The Red Seal Part 6

Kent stared--the twins were certainly in earnest.

"My advice to you is to wait until you hear the result of the post-mortem from Coroner Penfield," he said gravely. "Until we know definitely what killed Jimmie, speculation is idle."

Barbara rose at once. "I thought you would be more sympathetic," she remarked, and her voice was a bit unsteady. "I am sorry to have troubled you."

In an instant Kent was by her side. "Barbara," he entreated. "I promise solemnly to aid you in every possible way. My only happiness is in serving you," his voice was very tender. "I slave here day in and day out that I may sometime be able to make a home for you. Don't leave me in anger."

"I was not angry, only deeply hurt," Barbara confessed. "I have so longed to see you. I--I needed you! I--" The rest was lost as she bowed her head against Kent's broad shoulder, and his impa.s.sioned whispers of devotion brought solace to her troubled spirit.

"I must go," declared Barbara ten minutes later. "Father would make a fearful scene if he knew I had been here to see you." She picked up her hand-bag, preparatory to leaving. "Then I can tell Helen that you will aid us?"

"Yes." Kent stopped on his way to the door. "I will try and see the coroner this afternoon. In the meantime, Babs, can't you tell me what makes you suspect that Jimmie might have been killed?"

"I have nothing tangible to go on," she admitted. "Only a woman's instinct--"

Kent did not smile. "Instinct," he repeated thoughtfully. "Well, does your instinct hazard a guess as to the weapon, the opportunity, and the motive for such a crime? Jimmie Turnbull hadn't an enemy in the world."

Barbara looked at him oddly. "Suppose you find the answer to those conundrums," she suggested. "Don't come to the elevator; Margaret Brewster may see you with me, and she would tell father of our meeting."

"Is Mrs. Brewster still with you?" asked Kent, paying no attention to her protests as he accompanied her down the corridor. "I understood she planned to return to the West last week."

"She did, but father persuaded her to prolong her visit," Barbara was guilty of a grimace, then hailing the descending elevator she bolted into it and waved her good-by to Kent as the cage shot downward.

When Kent reentered his office he found Sylvester hanging up the telephone receiver.

"Mr. Clymer has telephoned to ask if you will come to the Metropolis Trust Company at once," he said, and before Kent could frame a reply he had darted into the coat closet and brought out his hat and cane, and handed them to him.

"Don't wait for me, but go out for your luncheon," directed Kent, observing the hour. "I have my key and can get in when I return if you should not be here," and not waiting to hear Sylvester's thanks, he hurried away.

The clock over the bank had just struck noon when Kent reached the fine office building which housed the Metropolis Trust Company, and as he entered the bank, a messenger stopped him.

"Mr. Clymer is waiting for you in his private office, sir," he said, and led the way past the long rows of mahogany counters and plate gla.s.s windows to the back of the bank, finally stopping before a door bearing the name, in modest lettering--BENJAMIN AUGUSTUS CLYMER. The bank president was sensitive on one point; he never permitted initials only to be used before his name. The messenger's deferential knock was answered by a gruff command to enter. Clymer welcomed Kent with an air of relief.

"You know Colonel McIntyre," he said by way of introduction, and Kent became aware that the tall man lounging with his back to him in one of the leather covered chairs was Barbara's father. Colonel McIntyre returned Kent's bow with a curt nod, and then Clymer pushed forward a chair.

"Sit down, Kent," he began. "You have already handled several confidential affairs for the bank in a satisfactory manner, and I have sent for you to-day to ask your aid in an urgent matter. Before I go further I must ask you to treat what I am about to say as strictly confidential."

"Certainly, Mr. Clymer."

"Good! Then draw up your chair." Clymer waited until Kent had complied with his request. "You have heard of Jimmie Turnbull's sudden and tragic death?"

"Yes."

"As you know, he was cashier of this bank." Clymer spoke with deliberation. "Soon after word reached here of his death, the vice-president and treasurer of the bank had a careful examination made of his books and accounts." Clymer paused to clear his throat; he was troubled with an irritating cough. "Turnbull's accounts were found in first cla.s.s order."

"I am sure they would be, Mr. Clymer," exclaimed Kent warmly. "Any one who knew Jimmie would never doubt his honesty."

McIntyre turned in his chair and regarded the speaker with no friendly eye, but aside from that, took no part in the conversation. Clymer did not at once resume speaking.

"To-day," he commenced finally, "Colonel McIntyre called at the bank and asked the treasurer, Mr. Gilmore, for certain valuable negotiable securities which he left in the bank's care a month ago. Mr. Gilmore told Colonel McIntyre that these securities had been given to Jimmie Turnbull last Sat.u.r.day on his presentation of a letter from McIntyre requesting that they be turned over to the bank's cashier. McIntyre expressed his surprise and asked to see the letter "--Clymer paused and took a paper from his desk. "Here is the letter."

Kent took the paper and examined it closely.

"This is perfectly in order," he said. "A clear statement in Colonel McIntyre's handwriting and on his stationery."

For the first time Colonel McIntyre addressed him.

"The letter is in order," he acknowledged, "and written on my stationery, but it was not written by me. The letter is a clever forgery."

CHAPTER V. THE VANISHING MAN

It still lacked twenty minutes of nine o'clock that night when Harry Kent turned into the Saratoga apartment hotel, and not waiting to take one of the elevators, ran up the staircase to the apartment which had been occupied jointly by Jimmie Turnbull and Philip Rochester. Kent had already selected the right key from among those on the bunch he had found in Rochester's desk at the office, and slipping it into the key-hole of the outer door, he turned the lock and walked noiselessly inside the dark apartment.

The soft click of the outer door as it swung to was hardly noticeable, and Kent, pausing only long enough to get his breath from his run up the staircase, stepped into the living room and reached for the electric light switch. Instead of encountering the cold metal of the switch his groping fingers closed over warm flesh.

Startled as he was, Kent retained enough presence of mind to grasp the hand tightly; the next second a man hurled himself upon him and he gave back. Furniture in the path of the struggling men was overturned as they fought in silent desperation. Kent would have given much for light. He strained his eyes to see his adversary, but the pitch darkness concealed all but the vaguest outline. As Kent got his second wind, confidence in his strength returned and he redoubled his efforts; suddenly his hands shifted their grip and he swung his adversary backward, pinning him against the wall.

A faint, sobbing breath escaped the man, and Kent felt the whole figure against which he pressed, quiver and relax; the taut muscles of chest and arms grew slack, collapsed.

Kent stood in wonderment, peering ahead, his hands empty--the man had vanished!

Drawing a long, long breath Kent felt his way back to the electric switch and pressed the b.u.t.ton, lighting both the wall brackets and the table lamps. With both hands on his throbbing temples he gazed at the over-turned chairs; they, as well as his aching throat, testified to his encounter having been a reality and not a fantastic dream. His glance traveled this way and that about the room and rested longest on the opposite side of the room where he had pinned the man to the wall.

Wall--! Kent leaned against a tall highboy and laughed weakly, immoderately. He had pushed the man straight against the door leading into Rochester's bedroom, and not, as he had supposed, against the solid wall.

The man had been quick-witted enough to grasp the situation; his pretended weakness had caused Kent to relax his hold, a turn of the k.n.o.b of the door, which swung inward, and he had made his escape into the bedroom, leaving Kent staring into dark, empty s.p.a.ce.

Gathering his wits together Kent hurried into the bedroom--it was empty; so also was the bathroom opening from it. From there Kent made the rounds of the apartment, switching on the light until the place was ablaze, but in spite of his minute search of closets and under beds and behind furniture he could find no trace of his late adversary. Kent stopped long enough in the pantry to refresh himself with a gla.s.s of water, then he returned to the living room and sat down in an arm chair by the window. He wanted time to think.

How had the man vanished so utterly, leaving no trace behind in the apartment? The window in Rochester's room was locked on the inside; in fact, all the apartment windows were securely fastened, he had found on his tour of inspection; the only one not locked was the oval, swinging window high up in the side wall of the bathroom; only a child could squeeze through it, Kent decided. The window looked into a well formed by the wings of the apartment house, and had a sheer drop of fifty feet to the ground below.

But for his unfortunate luck in backing the man against the bedroom door instead of the wall he would not have escaped, but how had the man realized so instantly that he was against a door in the pitch darkness?

It certainly showed familiarity with his surroundings. Kent sat upright as an idea flashed through his brain--was the man Philip Rochester?

Kent scouted the idea but it persisted. Suppose it had been Philip Rochester awakened from a drunken slumber by his entrance in the dark; if so, nothing more likely than that he had mistaken him, Kent, for a burglar and sprung at him. But why had he disappeared without revealing his ident.i.ty to Kent? Surely the same reason worked both ways--the man who had wrestled with him was as unaware of Kent's ident.i.ty as Kent was of his--they had fought in the dark and in silence.

Kent laughed aloud. The situation had its amusing side; then, as recollection came of the scene in the bank that morning, his mirth changed to grim seriousness. At his earnest solicitation and backed by Benjamin Clymer's endors.e.m.e.nt of his plan, Colonel McIntyre had agreed to give him until Sat.u.r.day night to locate the missing securities; if he failed, then the colonel proposed placing the affair in the hands of the authorities.

Kent's firm mouth settled into dogged lines at the thought; such a procedure meant besmirching Jimmie Turnbull's name; let the public get the slightest inkling that the bank cashier was suspected of forgery and there would be the devil to pay. Kent was determined to protect the honor of his dead friend, and to aid Helen McIntyre in her investigation of his sudden death.

Jimmie Turnbull had been the soul of honor; that he had ever stooped to forgery was unbelievable. There was some explanation favorable to him--there must be. Kent's clenched fist struck the arm of his, chair a vigorous blow and he leapt to his feet. Wasting no further time on speculation, he commenced a systematic search of the apartment, replacing each chair and table as well as the rugs which had been over-turned in his recent tussle, after which he tried the drawers of Jimmie's desk. They were unlocked. A careful search brought nothing to light but receipted bills, some loose change, old dinner cards, theater programs, tea invitations, and several packages of cigarettes.

Turning from the desk Kent walked over to the table which he knew was Philip Rochester's property; he recalled having once seen Jimmie place some papers there by mistake; having done so once, the mistake might have occurred again. Taking out his partner's bunch of keys, he soon found one that fitted and opened the drawers. He had half completed his task, without finding any clew to the missing securities, when he was interrupted by the sound of the opening of the front door, and had but time to slam the drawers shut and pocket the keys when the night clerk of the hotel stepped inside the apartment and, closely followed by a sandy-haired man, walked into the living room. He halted abruptly at sight of Kent.

"Good evening, Mr. Kent," he exclaimed, and took in at a glance the orderly arrangement of the room. "Pardon my unceremonious entrance, but I had no idea you were here, sir; we received a telephone message that a burglar had broken in here."

"You did!" Kent stared at him. Was he right, after all, in his conjecture; had the man been Philip Rochester? It would seem so, for who else, after taking refuge elsewhere, would have telephoned a warning of burglars to the hotel office? "Have you any idea who sent the message, Mr. Stuart?"