The London Crimes

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.”

“But The Harvester would!” ejaculated Lewsham. “In order to avoid writing a signature that was not his own; one that would have been suspected. Craybaw’s! He passed that issue last night, as well, when he refused to sign letters that Hervey brought to him!”

SPECULATION ended as Lewsham suddenly remembered the great task at stake. Nearly half a million pounds had been gained by a master crook. That, to Harry Vincent, meant the staggering sum of close to five million dollars.

Lewsham went for the telephone in Craybaw’s office. He put in a telephone call to the managing director’s home in Tunbridge Wells. The reply came that the line was out of order. Lewsham hurried through the conference room. He called to men outside. Half a dozen C.I.D. operatives came at his command.

“Fifteen minutes ago,” announced Lewsham, studying his watch, “Inspector Delka and Sir Ernest Jennup left here with a man whom they thought was Justin Craybaw. It was not Justin Craybaw. That man was an impostor. He was The Harvester.”

The Scotland Yard men stared in amazement.

“The Harvester carried a pigskin traveling bag,” added Lewsham, grimly. “It probably contains nearly half a million pounds. Sir Ernest and Inspector Delka do not know of the bag’s contents. They are taking The Harvester to Tunbridge Wells. They will be there within the next thirty minutes.

“Their destination is the home of Justin Craybaw, where The Harvester will still continue to pose as the owner. Our one hope is to arrive there before he learns that we have uncovered his game. We can not rely upon the local authorities at Tunbridge Wells. The Harvester would outmatch them.

“I shall ride in the first of three swift motors, leading the way to Craybaw’s. We shall deploy about the grounds and close in to trap The Harvester. You, Tunning, and you, Dawsett, arrange for the cars at once.”

Two men hastened to call Scotland Yard. Lewsham paced the conference room, then delivered a new order:

“Parkins, you will call Tunbridge Wells from here, immediately after my departure. Do not call Craybaw’s home; that would be useless, for the telephone is out of commission. Communicate with the local authorities. Tell them to meet us on the road this side of High Brooms. Do not name our destination; otherwise they might blunder. Say that I am coming. That should prove sufficient.

“Keep Blessingwood and Vincent here with you. We shall need their testimony later. Also that of the Rajah of Delapore. Have him remain after he arrives. Wilton will stay with you. Summon more men from headquarters should you need them. Another call, also. To Croydon Air Field. Have planes set out for Tunbridge Wells in exactly” — Lewsham paused to glance at his watch — “in exactly forty minutes after my departure. They must not arrive overhead until we have formed a cordon.

“Blessingwood will give the location of Craybaw’s home, to identify it for the air men. Procure a map at once, Blessingwood. We must ensnare The Harvester should he attempt to escape by air.”

Lewsham paused, breathless. He glanced from the window. It was slightly foggy still, here in London; but the visibility would be good, south of the city. It lacked a full hour until dusk, even though the afternoon had waned.

“Duties for you two,” announced Lewsham, turning to the last pair of subordinates. “Burleigh, you are to apprehend a man named Lionel Selbrock. You will find complete data concerning him in my office at headquarters. He is presumably in Carlisle, a fact of which we have no proof other than a telegram.

“Nevertheless, watch the proper railway stations. Also his hotel. Have all the motorized units of the Flying Squad ready to arrest the man on sight. Cover his hotel, the Addingham. Spare nothing in this duty, Burleigh. Here, I shall give you a written order.”

Lewsham pulled a pad from his pocket. While he was scrawling the order, he gave similar instructions to the last of his six men.

“Layton, you have a man to trap. His name is Jed Ranworthy, secretary of his excellency, the Rajah of Delapore. Question the rajah about Ranworthy, who is supposed to be in Yarmouth. Whatever the rajah’s opinion of the man’s honesty, do not shirk your duty. Data on Ranworthy will be found at my office. Use it.”

Lewsham scrawled a second order. Hardly had he finished before news came that the motor cars were in Threadneedle Street. With Tunning and Dawsett, each delegated as a car commander, Lewsham made haste to reach the street.

HARDLY had the chief gone before the Rajah of Delapore arrived. Scotland Yard men informed him of the circumstances. Questions were asked concerning Ranworthy. The conference room was in a buzz.

Harry Vincent walked into Craybaw’s office to cheer up Blessingwood, who was slumped behind the managing director’s desk.

“It will be a terrible blow to Sir Ernest Jennup,” groaned Blessingwood. “To him and the other financiers who control Rudlow, Limited. Poor Craybaw; his plight must be terrible, for he is either dead or a prisoner somewhere. But neither Justin Craybaw nor myself are owners in Rudlow, Limited. We shall suffer when the concern goes into bankruptcy, but we may find placement elsewhere.

“Who can The Harvester be? This man Selbrock? Or Ranworthy? Could he be” — Blessingwood lowered his voice to a whisper — “could he be the rajah? Or that jeweler, Canonby? Deuce take me!” The comptroller banged the desk with his fist. “I am mistrusting every one!”

Harry Vincent restrained a grim smile. He was pleased, at least, that he had declared himself. Otherwise he, too, would have been under immediate suspicion. Harry saw Blessingwood glance at his watch and shake his head, troubled. Harry knew the man’s thoughts.

Blessingwood was considering the start that The Harvester had gained. Fully thirty minutes, by the time that Sidney Lewsham had managed to give orders and begin pursuit. Time to be more than halfway to Craybaw’s home near Tunbridge Wells.

But Harry Vincent did not share Blessingwood’s apprehensions. Harry was thinking of another factor in the case: The Shadow. The light had dawned. Harry knew where The Shadow must surely be. At Craybaw’s. For Harry’s remembrance of The Shadow’s final words last night came as proof that the master sleuth had dug deeply into The Harvester’s game.

The trail, Harry was sure, was leading to some spot where The Shadow waited. Sir Ernest Jennup could remain a dupe; Eric Delka could continue to be deceived by The Harvester’s game. The Shadow knew the truth. He would meet the rogue who posed as Justin Craybaw. The Harvester was playing into The Shadow’s hands.

Yet in his confidence, Harry still had one bewildered phase? Who was The Harvester? That, Harry decided, was a question that could be answered by only one person other than The Harvester himself.

The Shadow!