by Marion Bryce
“And those are?”
“The cashier, the janitor, and myself.”
He endeavored to speak calmly and without any betrayal of the effort it caused him to utter those simple words, but a detective’s ear is nice and it is doubtful if he perfectly succeeded.
Mr. Gryce however limited himself to a muttered, humph! and a long and thoughtful look at a spot on the green baize of the table before which he sat.
“The janitor lives in the building, I suppose?”
“Yes, and is, as I am sure Mr. Stuyvesant will second me in asserting, honesty to the back-bone.”
“Janitors always are,” observed the detective; then shortly, “How long has he been with you?”
“Three years.”
Another “humph!” and an increased interest in the ink spot.
“That is not long, considering the responsibility of his position.”
“He was on the police force before he came to us,” remarked Mr. Sylvester.
Mr. Gryce looked as if that was not much of a recommendation.
“As for the short time he has been with us,” resumed the other, “he came into the bank the same winter as my nephew and myself, and has found the time sufficient to earn the respect of all who know him.”
The detective bowed, seemingly awed by the dignity with which the last statement had been uttered; but any one who knew him well, would have perceived that the film of uncertainty which had hitherto dimmed the brightness of his regard was gone, as if in the other’s impressive manner, if not in the suggestion his words had unconsciously offered, the detective had received an answer to some question which had been puzzling him, or laid his hand upon some clue which had till now eluded his grasp. The inquiries which he made haste to pursue, betrayed, however, but little of the tendency of his thoughts.
“The janitor, you say, knows the combination by which the vault doors are opened?”
“The vault doors,” emphasized Mr. Sylvester. “The safe is another matter; that stands inside the vault and is locked by a triple combination which as a whole is not known to any one man in this building, not even to myself.”
“But the boxes are not kept in the safe?”
“No, they are piled up with the books in the vaults at the side of the safe, as you can see for yourself, if you choose to join Mr. Folger.”
“Not necessary. The janitor, then, is the only man beside yourselves, who under any circumstances or for any reason, could get at those boxes after business hours?”
“He is.”
“One question more. Who is the man to attend to those boxes? I mean to ask, which of the men in your employ is expected to procure a box out of the vaults when it is called for, and put it back in its place when its owner is through with it?”
“Hopgood usually does that business, the janitor of whom we have just been speaking. When he is upstairs or out of the way, any one else whom it may be convenient to call.”
“The janitor, then, has free access to the boxes at all times, night and day?”
“In one sense, yes, in another, no. Should he unlock the vaults at night, the watchman would report upon his proceedings.”
“But there must be times between the closing and opening of the bank, when the janitor is alone with the vaults?”
“There is a space of two hours after seven in the morning, when he is likely to be the sole one in charge. The watchman goes home, and Hopgood employs himself in sweeping out the bank and preparing it for the business of the day.”
“Are the watchman and the janitor on good terms with one another?”
“Very, I believe.”
The detective looked thoughtful. “I should like to see this Hopgood,” said he.
But just then the door opened and Mr. Folger came in, looking somewhat pale and disturbed. “We are in a difficulty,” cried he, stepping up to the table where they sat. “I have found two of the boxes unlocked; that belonging to Hicks, Saltzer and Co., and another with the name of Harrington upon it. The former has been wrenched apart, the latter opened with some sort of instrument. Would you like to see them, sir?” This to Mr. Sylvester.
With a start that gentleman rose, and as suddenly reseated himself. “Yes,” returned he, carefully avoiding his nephew’s eye; “bring them in.”
“Hicks, Saltzer and Co., is a foreign house,” remarked Mr. Stuyvesant to the detective, “and do not send for their box once a fortnight, as I have heard Mr. Sylvester declare. Mr. Harrington is on an exploring expedition and is at present in South America.” Then in lower tones, whose sternness was not unmixed with gloom, “The thief seems to have known what boxes to go to.”
Bertram flushed and made some passing rejoinder; Mr. Sylvester and the detective alone remained silent.
The boxes being brought in, Mr. Gryce opened them without ceremony. Several papers met his eye in both, but as no one but the owners could know their rightful contents, it was of course impossible for him to determine whether anything had been stolen from them or not.
“Send for the New York agent of Hicks, Saltzer and Co.,” came from Mr. Sylvester, in short, businesslike command.
Bertram at once rose. “I will see to it,” said he. His agitation was too great for suppression, the expression o£ Mr. Stuyvesant’s eye, that in its restlessness wandered in every direction but his own, troubled him beyond endurance. With a hasty move he left the room. The cold eye of the detective followed him.
“Looks bad,” came in laconic tones from the paying teller.
“I had hoped the affair begun and ended with my individual loss,” muttered Mr. Stuyvesant under his breath.
The stately president and the inscrutable detective still maintained their silence.
Suddenly the latter moved. Turning towards Mr. Sylvester, he requested him to step with him to the window. “I want to have a look at your several employees,” whispered he, as they thus withdrew. “I want to see them without being seen by them. If you can manage to have them come in here one by one upon some pretext or other, I can so arrange that screen under the mantelpiece, that it shall not only hide me, but give me a very good view of their faces in the mirror overhead.”
“There will be no difficulty about summoning the men,” said Mr. Sylvester.
“And you consent to the scheme?”
“Certainly, if you think anything is to be gained by it.”
“I am sure that nothing will be lost. And sir, let the cashier be present if you please; and sir,” squeezing his watch chain with a complacent air, as the other dropped his eyes, “talk to them about anything that you please, only let it be of a nature that will necessitate a sentence or more in reply. I judge a man as much by his voice as his expression.”
Mr. Sylvester bowed, and without losing his self-command, though the short allusion to Bertram had greatly startled him, turned back to the table where Mr. Folger was still standing in conversation with the director.
“I will not detain you longer,” said he to the paying teller. “Your discretion will prevent you from speaking of this matter, I trust.” Then as the other bowed, added carelessly, “I have something to say to Jessup; will you see that he steps here for a moment?”
Mr. Folger again nodded and left the room. Instantly Mr. Gryce bustled forward, and pulling the screen into the position he thought best calculated to answer his requirements, slid rapidly behind it. Mr. Stuyvesant looked up in surprise.
“I am going to interview the clerks for Mr. Gryce’s benefit,” exclaimed Mr. Sylvester. “Will you in the meantime look over the morning paper?”
“Thank you,” returned the other, edging nervously to one side, “my notebook will do just as well,” and sitting down at the remote end of the table, he took out a book from his pocket, above which he bent with very well simulated preoccupation. Mr. Sylvester called in Bertram and then seated himself with a hopeless and unexpectant look, which he for the moment forgot would be reflected in the mirror before him, and so carried to the eye of the watchf
ul detective. In another instant Jessup entered.
What was said in the short interview that followed, is unimportant. Mr. Jessup, the third teller, was one of those clear eyed, straightforward appearing men whose countenance is its own guarantee. It was not necessary to detain him or make him speak. The next man to come in was Watson, and after he had gone, two or three of the clerks, and later the receiving teller and one of the runners. All stopped long enough to insure Mr. Gryce a good view of their faces, and from each and all did Mr. Sylvester succeed in eliciting more or less conversation in response to the questions he chose to put.
With the disappearance of the last mentioned individual, Mr. Gryce peeped from behind the screen. “A set of as honest-looking men as I wish to see!” uttered he with a frank cordiality that was scarcely reflected in the anxious countenances about him. “No sly-boots among them; how about the janitor, Hopgood?”
“He shall be summoned at once, if you desire it,” said Mr. Sylvester, “I have only delayed calling him that I might have leisure to interrogate him with reference to his duties, and this very theft. That is you judge it advisable for me to tamper with the subject unassisted?”
“Your nephew can help you if necessary, replied the imperturbable detective. “I should like to hear what the man, Hopgood, has to say for himself,” and he glided back into his old position.
But Mr. Sylvester had scarcely reached out his hand to ring the bell by which he usually summoned the janitor, when the agent of Hicks, Saltzer & Co. came in. It was an interruption that demanded instant attention. Saluting the gentleman with his usual proud reserve, he drew his attention to the box lying upon the table.
“This is yours, I believe, sir,” said he. “It was found in our vaults this morning in the condition in which you now behold it, and we are anxious to know if its contents are all correct.”
“They have been handled,” returned the agent, after a careful survey of the various papers that filled the box, “but nothing appears to be missing.”
Three persons at least in that room breathed more easily.
“But the truth is,” the gentleman continued, with a half smile towards the silent President of the bank, “there was nothing in this box that would have been of much use to any other parties than ourselves. If there had been a bond or so here, I doubt if we should have come off so fortunately, eh? The lock has evidently been wrenched open, and that is certainly a pretty sure sign that something is not right hereabouts.”
“Something is decidedly wrong,” came from Mr. Sylvester sternly; “but through whose fault we do not as yet know.” And with a few words expressive of his relief at finding the other had sustained no material loss, he allowed the agent to depart.
He had no sooner left the room than Mr. Stuyvesant rose. “Are you going to question Hopgood now?” queried he, nervously pocketing his notebook.
“Yes sir, if you have no objections.”
The director fidgeted with his chair and finally moved towards the door. “I think you will get along better with him alone,” said he. “He is a man who very easily gets embarrassed, and has a way of acting as if he were afraid of me. I will just step outside while you talk to him.”
But Mr. Sylvester with a sudden dark flush on his brow, hastily stopped him. “I beg you will not,” said he, with a quick realization of what Hopgood might be led to say in the forthcoming interview, if he were not restrained by the presence of the director. “Hopgood is not so afraid of you that he will not answer every question that is put to him with straightforward frankness.” And he pushed up a chair, with a smile that Mr. Stuyvesant evidently found himself unable to resist. The screen trembled slightly, but none of them noticed it; Mr. Sylvester at once rang for Hopgood.
He came in panting with his hurried descent from the fifth story, his face flushed and his eyes rolling, but without any of the secret perturbation Bertram had observed in them on a former occasion. “He cannot help us,” was the thought that darkened the young man’s brow as his eyes left the janitor, and faltering towards his uncle, fell upon the table before him.
Everything was reflected in the mirror.
“Well, Hopgood, I have a few questions to put to you this morning,” said Mr. Sylvester in a restrained, but not unkindly tone.
The worthy man bowed, bestowed a salutatory roll of his eyes on Mr. Stuyvesant, and stood deferentially waiting.
“No, he cannot help us,” was again Bertram’s thought, and again his eyes faltered to his uncle’s face, and again fell anxiously before him.
“It has not been my habit to trouble you with inquiries, about your management of matters under your charge,” continued Mr. Sylvester, stopping till the janitor’s wandering eyes settled upon his own. “Your conduct has always been exemplary, and your attention to duty satisfactory; but I would like to ask you to-day if you have observed anything amiss with the vaults of late? anything wrong about the boxes kept there? anything in short, that excited your suspicion or caused you to ask yourself if everything was as it should be?”
The janitor’s ruddy face grew pale, and his eye fell with startled inquiry on Mr. Harrington’s box that still occupied the centre of the table. “No, sir,” he emphatically replied, “has anything—”
But Mr. Sylvester did not wait to be questioned. “You have attended to your duties as promptly and conscientiously as usual; you have allowed no one to go to the vaults day or night, who had no business there? You have not relaxed your accustomed vigilance, or left the bank alone at any time during the hours it is under your charge?”
“No sir, not for a minute, sir; that is—” he stopped and his eye wandered towards Mr. Stuyvesant. “Never for a minute, sir,” he went on, “without I knew some one was in the bank, who was capable of looking after it.”
“The watchman has been at his post every night up to the usual hour?”
“Yes sir.”
“There has been no carelessness in closing the vault doors after the departure of the clerks?”
“No sir.”
“And no trouble,” he continued, with a shade more of dignity, possibly because Hopgood’s telltale face was beginning to show signs of anxious confusion, “and no trouble in opening them at the proper time each morning?”
“No sir.”
One question more—” But here Bertram was called out, and in the momentary stir occasioned by his departure, Hopgood allowed himself to glance at the box before him more intently than he had hitherto presumed to do. He saw it was unlocked, and his hands began to tremble. Mr. Sylvester’s voice recalled him to himself.
“You are a faithful man,” said that gentleman, continuing his speech of a minute before, “and as such we are ready to acknowledge you; but the most conscientious amongst us are sometimes led into indiscretions. Now have you ever through carelessness or by means of any inadvertence, revealed to any one in or out of the bank, the particular combination by which the lock of the vault-door is at present opened?”
“No sir, indeed no; I’m much too anxious, and feel my own responsibility entirely too much, not to preserve so important a secret with the utmost care and jealousy.”
Mr. Sylvester’s voice, careful as he was to modulate it, showed a secret discouragement. “The vaults then as far as you know, are safe when once they are closed for the night?”
“Yes sir,” The janitor’s face expressed a slight degree of wonder, but his voice was emphatic.
Mr. Sylvester’s eye travelled in the direction of the screen. “Very well,” said he; and paused to reflect.
In the interim the door opened for a second time. “A gentleman to see Mr. Stuyvesant,” said a voice.
With an air of relief the director hastily rose, and before Mr. Sylvester had realised his position, left the room and closed the door behind him. A knell seemed to ring its note in Mr. Sylvester’s breast. The janitor, released as he supposed from all constraint, stepped hastily forward.
“That box has been found unlocked,” he cried with a wave
of his hand towards the table; some one has been to the vaults, and I—Oh, sir,” he hurriedly exclaimed, disregarding in his agitation the stern and forbidding look which Mr. Sylvester in his secret despair had made haste to assume, “you did not want me to say anything about the time you came down so early in the morning, and I went out and left you alone in the bank, and you went to the vaults and opened Mr. Stuyvesant’s box by mistake, with a toothpick as you remember?”
The mirror that looked down upon that pair, showed one very white face at that moment, but the screen that had trembled a moment before, stood strangely still in the silence.
“No,” came at length from Mr. Sylvester, with a composure that astonished himself. “I was not questioning you about matters of a year agone. But you might have told that incident if you pleased; it was very easily explainable.”
“Yes sir, I know, and I beg pardon for alluding to it, but I was so taken aback, sir, by your questions; I wanted to tell the exact truth, and I did not want to say anything that would hurt you with Mr. Stuyvesant; that is if I could help it. I hope I did right, sir,” he blundered on, conscious he was uttering words he might better have kept to himself, but too embarrassed to know how to emerge from the difficulty into which his mingled zeal and anxiety had betrayed him. “I was never a good hand at answering questions, and if any thing really serious has happened, I shall wish you had taken me at my word and dismissed me immediately after that affair. Constantia Maria would have been a little worse off perhaps, but I should not be on hand to answer questions, and—”
“Hopgood!”
The man started, eyed Mr. Sylvester’s white but powerfully controlled countenance, seemed struck with something he saw there, and was silent.
“You make too much now, as you made too much then of a matter that having its sole ground in a mistake, is, as I say, easily explainable. This affair which has come up now, is not so clear. Three of the boxes have been opened, and from one certain valuables have been taken. Can you give me any information that will assist us in our search after the culprit?”
