A few minutes later Downey and Cunningham appeared. One glance told their chief that they could not enlighten him as to the whereabouts of the stolen money.
“Do you have any idea where it is?” he demanded.
“No, but I have a very definite idea where it isn’t,” replied Downey grimly. “It isn’t in that flat. There’s not one square inch of it that we didn’t go over—not one object there that we didn’t tear to pieces looking. It simply isn’t there. He hid it somewhere before we got him.”
“Well take all the men you want and keep at it,” instructed Detective Mallory. “One of you, by the way, had better bring in Dolan’s wife. I am fairly certain that she had nothing to do with it but she might know something and I can bluff a woman.” Detective Mallory announced that accomplishment as if it were a thing to be proud of. “There’s nothing to do now but get the money. Meanwhile I’ll see that Dolan isn’t permitted to communicate with anybody.”
“There is always the chance,” suggested Downey, “that a man as clever as Dolan could in a cipher letter, or by a chance remark, inform her where the money is if we assume she doesn’t know, and that should be guarded against.”
“It will be guarded against,” declared Detective Mallory emphatically. “Dolan will not be permitted to see or talk to anyone for the present—not even an attorney. He may weaken later on.”
But day succeeded day and Dolan showed no signs of weakening. His wife, meanwhile, had been apprehended and subjected to the “third degree.” When this ordeal was over the net result was that Detective Mallory was convinced that she had had nothing whatever to do with the robbery, and had not the faintest idea where the money was. Half a dozen times Dolan asked permission to see her or to write to her. Each time the request was curtly refused.
Newspaper men, with and without inspiration, had sought the money vainly; and the police were now seeking to trace the movements of “Mort” Dolan from the moment of the robbery until the moment of his appearance on the steps of the house where he lived. In this way they hoped to get an inkling of where the money had been hidden, for the idea of the money being in the flat had been abandoned. Dolan simply wouldn’t say anything. Finally, one day, Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, made an exhaustive search of Dolan’s flat, for the fourth time, then went over to Police Headquarters to talk it over with Mallory. While there President Ashe and two directors of the victimized bank appeared. They were worried.
“Is there any trace of the money?” asked Mr. Ashe.
“Not yet,” responded Detective Mallory.
“Well, could we talk to Dolan a few minutes?”
“If we didn’t get anything out of him you won’t,” said the detective. “But it won’t do any harm. Come along.”
Dolan didn’t seem particularly glad to see them. He came to the bars of his cell and peered through. It was only when Mr. Ashe was introduced to him as the President of the Thirteenth National that he seemed to take any interest in his visitors. This interest took the form of a grin. Mr. Ashe evidently had something of importance on his mind and was seeking the happiest method of expression. Once or twice he spoke aside to his companions, and Dolan watched them curiously. At last he turned to the prisoner.
“You admit that you robbed the bank?” he asked.
“There’s no need of denying it,” replied Dolan.
“Well,” and Mr. Ashe hesitated a moment, “the Board of Directors held a meeting this morning, and speaking on their behalf I want to say something. If you will inform us of the whereabouts of the money we will, upon its recovery, exert every effort within our power to have your sentence cut in half. In other words, as I understand it, you have given the police no trouble, you have confessed the crime and this, with the return of the money, would weigh for you when sentence is pronounced. Say the maximum is twenty years, we might be able to get you off with ten if we get the money.”
Detective Mallory looked doubtful. He realized, perhaps, the futility of such a promise yet he was silent. The proposition might draw out something on which to proceed.
“Can’t see it,” said Dolan at last. “It’s this way. I’m twenty-seven years old. I’ll get twenty years. About two of that’ll come off for good behaviour, so I’ll really get eighteen years. At the end of that time I’ll come out with one hundred and nine thousand dollars odd—rich for life and able to retire at forty-five years. In other words while in prison I’ll be working for a good, stiff salary—something really worth while. Very few men are able to retire at forty-five.”
Mr. Ashe readily realized the truth of this statement. It was the point of view of a man to whom mere prison has few terrors—a man content to remain immured for twenty years for a consideration. He turned and spoke aside to the two directors again.
“But I’ll tell you what I will do,” said Dolan, after a pause. “If you’ll fix it so I get only two years, say, I’ll give you half the money.”
There was silence. Detective Mallory strolled along the corridor beyond the view of the prisoner and summoned President Ashe to his side by a jerk of his head.
“Agree to that,” he said. “Perhaps he’ll really give up.”
“But it wouldn’t be possible to arrange it, would it?” asked Mr. Ashe.
“Certainly not,” said the detective, “but agree to it. Get your money if you can and then we’ll nail him anyhow.”
Mr. Ashe stared at him a moment vaguely indignant at the treachery of the thing, then greed triumphed. He walked back to the cell.
“We’ll agree to that, Mr. Dolan,” he said briskly. “Fix a two years’ sentence for you in return for half the money.”
Dolan smiled a little.
“All right, go ahead,” he said. “When sentence of two years is pronounced and a first class lawyer arranges it for me so that the matter can never be reopened I’ll tell you where you can get your half.”
“But of course you must tell us that now,” said Mr. Ashe.
Dolan smiled cheerfully. It was a taunting, insinuating, accusing sort of smile and it informed the bank president that the duplicity contemplated was discovered. Mr. Ashe was silent for a moment, then blushed.
“Nothing doing,” said Dolan, and he retired into a recess of his cell as if his interest in the matter were at an end.
“But—but we need the money now,” stammered Mr. Ashe. “It was a large sum and the theft has crippled us considerably.”
“All right,” said Dolan carelessly. “The sooner I get two years the sooner you get it.”
“How could it be-be fixed?”
“I’ll leave that to you.”
That was all. The bank president and the two directors went out fuming impotently. Mr. Ashe paused in Detective Mallory’s office long enough for a final word.
“Of course it was brilliant work on the part of the police to capture Dolan,” he said caustically, “but it isn’t doing us a particle of good. All I see now is that we lose a hundred and nine thousand dollars.”
“It looks very much like it,” assented the detective, “unless we find it.”
“Well, why don’t you find it?”
Detective Mallory had to give it up.
“What did Dolan do with the money?” Hutchinson Hatch was asking of Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen—The Thinking Machine. The distinguished scientist and logician was sitting with his head pillowed on a cushion and with squint eyes turned upward. “It isn’t in the flat. Everything indicates that it was hidden somewhere else.”
“And Dolan’s wife?” inquired