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Updated: June 3, 2025
"He's a wizard of a sly one. He has stolen them, and we are lost!" I was not as much surprised over the situation as were the two men. I could put two and two together as quickly as any one, and I knew exactly where the papers were to be found. Sammy Simpson, of 28 Hallock Street, was the thief. He had intimated that he had evidence against Chris Holtzmann, and these papers were that evidence.
I looked around for some immediate means of escape. As I have said, the office was located on the side street. Directly in front of the desk was a large window, opened to let in the fresh morning air. For me to think was to act. In less than a minute I was seated on the desk with my legs dangling over the window sill. "Aaron Woodward!" repeated Chris Holtzmann, in evident surprise.
Woodward had lost and Nicholas Weaver's confession. I could not help but smile at the thought that, notwithstanding all I had said to the contrary, the two plotters still believed I had the lost documents. One thing perplexed me. Why was my visit to Chris Holtzmann considered of such importance that every possible means was taken to prevent it? Did this man possess the entire key to the situation?
My clothes were still damp, but the sunshine was fast drying them. Near by was a bootblack's chair, and dropping into this, I had him polish my shoes and brush me up generally. While he was performing the operation I questioned him concerning the streets and gained considerable information. "Did you ever hear of a man by the name of Chris Holtzmann?" I asked. "I dunno," was the slow reply.
"The Strongs know," I put in hastily, thus cutting him off. "What!" He jumped up from his chair. "Who was fool enough to tell them?" "Nicholas Weaver left a dying statement " "The idiot! I always said he was a weak-minded fool!" cried Chris Holtzmann. "Who has this statement?" "I don't know where it is now, but Carson Strong's son had it." "Strong's son! Great Scott!
"We'll ask the gateman and make sure," said the sergeant. This was done, and we soon learned that beyond a doubt Mr. Woodward and Chris Holtzmann had been among the departed passengers. "My work in Chicago is at an end," remarked the sergeant, as we stood in the waiting-room discussing the situation. "And so is mine," I replied.
"I placed them there over six months ago." He opened the box, and I heard a rustling of documents. "Why why what does this mean!" he ejaculated. "They are not here!" "What!" cried Mr. Aaron Woodward, aghast. "The papers are not here!" Holtzmann hurried over to his safe and began a hasty search. "As sure as you're born, Woody, they have been stolen!" "It's that boy," exclaimed the merchant.
I was not certain what sort of a man Chris Holtzmann would prove to be, and therefore it was utterly useless to plan a means of approaching him. At length we reached the suburbs of Chicago, and rolled down one of the broad avenues. It was now clear and bright, and the clean broad street with its handsome houses pleased me very much.
Harrison's name, but if I did that, the man might expect altogether too much. "I will promise you that you lose nothing," I said. "But we can't talk things over in the street. Tell me where I can meet you later on." "Want to see Holtzmann first?" "Yes." "You won't get anything out of him, I'll wager you that." "I don't expect to. I want to see what kind of a man he is."
What papers have you missed? Were they the ones that Holtzmann of Chicago is after? How is it that my father is in prison while you live in style on money you never earned? Who is the relative that left it to you? Did you ever make a clear statement concerning the transactions that took away my father's honest name?" "Stop! Stop!" "I will not stop!
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