Talmadge stepped back in amazement. He looked at Thurber; then at Brooks. The cashier tightened his lips and continued his accusation, amid a strange, incredulous silence.
“At ten minutes of two,” he repeated. “That’s when Mr. Thurber entered my office and told me to give him the money. I took the funds from the vault. I gave them to Thurber. He said that he would take them into your office, Mr. Talmadge—”
“Just a moment, Brooks,” interposed the chief detective. “Before you go on with this, tell us why you were on that outgoing train in Baltimore.”
“I was going to Westgate,” responded Brooks. “I wanted to see a man named Philip Garmon, a friend of Thurber’s. I was acting upon Thurber’s suggestion. Garmon is opening a new bank; I thought I might get a better job there.”
“So you were dissatisfied here?” quizzed the detective quickly.
Brooks saw his mistake. He shrugged his shoulders and glared past the detective, toward Thurber.
“Talk to Thurber,” he said. “Ask him what he did with the money. He had it the last I knew.”
“Call Westgate,” said the detective to one of his men. “Find out about this man Garmon. Westgate’s a small place; the police would know who he is.”
He swung toward Thurber and put a question.
“Can you answer this charge?” the detective asked.
Harold Thurber shook his head sadly. He looked around the group of committeemen. He stared at Sherman Brooks with a gaze that was almost pitying.
“I am sorry,” he said, “that I can do nothing to substantiate what Mr. Brooks has said. By accusing me, he has proven his own guilt. I had hoped that Brooks was not to blame; that he could have helped us in the recovery of these funds. He states that I came into his office at ten minutes of two. That is untrue—”
“You lie!” cried Brooks. “You were there, Thurber, and you know it! You knew I was taking the train at two o’clock. You told me to go on to Westgate—”
The words faded on the lips of Sherman Brooks. The cashier could see that no one was accepting his statement. The members of the Civic Relief Committee were glaring at him with accusing eyes. Bewildered, Brooks sensed a bombshell. It came.
“GENTLEMEN” — Thurber was turning to the members of his committee — “it is evident that Brooks was not aware of my whereabouts today. Otherwise, he would not have offered a statement that is so palpably inaccurate. I have no more to say.”
One of the committeemen stepped forward. Ignoring Sherman Brooks as a being beneath his contempt, he spoke to Gorgas Talmadge and the chief detective.
“Our committee conference began at nine o’clock this morning,” the man testified. “Mr. Thurber called the meeting to order. He remained in charge throughout the entire morning. He lunched with us, and we were in conference until three o’clock. Then we went to the bank in company.
“I can vouch that Mr. Thurber was not out of our presence for even one minute all this day, except when he was helping the bank tellers attend to Mr. Talmadge.”
A chorus of unanimous agreement came from the other committeemen. The chief detective turned to face Sherman Brooks. The cashier was stupefied.
“You tried to lay it on the wrong man, Brooks,” growled the detective. “You picked a bum bet. Come clean, now. Who did you meet in Baltimore, to hand that money to? Where were you going when you were pinched?”
“To Westgate,” protested Brooks, bewildered. “To see Philip Garmon — the man who is opening a new bank—”
An interruption came from the doorway. The man who had called Westgate was reporting.
“Word on Philip Garmon,” he announced. “Chief of police at Westgate says that Philip Garmon has been dead for five months. He never was connected with any banking business. He ran a small grocery store.”
Sherman Brooks leaped to his feet. He hurled himself across the room, and grappled with Harold Thurber.
“You double-crosser!” he cried. “You dirty crook! You pulled this job — there in my office — today—”
Half a dozen men were dragging Brooks away. The cashier was screaming his defiance. His words were wild and incoherent. The police had him in charge, roughly shoving him toward the cell room. Those who had intervened were watching the departure. None observed the triumphant, twisted smile that appeared upon Harold Thurber’s lips and faded almost as soon as it began.
“That finishes Brooks,” announced the chief detective grimly. “We’ve got the goods on him. He was clever enough to slip the dough to someone else — but he never guessed that we’d have him pinched in Baltimore. He’s the crook — the cash is what we’re after now.”
Old Gorgas Talmadge was swaying unsteadily. The scene had weakened him; but now he suddenly regained his dignity. He walked across the room and extended his hand to Harold Thurber. The chairman of the Civic Relief Committee accepted the clasp and placed his free hand upon the old man’s shoulder.
“Our bank will stand this loss,” declared Talmadge quietly. “We misplaced our confidence in an unworthy employee. We are responsible. We shall have money on hand tomorrow for the relief fund. The loss of the money is bad enough, Mr. Thurber — but it hurts me more to hear a lying accusation directed against your own good name—”
“That is all right, Mr. Talmadge,” interrupted Thurber, in an even tone. “Brooks has shown his treachery. It is better that he should have made an absurd accusation than one which might have been possible to believe. He has shown his guilt beyond any doubt. He merely made a hopeless effort to save his worthless hide.”
The members of the Relief Committee crowded about the two men now, offering their sympathy to Talmadge, expressing their confidence in Thurber. The chief detective was letting in reporters for an interview. The arrest of Sherman Brooks was on its way to first-page news.
An hour afterward, Harold Thurber left the police station. His statement had been made; the members of the Relief Committee had stood by him to a man. For the first time today, Thurber was alone and free from observation.
A smile flickered over Harold Thurber’s lips. The smile developed into an evil grin. The lips straightened — and once more Thurber’s face remained immobile.
Sherman Brooks had failed in his accusation. He would remain in jail, charged with the theft of two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. But Harold Thurber would be free, a man of honor in Barmouth, for he had established a perfect alibi.
Again a crime had been carried out to perfection. The ground was well covered; the alibis were perfect. Two innocent men had been made to suffer.
But somewhere there was a being whose mind was attracted to these strange occurrences. The Shadow, master of crime detection, whose eyes were everywhere, had seen more than was on the surface of these crimes!
CHAPTER VI
THE SHADOW SUSPECTS
A CLICK sounded amid darkness. A pale-blue light appeared in mid-air. Its weird rays threw a lurid glow upon the polished surface of a table. Yet within that sphere of light there was no sign of a living being.
The bluish glare seemed to fade at its outermost edges. It was a solitary gleam that was battling with surrounding darkness that restrained the light like a living shroud. The very atmosphere betokened the presence of some sinister, living being.
This was the single light in the sanctum of The Shadow. Somewhere in Manhattan, tucked away from the roar and bustle of crowded New York, this spot formed the sanctuary where a master mind evolved its mighty plans to cope with hidden crime.
Of all mysterious abodes, The Shadow’s sanctum was most amazing. Its very existence was not even suspected. The Shadow, himself, was a mystery. His true identity was unknown. Yet he was recognized as a personage of power whose strange activities were not restricted to New York alone.