THE LAST LETTER
At the same moment that Marsh opened the door, Tierney and the man
from Headquarters, who had been taking the photographs, came
bounding down the stairs from the third floor.
They all saw the body of a woman lying motionless on the landing.
"Who is it?" cried Morgan, over Marsh's shoulder.
"Jane Atwood!" was the sharp reply.
With that Marsh stooped and took the unconscious girl up in his
arms, the unusual tenderness and care of his movements being plainly
apparent. Carrying her into his apartment, while the others
followed, Marsh laid her gently on a davenport in the living room.
"She must have had a shock of some kind and fainted," exclaimed
Morgan.
"No," returned Marsh, as he softly smoothed back the hair from her
forehead, disclosing a bruise that was now rapidly discoloring and
swelling. "Somebody knocked her insensible." Then added, "You sent
your man away too soon, Morgan."
"My God!" burst out Morgan. "What nerve! To think of pulling
anything like this in a house full of detectives."
"We have a tough customer this time," declared Marsh. "Ordinary
methods won't go. Watch her while I get some water."
Marsh went to the bathroom for a towel and some cold water. In the
meantime Morgan turned sharply to Tierney.
"From now on, while we work on this case, your job is to stand
outside of every door I enter."
Tierney grinned. To some men it might have seemed that they were
being thrust into the background. To Tierney, however, the work
immediately presented possibilities that stirred his fighting Irish
blood. Without a word he went out into the public hall and closed
the door behind him.
Marsh returned, and began to bathe the girl's forehead and the
bruise with the cold water. While he worked over her, the
photographer approached Morgan and held out an envelope.
"After your friend here picked the girl up," he explained, "I
noticed this lying near her."
Morgan took the envelope. After a hasty glance he extended it to
Marsh. "A letter to this girl with a St. Louis postmark!" he gasped.
"Good!" exclaimed Marsh, without stopping his work to revive the
girl. "Just what I have been watching for. Open it."
Morgan understood. Turning to the photographer, he handed back the
envelope. "Slip into the kitchen, steam this open and make a quick
copy." Then, noticing the case on the floor beside the man, he
added, "Finished your work upstairs?"
The man nodded.
"Then make a photograph of this letter at the same time. The
handwriting may prove useful."
Taking the letter and picking up his case, the man went back to the
kitchen. Morgan turned to Marsh.
"How is she coming on?" he inquired.
There was a slight flutter of the eyelids as he spoke and Marsh
called his attention to it. "She will be all right in a moment," he
said.
Presently Jane Atwood's eyes opened slowly, and she gazed in a
bewildered and uncomprehending way at the two men bending anxiously
over her. Marsh continued to bathe her forehead and gradually she
seemed to realize her position. She struggled slowly into a sitting
position on the davenport while the two men stood back, awaiting her
first words. Contrary to the usual idea of feminine return to
consciousness, she did not inquire where she was. Instead she
startled the two men by asking, "Did you get him?"
"Get who?" counter questioned Marsh, taking the lead.
"The man who was outside the door," was the reply.
Marsh and Morgan exchanged quick glances. To them it was a
confirmation that the listener of the night before was still seeking
information about the case in hand. Moreover, here might be a clue
to his identity, or at least a description that would prove helpful,
so Marsh seated himself on the davenport at her side, while Morgan
went to a chair across the room.
Both men knew instinctively that this would put the girl more at her
ease than if they continued to stand over her like inquisitors.
Marsh continued the conversation. "We know nothing about what
happened," he said. "We heard a scream. When we opened the door you
were lying there. No one was around except two policemen who came
down from the third floor at that moment, having also heard your
cry."
After this simple statement of the situation, Marsh paused, waiting
for the girl to go on. He felt that in her dazed and weakened
condition questions would still further bewilder her, might even
cause a revulsion that would delay or prevent their getting
information that would prove of inestimable value.
The girl paused, as if to collect her thoughts, and passed her hand
before her eyes with a motion similar to sweeping aside a curtain.
Then she spoke.
"I went to the hairdresser's in the block below. Returning, I
stopped to take a letter out of the mail box and then started up the
stairs to my apartment." At this point she passed her hand over her
hair and smiled as she realized its disheveled appearance now. "As I
turned up the flight to this floor, I saw a man crouched down before
the door of this apartment. He did not hear me until I reached the
top of the stairs. Then he jumped up, and seeing me, tried to push
by. Remembering the burglary, or whatever it was, upstairs, I knew I
should try to stop him. So I seized his coat and we started to
struggle. Instantly I saw him draw back his arm, then I felt the
blow. I remember nothing of what happened from that moment until I
awoke just now on this davenport."
Marsh sat up and clenched his hands. "If I knew what the fellow
looked like I would thrash him the next time I saw him," he
threatened, hoping thus to draw out the description he wanted.
"Oh, I can describe him--at least in a general way. He was short,
not much over five feet, and quite thin. His face had a peaked look.
While we struggled his hat fell off and I saw that he was almost
bald. His nose was large, and taken with his thin face and rather
large bright eyes, it seems to me now that he looked just like an
eagle."
"Had you ever seen him before?" Morgan asked.
"Never," she answered, and the positive note in her voice could not
be mistaken.
"I will send your description to all the stations," said Morgan. "We
will try to get that fellow."
Morgan went to the telephone and called the Detective Bureau. He
gave the necessary directions, and as he returned to his chair,
remarked, "In an hour or two this won't be a safe town for that
fellow."
"You are the detective who came to see me!" exclaimed the girl.
"Perhaps this is the man you are looking for."
"Perhaps," agreed Morgan. "I can tell better after I get my hands on
him."
"Oh, my!" cried the girl, and began to search about the davenport.
The two men suspected she was looking for the letter, and they were
relieved to see the photographer appear in the doorway at that
moment.
"Have you lost something?" inquired Marsh.
"Yes, the letter I took out of the mail box."
"Here it is, Miss," said the photographer, stepping forward and
presenting the letter to her. "I picked it up in the hall where you
dropped it."
She took it and thanked him. "I'm so glad you found it," she added.
"It is from my father, and I have not heard from him in a long time.
I feel better now and will go home."
She rose slowly with the words. Noting her weakness, Marsh stepped
to her side and slipped his arm under hers.
"Let me help you up the stairs," he said, gently.
"Thank you," she returned, simply, realizing her need of help.
"I'll wait until you come back, Marsh," said Morgan.
The girl started. "Are you Mr. Marsh?" she exclaimed. Then, as Marsh
nodded, she added, "Why, you are the man who sent this detective up
to see me."
Marsh glanced quickly at Morgan, who, behind the girl's back,
dropped one eyelid slowly and significantly.
"Well, you seemed the most likely person to have information, being
right on the same floor," Marsh said, smiling.
There could be no question that this was a natural explanation, and
the girl seemed satisfied. With a nod and a smile to Morgan and the
photographer, she allowed Marsh to assist her out of the door and up
the stairs to her apartment. Tierney rose from the step where he had
been sitting, to let her pass, and she favored him with one of her
pretty smiles as he did so. Tierney then climbed after them to the
next landing and stood watching. Marsh waited until the door closed
after her. Then, with a catch in his breath that sounded
suspiciously like a sigh, he went back to his apartment. Tierney
gave him a peculiar look as he passed.
The photographer had gone, but Morgan held out the copy which he had
made of the letter as soon as Marsh entered, with the remark, "Now,
what's the game?"
Marsh took it and read:
My dear Daughter:
I have returned from the last trip I shall ever make. I
have never told you, not wishing to cause you worry, but
my health has been gradually failing for many years.
I can no longer attend to my duties on the road and have
had to give up my position. The doctor gives me but a few
months to live, so rather than be a burden to you I have
decided to end the thing at once. When this letter reaches
you, the Mississippi will be carrying my body to the sea,
where I hope that it will be lost to the world forever.
Knowing that my time was approaching, I long ago arranged
for your future. If you will identify yourself to the
National Trust Company, Chicago, you will find that you
have been amply provided for. As we do not lease the
apartment direct from the owner, you had better move out
at once and go to an hotel. No one can hold you responsible.
Good luck and success in your music. God bless you, and
good-bye.
Your devoted father.
"What's the game?" repeated Morgan, when he saw that Marsh had
finished reading the letter.
"A convenient disappearance, that is all," returned Marsh. "Things
were beginning to get too hot for him. No doubt he thought you were
getting closer than you really were. Poor girl," he added. "She will
take it as gospel truth, and we dare not tell her otherwise--not
now, anyway."
"One thing is certain in my mind now," asserted Morgan. "There was a
murder upstairs. They planned to put some person who was becoming a
menace, quietly out of the way. But you spoiled it!"
"No, I did not spoil it," said Marsh. "The shot did that. I have
felt for some time that that shot was a mistake--a slipup
somewhere."
"I've got to go; it is two o'clock," exclaimed Morgan as he looked
at his watch. "Where shall we hold future conferences! I do not want
to be seen coming here too often. It might lead to suspicions of
you, and I think we can accomplish more if your connection with the
case is not made clear."
"How about your house?" inquired Marsh. "Knowing that you are now
suspicious, and with Tierney on the doorstep, they will probably
keep away from there in the future."
"Well, let it stand at that for the present," agreed Morgan.
"Telephone me when you want to come. My number is in the telephone
book."
With that the two men's hands met in a strong grip as if to seal
their future partnership. Morgan opened the door and then started
back with a cry.
Tierney lay stretched out across the landing, apparently asleep.
But Morgan knew the man better.