A MORNING CALL.
“We won’t discuss this affair just yet,” said the detective, as they
hurried along together toward the place where the car was awaiting them.
“There are other things to be considered first. But I want you both to
think it over--all that you have seen and all that I have told you about
it--so that later we can talk it over understandingly. Just now I have
an idea in mind which is about the most absurd thing, on the surface,
that I ever did in my life.”
Chick glanced around at him with sudden understanding, but it was Patsy
who replied.
“I think I can guess what that is,” he said.
“Well, what is it?”
“It isn’t snowing so very hard just now,” said Patsy. “Those tracks that
we have made in going to the house and coming away from it, while they
will be covered, will not be entirely obliterated--not if six inches of
snow should fall over them. There would still be the indications of
footprints in the snow; of the ones we left there, eh?”
“Sure,” said the detective. “You’re on, Patsy.”
“You had more reasons than one in taking us back to the house with you,
chief,” the second assistant continued. “You wanted to leave those
tracks, didn’t you?”
“I’ll confess that I did, Patsy.”
“Just to mystify--who?”
“Who should you say, Patsy?”
“Well, the first thought would be that you preferred to mystify the
police, than to tell these local chaps all you know; but there is more,
isn’t there?”
“Yes; there is much more; but in order to accomplish it I am compelled
to mystify the local authorities--until they have made their first
report on the matter; after that I will be glad to take them into our
confidence.”
“In other words,” said Chick, “you want to puzzle the murderer himself,
but you want the local police out here to do it for you.”
“That is precisely the idea. Now, in the first place no one at the local
headquarters, where I think they have about four policemen on duty,
would think of questioning a report that you or I, Chick, would leave
with them. So we will drive directly to the local headquarters, where I
want you, Chick, to go inside while Patsy and I remain in the car. Do
you know the rest?”
“You had better tell me so that I will get it exactly as you want it.”
“They know that we were out here to-night, and they know what for, don’t
they? I told you to go there.”
“Yes.”
“Say to the officer in charge at the desk merely that in passing the
gate at Pleasantglades you noticed that there were tracks in the snow,
showing that several men had passed in and out of there during the
night; that you thought it best to mention the fact--and that is all.
Come back out and get into the car, and we will drive away.”
“You mean for them to find the body, and to report that three men had
been in the house and had come out again.”
“Just that.”
“But I don’t quite see the point,” said Patsy, as he climbed into the
car, and Danny, having received his directions, started forward.
“It is this: The local police of course know that Pleasantglades is at
the present time unoccupied, and, doubtless, it is up to them to keep it
free from molestation. Your report will hurry them around there to see
what the tracks in the snow mean. They will find that the chain on the
gate has been filed; they will follow the tracks to the door where we
entered; they will find the body of the young mistress of the house, as
we saw it; they will find no indications of violence anywhere, and yet
the undisputed proof that men have been there.”
“Well?” said Patsy, when he paused.
“The afternoon papers to-morrow--to-day, rather--will teem with this
greatest of all recent mysteries, and whatever conclusions the local
police draw from what they find, there will be the statement that at
least three men entered the house. I want the murderer to see that, and
read it.”
“And also to fail to find any mention of the letter, eh?”
“Precisely. I want to puzzle him, and worry him. So much for that. Here
we are at the station. Go on in, Chick, and get through with it as
quickly as possible.”
Chick was gone only two or three minutes, and he returned with a half
smile on his face.
“Well?” asked the detective, as they started to drive on.
“The information that there were tracks in the snow, showing that men
had passed in and out of the grounds over there to-night, was like an
electric shock to that copper,” said Chick. “He asked me if I had
examined the tracks, and I truthfully told him that I had not. Then he
thanked me and I came out.”
Nick leaned forward in his seat and spoke to Danny.
“I want you to make as good time as you can to the city,” he said. “The
snow is a little heavy, I know, but you ought to get there by seven,
Danny.”
“Easy, sir,” was the reply.
“When you do, drive directly to the residence of Mr. J. Cephas Lynne. It
is on Riverside Drive. Do you know just where it is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you can’t get there any too quickly to please me.”
When the detective leaned back in his seat again, Chick said to him:
“Won’t the police up there already have telephoned to him, don’t you
think?”
“Sure thing,” replied the detective. “I am going there in order to see
Mr. Lynne as soon as possible after he gets the information. It may be
that they will be slow up there about sending it.”
“Do you mean to tell him the entire story, just as it is?”
“That is my present intention; but I haven’t finally decided upon it. I
shall be governed by circumstances in that matter. Have you ever seen
this J. Cephas Lynne, Chick?”
“N-no; I don’t think I have.”
“Have you, Patsy?”
“No; not that I know of. I might have seen him without knowing who he
was.”
“Exactly; that is an unaccountably brilliant remark for you to make. The
point is this: I have never seen the man, either. I have seen his
so-called pictures, in the papers, and so have both of you, I suppose,
and I have always heard the very nicest things about him that one could
hear of a very rich man who is rather in society, but who keeps out of
it as much as possible. I want to see him, and talk with him, and size
him up, and see how he withstands this blow, before I decide just what
to say to him.”
“But,” said Patsy, “you will have to give an excuse for going there at
all, won’t you? We are not supposed yet to know anything about the
murder--or suicide, whichever it will be called in the newspaper
reports.”
“I shall go there,” replied Nick quietly, “merely as a matter of duty,
to report to him what Chick has already reported at the police station
up there; merely that there were tracks in the snow, showing that some
persons had entered his country home.”
“It may be,” said Chick, “that he will not yet have been notified of the
tragedy.”
“I think it very likely that we will find it so.”
“I don’t see----” began Patsy.
“It is this way,” said the detective, interrupting: “In this snow it
will take us, from the time we left that police station, about an hour
and a half to get to his house. Now, up there it will be at least half
an hour before those local police find the body; they will use up
certainly an hour in looking about them before it will occur to them to
telephone to Mr. Lynne, and probably more; so it is likely that we will
get to his house before he hears anything about it. That’s all. Think
that over; and now let’s ride on in silence for a while.”
Nick told Danny to stop the car directly in front of the residence on
Riverside Drive, and, leaving the others to wait for him--it had long
since stopped snowing--he ran up the front steps and pressed the button
of the electric bell.
But he had to ring again and again before a sleepy butler at last
appeared at the door and demanded, in a tone that was both haughty and
surly, to know what was wanted.
“I must see Mr. Lynne at once,” said Nick, who knew by the very attitude
of the butler that no intelligence of the crime had yet reached that
house.
“Well, you cawn’t see him--at seven in the morning--the idea. Mr. Lynne
never leaves his room in the morning till nine, and----”
“Look here, my man,” Nick interrupted, for he had already stepped inside
the doorway, and so was well inside the house, “this is a matter of the
utmost importance to Mr. Lynne, and you are to take this card to him at
once, and tell him that it is extremely important that he should see me
with as little delay as possible. If you don’t do it, I will find my way
to his rooms myself--and you will probably lose your job.”
There seemed to be no help for it, and, besides, Nick spoke with a quiet
assurance that visibly impressed the butler.
Rather ungraciously he took the card, which was one of Nick Carter’s
own, and departed.
He returned, too, very quickly; much sooner than Nick had anticipated.
“Please come with me, sir,” he said, with more graciousness than he had
shown before.
He offered no explanation of his change of manner, but, nevertheless,
the detective was not surprised to find that Mr. Lynne was dressed and
was engaged in sipping his morning coffee, when he was shown into the
private morning room of the master of the house.
Mr. Lynne left his chair and greeted Nick pleasantly, then indicated a
chair and asked him to be seated.
“I know your name, Mr. Carter, of course,” he said, “and I cannot
imagine your coming to see me at this time of day unless something of
the utmost importance sent you. It is fortunate that I am about rather
earlier than usual this morning, otherwise you would have had to wait.
I was trying to get an early start to visit my country place. May I
offer you a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you,” replied Nick, seating himself in another chair than the
one that had been indicated. He always liked to sit, if he could, so
that the light shone upon the features of the man he was talking with.
“What is the important business that brought you to me, Mr. Carter?” Mr.
Lynne asked, affably enough, but with much of the air of one who was
bored by the entire proceeding--and as if nothing could convince him
that it was really of vital importance.
Somehow Nick did not like the man, although there was no reason why he
should not do so.
But there was something about him which did not seem to the detective to
be quite genuine.
“In referring to your country place, you mean Pleasantglades, I
suppose?” Nick asked, in reply to the question.
“Most certainly,” raising his brows.
“In that case, and if you were going there at once, it was perhaps
unnecessary that I should have called at all, for you would presently
have discovered for yourself what I have come to tell you,” said the
detective. “I have just come from there, and I came to tell you
that----”
The cup of coffee which Mr. Lynne was holding in one hand unaccountably
slipped from it and crashed to the floor, and, as that gentleman bent
forward to pick it up, he said:
“How stupid of me. Please go on, Mr. Carter.”