The phaeton had been summoned from the garage. The three men entered it, Delka going in back with Craybaw. Then the office boy appeared, lugging Craybaw’s newly purchased pigskin bag. Harry watched him place it in the front seat beside Sir Ernest.
Something in the boy’s action caught Harry’s eye. The hoist when the bag went over the door seemed more than necessary for so light an object. Just as the phaeton pulled away, the answer struck Harry.
Chance had given him a thought that had occurred to no one else.
That bag was not empty! Craybaw had carried it as though it was. He had said nothing; however, to the office boy regarding emptiness. True, the bag had been empty when Craybaw had carried it to the office; but it was empty no longer. Harry knew what it contained.
Two stores of wealth! Cash intended for Selbrock; funds brought by the Rajah of Delapore! There was only one explanation. The Harvester, clever at disguise, was playing the part of Justin Craybaw! He had taken the place of the managing director of Rudlow, Limited.
The Harvester had not placed the money in the vault. He had put it in the bag. He was making away with it, deceiving Sir Ernest Jennup and Eric Delka.
Harry’s course was to call The Shadow; he realized suddenly that it would be impossible. He did not know where The Shadow was.
One other possibility, only. That was to inform Sidney Lewsham, in hope that the chief constable might act. First a call to the Moravia, in the wild hope that The Shadow might be there. Then back to Rudlow’s, to see Lewsham.
Such was the course that Harry Vincent took as duty, not knowing whether or not he would injure The Shadow’s plans. But in this emergency, he could think of but one purpose. That was to defeat the game that The Harvester had played.
CHAPTER XV. SCOTLAND YARD MOVES
BACK in the Rudlow offices, Thaddeus Blessingwood had solemnly taken the place of Justin Craybaw.
The pompous comptroller had decided that it was his duty to occupy the managing director’s office. He had invited Sidney Lewsham to join him; and the chief constable had accepted. They were sitting opposite each other, across Craybaw’s big desk.
“It is serious business, this,” remarked Blessingwood, solemnly. “I cannot blame Mr. Craybaw for weakening beneath the burden that was placed upon him. Frankly, I would lose my own confidence were it not for your presence, Chief Lewsham.”
“Because of the half million in the vault?” queried Lewsham, with a smile.
“Yes,” nodded Blessingwood, “when I consider the crimes that have electrified London. The Harvester is a desperate criminal.”
Blessingwood had opened the desk drawer in front of him. He brought out some printed sheets; then clucked his puzzlement.
“Odd,” he remarked, “that Craybaw should have found one of my receipt blanks. There are many of his own here. Hah! What is this? A telegram!”
Blessingwood unfolded a paper. His eyes popped behind his pince-nez spectacles as he thrust the sheet across the desk.
“From Lionel Selbrock!” he ejaculated. “Dispatched from Carlisle this morning! Craybaw must have received it, yet he did not mention it. What in the world is Selbrock doing in Carlisle?”
Lewsham snatched the telegram. He scanned its lines. The message had been sent from Carlisle prior to noon. It stated simply that Selbrock could not arrive at Rudlow’s before the next morning. Lewsham recalled suddenly that Craybaw had received several envelopes during the morning. The telegram must have been in one of them.
“Something is vitally wrong,” decided Lewsham. “Why did Craybaw insist that Selbrock would be in town today? He must have read this telegram. Let me have the telephone, Blessingwood.”
The comptroller passed the instrument across the desk. Lewsham put in a call to the Rajah of Delapore.
It was answered. The rajah had just returned to his apartment. Lewsham explained matters; then hung up.
“He knows nothing about Selbrock,” assured Lewsham. “But the rajah is coming over here to confer about the matter. By the way” — he studied the telegram — “this distant trip to Carlisle is odd on the part of Selbrock; but I recall also that the rajah’s secretary, Ranworthy, made a trip to Yarmouth. I wonder if there is a connection?”
“Yarmouth is not on the way to Carlisle,” reminded Blessingwood.
“I know that,” snapped Lewsham. “But we have no proof that either man went to the destination that he claimed.”
“We have this dispatch from Selbrock—”
“A telegram with his name attached. Any one could have sent it. What ails Craybaw, for not mentioning this matter? The man is ill; but certainly rational enough at intervals to have remembered this telegram.”
“Craybaw was lost in enthusiasm over his pigskin bag. That was unusual. I never saw him so intrigued before over a ten-guinea purchase—”
“THE pigskin bag!” A connection struck Lewsham, suddenly. “What became of that bag, Blessingwood?”
“Craybaw took it into the conference room—”
Lewsham bounded to the door. He saw no sign of the bag. He started to the outer door, to be met there by an entering boy.
“Mr. Vincent is back, sir,” informed the office employee. “He says that he must see you at once. It is something about Mr. Craybaw—”
“Bring Vincent here!” ordered Lewsham.
Harry arrived. Lewsham hurried him into the inner office, where Blessingwood was standing, puzzled.
“What do you know about Craybaw?” demanded Lewsham. “Is it anything that concerns his pigskin bag? Did he have it with him when he left here?”
“One of the boys was carrying it,” explained Harry. He realized now that his return had been wise. “I saw it go into Sir Ernest’s phaeton. The bag was heavy — not empty, as it was when Craybaw purchased it. I decided to inform you—”
“Blessingwood,” broke in Lewsham, “open the vault at once. Look for the money that you put there.”
“I did not place the funds in the vault,” reminded Blessingwood, as he hurried to the vault room. “I came in here and opened the vault, to save Mr. Craybaw trouble. You were with me — so were others; but we left while he was putting the money in the proper place.”
“So we did,” exclaimed Lewsham, while Blessingwood worked at the dials. “Then Craybaw came out afterward. At least, that was the way I recall it. But that was with the funds intended for Selbrock—”
“And Craybaw came in alone when he brought the rajah’s money,” added Blessingwood. “He must have opened the vault himself; for I did not come with him.”
“If he opened the vault at all!”
The grimness of Lewsham’s tone made Blessingwood turn about in alarm, just as he swung open the door of the vault, Lewsham pounced forward.
“Show me the money!” he cried. “Find it, Blessingwood! Do not stand there useless! You know this vault is—”
Blessingwood pawed through the vault. His search became excited. His spectacles tipped from his nose and hung by their cord. Speechless as he ended the hunt, he stood panting, with face purpled.
“The money!” demanded Lewsham. “Four hundred and fifty thousand sovereigns!”
“Gone!” gasped Blessingwood. “It is nowhere in the vault!”
“Nor was it ever placed here!” shouted Lewsham. “Craybaw has tricked us! No — not Craybaw — it was The Harvester!”
“The Harvester?” echoed Blessingwood. “But it was Mr. Craybaw. At least— at least—”
“You suspect something?” demanded Lewsham. “Something in the man’s action, aside from his withholding of the telegram?”
“Yes.” Blessingwood found his answer. “The matter of the signature. Craybaw would not have brought out the wrong receipt slip. He would not have turned that signing over to me, as comptroller. Not under ordinary circumstances.”