The bank’s prompt announcement that Mr. Baxter had withdrawn thirty-five hundred dollars convinced Oliver October and a few sound-headed individuals that he had deliberately planned his departure from Rumley, although they were totally in the dark as to his reason for leaving—if, indeed, a reason existed in his disordered mind.
No one could be found who saw him after he took leave of his son on the swamp road. Oliver October related all that transpired between them on that moonlit by-way. He did not spare himself in the recital. No one blamed him, however. Much to his distress, Serepta Grimes came forward with truthful descriptions of scenes in and about the Baxter home; she told of old Oliver’s inexplicable conduct, of violent fits of anger that grew out of nothing and died away in melancholy regret over the things he had said to his beloved son. And she described Oliver October as an angel possessing the patience of Job for having endured these outrageous “tantrums.”
While neither Serepta nor young Oliver could be positive, they were of the opinion that Mr. Baxter wore his every-day business suit on the evening of his disappearance. Of this, however, they could not be sure. An inspection of his closet the following morning led to a puzzling discovery. A comparatively new suit of a dark gray material—rather too heavy for summer wear—was missing, while the wrinkled, well-worn garments that he wore daily at the store were found hanging in the closet alongside his venerable “Prince Albert.” Mrs. Grimes was confident that he had on his old clothes at supper time; Oliver October had not noticed what he was wearing. In the event that Mrs. Grimes was right—and she couldn’t take oath on it—Mr. Baxter must have returned to the house and changed his clothes after parting from his son. There was no one at home. Lizzie, the most recent maid-of-all-work, was at the “movies,” and Mrs. Grimes was “sitting up” with Abel Conroy.
The excitement in Rumley was intense. The Baxter home became a magnet that drew practically the entire population of the town to that section, and there was not an hour of the day that did not see scores of people trudging through the safer portions of the swamp or tramping along the uplands that bordered it. Small children, accompanied by their parents, stared wide-eyed and frightened across the loathesome tract, and listened to solemn warnings which generally began with “poor old Mr. Baxter wandered out there and that was the last of him.” Venturesome young men approached a few of the “holes,” sounded them with poles and saplings, and came away shaking their heads.
Three or four days passed before towns far and near began to report that old men answering the description sent out by the Chief of Police in Rumley were being detained or kept under surveillance, pending the arrival of some one who could identify them as Mr. Baxter. Oliver October, Sammy Parr and other citizens sped in haste to these towns, only to meet with disappointment. Finally the tenth day came and the nine days of wonder were over. People began to think and talk about something besides the Baxter mystery. Detectives from Chicago, brought down by Oliver October, agreed with the young man that his father had “skipped out,” to use the rather undignified expression of Mr. Michael O’Rourke. It was Mr. O’Rourke who advanced the theory that the old man had taken this amazing means of forcing his son to remain in Rumley.
“Why,” said he, “it’s as plain as the nose on your face. He is dead set on having you stick to this town. He chews it over with you for weeks. You say ‘nix.’ Nothing doing. Well, what’s the smartest thing he can do? What’s the surest way for him to bring you to time? He’s as slick as grease, your father is. Out of his head? Not on your life. He’s an old fox. Do you get me? The only way to make you stay in this town is for him to leave it.
“He draws a wad of money, puts on his best clothes, and—fare thee well! He sneaks off without letting anybody know where he’s going. Why does he do that? Simple as A B C. If you or anybody else knew where he was or where he was even likely to be, you’d have him back here in no time, and all his trouble for nothing. He thought it all out beforehand. Knew exactly where he was going and how to get there without being headed off. And that’s where he is right now, leaving you to hold the bag. He’s had his own way. You’ve got to stay here until he gets good and ready to come back. See what I mean? Somebody’s got to be in charge of his affairs. The store and everything. There is a chance, of course, that he wandered out in the swamp, as most of these people think, but I don’t believe it. He wouldn’t draw out thirty-five hundred dollars if he had any preconceived notion of doing away with himself. And he wouldn’t come home and put on his best suit of clothes, either. It’s possible, to be sure, that he was slugged by somebody who knew he had all that money and his body chucked into the mire. It’s up to you, Mr. Baxter. If you want us to go ahead and rake the country for him, we’ll do it. I don’t say we’ll find him. We’re an honest concern. We don’t believe in robbing our clients. It will cost you a lot of money to find him, Mr. Baxter. Besides, there’s always the chance that he’ll lose his nerve and come back home. Or he may get sick and send for you. We’ve had hundreds of these mysterious disappearance cases and more than four-fifths of ’em don’t amount to anything.”
“I want to find him,” said Oliver firmly. “You may be right in your surmise—I hope you are. But just the same I don’t intend to leave a stone unturned, Mr. O’Rourke. As long as I’ve got a cent of my own, I’ll keep up the search, and when my money runs out, I will use his. Good God, when I think that he may have wandered off only to fall into the hands of thieves and cutthroats, I—I—No, we must find him, do you understand? Find him!”
“He’s all right as long as he don’t let some guy sell him the Field Museum or the Woolworth Building,” said the detective easily. “All right, sir. We’ll get on the job at once. Hold yourself in readiness in case we need you in a hurry. I suppose we can always get in touch with you here, Mr. Baxter?”
Oliver nodded. “Yes. You can always find me here in Rumley.”