Six Men of Evil

CHAPTER V THE SECOND ALIBI

IT was nearly three o’clock when a group of men entered the office of President Gorgas Talmadge, in the First National Bank of Barmouth. The old gentleman rose to greet them. He singled out the one whom he knew was most important.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Thurber,” said Talmadge. “We have been expecting you. The funds are ready. Mr. Brooks has placed them in the vault. Come! We shall go to his office.”

The group followed the old bank president as he led the way. Thurber was speaking to Talmadge.

“We’ve been in conference all day,” he remarked. “So many details to attend to, we left the money until the last minute. Then, when I saw it was close to three o’clock, we hurried over here.”

“Quite all right, Mr. Thurber,” responded Talmadge. “I told Mr. Brooks to wait until you arrived. It would not have mattered if you had come after our closing hour of three.”

Talmadge had reached the door of the cashier’s office. He called to Brooks as he opened the door. He was surprised to see that the room was empty.

An annoyed expression appeared upon Talmadge’s face. He had expected the cashier to be here. Instead, Brooks was missing. Waving his scrawny hand, Talmadge indicated chairs to the committeemen. He left the office in search of the cashier.

It was three minutes afterward when Talmadge returned, accompanied by two tellers. He was talking in an angry, quavering voice, and his theme was the absence of Sherman Brooks.

“I can’t find the cashier!” he exclaimed. “He had no right to step out. He knew my instructions. I am sorry to delay you, gentlemen. This is gross negligence on the part of Mr. Brooks. He shall answer for it!”

“He did not know when we were coming, did he?” questioned Thurber.

“No,” responded Talmadge, “but that is no excuse for him. He has been negligent with other duties; and this was too important a matter. However, I shall not delay you, gentlemen. The funds are in the vault, and I shall deliver them to you in person. Come with me, Davis.”

One of the tellers followed the old bank president. Talmadge’s destination was the vault. He was gone for five minutes. Then he returned abruptly to face the men in the cashier’s office. Talmadge’s countenance was ashen. Davis, standing behind Talmadge, reflected the bank president’s expression.

“What is the matter?” questioned Harold Thurber, gazing steadily at Talmadge.

“The relief funds!” gasped the president. “I–I cannot find them! They are not in the vault!”

A curious smile flickered upon Thurber’s lips. It spread into the beginning of an ugly leer; then it stopped abruptly as Thurber regained his impassiveness.

“I must find Brooks!” cried Talmadge. “I must find him! He had the money — he was to place it in the vault—”

The bank president paused, a look of consternation upon his wizened face. His own words frightened him. He tried to show signs of composure; then failed. The thoughts that were in his mind could not be withheld.

“Has Brooks gone?” he questioned, suddenly turning to the tellers. “Did you see him go out of here?”

“No, sir,” answered Davis, while the second teller shook his head. “I only know that he intended to go to Baltimore, on the two o’clock train, if possible. He had his bag under his desk to—”

The members of the Civic Relief Committee were sensing the situation. One man peered beneath the desk and announced that no bag was there.

“Be calm now, gentlemen” — Thurber’s voice was solemn, as he took up the theme that all were thinking — “we must be calm. There is some mistake. Mr. Brooks is trustworthy and reliable—”

The strain was too great for Gorgas Talmadge. The old man collapsed into a chair and piteously bleated the fear that he could not restrain.

“I believe that Brooks has absconded!” he gasped.

SOLEMN nods were passing among the committeemen. All were worried. None knew what to do. Davis, the teller, made a sudden suggestion.

“If Brooks has gone to Baltimore,” he declared, “his train is just about there. He might be intercepted at the depot—”

The suggestion brought approval. It was the signal for action. One of the committeemen seized the telephone and put in a call to the Baltimore police.

Gorgas Talmadge was in a pitiful state, now that he saw his fears being realized. Harold Thurber and the tellers helped the old man back into his own office. It was almost half an hour before they could fully revive him. When Thurber again joined the tense group in the cashier’s office, he was met with a chorus of elation.

“They’ve got Brooks!” exclaimed one man. “A call just came in from Baltimore. They’re bringing him here!”

“Nabbed him in the station,” said another. “They were too late to catch him when he came in, but they searched outbound trains, and found him in the smoker of one just about to leave.”

Thurber shook his head solemnly.

“Let us hope, gentlemen,” he said, “that Mr. Brooks can satisfactorily explain the disappearance of the relief funds. I, for one, hesitate to brand him as a thief.”

Accompanied by the committee, Thurber left the bank and went to the hotel, where the group had its headquarters. There was need of an urgent conference. Means were proposed whereby the activities could be postponed until the next day. This matter required considerable time. The committee had scarcely concluded its work before word came in that Sherman Brooks was at police headquarters.

Thurber and the others hurried there. They all arrived simultaneously with Gorgas Talmadge. An officer took them in to interview the prisoner. The chief detective stopped them on the way.

“We’ve got the man,” he said seriously. “but he didn’t have the money when they picked him up in Baltimore. He won’t talk until he sees you, Mr. Talmadge. He says that he can explain. That’s why we wanted you here so quickly.”

The old president nodded and motioned to the others to follow him. They found Sherman Brooks sitting stolidly in the corner of a room. The cashier’s eye lighted as he observed Gorgas Talmadge; then a clouded, puzzled expression came over his face at sight of Harold Thurber.

“Where are the city relief funds, Brooks?” questioned Talmadge. “What did you do with them?”

The cashier’s features hardened. His puzzlement turned to keen antagonism, as he stared steadily at Harold Thurber.

“I’ll tell you what I did with the relief money, Mr. Talmadge,” announced Brooks firmly. “I did exactly as you told me. I put the money in the vault. At ten minutes of two, I gave the cash to Harold Thurber, in my office.”

Talmadge stepped back in amazement. He looked at Thurber; then at Brooks. The cashier tightened his lips and continued his accusation, amid a strange, incredulous silence.

“At ten minutes of two,” he repeated. “That’s when Mr. Thurber entered my office and told me to give him the money. I took the funds from the vault. I gave them to Thurber. He said that he would take them into your office, Mr. Talmadge—”

“Just a moment, Brooks,” interposed the chief detective. “Before you go on with this, tell us why you were on that outgoing train in Baltimore.”

“I was going to Westgate,” responded Brooks. “I wanted to see a man named Philip Garmon, a friend of Thurber’s. I was acting upon Thurber’s suggestion. Garmon is opening a new bank; I thought I might get a better job there.”

“So you were dissatisfied here?” quizzed the detective quickly.

Brooks saw his mistake. He shrugged his shoulders and glared past the detective, toward Thurber.

“Talk to Thurber,” he said. “Ask him what he did with the money. He had it the last I knew.”

“Call Westgate,” said the detective to one of his men. “Find out about this man Garmon. Westgate’s a small place; the police would know who he is.”

He swung toward Thurber and put a question.

“Can you answer this charge?” the detective asked.

Harold Thurber shook his head sadly. He looked around the group of committeemen. He stared at Sherman Brooks with a gaze that was almost pitying.

“I am sorry,” he said, “that I can do nothing to substantiate what Mr. Brooks has said. By accusing me, he has proven his own guilt. I had hoped that Brooks was not to blame; that he could have helped us in the recovery of these funds. He states that I came into his office at ten minutes of two. That is untrue—”

“You lie!” cried Brooks. “You were there, Thurber, and you know it! You knew I was taking the train at two o’clock. You told me to go on to Westgate—”

The words faded on the lips of Sherman Brooks. The cashier could see that no one was accepting his statement. The members of the Civic Relief Committee were glaring at him with accusing eyes. Bewildered, Brooks sensed a bombshell. It came.

“GENTLEMEN” — Thurber was turning to the members of his committee — “it is evident that Brooks was not aware of my whereabouts today. Otherwise, he would not have offered a statement that is so palpably inaccurate. I have no more to say.”

One of the committeemen stepped forward. Ignoring Sherman Brooks as a being beneath his contempt, he spoke to Gorgas Talmadge and the chief detective.

“Our committee conference began at nine o’clock this morning,” the man testified. “Mr. Thurber called the meeting to order. He remained in charge throughout the entire morning. He lunched with us, and we were in conference until three o’clock. Then we went to the bank in company.

“I can vouch that Mr. Thurber was not out of our presence for even one minute all this day, except when he was helping the bank tellers attend to Mr. Talmadge.”

A chorus of unanimous agreement came from the other committeemen. The chief detective turned to face Sherman Brooks. The cashier was stupefied.

“You tried to lay it on the wrong man, Brooks,” growled the detective. “You picked a bum bet. Come clean, now. Who did you meet in Baltimore, to hand that money to? Where were you going when you were pinched?”

“To Westgate,” protested Brooks, bewildered. “To see Philip Garmon — the man who is opening a new bank—”

An interruption came from the doorway. The man who had called Westgate was reporting.

“Word on Philip Garmon,” he announced. “Chief of police at Westgate says that Philip Garmon has been dead for five months. He never was connected with any banking business. He ran a small grocery store.”

Sherman Brooks leaped to his feet. He hurled himself across the room, and grappled with Harold Thurber.

“You double-crosser!” he cried. “You dirty crook! You pulled this job — there in my office — today—”

Half a dozen men were dragging Brooks away. The cashier was screaming his defiance. His words were wild and incoherent. The police had him in charge, roughly shoving him toward the cell room. Those who had intervened were watching the departure. None observed the triumphant, twisted smile that appeared upon Harold Thurber’s lips and faded almost as soon as it began.

“That finishes Brooks,” announced the chief detective grimly. “We’ve got the goods on him. He was clever enough to slip the dough to someone else — but he never guessed that we’d have him pinched in Baltimore. He’s the crook — the cash is what we’re after now.”

Old Gorgas Talmadge was swaying unsteadily. The scene had weakened him; but now he suddenly regained his dignity. He walked across the room and extended his hand to Harold Thurber. The chairman of the Civic Relief Committee accepted the clasp and placed his free hand upon the old man’s shoulder.

“Our bank will stand this loss,” declared Talmadge quietly. “We misplaced our confidence in an unworthy employee. We are responsible. We shall have money on hand tomorrow for the relief fund. The loss of the money is bad enough, Mr. Thurber — but it hurts me more to hear a lying accusation directed against your own good name—”

“That is all right, Mr. Talmadge,” interrupted Thurber, in an even tone. “Brooks has shown his treachery. It is better that he should have made an absurd accusation than one which might have been possible to believe. He has shown his guilt beyond any doubt. He merely made a hopeless effort to save his worthless hide.”

The members of the Relief Committee crowded about the two men now, offering their sympathy to Talmadge, expressing their confidence in Thurber. The chief detective was letting in reporters for an interview. The arrest of Sherman Brooks was on its way to first-page news.

An hour afterward, Harold Thurber left the police station. His statement had been made; the members of the Relief Committee had stood by him to a man. For the first time today, Thurber was alone and free from observation.

A smile flickered over Harold Thurber’s lips. The smile developed into an evil grin. The lips straightened — and once more Thurber’s face remained immobile.

Sherman Brooks had failed in his accusation. He would remain in jail, charged with the theft of two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. But Harold Thurber would be free, a man of honor in Barmouth, for he had established a perfect alibi.

Again a crime had been carried out to perfection. The ground was well covered; the alibis were perfect. Two innocent men had been made to suffer.

But somewhere there was a being whose mind was attracted to these strange occurrences. The Shadow, master of crime detection, whose eyes were everywhere, had seen more than was on the surface of these crimes!