The Red Seal
“I don't know”--Kent pulled Rochester's letter out of his pocket and
re-read it. “He did not mention where he was going.”
Barbara stared at him; she had paled.
“When did Philip leave?”
“Last night, I presume.” Kent tipped back his chair and pressed a
buzzer; a second later Sylvester appeared in the doorway.
“Did Mr. Rochester tell you where he was going?” he asked the clerk.
“No, sir. Mr. Rochester stated that you had his address.
“I?” Kent concealed his growing surprise. “Did he leave any message for
me, other than the letter?”
“No, sir.
“At what hour did he leave the office?”
“I can't say, sir; he was still here when I went away at five o'clock.
He gave me a key to the office so that I could get in this morning.”
Kent remained silent, and he added, “Is that all, sir?”
“Yes, thanks,” and the clerk retired.
As the door closed Barbara turned to Kent. “Have you heard about Jimmie
Turnbull?”
Her voice was a bit breathless as she put the question, but Kent,
puzzling over his partner's eccentric conduct, hardly noted her
agitation.
“Yes. I saw the account just now in the morning paper,” he answered. “A
shocking affair. Poor Turnbull! He was a good fellow.”
“He was!” Barbara spoke with unaccustomed vehemence, and looking at her
Kent saw that her eyes were filled with tears. Impulsively he threw his
arm about her, holding her close.
“My heart's dearest,” he murmured fondly. “If there is
anything--anything I can do--”
Barbara straightened up and winked away the tears. “There is,” she said
tersely. “Investigate Jimmie's death.”
Kent gazed at her in astonishment. “Please explain,” he suggested. “The
morning paper states very plainly that the cause of death was an attack
of angina pectoris.”
“Yes, I know, and that is what Philip Rochester contends also.” Barbara
paused and glanced about the office; they had the room to themselves.
“B-but Helen believes otherwise.”
Kent drew back. “What do you mean, Babs?” he demanded.
“Just that,” Barbara spoke wearily, and Kent, giving her close
attention, grew aware of dark shadows under her eyes which told plainly
of a sleepless night. “I want to engage you as our counsel to help Helen
find out about Jimmie's death.”
“Find out what?” asked Kent, his bewilderment increasing. “Do you mean
that Jimmie's death was not the result of a dangerous heart disease, but
of foul play?”
Barbara nodded her head vigorously. “Yes.”
Kent sat back in his chair and regarded her in silence for a second.
“How could that be, Babs, in an open police court with dozens of
spectators all about?” he asked. “The slightest attempt to kill him
would have been frustrated by the police officials; remember, a prisoner
especially, is hedged in and guarded.”
“Well, he wasn't so very hedged in,” retorted Barbara. “I was there and
saw how closely people approached Jimmie.”
“Did you observe any one hand him anything?”
“N-no,” Barbara drawled the word as she strove to visualize the scene
in the court room; then catching Kent's look of doubt she added with
unmistakable emphasis. “Helen and I do not believe that Jimmie died from
natural causes; we think the tragedy should be investigated.” Her soft
voice deepened. “I must know the truth, Harry, dear; for I feel that
perhaps I am responsible for Jimmie's death.”
“You!” Kent's voice rose in indignant protest. “Absurd!”
“No, it isn't If it had not been for my wager with Jimmie, he never
would have entered our house disguised as a burglar.”
“What brought about the wager?”
“Last Sunday Helen was boasting of her two new police dogs which Philip
Rochester recently gave her, and said how safe she felt. We've had
several burglaries in our neighborhood,” Barbara explained, “and when
Jimmie scoffed at the dogs, I bet him that he could not break into the
house without the dogs arousing the household. I never once thought
about Jimmie's heart trouble,” she confessed, and her lips quivered. “I
feel so guilty.”
“You are inconsistent, Babs,” chided Kent gently. “One moment you
reproach yourself for being the cause of bringing on Jimmie's heart
attack, and the next you declare you believe he died through foul play.
You,” looking at her tenderly, while a whimsical smile softened his
stern mouth, “don't go so far as to claim you murdered him, do you?”
“Of course I didn't!” Barbara spoke with indignant emphasis, and
her fingers snapped in uncontrollable nervousness. “Jimmie was very
dear”--she hesitated--“to us. Neither Helen nor I can leave a stone
unturned until we know without a shadow of a doubt what killed him.”
“That is easily proven,” declared Kent. “An autopsy--”
“Helen asked the coroner to hold one.”
Kent stared--the twins were certainly in earnest.
“My advice to you is to wait until you hear the result of the
post-mortem from Coroner Penfield,” he said gravely. “Until we know
definitely what killed Jimmie, speculation is idle.”
Barbara rose at once. “I thought you would be more sympathetic,” she
remarked, and her voice was a bit unsteady. “I am sorry to have troubled
you.”
In an instant Kent was by her side. “Barbara,” he entreated. “I promise
solemnly to aid you in every possible way. My only happiness is in
serving you,” his voice was very tender. “I slave here day in and day
out that I may sometime be able to make a home for you. Don't leave me
in anger.”
“I was not angry, only deeply hurt,” Barbara confessed. “I have so
longed to see you. I--I needed you! I--” The rest was lost as she bowed
her head against Kent's broad shoulder, and his impassioned whispers of
devotion brought solace to her troubled spirit.
“I must go,” declared Barbara ten minutes later. “Father would make a
fearful scene if he knew I had been here to see you.” She picked up her
hand-bag, preparatory to leaving. “Then I can tell Helen that you will
aid us?”
“Yes.” Kent stopped on his way to the door. “I will try and see the
coroner this afternoon. In the meantime, Babs, can't you tell me what
makes you suspect that Jimmie might have been killed?”
“I have nothing tangible to go on,” she admitted. “Only a woman's
instinct--”
Kent did not smile. “Instinct,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Well, does
your instinct hazard a guess as to the weapon, the opportunity, and the
motive for such a crime? Jimmie Turnbull hadn't an enemy in the world.”
Barbara looked at him oddly. “Suppose you find the answer to those
conundrums,” she suggested. “Don't come to the elevator; Margaret
Brewster may see you with me, and she would tell father of our meeting.”
“Is Mrs. Brewster still with you?” asked Kent, paying no attention to
her protests as he accompanied her down the corridor. “I understood she
planned to return to the West last week.”
“She did, but father persuaded her to prolong her visit,” Barbara was
guilty of a grimace, then hailing the descending elevator she bolted
into it and waved her good-by to Kent as the cage shot downward.
When Kent reentered his office he found Sylvester hanging up the
telephone receiver.
“Mr. Clymer has telephoned to ask if you will come to the Metropolis
Trust Company at once,” he said, and before Kent could frame a reply he
had darted into the coat closet and brought out his hat and cane, and
handed them to him.
“Don't wait for me, but go out for your luncheon,” directed Kent,
observing the hour. “I have my key and can get in when I return if you
should not be here,” and not waiting to hear Sylvester's thanks, he
hurried away.
The clock over the bank had just struck noon when Kent reached the fine
office building which housed the Metropolis Trust Company, and as he
entered the bank, a messenger stopped him.
“Mr. Clymer is waiting for you in his private office, sir,” he said,
and led the way past the long rows of mahogany counters and plate glass
windows to the back of the bank, finally stopping before a door bearing
the name, in modest lettering--BENJAMIN AUGUSTUS CLYMER. The bank
president was sensitive on one point; he never permitted initials
only to be used before his name. The messenger's deferential knock was
answered by a gruff command to enter. Clymer welcomed Kent with an air
of relief.
“You know Colonel McIntyre,” he said by way of introduction, and Kent
became aware that the tall man lounging with his back to him in one
of the leather covered chairs was Barbara's father. Colonel McIntyre
returned Kent's bow with a curt nod, and then Clymer pushed forward a
chair.
“Sit down, Kent,” he began. “You have already handled several
confidential affairs for the bank in a satisfactory manner, and I have
sent for you to-day to ask your aid in an urgent matter. Before I go
further I must ask you to treat what I am about to say as strictly
confidential.”
“Certainly, Mr. Clymer.”
“Good! Then draw up your chair.” Clymer waited until Kent had complied
with his request. “You have heard of Jimmie Turnbull's sudden and tragic
death?”
“Yes.”
“As you know, he was cashier of this bank.” Clymer spoke with
deliberation. “Soon after word reached here of his death, the
vice-president and treasurer of the bank had a careful examination made
of his books and accounts.” Clymer paused to clear his throat; he was
troubled with an irritating cough. “Turnbull's accounts were found in
first class order.”
“I am sure they would be, Mr. Clymer,” exclaimed Kent warmly. “Any one
who knew Jimmie would never doubt his honesty.”
McIntyre turned in his chair and regarded the speaker with no friendly
eye, but aside from that, took no part in the conversation. Clymer did
not at once resume speaking.
“To-day,” he commenced finally, “Colonel McIntyre called at the bank
and asked the treasurer, Mr. Gilmore, for certain valuable negotiable
securities which he left in the bank's care a month ago. Mr. Gilmore
told Colonel McIntyre that these securities had been given to Jimmie
Turnbull last Saturday on his presentation of a letter from McIntyre
requesting that they be turned over to the bank's cashier. McIntyre
expressed his surprise and asked to see the letter”--Clymer paused and
took a paper from his desk. “Here is the letter.”
Kent took the paper and examined it closely.
“This is perfectly in order,” he said. “A clear statement in Colonel
McIntyre's handwriting and on his stationery.”
For the first time Colonel McIntyre addressed him.
“The letter is in order,” he acknowledged, “and written on my
stationery, but it was not written by me. The letter is a clever
forgery.”
CHAPTER V. THE VANISHING MAN
It still lacked twenty minutes of nine o'clock that night when Harry
Kent turned into the Saratoga apartment hotel, and not waiting to take
one of the elevators, ran up the staircase to the apartment which had
been occupied jointly by Jimmie Turnbull and Philip Rochester. Kent
had already selected the right key from among those on the bunch he
had found in Rochester's desk at the office, and slipping it into the
key-hole of the outer door, he turned the lock and walked noiselessly
inside the dark apartment.
The soft click of the outer door as it swung to was hardly noticeable,
and Kent, pausing only long enough to get his breath from his run up
the staircase, stepped into the living room and reached for the electric
light switch. Instead of encountering the cold metal of the switch his
groping fingers closed over warm flesh.
Startled as he was, Kent retained enough presence of mind to grasp the
hand tightly; the next second a man hurled himself upon him and he gave
back. Furniture in the path of the struggling men was overturned as they
fought in silent desperation. Kent would have given much for light. He
strained his eyes to see his adversary, but the pitch darkness concealed
all but the vaguest outline. As Kent got his second wind, confidence in