CHAPTER V
A CLUE
Two men sat in a secluded room on a quiet street in London. To look at the building from the street it would have been taken for a modest dwelling house. The room they occupied was spacious, furnished with several desks and tables and lounge and easy chairs. One of the men was large and white-haired, upon whose vest a golden star sparkled. But for this badge of authority he would have passed merely for a well-dressed business man. The other was a younger man, possibly not more than thirty years old. There was nothing remarkable in his appearance; he was tall and well proportioned with every indication of strength and vigor. He looked through large brown and sparkling eyes, a full brown beard covered his face and his head was covered with a heavy suit of hair somewhat darker than his beard.
"Lucas," said the older man to a stalwart colored attendant, "you can go now, and be sure to admit no one until I ring."
The speaker was the chief of the Bow Street detective service; the other was his youngest colleague. His name was Job Worth. He had belonged to the force three years, and in several instances had achieved more than ordinary success. He was known as Number 11. Job had graduated four years ago from Burrough Road Institute, and soon after received an appointment of secretary of the Legation at Washington, United States. In this honorable office he had spent one year, but the work did not suit his strenuous nature, and he returned home and soon afterward received an appointment in this detective service. Job was known in the force as quiet, self-contained, observant, patient, and was possessed of an extraordinarily retentive memory. Rarely was it necessary for him to say, "I have forgotten."
"Major," said Worth, as soon as they were alone, "I asked this private interview to talk to you about the bank robbery which occurred on the eleventh of last April."
"Well," replied the chief, "do you know anything new?"
"No, nothing certain, but I have a new suspicion."
"Suspicion," said the other, "suspicion doesn't amount to much. But what do you suspect?"
"Well, I suspect that certain parties got that money, and I want to submit the matter to you before I go any further."
"That is all right, Job. If there is enough in your suspicions, you shall not lack the authority to act. Proceed."
"Well," said Worth, "if the bank people will grant me permission, I can show them how that package of money was extracted."
"That," replied the chief, "might interest them somewhat; at the same time what they want is not to be given an exhibition of expertness in bank robbing, but to be shown how the money can be restored. In short, how it was taken is secondary to the matter of how to get it back. Anything else?"
"Of course, but I propose to show not only how it was taken but also to get on to the track of the fellows that took it."
"That is more like it," said the chief, quietly. "If you can do that, your reputation as a detective will climb pretty high. And there will be money in it for you besides. Go ahead."
"You remember," continued Job, "that just at that time, almost the same date—it was only two or three days later—three young men from Burrough Road (my old school) were drowned from a yacht in the channel off Land's End."
"Yes, I remember that incident," said the chief. "Judge Thurston's son,
Bishop McLaren's boy, and another by the name of Blair."
"Well," said Job, "I don't believe they were drowned. I believe that the so-called yacht was nothing but an old tub that they bought for a trifle and burned, and then in disguise they left for foreign parts; in fact, I believe I know where one of them is."
"Just a moment, Job," said Andrews, interrupting, "has it occurred to you that every passenger's name is recorded on the ship's passenger list?"
"Exactly," admitted Job, "but who has ever examined any particular passenger list? And who, having robbed a bank, would give his true name? Then there are other ways of crossing the ocean besides a regular ocean steamer."
"Well," replied the chief, doubtfully, "ambition can construct many theories, but, really, you know, theories are worthless unless supported by something more than suspicion, and I fear your case is more of suspicion than of evidence."
"All I want," replied Job, earnestly, "is that you will allow me to follow my suspicions for the next three months."
"Very well," was the reply, "but let me advise you to go slowly. Be discreet. Remember there are other men also at work on this case."
"Thank you," replied Job with pleased emphasis, "I will remember. Please prepare my credentials and arrange for my expenses; and," he added, "I desire a warrant for the arrest of James Thurston."
That evening, Job visited his club, where he was quite popular, and was received with customary good will. One man in particular seemed much pleased to see him. He was sitting alone at a small table, sipping coffee and at intervals emitting a cloud of smoke from a half-smoked cigar. Shaking hands with Worth, he said, as he offered his cigar case: "Mr. Worth, I'm glad to meet you again. I haven't seen you for more than a year. Won't you join me in a cup of this delightful beverage?"
"Thank you, Captain," responded Worth. "I shall be delighted. We haven't met, I believe, since we crossed the water together three years ago."
"That is so," replied the captain, as Worth sat down.
Captain Johnson was the captain and part owner of a large merchant ship, and had arrived the day before from New Orleans.
"How does it happen, Captain," asked Job, as he lighted his cigar, "that you come from New Orleans? Your trip used to be New York and London."
"Yes," replied the captain, "that was my trip up to about three years ago. I now make alternate trips to New York and New Orleans. There is more money in it for the company."
"I think you still carry a few passengers?"
"Yes; a little more than a year ago three young fellows prevailed upon me to carry them across. About that time I enlarged my cabin, and since then I have been carrying from four to twenty passengers each trip."
When the captain spoke of carrying to New York three passengers a year before Worth became quietly interested. Accordingly, he inquired who the three young fellows were that were his first passengers.
"O, they were three young chaps going to America to seek their fortunes. Their names I've forgotten. The most I remember of that trip is that it was the stormiest passage I've ever made. It was a six weeks' voyage, and the worst of it was we could not have a fire, and, consequently, could not cook anything, and had to live on hard tack and raw pork, or beef. I tell you, those young fellows were unanimous in declaring that they had their fill of the seafaring life."
"Have you ever met them since?"
"No." was the reply. "We parted at the dock. I have sometimes wondered what success they had. They were quite young."
About three weeks later Job Worth landed in New York City, and, guided by an advertisement in the newspaper, he found a select boarding house on Clinton Place and engaged a convenient room with board for an indefinite term. Job represented himself as a gentleman traveling for pleasure—and information, he might have added, for his quest for the latter certainly took him nearly everywhere. Thus he visited the theatres, concert halls, casinos, and other places of amusement. He called at the private office of the Pinkerton Detective Agency several times, but nothing was accomplished. He mingled with the congregations of the more popular churches, with his mind and eyes upon the people more than upon the preacher, but without results.
One morning he sat in the reception room of his boarding place feeling somewhat discouraged. He was reading a morning paper, when a young girl, the daughter of the lady of the house, tripped along the hall holding several letters which the postman had just handed in.
"O, Mr. Worth," she exclaimed, "I want to show you the picture of my last beau. He is a countryman of yours. He promised to send me his photograph, and here it is. He is good looking, isn't he?" And she handed the card to Worth. "I didn't expect him to keep his promise," she concluded.
As Worth glanced at the picture, he was startled, for his eyes fell upon a face he had seen in the junior class a year ago at Burrough Road commencement. Turning the card over, he read on the back: "From your ever true friend and well-wisher, J.G. Markham, Evansville, Indiana."
"What is your friend's name?" asked Worth.
"James Thorne," answered the girl. "Did you ever see him?"
In an indifferent tone Worth replied: "Don't know anybody of that name."
In thirty-six hours the young detective found himself domiciled in a quiet little hotel, the Mount Vernon, on the wharf of the Ohio River, at Evansville, Indiana. He selected this house because of its retired location. He knew that it was just as necessary for him to keep out of the sight of the man he sought as it was for the thief to keep outside the pale of his vision. He easily found the photograph gallery of Markham, but nothing of a satisfactory nature developed. True, the negative was at last found with a number 1,761 upon it, but no name, and the artist didn't so much as remember the face.
The hotel registers were next inspected without giving any clue. Now the young detective quietly took account of the evidence in his possession. What did he have to justify the arrest of James Thurston even in case he found him? And should he effect his arrest, the difficulty of extradition was still to be met and overcome. Could that be accomplished with the amount of evidence in hand?
He determined, in his uncertainty, to seek the advice of the British Consul, Mr. Harris, residing at Louisville, Kentucky, and accordingly he repaired to that city on the following day. The Consul recognized Worth's credentials and treated him with cordiality. When the detective had stated the case he said: "Mr. Worth, you can't arrest a man because he was not drowned, although rumor said that he was. What has such an incident to do with a bank robbery? It is hardly fair to connect a man's name with a crime merely because he happened to disappear about the time the crime was committed. Suppose a young man did leave England suddenly and secretly, and come to America? Maybe it was not that kind of a case at all. Could not even some unsuccessful love affair on the Continent have caused his abrupt departure, rather than the robbery of a bank? Mere suspicion is not sufficient to secure a man's extradition. No doubt your own good judgment will guard you against any hasty action, which could," he concluded, significantly, "prove a rather costly proceeding in the end."
Worth left the Consul's office somewhat cast down. He asked himself what next? Should he give it up? If he quietly returned, none but the Major would be any wiser.
Next day was Sunday and, back in Evansville, he wended his way to a popular church—Trinity—where the most fashionable people were said to attend. The structure was modern and capacious, seating about twelve hundred. The weather was fine and the audience filled the room. The music was good and the service pleasing, but the sermon was too long for Worth. He had slipped into a seat near the door, from which position he could secure a better general view of the people. Job at this time had a not overly vivid recollection of the man he sought, nor a precise idea of what his course would be should he find him. It was more than a year now since he had seen him, and then it was in a crowded hall in the midst of commencement exercises.
As the congregation dispersed Job also passed out, and took a position on the sidewalk, where, without attracting attention, he could observe the retiring crowd. The bulk of the congregation had left the church; a few ladies in pairs, still lingered, when the minister, accompanied by a young man of athletic build, came out through what seemed to be a vestry door, and would have gone by without especially attracting Worth's attention, but for the words of the clergyman as they stopped directly in front of the detective.
"Well, good-by, Thorne," he said, "I'll be around to chat a while with you in a couple of hours at the Commercial."
They parted, the preacher going in one direction in company with several ladies, and the man he called Thorne in the opposite.
Worth instantly recalled the photograph owned by the girl at his boarding place and followed the man whom he heard addressed as Thorne. There was nothing remarkable in his appearance, however, nor was there anything to remind him that he had before seen him. He was a good looking man, perhaps twenty-five years of age, of medium size, broad shoulders, and elastic step. He seemed to be in no haste, for he moved leisurely along his way. Every person he met seemed to recognize him, and he in most affable manner returned their greetings.
Soon a dignified old gentleman approached, and holding out both hands said: "Good morning, George. How is your father today?"
"Good morning, Judge," responded the young man. "I saw father just before
I came to church; he is much better, thank you."
"Ah! that is good," said the old gentleman, as he passed on. "Give my love to him."
"Surely, I'm off scent this time," muttered Job to himself, as he slowly followed in the steps of the young man.
Entering the Commercial Hotel, he stepped up to the desk, and turned over the pages of the register. Presently he found the name of George Thornly, room 104. Ah! this was the man he had followed. He had missed the last syllable of the name. It was Thornly instead of Thorne. He was now certainly at sea. Moving away, disgusted with himself, he walked through the spacious office, and almost ran into a man as he reached the door. Both men exclaimed in mutual surprise, "Hello!" Neither pronounced the name of the other, and yet both spoke it mentally.
Worth was the first to recover, and said: "Pardon me, I thought I recognized a friend; possibly I'm mistaken; my name is Worth. May I ask yours?"
"O," replied the other, "I have heard of you. You are connected with the
Legation in Washington."
"Well," replied Worth, "I was secretary, but have resigned. Where have I met you—somewhere, I'm pretty certain. Was it in Washington? One is apt to forget names, when meeting so many."
With a slight hesitancy the other answered: "My name is Thorne. I'm a stranger here. Are you stopping here?" The young man was evidently nervous, and spoke in an uneasy manner.
Job, pointing to a chair, said, quietly: "Shall we sit down? We are both strangers." The invitation to be seated was rather reluctantly accepted, and there was a shade of suspicion seen by Worth on Thorne's face.
"Where have we met, Mr. Thorne?" asked Worth again, as if still debating that question. "Wherever it was, it must have been several years ago, if it wasn't in Washington, as I was there three years ago."
The young man seemed to recover himself on hearing this, thinking at once that Worth's residence in Washington had doubtless hindered him from hearing of any occurrences near Land's End or in London, and replied: "I'm an Englishman, like yourself. You may possibly have seen me, if you have been much in London. I spent several years in Burrough Road School."
"Indeed!" interrupted Worth, "why, that is my old school; but I must have left there before you entered, and I have only visited the institute once since I graduated. It is really a pleasure to meet in this country one of the boys of old Burrough Road. How long have you been in America?"
"I have been here about a year. I am looking around for an opportunity to invest some money with which I have been intrusted, but am making haste slowly in that respect," replied the other with a faint smile.
"Well," remarked Job, "your business is just the opposite of mine. I am looking around to find some money. Do you know of anything that I could get to do, in order to make some cash?"
"I'm afraid I don't know enough to advise you on that line," was the answer, adding: "Where are you stopping?"
"At the Mount Vernon Hotel, down on the wharf," was the reply. "It suits my pocket."
Just then the dining room doors were opened, and Thorne cordially invited Job to stay to dinner. The invitation was accepted, and they entered the dining room together.
This was a strange fellowship. Each knew the other, and knowing him was intent on outwitting him; consequently the conversation was abstract, abstruse, and uninteresting.
It was a strange phase of hospitality. When the meal was ended neither of the men could have told what he had eaten, or what he had said.