LARRY DEXTER
AND THE
BANK MYSTERY
OR
EXCITING DAYS IN WALL STREET
BY
RAYMOND SPERRY
AUTHOR OF “LARRY DEXTER AT THE BIG
FLOOD,” “LARRY DEXTER AND THE
MISSING MILLIONAIRE,” ETC.
GARDEN CITY NEW YORK
GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING CO., Inc.
1926
THE FAMOUS
LARRY DEXTER SERIES
By
RAYMOND SPERRY
(See back of book for list of titles)
COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY
GARDEN CITY PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC.
PREFACE
My Dear Boys:
It is some time since I wrote for you the previous stories about Larry Dexter, and how the young reporter made his successful search for the millionaire. Now I have the privilege of once more relating to you some of his doings.
You know that a reporter’s life is full of surprises. One day he may be at a ball game, and the next he may be sent to “cover” a war in China, or to get a story of the work on the Panama Canal.
It was this way with Larry Dexter. One morning he came to the office, after having had some trouble in the subway with a young man, to find his city editor waiting for him with an assignment to solve a million-dollar bank robbery.
Needless to say, Larry at once “got busy.” He managed to get the story of the big theft, and then he went on the trail of the man he thought had the money. How he traced him, how he worked up the various clews, his troubles, his disappointments, and the big surprise that awaited him—all this you will find told of in this book.
I hope you will like the story as well as you have the other ones I have written for you, and I trust that you will be glad to hear more of Larry Dexter in another book to follow this one.
Yours very truly,
Raymond Sperry.
LARRY DEXTER AND THE
BANK MYSTERY
CHAPTER I
A BIG ROBBERY
“One side there! Get out the way! Do you want to block up the whole entrance? I’m in a hurry!”
“I beg your pardon,” began Larry Dexter, “I didn’t mean to——”
He had no time to finish the sentence, for the man who had thus rudely spoken brushed against Larry, almost hurling him from his feet, and now fairly ran down the steps leading to the subway station.
“Say, if I’d have known he was going to act that way about it, I’d never have started to ask his pardon,” murmured the young reporter, as he rubbed his shoulder, which had hit against the side wall with considerable force.
“He sure was in a hurry, Mr. Dexter,” observed the newsboy, who had a small stand at the subway entrance. “Any one would think there was only one train downtown this morning, and if he missed that he couldn’t get another.”
“That’s right, Jim,” agreed Larry, as he tossed a coin to the boy of whom, every morning, he purchased several papers, that he might look them over on his trip downtown. For Larry was fast becoming known as the “star” reporter on the New York Leader, an afternoon journal. And, as he had to begin his duties in the morning, he always liked to see what the news of the day was likely to be, by scanning some rival sheets.
“Some folks want more than their share, anyhow,” went on the newsboy. “I see lots of ’em here. Say, but that was a big fire last night, Mr. Dexter. It ain’t out yet.”
“So I see,” remarked the young reporter, for he and Jim had grown to be quite friendly during the year or more that Larry had been buying papers at this stand. “I expect we’ll have to get a story on it ourselves. There may be some new ends to cover. Well, I guess I’ve given that fellow who was in a hurry plenty of time to get a train ahead of me. I don’t want to meet him again,” and with that, nodding a friendly good-bye to the newsboy, Larry started down the subway steps.
He was wondering what sort of an assignment might be given him to “cover,” or work on, that day, as he bought his ticket and dropped it into the chopper’s box. As he strolled out on the platform, built under the sidewalk, and along which the subway express would soon rumble, Larry looked up and down the long stretch of underground pavement.
“Guess I missed the express,” he mused. “It was that fellow’s fault, too.”
He glanced over the headings of the several papers he had purchased, and noted that a story he had written the day before for his own publication, had been used in a number of the rival sheets. This is always a gratification to a reporter.
“Guess they found I hadn’t missed much on that yarn,” said Larry to himself. “I was up against some hard work, too. Pshaw, I wish I hadn’t missed that express. I’ll be late if I wait for the next one, and if I take a local, that stops at all the stations, I’ll be worse off than ever. I’d like to see that fellow, and give him a bit of my mind. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry to get past me, we could have both made the express.”
Almost as Larry formed this thought he looked down the platform again, and, to his surprise, he saw the same young man step from behind a big iron pillar. He was eagerly looking over a paper, and did not seem to notice our hero.
“Humph!” mused Larry. “He didn’t get the express, after all. He had his trouble for his pains. I’m glad of it. He’s a regular bully, I guess,” and the young reporter looked closely at the individual who had caused the trouble. True, Larry might have been a bit at fault himself, for he had stood in the subway entrance as he was buying his papers, though, as he thought of it afterward, he knew there was plenty of room for the bully to have passed.
The fellow on whom Larry’s eyes were fixed was about the young reporter’s own age. He was well dressed, but there was a nervous, hurried manner in all his movements, and two or three times he looked up from the paper he held, glancing about the platform, as though he feared he might see some one whom he did not want to encounter.
All at once his eyes fell upon Larry, and he started visibly. Then he stepped back behind the pillar, as though to hide.
“Guess he thought I might try to make trouble for him,” mused Larry. “Well, he deserves it, but I’m not fond of rows, though he did give my shoulder a hard bang. It’ll be black and blue, I guess.”
The platform was beginning to be thronged with persons now, for the passengers who had accumulated just before Larry arrived had been whirled on their way downtown, and now a second crowd was on hand. This would be repeated several times, until the busy workers had all been transported to their stores or offices.
“I wonder what his object could have been, to rush down here, in plenty of time to have taken the express, and then wait?” thought Larry. “He’s a queer one.”
“City Hall Express!” suddenly called one of the subway guards, as the distant rumble of a train was heard. “Fourteenth street the first stop! City Hall Express!”
Larry lived well uptown in New York, and it meant a big saving in time to go on an express, that made few stops until City Hall was reached. The office of the Leader, where Larry worked, was but a short distance away from the municipal building.
The passengers crowded toward the edge of the platform, in readiness to board the train, the lights of which could now be seen. Larry noticed that the “pusher,” as he mentally called him, was standing not far away.
“If he runs into me again,” thought the young reporter, “I’ll be tempted to punch him, and take what follows. He ought to be taught a lesson.”
There was quite a throng about Larry, including a number of young ladies, as the train pulled in, and stopped with a grinding and screeching of brakes. The passengers crowded toward the open doors of the cars.
There was a sudden rush, and Larry noted, with an anger that he could hardly hold back, that the “pusher” was elbowing his way through the press, without any regard for the rights of others. The fellow was just ahead of Larry.
A moment later there was a cry of pain—a girl’s cry—and a voice exclaimed:
“Oh! My ankle! You’ve stepped on it. Oh, dear!”
The young reporter saw a girl, just in front of him, stagger, and almost fall. Larry put out his arm and caught her. At the same time he saw that it was the chap who had previously collided with him who had stepped on the girl’s foot, with cruel force.
“What’s the matter with you?” demanded Larry, with righteous anger in his voice. “Can’t you get on a train without walking all over everybody? Now you take your time!”
Supporting the girl with his left arm, Larry shot out his right hand, caught the fellow by the shoulder, and whirled him about with considerable force. There was sufficient room on the wide platform of the car for Larry to pull the bully back, and, several passengers, seeing what the young reporter was going to do, moved to one side to give him space.
A moment later Larry had fairly shoved the fellow from the car to the station platform.
“Now you can wait until the rest of us get on!” said the young reporter. “And if this young lady wants to make a charge against you, I’ll be a witness.”
“Say, what’s the matter with you, anyhow?” demanded the bully angrily. “I’ll punch you good for this!”
“No, you won’t,” interposed the burly guard of the train. “You didn’t get half you deserved. I saw you crowd on, shovin’ everybody to one side, and I saw you elbow this young lady. You didn’t get more than was comin’ to you.”
“That’s right!” exclaimed several men.
“Unmannerly boor!” said an elderly woman. “If he was down South he’d be taught a lesson!”
“I think he has received the beginning of one now, madam,” said an old gentleman, courteously bowing to her.
“All aboard!” sung out the guard, as a warning bell came to him from the car behind, telling him that the doors were closed. “All aboard.”
“Can you walk?” asked Larry of the young lady, though, as he looked at her pretty face, he made up his mind that helping her along would not be unpleasant.
“Oh, yes, I’m all right now,” she answered with a blush, as she moved on, and away from Larry’s supporting arm. “He kicked me in the ankle, and for a moment I couldn’t stand. I’m all right now, thank you,” and she went into the car with a slight limp.
“You deserve a medal of thanks, young man,” said an elderly gentleman to Larry. “That sort of thing is getting all too common in the subway. That fellow ought to ride in a cattle car.”
“Well, he isn’t going to ride in this one to-day, that’s sure,” spoke another man, for at that moment, and just as the unmannerly fellow started to get back on board, the guard let the door shut in his face, and the train began to pull out of the station. “He’s left, and it serves him right,” went on the man with a chuckle, as he glanced at Larry.
“It’s the second express he’s missed this morning,” spoke the young reporter. “He made me miss one, too,” and he told of the incident at the head of the subway stairs. As the express rushed on through the tunnel-like blackness, Larry and the men about him entered into an informal conversation about crowds in the subway, and the actions of certain men who seemed to have no regard for the rights of others.
Soon Fourteenth street was reached, and Larry, looking through the car, saw the girl, whom he had assisted, getting ready to go out.
“Guess she works in some of the stores around here,” mused the young reporter. “She’s pretty all right,” and as the girl passed him, on her way to the door, she nodded and smiled brightly. Larry raised his hat, and found himself wishing he knew who she was. He almost made up his mind to take that same express the next morning, on the chance of seeing her again.
“But I hope I don’t meet that pushing chap,” Larry went on, “for he and I would surely get into a row.”
The train rushed on along again, and, a little later, Larry was in the elevator, being lifted to the editorial rooms of the Leader, to begin his day’s work. He was a little late and he did not like that, for he was generally prompt.
“Hello Larry!” a number of reporters in the local, or city, room greeted our hero as he entered.
“Hello!” he answered back, and, as he was passing on to his desk, one of the copy boys said to him:
“Mr. Emberg wants to see you, Mr. Dexter. He’s been asking two or three times if you’d come in yet.”
“That’s what comes of being late, I suppose,” mused our hero as he started for the little room, off the main city one, where Mr. Emberg, city editor of the Leader, had his desk and chair.
“Good-morning, Larry,” said Mr. Emberg briskly. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry I was late,” answered the reporter. “I started out in time, but I had a couple of experiences with a ‘subway porker.’ A fellow shoved himself all over. Stepped on a girl’s ankle, and there came near being a row. It’s funny how selfish some chaps are. Maybe it would make a good story to write something about our overcrowded conditions in the subway.”
“Well, maybe,” admitted the city editor. “But some one else besides you will have to do it. Never mind about subways, crowds, porkers, or girls who get stepped on this morning, Larry. I’ve got another assignment for you.”
“What is it?”
“Something big. In fact, it’s the biggest thing I’ve put you on since your hunt for the missing millionaire. There’s nothing hanging over for you to clean up; is there?”
“No, I’m all through with that church-meeting story.”
“Good! Then I want you to get right out after this. It’s the biggest thing that’s been pulled off in New York in a long time. But it isn’t going to be easy to get.”
“What is it, Mr. Emberg?”
“Shut the door, Larry, and come over here. I don’t want this to get out, for we may pull off a ‘scoop’ on it.”
The young reporter closed the door of the private office, and came closer to the city editor’s desk. He knew something unusual must be in prospect when Mr. Emberg was so careful.
“Larry,” began the city editor, “there’s been a big robbery committed, and the bank that lost the money is trying to keep it quiet for a while, in the hope of tracing the thieves. But I have a private tip about it, and now I want you to get right out on the story, and get it.”
“What bank was robbed, Mr. Emberg?”
“The Consolidated National. Some time in the past week one million dollars in currency was stolen, and they can’t get a trace of it, or the thief, or thieves, who got away with it. It’s the biggest bank mystery that’s happened in years, and if you possibly can, Larry, I want you to get a scoop out of it. I don’t believe any other papers know about it yet, and if you go at it right you can make a big story.”
“A million dollars stolen!” gasped Larry. “I should say it was a big robbery.”
“A corker!” exclaimed Mr. Emberg admiringly, not because of the criminal action, however, so much as for the chance of a big story for his paper. “A corker, Larry. Get right after it, and, if you can find the money, or the thieves—well, that will make it all the better. Get busy!”
“I will,” answered the reporter, as he hurried out of the room. And Larry had started on an assignment that was to lead him to the solution of one of the strangest mysteries ever known, and destined to further add to his laurels as a “star” reporter.
“Go at it in your own way, Larry,” the city editor called after him. “There’s no limit to your expense bills. Just get the story and beat all the other papers.”
“I will!” answered Larry again.
CHAPTER II
TURNED DOWN
While Larry Dexter is on his way to the Consolidated National Bank, to use his wits in order to get the story of the robbery, which it seemed that the bank officials did not want made public as yet, I will take a few moments to tell my new readers something of the youth who is to be the hero of this book.
Many of you have met Larry before. I first introduced him to you in the initial volume of this series, entitled, “Larry Dexter at the Big Flood,” and in that I told how Larry, with his mother, his sisters Lucy and Mary, and his brother James, had come to New York, after the death of Mr. Dexter, and the selling of the old farm.
Larry had always had an ambition to become a reporter on a big metropolitan paper, and, after hard work, he succeeded. He began as a boy who carried copy, or the articles which the reporters write for the paper, from the editors’ desks to the tubes where it was shot to the composing room, where the printers set it up.
Larry soon proved that he had a “nose for news,” and he was made a reporter. From then on his rise was rapid. In the second book, called “Larry Dexter and the Land Swindlers,” I related some of the adventures in the great city, and how he got on the trail of a band of unscrupulous men, and foiled their plans.
Larry soon had almost developed into what is called a “star” reporter. That is, one to whom comes the honor of working up the big stories of the day. Instead of covering routine work he would be given difficult tasks to do, and special articles to write, for that is the test of a good reporter.
One of the most difficult tasks to which Larry was ever assigned was to find a certain rich man who had disappeared. In the third volume of the series, called “Larry Dexter and the Missing Millionaire,” I gave the details of his hunt for the missing millionaire.
Mr. Hampton Potter, the millionaire, was one day reported as missing. It seemed a complete mystery, but Larry found out all about, and even located Mr. Potter himself. The millionaire had disappeared for business reasons, and in order to perfect certain deals involving large sums, and, though at first his wife, and his daughter Grace, were much worried, they finally received a note from Mr. Potter, stating that he was safe.
But this only served to make matters more complicated, and Larry was more baffled than ever. During the time the young reporter worked on the case he became quite well acquainted with Miss Grace Potter, who was an exceedingly pretty girl. Finally, as I have said, Mr. Potter was located, and his enemies, who sought to do him harm, were vanquished. Of course Larry got an exclusive story out of it, in addition to rendering the Potter family a big service.
“But I guess I’m going to have my own troubles on this bank mystery robbery,” mused Larry, as he journeyed toward the financial institution, which was one of the largest in New York city. “If they’re keeping it quiet, that means there’s something back of it, and the officials won’t want to give out the story. But I’ve got to get it, somehow.
“Let’s see, do I know anybody in the Consolidated National?” and Larry went hastily over his rather lengthy list of acquaintances. For it is through friends and acquaintances that a reporter often gets his best news. “No, I can’t recall anybody down there,” Larry went on. “Hold on, though—why, yes! That’s the very thing! Mr. Hampton Potter is one of the biggest depositors there. His name ought to have some weight. If I can’t get at the president, or cashier, in any other way, Mr. Potter may help me. If the bank has been looted, he’ll know about it as soon as anybody.
“I hope they haven’t got any of his wealth, though,” and Larry had a memory of a certain pretty girl to whom wealth meant much, as she had been used to it all her life. “It would go hard with Grace Potter to be poor,” thought the reporter, “though I’m sure she’d make the best of it, if it had to be. That’s what I’ll do. If the bank people won’t give me the story, I’ll see Mr. Potter,” and with this thought completed Larry found himself in front of the looted bank in Wall street.
“There doesn’t seem to be much excitement going on,” mused the reporter as he mounted the bank steps, and noted that everything inside the institution seemed to be as quiet as is ordinarily the case in moneyed institutions. Depositors were coming and going as if nothing had happened, the discount clerks, the bookkeepers, cashiers and tellers were in their regular places, carrying on the business of the bank. And yet Larry’s trained observation told him that there was a certain strained atmosphere over it all.
Not on the part of the depositors. They seemed to know nothing about it. But the clerks, cashiers, tellers, and, in fact, all the employees, seemed to be under some nervous strain. It was as if they expected an explosion at any moment.
“I’d like to see Mr. Wesley Bentfield,” said Larry to a uniformed porter, or messenger, in the open corridor of the institution. Mr. Bentfield was the bank’s president, and Larry decided that it was best to go to the chief officer at once, and not waste time on subordinates.
“The president is very busy,” replied the messenger, with a quick glance at Larry. “I don’t believe he’ll see you.”
“Just take my card in,” suggested the reporter, handing over a bit of pasteboard with his own name and that of the Leader on it. “Tell him it’s very important.”
The uniformed messenger was soon back, and he looked at Larry with increased respect.
“Mr. Bentfield will see you, sir,” he said.
“I thought he would,” remarked Larry grimly. More than one closed door has been opened by the magic of a newspaper reporter’s card. Larry followed the messenger to the president’s private room. The reporter found the head of the bank, and several other gentlemen, seated in front of a large table.
One glance was enough to tell Larry that something had occurred—something serious, to judge by the worried faces of the financiers. The youth decided to come to the point at once. Looking boldly at Mr. Bentfield, whom he recognized from having noted his portrait in the papers many times, Larry said:
“I have information, Mr. Bentfield, that your bank has lost a large sum of money.”
“Lost? How?” asked the president, as if in surprise.
“By robbery!”
“Who told you?” interposed one of the other men.
“I am not at liberty to say,” replied Larry, for Mr. Emberg, in giving him the source of the “tip,” had cautioned him to say nothing about it. In fact, a private detective agency, to which the bank had appealed, had informed, or “tipped off,” the city editor. As this was not supposed to be done, naturally the detective who gave the “tip” wanted to be protected, and a newspaper man always holds inviolate, if so requested, the source of his information.
“I’m afraid I have no news for you,” spoke the president calmly, yet Larry noted a nervous twitching of Mr. Bentfield’s hands.
“You mean you won’t tell me,” suggested Larry with a smile. He had met such obstinacy before.
“We have nothing for the press,” said Mr. Bentfield firmly.
“Then I shall have to get my information elsewhere, I suppose,” went on Larry calmly. “I might say that I know that this bank has lost a million dollars——”
“Hush!” exclaimed one of the directors in a startled whisper. “You’ll start a panic!”
“How can I, if there has been no robbery?” asked Larry quickly.
“Well, er—even the rumor of a robbery might do it, and cause a run on the bank,” lamely explained the man who had begged Larry to keep quiet.
“I should be sorry to do that,” spoke the young reporter firmly, “but I am after this story, and I’m going to get it. If not from here, then from somewhere else. I would rather have you tell me,” he said, looking at the president, “as then the facts would be more complete and accurate. But I am going to get the story, anyhow. I know your bank has lost a million, and, sooner or later, the facts will come out. Why don’t you tell me?” he asked of Mr. Bentfield.
“I have no information for the press,” said the president coldly. “I believe that is all I can say to you. And I think my associates will agree with me.”
He looked around at the other men, all of whom nodded their heads gravely. Larry felt that he was “up against it,” as he had feared would be the case. But he was not done yet.
“Is that your last word?” he asked. “Remember the Leader has reliable information on this story, and remember, also, that it is bound to come out. It might better be given straight than to have it pieced out more or less inaccurately.”
“If you’ve got the story, why don’t you print it?” challenged a little man with a black moustache. “But I warn you, that if you make trouble for this bank your paper shall answer for it!”
“We don’t want to make trouble,” said Larry with a confident smile, “but we want the story, and we’re going to get it! We’ll take our medicine, too.”
“Impudent reporters!” muttered another director, and Larry smiled. He was used to this sort of treatment, and was, by this time, hardened to it.
“There is nothing further for you,” again said the president coldly. “And, as we are having a directors’ meeting, I shall have to ask you to leave, Mr. er—Mr. Leader.”
“Dexter, if you please,” corrected Larry with a smile. “Well, you may read the story in this afternoon’s paper,” he said boldly, as he left.
“Upstart!” snapped the man with the black moustache. “The papers ought to be suppressed.”
Larry was doing some hard thinking as he went out. He had been turned down at his first trial, but that had often been the case before, and it only made him all the more resolved to get the story at any cost.
“I’ll see what Mr. Potter can do for me,” he mused as he hurried down the steps of the bank. As he did so he saw a young man approaching the building in a hurry.
“Peter Manton, of the Scorcher!” exclaimed Larry, as he recognized his former enemy. “He’s after the story too! I wonder if I can scoop him? I hope he doesn’t see me.”
Larry dodged behind an automobile that stood at the curb, and was successful in getting away as Peter ran up the bank steps.
“The trail is getting hot,” thought Larry. “Other papers have tips about the robbery! I’ve just got to get that scoop!”
CHAPTER III
LARRY GETS THE SCOOP
The office of Mr. Hampton Potter, the millionaire, was not far from the bank where Harry had tried unsuccessfully to get the story of the robbery. The young reporter was soon in front of the big structure where Mr. Potter had rooms, and he sent in his card.
“Show Mr. Dexter in at once,” commanded the wealthy man, when he had read our hero’s name. “I wonder if he thinks I’m missing again,” mused Mr. Potter with a laugh, as he awaited Larry’s arrival. “More than likely, though, that he wants a story about the stock market,” for, several times since Larry had helped Mr. Potter get the best of his enemies, the two had met, and Larry often picked up a choice and exclusive bit of news from his rich friend.
“Well, what is it going to be to-day, Larry?” asked Mr. Potter, as the young reporter entered. “Do you want something about the bulls and the bears playing havoc with the market?”
“It’s something more important than that, Mr. Potter.”
“More important?” Something in the reporter’s face made the millionaire guess that the lad was on the trail of a big story. “What is it, Larry?”
Our hero came close to the desk of his rich friend, and, in a voice that was almost a whisper, he said:
“Mr. Potter, the Consolidated National Bank has been robbed of a million dollars. They are keeping the matter quiet, though a private detective agency is working on the case. I went there and asked for the story. I was turned down, and so I come to you. You’re a big depositor there, aren’t you?”
“I am, Larry. But, Great Scott! A robbery of a million! You must be mistaken. Such a thing could not happen. A million dollars!”
“That’s right,” said the lad. “I got it from my city editor, on good authority. Now look here, Mr. Potter, I want that story. I want to get it exclusively. The bank people know the facts, but they won’t talk. If they’ve lost a million it’s the right of the public to know it. Maybe the depositors unknowingly are keeping on putting money in a bank which is on the verge of failure. It isn’t right! The story ought to come out. You’re a big depositor. If you go to the president and demand the facts he’ll have to tell them to you. Then you can tell me, and I’ll have my scoop. See?”
“I do, Larry. But, Great Scott! A million gone! And they’re keeping it quiet! Why, I made a big deposit there, only yesterday!”
He thought deeply for a moment, and Larry watched him closely. Would the millionaire aid him to get the story?
“A million gone!” said Mr. Potter, half to himself. “I had a right to know that, and, by Jove, I will know it. I’ll call up Bentfield, and demand to know why he’s keeping this quiet. I’ll get him on the wire!”
He reached for the telephone.
“Don’t do that!” cried Larry quickly.
“Why not?”
“Because there’ll be a leak in the central office, or some one will overhear it, and then the story will be out. I don’t want it to get loose until it comes out in the Leader. I want it all alone. There’s another reporter after it—Peter Manton—with whom I had a lot of trouble when I first came to New York, though we’re friendly enough now. But, for all that, I want to beat him on this story, if I can. He quit the newspaper game for a while and went into real estate. Now he’s reporting again. I want to beat him.”
“Oh, I suppose so,” agreed Mr. Potter. “I see what you mean, Larry. Well, I’ll not telephone. I’ll go see Bentfield personally. You stay here, and as soon as I have the facts I’ll come back and tell you. I haven’t forgotten what you did for me. How soon must you have the story?”
“Oh, if I get it by twelve o’clock I can ’phone it, and catch the first main edition. I’d like to hold it for the last, and then the other papers couldn’t use it until late to-night, or to-morrow morning, but I’m afraid it won’t keep. It’s too big.”
“I guess you’re right,” agreed Mr. Potter. “Well, I’ll get it for you as soon as I can,” and, calling his secretary, he gave the man certain instructions, also arranging to have Larry wait in the private office until his return.
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” remarked the millionaire, with a smile, as he started out. “I’m a sort of special reporter now; eh, Larry?”
“Something like that, Mr. Potter. Please don’t ‘fall down.’”
“Eh? What’s that? Is it slippery out?” and, somewhat surprised, he looked from his window into the pleasant spring sunshine.
“No, I meant don’t ‘fall down’ on the assignment—don’t miss getting it.”
“Oh, I see! Well, I’ll do my best,” and he laughed.
It seemed a long time for Larry to wait until the millionaire returned, and the young reporter kept looking at his watch as if that would hasten matters. Afterward Larry learned that Mr. Potter had even engaged a taxicab in order to come and go more quickly, for he felt a real liking for our hero, and wanted to help him.
Mr. Potter re-entered his office. There was a look on his face that told Larry he had been successful, and had secured the story.
“Well?” asked the reporter anxiously.
“It’s true!” exclaimed the millionaire. “I would never have believed it possible that a million dollars could have been stolen so easily. But it’s gone! It’s a great mystery.”
“Did they hesitate about telling you?” asked Larry.
“They did, until I demanded to know, as my right, and I threatened to inform the banking commissioner if they did not let me know all the facts. They wanted to know where I got my information, but I didn’t tell. The bank is solvent, however, though the loss is a heavy one. The depositors will lose nothing. Now here are the facts, as far as they’re known, and that isn’t much. It’s a queer mystery.”
“A mystery; how?” asked Larry.
“Why, the way the money disappeared. It was almost like magic. I’ll tell you the main facts, and you can elaborate on them later.
“It happened three days ago, and they’ve been keeping it quiet since—aside from the detectives knowing it—in the hopes that the thieves could be traced. But so far nothing has come of it. Now here’s the story.”
And as Mr. Potter told it, Larry rapidly made notes so he could write the account for his paper.
It seemed that at eleven o’clock, one morning, four tellers of the Consolidated National Bank counted out from the vault one million dollars in thousand-dollar bills. The money was made up into ten packages of one hundred thousand dollars each, carefully checked over by the chief cashier, and then this immense sum was placed in a large leather bag, to be taken to the vaults of the Metropolitan National Bank. It was to be used in a government bond transaction the following day.
The valise into which the money was placed was lined with steel wire, for sometimes bold thieves attack bank messengers in New York’s financial district, slit open, with keen knives, the bags they carry, and get the bundles of bills. It was to prevent any such theft as this that a steel-mesh-lined bag was used.
The Metropolitan Bank was to send a messenger to get the money from the Consolidated Bank at noon, and, pending the arrival of this man, the bag, containing the million dollars, was placed on the floor in the Consolidated Bank, close to the chief cashier’s desk.
“Then this is what happened next,” said Mr. Potter, after telling the story thus far.
“Luke Tucker, the messenger from the bank that was to receive the large sum in bills, arrived promptly on time. To assist him in carrying the bag William French, a messenger from the Consolidated Bank, was assigned. To the keeping of these two men the bag was entrusted, and the handle of it was handcuffed to the left wrist of French, so that if a bold thief tried to grab it he would have to take the man along too.
“Adam Force, a special officer from the Consolidated Bank, walked out after the two messengers who, between them, carried the bag holding a million dollars,” continued Mr. Potter, while Larry went on making notes. “Force is a very trustworthy man. He used to work for me. In his coat pocket, as he strolled along behind the messengers, he held a loaded revolver, ready for instant use should a robbery be attempted.
“From the Consolidated Bank to the Metropolitan it is less than half a mile, and absolutely nothing happened on the way. The messengers and the detective arrived safely with the bag, and it was unlocked from the handcuff on the wrist of French. A receipt was to be given for the money, but, before this was done, as is always the case, four tellers of the receiving bank proceeded to check over the bundles of bills.
“The bag was opened, Larry, in the presence of half a dozen men, but, instead of seeing the neat bundles of bank bills, there were only some bricks, wrapped in newspapers, in the valise.”
“Bricks!” cried Larry, all excitement.
“Bricks,” answered Mr. Potter grimly.
“But where had the money gone?” asked the reporter. “If no one attacked them on the trip, if the money was in the valise when it left the first bank—how could it have been taken?”
“That’s the mystery,” replied Mr. Potter. “No one seems to know how the money got out. It was utterly impossible for it to have disappeared after the bag was locked on French’s wrist. Every one agrees on that point.”
“Then it was done before the valise left the Consolidated Bank,” decided Larry promptly.
“That’s my opinion,” decided the millionaire. “But how was it done? The four tellers stood by, and saw the million dollars put in. Then the valise was double locked, and set down by the chief cashier’s desk. He says he was there all the while, and yet, when the other bank’s tellers open the satchel, they find bricks instead of money. That’s the mystery. It’s like a conjurer’s trick. And that’s your story, Larry.”
“And a mighty big story it is, too!” cried the young reporter “I’m ever so much obliged to you, Mr. Potter. I think I’ve got the biggest scoop of years. I’m going to make a good story of it, and play up that mystery for all it’s worth. May I use your telephone?”
“Yes—but, for the same reason that you cautioned me, I wouldn’t ’phone the story in if I were you. It might get out.”
“Oh, I’m not going to tell the story over the wire,” spoke Larry. “I just want to let Mr. Emberg know I’ve got it.”
And, in a few seconds, he was talking to his city editor.
“That’s it, Larry! That’s fine! Great!” fairly shouted Mr. Emberg. “Get right in with the yarn! We’ll hold the whole first page for you if you need it. Rush!”
Larry hung up the telephone receiver, glanced over his notes to see if there were any details on which he wanted to ask questions, and then started from the millionaire’s office.
“There’s a taxicab outside,” said Mr. Potter. “I told the man to wait, thinking you’d like to use it to get back to your office in a hurry.”
“Thanks,” spoke Larry. “I’ll take it.”
“And come up and see us soon,” requested the millionaire. “Grace was asking for you the other day. Don’t wait to solve this bank mystery, but come any time.”
“I will,” promised the young reporter, and then, fairly jumping into the elevator, he shot downward and hurled himself into the waiting taxi.
“The Leader office as fast as you can make it!” cried Larry, and the auto swung up Wall street, toward Broadway, at a fast rate of speed. As Larry passed the robbed bank he looked out. He saw his rival, Peter Manton, coming down the steps, and there was a look on his face that seemed to show defeat.
“I don’t believe he got the yarn,” chuckled our hero. “I think I can scoop him!”
Larry fairly rushed into the office of his paper and flew to the city room.
“Got it all?” asked Mr. Emberg, coming out of his room.
“All about the robbery. The mystery is yet to be solved,” answered Larry breathlessly.
“Good! We can string it along for a week, maybe!” said the editor gleefully. “Pound it out for all you’re worth. Here, boy, go down to the ‘morgue’ and get me out pictures of the Consolidated Bank and all the officials. We’ll spread on this!”
Larry was soon at his typewriter, clicking off the big story—the biggest story of the day. In order to catch the first extra edition, Mr. Emberg handled Larry’s copy himself, taking it page by page as it came from the machine.
It was rushed up to the composing room through the pneumatic tubes, and there it was cut into small sections, or “takes,” so that several printers could work on it at once.
Rapidly the type-setting machines were putting into solid form Larry’s big, million-dollar robbery story. Mr. Emberg wrote a “scare” head for it, and the printers began setting that up. Down in the art department a “layout” of several pictures was being gotten ready, showing the looted bank, and portraits of its officers.
Soon enough of Larry’s story for one edition was finished, and he could take his time on the more unimportant details. Meanwhile other reporters had been sent out to get interviews as to the possible effect on the financial market by the loss of a million dollars from one bank. Some reporters looked up the big robberies of past years, to compare them with the present million-dollar one.
Then the paper came out. The immense presses down in the basement thundered away, fairly showering out the folded copies of the Leader, ready for the boys to sell on the street.
“Extra! Extra!” the lads cried, as they sped through the streets. “Extra! Full account of de great bank myst’ry! Million dollars stole! Extra! Extra!”
Larry sat back in his chair for a moment’s rest. He was tired from his morning’s task, and the pounding of the typewriter keys. But he was happy.
“If only the other papers haven’t got the story!” he said to himself. “If I have a scoop! If I have beaten Peter Manton!”
And he had. When the Leader’s rivals’ sheets came out not one of them had the story of the million-dollar bank robbery, and only a few had a hint that anything was wrong, financially, with the institution. Only hints were given.
“That’s the best Peter could do,” said Larry joyfully, as he looked over the other papers. “He didn’t get the story.”
“No, you scored a clean beat, Larry,” said Mr. Emberg proudly. “It was great work! But it can’t stop there.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you’ve got to keep right on with this story. Larry, I’m going to give you the biggest assignment you ever had. I want you to find out where that million dollars went, and who took it. Find the thief, Larry, and get the story of the mystery. It’s up to you. From now on you’re to do nothing but keep on this bank case. Live in Wall street if you have to. Stay there night and day, but get the story. It’s up to you!”
“All right,” spoke the young reporter rather solemnly. “I’ll do my best.”
“Go down to the bank now,” suggested Mr. Emberg, “and show them our story. Maybe they’ll be willing to talk after they see what we have printed.”
CHAPTER IV
LARRY AT THE BANK
There was quite a different scene being enacted in the Consolidated National Bank when Larry arrived there, about three o’clock on the afternoon of the day his story of the robbery came out, and proved such a sensational “beat,” than there was on his first visit. As the young reporter entered the institution, he saw an excited crowd of men, and some women, in line at the paying teller’s window. Inside the brass gratings clerks, cashiers and other employees were very busy.
“It looks like a run,” remarked Larry, half to himself, as he stood in the corridor, and watched the crowd of evidently frightened depositors.
“It is a run, young man!” exclaimed a nervous tradesman, who had a check in one hand, and a copy of Larry’s paper in the other. “I didn’t know about the loss, though, until I read this,” and he tapped the folded journal nervously.
“A run! I should say so!” exclaimed another man, who also clutched a Leader. “A million-dollar robbery! This bank can never stand that loss. It’ll fail, and I’m going to get my money out before that happens.”
“The same here,” added several, who were crowding up to get in line at the paying teller’s window.
“A run on the bank,” mused Larry. “This will make more news! I must ’phone it in. I’m sorry if my story started this, but I can’t help it. The president might have given me the story when I first asked for it, and then he would have had a chance to explain that the bank could stand the loss. This would have given the depositors confidence. But he wouldn’t do it.”
If there was any doubt in Larry’s mind that the story which he had written had caused the run-scare it was soon over, for every person who crowded into the bank carried a copy of the Leader, with our hero’s big scoop on the front page.
“And there isn’t another New York paper to be seen,” chuckled Larry. “I’ve beaten ’em all! Well, now to send word in about the run. They can add that to the general yarn.”
He was about to hurry from the bank, his thoughts busy with many things, but chiefly how he might set about his task of discovering the thief, and the missing million, when he saw President Bentfield come hurriedly from his private office.
“I might as well wait and see what’s up,” thought the young reporter. “I may get another scoop.”
There was little chance of this, however, for, on looking about, he saw reporters of several other papers present. Among them was Peter Manton.
“Hello, Pete!” greeted Larry. “Are you after this?”
“Yes, but it’s a hot time to get after it,” grumbled Peter. “After your paper scooped us! Was it your yarn?”
“It was,” said Larry, with justifiable pride.
“I might have known it,” went on the Scorcher’s reporter. “You have us all skinned. How’d you do it?”
“That’s telling,” replied Larry, with a smile.
“I came here to get the story, after some sort of a tip had come in the office,” went on Peter, “but there was nothing doing. Bentfield turned me down.”
“Yes, I saw you,” admitted Larry. “But what’s up now?”
Indeed, it was evident that something unusual was in the wind, for President Bentfield was talking excitedly to the clerks and cashiers back of the brass grill, and the anxious depositors, who wanted to withdraw their money, were looking on curiously.
“Gentlemen, your attention for one moment!” suddenly called the bank president, mounting on a box in order to see and be seen. “I wish to make an announcement. After it is over you are all at liberty to withdraw every dollar of your deposits. The bank will remain open for that purpose all night if necessary. But I wish to state that, in spite of the heavy loss we have sustained, we can meet every cent of our obligations. Every depositor can be paid in full, and we will still be doing business. There is no need of a run. Take your time.”
“That’s easy to say!” exclaimed a nervous woman.
“And easy to prove!” retorted the president quickly. “If you will appoint a delegation I will have the members of it admitted to our vaults. We have cash enough on hand to pay every depositor in full, and I’ll show it to you!”
There, was a murmur of gratified surprise at this, and several who had been crowding into line to get their money became more composed. Still, there were doubtful ones.
Several depositors announced themselves as anxious to look into the vaults. They were escorted there and, on coming back, stated that they had seen several millions in currency, or Government bonds. It developed later that, in anticipation of a possible run, when the million-dollar robbery should become known, the bank had, a few days previous, and directly after the theft, stored a large amount of cash in its vaults.
“Are you satisfied?” demanded the president.
“Yes! Yes!” exclaimed the crowd, and it began to melt away. The run was practically over, and the alarm, that had been caused be reading the story in the Leader, was at an end.
President Bentfield looked relieved, and started for his private office. The hard-worked clerks and tellers breathed easier.
“This will make good copy,” remarked Peter to Larry. “I’m going to ’phone it in.”
“So am I,” replied our hero, and the two started out on the run, for it was getting late, and every second counts when a paper is going to press.
As Larry passed a door that led from the main corridor into the president’s room, the uniformed messenger by whom, earlier in the day, he had sent in his card, came out.
“The president wants to see you, Mr. Dexter,” he said.
“I can’t see him now,” replied Larry, and there was grim satisfaction in his ability to thus repay, in his own coin, the president’s treatment of himself. “I’m in a hurry to telephone.”
“He said I was to tell you it was very important for him to see you,” went on the messenger. “He saw you when he went out to make the announcement about there being plenty of cash. Mr. Bentfield says it’s to your interest to see him.”
“But I’ve got to telephone some news in to my paper,” answered Larry, chaffing at the delay. “It’s to the bank’s interest to have it known that there is no danger of a run. Otherwise you’ll have a mob of out-of-town depositors around your doors in the morning. I’ve got to telephone, and I’ll see Mr. Bentfield later.”
“There’s a telephone in his private office,” said the messenger. “I was to tell you that you could use that if you wanted to.”
Larry’s eyes sparkled. He knew the advantage of getting to a telephone quickly when it was close to last edition time, and down in Wall street, in the congested financial district, at this hour of the day, the wires were overburdened with messages. Larry realized that to go out, and hunt up a public pay station, would take time, and he never hoped for such good luck as the chance to use the president’s private wire to send in his news.
“Very well,” he said, “I’ll see Mr. Bentfield.”
He was shown into the bank president’s room. He found a number of men there, among them Mr. Potter, who looked at him and smiled.
“That reporter!” fairly growled the black-moustached director as he saw Larry. “What does he want now?”
“I have sent for him,” replied Mr. Bentfield. “And I may say that I have changed my opinion of newspaper men in the last few hours. Mr. Dexter, I have something to say to you.”
“Would you mind if I telephoned this news in to my paper first?” asked Larry respectfully. “It is very important to me, as this is my profession.”
“Go right ahead!” said the president, in more genial tones than he had used when Larry saw him before. “Here is my telephone. I’d be glad to have you make as emphatic as possible the announcement I just made. And, after you have ’phoned that in, I’ll add some other news that may give you another ‘scoop,’ as I believe they are called.”
Larry’s eyes sparkled at hearing this. News was coming his way fast this day—exclusive news, too.
It did not take long to send over the wire the story of the run, and how quickly and dramatically it had been checked, by the prompt action of the president.
“Hold the wire a minute,” said Larry, to the reporter in the office who was taking the story from his dictation. “The president has something else to add.”
“It is this,” spoke Mr. Bentfield, as Larry turned questioningly toward him. All the directors and other gentlemen in the room had been listening curiously to the manner in which Larry told the story over the wire. “We have decided to offer a reward of twenty thousand dollars for the arrest of the person or persons who got our million dollars,” said the president. “You may add that to your story. It may be of interest to the public.”
“I should say it would!” exclaimed Larry, and then in quick, crisp words he sent that additional information over the wire.
“They’re going to put a scare-head on that,” the young reporter stated to the president a moment later, still remaining at the telephone.
“Good! It may attract enough attention so that the general public will be interested in earning the reward,” remarked Mr. Bentfield. “It may help to arrest the thief.”
“I suppose you mean the reward will be paid if the thief is arrested, and the money recovered,” suggested Larry.
“No! The reward will be paid for the apprehension of the thief, whether he has a dollar of the money or not!” cried the president. “We want to make an example of him! It is a heavy loss for the bank, but, unless we find out how the robbery was committed, and get the thief, other banks may suffer likewise. The reward is for the thief, not the money!”
Larry added this bit of news, and then, at the suggestion of Mr. Bentfield, he dictated a statement to the effect that the bank officials had not the slightest clue to the thief, and did not suspect any one.
“Our employees feel the stigma keenly enough as it is,” the president said, “and this may help to relieve it.”
Larry finished telephoning, and sat back with a sigh of relief. He had done good work that day, and it developed later that he had made a second scoop—that about the big reward being offered. He was well satisfied with his assignment.
“And now,” began Mr. Bentfield, at the conclusion of the telephoning, “I would like to ask you a question, Mr. Dexter. Where did you get your information about the robbery?”
“I can’t tell you,” said Larry promptly. “It would be a violation of confidence, of which no newspaper man can ever be guilty.”
“Very well,” spoke Mr. Bentfield, and he was not at all unpleasant about it. “I will respect your scruples, though I would like very much to know how you reporters get your news. But, since you have it, perhaps it is all for the best. It would have had to come out sooner or later, and perhaps we should have made a statement sooner. Our directors were divided on the subject.”
“I’ll tell you how Larry Dexter got the story,” quickly exclaimed Mr. Potter. “I gave it to him. I felt that the public had a right to know of this big theft.”
The statement created surprise, and some of the directors were rather angry at Mr. Potter. But he was a big depositor, and one whom the bank wished to please, so little was said about it.
“Perhaps, after all, it is for the best,” agreed the president. “I’m sure I congratulate you, Mr. Dexter, on the clever story you wrote, and the way in which you handled this mystery. For a mystery it is, and I’m afraid we can never solve it.”
“Haven’t the detectives been able to get any clews?” asked the young reporter.
“Not a one,” replied Mr. Bentfield. “We shall now notify the regular police, and let them work on the case as well as the private agency which we engaged.”
“I can tell you who will do a good deal better work on this case than the regular detectives, or the private ones, either,” said Mr. Potter, during a pause in the talk.
“Who?” demanded several directors at once.
“Larry Dexter!” exclaimed the millionaire. “He found me, when none of the other reporters, or police, could, and I thought I was pretty well hidden. Maybe he could find this thief.”
“And the million dollars!” added the black-moustached man eagerly. “That’s too big a sum to lose.”
“It certainly is,” agreed the president. “I have many times heard it said,” he went on, “that reporters are often better at solving crimes than the average detective. Perhaps it would be a good plan to have Mr. Dexter take up this case. Will you do it?” he asked. “I think we really need you. Will you act as a detective for us and try to earn that reward?”
“I’m a newspaper man,” said Larry simply, “and, though it is true that we often have to do detective work, I must act for my paper first.”
“But you could do that and help the bank, too,” suggested Mr. Potter. “Larry, I think this is just the chance for you. If you find the thief, and the million, you will have a big ‘beat’ for your paper. Why don’t you do it?”
“I will!” cried Larry. “In fact, my city editor has assigned me to this case, and I’m to do nothing else. But, of course, with the aid of the bank officials I can work to better advantage.”
“Then you shall have it!” exclaimed President Bentfield. “Gentlemen, Larry Dexter is to be given every aid in our power to endeavor to solve this bank mystery! And it’s my opinion that, if it isn’t solved, the Consolidated National will be the laughing stock of Wall street. Think of having a million taken right from under our noses, and not even a clew as to how it disappeared! Mr. Dexter, get busy, please!” and he smiled at our hero. There had come quite a change over Mr. Bentfield in a few hours, and Larry was the cause of it. The president and his associates looked keenly at the young reporter.
CHAPTER V
THE CLEW OF THE SATCHEL
“Well, what’s the first thing to do, Larry?” asked Mr. Potter, with a smile. He had returned to the bank shortly after giving Larry the details of the robbery. “How are you going at it to solve this mystery?”
“I don’t know,” answered the young reporter frankly. “There are many ends to be covered. I guess I’ll have to ask you a lot of questions,” he said to the president. “That’s how a reporter gets his news,” he continued with a smile.
“Ask as many as you like,” replied the head of the bank. “We’ll give you all the aid possible.”
Larry rapidly thought over the case. He wanted to get all the facts clear in his mind.
Several of the directors, who had business elsewhere, left, as there was nothing more they could do at the bank. The arrangements for meeting the heavy financial loss had been made a day or two previous, as soon as the robbery was discovered, and though the credit of the institution was strained to the utmost, it was seen that it could weather the storm.
“I think I understand pretty well how the money was packed in the valise, and taken to the other bank,” began Larry after a pause. “Then, as the robbery did not take place outside of this bank, and did not occur in the other bank, it must have been done here—right in your own institution,” he said to the president.
“Impossible!” exclaimed the black-moustached man, whose name it developed was Mr. Kent Wilson. “Impossible!”
“Not at all impossible,” replied Mr. Bentfield. “In fact, that is the only way to account for it, Mr. Wilson. The detectives are all agreed on that point.”
“And you say you do not suspect any of your employees?” asked Larry.
“Not a one, though of course, as is but natural, a watch is being kept over every one, from the smallest messenger boy, up to—well, I may say ourselves,” spoke the president. “It is an unpleasant thing to do, but necessary. But it does not seem possible that any of them, working together, or singly, could have taken that money.”