CHAPTER XXXVII
THE LAWYER LIFTED INTO ANOTHER SPHERE
Loide lifted himself on his elbow and looked round. Then heremembered--he was in his room at the New York hotel.
He had entered the room and then--of course, some one had sprung on himfrom behind.
A horrible thought smote him. He plunged his hand into his breast pocketand screamed with rage--the pocket was empty!
The notes were gone!
He sprang to his feet and thought.
What should he do? Give information to the police--would it be safe?
He had--foreseeing possession again--written the Bank of Englandwithdrawing the stop on the notes, saying they were now in his client'spossession.
How then was he to account for the holding of them himself? Would notunpleasant inquiries be made?
Would he be able to answer them--without danger?
Had all his labor been in vain? How had the robber possibly known thathe had these notes in his possession?
At the money changer's he had purposely only spoken of one.
He knew it was not the work of a common hotel thief, for his studs,watch, and loose money had not been touched. It must have been some onewho knew.
He would, at that moment, have cheerfully given one of the missing notesto know who the thief was.
He was afraid to go to the police, to say that he was an English lawyerbringing the money over to his client, Depew, and that he had beenrobbed, because if there was a real Depew, he would step forward andclaim the money, and he--Loide--would be worse off than ever.
Besides, what explanation of his attempt to cash the one note could hegive?
There was the thousand pounds fortunately saved from the robbery. Thiswas safe in the money changer's hands. He looked at his watch. By thetime he reached the banker's office, time would have elapsed, the replycable would probably be back.
He would secure the thousand pounds first, and consider what he shoulddo about the others after.
He took a car to Broadway and entered the banker's office.
The money changer looked at him.
"You haf come back--alone, eh?"
"Alone?--yes. I told you I was a stranger in New York."
"Dat vos so. But you haf frents here--frents anxious to meet wit you."
"What do you mean? What nonsense are you talking? Have you got a cableback from England?"
"No, mine frent, nor did I cable out there--I saves the oxpense."
"You----"
"You see, von of the peeples vat is so anxious to meet mit you, he comesin directly you leaf here."
"My--friend?"
"Oh, yes. He know you quite well. He say to me, 'Dat vos my very gootfrent, Meestair Loide, the lawyer, of London, England, eh?'"
"Said--that--to--you?"
"Ogsactly. I say, 'Yes, dat vos so.' Den your frent he answers that hecame after you about stolen notes. He say, 'Dat I change him.' I smile.He go out to seeks you. I am much surprised to see you alone here allby yourself."
"Alone!"
"Yes, because he say that he tink to-day he arrest you."
"Arrest me!"
"Dat is a way vid detectives; dey do dat wid peoples vot steals banknotes."
"Steals!"
"So."
"This is a trick! Give me back my note."
"Your note?"
"Yes--damn you--give me back my money."
"Shacob," the money changer called to his assistant sitting in the glassoffice behind, "will you oblige me by ring up the call for the police."
"Police," said Loide.
"So."
"What the devil do you mean?"
"Vait, mine frent. Do not get oxcited. It is big mistakes. Vait till thepolice come. They explain tings bettaire."
"Curse you!"
"So--if it please you, it pass the times."
"I shall go to my lawyer," he was making for the door as he spoke, "youshall pay for this."
"Ogsactly."
Loide disappeared. He saw a couple of policemen coming along thesidewalk, and promptly jumped on a car going in the opposite direction.
It took him the way of the hotel. There would be time to go in, get hisbag, and leave before the police turned up there.
There was a little money left in the bag; he must secure that.
He got his key in the hotel office, and was carried in the elevator tohis floor.
Locking himself in his room, he tore open his bag, and threw thecontents on the floor.
Papers--he crammed them into the grate, and, applying a match, set themburning. He destroyed everything which would link him with the name ofLoide.
Then he started to resume the disguise which had been so successful onthe boat. He would be safe in it, he thought.
He would wait for the police, and give another name and--and then thereflashed to his memory the recollection of the register! He had signedthere his full name, Richard Loide. His signature would convict him.
He sank with a groan on the bed. What should--what could he do?
The police were on his track without doubt, or why the call at themoney changer's? What a fool he had been to set foot in America--howcould he set foot out of it?
If he was to escape, there was no time to be lost. He took his bag inhis hand and passed out into the passage.
Looking over the staircase, he saw on the ground floor two policementalking to the hotel clerk. Was he too late?
One of the officers stepped into the ever moving elevator. Slowly he wasbeing borne upwards.
What should he do? The thought occurred to him that they would find hisroom empty, and think him gone.
He would hide--on the floor above. They would not think of searchingthere.
He sprang into the elevator--he should have waited for the next upcoming car--the floor was nearly level with his knees when he jumped.The result was that he slipped, staggered, and fell prone on the floorof the lift, his head projecting.
Before he could move, the floor of the compartment reached the nextfloor of the building.
There was a scream of agony, a sudden wrenching jerk which shook thelift and halted the powerful machinery for half a moment, and then thecars went on in their old automatic way.
But when the policeman alighted on the floor on which room No. 14 wassituate, he was horrified to see a bleeding human head staring him inthe face, and marked the trail of blood across the floor leading to it,while the policeman below was equally shocked when the lift reached theground to see the headless trunk of a human body lying on the floor.
The coroner's jury brought in the usual verdict.
Loide had at one time feared death by hanging, English fashion; later byelectrocution, American fashion; he had never feared a Frenchperformance--the guillotine--and yet, after all, decapitation was hisend.