The Midnight Passenger, Richard Henry Savage [best reads of all time txt] 📗

of them all," he murmured. "I am in charge, and no one can displace me. Jack Witherspoon knows nothing, and I can easily placate him by making him one of the estate's lawyers." The golden crown of the millionaire seemed to have descended upon his brows at last.

Yet, while he slept, the enemy was awake and sowed tares! At the Hoffman House Doctor Atwater and Witherspoon sat in conference long after the midnight chimes had sounded. When the young men separated, Atwater heartily grasped his friend's hand. "Poor Randall," he sighed. "Fool, perhaps, even as you or I; but thief and defaulter, no; never. There is some sad solution to this mystery. You must wait till Worthington arrives, and be the champion of our missing friend. I only fear later a discovery of his murder, and, if so, thank God! it will be a cypress wreath; not the stain of dishonor, or the brand of the felon. I am yours, to the last."

As Witherspoon said "Good night" to the little picture of Francine Delacroix, which was his household goddess, he swore an oath of fidelity. "It may leave me poor, separate us for years; but Clayton, dead or alive, shall be found. The Detroit package may unravel a part of this mystery."

It was high noon the next day when Arthur Ferris had completed his arrangements for the hasty trip West. Jack Witherspoon sat in Ferris' private office, stunned with the news of Hugh Worthington's death at Pasco.

For the operator there had loyally sent on to Ferris the first news of the millionaire's demise in laconic words, "Died at ten o'clock, fully conscious. Daughter with him since four A.M. Full Associated Press reports later."

The morning journals only contained a rumor that "Mr. Hugh Worthington's private car was attached to the telescoped train."

"This leaves me in charge of all until Hugh's will is opened," evasively said Ferris. "But it is my duty to go out there. You must remain here, as my representative, until I return. I will telegraph your firm at Detroit that I need you here. They can charge a company fee. Your own honorarium will be paid 'out of the estate.' Now join me here at four. I'll have your orders ready. And you can go to the station with me. I'll wire you, twice a day, and you can report to me, on the train."

"Any clue?" sadly demanded Witherspoon. "Oh! Clayton has got clean away with his swag," said Ferris. "I've published fifteen thousand dollars' reward for him, and ten more for the cheques or any considerable part of the stolen money."

They parted in silence, and Ferris never saw the glare in Jack Witherspoon's eyes. "If he proves innocent, my poor friend, I'll make Ferris, on his knees, eat those cruel words!"

But when he left his new client, so strangely brought into his half confidence, the Detroit lawyer hastened to Adams' Express office.

For two hours he sat alone in a private room and studied over the contents of the mute message of the dead.

There were things in the package which astounded him; there were written words which melted him to tears. The little hoard of twenty-eight thousand dollars in certified cheques was there, with an order for Randall Clayton's active stocks. A duly executed will, in favor of my school-fellow and friend, Jack Witherspoon, lawyer, of Detroit, was accompanied with a letter which gave the history of the abortive attempt to decoy him to Cheyenne.

The last manly lines brought tears to Jack Witherspoon's eyes. "As they cannot lure me to Cheyenne, they may strike at me, even here, and so, before your return. I've left you the little I have. Should aught befall me, you are my sole heir, and the old matter would go to you. Punish Hugh, follow up and defeat Ferris, and win my birthright for Francine Delacroix. Make her your happy wife. We made a mistake, Jack. We should have gone West together at once, and faced old Hugh."

The young lawyer's eyes were filled with tears as he read the rest of Clayton's statement, evidently prepared to offset any attempt on his life.

But he was ready to battle within the enemy's lines, with a calm and unmoved face, when he met Arthur Ferris at four o'clock.

Witherspoon scarcely recognized the man whom he instinctively felt to be Randall Clayton's murderer. There were great furrows in Ferris' pale cheeks as he handed him a telegram. "I believe that the whole world is going mad," desperately said the baffled Ferris. "Just read those lines from a now helpless and orphaned girl."

The men who were to fight out a battle to the death eyed each other in silence. Witherspoon scarcely could credit his eyes, as he read again and again the few words of the imperative message.

"My father died this morning. Do not join me. Send no telegrams or letters. I am coming, at once, to New York. Remain in charge until I come with my lawyers from Detroit. I will have my father's will and all his papers. I act under his last wishes. Find Randall Clayton, dead or alive.

"ALICE WORTHINGTON."

"Now, tell me, Witherspoon, is not that girl mad?" hoarsely cried Ferris. "I suppose that all the railroad people and our ranch men have gathered around her, and she has dozens of volunteer advisers. By God! I'll straighten her out when I meet her."

The young Detroit lawyer met Ferris' agonized glances squarely, and his voice rang as coldly as the clang of steel when he quietly said, handing back the papers: "I must tell you, Mr. Ferris," he answered, with decision, "that I release you from any obligation to me for my services so far. I shall decline to express any personal or professional opinion in this matter until I get further orders." Ferris sprang back like a tiger cat at bay.

"Orders! Orders from whom?" he almost yelled.

"From my seniors at Detroit," quietly answered Jack, "or from Miss Alice Worthington. I am surprised at tne tone in which you refer to her! What are your claims upon her?

"Of course, as a brother professional, you know that your power of attorney from poor old Hugh ended with his appallingly sudden death. That demise also vacates the letter of instructions given to you."

"But I am the vice-president of the company," growled Ferris, scenting a possible enemy in the imperturbable young advocate. "True, but you are not a judge on the bench. You have suspended all the officers here, usurped their powers, and taken great responsibilities. Do you control a majority of the stock of the Western Trading Company?" Ferris winced.

"Of course, you know I don't; but the Worthington estate does!"

"What power have you to represent that estate?" pursued the unpitying Witherspoon.

"It looks as if Miss Worthington would act herself, and, also, have other advisers. I now, as a friend to all parties, warn you that you will be held responsible for all your acts here. You must not ask me for any further advice."

"I suppose you will volunteer your legal acumen to the young heiress, now!" sneered Ferris. He regretted his brutal outbreak, for John Witherspoon rose with calmness.

"I own five hundred shares of the stock myself, earned as a fee, from the late Mr. Worthington.

"I shall claim my right to have access to the company's public offices, and to watch your strange floundering around here. We will drop our social and personal intercourse right here - forever. Your last remark is so vile that it is beneath contempt."

Witherspoon was at the door when Ferris laid his pleading hands upon his arm.

The Detroit man shook them off. "I warn you, Mr. Ferris," he said, "that a very reputable minority of the community, if not a majority, will believe that Randall Clayton was waylaid and murdered. Now, until you can show him up as a thief, I recommend you to use charity and forbearance. It is my belief that there has been some damnable foul play here."

The dejected Ferris sat for an hour with his head buried in his hands, before he dared to answer his girl wife's imperative telegram. "I must wait here like a tongue-tied dog," he growled.

"Has the will made her a sole legatee? If so, I must work on her feelings. I was a fool to quarrel with this fellow. He was another of the school-time playmates!"

When Ferris sneaked out to send a submissive dispatch to his wife, he was tormented by the stern words of the young orphan's telegram. "I act under his last wishes. Find Randall Clayton, dead or alive."

"There is trouble ahead," mused Ferris, "and I have made enemies of all the officials here. But Alice is mine. I hold her in the hollow of my hand. My wife! That she cannot gainsay."

When he had sent off his message he felt strangely cheered by the reflection that Worthington probably left ten to fifteen millions behind him.

"There's enough for all," he cheerily reflected. "I'll let her play 'Miss Millions' a bit, but when the probate proceedings come up, she'll find a husband is a hard thing to deal with."

He was wandering back to the office, determined to remove at once all of his private data and personal effects to the Fifth Avenue, when he stumbled over the policeman on the beat.

Sturdy Dennis McNerney flourished his club in a passing salute. "Bad business, sir, this of Mr. Clayton," said the stalwart Irish-American. "Is it true there's twenty-five thousand reward out?"

With a sudden inspiration Arthur Ferris paused. "Mac," said he, "I am deeply interested here. I'll give you personally five thousand dollars more for the first clue; mind you, no publicity."

The policeman's eyes sparkled. "Word of honor?" he said. "Yes! I'll write it in your presence, seal it, and give it to you - this promise, if the clue leads to Clayton, dead or alive."

The two men walked along in the streaming crowd. Ferris felt instinctively that the officer was holding something back.

"What do the reporters say?" hesitating remarked Ferris. "All in the dark - a pack of fools - unless it's a crime that gives itself away to any one. They know nothing, and the force has not picked up a pointer. Strange, strange, that the job was so neatly done!"

"What do you mean?" quickly queried Ferris.

"Oh! Any gonoph can see that the man was murdered for the stuff!" resolutely said McNerney. "He was no fellow to clear out! His life was clean as a whistle! I know all about him!"

"How can you prove that?" hotly said the excited lawyer. "Because all the men on the force, from here to his rooms, and around town, knew him for a clean, civil, honest, steady fellow - one in ten thousand. Thief, he? Never!" said McNerney. "Not on your life!"

Ferris stopped. "I will be at the Fifth Avenue, night and day," said the vice-president, "either there or at our office. You can come to my rooms at your will. I'll leave word for your admittance. You'll have your money in ten minutes if you turn up any sign of him."

As the men separated McNerney strolled down to the corner where he had seen Clayton and Leah Einstein enter the carriage. "Here the poor fellow began his ride to death," mused Dennis.