The Steampunk Megapack

by Jay Lake

  He tossed three envelopes onto the table, and in each of the envelopes was five thousand dollars in bills. In the first envelope, which bore the San Francisco postmark, was a piece of white paper, on which was written in a disguised hand, “Returned with thanks by the man who took it.”

  In the second envelope, which bore the Los Angeles postmark, was another and smaller envelope, on the outside of which were written the words, “Herewith the missing five thousand dollars.”

  And in the third envelope, which had the New York postmark on it, was a telegram-blank on which somebody had printed, in capitals, “This money was recently stolen from you; please take it back and forgive the thief.”

  None of the three communications bore any signature, and, beyond the postmark, not one of them gave any clue to its sender’s identity.

  “And now, look here!” said the president. “Not one of the bills contained in either of those envelopes bears a number corresponding to any of the stolen ones; and here’s a telegram I’ve just received from the chief of police in New York, stating that they’ve captured a man there with every one of our missing notes in his possession. Now, what d’you make of it?”

  “Did all those letters come today?”

  “No, they didn’t. You’ve only got to look at the postmarks to tell that! The point is, they’re here. We lost five thousand, and, counting what the police in New York have captured, we get twenty thousand back. That won’t do, of course; all this money here belongs to somebody else; our money seems to be in New York; and as I’m going there on tonight’s train, I will attend to that end of it myself. You must see to this end.”

  “But what do you want me to do?”

  “Your suggestions are very helpful today, aren’t they? In the first place, all those letters were registered; that ought to afford some clue.”

  “I’m afraid not. The post-office people aren’t allowed to give any information.”

  “I know that. But aren’t there ways and means?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, get hold of Newman, then; he’s the receiving-teller that is responsible for the missing bills. Find Out what he knows about it. I’ve suspected that man ever since the money was first missing, but there was no proof to go on; so I said nothing. But get him up here again and give him a regular grilling, and find out what he knows; I haven’t time to see to it myself. I’ve several other more important things to attend to, and after that I’ve got to go home and settle up some business there before I catch the train; so I must hurry. Now, have you got that? Is there anything else I can tell you? Very well, then. Wire me in New York if anything turns up, and I’ll wire you if I get any news from that end. Between the two of us, we ought to be able to throw some light on the mystery.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  Which Enlightens Lizzie Wingfield and Certain Others.

  Lizzie Wingfield might be mournful and hopeless, but she had to have some exercise. Even beautiful maidens whose last left belief is in the scoundrelly depravity of all humanity are apt to study their complexions; she studied hers in the mirror, and then concluded to go out for a walk. Besides, she wanted to meet the tailor-made lady again with the perambulator and tell her all about the burglar who had brought the money back.

  So she arrayed herself in the “going away” dress that formed part of her marriage trousseau and in the dream of a hat that she had bought for the wedding and might just as well take into use now that the wedding was “off,” and started down the stairs.

  And at the top of the front steps she stood still for a second to feel whether or not her hat was on straight; then she glanced once up the street to the left, and once down the street to the right, and nearly fainted. She would have surely fallen down the steps and broken her neck or twisted her ankle or something if Walter hadn’t caught her.

  Yes, there was Walter, just that minute arrived from San Francisco—big, strong, broad-chested, gray-eyed—handsome as any man has a right to be, and neat as a bridegroom. He caught her in his big, strong arms, and so saved the situation and the story. He didn’t kiss her, though. It wouldn’t have been proper to do it out there in the street, and, besides, he wasn’t quite sure yet how he stood. He kept his arm round her, though, in case she should happen to fall again.

  “Oh, Walter!” she exclaimed. “How could you! You a thief? And to think that I loved you and trusted you! Go away! I never want to see you again! I sent you a telegram saying that everything was over between us!”

  “Yes,” said Walter grimly; “that’s why I came! I can’t see any reason for calling the engagement off just because the money was stolen. I’m just as fond of you, and I don’t see how you could have helped it. Besides, why call me a thief? I didn’t steal the money!”

  “Oh, but Walter, you did! You said so in your letter!”

  “Did I? I’d like to see the letter! I must have been dr—I mean I think you must have read it wrong!”

  “Oh!” Her eyes lit up like jewels, lighted from behind by the joy that was new-born in her. “You mean that, Walter? You mean—”

  “I mean exactly what I say, and you’re a little goose! Come, let’s go sit somewhere where it’s quiet, and I’ll tell you all about it and we can compare notes. But tell me first, is the engagement still off?”

  Her answer was inaudible, but its purport must have been absolutely clear to him, for he took her in his arms and kissed her right there and then in the street, to the awful disgust of two elderly ladies who were passing and the horrid envy of a patrolman. But patrolmen don’t count, anyhow. Then they walked into the park, having nowhere else to go, and sat down on one of the benches.

  “Of course,” said Walter, “it’ll be awfully awkward now that we haven’t got that money; but I must ask for my job back again, and you’ll have to come with me to Frisco and try to make both ends meet on my pay. Say, though! I’d give something to lay my hands on that burglar!”

  “The burglar wasn’t a bad man at all he brought me the money back again!”

  “Wha-a-a-at?”

  “It’s a fact, Walter!”

  “Then you’ve got it after all?”

  “No, indeed I haven’t. You see, Walter, I thought—I thought you’d stolen it; so when the burglar gave it back to me I put it in an envelope and posted it straight to the president of the trust company, with a little note inside asking him to forgive the thief.”

  “Well, I’m—” Walter Bavin didn’t finish the sentence. He just stretched his legs out in front of him and threw his head back, and laughed for about five minutes without stopping.

  “Look here, little woman,” he said when he had got his breath back again, “listen, and I’ll tell you all about it. That money of mine was out on mortgage. I’d lent it to a fellow named Newman on the security of his house. Newman is receiving teller, and I was paying teller in the same office. Newman had to repay me the loan by a certain date, but he hadn’t arranged for a new mortgage to replace the old one, and he hadn’t the cash; so he stole it from the safe, meaning, of course, to pay the whole lot back before anybody found it out. I didn’t know about it at the time naturally; but I discovered it almost directly after I’d sent you the money, and as luck would have it the general manager missed the money from the safe on the same day.

  “Now, Newman’s a life-long friend of mine, and I wouldn’t give him away for worlds; but in common honesty, if I didn’t give him away, and especially seeing that I had had the money, I’d got to take the loss on my own shoulders—I mean it was up to me to repay the bank or else expose Newman. Then I got your letter saying that the money was stolen, so I couldn’t get it back from you. But I’d got to do something pretty quickly, so I went to my uncle in Los Angeles and told him I needed five thousand dollars at once. I wouldn’t tell him why, but I suppose he knew I wouldn’t have come to him unless I’d simply got to have it; at all events, he gave me five thousand dollars in bills, and I put them in a registered envelope and arranged for another fellow t
o post them to the bank from Los Angeles. I did it, of course, to save Newman; but it seems the bank’s been paid back twice over.”

  “Did you tell that horrid man Newman what you’d done?”

  “Why, no. I didn’t get the chance. When I returned from Los Angeles he was away from the office on some business or other; and before he came back I got your telegram saying that it was all over between us, so I caught the next train to find out why.”

  “Well, what can you do about it, Walter?

  “Dunno, I’m sure. I’ve got a few hundred dollars with me—enough for a week’s hotel bill and our two fares to Frisco. I vote we get married first and talk about ways and means afterward.”

  And they did, too, that very day, and went and stayed at the Kickerdocker Hotel, and she wore the hat and dress at her wedding after all! What do you know about that?

  She tried to persuade him to stay somewhere that was a little bit less expensive, but Walter wouldn’t hear of it. Walter was wise. He thought he would be more likely to meet people there who were worth meeting, and so he did. He met the president of the San Francisco, Los Angeles and Sacramento Trust Company.

  The president walked in one fine morning and began opening letters and telegrams in the foyer, and Walter, who was loafing in the foyer, walked straight up to him.

  “Glad to see you, sir!” said Walter.

  “Are you?” said the president.

  “I want my job back.”

  “Oh. Well, I’ll talk to you about that in half a minute. Wait while I open this telegram.”

  The president tore it open with his thumb and scowled over it.

  “Thought so!” he muttered. “That accounts for one of them! Read that!” he ordered, handing the telegram to Bavin, “and tell me what you know about it!”

  The message was from Brown in San Francisco, and it ran:

  Newman has confessed to taking money. Also claims that registered envelope bearing San Francisco postmark and containing five thousand is his. Has post-office receipt to prove it. Have suspended him pending receipt of your instructions.

  “Now!” snapped the president. “No beating about the bush! Come up to my room and tell me every word you know about it!”

  So Walter Bavin told him, omitting no single detail.

  “And d’you mean to tell me that you actually borrowed money and sent it to the firm anonymously rather than expose your friend or see the firm robbed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the lady you’ve since married did the same thing, eh? Sent the money straight back because she thought you’d stolen it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d like to meet her.”

  “I’m sure she’d be delighted, sir.”

  So Mrs. Bavin was produced, and blushed becomingly, and told her version of the story, while the president leaned back in his chair and wondered if the days of miracles had come again.

  “So you want your job back again?” he asked, turning to Bavin. “Well, you can’t support a wife properly on the salary you’ve been getting. If you’ll catch the next train back I’ll slate you for a thousand a year increase, and I’ll send a wire on ahead confirming it. I like a man who can be loyal to the firm and his friends at the same time. That settles that.”

  “And about Newman, sir? I don’t think he—”

  “I’ll deal with Newman when I get back!” snapped the president. “And now. Mrs. Bavin, would you mind telling me about that burglar all over again from the beginning?”

  CHAPTER IX

  Which Is Short, and Treats of Ikey

  Ikey was out on bail; his wife had managed that. His address was quite well known to the police, and the president of the San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Sacramento Trust Company, being a very important person with a pull, had no difficulty whatever in obtaining it.

  He refused to say why he wanted it, and he refused for the time being to commit himself with reference to the hundred-dollar bills that had been found on Ikey’s person. He had grown rich by holding his tongue on suitable occasions, and like Ikey, it took more than a policeman to make him talk when he didn’t want to.

  Ikey was sitting one afternoon in the front parlor, looking very forlorn indeed, with his head between his hands and his elbows resting on his knees—not at all like the same Ikey of the race-course or the Ikey who had paid the money back.

  He looked like a querulous and half-drowned Ikey, and Mrs. Ikey sat in the next chair and tried to comfort him.

  “It’s all very fine you talkin’, missus,” said Ikey; “but what you say’s rot! There’s nothin’ to it! The minute a guy like me tries to act white he gets pinched, an’ there y’ are! Look at me! Have I been took once before since me an’ you got spliced? No. An’ have I been livin’ on the square all that time? Not so’s you’d notice it, I haven’t! I’ve took what I wanted, an’ kep’ it, an’ held my tongue. Any harm come of it? Not as I can remember! Then I goes an’ listens you, an’ tries to act white, an’ gives back five thousand wads o’ good gov’ment coin what I’d took, an’ up comes a cop an’ pinches me! There’s a lesson for yer!”

  “Never mind, Ikey dear!” said his better half. “You did it to please me, and because you couldn’t be mean, and I know good will come of it.”

  “You bet it will!” said Ikey. “I’ll get a nice long rest up the river! That’s what’ll come of it!”

  A ring came at the bell, and Mrs. Ikey rose to answer the door.

  “That’ll be one o’ them sheriff’s deputys,” said Ikey, hopefully. “He’ll be come to tell me my bail’s been raised an’ I’ve got to go to jug till I can get a new bondsman. You see if it ain’t!”

  But it was not the sheriff’s deputy. It was the president of the San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Sacramento Trust Company.

  “And what can I do for you?” asked Ikey, with just a hint of venom in his voice.

  “I’ve come to see what I can do for you!” said the president, laughing.

  “Now you’re talking!” said Ikey. Fetch the gentleman a cigar, missus—no, not those, the good ones—that’s right. Take a seat, mister, an’ go ahead—I’m listenin’.”

  “Well,” said the president, coughing a little awkwardly, “I understand that you’re in trouble—under arrest—out on bail—that right?” Ikey nodded.

  “Well, I happen to know the lady whose money you—er—took, and to whom you returned it; she told me all about it. There’s one thing I don’t quite follow yet, though. Why didn’t you give her back the same bills? Why bills of different denominations? Had you by any chance as much as ten thousand dollars in your possession?”

  “Not at first I hadn’t,” said Ikey. “It come about this way. I gave the lady a sportin’ chance. I played the five thousand all on one horse at Aqueduct races, an’ the horse won at even money; I’d got ten then, hadn’t I? Well, I gave the lady back her five, seein’ as I’d had good luck myself, an’ I kep’ the hundred dollar bills partly because they’d brought me luck, an’ partly because they was easier to get rid of. There y’ are!”

  “So that’s it!” laughed the president. “Well, I’ve known worse crooks than you—a lot worse! Now my proposal to you is this. I’ve got a crook in my office who also stole money and who also paid it back, and I’ve decided to give him another chance; but it wouldn’t be exactly ethical to do that and let you go to jail, would it? So I’m going to offer you another chance, too. There’s a sum of five thousand dollars going begging at the present moment; the police have got it, but it doesn’t actually belong to anybody; my firm has been repaid the money that was stolen, so I can’t claim it, but I’m the only person who can dispose of it all the same. Now I’ll sign an order releasing that money to you on one condition—that you give me your word of honor you’ll go straight from now on. You won the money on the race-course, and though the stake wasn’t yours to begin with, still you have more claim on the proceeds of the bet than anybody else I can think of; and I’m assuming that you have a sen
se of honor simply because you wouldn’t have paid the lady back her five thousand otherwise. At all events, I prefer to look at it in that light. Now, do you accept my terms? Yes or no?”

  “Yes, sir!” burst in Mrs. Ikey, on her knees between Ikey and the president. “You leave him to me, sir, and I’ll make him promise! Go away, sir, now, and leave him to me! I’ll answer for it. The answer’s yes! yes!! yes!!!”

  Did Ikey promise? He did. And did he keep it? I can’t tell you, for he’s a secretive little cuss, is Ikey.

  But he took the five thousand dollars sure enough and sold up the flat in Eighty-First Street, and shortly afterward disappeared along with Mrs. Ikey and little Ikey with the tooth, and nobody in New York has ever seen them since.

  But there is a man over in Los Angeles who very much resembles Ikey. He says his name is Cole—Isaac Cole. He has a wife who is copper-haired and tailor-made, and one son; and he also has a nose that is pliable and restless and immense. But this Mr. Isaac Cole is a reputable merchant.

  His ways of doing business are well known throughout the whole of California, and though they say you must get up very early in the morning if you want to catch him napping, they all admit that his methods are at least legal; and some say he is absolutely honest.

  He smokes no cigarettes and never goes to a race meeting, and he may possibly be the same Ikey. But, on the other hand, he may not; and there is no possible means of finding out.

  THE DEVIL’S HEIRLOOM by Anthony M. Rud

  Chapter I

  “Cube” Lacey Found Sherrod Guest, his partner and associate in the Searchlight Agency, profoundly excited. Guest, a chunky little man with the cheeks and complexion of a cherub, was pacing back and forth the width of the single, partitioned office, brushing away moisture of anxiety from his high forehead—a forehead which did not find its border of tired little blond hairs till it reached the exact center of its owner’s crown.