What had become of Herbert Whitmore?
Like a thief in the night he had slipped out of his Fifth Avenue home,
disappeared from his business, vanished like a specter, while the
domestic tragedy of the Collinses paused in anticipation of his
reappearance.
Beard, the confidential secretary, had taken possession of his
employer's office, and to all inquiries regarding Whitmore's absence,
made the same reply:
"He is gone indefinitely on a business trip."
Not even the persistent Collins was able to elicit anything additional.
No further information was vouchsafed Mrs. Collins, who had taken up her
abode with her brother; the financially troubled Ward, desperately
fighting off ruin, could learn nothing from the silent, inscrutable
Beard.
Then, one morning, unostentatiously as he had disappeared, Whitmore
returned to his office. He wore a new spring coat, a new soft hat, new
gloves and shoes, an unfamiliar brown tie against a striped shirt-bosom,
as if he had just stepped out of a haberdasher's shop.
Down the long aisle, between the two rows of desks he passed, nodding
with that air of pleasant kindliness that had endeared him to his
hundreds of employés.
"Good morning, Mr. Whitmore--glad to see you back!" was fired at him
with respectful familiarity from a score of clerks.
He smiled amiably, replying occasionally with a cheery rejoinder.
Evidently he was in excellent spirits.
Whitmore's private office, at the rear of the long hall, ran the full
width of the room. It was partitioned off from the main room by a glass
partition through which he was at all times visible to his employés. The
office contained no windows, being shut in on three sides by the thick
walls of the building, and obtained its light through the glass paneling
of the partition. The floor was covered by a green carpet and three or
four chairs rested against the wall.
"Sam!" the merchant called to his office boy. "I shall be very busy with
my papers this morning. Permit no one to enter my office and don't bring
any visitors' cards."
Whitmore placed his hand affectionately on the boy's touseled hair.
"Don't forget my instructions!" he said pleasantly.
The merchant permitted the glass door of his office to remain open.
Divesting himself of his coat he dropped into the revolving chair at his
desk and swung around so as to sit with his back toward the outer
office.
Behind the transparent partition he worked, sorting papers and slipping
them into pigeon-holes. Toward noon one of the clerks observed that the
merchant had slipped down into his chair, that his head hung strangely
to one side.
"What's the matter with Mr. Whitmore?" the clerk asked the office boy.
The two thrust their faces against the intervening glass, noting that
the employer's limbs were rigidly outstretched and that one hand hung
limply at his side while the other rested on the desk.
They tiptoed into the office, like guilty schoolboys bent on
eavesdropping. A single glance at Whitmore's white face and they burst
through the door, their faces distorted with terror.
"Something's happened to Mr. Whitmore!" shouted the clerk.
Drummond, the head clerk, leaped forward in a quick offer of assistance.
He remained a minute or two in the private office, then emerged,
haggard, with eyes staring.
"Mr. Whitmore's been shot!" burst from his lips. "Get a policeman. He's
dead," he added with a sob.
The news seemed to strike the office dumb. The clerks regarded each
other like bewildered sheep, awed, terrified, a vague fear gripping
their hearts. In the midst of their furious, living activity, the
specter of death had suddenly appeared. It had crept in on them
silently, stealthily, selecting the most shining mark as its victim.
Unannounced, it had proclaimed the frailty of human life more
effectively than if it had revealed itself in a lightning bolt. With
noiseless, unseen hands, it had abducted the most beloved figure among
them, deprived them forever of the kindly, fatherly personality of the
man whom they had come to regard more as a friend than an employer.
Recovering from their first terror, the clerks left their desks and
massed forward toward the partition, but the head clerk waved them back.
"Everyone remain in his place until after the police have arrived," he
ordered.
The office boy, who had gone to summon a policeman, now returned with
the bluecoat. The latter examined the dead man an instant, then,
following the usual custom, summoned an ambulance and notified the
coroner.
"Looks like a suicide," he declared over the telephone.
The ambulance was the first to arrive and the young surgeon, after
listening vainly for a promising flutter of the heart, officially
pronounced the merchant dead. When the coroner arrived, he was assured
that nothing in the private office had been disturbed, after which he
proceeded with his investigation.
Almost the first object which he noticed was a shiny revolver lying on
the desk, about an inch from the dead man's fingers. As he lifted the
weapon, he observed that the merchant had been shot in the side, and,
turning toward the policeman, said:
"A plain case of suicide."
More as a matter of form, rather than with any hope of discovering
anything of value, the coroner opened the revolver, and, as he did so,
an exclamation of surprise escaped his lips. His eyes fixed themselves
on the loaded chambers of the barrel in a puzzled stare until he was
convinced that his senses were not deceiving him.
The revolver was fully loaded. It had never been fired.
Switching on the electric lights, the coroner examined the clothing of
the victim. There were no powder marks where the bullet had entered.
"Officer, this is murder!" he exclaimed excitedly. "Notify the detective
bureau. And don't permit anyone to leave this building."