From North Bay to Winnipeg on the run to Banff, Clement was occupied mainly by monotony and his own anxious thoughts regarding Heloise. But at Winnipeg they picked up the trail again. Gatineau heard news from Montreal, and both saw the man with his arm in a sling—Siwash Mike.
There was actually nothing fresh concerning the ladies, it was obvious that they had doubled on their tracks in the tangle of railways south of North Bay; that was the first item Gatineau offered as they sat at lunch in the Alexandra Hotel.
“Is that bad news?” asked Clement.
“Well, no,” said the little detective. “They’re coming along here all right.”
“I like the positive sound of that,” smiled Clement. “You are positive?”
“Sure. They’ll follow this big rough neck Neuburg, an’ Gunning.”
“And Neuburg and Gunning?”
“Gone through to Banff.”
“Well, that’s as we expected. Miss Reys will join them there—or rather all of us. We’ll be of the pleasant company, too.”
“Sure,” said Gatineau reflectively.
“Well, then,” said Clement, “all this being as we thought, would you mind telling me what the bad news is?”
“Hey?” cried the little detective, looking up from the soup that is called gumbo.
“You have the ‘how-can-I-break-it-gently’ air. Out with it.”
“It’s Neuburg,” said Gatineau quietly.
“Neuburg?”
“He is the murderer.”
“Well, we’ve always felt fairly certain of that,” said Clement, after the first twinge of horror had run through him. “You mean, the matter is now decided?”
“As certain as we can be from the facts on hand. I’ve just read a message from The Chief. He’s sure. He’s been looking at those old descriptions provided by the Oregon police. Adolf Neuburg is Albrecht Nachbar, wanted for murder by U. S. A.”
“Queer that he should be alliterative in alias,” said Clement. “Arthur Newman.... Why has he used those initials again, I wonder?”
“Criminals do strange things,” said the detective. “It’s a kink in him, I suppose. P’raps Neuburg has a fancy those initials bring luck—that’s the sort of thing one finds in rogues. Or, it may be an easy way to keep his gang together; his A and N may be so characteristic as to guard against forgery.”
“And it may, after all, be mere cleverness. Many people would not credit him with the daring of using names so similar, and be put off the trail.... But the fact is that Neuburg is Nachbar.”
“The Chief is sure; he sends along warning to be mighty spry in dealing with the feller. He’s a tough nut, is Neuburg.”
“I’ve already learned it,” said Clement dryly. “Was the crime a bad one?”
“Real bad. I kept my mouth shut about it until we could be sure—but it was real bad. The feller he killed was a rich dude in Oregon. There was some sort of crazy bucket-shop deal that this feller—his name was Roberts—was interested in.”
“Did Nachbar or Neuburg appear in the deal?”
“He did not.... I see what you mean. His tactics appear to have been the same as now. He didn’t show up in the open, he merely played the part of a disinterested adviser to this rich man’s orphan. Fact is, nobody noticed Neuburg, or Nachbar as he was then, until Roberts died.”
“And he died—how?” Gatineau looked at him quickly.
“He went out on a shooting trip——”
“Yep,” said Gatineau. “That appears to be his method in these things.... Gets people into the wilds. Well, Roberts goes shooting into the wilds and there is a hell of an accident. His gun bursts and he is killed outright.”
“And was it an accident?”
“At the inquest it was. That was the verdict. But when people began poking round they found it wasn’t. I needn’t go into it all, and, in fact, I have only the outline of the business, but the things that came out were these. First, a big, solid block of cash was missing. Second, Nachbar was linked up with that missing cash. Then people began to hunt for things.
“First, they got no change out of Nachbar. He produced letters and papers by the boxful to show that his dealings with Roberts were straight—forgeries, no doubt, but good ones, especially since the victim was a dead ’un—you can bettcher life Nachbar was sound on this. He’s the real brainy bad man, all right, all right. Things were kind of tied up until a fellow from the American Department of Justice began to find the trail of the murder. He found out that Nachbar had been in the district where Roberts was shooting, at the very time of the murder.”
Clement was rather startled. “That sounds rather crude for a criminal of Neuburg’s propensities,” he said.
“Nope, it wasn’t crude. He traveled by a different railway system to a different valley. He didn’t even go near Roberts’s camp. But this detective, who was nosing round, found that he had stayed at a hotel in a neighboring valley for a week end shoot, that he had gone off, early in the morning of Saturday, the day of Roberts’ death, that he went out shooting without a guide, and though nobody could tell the direction he went, he had time to go somewhere close to where Roberts’s body was found.”
“There were other clues of course?”
“They began to come down in a blizzard, once they started. Roberts’s actions had been unusual on that day. First, he had made his plans to go out shooting to the west with a couple of guides. Then, early, he had got a special delivery letter. After reading that letter, he changed his plans, went out shooting alone, and went east—that is, towards the hotel where Nachbar was staying. His body was found about half-way between.”
“But didn’t all this come out at the inquest?”
“The inquest was on a man accidentally killed. These points were passed over as interesting, but not relevant.”
“But the letter—if it made an appointment——?”
“That letter was never found. It wasn’t on him when his body was brought in. Everything on him down to his bootlaces was impounded by the Court, but no special delivery letter was found. Some one had taken that letter from his body after his—apparently—lonely death.”
“It must have been signed for? Didn’t the postoffice know anything about it?”
“Nachbar wasn’t the one to slip-up over a detail like that. It had been sent from Roberts’s home district in a faked name—couldn’t be connected with Nachbar or the hotel where he was staying for his shoot. Still, it was a link. And on top of that it was found the gun that killed Roberts—wasn’t his.”
“What!” cried Clement in a startled tone.
“No, it wasn’t his. It looked like his. It was just the sort of Winchester magazine rifle he used, but the dealer found the number and proved it wasn’t his. Some one must have swopped guns with him—while he was out, apparently, alone. And the gun he got in exchange for his own was a gun meant to burst and kill, an’ did burst an’ kill.”
“Devilish!” cried Clement. “And his own gun—was that traced?”
“Did you think it would be? No, it wasn’t. It was proved that Neuburg had also left his hotel carrying a Winchester magazine—easy to effect a change, you see, an’ when he came back with the same sort of gun on his shoulder nobody had reason to suspect it was Roberts’s gun—then. Moreover, when Neuburg’s rooms were searched, it was found that he had kindly left an identical Winchester rifle behind—an’ it wasn’t Roberts’s.”
“An alibi. He could swear that this gun was the gun he used on that murderous weekend.—Has the burst gun been traced?”
“No. But, of course, it is only a detail. It is obvious that Neuburg or Nachbar did that murder, though full facts have to be proved.”
For a moment they sat silent, and Clement, anyhow, was appreciating the full meaning of this revelation. Roberts’s murder, Heloise Reys’ case—how they ran parallel. Roberts was a victim because of his wealth—Heloise Reys was possessed of a million pounds. Nachbar kept in the background as far as Roberts was concerned. He was an advising friend; Neuburg played the same rôle to Heloise Reys. Roberts had been lured into the wilds; Heloise Reys was, even now, being lured into the wilds. Roberts was killed by a secret, brilliant “accident;” Heloise Reys ... Clement shivered. He stared at Gatineau.
“I told you,” said the little detective, “because I think it best to know exactly the ways and methods of this brute.”
“I understand,” said Clement. “And then there is the brighter side, too. It is certain that Neuburg is Nachbar. He’ll be arrested. When?”
“The Chief tells me he is getting a move on already,” said the little detective, and Clement caught a hint of hesitation.
“Does that mean that Nachbar won’t be arrested at once?”
“Not at once.”
“But—but that’s incredible. He’s a murderer, and you can arrest murderers without warrant, surely?”
“We can—if we’re dead positive they’re murderers.”
Clement gave vent to a gesture and an exclamation of despair.
“See here, Mr. Seadon,” broke in Gatineau. “Don’t you condemn the police in a hurry. Recollect that, keen as we may be, we can’t go about arresting folk off-hand. We’ve got to be sure we ain’t running innocent men into jail—an’ disgrace. This is complicated. It’s an old crime. We don’t know whether the American police have dropped it, or caught their man, or have definite news that proves Neuburg isn’t the feller we think he is. Until we can be sure we daren’t move. We’ve got to get in touch with the U. S. A. before we can hold him.”
“That’s logical, I suppose, but it is also rather terrible. And it will take—how long?”
“A few days at least.”
A few days! Clement stared at the little detective: what might not happen in a few days?
“She’s got us anyhow,” said Gatineau, reading his thoughts.
“Yes, she’s got us, and it lies with us to keep Neuburg or Nachbar so that he won’t have time to do anything—critical. But I confess I’m rather fearful, Gatineau.”
And a little later in the day, things appeared even more disturbing.
Clement Seadon and the detective had made their way through the underground passage that leads from the great hotel to the railway station. They were to catch the train west to Banff. They were emerging into the booking hall when Gatineau caught hold of the Englishman’s arm.
Instinctively Clement looked ahead.
Seen through the glass swing-doors of the passage a young man passed towards the platform walking swiftly. He was a slim, lithe young man with a dark, aquiline face. And he had his right arm in a sling. There was no mistaking the curious lilting walk, as there was no mistaking the features of the man.
“Good God!” said Clement “Siwash Mike! Siwash here—why?”
“Not trailing us anyhow, I guess,” said Gatineau.
“How can you say that?”
“He hasn’t the air—an’ then, he’s got a grip in his hand. He is going to catch the westbound to join brother Neuburg at Banff.”
“Perhaps,” said Clement, remembering how they had been tricked before. “But why is he in Winnipeg?”
“That’s easy,” said the detective. “He probably got in here over the other railway north of Cobalt, and has changed onto our line for Banff. But we’d better watch him.”
They followed the half-breed cautiously, and saw him follow the crowd up the steps of Platform 6. There was no doubt that he was watching the westbound. Like a flash Gatineau did not go up the steps of Platform 6. He nipped up the steps of Platform 4. They arrived on the railway level just in time to see Siwash gain the platform. They took cover, and across the station watched him. They seemed astonishingly close, but it was obvious that he was not suspicious; he did not throw a glance their way.
Almost at once Clement said, “There is something more in this than merely catching the westbound, Gatineau. He’s waiting near the exit—for some reason.”
“He’s waiting for somebody, I guess,” said Gatineau. “Somebody who is stopping off the Montreal train.”
Clement’s heart jumped. Somebody who was stopping off from the transcontinental train—who could that somebody be? Heloise? Certainly his heart fluttered. Perhaps after all this was the end of the chase. It was more than likely Siwash had received some message from Neuburg at Winnipeg—he’d know how and where to pick one up, and that message had warned him to meet this train and Méduse and Heloise who came by it. He thought that quite likely, and then Gatineau said, “But why that grip?”
Yes, that was a puzzle. If he was meeting some one, why carry baggage for a journey?
With its loudly clanging bell the great train steamed slowly into the station. Both men watched the half-breed with the keenest attention. He stood there quite passively as the passengers thronged out of the cars. He watched them indolently as they passed him in a stream. Then with an air of casualness he picked up his grip and strolled towards the train.
“Damn,” grunted Clement. “Nothing at all. He’s just going to board the train. Look here, we must look slippy, too, if we are to travel by her also.”
He picked up his own grip, began to move out to cross the intervening rails and platforms to the train. Gatineau said suddenly, “Hold on—ain’t that long scarecrow of a feller interested in our pal?”
Clement shot a look towards the train. He saw a tall man moving aimlessly after Siwash. Clement did not recognize this fellow until suddenly he caught a flash of a skinny leg and arm as the fellow dodged between the passengers, and he had an abrupt twinge of memory. Where the devil had he seen that scarecrow before?
Gatineau caught his arm and lugged him behind a stack of baggage.
Siwash had walked up to the car in which his seat was reserved. He handed his grip to the black porter, and then, after pretending to mount into the car, had turned back as though to take one last look at Winnipeg. In that moment he swept the whole of the platform with a searching glance—fortunately he kept his eyes on his own platform. Satisfied that there were no watchers, he turned and stared straight at the skinny man. The skinny man was by his side in a moment.
There was a swift talk between the twain. The skinny one listening attentively, and nodding his head as if he understood. Then Siwash took a paper from his pocket, and the other stretched out his long and skinny arm. And at that gesture, memory came to Clement. He remembered acutely such an arm stretching out from a small window clutching at the pistol hand of Siwash. “Heavens!” he breathed. “The fellow from the glue factory—from the Sault Algonquin at Quebec. Another of the beasts on the spot.”
The guards were shouting “All aboard.” Siwash turned and sprang into his car, while the skinny man strode towards the exit. Clement picked up his bag and went in the same direction. Gatineau cried softly, “Say, we can’t monkey about; we’ll miss that train.”
“I’m going to,” said Clement grimly. “I want to find out why that fellow is here.”
“But——”
“And I don’t like him being here,” said Clement. “I’m not going to leave anybody here to wait for Miss Reys unless I know the exact why and the wherefore of his waiting.”
Gatineau was by his side now; he was smiling. “Yep, I rather want to look at that paper myself. Say, if you catch hold of this grip I’ll trail that lad. Best be me—he may have recollections of your outline.”
An hour later Gatineau rejoined Clement in the lounge of the hotel. “That’s the sort of job that makes a feller ashamed to draw his pay,” he grinned, as he sat down. “Easy—made me cry, it was so easy!”
“You’ve got that paper?”
“No, sir; I’m not little Xavier miracle worker yet. But I’ve got him located. He’s in a rooming house in the dark areas off Portage Avenue—room 163 is his number. And he hasn’t the slightest fear that evil men like us are here and interested in him. Walked all the way to his dive without so much as a look round.”
“That’s good; that means that Siwash don’t know we’re here either. He’s gone off to Banff and Neuburg without a suspicion. Well, what next?”
“We just go an’ call on our lean friend—he calls himself Jean Renadier, he’s a French-Canadian all right, though he says he comes from Montreal, not Quebec. I’ve got a man there spotting for me already, one of our local men, an’ I’ve arranged with the police to pull him on the Empress of Prague robbery charge—in silence. Shall we go?”
They went. On the way Gatineau told his plan: “I’ve arranged that we tackle him first, so that he don’t have any chance of destroying any paper. Then when we’ve got him, we call in the police. We’ll just walk up to his room, see? I’ll go in an’ you stay outside, because the sight of you might make him do things to his papers. When I’ve got him you can come in. Is that good?”
The spotter outside the rather dingy rooming house told them that Renadier had not left the building. As they went into it, he drew in, ready to help effect the arrest. Walking in boldly, and with a casual, “Renadier—room 163, ain’t he?” from Gatineau, they were able to mount to the man’s room as though they were friends of his. It was high up in the building, and at the dark end of a corridor. Gatineau softly tried the handle, found the door yielded, strode boldly in, shutting the door behind him—for the man must not catch a glimpse of Clement.
He went in, and there was silence.
Clement heard Gatineau say something, and then the silence came down. It was a curious silence, intense, deep—disturbing. It seemed to draw itself out. It became full of significance. Clement pressed close to the door, listened—nothing! What was happening? Why did not Gatineau give some signal? Why should there be this appalling quiet in that room? It was uncanny, it was unreal—it was ugly.
He bent down in a sudden anxiety and put his ear to the keyhole. Nothing! There was no sound from the room. The room was apparently dead, vacant—a tomb.
He put his hand on the door. As he did so, two sounds came from the room, two soft sounds.
One was a soft knock—it might have been the heel of a boot kicking against the carpeted floor. The other was a slow, animal sound, low, guttural, choking.
With a spasm of fear Clement dashed open the door.
An amazing sight met his eyes.
Gatineau was stretched full length on his back. He was moving nervelessly, struggling feebly. Squatting over him was a tall, inexpressibly gaunt man. This fellow crouched over the detective’s chest with an almost stolid calm. His long, lean arms were stretched downward. His thin, knotty hands were about Gatineau’s neck. He was carefully and calmly throttling the life out of the little detective.
Clement caught one glimpse of the preoccupied face before it turned upon him. The face of this calmly murderous man was utterly transfigured with fear—fear that, somehow, did not interfere with the efficient labors of killing a man. Then the eyes turned to him as he charged forward. The fear in the fellow’s face leaped to an absolute panic at the recognition of Clement—and yet the fellow acted with an astounding calm.
He simply fell flat. He made no attempt at active resistance; he simply fell flat upon Gatineau. Then, as Clement jumped forward, he rolled, quick as lightning, towards him. It was unexpected. Clement in his stride could not check. His foot caught the lank, rolling body, and he pitched forward. As he fell, the other leaped to his feet, and jumped to the door. Clement had shut the door, and he caught at the handle. That gave Clement time to grab at him. As he fell, Clement twisted as he had often done on the football field. He did not try to recover, he let himself go, while trying to fall as near the door as possible. He succeeded enough to enable him to get his hand to the tall man’s ankle. He grabbed and held. He braced himself to resist.
The fellow was astonishing. He did not struggle. For a perceptible instant he stood there at the half-open door, staring down at the man who held his ankle. The look of devastating fear on his face was appalling. Clement had never seen any man so afraid. In that flash—it was no more than a single breath—he felt that the fellow was theirs—he was nerveless with fear. Then the lank man kicked him.
He kicked with his free foot coolly and deliberately—an astonishing kick when Clement recalled the sheer fright on the fellow’s face. So unexpected was it that Clement had only time to half-check the drive of the heavy boot with a quick-flung hand—and then his head rang and he saw a million stars.
After that, confusion. The lank man wrenched himself free and was running. Clement, dazed, tried to get up to go after him. He was knocked sideways by some one rushing by. It was only when he managed to get into the dark passage—that somehow seemed to be misty (but that was that fellow’s boot)—that he realized that the man who had bowled him over was Gatineau. He saw Gatineau running along the passage before him. Gatineau was groggy but determined. Rather groggy himself, he ran after Gatineau.
He had to trust to Gatineau. He couldn’t see the lean man, but Gatineau seemed to know. Gatineau went upstairs instead of down. Gatineau rushed across a roof landing instead of going through one of three doors, and flung himself headlong on to a fourth door. That burst wildly open under his charge, letting in a bewildering flash of daylight. They were on the roof. Then Gatineau was running across the leads, and Clement after him—and, yes, there was the lank man running ahead.
The lank man rushed to the edge of the roof, started back, looked round with his incredibly fearful look, then dodged at a right angle. Gatineau could not check in time to head him off. But Clement could. He cut across the fellow’s path, and, like a fox, the fellow tried to double again. He dodged round a stack, and found Gatineau ready for him, pivoted, and ran for the parapet. He scrambled on to the parapet, and stood swaying, staring about him for a loophole of escape. Between him and the next roof was a ten-foot alley, but the other roof was lower, and he seemed to think it was a chance. Clement did not; he yelled, “Stop that, you fool. You’ll kill yourself.”
It was too late. The fellow had braced himself, had leaped. He went through the air in a way that showed he was no jumper. He seemed to hang in the air for an eternity. Then his feet came down on the parapet on the opposite side. For a breathless moment he hung there, clawing wildly, as though seeking to grasp support from the very air; then his balance went, he sagged backwards, fell, went out of sight with an uncanny abruptness.
“My God!” cried Clement. “My God!” He felt physically sick. Gatineau had no time for sentiment. He was already running downstairs. He wanted to get to the man before the crowd.
Clement Seadon and Xavier Gatineau left Winnipeg by the next west-bound. Gatineau’s throat was a little sore, and Clement’s soul was more than sick at the death of the man who had played a part in his captivity in the gluemaker’s at Quebec; but apart from this they were little the worse for their experience—and little to the good either.
The lank man had fallen into a narrow yard between the houses, and his fall had not been noticed. Gatineau had got to him before anybody else. He had secured all the papers on the poor dead body, and had then seen to it that not only were the police informed, but that the matter was to be kept quiet for the present.
All they had found on the man was a number of letters making it plain that he was Louis Penible, a glue manufacturer of the Sault Algonquin, Quebec. There was also a single telegram signed A. N. bidding him travel at once to Winnipeg, where he would be met by “some one.” This telegram was sent off from North Bay. “Before we caught Joe,” said Gatineau. “It looks as though Neuburg was summoning all his forces to hand rather than anything else.”
The only other piece of paper—the piece that had cost the wretched man his life, the piece Siwash had handed him at the station—was merely a plain sheet containing the address of the rooming house where he had died, and an address, “A. N., c/o Mrs. Wandersun, Sicamous.”
“Beyond telling us that Neuburg has gone on to Sicamous—is not stopping on at Banff—it seems a small thing to have brought about a man’s death,” said Clement.
“It might have been a big thing,” said Gatineau. “It might prove to be a big thing now. Neuburg has one man less, that may be useful to us. It is useful, too, because, so far as we can see, we have the whole gang under our eyes now—two arrested, the steward and Joe, one dead and the rest at Sicamous or traveling to it. We know where we are.”
But they did not know very much. They knew nothing about the whereabouts of Heloise Reys and her evil companion; they had no inkling concerning the plot Neuburg, the master-mind, had devised—save that it was concerned with a great deal of money, and with the luring of the victim into the wilds—just as it had been in Roberts’s case.
They passed across the rolling monotony of the prairies thinking the matter out. They passed through Calgary, a vivid, gold-washed town amid foothills that seemed to cup the sunlight. They heard news of Neuburg and Gunning going on before them, but no other news.
From Calgary they climbed to the fairy ramparts of the Rocky Mountains, austere, snow-cowled, promising immensities and mysteries beyond. They mounted, step by step, the “benches” of the foothills, besides the breathless azure of the shining Bow River. Then abruptly the gate of the mountains was above them, silent, stark, sheer brooding as their train roared through The Gap, and then they were at Banff.
They went by car to the wonderful hotel perched like Aladdin’s palace on a spur amid mighty spurs. It was a peerless place. For the staging of a love scene one might have gone to the ends of the earth and not have found a better setting. The exquisite beauty of the surroundings called to the emotions—and yet Neuburg had rejected this spot and had gone on to Sicamous after but the shortest stay! Why? Clement thought the answer to that unspoken question must be an ominous one.
The Chief had been good at his word. He had sent word along the line, and the C. P. R. people at the hotel were ready for Gatineau. They had a thick bundle of telegrams and reports waiting for him—a bewildering bundle, for it included all Neuburg’s wires to his underlings, Nimmo Bates (that is, Joe Wandersun) at the Place Viger Hotel, Montreal, where (thanks to the cunning of The Chief) he was supposed to be staying with Siwash Mike, and others. It contained the wires Neuburg had received, and it contained reports from The Chief himself, from the agent at Sicamous, and others. A truly awesome mass of paper.
“I think I’ll let you disentangle the story,” grinned Clement. “The very bulk of it frightens me, and I guess you are more used to it than I am.”
“Sure,” smiled Gatineau. “I’ll go through this and knock some sort of connected report out of it. You go an’ try a dip in the swimming pool, Mr. Seadon, an’ leave it to me.” He was running lightly through the duplicates of the telegrams. “Hullo! One moment, Mr. Seadon; here’s one to Méduse Smythe at Winnipeg—that must be to await her coming.”
“What does it say?”
“It tells her to come on here and await orders; it is initialed A. N.”
“Here?” said Clement.
“Yes, sir,” said the hotel manager, who was with them. “Miss Smythe and Miss Heloise Reys are coming to stay here. There is a suite booked for them.”
“And yet Neuburg and Gunning have gone on to Sicamous,” said Clement. “What does that mean? What is behind that move?”
Clement had his plunge in the hot sulphur pool under the slope of a snow-tipped mountain, and, refreshed, went back to Gatineau in the manager’s office. Gatineau grinned at him.
“I guess I’ve made a connected yarn out of this jig-saw all right. In the first place, let me tell you that our dangerous pal Neuburg, Newman, or Nachbar, seems to be fairly certain that he has been given a new lease of life—has days on his hands in fact.”
“What makes you think that?”
“First place, he had booked here for himself and Gunning for an indefinite number of days. Then, quite suddenly, he decided to go off to Sicamous. He sent telegrams to various people—one to meet Siwash at Winnipeg, one to Nimmo or Joe Wandersun at Montreal, and another to sister Méduse—telling of the change. And the reason he feels safe is that you and I are definitely marooned in Montreal. The Chief has played the game as I expected he would. His fake wires coming, apparently, from Nimmo (who we know is in jail) are gems. We are apparently standing baffled in Montreal, hunting about for the trail. One can read between the lines that Neuburg is sure of that—f’r instance the mere fact that he wires to Nimmo at the Place Viger Hotel shows he thinks it all right. Again, his wire to Siwash confirms this. He tells Siwash to come on to Sicamous, not Banff. He also tells Siwash to meet Louis the gluemaker of Quebec on such and such a train at Winnipeg and tell him there is no need to stand by and watch trains for us yet—that was evidently why he was sent for—but to meet Méduse when she arrives and do as she tells him. Oh, Neuburg is certain that we are out of the running for the time being, and it’s because of that, he’s gone off to Sicamous.”
Clement thought for a moment. “Yes, that sounds logical,” he admitted. “With us close up on his heels he would have to rush things. Probably his first plan to checkmate us was a lover’s meeting in this place of lovers. There would have been a—an affectionate reunion, and then, if we were threatened, the pair would have been spirited away. And what would have happened to Heloise Reys when they were lost?”
His face contracted with pain. It was only after a moment that he went on.
“However, what would have happened doesn’t matter. The plan’s changed. He had gone to Sicamous to prepare a more elaborate and a more certain plot—we can take that as certain. And—and the women follow after us?”
“Sure they do that,” put in Gatineau. “They are a day or more behind. As I thought, they did dodge about in that tangle of railways by North Bay for the express purpose of throwing us off the trail. Then they hit the main line behind us, and started west in earnest. They’ll stop off at Winnipeg to pick up news from Neuburg, an’ then they’ll come straight on here.”
“That’s a point that baffles me!” admitted Clement. “Why come here? Why not go straight on to Sicamous?”
“The rest of the story explains something of that. I should say he wants time to be sure he’s got his plans perfect. According to the reports from our Sicamous man, he’s been acting rather strangely at that end. Our feller at Sicamous has sent on train letters, so his statements are full. Neuburg and Gunning arrived in due course at Sicamous station, but instead of going to Gunning’s shack on the lake, they stayed the night at Joe Wandersun’s house—where, of course, Mrs. Wandersun is living.”
“Next morning Neuburg went down to the lakeside and overhauled the big motor boat that Joe uses on the lake, but instead of going in it, the three—the woman as well—came to the station and caught a train for Revelstoke. Revelstoke is the nearest considerable town; they have to travel back towards Banff to reach it. Our agent at Sicamous is a real live man; he ’phoned through to one of our fellows at Revelstoke and caught the same train as Neuburg. Reaching Revelstoke, the trio did some shopping—shadowed by our men. The proceedings were ordinary enough, save that they seemed to show a strange passion for buying medical things. Also, Neuburg, giving Gunning the slip, went into a store where mining outfits are sold and bought several high-explosive cartridges and a quantity of fuse.”
Clement made an exclamation at those words. He stared at the little detective, who said, “No, I don’t see what it signifies, but it is a matter worth noting. But there is something queerer to come. The woman and Gunning went off to dinner in a hotel. Neuburg did not go with them. Instead he went off by himself and found, because he was looking for it, an obscure sort of hash joint. He sat down and ordered a meal. Our fellow who was shadowing him walked in casually and got into a table nearby. Apparently there was nothing odd about Neuburg’s choice, but presently a young, smart-looking feller pops into this joint and sits down at Neuburg’s table. Neuburg was reading a paper by this time, an’ paid not the slightest attention. Soon, though, they got into conversation, just like two strangers. What they said, of course, our feller couldn’t hear, but it didn’t appear to amount to much; soon, too, Neuburg paid his bill and went out with a ‘Well, good-day, stranger. Glad to have become acquainted. I shall certainly try those creeks of yours for red fish.’
“Our feller guessed that Neuburg would go back to the other two—anyhow he risked it. He followed the smart young stranger instead, when he left the hash joint later. This feller sneaked round several blocks, as though he didn’t want people to know where he’d been, and in the end he entered the Grand Dominion Consolidated Bank. In there he went behind the counter, hung up his hat and settled down to work. He was one of the employees.”
There was a very significant pause. Both men looked at each other, and both men were thinking the same thoughts. They were recalling that Neuburg as Nachbar had worked through a bucket shop in his plan for robbing Roberts of Oregon. He was working through a bank now—not, of course, that the famous bank was acting as his confederate, but that the smart young man was. This fellow had no doubt figured in the bucket shop at Oregon, and had managed to worm his way into the bank at Revelstoke to further Neuburg’s ends—since, obviously, the master rogue had planned well ahead.
As Clement reflected on this point he reached for a telegraph form, and at once wrote the following to The Chief at Montreal:
“Find out what interests Heloise Reys has in Revelstoke Branch Grand Dominion Consolidated Bank. Neuburg has confederate there.”
“That may bring something,” he said, as he handed the message to Gatineau. “If Miss Reys has any money in that bank it must have been transferred from the head office at Montreal. The Chief will be able to find out, eh?”
Gatineau said, “Sure,” added a code number to the message, and had it sent off at once. Then he went on with his story.
“After this business Neuburg met the other two in the hotel, and they all went back to Sicamous, where they loaded their purchases into the big motor boat. They didn’t, as our man thought they would, go on up the lake then, but went back to Mrs. Wandersun’s house. It was about one o’clock at night when Gunning and Neuburg actually left for his shack. A railwayman, who had been on watch, woke our feller, and he just had time to see them sneak off in the dark. They took an awful lot of additional packages with them, loading them secretly—a regular sort of moving day, our man writes, as though they were going to stay in the wilds for a hell of a time. The two men only got into the boat, and then, strangely, the boat left, not under power, but rowed.”
“That was Neuburg covering himself up,” said Clement. “Nobody saw or heard him leave, nobody can connect him with—with anything that might happen up at Gunning’s shack in the wilds. I suppose that’s all there is so far.”
“That’s all,” agreed Gatineau. “We know their movements to a dotted ‘i,’ an’ we know Miss Reys is coming on here. I suppose we had best just wait around until she comes?”
“Yes,” said Clement, “there seems nothing else to do at the moment. We must wait for a wire from The Chief about that money, anyhow. But I confess I don’t like waiting. Certainly Miss Reys appears to be coming here, but with these brutes, with that demoniac intelligence of Neuburg’s working against us, I am fearful. Who can say what sudden turn events might take, and—and what terrible crime might be committed without our being able to interpose?”
Clement Seadon was manifestly uneasy. Not barring the path which led from Heloise to the archscoundrel at Sicamous made him feel safe. Not even the exquisite beauty of this delightful place could tranquilize him. He felt that some slip, some chance warning to Neuburg, might bring a calamity. Neuburg, that monster, with his cold, quiet, and uncannily placid intelligence, would act like a flash. He was, Clement felt, being so desperately driven that he would not hesitate to act desperately to attain his ends.
There was no doubting the fiend’s terrible capacity. Clement was sure that, in some way, Neuburg had already arranged to get control of Heloise’s money—or some of her money—through this bank, and his confederate in the bank, at Revelstoke. He had already his evil fingers on that loot. All that he needed was to secure Heloise to make his control of her money complete. And, at a crisis, he would stop at nothing to secure Heloise—that meant her silence—in order to get that money.
Her silence. Clement shuddered. He saw, again, the mental picture of how Neuburg, as Nachbar, had secured the silence of Roberts of Oregon. The dead cannot give evidence.
Clement tried to quiet his nerves by going for a long tramp through the deep spruce woods that clung to the sides of the austere mountains, but half-way through it he became panicky and hurried back to the hotel in case he might miss some crucial message.
There was no message. He had to wait hours before anything came. Then it came from Sicamous. That message, however, was significant enough for those who could get an inkling of the ominous riddle behind it.
The agent at Sicamous reported that a young, dark-faced, slim man with his right arm in a sling had arrived at Sicamous. He had gone to Mrs. Wandersun’s shack. He called himself Lucas, and looked like a halfbreed.
“Siwash on the spot,” commented Clement.
The next fact was that a wire had come through from Méduse Smythe at Winnipeg, saying she was coming straight through to Banff. Immediately on receipt of this, things happened. The man Lucas—despite his bad arm—went off up the lake in a canoe, apparently to Gunning’s shack. On his return there was a bustle. Mrs. Wandersun, in the language of the agent, flacked about like a worried hen.
She had run down to the station and had sent off a train letter to Heloise Reys—to await arrival at Banff—and also another to Méduse Smythe.
Having got rid of these letters, Mrs. Wandersun immediately prepared herself for a journey. That done, she bounced into her neighbor’s shack with a lamentable story of a friend taken dangerously ill up the lake. She said she had wired to his relatives, and she thought they were coming on. She said she was going to her sick friend with the young man Lucas to run the power boat for her, and she asked her neighbors if they would mind telling anybody who might arrive before Lucas returned, that he was coming back from the sick man in order to take them up to him.
Having impressed this upon her kindly friends, she got into the motor boat with Lucas, and went up the lake. Lucas had not returned yet. The agent had not pressed his inquiries for fear of stirring up suspicion.
Clement had listened to the reading of this report with a face grim and white. When it was finished he said, “This seems to be the first move in the definite plot. Once she arrives in Sicamous, Heloise Reys will be spirited away into the wilds. You can see how they have planned it. Nobody but Lucas is to take her there; they don’t want outsiders to figure in this.”
“An’ it seems to me that they don’t want anybody—even Miss Reys—to get there before they are ready for her,” said Gatineau.
“Yes, that seems likely.—Now the letters.”
The one addressed to Heloise Reys was a simple letter stating that Henry Gunning had returned to Sicamous and had gone along the lake to his home. The letter said that Gunning was quietlike, and not quite his usual self. He said he was going to rest up for a while as he felt sort of seedy. The writer concluded by giving directions how to find his shack, and declared himself ready to do all in his power to help Miss Reys. He signed himself—Joe Wandersun.
“Joe Wandersun!” cried Gatineau. “Well, I’m gormed! How did he write that when he’s snug in jail at Montreal?”
“He didn’t write it. It’s a forgery.”
“You mean his wife forged that——?”
“His wife—no. Remember Roberts, man, and how forgery apparently played its part in that case. The same capable scoundrel forged this.”
“Neuburg?”
“Neuburg or Newman or Nachbar, or whatever you like to call him. Forgery is part of his game. And there’s another point. You see it contains a hint of Gunning’s illness—illness is also part of this devil’s game.”
“It says nothing about a dangerous illness.”
“No. Perhaps they’re going to use that as a weapon of shock, to make her lose her head at a moment when it will pay them for her to lose her head. But the other letter—the one addressed to Méduse Smythe?”
The other letter contained a few lines only. They ran:
“All clear. Have seen Landor at Revelstoke. Break your journey there for signatures, etc. Be as clever as you are, my dear, for you are to have a shock at Sicamous. Play up. The Englishman who does not look brainy is safely interned at Montreal.”
There were no initials even, and the message was written in block capitals.
“Bold,” said Gatineau, putting the message down.
“Not so very bold,” said Clement. “The Englishman who doesn’t look brainy is interned at Montreal, you understand. He feels quite safe. He doesn’t think anybody will see that message but Méduse.”
“And you were right about their springing the dangerous illness upon Miss Reys at the last moment. That’s what he means by the shock, eh? And Landor of Revelstoke——”
“The smart young man in the bank is undoubtedly Landor. It all fits in. Miss Reys is to call on the bank on her way to Sicamous to register her signature, and so on. Landor is the man who will interview her. All that is part of their plan for getting hold of her money. You can see how the hellish thing is developing.”
“But how can they get money out of her—how keep her unsuspicious?”
“How did Nachbar plan to keep Roberts of Oregon from giving evidence?”
“My God!” muttered Gatineau. Then he said, “But the money. No woman would transfer a huge sum to a local bank, a bank that may, perhaps, only be going to serve her for a few days?”
“I am waiting for The Chief’s telegram,” said Clement. “That will tell us how much she has in the bank at Revelstoke. It seems illogical that she should have a large sum—yet I fear——”
The fear was realized. In the afternoon The Chief’s wire came. It said:
“Heloise Reys deposited sum £20,000 cash and securities extent £120,000 in Montreal Branch Dominion Consolidated from England before leaving that country. Same time opened account £5,000 cash Revelstoke branch. Week ago authority in own handwriting to transfer all funds securities Revelstoke branch. Most securities easily negotiable. New message. Neuburg is Nachbar. Warrant being issued.”
Of the whole of that pregnant message one passage, and one alone, stood out with a terrible significance.
Neuburg is Nachbar!
Neuburg was Nachbar, the murderer. Neuburg was the cold-blooded genius who slew Roberts of Oregon in the wilds, and for the sake of a huge sum of money. The telegram told that the girl, Heloise, had to hand a great sum of money, and she was being lured into the wilds—lured towards Nachbar, the brute who would let nothing stand between him and his greedy desire.
Neuburg was Nachbar the murderer—and Heloise was to be his next victim. Only dimly he heard Gatineau saying, “He wants to get all that money—£145,000. It’s all under the hand of his tool at Revelstoke. I see how it is. But what beats me is how any one would think of transferring——”
“Did she?” snapped Clement. “Wasn’t it forgery? Nachbar is a forger as well. Couldn’t he have forged that letter ordering the transfer?”
Gatineau cried, “Forgery! Yes, that’s it. That’s damn likely. But even though that letter was forged, I don’t see how they are going to work it. What’s the game?”
Clement suddenly became completely aware of the detective and what he was saying. He echoed the words, “What’s the game? I don’t know. But I’m going to find out. I’m going down to Sicamous now to find out.”
“Now?” gasped Gatineau.
“Now. I can’t wait here passive. Anything might happen. That girl might be prevented coming here, might go right through, might be turned aside. I’m not going to run any more risks. I’m going to Neuburg. Can we catch a train?”
“With a car, easy. There’s one due.”
“Get that car.”
“But to rush right in like this. Is it wise—safe?”
“I don’t care. We’ve been passive too long, anyhow. Come along. Find that car. It’s our turn to attack.”