THE NEW BUTLER.
Nick Carter did not often confide in a stranger to the extent that he
had confided in Mr. Chester Clayton’s private secretary.
One familiar with the habits and methods of the famous detective might
reasonably infer that he had some covert motive in doing so, some
ulterior object to be attained by secrecy and coöperation with Mr. Rollo
Garside, though what it was would by no means appear obvious. Nor, if
such was the case, did it immediately appear on the surface.
For, after three days, the mystery involving the killing of Doctor
Joseph Thorpe seemed to be deeper and darker than ever, with the utmost
efforts of the detectives failing to shed a ray of light on the case.
Nick Carter had, in fact, found no additional evidence beyond that
discovered within an hour after the crime. A careful search later that
evening and early the following morning proved utterly futile. None of
the windows or doors appeared to have been tampered with, nor was there
any evidence that the house had been stealthily entered.
Acting upon Nick’s advice, nevertheless, pending further investigations,
the coroner found that Doctor Thorpe had been killed by an unknown
assailant, under circumstances of which only Mrs. Julia Clayton was
informed, and which she then was mentally unable to disclose.
Nick thus set the legal machine in operation, and the fact that he was
at work on the case satisfied the authorities, the police, and the
public that no stone would be left unturned to solve the mystery.
Three days, however, brought no observable results.
Madame Clayton remained in much the same condition as when the
detectives had found her. Memory appeared to have deserted her. Her mind
seemed to be a blank, and she was bereft of speech, not once having
spoken since Nick first questioned her, despite the persuasive
endeavors of her grief-stricken family and professional efforts of the
physicians who had been summoned.
In the care of a trained nurse, one Martha Dryden, who had had charge of
the Clayton infant since its birth, she remained day after day in the
same strange condition.
Doctor Thorpe was buried on the third day following the murder, the true
motive for which none could conjecture, not even Nick Carter himself.
On the previous day a new butler, one John Peterson, was employed in the
Clayton residence to fill the position of the one who had been married.
It was this new butler who answered the bell and admitted Nick Carter
about seven o’clock in the evening of the third day after the crime. It
was not the first time that he had seen and admitted the detective in
charge of the case.
“Good evening, Peterson,” said Nick, pausing in the hall to remove his
gloves and overcoat. “Mr. Clayton is at home, I infer.”
“Yes, sir; he is, sir,” bowed Peterson. “He is alone in the library,
sir.”
“I would prefer to see him alone, Peterson,” said Nick, a bit dryly.
“Very well, sir.”
“Is there any change in Madame Clayton’s condition?”
“I think not, sir. She is just the same, sir. This way, sir.”
He was a sedate, punctilious fellow, this Peterson, with a very florid
face and mutton-chop whiskers, a man apparently of middle age and with
an exalted appreciation of the functions of his position. One would have
said with a glance, in fact, that Peterson had spent the best years of
his life in the service of people of quality.
Nick followed him to the library, where Mr. Chester Clayton was awaiting
him.
“Mr. Carter, sir,” said Peterson, on the threshold.
“You may close the door, Peterson,” said Clayton, waving the detective
to a chair.
Peterson withdrew and the door closed upon his red face and rigid
figure.
“Don’t rise, Clayton,” said Nick, while he shook hands with him. “You
look pale this evening, more pale than when I saw you on the night of
the crime. I venture to say you have lost thirty pounds since I lunched
with you something like four months ago.”
“All of that, Nick,” said Clayton, smiling a bit wearily. “I have lost
all I took on during the six months following my marriage. I seem to be
slipping downhill on greased rollers. What more have you learned about
this terrible business?”
“Nothing worthy of mention,” Nick replied. “I still am much in the dark.
Peterson tells me there is no improvement in your mother’s condition.”
“No, none whatever,” Clayton said sadly. “She lies hour after hour like
a woman in a trance. We have tried in vain to arouse her, or to evoke
some sign of recognition. She----”
“We will talk of her a little later,” Nick interposed. “Tell me,
instead, Clayton, how long you have been on the down grade. When did you
first detect this change in your health?”
“About three months ago, Nick, as near as I can tell.”
“Did you consult a physician at that time?”
“Yes. I have tried several since then, moreover, but without deriving
any benefit. I have been running down and losing flesh in spite of all
they can do.”
“Mr. Garside, your private secretary, tells me that you have not been
going to your office for some little time.”
“Only occasionally. I have not felt able to do so. That is why I made
Mr. Garside one of my household, or, rather, his predecessor, who
resigned his position several weeks ago. I found it necessary to
transact much of my business at home, and the aid of a private secretary
was imperative.”
“I see,” Nick nodded. “Who, by the way, was Mr. Garside’s predecessor?”
“His name is John Dunbar. He was formerly a clerk in our office.”
“Previous to becoming your private secretary?”
“Yes.”
“Has he resumed his former position?”
“No. I don’t know what has become of him.”
“Why did he resign from your employ?”
“He said he intended to go West,” Clayton explained. “I think he may
have done so, having seen him only once since he ended our relations.”
“When was that?”
“A day or two later. He called here to introduce Mr. Garside, whom he
recommended very highly, and whom I had consented to employ on trial.”
“Just so,” Nick remarked. “I infer that Mr. Garside has proved
satisfactory.”
“Yes. His position is not a difficult one, as far as that goes, and he
has filled it capably. I rather like him, moreover, for he appears to be
very much of a gentleman.”
“Did he have other recommendations except that of Dunbar, your former
secretary?”
“No, he did not, nor did I require any.”
“As a matter of fact, then, all that you really know about Garside is
what Dunbar told you,” Nick observed.
Clayton eyed him more sharply. Not only the remark, but also the
detective’s voice, were tinged with a subtle, sinister significance that
could not be overlooked.
“What do you mean, Nick?” he demanded. “What do you imply by that?”
“Oh, nothing of consequence, perhaps,” Nick now said carelessly.
“But you must have some reason for making that remark.”
“It merely occurred to me, Clayton, that you first noticed symptoms of
illness about the time that Dunbar left and Garside came here to live,”
Nick explained. “That may, of course, have been only a coincidence.”
“What else could it be?” Clayton quickly questioned. “Surely, Nick, you
don’t suspect Mr. Garside of anything wrong?”
“No, no; certainly not,” Nick assured him. “He appears to be, as you
say, very much of a gentleman.”
“He has my confidence, at least.”
“Of which he no doubt is entirely worthy,” Nick allowed. “Now, Clayton,
a few words concerning your mother and her abnormal condition. It has, I
think, completely mystified the physicians who have been attending
her.”
“Both mystified and baffled them,” bowed Clayton. “They seem to be all
at sea.”
“No wonder. For, ordinarily, such a shock as Madame Clayton evidently
suffered, while it might deprive one of speech and memory at the outset,
soon seeks directly opposite avenues of relief. Memory returns full
force, and speech really becomes the safety valve for the overwrought
and disordered mind. There must, in my opinion, be some unsuspected
cause for Madame Clayton’s remaining in this apathetic condition.”
“But what cause?” Clayton doubtfully questioned. “Surely, if you are
right, the physicians ought to discover it.”
“Those who have been attending her may not have diagnosed her case from
the standpoint I have in mind,” Nick replied, quite enigmatically. “I
know of one thing, at least, that might have such an effect upon Madame
Clayton.”
“You mean?”
“Scopolamine.”
“Scopolamine?”
“Yes.”
“I never heard of it. What is it?”
“A drug.”
“A drug?” Clayton echoed again, brows knitting. “But that’s out of the
question, Nick? My mother never was addicted to the use of drugs of any
kind.”
“Add something to that,” Nick suggested.
“Add something to it? What do you mean?”
“So far as you know,” said Nick, with a more curious expression on his
strong, clean-cut face.
Clayton stared at him perplexedly for a moment.
“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “I cannot agree with you. I know positively,
Carter, that my mother never used drugs of any kind.”
“Don’t be too positive,” Nick replied. “The drug may have been
administered without her knowledge.”
“By whom?”
“That’s the question. Possibly by Doctor Thorpe himself. Possibly by
some one else, whose identity is not even suspected. There may be in
connection with this affair, Clayton, various circumstances that we have
not even dreamed of.”
“That is possible, of course,” Clayton nervously admitted. “But I cannot
imagine any circumstances consistent with such a theory.”
“Don’t try to do so,” Nick replied. “Before undertaking to unearth the
circumstances, Clayton, it will be better to find out positively whether
I am right.”
“Can that be done?”
“I think so.”
“How? By what means?”
“Let me inform you,” Nick said, more gravely. “Scopolamine is a drug
with which the majority of physicians are not very familiar. That may be
why those attending her have not suspected that it figures in this case.
It first came into modern scientific use within the present generation.”
“How did you learn about it?” questioned Clayton.
“That is not material,” smiled Nick. “I make it a point to learn all
about everything that can be applied to criminal uses. That’s part of my
business.”
“I suppose so, after all.”
“It is not necessary for me to enlarge upon the qualities of
scopolamine, however, and its peculiar effects upon human organisms,
particularly when used in combination with morphium,” Nick continued.
“It is known to produce, when persisted in, a very complete state of
amnesia, frequently causing absolute loss of memory during the period it
is administered, together with other effects such as are observable in
Madame Clayton’s condition. All this leads me to suspect the use of
scopolamine in her case, possibly in combination with other ingredients,
the subtle qualities of which are not generally known.”
“How administered?” inquired Clayton.
“By hypodermic injection.”
“But who on earth, Carter, could have drugged my mother in that way?
Surely no inmate of this house is guilty of such infernal deviltry.”
“That’s an open question,” said Nick. “We will not undertake to answer
it, Clayton until I am convinced that I am right. In the meantime,
however, you must conduct yourself precisely as if no such suspicion
existed. You must not betray it by word, look, or sign. You must not
confide in your wife, even, until after I have taken the steps I have in
view. In other words, Clayton, absolute secrecy is imperative.”
“I see that point, of course, and will govern myself accordingly.”
“Very good.”
“But what are your plans? What steps have you in view?”
“I have been talking by telephone to-day with a Philadelphia physician
and chemist, an intimate personal friend, whom I know to be an expert in
the use of all kinds of drugs, and thoroughly informed as to the
peculiar qualities and effects of scopolamine. If there is any man who
can determine positively whether it figures in this case, that man is
Doctor Grost. I have described Madame Clayton’s condition to him and he
is inclined to my opinion. He has consented to come to New York and see
her, and he will be here to-morrow morning. I will call here with him,
Clayton, at precisely ten o’clock.”
“By Jove, I am glad to know this,” Clayton earnestly declared. “It gives
me a ray of hope, at least.”
“You must be careful not to betray it, nevertheless,” Nick again
cautioned him. “Conduct yourself precisely as if we had not discussed
this matter, and as if my visit with Doctor Grost was not anticipated.”
“I will do so, Carter, take my word for it,” Clayton again assured him.
“I will be constantly on my guard.”
“Very good,” Nick replied, rising to go. “That is all I can say to you
this evening. Expect me at ten o’clock to-morrow morning in company with
the Philadelphia physician. We can bank positively on one fact, Clayton,
that he will speedily determine whether or not I am right.”
Clayton arose, looking vastly relieved, and accompanied the detective to
the door.