“Mr. Krutzmacht,” Brainard explained glibly, “has met with an accident—not a serious one, I hope. He is in good hands. He has sent me out here to get some papers that he wants from his safe.”
“But, but,” the bewildered clerk stammered, “don’t you know that the court—”
“They’ve fixed up a receivership, I know,” Brainard interrupted, “that’s the reason perhaps—”
“I’ve been expecting ’em in here all the afternoon,” the clerk said nervously, looking at the door. “Then there’ll be the devil to pay generally.”
“All the better!” Brainard exclaimed. “Let’s get busy before they arrive.”
“But who are you, anyway?” the old man demanded with a sudden access of caution.
Brainard merely smiled at the worried old man. He was more and more at his ease, now that he knew the caliber of the timid old clerk, and though he felt the necessity of haste in his operations, if an officer of the court was momentarily expected to make a descent upon Krutzmacht’s private office, yet he spoke and acted with calm.
“Suppose we lock these outer doors—if you think any one is likely to interrupt us—and then we can proceed undisturbed.”
He shot the brass bolt in the door through which he had entered and glanced into the inner office, but apparently this one had no exit upon the corridor. Meanwhile the stenographer was whispering vehemently to the old clerk, who looked at the intruder doubtfully and seemed irresolute. Brainard leisurely pulled down the shade over the glass window in the door.
“There!” he said. “Now we are ready.”
He took the sheet that bore Krutzmacht’s signature from his pocket and held it out to Peters. “Want my credentials? That’s a power of attorney Mr. Krutzmacht dictated and signed just before I left him.”
He waited for the clerk to adjust his glasses and read the hastily penned sheet, thinking what he should do if by chance the old man refused to recognize it. He did not feel disturbed. The ride across the continent had rested him bodily and mentally. The good meals and the unwonted luxury of eating and sleeping without care, which had been his daily companion for all the years he could remember, had given him a fresh spirit. He could think quickly and with precision; he felt himself amply capable, full of power to meet any emergency that might rise—for the first time in his life.
“What do you want to do?” Peters asked, handing back the power of attorney. He seemed somewhat reassured by the sight of his master’s signature at the bottom of the scrawl.
“Mr. Krutzmacht wanted me to get the stuff out of his safe—I suppose it’s the one in there?”
“But—but,” the clerk protested. “If the court has granted this injunction, I don’t suppose I ought to—”
“That’s just why you ought!” Brainard interrupted impatiently. “Don’t you see this is Krutzmacht’s one chance of getting his property out of their reach? Once the court puts hands on it, there won’t be much left for the owner!”
Without further delay he strode into the inner office, saying lightly:
“Krutzmacht is keeping out of sight for the present—until trouble blows over, you see.”
“The safe’s locked,” the clerk objected weakly, “and no one here has the combination. Mr. Snell didn’t leave it.”
Without taking the trouble to reply, Brainard walked over to the heavy steel door and began twirling the knob as if he had opened office safes all his life. The clerk and the stenographer stared while the little nickel wheel revolved in Brainard’s fingers. When finally the bolts shot back and the door swung open, Peters gasped:
“But how will you get all that stuff out of here?”
“Just bring me that bag from the other room, will you please?” Brainard asked the stenographer. As she turned unwillingly to fetch the bag, there came a loud, resolute knock at the door of the outer office.
“There!” the old clerk exclaimed.
The stenographer started for the door, but Brainard with one leap overtook her, pushed her back into the inner room, and closed the door. Again the knocking on the outside door came, even more insistently, and the knob was rattled as if the visitor was determined to gain entrance. The three in the inner office stood still listening, not speaking. Brainard noticed an angry red flush spread over the woman’s features. As no further knocking came after a few moments, Brainard turned to the stenographer sternly.
“You can sit at that desk, miss. I’ll answer the door. Come on, Mr. Peters, and show me the most important things in here—the papers Krutzmacht’s enemies would hate to lose. You know them, don’t you?”
“Some of them,” the clerk admitted, rather doubtfully, his eyes running over the close-packed shelves of the vault. “They’re ’most all valuable in here, I suppose. The general papers are kept in the other vault downstairs. But the most important are in these drawers.”
He pulled out several receptacles that seemed crammed with engraved certificates and legal papers.
“Mr. Krutzmacht kept all his personal papers up here where he could get at them day or night,” he explained. “I guess it’s all valuable to some one!” he concluded hopelessly.
“I can’t put it all in that bag,” Brainard observed, his eye running over the contents of the well-filled vault. “Well, let’s try the drawers first—the cream is likely to be there.”
He began to pass out the contents of the drawers to the clerk, who shoved them hastily into the large valise. But before Brainard had quite finished the second tier of drawers, the bag was almost filled with crisp, tightly packed bundles of securities and legal papers. There remained books and other rows of documents. Brainard looked at some of them impatiently, trying to decide what could best be left behind. At last he exclaimed:
“It’s no use my trying to pick it over. I might leave the best of the lot. I must have a small trunk. Can you get me one, Peters? While you are gone I will fetch it all out here and sort it over. … No, don’t go out that way!” he exclaimed, as the clerk started for the outer door. “Where does that go?” He pointed to a small door behind the corner of the safe.
“It’s the fire escape,” Peters explained timidly.
“Just the thing!”
He opened the door and peered out into the dark, inclosed well down which ran one of the modern circular fire escapes.
Brainard handed Peters a bill, and shoved him toward the door. After the clerk had gone, Brainard turned to his task, and emptied the safe in a few minutes. Then he began to sort the books and papers and securities into piles for convenient packing, stuffing the bonds and stocks, which he judged to be the most valuable part of the loot, into his valise.
There had been no movement by the stenographer for some time, and Brainard had almost forgotten her presence. Suddenly, while he was in the safe, he heard a slight sound outside, like the movement of a woman’s dress. He jumped to his feet. The stenographer, with one hand on the desk telephone, was about to take off the receiver.
“Put that down!” Brainard ordered, and added more gently, “What are you telephoning for?”
“Just going to call up a friend,” the woman replied pertly, and started to take the receiver off the hook again.
Brainard cleared the intervening space in a bound, and snatched the instrument from the woman’s hand.
“You’ll have to wait a while to talk to your friend!”
“What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked angrily.
“You can see—packing