Читать книгу Fool's Goal - Bertha Muzzy Sinclair - Страница 6
ОглавлениеA FOOL AND HIS MONEY
With a muttered phrase which epitomized his opinion of all reporters, Dale threw down the newspapers he had been reading and reached for a package of cigarettes, since the burglars had taken his monogrammed silver case along with the rest of their harvest. Some one near by chuckled, and Dale's scowling glance turned belligerently that way, coming to rest upon a tall, good-natured young fellow with a wide, smiling mouth and hair of that rich auburn which is just a shade too dark to be called red. Dale's resentfully questioning look was met by eyes blue and disarmingly straightforward.
"Tough luck, all right," the fellow said, still smiling. "Bad enough to be robbed, without being spread-eagled all over the front page." He was standing beside a slot machine where for a nickel one guessed card combinations, and now he turned toward it, chose his cards, slipped his nickel into the slot and got a package of gum for reward. He was peeling off the wrapper to extract a stick when Dale decided to be human.
"What I can't understand is how they could reel off a string of numbers like they have here and claim they're the numbers of banknotes I lost," he complained. "I never gave the police any numbers."
"You didn't see last night's papers, I guess. No, that's right—you hadn't got over the chloroform, they said. Varney wired back to Chicago—you registered from there, didn't you? Well, the bank where you got your cash wired out the numbers of the bills. My brother works in a bank here," he exclaimed. "But it was in the paper too. I read it before I asked Jim."
"The bank in Chicago wired the numbers?" Dale bit his lip. "Sure a snappy piece of work," he commented dryly.
"The sooner the numbers are out, the better chance there is to get hold of the crooks," the other pointed out. "Publicity is the one thing they can't stand. It sews them up in a sack. All the banks and stores are on the lookout now for bills with those numbers. The crooks oughta know that by this time, though. They'll lay low."
While Dale morosely watched him, the young man fed another nickel to the slot machine, this time without avail. Chewing two sticks of the gum he had won the first try, he sauntered over to the big window with its row of padded leather chairs, chose one, and was just settling himself into it when his attention was attracted to a man walking past the window.
"Hey, Bill!" he called eagerly, tapping on the plate glass with his fingers. "What's the grand rush?" The man outside stopped and turned, grinning.
"Why, hello, Hugh!" he called exuberantly. The two met in the doorway, shook hands and stood there for a minute before they walked away, still talking.
Dale looked after them with a twinge of envy. They knew each other, they had things of mutual interest to talk about, they could walk into places together and greet other friends. For the first time since leaving home he was conscious of feeling lonesome. He couldn't talk to any one with that freedom which only long acquaintance can give, and yet he felt the need of discussing this mystery of his with some one he knew he could trust.
For instance, the banks must know the exact amount of money he had drawn from his account in Chicago and presumably brought to Cheyenne with him. This young fellow must also know, since his brother worked in one of the banks here. And while the paper had contented itself with vague phrases calculated to whet any man's curiosity, "Chicago Man Loses Fortune" was the headline they had used, what followed did not minimize the caption. The banks certainly must know the denomination of every bill. Dale had withdrawn only fifty thousand, two hundred dollars from his account in Kittridge's bank, at the last minute deciding to leave a balance there, and the chief of police undoubtedly knew how much the thieves must have taken. There was no telling how far the startling news had seeped into the town, but gossip probably was already naming figures.
But how did any one know before the robbery? The question struck sharply across Dale's thoughts, to return again and again. Even if Kittridge did have the numbers wired out here, that didn't clear the thing up. Somebody knew before that. Varney must have guessed that the thieves knew exactly what to look for, and so would every one who stopped to think a minute. Even the tailor who mended Dale's clothes must see the significance of the slit linings in all the coats.
Dale smoked meditatively, staring at the passers-by who came and went in the thin, intermittent stream of small affairs; big-hatted men with the peculiar, bow-legged walk that betrays the range man used to riding and to stiff leather chaps; preoccupied business men, women hurrying by with the intent look of shoppers; loitering time-killers staring into windows; clucking wagons and trucks. Occasional horsemen jogged past the hotel, and his eyes followed these with interest, longing to be riding with them. Then his attention was diverted from the street as snatches of conversation floated in to him from the pool room just off the lobby as some one passed through and left the door open.
"Damn' chump—packin' a wad like that in the first place." (Kittridge would certainly agree with that fellow!)
"These rich young squirts—" and the click of balls as the speaker interrupted himself.
Some one laughed. "A fool and his money!" he chortled.
"Well, a fool's gold'll buy as much as if he had good sense," another made trite comment.
"But not for him it won't," retorted the voice that had laughed. "Cleaned him to the bone. Serves him damn right too. Anybody that'll pack fifty thousand dollars around with him had ought to be robbed."
So the story was complete and gossip had the exact sum! Dale dropped his half-smoked cigarette into the nearest ash tray and walked out into the street, glanced this way and that until he discovered the place he was looking for, crossed to the other side and walked into a bank. At the Notes and Exchange window a man came forward to serve him, his ready smile bringing to his face a likeness to the tawny-haired young fellow Dale had seen at the hotel. Dale smiled back and felt almost acquainted.
"And get it here by wire, will you, please?" he said, as he pushed a draft under the grating. "You doubtless know why."
The man looked at the modest amount on the face of the draft and smiled again at Dale.
"I can cash this for you now, if you like, Mr. Emery. We've been in communication with your bank concerning you—in fact, we're their Cheyenne correspondent. If you'll wait just a minute I'll give you the money."
"You know, this is mighty decent of you." Dale flushed a little as he took the money. "Folks must think I'm the prize fool—"
"Or braver than most of us," the other supplemented with a pleasant little nod, glancing over Dale's shoulder as those behind grilled windows are wont to do when the next in line is waiting. "Please call on us if we can serve you in any way."
Dale thanked him and turned away, feeling a little glow of gratitude for the friendly offer. While other clients of the bank glanced at him as if they knew who he was and were naturally curious, he stopped by a desk long enough to single out a ten-dollar bill for immediate use and to tuck the other ninety dollars into an inside pocket before he went out to look for a store where they sold bill folds. He glanced back at the grilled window and saw that J. D. Mowerby was the name of the obliging young man who had served him. J. for James, of course—the young fellow with the gum had called his brother Jim. Jim and Hugh Mowerby; already he was beginning to learn something about the people here.
At the leather-goods store the clerk scanned the ten-dollar bill and wanted to talk of the robbery, but Dale was unresponsive. How had the thieves learned of the fortune in cash he was carrying to Cheyenne? He would give a good deal to know that, for therein lay the clue to their identity, if only he could find it. And find that clue he must, somehow. It was absolutely vital that he should know. But he felt that he dared not tell even Varney, nor Kittridge himself, just why. His one chance, it seemed to him, lay in keeping his own counsel and in waiting until the thieves betrayed themselves; which they would do, he felt sure. They must, in the light of what he knew. He would only have to bide his time.
Burnett was in the lobby when he returned, and his thin, handsome face was unsmiling and full of concern as he spoke to Dale.
"I just saw Varney down the street a piece," he began, without much prelude. "He says they haven't got a line on them fellows yet. Course, I don't s'pose you got a sight of 'em, did you? Got at you while you was asleep, as I heard it. Wonder is, they didn't kill you with that stuff. Varney told me they'd soaked a bath towel and there was enough on it when he got there to put most anybody to sleep. Sit down, Mr. Emery. I want to talk to you about this. Maybe you think it ain't my put-in, but I've been a peace officer myself a good many years, though I ain't working at it now. Resigned last summer to let in Burke, the sheriff. You talked with him yet? He's a good man; better than Varney, according to my notion."
"No, I haven't talked with any one, much. Not officially, I mean." Dale sat down beside Burnett, glad of the old man's friendliness. "I felt rotten yesterday, and to-day—well, the town thinks I'm crazy or a fool, to have all that money. It's a wonder they let me run loose!"
"Well, it was yours," Burnett observed dryly. "Varney made sure of that, soon as he found out how much it really was. He's kinda peeved that you didn't tell him yourself, Mr. Emery. No, you had a right to carry it, I guess, but it sure was taking a big risk." He stopped and canted one graying eyebrow upwards as he looked at Dale, his eyes a keen, cold blue that seemed to read a man's most secret thoughts. "Who all knew you had that amount of money on you?" he asked suddenly.
"Nobody out here," Dale said, returning the old man's stare. "My bankers, of course."
"And who else?" Burnett's gaze never shifted a hair's breadth. He seemed to be gauging Dale with some mental measurement of his own. "Somebody knew."
"One man," Dale admitted, flushing. "A friend—a fraternity brother. I'd trust him with my soul."
"Sometimes we trust friends to our sorrow," said Burnett, sighing without being conscious of the fact. "You trust him, but do you know he didn't tell?"
"Well—yes, I know."
"You've got some proof he didn't?"
"Yes," said Dale after a perceptible hesitation, "I have proof."
"Humph." Burnett turned away his eyes then and pulled a cigar from his pocket, absently biting off the end while his fingers explored a pocket for a match. He got the cigar lighted and smoked in silence for another minute.
"Because they searched so many places?" he queried then. "That might of been a blind, to throw you off the track."
Dale shook his head, his lids opening and then half closing over a gleam in his eyes which Burnett was not slow to catch.
"It's fine to trust your friends," he said in his soft drawl, "but I was in the sheriff's office a good many years, Mr. Emery. Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money to tempt any man with. Is this friend rich?"
"Richer than I am, though he doesn't spend as much, maybe. He's in business and making money right along. Fifty thousand isn't so much to him. Besides—I know he didn't tell."
Burnett took the cigar from his mouth, glanced around the empty lobby and looked again suddenly and keenly at Dale.
"You mean—they didn't get it?"
He watched Dale, saw his eyes flicker in spite of himself, and chuckled.
"That's your high trump," he said softly. "Did you tell anybody?"
"I haven't told you," Dale countered gruffly. "If you want to jump at a conclusion that's your lookout."
"Oh, yes, you have told me," Burnett retorted, still in an undertone. "I don't know as any one else would have got it, but I did. That's your high trump and you want to hang on to it. Don't let anybody else find that out and you've got a chance to land 'em. But—" his face sobered and he laid an impressive finger on Dale's knee, "—they know, and they know you know. They'll try again, Mr. Emery, unless—" he stopped to consider—"unless you can convince 'em you didn't bring that money with you, after all." He drew deeply upon the cigar. "But they'll try again, first chance they get."
"That," said Dale grimly, "is what I'm hoping they'll do."
