CHAPTER VIII.
FELIX MORTIMER AT THE BANK.
“Can I see the proprietor?” said a boy addressing a clerk at the counter of Richard Goldwin’s bank. It was the morning after Herbert’s mysterious disappearance.
“What is your name?” asked the clerk.
“Felix Mortimer,” answered the boy.
“Mr. Goldwin is very busy,” replied the man at the counter.
“Very well, I will wait,” said Felix; and he seated himself in a chair in the outer office.
In a little while Mr. Goldwin came out of his private room, and, seeing young Mortimer there, recognized him.
“Good morning, young man,” said he, kindly.
“Good morning,” returned Felix, deferentially.
“Have you come to tell us what has become of young Randolph?” asked the banker.
“I don’t understand you,” said Felix, innocently. “I came because you asked me to do so.”
“Yes, yes, I remember; but I referred to the disappearance of the boy I engaged at the time you applied for the position.”
“Why, isn’t he here?” asked Mortimer, feigning surprise.
“No, he hasn’t been here today.”
“What do you imagine is the trouble?”
“I do not know, unless, like so many other boys, he has got tired of the work, and has left it for some other position.”
“That may be, and now you speak of it, I remember he said, the morning we were all waiting to see you, that if he failed to get this place he had another position in view that he could get, and that it would pay him five dollars a week.”
Young Mortimer told this falsehood with the ease of a veteran. His manner could not have been more impressive had he been telling the truth.
“Five dollars a week!” exclaimed Mr. Goldwin. “And he came here for three. I don’t see what his motive was.”
“Perhaps he had a motive,” suggested Mortimer.
“I don’t understand you,” replied the banker.
Felix shrugged his shoulders.
“What do you mean? Do you know anything about him?” pursued Mr. Goldwin, his suspicions aroused.
“No, sir—er—not much.”
“Speak up, young man. Tell me what you know about this young Vermonter.”
“Vermonter?” repeated Felix, with a rising inflection; and he smiled suggestively.
“Yes, Vermonter. Do you know anything to the contrary?”
“You know I was an applicant for this position, Mr. Goldwin, so I do not like to answer your question. I hope you will excuse me.”
“I appreciate your sense of honor, young man,” said Mr. Goldwin; “but it is to my interest to know the facts. If there is anything against him, I should be informed of it. Tell me what you know, and you will lose nothing by doing so.”
With apparent reluctance, Felix yielded to the persuasion, and said:
“I was on Broadway with a friend of mine, at the close of business hours, the day that you hired this young fellow. We were walking along by the Herald building when he came up Broadway and stopped to read the news on the Telegram bulletin board. I said to my friend, with surprise, ‘There is the fellow I told you about—the one that beat me this morning in getting the position at Goldwin’s.’ He looked at me incredulously and said: ‘Why, you told me he was a country boy—from Vermont.’
“‘So he is,’ I replied. ‘Stuff,’ said he. ‘I know him well. That was a clever dodge to play the country act.’ I protested, but he convinced me that he was right. He is in a lawyer’s office, so he has to be in court more or less, and he said he saw him up before Judge Duffy only a few days ago, charged with stealing a pocket book. The suspicion was strong against him, but there wasn’t proof enough to fix the theft upon him. The Court came near sending him to the Island, though, for he had been arrested twice before, so my friend said.”
“The young villain!” said the banker, when Felix had finished this black falsehood, which he told so glibly, and with such seeming reluctance, that Mr. Goldwin accepted it as all truth. “I am sorry I ever took him into my office,” he continued. “I must have the bank carefully looked over, to see if he misappropriated anything, as he very likely did.”
Felix said nothing, but seemed to look sorry for Herbert.
“Well,” said Mr. Goldwin, after a pause, “is it too late to get you?”
“I don’t know,” answered Mortimer, hesitatingly. “I would like to work for you, but would not feel right to take the position away from this Vermonter.”
Felix laid a special stress upon the word “Vermonter.”
“Take it away from him!” replied the banker, scornfully. “He cannot enter this bank again.”
“But you see I would feel that I am the means of keeping him out of the position. You wouldn’t have known about his deception if I hadn’t told you.”
Felix now used the word “deception” flippantly, and with no further apparent apology for applying it to our hero.
“That is all right,” replied Mr. Goldwin; “I am glad to see you sensitive about injuring another. It is much to your credit that you feel as you do about it.”
“Thank you,” was the modest reply. “Then if you think it would look right, and you really want me, I will take the position.”
“Of course we can get hundreds and thousands of boys, but I have taken a liking to you. When can you commence?”
“I can commence this morning, if you wish me to,” said Felix.
“Very well, I wish you would—er, that is if you feel able. I notice your face is swollen, and perhaps you are not feeling well.”
“Oh, that will not bother me,” replied Mortimer, coolly. “I had a tooth filled yesterday, and have got cold in my jaw.”
“You must suffer with it. It is swollen badly and looks red and angry,” said the banker sympathetically.
“It does hurt a good deal, but will not trouble me about my work.”
“It looks as if the skin had been injured—more like a bruise, as if you had received a heavy blow on your jaw,” said Mr. Goldwin, examining the swelling more closely.
Felix colored perceptibly, but immediately rallied, and said the poulticing had given it that appearance.
Could Mr. Goldwin have known the truth about this injured jaw, he would have been paralyzed at the bold falsehood of the young villain before him.
He had succeeded admirably in blackening our young hero’s reputation. Mr. Goldwin now looked upon Herbert with ill favor, and even disgust. And this change was all caused by the cunning and falsehoods of young Mortimer. He had poisoned Mr. Goldwin’s mind, and thus succeeded in establishing himself in the banker’s good opinion and securing the coveted position.
“Another boy wants to see you, Mr. Goldwin,” said the clerk, shortly after the man of finance had engaged young Mortimer.
“You may show him in,” said the banker.
The door opened, and Bob Hunter stepped into Mr. Goldwin’s presence. If he had only had a bundle of newspapers under his arm, he would have felt quite at home; but, as he had nothing of the kind, he was a trifle embarrassed.
“What do you want here?” asked Mr. Goldwin, more sharply than was his wont.
“I come down, sir, to see if you can tell me anything about Herbert Randolph.”
“What do you want to know about him?”
“I want to know where he is. He hain’t shown up not sence last night.”
“Was he a friend of yours?”
“Yes, sir, me and him roomed together.”
“You and he roomed together?” repeated the banker, as if he doubted Bob’s word.
“That’s what I said, sir,” answered the newsboy, showing his dislike of the insinuation against his truthfulness.
“I am afraid you are inclined to be stuffy, young man,” replied Mr. Goldwin. “I am unable, however, to give you the information you seek.”
“You don’t know where he is, then?”
“No, I have not seen him since he left here last night.”
“Do you know why he is stayin’ away?”
“Certainly I do not.”
“Done nothin’ wrong. I s’pose?” queried Bob.
“I have not fixed any wrong upon him yet.”
“Then, if he hain’t done no wrong, somethin’s keepin’ him.”
“He may have a motive in staying away,” said the banker, becoming interested in Bob’s keen manner.
“What do you s’pose his motive is?”
“That I cannot tell.”
“Foul play, that’s what I think.”
“Nonsense, boy.”
“I don’t think there’s no nonsense about it. I know he wouldn’t light out jest for fun, not much. Herbert Randolph wasn’t no such a feller. He didn’t have no money, n’ he had to work. Me an’ him had a room together, as I said, an’ his things are in the room now.”
“When did you see him last?” said Mr. Goldwin.
Bob explained all about Herbert’s disappearance, but was careful to say nothing about his suspicions pointing to Felix Mortimer. He saw the latter in the outer office as he entered, and he thought policy bade him keep his suspicions to himself for the present.
“You tell a straightforward story, my boy,” said Mr. Goldwin, “but I cannot think there has been any foul play. In fact, I have heard something against this young Randolph that makes me distrust him. Were it not for this, I should feel more interest in your story, and would do all in my power to try and find him.”
bob hunter speaks up for herbert.
“I don’t believe there’s nothing against him. He’s an honest boy, if I know one when I see him. He liked you and his work, and them that speaks against him is dishonest themselves. That’s what I think about it.”
“But that is only your opinion. Certainly he does not appear in a favorable light at the present time.”
Presently Bob departed from the bank. He had learned all he expected, and even more. He knew now that Felix Mortimer was in Herbert’s place, that Mr. Goldwin had been influenced against his friend by what he believed to be falsehoods, and that Herbert’s whereabouts was as much a mystery at the bank as to himself.
These facts pointed suspiciously to Felix Mortimer. Who else could want to get Herbert out of the way? Bob argued. Having thus settled the matter in his own mind, he was ready to commence testing his theories.
“Tom Flannery,” said Bob, when he had returned from Wall Street, “I’ve struck the trail.”
“No, you hain’t, Bob, not so quick as this?” said Tom, with surprise.
Bob explained what he had learned at the bank.
“Now,” said he, “I want you, Tom, to look out for my business tonight. Get some kid to help you, and mind you see he does his work right.”
“What you goin’ to do, Bob?”
“I’m going to lay round Wall Street till that Mortimer feller comes outer the bank.”
“What do you mean? You hain’t goin’ to knock him out, are you, Bob?”
“Shucks, Tom, you wouldn’t make no kind of a detective. Of course I wouldn’t do that. Why, that would spoil the whole game.”
“Well, then, what are you goin’ to do?”
“Why, I’ll do just as any detective would—follow him, of course.”
“Is that the way they do it, Bob?”
“Some of ’em do, when they have a case like this one.”
“This is a gosh fired hard one, ain’t it, Bob?”
“Well, ’tain’t no boy’s play—not a case like this one.”
“So you’re goin’ to foller him? I wish I could go with you, Bob.”
“But, you see, you must sell papers. I’ll want you to help me later, when I get the case well worked up.”
“It’ll be too big for one detective then, I s’pose?”
“That’s the idea, Tom. Then I’ll call you in,” said Bob, with the swell of a professional.
“I wish ’twas all worked up, Bob, so you’d want to call me in now, as you call it. It’ll be exciting, won’t it?”
“Well, I should think it would, before we get through with it.”
“Say, Bob, will there be any fightin’?” asked Tom, eagerly. He was already excited over the prospects.
“Can’t say that now—hain’t got the case worked up enough to tell. ’Tain’t professional to say too much about a case. None of the detectives does it, and why should I? That’s what I want to know, Tom Flannery.”
“Well, you shouldn’t, Bob, if the rest doesn’t do it.”
“Of course not. It’s no use to be a detective, unless the job is done right and professional. I believe in throwin’ some style into anything like this. ’Tain’t often, you know, Tom, when a feller gets a real genuine case like this one. Why, plenty er boys might make believe they had cases, but they’d be baby cases—only baby cases, Tom Flannery, when you’d compare ’em with this one—a real professional case.”
“I don’t blame you for bein’ proud, Bob,” said Tom, admiringly. “I only wish I had such a case.”
“Why, you’ve got it now; you’re on it with me, hain’t you? Don’t you be silly now, Tom. You’ll get all you want before you get through with this case; an’, when it’s all published in the papers, your name will be printed with mine.”
“Gewhittaker!” exclaimed Tom; “I didn’t think of that before. Will our names really be printed, Bob?”
“Why, of course they will. Detectives’ names are always printed, hain’t they? You make me tired, Tom Flannery. I should think you’d know better. Don’t make yourself so redickerlous by askin’ any more questions like that. But just you tend to business, and you’ll get all the glory you want—professional glory, too.”
“It’ll beat jumpin’ off the Brooklyn Bridge, won’t it?” said Tom.
“Well, if you ain’t an idiot, Tom Flannery, I never saw one. To think of comparin’ a detective with some fool that wants cheap notoriety like that! You just wait till you see your name in big letters in the papers along with mine. It’ll be Bob Hunter and Tom Flannery.”
Tom’s eyes bulged out with pride at the prospect. He had never before realized so fully his own importance.