Part 57 (1/2)

”You know him?” This query from Farrell.

”I should say! He's a reg'lar. Used to bet in Mullen's book last year when I penciled for him.”

The clerk brought the betting sheet and ran his finger down a long row of figures.

”That's the bet. A thousand calls three on The Dutchman. His badge number was 11,785. Yes, that's the bet; I remember Billy Ca.s.s takin' it.

You see,” he continued, explanatory of his vivid memory, ”he's gen'rally a piker--plays a long shot--an' his limit's twenty dollars; so, when he comes next a favorite that day with a cool thou' it give me stoppage of the heart. d.a.m.n'd if I didn't get cold feet. Bet yer life it wasn't Billy's money--not a plunk of it; he had worked an angel, an' was playin' the farmer's stuff for him.”

”Are you sure, Mr. Hagen--did you know the man?” Crane asked.

”Know him? All the way--tall, slim, blue eyes, light mustache, hand like a woman.”

”That's the man,” affirmed Farrell; ”that's the man--I saw him yesterday in your place.”

Crane stared. For once in his life the confusion of an unexpected event momentarily unsettled him.

”I thought you identified--which man in the bank did you mean?”

”I saw three: a short, dark, hairless kid”--Alan Porter, mentally ticked off Crane; ”a tall, dark, heavy-shouldered chap, that, judged by his mug, would have made a fair record with the gloves--”

”Was not that the man you identified as having made the bet?”

interrupted Crane, taking a step forward in his intense eagerness.

”Not on your life; it was the slippery-looking cove with fishy eyes.”

”Ca.s.s,” muttered Crane to himself; ”but that's impossible--he never left the bank that day; there's some devilish queer mistake here.” Farrell had identified David Ca.s.s in the bank as the man who had bet with him, while the clerk a.s.serted that one ”Billy” Ca.s.s had made the same wager.

Hagen's description of ”Billy” Ca.s.s fitted David Ca.s.s in a general way.

Again the badge number--11,785--was not Mortimer's, as registered in Faust's book.

Crane stood pondering over the complication. He saw that until further investigation disproved it there could be but one solution of this intricate riddle. Billy Ca.s.s, the maker of the bet, was a race track frequenter; David Ca.s.s was not. They must be separate personalities; but they resembled each other; they were of the same name--they might be brothers. Billy Ca.s.s had been in possession of the stolen note; he must have got it from some one having access to it in the bank--Mortimer, Alan Porter, or Ca.s.s--the cas.h.i.+er was quite out of the question.

The next move was to trace back through Billy Ca.s.s the man who had delivered to him the stolen money. There was still a chance that Mortimer, unfamiliar with betting and possibly knowing of Billy Ca.s.s through his brother in the bank--if they were brothers--had used this practical racing man as a commission agent. This seemed a plausible deduction. It was practically impossible that David Ca.s.s could have got possession of the bill, for it was locked in a compartment of which Mortimer had the key; the latter had admitted that the keys were not out of his possession.

This far in his hurried mental retrospect Crane spoke to Farrell: ”I think this is all we can do at present. I may find it necessary to ask you to identify this Ca.s.s, but I hope not to trouble you any further in the matter.”

”Hang the trouble!” energetically responded Farrell, with huge disclaiming of obligation; ”I'll spend time and money to down a crook any day; I've no use for 'em; a few of that kidney gives the racin' game a black eye. If you need me or Hagen, just squeak, an' we'll hop onto the chap if he's a wrong one with both feet.”

Crane said nothing about the other number he had culled from Faust's book; he said nothing about his suspicions of a brotherhood; he wanted to go back to his quarters and think this new problem out.

What if in seeking for conclusive evidence against Mortimer he should prove him innocent? He was treading upon dangerous ground, pus.h.i.+ng out of his path with a firebrand a fuse closely attached to a mine that might explode and shatter the carefully constructed fabric.

Sitting in his own chamber he once more went over the whole extraordinary entanglement. Mistaken as it was, Farrell's identification at Brookfield must have strongly affected the mind of Allis Porter. At the time Crane had played an honest part in recounting it to the girl.

He had firmly believed that Farrell, owing to his ambiguous report, had meant Mortimer; in fact, Ca.s.s had not entered his mind at all. Even yet Mortimer might be the guilty man--probably was. Why should he, Crane, pursue this investigation that might turn, boomerang-like, and act disastrously. Mortimer was either a thief or a hero; there could be no question about that. As a hero, in this case, he was pretty much of a fool in Crane's eyes; but Allis Porter would not look upon it in that light--she would deify him. Crane would commit diplomatic suicide in developing Mortimer's innocence. Again he asked himself why he should proceed. Mortimer was guilty in the strong, convicting light of the apparent evidence; better let it rest that happy way--happy for Crane.

But still would he rest satisfied himself? He was not accustomed to doing things by halves. If Ca.s.s had stolen the money it would never do to retain him in a position of trust. Then the devil of subtle diplomacy, familiar at all times to Crane, whispered in his ear that he need not blazen to the world the result of his further investigation; he might satisfy himself, and then if Mortimer were found still deeper in the toils it might be spoken of; but if he were found innocent--well, was Crane his brother's keeper? He could adopt one of two plans to get at the truth; he could trace out Billy Ca.s.s and extort from him the name of his princ.i.p.al; but if startled, the latter might refuse to divulge anything. Police pressure meant publicity. There was a better plan--Crane always found a better plan in everything. If David Ca.s.s had stolen the money he must have sent it to his brother; if that fact were established it would show a connection between the two.

That afternoon Crane took a train to Brookfield. A visit to the village post office disclosed a hidden jewel. As far as Crane was concerned the fate of the two men was held in the hollow of the postmaster's hand.