MYSTERY & CRIME COLLECTION. Hay James
that Morley had not reported for work. Having presented his card to a chilly, monosyllabic little man, he was shown, after a short wait, into a private office where, surrounded by several tons of mahogany, Mr. Joseph Beale reigned supreme.
Mr. Beale struck him as a fattened duplicate of Mr. Illington, thin of lip, hard of eye, slow and precise in enunciation. In spite of his stoutness, he had the same long, slender fingers, easy to grasp with, and the same mechanical Punch-and-Judy smile. When he greeted the detective, his voice was like a slow, thin stream that had run over ice.
"I'm not on a pleasant mission, Mr. Beale," Braceway began. "It's something in the line of duty."
The bank president looked at the card which had been handed to him.
"Ahem!" he said, with a lip smile. "You're a detective?"
"Yes."
"Well, Mr. Braceway, what is it? Let's see whether I can do anything for you. At least, I assume you want——"
This ruffled Braceway.
"I want nothing," he said crisply; "and I'm afraid I'm going to do something for you."
The banker stiffened.
"What is it?"
"It's one of your employés; in fact, it's your receiving teller."
"What! Henry Morley! Impossible, sir! Outrageous! Preposterous!"
"Just a moment, if you please," put in Braceway. "I was going to say that I was positive about nothing. I've been compelled to suspect, however, that Mr. Morley might be short in his accounts. There are unexplained circumstances which seem to connect Mr. Morley with the murder of a woman. Therefore——"
"One of the—one of my employés a thief and a murderer!" Mr. Beale pushed back his chair and fell to patting his knees with his fists. "Great God, Mr.——" He looked at the card again. "Why, Mr. Braceway, I can't believe it. It would be treason to this bank, treason to all its traditions!" He had not suffered such an attack of garrulity for the past twenty years. "And Morley, his family, his birth! By George, sir, his blood! Are we to lose all faith in blood?"
"As I wanted to say," Braceway managed to break in, "the murder of Mrs. George S. Withers in Furmville, North Carolina, led——"
This was the crowning blow. Mr. Beale gasped several times in rapid succession, not entirely hiding his slight, cold resemblance to a fish.
"Mrs. Withers!" he got out at last. "The daughter of my old friend, Will Fulton! Fulton, one of our depositors!"
He was reduced to silent horror.
Braceway took advantage of his condition and outlined the circumstances in considerable detail.
"If he's short in his accounts," he concluded, "the motive for the murder is established. And, if he's been stealing from the bank, you want to know it."
Mr. Beale pushed a bell-button.
"Charles," he said to the chilly little man, "tell Mr. Jones I want to speak to him. Our first vice-president," he explained to Braceway.
Mr. Jones, evidently dressed and ready for the part of president of the bank whenever Mr. Beale should see fit to die, came in and, with frowns, "dear-dears" and tongue-clucking, heard from the president the story of what had befallen the Anderson National.
"How soon," inquired Beale, "can we give this—er—gentleman an answer, a definite answer, as to whether Morley, the unspeakable scoundrel, is a thief?"
Mr. Jones considered sadly.
"Perhaps, very soon; two o'clock or something like that—and again it may take time to find anything. Suppose we say five or half-past five this afternoon; to be safe, you understand. Half-past five?"
"Very well," agreed Beale, and turned to Braceway: "Will that be satisfactory?"
"Perfectly."
Braceway left them, their mask-like faces plainly damaged by anxiety; their cool, slow utterance slightly humanized by the realization that they must act at once. In fact, as the detective closed the door of the private office, Mr. Jones was reaching with long, slender fingers for the telephone. They would need the best accountant they could find for the quick work they had promised Braceway.
Chapter XX.
The Discovery of the Jewels
Braceway returned to the lobby of his hotel, and, having bought half a dozen New York newspapers, settled down to wait for a report from Golson's bureau concerning Morley's movements. A little after eleven he was called to the telephone.
"Your man caught the eight o'clock train for Baltimore." Golson himself gave the information. "Delaney also caught it. They got to Baltimore at nine. Your man took a taxi straight to the shop of an old fellow named Eidstein, reaching there at twenty minutes past nine. He and Eidstein went into Eidstein's private office back of the shop and stayed there for over an hour, in fact until about half-past ten. Your man came out and went to a down-town hotel. He was there when Delaney, still sticking to him, managed to get a wire to me telling me what I've just told you."
"Fine!" said Braceway. "What was he doing in the hotel? Did he meet anybody, or write anything?"
"Delaney didn't say."
"Who's this Eidstein, a pawn broker?"
"No; he's a dealer in antiques: furniture, old gold, old jewels, anything old. He stands well over there. He's all right. I know all about him."
"That's funny, isn't it?"
"What's funny?"
"That he didn't go to a pawnshop."
"Keep your shirt on," laughed Golson. "The day's not over yet."
"No doubt about that. What about Corning, the loan-shark in Virginia?"
"I've got a man over there, just as you asked. Shall I keep him on?"
"Sure!" snapped Braceway. "Suppose Morley gives Delaney the slip in Baltimore and doubles back to Corning's! Keep him there all day."
He left the telephone and went up to Bristow's room, No. 717. When he knocked, the door was opened by a young woman in the uniform and cap of a trained nurse.
"I beg your pardon," he began, "I got the wrong room, I'm afraid. I——"
"This is Mr. Bristow's room," she said in a low tone. "Are you Mr. Braceway?"
"Yes."
"Come in, then, please." She stepped back and held open the door. "Mr. Bristow's still very weak, but he told me to let you in. He said he must see you as soon as you arrived."
Braceway saw that there was no bed in the room, and asked where the sick man was. The nurse pointed to a closed door leading into the adjoining room.
"What's the matter with him?" he asked. "By George! He hasn't had a hemorrhage, has he?"
"Yes, sir. That's exactly what he has had. The doctor says all he needs now is rest. He doesn't think there's any real danger. Will you go in to see him?"
She quietly opened the door to the sickroom. Braceway went in on tiptoes, but Bristow stirred and turned toward him when the nurse put up the window shade.
"You'll have to lie still, Mr. Bristow," she cautioned on her way out. "It's so important to keep these ice-packs in place."
"Thanks, Miss Martin; I shall get on," he answered in a voice so weak that it startled Braceway.
"I don't think you'd better talk," said his visitor. "Really, I wouldn't."
Bristow gave him a wry smile.
"It's nothing