel. "My! Ralph, how heavy it is? Feels like it was full of gold
bricks."
"Lot of nickel-plated shoe-horns in there," said Jimmy, coolly,
"that I'm going to return. Thought I'd save express charges by
taking them up. I'm getting awfully economical."
The Elmore Bank had just put in a new safe and vault. Mr. Adams was
very proud of it, and insisted on an inspection by every one. The
vault was a small one, but it had a new, patented door. It fastened
with three solid steel bolts thrown simultaneously with a single
handle, and had a time-lock. Mr. Adams beamingly explained its
workings to Mr. Spencer, who showed a courteous but not too
intelligent interest. The two children, May and Agatha, were
delighted by the shining metal and funny clock and knobs.
While they were thus engaged Ben Price sauntered in and leaned on
his elbow, looking casually inside between the railings. He told the
teller that he didn't want anything; he was just waiting for a man
he knew.
Suddenly there was a scream or two from the women, and a commotion.
Unperceived by the elders, May, the nine-year-old girl, in a spirit
of play, had shut Agatha in the vault. She had then shot the bolts
and turned the knob of the combination as she had seen Mr. Adams do.
The old banker sprang to the handle and tugged at it for a moment.
"The door can't be opened," he groaned. "The clock hasn't been wound
nor the combination set."
Agatha's mother screamed again, hysterically.
"Hush!" said Mr. Adams, raising his trembling hand. "All be quite
for a moment. Agatha!" he called as loudly as he could. "Listen to
me." During the following silence they could just hear the faint
sound of the child wildly shrieking in the dark vault in a panic of
terror.
"My precious darling!" wailed the mother. "She will die of fright!
Open the door! Oh, break it open! Can't you men do something?"
"There isn't a man nearer than Little Rock who can open that door,"
said Mr. Adams, in a shaky voice. "My God! Spencer, what shall we
do? That child - she can't stand it long in there. There isn't enough
air, and, besides, she'll go into convulsions from fright."
Agatha's mother, frantic now, beat the door of the vault with her
hands. Somebody wildly suggested dynamite. Annabel turned to Jimmy,
her large eyes full of anguish, but not yet despairing. To a
woman nothing seems quite impossible to the powers of the man she
worships.
"Can't you do something, Ralph - _try_, won't you?"
He looked at her with a queer, soft smile on his lips and in his
keen eyes.
"Annabel," he said, "give me that rose you are wearing, will you?"
Hardly believing that she heard him aright, she unpinned the bud
from the bosom of her dress, and placed it in his hand. Jimmy
stuffed it into his vest-pocket, threw off his coat and pulled up
his shirt-sleeves. With that act Ralph D. Spencer passed away and
Jimmy Valentine took his place.
"Get away from the door, all of you," he commanded, shortly.
He set his suit-case on the table, and opened it out flat. From that
time on he seemed to be unconscious of the presence of any one else.
He laid out the shining, queer implements swiftly and orderly,
whistling softly to himself as he always did when at work. In a deep
silence and immovable, the others watched him as if under a spell.
In a minute Jimmy's pet drill was biting smoothly into the steel
door. In ten minutes - breaking his own burglarious record - he threw
back the bolts and opened the door.
Agatha, almost collapsed, but safe, was gathered into her mother's
arms.
Jimmy Valentine put on his coat, and walked outside the railings
towards the front door. As he went he thought he heard a far-away
voice that he once knew call "Ralph!" But he never hesitated.
At the door a big man stood somewhat in his way.
"Hello, Ben!" said Jimmy, still with his strange smile. "Got around
at last, have you? Well, let's go. I don't know that it makes much
difference, now."
And then Ben Price acted rather strangely.
"Guess you're mistaken, Mr. Spencer," he said. "Don't believe I
recognize you. Your buggy's waiting for you, ain't it?"
And Ben Price turned and strolled down the street.
XI
CHERCHEZ LA FEMME
Robbins, reporter for the _Picayune_, and Dumars, of
_L'Abeille_ - the old French newspaper that has buzzed for nearly a
century - were good friends, well proven by years of ups and downs
together. They were seated where they had a habit of meeting - in the
little, Creole-haunted café of Madame Tibault, in Dumaine Street.
If you know the place, you will experience a thrill of pleasure in
recalling it to mind. It is small and dark, with six little polished
tables, at which you may sit and drink the best coffee in New
Orleans, and concoctions of absinthe equal to Sazerac's best. Madame
Tibault, fat and indulgent, presides at the desk, and takes your
money. Nicolette and Mémé, madame's nieces, in charming bib aprons,
bring the desirable beverages.
Dumars, with true Creole luxury, was sipping his absinthe, with
half-closed eyes, in a swirl of cigarette smoke. Robbins was looking
over the morning _Pic._, detecting, as young reporters will, the
gross blunders in the make-up, and the envious blue-pencilling his
own stuff had received. This item, in the advertising columns,
caught his eye, and with an exclamation of sudden interest he read
it aloud to his friend.
Public Auction. - At three o'clock this afternoon there will
be sold to the highest bidder all the common property of the
Little Sisters of Samaria, at the home of the Sisterhood,
in Bonhomme Street. The sale will dispose of the building,
ground, and the complete furnishings of the house and chapel,
without reserve.
This notice stirred the two friends to a reminiscent talk concerning
an episode in their journalistic career that had occurred about
two years before. They recalled the incidents, went over the old
theories, and discussed it anew from the different perspective time
had brought.
There were no other customers in the café. Madame's fine ear had
caught the line of their talk, and she came over to their table - for
had it not been her lost money - her vanished twenty thousand
dollars - that had set the whole matter going?
The three took up the long-abandoned mystery, threshing over the
old, dry chaff of it. It was in the chapel of this house of the
Little Sisters of Samaria that Robbins and Dumars had stood during
that eager, fruitless news search of theirs, and looked upon the
gilded statue of the Virgin.
"Thass so, boys," said madame, summing up. "Thass ver' wicked man,
M'sieur Morin. Everybody shall be cert' he steal those money I
plaze in his hand for keep safe. Yes. He's boun' spend that money,
somehow." Madame turned a broad and contemplative smile upon Dumars.
"I ond'stand you, M'sieur Dumars, those day you come ask fo' tell
ev'ything I know 'bout M'sieur Morin. Ah! yes, I know most time
when those men lose money you say '_Cherchez la femme_' - there is
somewhere the woman. But not for M'sieur Morin. No, boys. Before he
shall die, he is like one saint. You might's well, M'sieur Dumars,
go try find those money in those statue of Virgin Mary that M'sieur
Morin present at those _p'tite soeurs_, as try find one _femme_."
At Madame Tibault's last words, Robbins started slightly and cast a
keen, sidelong glance at Dumars. The Creole sat, unmoved, dreamily
watching the spirals of his cigarette smoke.
It was then nine o'clock in the morning and, a few minutes later,
the two friends separated, going different ways to their day's
duties. And now follows the brief story of Madame Tibault's vanished
thousands:
New Orleans will readily recall to mind the circumstances attendant
upon the death of Mr. Gaspard Morin, in that city. Mr. Morin was an
artistic goldsmith and jeweller in the old French Quarter, and a man
held in the highest esteem. He belonged to one of the oldest French
families, and was of some distinction as an antiquary and historian.
He was a bachelor, about fifty years of age. He lived in quiet
comfort, at one of those rare old hostelries in Royal Street. He was
found in his rooms, one morning, dead from unknown causes.
When his affairs came to be looked into, it was found that he was
practically insolvent, his stock of goods and personal property
barely - but nearly enough to free him from censure - covering
his liabilities. Following came the disclosure that he had been
entrusted with the sum of twenty thousand dollars by a former upper
servant in the Morin family, one Madame Tibault, which she had
received as a legacy from relatives in France.
The most searching scrutiny by friends and the legal authorities
failed to reveal the disposition of the money. It had vanished, and
left no trace. Some weeks before his death, Mr. Morin had drawn
the entire amount, in gold coin, from the bank where it had been
placed while he looked about (he told Madame Tibault) for a safe
investment. Therefore, Mr. Morin's memory seemed doomed to bear the
cloud of dishonesty, while madame was, of course, disconsolate.
Then it was that Robbins and Dumars, representing their respective
journals, began one of those pertinacious private investigations
which, of late years, the press has adopted as a means to glory and
the satisfaction of public curiosity.
"_Cherchez la femme_," said Dumars.
"That's the ticket!" agreed Robbins. "All roads lead to the eternal
feminine. We will find the woman."
They exhausted the knowledge of the staff of Mr. Morin's hotel, from
the bell-boy down to the proprietor. They gently, but inflexibly,
pumped the family of the deceased as far as his cousins twice
removed. They artfully sounded the employees of the late jeweller,
and dogged his customers for information concerning his habits. Like
bloodhounds they traced every step of the supposed defaulter, as
nearly as might be, for years along the limited and monotonous paths
he had trodden.
At the end of their labours, Mr. Morin stood, an immaculate man.
Not one weakness that might be served up as a criminal tendency,
not one deviation from the path of rectitude, not even a hint of a
predilection for the opposite sex, was found to be placed in his
debit. His life had been as regular and austere as a monk's; his
habits, simple and unconcealed. Generous, charitable, and a model in
propriety, was the verdict of all who knew him.
"What, now?" asked Robbins, fingering his empty notebook.
"_Cherchez la femme_," said Dumars, lighting a cigarette. "Try Lady
Bellairs."
This piece of femininity was the race-track favourite of the season.
Being feminine, she was erratic in her gaits, and there were a few
heavy losers about town who had believed she could be true. The
reporters applied for information.
Mr. Morin? Certainly not. He was never even a spectator at the
races. Not that kind of a man. Surprised the gentlemen should ask.
"Shall we throw it up?" suggested Robbins, "and let the puzzle
department have a try?"
"_Cherchez la femme_," hummed Dumars, reaching for a match. "Try the
Little Sisters of What-d'-you-call-'em."
It had developed, during the investigation, that Mr. Morin had held
this benevolent order in particular favour. He had contributed
liberally toward its support and had chosen its chapel as his
favourite place of private worship. It was said that he went there
daily to make his devotions at the altar. Indeed, toward the last of
his life his whole mind seemed to have fixed itself upon religious
matters, perhaps to the detriment of his worldly affairs.
Thither went Robbins and Dumars, and were admitted through the
narrow doorway in the blank stone wall that frowned upon Bonhomme
Street. An old woman was sweeping the chapel. She told them that
Sister Félicité, the head of the order, was then at prayer at the
altar in the alcove. In a few moments she would emerge. Heavy, black
curtains screened the alcove. They waited.
Soon the curtains were disturbed, and Sister Félicité came forth.
She was tall, tragic, bony, and plain-featured, dressed in the black
gown and severe bonnet of the sisterhood.
Robbins, a good rough-and-tumble reporter, but lacking the delicate
touch, began to speak.
They represented the press. The lady had, no doubt, heard of the
Morin affair. It was necessary, in justice to that gentleman's
memory, to probe the mystery of the lost money. It was known that he
had come often to this chapel. Any information, now, concerning Mr.
Morin's habits, tastes, the friends he had, and so on, would be of
value in doing him posthumous justice.
Sister Félicité had heard. Whatever she knew would be willingly
told, but it was very little. Monsieur Morin had been a good friend
to the order, sometimes contributing as much as a hundred dollars.
The sisterhood was an independent one, depending entirely upon
private contributions for the means to carry on its charitable work.
Mr. Morin had presented the chapel with silver candlesticks and an
altar cloth. He came every day to worship in the chapel, sometimes
remaining for an hour. He was a devout Catholic, consecrated to
holiness. Yes, and also in the alcove was a statue of the Virgin
that he had himself modeled, cast, and presented to the order. Oh,
it was cruel to cast a doubt upon so good a man!
Robbins was also profoundly grieved at the imputation. But, until it
was found what Mr. Morin had done with Madame Tibault's money, he
feared the tongue of slander would not be stilled. Sometimes - in
fact, very often - in affairs of the kind there was - er - as the
saying goes - er - a lady in the case. In absolute confidence,
now - if - perhaps -
Sister Félicité's large eyes regarded him solemnly.
"There was one woman," she said, slowly, "to whom he bowed - to whom
he gave his heart."
Robbins fumbled rapturously for his pencil.
"Behold the woman!" said Sister Félicité, suddenly, in deep tones.
She reached a long arm and swept aside the curtain of the alcove.
In there was a shrine, lit to a glow of soft colour by the light
pouring through a stained-glass window. Within a deep niche in the
bare stone wall stood an image of the Virgin Mary, the colour of
pure gold.
Dumars, a conventional Catholic, succumbed to the dramatic in the
act. He bowed his head for an instant and made the sign of the
cross. The somewhat abashed Robbins, murmuring an indistinct
apology, backed awkwardly away. Sister Félicité drew back the
curtain, and the reporters departed.
On the narrow stone sidewalk of Bonhomme Street, Robbins turned to
Dumars, with unworthy sarcasm.
"Well, what next? Churchy law fem?"
"Absinthe," said Dumars.
With the history of the missing money thus partially related, some
conjecture may be formed of the sudden idea that Madame Tibault's
words seemed to have suggested to Robbins's brain.
Was it so wild a surmise - that the religious fanatic had offered up
his wealth - or, rather, Madame Tibault's - in the shape of a material
symbol of his consuming devotion? Stranger things have been done in
the name of worship. Was it not possible that the lost thousands
were molded into that lustrous image? That the goldsmith had formed
it of the pure and precious metal, and set it there, through some
hope of a perhaps disordered brain to propitiate the saints and pave
the way to his own selfish glory?
That afternoon, at five minutes to three, Robbins entered the chapel
door of the Little Sisters of Samaria. He saw, in the dim light,
a crowd of perhaps a hundred people gathered to attend the sale.
Most of them were members of various religious orders, priests and
churchmen, come to purchase the paraphernalia of the chapel, lest
they fall into desecrating hands. Others were business men and
agents come to bid upon the realty. A clerical-looking brother
had volunteered to wield the hammer, bringing to the office of
auctioneer the anomaly of choice diction and dignity of manner.
A few of the minor articles were sold, and then two assistants
brought forward the image of the Virgin.
Robbins started the bidding at ten dollars. A stout man, in an
ecclesiastical garb, went to fifteen. A voice from another part of
the crowd raised to twenty. The three bid alternately, raising by
bids of five, until the offer was fifty dollars. Then the stout man
dropped out, and Robbins, as a sort of _coup de main_, went to a
hundred.
"One hundred and fifty," said the other voice.
"Two hundred," bid Robbins, boldly.
"Two-fifty," called his competitor, promptly.
The reporter hesitated for the space of a lightning flash,
estimating how much he could borrow from the boys in the office,
and screw from the business manager from his next month's salary.
"Three hundred," he offered.
"Three-fifty," spoke up the other, in a louder voice - a voice that
sent Robbins diving suddenly through the crowd in its direction, to
catch Dumars, its owner, ferociously by the collar.
"You unconverted idiot!" hissed Robbins, close to his ear - "pool!"
"Agreed!" said Dumars, coolly. "I couldn't raise three hundred and
fifty dollars with a search-warrant, but I can stand half. What you
come bidding against me for?"
"I thought I was the only fool in the crowd," explained Robbins.
No one else bidding, the statue was knocked down to the syndicate
at their last offer. Dumars remained with the prize, while Robbins
hurried forth to wring from the resources and credit of both the
price. He soon returned with the money, and the two musketeers
loaded their precious package into a carriage and drove with it
to Dumars's room, in old Chartres Street, nearby. They lugged it,
covered with a cloth, up the stairs, and deposited it on a table.
A hundred pounds it weighed, if an ounce, and at that estimate,
according to their calculation, if their daring theory were correct,
it stood there, worth twenty thousand golden dollars.
Robbins removed the covering, and opened his pocket-knife.
"_Sacré!_" muttered Dumars, shuddering. "It is the Mother of Christ.
What would you do?"
"Shut up, Judas!" said Robbins, coldly. "It's too late for you to be
saved now."
With a firm hand, he chipped a slice from the shoulder of the image.
The cut showed a dull, grayish metal, with a thin coating of gold
leaf.
"Lead!" announced Robbins, hurling his knife to the floor - "gilded!"
"To the devil with it!" said Dumars, forgetting his scruples. "I
must have a drink."
Together they walked moodily to the café of Madame Tribault, two
squares away.
It seemed that madame's mind had been stirred that day to fresh
recollections of the past services of the two young men in her
behalf.
"You mustn't sit by those table," she interposed, as they were about
to drop into their accustomed seats. "Thass so, boys. But no. I mek
you come at this room, like my _trés bon amis_. Yes. I goin' mek for
you myself one _anisette_ and one _café royale_ ver' fine. Ah! I lak
treat my fren' nize. Yes. Plis come in this way."
Madame led them into the little back room, into which she sometimes
invited the especially favoured of her customers. In two comfortable
armchairs, by a big window that opened upon the courtyard, she
placed them, with a low table between. Bustling hospitably about,
she began to prepare the promised refreshments.
It was the first time the reporters had been honoured with admission
to the sacred precincts. The room was in dusky twilight, flecked
with gleams of the polished, fine woods and burnished glass and
metal that the Creoles love. From the little courtyard a tiny
fountain sent in an insinuating sound of trickling waters, to which
a banana plant by the window kept time with its tremulous leaves.
Robbins, an investigator by nature, sent a curious glance roving
about the room. From some barbaric ancestor, madame had inherited a
_penchant_ for the crude in decoration.
The walls were adorned with cheap lithographs - florid libels upon
nature, addressed to the taste of the _bourgeoisie_ - birthday cards,
garish newspaper supplements, and specimens of art-advertising
calculated to reduce the optic nerve to stunned submission. A patch
of something unintelligible in the midst of the more candid display
puzzled Robbins, and he rose and took a step nearer, to interrogate
it at closer range. Then he leaned weakly against the wall, and
called out:
"Madame Tibault! Oh, madame! Since when - oh! since when have you
been in the habit of papering your walls with five thousand dollar
United States four per cent. gold bonds? Tell me - is this a Grimm's
fairy tale, or should I consult an oculist?"
At his words, Madame Tibault and Dumars approached.
"H'what you say?" said madame, cheerily. "H'what you say, M'sieur
Robbin? _Bon!_ Ah! those nize li'l peezes papier! One tam I think
those w'at you call calendair, wiz ze li'l day of mont' below. But,
no. Those wall is broke in those plaze, M'sieur Robbin', and I
plaze those li'l peezes papier to conceal ze crack. I did think the
couleur harm'nize so well with the wall papier. Where I get them
from? Ah, yes, I remem' ver' well. One day M'sieur Morin, he come
at my houze - thass 'bout one mont' before he shall die - thass 'long
'bout tam he promise fo' inves' those money fo' me. M'sieur Morin,
he leave thoze li'l peezes papier in those table, and say ver' much
'bout money thass hard for me to ond'stan. _Mais_ I never see those
money again. Thass ver' wicked man, M'sieur Morin. H'what you call
those peezes papier, M'sieur Robbin' - _bon!_"
Robbins explained.
"There's your twenty thousand dollars, with coupons attached," he
said, running his thumb around the edge of the four bonds. "Better
get an expert to peel them off for you. Mister Morin was all right.
I'm going out to get my ears trimmed."
He dragged Dumars by the arm into the outer room. Madame was
screaming for Nicolette and Mémé to come and observe the fortune
returned to her by M'sieur Morin, that best of men, that saint in
glory.
"Marsy," said Robbins, "I'm going on a jamboree. For three days the
esteemed _Pic._ will have to get along without my valuable services.
I advise you to join me. Now, that green stuff you drink is no good.
It stimulates thought. What we want to do is to forget to remember.
I'll introduce you to the only lady in this case that is guaranteed
to produce the desired results. Her name is Belle of Kentucky,
twelve-year-old Bourbon. In quarts. How does the idea strike you?"
"_Allons!_" said Dumars. "_Cherchez la femme_."
XII
FRIENDS IN SAN ROSARIO
The west-bound train stopped at San Rosario on time at 8.20 A.M. A
man with a thick black-leather wallet under his arm left the train
and walked rapidly up the main street of the town. There were other
passengers who also got off at San Rosario, but they either slouched
limberly over to the railroad eating-house or the Silver Dollar
saloon, or joined the groups of idlers about the station.
Indecision had no part in the movements of the man with the wallet.
He was short in stature, but strongly built, with very light,
closely-trimmed hair, smooth, determined face, and aggressive,
gold-rimmed nose glasses. He was well dressed in the prevailing
Eastern style. His air denoted a quiet but conscious reserve force,
if not actual authority.
After walking a distance of three squares he came to the centre of
the town's business area. Here another street of importance crossed
the main one, forming the hub of San Rosario's life and commerce.
Upon one corner stood the post-office. Upon another Rubensky's
Clothing Emporium. The other two diagonally opposing corners were
occupied by the town's two banks, the First National and the
Stockmen's National. Into the First National Bank of San Rosario
the newcomer walked, never slowing his brisk step until he stood
at the cashier's window. The bank opened for business at nine, and
the working force was already assembled, each member preparing his
department for the day's business. The cashier was examining the
mail when he noticed the stranger standing at his window.
"Bank doesn't open 'til nine," he remarked curtly, but without
feeling. He had had to make that statement so often to early birds
since San Rosario adopted city banking hours.
"I am well aware of that," said the other man, in cool, brittle
tones. "Will you kindly receive my card?"
The cashier drew the small, spotless parallelogram inside the bars
of his wicket, and read:
J. F. C. Nettlewick
National Bank Examiner
"Oh - er - will you walk around inside, Mr. - er - Nettlewick. Your
first visit - didn't know your business, of course. Walk right
around, please."
The examiner was quickly inside the sacred precincts of the bank,
where he was ponderously introduced to each employee in turn by Mr.
Edlinger, the cashier - a middle-aged gentleman of deliberation,
discretion, and method.
"I was kind of expecting Sam Turner round again, pretty soon," said
Mr. Edlinger. "Sam's been examining us now, for about four years. I
guess you'll find us all right, though, considering the tightness
in business. Not overly much money on hand, but able to stand the
storms, sir, stand the storms."
"Mr. Turner and I have been ordered by the Comptroller to exchange
districts," said the examiner, in his decisive, formal tones. "He is
covering my old territory in Southern Illinois and Indiana. I will
take the cash first, please."
Perry Dorsey, the teller, was already arranging his cash on the
counter for the examiner's inspection. He knew it was right to a
cent, and he had nothing to fear, but he was nervous and flustered.
So was every man in the bank. There was something so icy and swift,
so impersonal and uncompromising about this man that his very
presence seemed an accusation. He looked to be a man who would never
make nor overlook an error.
Mr. Nettlewick first seized the currency, and with a rapid, almost
juggling motion, counted it by packages. Then he spun the sponge cup
toward him and verified the count by bills. His thin, white fingers
flew like some expert musician's upon the keys of a piano. He dumped
the gold upon the counter with a crash, and the coins whined and
sang as they skimmed across the marble slab from the tips of his
nimble digits. The air was full of fractional currency when he came
to the halves and quarters. He counted the last nickle and dime.
He had the scales brought, and he weighed every sack of silver
in the vault. He questioned Dorsey concerning each of the cash
memoranda - certain checks, charge slips, etc., carried over from the
previous day's work - with unimpeachable courtesy, yet with something
so mysteriously momentous in his frigid manner, that the teller was
reduced to pink cheeks and a stammering tongue.
This newly-imported examiner was so different from Sam Turner. It
had been Sam's way to enter the bank with a shout, pass the cigars,
and tell the latest stories he had picked up on his rounds. His
customary greeting to Dorsey had been, "Hello, Perry! Haven't
skipped out with the boodle yet, I see." Turner's way of counting
the cash had been different, too. He would finger the packages of
bills in a tired kind of way, and then go into the vault and kick
over a few sacks of silver, and the thing was done. Halves and
quarters and dimes? Not for Sam Turner. "No chicken feed for
me," he would say when they were set before him. "I'm not in the
agricultural department." But, then, Turner was a Texan, an old
friend of the bank's president, and had known Dorsey since he was
a baby.
While the examiner was counting the cash, Major Thomas B.
Kingman - known to every one as "Major Tom" - the president of the
First National, drove up to the side door with his old dun horse and
buggy, and came inside. He saw the examiner busy with the money,
and, going into the little "pony corral," as he called it, in which
his desk was railed off, he began to look over his letters.
Earlier, a little incident had occurred that even the sharp eyes of
the examiner had failed to notice. When he had begun his work at the
cash counter, Mr. Edlinger had winked significantly at Roy Wilson,
the youthful bank messenger, and nodded his head slightly toward the
front door. Roy understood, got his hat, and walked leisurely out,
with his collector's book under his arm. Once outside, he made a
bee-line for the Stockmen's National. That bank was also getting
ready to open. No customers had, as yet, presented themselves.
"Say, you people!" cried Roy, with the familiarity of youth and long
acquaintance, "you want to get a move on you. There's a new bank
examiner over at the First, and he's a stem-winder. He's counting
nickles on Perry, and he's got the whole outfit bluffed. Mr.
Edlinger gave me the tip to let you know."
Mr. Buckley, president of the Stockmen's National - a stout, elderly
man, looking like a farmer dressed for Sunday - heard Roy from his
private office at the rear and called him.
"Has Major Kingman come down to the bank yet?" he asked of the boy.
"Yes, sir, he was just driving up as I left," said Roy.
"I want you to take him a note. Put it into his own hands as soon as
you get back."
Mr. Buckley sat down and began to write.
Roy returned and handed to Major Kingman the envelope containing the
note. The major read it, folded it, and slipped it into his vest
pocket. He leaned back in his chair for a few moments as if he were
meditating deeply, and then rose and went into the vault. He came
out with the bulky, old-fashioned leather note case stamped on the
back in gilt letters, "Bills Discounted." In this were the notes due
the bank with their attached securities, and the major, in his rough
way, dumped the lot upon his desk and began to sort them over.
By this time Nettlewick had finished his count of the cash. His
pencil fluttered like a swallow over the sheet of paper on which he
had set his figures. He opened his black wallet, which seemed to be
also a kind of secret memorandum book, made a few rapid figures in
it, wheeled and transfixed Dorsey with the glare of his spectacles.
That look seemed to say: "You're safe this time, but - "
"Cash all correct," snapped the examiner. He made a dash for the
individual bookkeeper, and, for a few minutes there was a fluttering
of ledger leaves and a sailing of balance sheets through the air.
"How often do you balance your pass-books?" he demanded, suddenly.
"Er - once a month," faltered the individual bookkeeper, wondering
how many years they would give him.
"All right," said the examiner, turning and charging upon the
general bookkeeper, who had the statements of his foreign banks and
their reconcilement memoranda ready. Everything there was found to
be all right. Then the stub book of the certificates of deposit.
Flutter - flutter - zip - zip - check! All right. List of over-drafts,
please. Thanks. H'm-m. Unsigned bills of the bank, next. All right.