“Done,” said Durant.
He probed carefully, anxious to make no slip, and came upon the amazing truth. Larson, a Continental by birth, had profound respect for nobility; now, old and wealthy, going back to Europe, the idea of mixing with titled gentry was fascinating in the extreme to him—it was his weak spot.
And lurking in the background behind all this, was black murder.
Warn Larson? Impossible. Against his plans and hopes for rescuing Helen Glincka from the blackmail grip of Makoff, Durant would have let a dozen Larsons go to death. Being a party to it was another matter altogether, and here he could act as events gave him clue. He was well assured that Makoff would have made careful plans by wire, for the Russian had a very able criminal organization to back him up; warning Larson, then, might only precipitate the disaster.
Sooner or later, a break must come with Makoff—indeed, Durant meant to attack the man mercilessly, pitilessly, upon reaching Paris. There he would be on familiar ground, and would have friends among the dope-ring, thanks to Lewis; he could fight fire with fire. Until then, he must inform himself as fully as possible about Makoff’s crowd, arm himself with every possible weapon, prepare!
“I’ll have to play my part, save Larson if possible, keep under cover with Makoff,” he decided. And aloud: “My car should meet the train—have you any luggage?”
“Just my two suitcases.” Larson pointed at the rack. Then he smiled. “I’m keeping close to them, too! One of ’em has a big roll of currency—more than I could carry, for I have my pockets full besides.”
“Eh?” Durant stared, wondering at such recklessness. “You’re not serious?”
Larson chuckled. “Think it queer, eh? Well, it is! But in the old country, you know,—and all over Europe for that matter,—American money is badly wanted. Not in gold, because it’s not pure, but bills. So I’m bringing back a small fortune in hundred-dollar bills. You’ve no idea what can be bought with hundred-dollar American bills in Europe! I’m going to make my whole family comfortable for life, I can tell you. It may be foolish to carry them, but that’s all bosh. I’m careful.”
“Yes,” thought Durant, “you’re blessed careful! You don’t even talk about it!” Something eluded him here—he could sense it. Larson was right enough about the American money being in keen demand; yet there was some subtly felt note in the whole thing that rang queer.