Part 3 (1/2)
”The patrolman has been trussed up like you,” began Vroon. ”If they find him they will probably find you. But before that you will grow thirsty and hungry. Where did your master put that money?”
”He carried it with him.”
”Why didn't you call for help?”
”The houses on either side are too far away. I might yell till doomsday without being heard. They will have heard the pistol shots; but Mr. Hargreave was always practising in the back yard.”
”The people in those two houses have been called out of town. The servants are off for the night.”
”Very interesting,” replied Jones, staring at the rug.
”Your master is dead.”
Jones' chin sank upon his breast. His heart was heavy, heavier than it had ever been before.
”Your master left a will?”
”Indeed, I could not say.”
”We can say. He has still three or four millions in stocks and bonds.
What he took to the bottom of the sea with him was his available cash.”
”I know nothing about his finances. I was his butler and valet.”
Vroon nodded. ”Come, men; it is time we took ourselves off. Put things in order; close the safe. You poor jackals, I always have to watch you for outbreaks of vandalism. Off with you!”
He was the last to leave. He stared long and searchingly at Jones, who felt the burning gaze but refused to meet it lest the plotter see the fire in his. The door closed. For fully an hour Jones listened but did not stir. They were really gone. He pressed his feet to the floor and began to hitch the chair toward the table. Half-way across the intervening s.p.a.ce he crumpled in the chair, almost completely exhausted. He let a quarter of an hour pa.s.s, then made the final attack upon the remaining distance. He succeeded in reaching the desk, but he could not have stirred an inch farther. The hair on his head was damp with sweat and his hands were clammy.
When he felt strength returning he lifted the telephone off the hook with his teeth.
”Central, central! Call the police to come to this number at once; Hargreave's house, Riverdale. Tell them to break in.”
After what seemed an age of waiting to the exhausted prisoner, with cras.h.i.+ng and smas.h.i.+ng of doors, the police appeared in the room.
”Where's your gag?” demanded the first officer to reach Jones' side.
”There wasn't any.”
”Then why didn't you yell for help?”
”The thieves lured our neighbors away from town. The patrolman who walks this beat is bound and gagged and is probably reposing back of the billboard in the next block.”
”Murphy, you watch this man while I make a call on the neighbors,” said the officer who seemed to be in authority. When he returned he was frowning seriously. ”We'd better telephone to the precinct to search for Dennison. There's n.o.body at home in either house and there's n.o.body back of the billboards. Untie the man.” When this was done, the officer said: ”Now, tell us what's happened; and don't forget any of the details.”
Jones told a simple and convincing story; it was so simple and convincing that the police believed it without question.
”Well, if that ain't the limit! Did you hear any autos outside?”
”I don't recollect,” said Jones, stretching his legs gratefully. ”Why?”
”The auto bandits held up a bank messenger to-day and got away with twenty thousand. Whenever a man draws down a big sum they seem to know about it. And say, Murphy, call up and have the river police look out for a new-fangled airs.h.i.+p. Your master may have been rescued,” turning to Jones.