The Million-Dollar Suitcase. MacGowan Alice

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      "Wait a minute," interposed Knapp. "Is that what they gave you at the St. Dunstan – what he was wearing when he came in?"

      I nodded.

      "Well, I'd have said he had on tan shoes and a fedora. He did– or was that yesterday? But aside from that, it's a perfect description; brings the man right up before me."

      I heard a chuckle from Worth Gilbert.

      "That description," I said, "is gibberish; mere words. Would it bring Clayte up before any one who had never seen him? Ask Captain Gilbert, who doesn't know the man. I say that's a list of the points at which he resembles every third office man you meet on the street. What I want is the points at which he'd differ. You have all known Clayte for years; forget his regularities, and tell me his peculiarities – looks, manners, dress or habits."

      There was a long pause, broken finally by Whipple.

      "He never smoked," said the bank president.

      "Occasionally he did," contradicted Knapp, and the pause continued till I asked,

      "Any peculiarities of clothing?"

      "Oh, yes," said Whipple. "Very neat. Usually blue serge."

      "But sometimes gray," added Knapp, heavily, and old Sillsbee piped in,

      "I've seen that feller wear pin-check; I know I have."

      I was fed up on clothes.

      "How did he brush his hair?" I questioned.

      "Smoothed down from a part high on the left," Knapp came back promptly.

      "On the right," boomed old Anson from the foot of the table.

      "Sometimes – yes – I guess he did," Knapp conceded hesitantly.

      "Oh, well then, what color was it? Maybe you can agree better on that."

      "Sort of mousy color," Knapp thought.

      "O Lord! Mousy colored!" groaned Dykeman under his breath. "Listen to 'em!"

      "Well, isn't it?" Knapp was a bit stung.

      "House mousy, or field mousy?" Cummings wanted to know.

      "Knapp's right enough," Whipple said with dignity. "The man's hair is a medium brown – indeterminate brown." He glanced around the table at the heads of hair under the electric lights. "Something the color of Merrill's," and a director began stroking his hair nervously.

      "No, no; darker than Merrill's," broke in Kirkpatrick. "Isn't it, Knapp?"

      "Why, I was going to say lighter," admitted the cashier, discouragedly.

      "Never mind," I sighed. "Forget the hair. Come on – what color are his eyes?"

      "Blue," said Whipple.

      "Gray," said Knapp.

      "Brown," said Kirkpatrick.

      They all spoke in one breath. And as I despairingly laid down my pencil, the last man repeated firmly,

      "Brown. But – they might be light brown – or hazel, y'know."

      "But, after all, Boyne," Whipple appealed to me, "you've got a fairly accurate description of the man, one that fits him all right."

      "Does it? Then he's description proof. No moles, scars or visible marks?" I suggested desperately.

      "None." There was a negative shaking of heads.

      "No mannerisms? No little tricks, such as a twist of the mouth, a mincing step, or a head carried on one side?"

      More shakes of negation from the men who knew Clayte.

      "Well, at least you can tell me who are his friends – his intimates?"

      Nobody answered.

      "He must have friends?" I urged.

      "He hasn't," maintained Whipple. "Knapp is as close to him as any man in San Francisco."

      The cashier squirmed, but said nothing.

      "But outside the bank. Who were his associates?"

      "Don't think he had any," from Knapp.

      "Relatives?"

      "None – I know he hadn't."

      "Girls? Lord! Didn't he have a girl?"

      "Not a girl."

      "No associates – no girl? For the love of Mike, what could such a man intend to do with all that money?" I gasped. "Where did he spend his time when he wasn't in the bank?"

      Whipple looked at his cashier for an answer. But Knapp was sitting, head down, in a painful brown study, and the president himself began haltingly.

      "Why, he was perhaps the one man in the bank that I knew least about. The truth is he was so unobjectionable in every way, personally unobtrusive, quite unimportant and uninteresting; really – er – un-everything, such a – a – "

      "Shadow," Cummings suggested.

      "That's the word – shadow – I never thought to inquire where he went till he walked out of here this noon with the bank's money crammed in that suitcase."

      "Was the Saturday suitcase a regular thing?" I asked, and Whipple looked bewildered. But Knapp woke up with,

      "Oh, yes. For years. Studious fellow. Books to be exchanged at the public library, I think. No – " Knapp spoke heavily. "Come to think of it, guess that was special work. He told me once he was taking some sort of correspondence course."

      "Special work!" chuckled Worth Gilbert. "I'll tell the world!"

      "Oh, well, give me a description of the suitcase," I hurried.

      "Brown. Sole-leather. That's all I ever noticed," from Whipple, a bit stiffly.

      "Brass rings and lock, I suppose?"

      "Brass or nickel; I don't remember. What'd you say, Knapp?"

      "I wouldn't know now, if it was canvas and tin," replied the harried cashier.

      "Gentlemen," I said, looking across at the clock, "since half-past two my men have been watching docks, ferries, railroad stations, every garage near the St. Dunstan, the main highways out of town. Seven of them on the job, and in the first hour they made ten arrests, on that description; and every time, sure they had their man. They thought, just as you seem to think, that the bunch of words described something. We're getting nowhere, gentlemen, and time means money here."

      CHAPTER II

      SIGHT UNSEEN

      In the squabble and snatch of argument, given dignity only because it concerned the recovery of near a million dollars, we seemed to have lost Worth Gilbert entirely. He kept his seat, that chair he had taken instantly СКАЧАТЬ