Through a politician, with whom he was acquainted, Wilbur Field—he called himself John Wilbur—obtained a pass to the Tombs, and, upon presenting it, was readily admitted.
One of the officers on duty within the prison pointed out the cell occupied by Smith.
It was situated at the end of an upper tier, and the visitor found the door open.
Smith had plenty of money, and, of course, favor was shown him.
He dined on the best that a neighboring restaurant could furnish, while less wealthy malefactors were forced to content themselves with meager prison fare.
“Why, Wilbur,” said Tom, throwing down the paper he had been reading and rising from his cot.
The visitor did not press the extended hand very warmly.
“You don’t appear glad to see me,” the broker ventured.
“I came from Norwalk to see you,” was the reply. “Where are my money and bonds?”
“There are ten thousand dollars deposited in your name in the Bank of North America,” answered Smith.
“Ten thousand! why, I gave you more than that to invest. Then there are the profits; they must amount to ten times that sum.”
“Did you not hear about it?” the broker asked.
“About what?”
“The robbery of my safe by Elmer Greer and some of his friends.”
“Elmer Greer!” exclaimed Wilbur; “did that vagabond rob you? I heard of an attempted robbery in your office.”
“Oh, yes. Greer and the others were caught,” said Smith; “there are three of them on the tier below this. The police took the money from them and it is now at headquarters.”
“I know all that,” remarked Wilbur, “but I did not know Greer was in the job. The rascal passed last night at my house. When I again meet him there will be a circus, and I’ll be the leading performer.”
“Indeed, I would be glad if you killed him,” was the pious wish expressed by the broker. “Were it not for him, I wouldn’t be here. Like a fool I allowed him to draw me into the thing.”
“I have all the sympathy in the world for you, Tom, but I haven’t got time to express it,” said the visitor. “I came here to talk business. I must have my money, that is the long and short of it.”
“But I have none,” answered the prisoner. “The police have it all, except the ten thousand dollars, which I deposited subject to your order.”
“You lie!” cried Wilbur, seating himself on the cot beside the broker.
“What I say is the truth.”
“I am not a fool quite,” remarked the visitor, “nor am I a child to be taken in and done for by your gammon. Do you think that I, for a moment, believe that you had everything in an office safe? No, that won’t do.”
“I was going to use the money that afternoon,” said Smith, “but did not. I intended to deposit it and would have done so, but I was arrested. I’ll tell you what I will do.”
“What’s that?” interrupted Wilbur.
“I’ll give you an order for all that is coming to you on the police property clerk,” continued the broker. “I can do no more.”
Smith’s visitor laughed at the proposition, and the prisoner lost his temper.
Under ordinary circumstances he would have feared Wilbur, but he did not now.
“You will not get the money the police have,” Wilbur said, “until you leave prison, and that may be some months or many years. I can’t afford to wait, and I know you must have money stowed away other than this.”
“And I have,” cried the broker. “Heaps on heaps of it.”
“Then everything is all right,” said the visitor, appearing satisfied for the first time since entering the cell. “You are not such a fool after all, Tom. Fill me out a check for fifty thousand on your broker; we can have a final settlement when you get out.”
“Fifty thousand!” muttered Smith; “you are quite reasonable in your demands. Very reasonable, indeed.”
“I am not going to wait here all day,” said the visitor, angrily.
“You can go when you choose.”
“But the money?”
“You will get none from me, neither you nor the other rascal,” cried Smith. “My lawyer tells me the money is mine, and I shall keep it; not one penny shall either of you have. I offered you ten thousand dollars; I take them back.”
“But I gave you over thirteen thousand in cash,” exclaimed the other, becoming greatly excited.
“And, of course, you have my receipt to show?” sneered the broker.
“No, I have not; no!”
Wilbur was furious; up and down the confined limits of the cell he paced, muttering to himself.
Smith, although very nervous, laughed at his visitor’s agitation.
The other saw him, and, standing in front of Tom, looked him in the face.
The broker shrank back from the maddened man.
“Once for all,” said Wilbur, and his voice was hoarse with passion, “am I to have the money?”
“No,” faintly ejaculated Smith. “It is mine—all mine.”
Wilbur sprang upon the prisoner, and the latter attempted to cry out for help, but the other’s clutch on his neck was too tight.
With a strength born of madness, the visitor raised Smith in his grasp, and dashed his head against the stone wall of the cell.
Leaving his victim upon the cot, and drawing the bedclothes over the body, Wilbur stepped unconcernedly out into the corridor.
After leaving the Tombs, the murderer took a Bleecker Street car, and, drawing a newspaper from his pocket, seemed to read it with the utmost unconcern.
Not in the slightest degree did he regret his bloody crime. He did not forget it; it was too fresh in his mind for that; nor did he strive to.
Wilbur was the incarnation of villainy, and at that moment he looked upon himself as a most abused person.
He had lost his money; by killing the man who could have returned it to him, he satisfied his revenge; but still that was not the money.
Wilbur left the car at Sixth Avenue, and, after walking a few blocks, entered a place called “The Cat and Kittens.”
He knew this to be a favorite resort of Greer, and, having a drink, he went into a rear room to wait for him.
Wilbur did not inquire for Elmer at the bar, fearing that when the latter entered and was told a man was waiting for him in the back room, he might take fright and go away again.
For many hours did the banker’s son await the coming of Greer, and at least every fifteen minutes he called for a drink, which resulted in his becoming quite tipsy.
It was near midnight when he heard Elmer’s voice in the barroom, and he went to him.
Greer was surprised to see him, but when Wilbur beckoned, he followed him to the back room.
As soon as they were seated, Elmer said: “Did you see the evening papers?”
“No.”
“Then you haven’t heard about our late friend?”
“What friend?” asked Wilbur, pettishly.
“Tom Smith.”
“What has he been doing?”
“He was murdered in his cell to-day,” replied Greer, expecting that his friend would be carried away with surprise.
“Good for him,” muttered Wilbur. “Have they got the murderer?”
“Not yet,” answered Elmer, “but the paper says the police have an important clew.”
Wilbur became deadly pale, and his heart felt as if made of lead.
“Does it say what the clew is?” he asked.
“No,” replied Greer, a light flashing upon him.
“Why do you look at me so?” inquired Wilbur.
“Oh, nothing.” Greer said this carelessly, but the other could see that his easy manner was forced.
“I am not afraid of you; you dare not inform against me.”
“I thought you knew a little about it,” said Elmer. “You have made a terrible mistake.”
“I could not help it; he goaded me on,” replied Wilbur. “But what do I care? He is not the first that has been removed. What bothers me is the clew you speak of.”
“Smith was my friend,” remarked Greer, drawing his chair back from the table at which the pair were seated.
“Yes, you were quite a good friend of his, too; you tried to rob him, I believe, just to show your friendship. You are a nice gentleman, you are.”
“I am not a murderer.”
“You admit that you are a thief?” said Wilbur. “Cowards like you fear the hangman too much to commit murder. When I die, I hope it is on the gallows that I may spite and disgrace everyone belonging to me. Still, I trust it may be long before my turn comes.”
Greer got up as if to leave, but at the other’s look he again seated himself.
“Did you know that the money at police headquarters, I mean our share of it, is lost to us forever?” asked Elmer.
“You need not worry over that,” said Wilbur. “He has probably provided for you in his will. You were such a good friend of his. The foul fiend preserve me from such friends.”
The banker’s son swallowed a glass of liquor and continued:
“You have also robbed me; that is why I waited to see you.”
“Robbed you? You lie!” exclaimed Greer, becoming angry.
“Had you not broken into the safe, nearly a hundred thousand dollars, which was mine, would now be in my possession and Tom Smith would be alive. You it was who really brought about this murder.”
Greer winced, but he soon recovered his usual coolness.
“What do I care for you or your money?” he said.
Wilbur arose from the table, and, pointing his hand back to his hip pocket, said:
“One murder, more or less, won’t count.”
Elmer was too quick for him.
He had taken out his pistol some minutes before, unperceived, and held it under the table.
“Oh, I’ll block that game!” Greer cried, as he pulled the trigger of his self-cocking revolver.
The murderer of the broker fell to the floor a corpse; even in death, his hand still grasping his pistol butt.