The Red Seal by Natalie Sumner Lincoln (ink book reader .TXT) 📖

as she put the question, but Kent, puzzling over his partner’s eccentric conduct, hardly noted her agitation.

“Yes. I saw the account just now in the morning paper,” he answered. “A shocking affair. Poor Turnbull! He was a good fellow.”

“He was!” Barbara spoke with unaccustomed vehemence, and looking at her Kent saw that her eyes were filled with tears. Impulsively he threw his arm about her, holding her close.

“My heart’s dearest,” he murmured fondly. “If there is anything - anything I can do -”

Barbara straightened up and winked away the tears. “There is,” she said tersely. “Investigate Jimmie’s death.”

Kent gazed at her in astonishment. “Please explain,” he suggested. “The morning paper states very plainly that the cause of death was an attack of angina pectoris.”

“Yes, I know, and that is what Philip Rochester contends also.” Barbara paused and glanced about the office; they had the room to themselves. “B-but Helen believes otherwise.”

Kent drew back. “What do you mean, Babs?” he demanded.

“Just that,” Barbara spoke wearily, and Kent, giving her close attention, grew aware of dark shadows under her eyes which told plainly of a sleepless night. “I want to engage you as our counsel to help Helen find out about Jimmie’s death.”

“Find out what?” asked Kent, his bewilderment increasing. “Do you mean that Jimmie’s death was not the result of a dangerous heart disease, but of foul play?”

Barbara nodded her head vigorously. “Yes.”

Kent sat back in his chair and regarded her in silence for a second. “How could that be, Babs, in an open police court with dozens of spectators all about?” he asked. “The slightest attempt to kill him would have been frustrated by the police officials; remember, a prisoner especially, is hedged in and guarded.”

“Well, he wasn’t so very hedged in,” retorted Barbara. “I was there and saw how closely people approached Jimmie.”

“Did you observe any one hand him anything?”

“N-no,” Barbara drawled the word as she strove to visualize the scene in the court room; then catching Kent’s look of doubt she added with unmistakable emphasis. “Helen and I do not believe that Jimmie died from natural causes; we think the tragedy should be investigated.” Her soft voice deepened. “I must know the truth, Harry, dear; for I feel that perhaps I am responsible for Jimmie’s death.”

“You!” Kent’s voice rose in indignant protest. “Absurd!”

“No, it isn’t If it had not been for my wager with Jimmie, he never would have entered our house disguised as a burglar.”

“What brought about the wager?”

“Last Sunday Helen was boasting of her two new police dogs which Philip Rochester recently gave her, and said how safe she felt. We’ve had several burglaries in our neighborhood,” Barbara explained, “and when Jimmie scoffed at the dogs, I bet him that he could not break into the house without the dogs arousing the household. I never once thought about Jimmie’s heart trouble,” she confessed, and her lips quivered. “I feel so guilty.”

“You are inconsistent, Babs,” chided Kent gently. “One moment you reproach yourself for being the cause of bringing on Jimmie’s heart attack, and the next you declare you believe he died through foul play. You,” looking at her tenderly, while a whimsical smile softened his stern mouth, “don’t go so far as to claim you murdered him, do you?”

“Of course I didn’t!” Barbara spoke with indignant emphasis, and her fingers snapped in uncontrollable nervousness. “Jimmie was very dear” - she hesitated - “to us. Neither Helen nor I can leave a stone unturned until we know without a shadow of a doubt what killed him.”

“That is easily proven,” declared Kent. “An autopsy -”

“Helen asked the coroner to hold one.”

Kent stared - the twins were certainly in earnest.

“My advice to you is to wait until you hear the result of the post-mortem from Coroner Penfield,” he said gravely. “Until we know definitely what killed Jimmie, speculation is idle.”

Barbara rose at once. “I thought you would be more sympathetic,” she remarked, and her voice was a bit unsteady. “I am sorry to have troubled you.”

In an instant Kent was by her side. “Barbara,” he entreated. “I promise solemnly to aid you in every possible way. My only happiness is in serving you,” his voice was very tender. “I slave here day in and day out that I may sometime be able to make a home for you. Don’t leave me in anger.”

“I was not angry, only deeply hurt,” Barbara confessed. “I have so longed to see you. I - I needed you! I -” The rest was lost as she bowed her head against Kent’s broad shoulder, and his impassioned whispers of devotion brought solace to her troubled spirit.

“I must go,” declared Barbara ten minutes later. “Father would make a fearful scene if he knew I had been here to see you.” She picked up her handbag, preparatory to leaving. “Then I can tell Helen that you will aid us?”

“Yes.” Kent stopped on his way to the door. “I will try and see the coroner this afternoon. In the meantime, Babs, can’t you tell me what makes you suspect that Jimmie might have been killed?”

“I have nothing tangible to go on,” she admitted. “Only a woman’s instinct -”

Kent did not smile. “Instinct,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Well, does your instinct hazard a guess as to the weapon, the opportunity, and the motive for such a crime? Jimmie Turnbull hadn’t an enemy in the world.”

Barbara looked at him oddly. “Suppose you find the answer to those conundrums,” she suggested. “Don’t come to the elevator; Margaret Brewster may see you with me, and she would tell father of our meeting.

“Is Mrs. Brewster still with you?” asked Kent, paying no attention to her protests as he accompanied her down the corridor. “I understood she planned to return to the West last week.”

“She did, but father persuaded her to prolong her visit,” Barbara was guilty of a grimace, then hailing the descending elevator she bolted into it and waved her good-by to Kent as the cage shot downward.

When Kent reentered his office he found Sylvester hanging up the telephone receiver.

“Mr. Clymer has telephoned to ask if you will come to the Metropolis Trust Company at once,” he said, and before Kent could frame a reply he had darted into the coat closet and brought out his hat and cane, and handed them to him.

“Don’t wait for me, but go out for your luncheon,” directed Kent, observing the hour. “I have my key and can get in when I return if you should not be here,” and not waiting to hear Sylvester’s thanks, he hurried away.

The clock over the bank had just struck noon when Kent reached the fine office building which housed the Metropolis Trust Company, and as he entered the bank, a messenger stopped him.

“Mr. Clymer is waiting for you in his private office, sir,” he said, and led the way past the long rows of mahogany counters and plate glass windows to the back of the bank, finally stopping before a door bearing the name, in modest lettering-BENJAMIN AUGUSTUS CLYMER. The bank president was sensitive on one point; he never permitted initials only to be used before his name. The messenger’s deferential knock was answered by a gruff command to enter. Clymer welcomed Kent with an air of relief.

“You know Colonel McIntyre,” he said by way of introduction, and Kent became aware that the tall man lounging with his back to him in one of the leather covered chairs was Barbara’s father. Colonel McIntyre returned Kent’s bow with a curt nod, and then Clymer pushed forward a chair.

“Sit down, Kent,” he began. “You have already handled several confidential affairs for the bank in a satisfactory manner, and I have sent for you to-day to ask your aid in an urgent matter. Before I go further I must ask you to treat what I am about to say as strictly confidential.”

“Certainly, Mr. Clymer.”

“Good! Then draw up your chair.” Clymer waited until Kent had complied with his request. “You have heard of Jimmie Turnbull’s sudden and tragic death?”

“Yes.”

“As you know, he was cashier of this bank.” Clymer spoke with deliberation. “Soon after word reached here of his death, the vice-president and treasurer of the bank had a careful examination made of his books and accounts.” Clymer paused to clear his throat; he was troubled with an irritating cough. “Turnbull’s accounts were found in first class order.”

“I am sure they would be, Mr. Clymer,” exclaimed Kent warmly. “Any one who knew Jimmie would never doubt his honesty.”

McIntyre turned in his chair and regarded the speaker with no friendly eye, but aside from that, took no part in the conversation. Clymer did not at once resume speaking.

“To-day,” he commenced finally, “Colonel McIntyre called at the bank and asked the treasurer, Mr. Gilmore, for certain valuable negotiable securities which he left in the bank’s care a month ago. Mr. Gilmore told Colonel McIntyre that these securities had been given to Jimmie Turnbull last Saturday on his presentation of a letter from McIntyre requesting that they be turned over to the bank’s cashier. McIntyre expressed his surprise and asked to see the letter ” - Clymer paused and took a paper from his desk. “Here is the letter.”

Kent took the paper and examined it closely.

“This is perfectly in order,” he said. “A clear statement in Colonel McIntyre’s handwriting and on his stationery.

For the first time Colonel McIntyre addressed him.

“The letter is in order,” he acknowledged, “and written on my stationery, but it was not written by me. The letter is a clever forgery.”