NICK TAKES A CONFIDANT.
Nick Carter now saw plainly that Mrs. Julia Clayton had suffered no
bodily injury. That she was mentally affected, however, either crazed
with horror, or in an abnormal condition resulting from other causes,
and that any immediate attempt to evoke from her an intelligible
explanation of the circumstances would prove utterly futile--these
points were equally obvious to the detective.
Nick tried again, nevertheless, gently grasping her shoulder and saying
even more impressively:
“The scar! What do you mean, Mrs. Clayton? Try to collect yourself. You
surely recognize me--Nick Carter, the detective. Try to tell me what has
occurred here. What do you mean? What scar?”
The face of the woman underwent no change. She stared vacantly at Nick,
with no sign of recognition, though she again tried to make a vain
effort to answer his questions. But only the same two words, repeated
as before, was the result:
“The scar! The scar--the scar!”
Both detectives had seen at a glance that the man on the floor was dead,
that nothing could be done for him, and the attention of both naturally
had turned upon the woman, whose mental distraction and bloodstained
hands indicated that she had in some way figured in the shocking crime,
if such it really was.
Chick drew back a little and gazed at Nick, whose grave face now
reflected not only his perplexity as to the cause for such a fatality,
but also his profound regard for this woman who months before had made
him the confidant of her dreadful secret. He was asking himself whether
in that could be found the motive for this murder--and he glanced
instinctively at the upturned face of the lifeless man on the floor.
But it was a fleshy, smooth-shaved face, that of a man well into the
sixties--a face that bore not even a remote resemblance to that of David
Margate, this woman’s crime-cursed son.
Besides, was it not known beyond any reasonable doubt that David Margate
was dead?
Who could have doubted that either the bullet from Chick Carter’s
revolver had proved effective, when a gush of blood covered the face of
the reeling crook, or that death had ensued in that swift-flowing stream
in the Berkshire Hills, into which Margate had fallen and disappeared,
nor so much as arisen for a moment to the surface?
These recollections, Nick’s hurried inspection of the tragic scene,
together with his vain inquiries addressed to Mrs. Julia Clayton--all
had occupied only a very few moments, which Chick turned and asked
perplexedly:
“What do you make of it? What’s the trouble with her?”
“Temporarily insane,” Nick murmured. “She cannot explain. She does not
even recognize me.”
“You don’t think she is feigning?” Chick whispered.
“No, no, not for a moment. She looked precisely the same, appeared to be
in precisely the same condition, when we saw her before we entered. She
has undergone no change since seeing us. She is mentally deranged. She
is stricken with aphasia, amnesia, or some similar condition.”
“See her hands. She may have killed this man, or----”
“One moment,” Nick interrupted. “She will remain here. We’ll have a
hurried look at the evidence.”
“But what can she mean by those two words, Nick, the scar, which appears
to be all she can utter? They must have some vital significance. They
may supply the key to the mystery.”
“There is more of a mystery here than she can explain, Chick, while in
her present condition, or than we can solve without a thorough
investigation,” Nick said. “We had better begin it at once, than waste
time vainly interrogating her.”
Nick turned while speaking and replaced the telephone stand, also the
instrument in their customary position, but he did not delay to
communicate with the exchange operator.
“There must be something here that will give us a hint at the truth,” he
added. “We’ll try to find it before others show up.”
“Barring these two, Nick, there seems to be no one in the house,”
replied Chick, after listening briefly at the open door of the adjoining
hall. “That also appears extraordinary. Where are the Claytons? Where is
Mr. Langham? What has become of the servants? Why are all of them
absent? If for legitimate reasons, and others have not been here since
their departure, it must be that the woman killed this man in a fit of
madness, of which her present condition may be the result, or----”
Chick stopped short.
A key had been thrust into the lock of the front door. The sound had
reached the ears of both detectives.
Nick moved quickly, with his forefinger laid on his lips.
“Be quiet,” he cautioned. “Wait!”
He stepped back of the open door, to a position enabling him to peer
through the broad, brightly lighted hall.
Chick drew back against the wall.
Mrs. Julia Clayton had not stirred from her chair, had not spoken, nor
ceased the piteous wringing of her bloodstained hands. She again was
gazing with wide, vacant eyes at the gory form on the floor, still with
no sign that she recognized the detectives, or had the slightest
interest in, or understanding of, why they were there and what they were
doing.
Less than three minutes had passed since they entered the house--and
another now was entering.
Was that in any way significant?
Nick Carter was much too keen to overlook that possibility, though only
a bare possibility it appeared to be. He saw the front door deliberately
opened and the man who complacently entered.
He was of medium height and rather slender build, a man about forty
years old, with thin features, a pallid complexion, and a mustache and
beard of peculiar bronze hue and oily luster. His hair was of the same
remarkable color, observable when he removed his hat. It was most
carefully combed and brushed, being fairly plastered down with artistic
skill over his skull and brow and above his ears, lending to that part
of his head which it covered the glistening smoothness of a polished
bronze globe.
He had entered with a latchkey. He paused in the hall and placed his
cane in a stand, then removed his hat, overcoat, and gloves, all the
while quietly humming a popular song.
Gloves off, he gazed into the hatrack mirror, and, with his palms,
augmented the radiant smoothness of his remarkable hair, much as if that
was the one personal adornment of which he was really proud.
He hesitated at the base of the stairs, toward which he had deliberately
turned, and then gazed toward the library and listened, finally wheeling
abruptly and walking in that direction.
Nick drew from behind the door, and in another moment the stranger
appeared on the threshold--only to recoil with a startled cry, hands in
the air, and with his face gone white with alarm.
“Don’t be frightened,” said Nick, sharply regarding him. “A crime has
been committed here, and we are detectives. Who are you? I suppose you
reside here.”
“Detectives--crime!” The man steadied himself, yet spoke with a gasp of
augmented dismay. “You don’t mean a murder? Merciful Heaven! What’s
wrong with Mrs. Clayton?”
His gaze had fallen upon her, but she had not so much as glanced in his
direction, nor appeared to know him, or have more interest in him than
in the others.
“There is more wrong here than can be told with a breath,” Nick replied.
“Step in and answer my question. To begin with, sir, who are you?”
“I am Mr. Chester Clayton’s private secretary, Rollo Garside,” said he,
with a manifest effort to pull himself together.
“Do you reside here?”
“Yes, yes, certainly. Who are you? How came you here? Why----”
“Patience, Mr. Garside, and answer my questions, that I may see how best
to proceed with this case,” Nick interrupted. “I’m a detective, as I
have stated, and my name is Nick Carter.”
“Oh, oh, that’s very different,” Garside quickly exclaimed, countenance
lighting. “I have heard Mr. Clayton speak of you. I feared at first that
you were deceiving me, that you were responsible for all this, and that
I might suffer the same fate.”
“There is nothing for you to fear,” Nick replied. “Do you know where Mr.
Clayton has gone this evening, and the rest of the household?”
“Yes, yes, to be sure. He has gone with his wife to spend the evening
with the Burtons, in Claremont Avenue. They may return at any moment,
Mr. Carter, or you may reach them by telephone. The name is Calvin R.
Burton.”
“Get Clayton on the phone, Chick,” Nick quickly directed. “State only
that I am here and wish to see him on important business. Ask him to
return immediately.”
Chick hastened to obey.
“Now, Mr. Garside, where are Mr. Langham and the servants?”
“Mr. Langham is in Washington on business. The servants were given this
evening to attend the wedding of the butler, who resigned his position
to-day to be married in Manhattanville. It is too early for them to have
returned. I have been visiting a friend since seven o’clock, Professor
Abner Busby, who lives in the rear street.”
“Mrs. Julia Clayton, then, was left alone here?”
“Yes, sir, except the baby,” nodded Garside, glancing again at the woman
mentioned. “Some one had to remain here, of course, and Mrs. Clayton
said she would do so that the nurse might attend the wedding with the
other servants. What is the matter with her, Mr. Carter?” he anxiously
added. “She does not appear to know me. She looks dazed and unnatural.
Her hands are smeared with blood. Has she gone crazy? Was it she who
killed Doctor Thorpe?”
He turned with a shudder while speaking and gazed again at the lifeless
man on the floor.
Chick arose from the telephone at the same moment.
“I got him, Nick, all right,” he remarked. “He will start for home
immediately.”
“Did he ask any questions?”
“None of any importance. He said he would be here in about ten minutes.”
“Very good.”
Nick turned again to Clayton’s private secretary. Although he had
readily answered the detective’s questions, he still appeared quite
overcome by the tragic circumstances. That he had told the truth
concerning them, however, in so far as he was able to do so, appeared
quite obvious, and Nick continued his inquiries.
“You know this man, then,” said he, approaching the lifeless form.
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Carter, though I hardly recognized him at first,” was
the reply. “He is Mr. Clayton’s family physician, Doctor Joseph Thorpe.
His home is about two blocks from here.”
“Were you well acquainted with him?”
“No. Only since I have been in Mr. Clayton’s employ.”
“How long is that?”
“About three months. I first met Doctor Thorpe when he came to attend
Mr. Clayton. That was two months ago.”
“What is the matter with Mr. Clayton?” Nick questioned, a bit bluntly.
“I did not know he was ill.”
“I cannot say of what his trouble consists,” Garside replied. “He has
been losing flesh and feeling quite badly for several weeks.”
“Has he been going to his office?”
“Only part of the time, one or two days each week, and he then remained
only during the morning. I think, Mr. Carter, that Doctor Thorpe has
found his case a rather mystifying one,” Garside gravely added.
Nick glanced at the physician, then at the strangely afflicted woman
who, so far as was known, had been his one companion at the time of the
murder.
“Go to the front hall, Chick, and intercept the Claytons when they
enter,” Nick abruptly directed. “Detain them in the parlor and break
this matter to them as considerately as possible. Don’t let them
interrupt me before I have finished my investigations and ended my talk
with Mr. Garside.”
“Go ahead. I’ll look after them, Nick,” Chick replied, with a nod, while
he withdrew to the hall.
“Now, Mr. Garside, I want you to be perfectly frank with me,” Nick said
impressively. “You have been living here several weeks. You have had a
chance to observe these people. Have you ever seen indications of
special friendliness between this couple?”
“Doctor Thorpe and Mrs. Julia Clayton?”
“Yes.”
“Why, I cannot say that I have,” faltered Garside, with manifest
reluctance. “They appeared to be friends, of course, but--well, nothing
more than that.”
“Rack your brain,” Nick insisted. “Has Doctor Thorpe been in the habit
of calling here in the evening?”
“No, he has not. I don’t remember that he has ever done so before.”
“It is quite significant that he called this evening, then, when Mrs.
Clayton was alone here and when even the servants were absent from the
house. Don’t you think so?”
“Well, yes,” Garside slowly admitted.
“Rack your brain,” Nick repeated. “Can’t you recall any little
circumstances, however trivial, denoting that they were particularly
friendly, or even secretly so?”
Garside’s brows knit perceptibly and a subtle gleam appeared in his dark
eyes, now fixed with searching scrutiny on the face of the detective.
“Why, since you press me so insistently, Mr. Carter, I confess that I
have seen them talking together in the hall at times,” he replied.
“When others were not present?”
“Yes.”
“Anything more?”
“I have noticed covert glances, also significant smiles, but I really
attached no importance to them.”
“What do you now think, Mr. Garside, in view of what has occurred?”
questioned Nick. “Be perfectly frank with me.”
“Why, I see at what you are driving, of course, and you may be right.”
“It looks very much to me as if something occurred which led this woman
to kill the physician,” Nick quietly explained. “I found the telephone
stand overturned, as if she had attempted to call for aid. She may have
shot the physician when he tried to prevent her from using the
instrument. This seems to be confirmed by the position of the body
between the table and the telephone stand.”
“I agree with you,” Garside nodded. “It certainly does.”
“Obviously, too, here is the weapon with which the crime was committed,”
Nick continued, picking up a revolver from the floor near the telephone
stand. “Notice where it is lying, as if she dropped it immediately after
the shooting.”
“By Jove, I begin to think you are right,” Garside agreed, with a
display of increasing interest. “The revolver would have been found
nearer the body, Mr. Carter, if the physician had it and this were a
case of suicide.”
“Exactly,” Nick nodded. “That’s the very point.”
“Besides, a suicide theory seems utterly improbable.”
“So it does.”
“Mrs. Clayton would not have lost her head in that case, nor have
touched the body. She would have called for help, and would have stated
what had occurred,” Garside forcibly argued.
“Certainly,” Nick coincided. “Any sane woman would have done so.”
“Instead, as her bloodstained hands denote, she felt of the body to
learn whether the physician was dead. Upon finding that she had killed
him, the shock evidently threw her into her present deranged condition.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Nick. “There is no getting around it. You are
stating my own views, Garside, to the letter.”
“There seems to be nothing else to it,” Garside now declared. “Notice,
too, Mr. Carter, that the drawer of the library table is partly open.
The revolver was taken from the drawer.”
“Are you sure of it?”
“Positively. It belongs to Mr. Clayton. I have seen it there many times.
You will find its leather case in the drawer, also a box of cartridges.
See for yourself.”
Nick hastened to verify these statements. He found the articles
mentioned in the back part of the table drawer. They appeared to clinch
in his mind the theory already expressed by the private secretary. For
Nick turned abruptly to him and said:
“There is, indeed, nothing else to it. Doctor Thorpe and this woman
disagreed over something. There may have been an altercation, during
which she stealthily took the weapon from the drawer. Obviously, of
course, the physician would not have known it was there.”
“Surely not,” Garside declared.
“Mrs. Clayton, then, must have been the one who had the weapon, and it
appears evident that she had some serious cause to fear the physician,”
Nick forcibly reasoned. “She evidently attempted to use the telephone,
moreover, probably intending to call for help, and when Doctor Thorpe
tried to prevent her, possibly in a fit of passion, she became so
alarmed that she shot and killed him. As you say, Mr. Garside, there
seems to be nothing else to it.”
Mr. Rollo Garside smoothed his neatly plastered hair with his palms and
looked as if he thoroughly agreed with the famous detective.
“Nevertheless, it seems incredible, Mr. Carter, utterly incredible,” he
said tentatively. “What earthly cause can Madame Clayton have had, as
she is called, to distinguish her from Mr. Chester Clayton, for standing
in fear of Doctor Thorpe, even to the extreme extent of taking his
life?”
“That may appear later,” said Nick.
“Possibly.”
“Physicians sometimes discover secrets, you know, from which they try to
derive pecuniary advantage. I refer to those unprincipled practitioners
who are not above blackmail. Doctor Thorpe may have been one of that
class.”
“Possibly,” Garside repeated.
“Be that as it may,” Nick added, “we know the Claytons were not
expecting him this evening, or they would have remained at home. If
they----”
He cut short his remark upon hearing the front door hurriedly opened,
immediately followed by the familiar voices of Clayton and his wife,
addressing Chick Carter in terms of hearty greeting.
Nick quietly closed the library door, then turned quickly to Garside,
saying impressively:
“They have returned. Not one word to them, Garside, about our
suspicions. Leave me to handle this matter and state what seems proper.”
Garside complied without a moment’s hesitation.
“What you say goes, Mr. Carter,” he replied. “You are better able than I
to determine what will be for the best.”
Nick laid his hand on the secretary’s arm.
“Let me explain,” he said, even more earnestly. “I must look deeper into
this matter before I can decide what will be for the best. In the
meantime, Garside, I am averse to arresting Madame Clayton. If she was
justified in killing this man, or was mentally irresponsible, as now
appears quite possible, I wish to shield the Claytons from needless
publicity. Until I have ferreted out the true facts, therefore, I will
not arrest this woman.”
“I am glad to hear you say so,” Garside quickly asserted. “I have
admired her, Carter, and feel a very deep sympathy for her. There may
be, as you say, a justification for the crime. It seems both needless
and cruel, moreover, to arrest her while in her present condition.”
“It will be necessary, nevertheless, to temporarily hide our true
suspicions and attribute this crime to some unknown assassin,” Nick
pointed out impressively. “Otherwise, Garside, her arrest would become
imperative. I will take all the responsibility for deferring it, pending
further investigations, but you must agree to coöperate with me.”
“Coöperate with you?” questioned Garside. “What do you mean? I don’t
quite get you.”
“I mean that, having confided in you and informed you of my suspicions,
you must agree not to disclose them,” Nick explained. “Otherwise, if I
defer doing so, you would put me in wrong.”
“Ah, I see,” Garside exclaimed, eyes lighting. “In other words, Carter,
you want me to keep my trap closed, or else agree with whatever views
you see fit to explain.”
“Exactly,” Nick nodded.
“Enough said. You may depend on my doing so,” Garside hastened to assure
him.
“Very good. Leave me to hand out statements consistent with the
superficial circumstances, then, and to dig out the true facts from
under the surface. That may take time, several days, possibly several
weeks. In the meantime----”
“Mum’s the word, Carter, in so far as I am concerned,” Garside earnestly
interrupted. “I understand you perfectly. I will be as dumb as an
oyster. Take it from me, Carter, you can rely upon my secrecy and
discretion.”
“Good enough,” Nick declared, extending his hand. “Shake. Sooner or
later, Garside, I will repay you in some way for all this.”