We searched through the house, grimly and purposefully; but Nealman, the
genial host of Kastle Krags, was neither revealed to our eyes or gave
answer to our calls. It was no longer possible to doubt but that it was
his voice that had uttered that fearful cry for help.
While the coroner, whose special province is death, led the guests in a
detailed search through the grounds, Sheriff Slatterly and I examined
the missing man's room. And here I was to learn the contents of those
mysterious telegrams that had reached Nealman after the inquest of the
preceding day.
They were lying on his desk, one of them torn in two as if in a fit of
anger, the other rumpled from a hundred readings. I read aloud to the
sheriff:
BLAIR COMBINE FORCING I. S. AND H. TO BOTTOM. MOVE QUICK IF
YOU CAN.
The second read:
I. S. AND H. DOWN TO 28. ALL YOUR INDUSTRIALS SMASHED WIDE
OPEN. FLETCHER NEALMAN GOES DOWN IN SMASH.
The sheriff halted in his search and took the messages from my hand.
"I'm not much up on the stock market," he said. "Do you know what these
mean----"
"Not exactly. I know that I. S. and H. stock has taken a fearful
drop--if he had bought heavily on margin his whole fortune might have
been wiped out. Blair is a prominent speculator on the exchange.
Industrials refer, of course, to industrial stocks. Fletcher Nealman was
Mr. Nealman's uncle, supposed to be a man of great wealth----"
"Then you think--Nealman was ruined financially?" He paused, seemingly
studying his hands. "I wonder if it could be true."
"You mean of course--the same thing that you guessed about Florey.
Suicide?"
"Yes. I'll admit there's plenty against it."
"If suicide--why did he cry for help?"
"Many a man cries for help after he's started to do himself in. The
darkness scares 'em, when it's too late to turn back. That wouldn't
puzzle me at all. Killdare, do you know the importance of example?"
"I know that what one man does, another's likely to do."
"I'm not saying that Nealman killed himself, but listen how much there
is to say for such a theory. You're right--what one man does, another's
likely to do. A curious thing about suicides, Weldon tells me, is that
they usually come in droves. One man sets an example for another. Say
you're worrying to death about something, sick perhaps, or financially
ruined, and you hear of some fellow--some chap you know, perhaps, a man
you respect almost as much as you respect yourself--suddenly getting out
of all his difficulties all nice and quiet--with one little click to the
head? Isn't it likely you'd begin thinking about the same thing for
yourself? Call it mob psychology--I only know it happens in fact.
"I'm more confident than ever that Florey did himself in, on account of
his sickness. Here was Nealman, worried to death over money matters,
holding a lot of options on a falling market. It's true that we didn't
find Florey's knife, but who can say but maybe Nealman himself threw it
into the lagoon, and dragged the body afterward, so that no one would
guess it was suicide. He liked Florey--he didn't want any one to know
he had done himself in. Maybe he was thinking already about doing the
same thing to himself, and in such a case he'd been glad enough to have
some one hide the evidence of suicide. To-day he gets word of a final
smash, and he stays all day in his room, brooding about it. To-night
comes this heat--enough to drive a man crazy. Maybe he just called out
to make us think it was murder. Proud men don't usually want the world
to know that they've killed themselves.
"Then there's one other thing--more important still. What's that book,
open, on the table?"
I glanced at its leathern cover. "The Bible," I told him.
"The Holy Book. And how often do you find a worldly man like this
Nealman getting out the Bible and reading it? Doesn't it show that he
was planning something mighty serious--that he wanted to give his soul
every chance before he took the last step? It's a common thing for
suicides to read the Bible the last thing. And what are these?"
He showed me a rumpled sheet of paper, procured from the waste-basket,
on which had been written a number of unrelated figures.
"I can't say," I told him. "Probably he was doing some figuring about
his losses."
"Looks to me like he was out of his head--was just writin' any old
figures down. But maybe you're right."
It was true that the bed had not been slept in. Nealman had lain down on
it, however, and disarranged the spread. Many cigarette and cigar stubs
filled the smoking stand, and a half-filled whiskey-and-soda glass stood
on the window sill.
No other clews were revealed, so we went down to the study. The guests
of Kastle Krags had not gone back to their beds. They sat in a little
white-faced group beside the window, talking quietly. Marten beckoned
the sheriff to his side.
"What have you found out, Slatterly?" he asked.
He spoke like a man used to having his questions answered. There was a
note of impatience in his voice, too, perhaps of distrust. Slatterly
straightened.
"Nothing definite. Nealman has unquestionably vanished. His bed hasn't
been slept in, but is ruffled. Undoubtedly it was his voice we heard. I
think I'll be able to give you something definite in a little while."
"I'd like something definite now, if you could possibly give it. That's
two men that have disappeared in two nights--and we seem to be no nearer
an explanation than we were at first. This isn't a business that can be
delayed, Mr. Slatterly."
"If you must know--I think both men committed suicide."
"You do!"
"It certainly is the most reasonable theory, in spite of all there is
against it." Then he told of Nealman's financial disaster, of the Bible
open on his desk, and all the other points he had to back his theory.
"And I suppose Florey swallowed his knife, and threw his own body into
the lagoon!" Fargo commented grimly.
Slatterly turned to him, his eyes hard and bright. "We'll have your
jokes to-morrow," he reproved him sternly. "Of course some one else did
that. I've got a theory--not yet proven--to explain it, but I can't give
it out yet."
"How do you account for Florey's body not being found in the lagoon?"
Marten asked quietly.
"I can't account for it. We might have missed it--I don't see how we
could, but we might have done so. I'm going to have men dragging the
lagoon all day, over and over again--until we find _both_ bodies."
"You are convinced that Nealman, too, lies dead in the lagoon?"
"Where else could he be? Did you hear that cry a few hours ago?"
"Good Heavens! Could I ever forget it? My old friend----"
"Was it faked? Could any man have faked a cry like that?"
"Heavens, no! It had the fear and the agony of death right in it. There
can't be any hope of that, Slatterly."
The sheriff gazed about the little circle of white faces. No one
dissented. That cry was real, and there had been tragic need and
extremity behind it: we knew that fact if we knew that we lived.
Evidently the sheriff had completely given over the theory that he had
suggested, half-heartedly, to me--that Nealman might have cried out to
hide the fact of his own suicide.
"No man could have cried out like that to deceive, and then disappear.
No, Mr. Marten, the man that gave that cry is dead, in all probability
in the lagoon, and there seems no doubt but that Nealman was the man."
"Yet you think he was a suicide."
"A suicide often cries out for help when it is too late to back out. But
of course--I can't say for sure."
"You're mistaken in that, Slatterly." Van Hope drew himself together
with a perceptible effort. "I've known this man for years--and in the
end, you'll see it isn't suicide. He wasn't the type that commits
suicide. He's young, he'd be getting himself together to meet that Blair
gang that ruined him and chase 'em into their holes. The suicide theory
is far-fetched, at best."
"It may be," the sheriff agreed. "I only wish there could be some light
thrown on this affair----"
"There will be, Slatterly." Marten's voice dropped almost to a monotone.
"This is too big a deal for one man--or two men either. We've been
talking, and we've decided to send for some one to help you out."
"You have, eh?" Slatterly stiffened. "If I need help I can send through
my own channels--get some state or national detectives----"
"That's all right. Get 'em if you want to. The more the better. But
you haven't got any help yet--even the district attorney has failed
to come and won't come for at least a day or two more. We've got a
private detective in mind--one of the biggest in America. His name's
Lacone--you've heard of him. It won't be an official matter at all. Van
Hope is hiring him--a wholly private enterprise. I know you'll all be
glad to have his co-operation."
"If it's a private venture, I have nothing further to say," Slatterly
told him stiffly. "When do you expect him?"
"He's operating in the Middle West. He can't possibly make it until day
after to-morrow----"
"Twenty-four hours, eh?"
"It's after midnight now. Probably not for forty-eight hours."
"By that time, I hope to have the matter solved." Then his business took
him elsewhere, and he strode away.
There was one thing more I could do. It was an obligation, and yet,
because it was in the way of service, it was a happiness too. I climbed
the broad stairs and stopped at last before Edith's door.
She called softly in answer to my knock. And in a moment she had opened
the door.
She was fully dressed, waiting ready for any call that might be made
upon her. And the picture that she made, framed in the doorway, went
straight to my heart.
Her eyes were still lustrous with tears, and the high girlish color and
the light of happiness was gone from her face. It was wistful, like that
of a grief-stricken child. Her voice was changed too, in spite of all
her struggle to make it sound the same. And at first I stood helpless,
not knowing what to say or do.
"I came--just to see if I could be of any aid--in any way."
"I don't think you can," she answered. "It's so good of you, though, to
remember----"
"There's no one to notify--no telegrams to send----"
"I don't think so, yet. We're not sure yet. Ned, is there any chance for
him to be alive----"
"Not any."
Her hand touched my arm. "You haven't any idea how he died?"
"No. It's absolutely baffling. But try not to think about it. Everything
will come out right for you, in the end."
I hadn't meant to say just that--to recall her to the uncertainty of her
own future now that her uncle, financially ruined, had disappeared.
"I'm not thinking--about what will happen to me." She suddenly
straightened, and her eyes kindled. "About the other--Ned, I'm not going
to try to keep from thinking about it. I'm going to think about it all I
can, until I see it through. Only thought, and keen, true thought, can
help us now. I've had to do a lot of thinking in my life, overcoming
difficulties. And there's no one really vitally interested but me--I was
the closest relative, except for his uncle, that Nealman had. I'm going
to find out the mystery of that lagoon! Perhaps, in finding it, I can
solve a lot of other problems too--perhaps the one you just mentioned.
Uncle Grover was kind to me, he gave me his protection and shelter--and
I'm going to know what killed him!"
I found myself staring into her blazing, determined eyes. She meant what
she said. The fire of a zealot was in her face. "Good Heavens, Edith!
That isn't work for a woman----"
"It's work for anybody, with a clear enough brain to see the truth, and
courage to prove it out----"
In some mysterious way her hands had got into mine. We were standing
face to face in the shadowed hall. "But promise me--you won't go into
danger!"
"I promise--that I'll take every precaution--to preserve myself."