THE CLOSED COUNTRY HOUSE
Sunday morning was gray and dark, with low-hanging clouds and a
frosty snap in the air that gave the city its first touch of real
autumn weather. Returning from breakfast, Marsh lit the gas logs in
his fireplace and sat down before their cheery blaze to smoke and
think.
Step by step he analyzed and strove to connect the developments of
the last few days. The case was strange in many ways. With numerous
clues, suspicions circumstances and half-identified people on every
hand, there was no one feature upon which definite action could be
taken. Atwood was the most elusive criminal he had ever pursued.
Never at any time had the man become an actual personality. Like a
will-o'-the-wisp, he was ever in sight, yet just beyond reach. While
the detectives struggled along tangled paths that led nowhere,
Atwood's long arm continually reached out to strike back.
As he thought along these lines, an explanation slowly took form in
Marsh's mind. In some of its features it seemed weird and unreal.
This, perhaps, was due to the fact that the few definite pieces of
information in his possession had to be largely supported and
connected by theories and deductions. Strange as the explanation
might seem, it nevertheless gave birth to a well-defined plan of
action.
In this way the morning slipped by and Marsh was surprised, on
looking at his watch, to find that it was nearly noon. He went to
his telephone, called the Monmouth Hotel, and asked to speak to Miss
Atwood. When the girl answered the telephone, Marsh inquired if she
would care to have dinner with him. The invitation was accepted with
quite evident pleasure on the girl's part, and Marsh soon left to
keep his appointment with her. On his way to the hotel, Marsh
stepped into a cigar store, looked up Gilbert Hunt's telephone
number, and made an appointment for the evening. Marsh took this
precaution of telephoning Hunt from a pay station because a
telephone call is easily traced, and he had not yet decided to
advise Hunt of his real address.
Jane Atwood joined Marsh in the lobby of the hotel, and the
friendliness of her greeting made him glad of his decision to take
her on the trip he had planned for the afternoon.
They had dinner at the Edgewater Beach Hotel. It was the girl's
first visit to this show-place of the North Side, and Marsh was
delighted with her animated interest in everything about her. In
fact, he found it hard to believe that this girl, whose bright
chatter, sunny smile and sparkling eyes now held him fascinated, had
so recently been through such trying experiences. Marsh felt that it
was a natural reaction brought about by this diversion, and he long
afterward remembered it as one of the happiest hours in a life that
had been replete with professional adventure, but barren in the
companionship of women of her sort.
As they sat sipping their coffee, Marsh said, "I imagine you have
seen very little of Chicago, Miss Atwood?"
"Yes," she admitted. "One takes less interest in things when
sight-seeing trips must be made alone. You know, I have not seemed to make
any friends in Chicago."
"When I can spare the time, I want to take you around a little. I am
sure that you would enjoy the art museum, for art is akin to music
and from what you have told me I know that you are deeply interested
in that."
"Yes," she replied, "music has always been my chief companion. The
dreams that other girls confide in chums, I have told to my piano."
Marsh lit a cigarette and smoked for a moment in silence.
"How would you like to take a little trip with me out to one of the
North Shore suburbs this afternoon?" he inquired.
"I should enjoy it very much," she said.
"Well," Marsh went on, "there is a house out at Hubbard Woods that I
want to look over this afternoon for a friend. This is just the day
for a stroll along the autumn-leafed roads. I thought perhaps you
would like to go with me."
Marsh aided her with her wraps and they walked across to the
elevated railroad. At Evanston, a few miles north of the city, they
changed to the suburban electric line. The girl took a lively
interest in the pretty suburban towns through which they passed, and
it seemed to Marsh as if they had but just boarded the train when
the conductor called out their station and they alighted.
The place was well named. A lonely little station set down in the
midst of thick woods, and a road that wound slightly downhill and
away among the trees were all that met the eye. They strolled down
this road, passing occasional homes. These were usually well back
from the road and almost concealed among the trees. In fact, in some
places the house itself was not visible, the only indication of a
residence being an ornamental gateway, or sometimes just a simple
driveway disappearing into the woods. Fallen leaves rustled about
their feet, but much of the foliage remained on the trees. Some of
this was still green, setting off the masses of autumn colors that
ranged from a sombre brown to vivid reds and many shades of yellow.
"And a great city only a few miles away," mused Marsh, giving voice
to both their thoughts.
"It is beautiful," admitted the girl, "but so lonely and quiet.
Somehow, one, feels so far, far away from everything. Perhaps the
gloomy day affects me, but it seems as if the air were full of some
solemn mystery."
At this point Marsh saw a young couple, strolling on the other side
of the road. He surmised that they were local residents, and
excusing himself to Miss Atwood, crossed over and inquired of the
man if he knew where the Merton estate was located.
"Yes," was the reply. "Just keep on south along Sheridan Road. It
won't take you five minutes to get there. The place is on the left
hand side of the road. You can't miss it; a gateway with gray stone
posts, and there are two big pines inside the entrance to the
driveway."
Thanking him, Marsh rejoined Miss Atwood.
"I wanted to find out how to locate the place I was looking for," he
explained. "You will pardon my leaving you alone, but it seemed
unnecessary to make you cross the street."
"Oh, I didn't mind," she replied.
Marsh's real reason, however, in thus leaving Miss Atwood, was to
prevent her hearing mention of the name of Merton. Unquestionably,
the girl had read of the case in the papers, and after her own
recent experiences might feel a certain timidity in approaching the
missing broker's home; especially after her recent mention of how
the surroundings affected her.
A slight turn in the road brought them to the driveway which the
young man had described. There was no mistaking the two great pines
that stood like sentinels at either side, just back of the imposing
stone gateway. One of these trees was evidently dead, for it was
gaunt and bare, in marked contrast to its companion; and as they
paused a moment before the entrance, the wind broke off a rotting
branch, which fell at her feet. The gates of iron grill work were
standing open, and they turned in and started up the driveway, which
was covered with crushed gray stone. The house was farther from the
road than Marsh had expected, for it was several minutes before they
reached it. As he stood before the great pile of stone and wood,
with its drawn shades and general appearance of desertion, Marsh
thought of the long, winding road through the woods behind them and
half regretted that he had brought Miss Atwood with him. His desire
had been to attract as little attention as possible in his
inspection of the house. One man scouting around this lonely place
would have been a suspicious object. On the other hand, it had
seemed to him that a man and woman, out for an afternoon stroll,
might exhibit an interest in a large country-house without
attracting suspicious attention. But now, as he stood there in the
gray autumn light, with the wind sighing through the trees about
them and a fine snow beginning to drift down, the place seemed to
take on an uncanny atmosphere that, even though nothing worse could
happen, would have a depressing effect on the girl. It was too late
to back out, however. It would be hard to explain a sudden retreat
to the girl, and there was no time to be lost in trying to get the
information which he sought. Marsh glanced at his companion. She was
looking around with evident interest, and he was glad to note that
as yet she exhibited no signs of nervousness.
"I understand there is a caretaker here. Will you come up with me
while I ring the bell?"
The girl assented, and they climbed the wide steps over which the
autumn leaves were thickly scattered. Whether or not the bell rang,
Marsh could not tell, but certainly no sound came to them. He
decided to knock and struck the door with the knuckles of his
clenched hand. At the first blow, the door moved and swung inward.
A large hall stretched dimly before them. At one side, Marsh saw a
stairway and at the other a high curtained doorway, which probably
led to the drawing room. At the back of the hall seemed to be
another smaller doorway, but Marsh could not be sure in the dim
light. He was in a quandary. So far as he could see, the house was
deserted. Possibly the caretaker was spending his Sunday afternoon
with friends, and the door had been closed carelessly so that the
latch had not caught. Had Marsh been alone he would have welcomed
this opportunity to carefully inspect the house. The girl now
blocked such an attempt, for it was obviously unwise, for many
reasons, to ask her to accompany him into the house; and he could
not consider the idea of leaving her alone, even for a few minutes.
There was no alternative but to postpone his visit until the next
day.
Marsh stepped through the doorway, pulled the door closed, and tried
the knob to see that the door had latched securely. As he turned
away, he glanced toward the shrubbery that bordered the adjoining
woods. Although he turned instantly to the girl, and started to
assist her down the steps, Marsh's quick eyes had noted a man
crouching half-concealed in the shrubbery.
As they retraced their steps down the driveway, Marsh kept a firm
grasp on the automatic in his pocket while his eyes, without
apparent interest, continually watched the trees and shrubbery on
either side. They reached the main road without incident and turned
north toward the station. Not a word had been spoken as they passed
along the driveway, for Marsh had been too intent upon keeping a
keen watch to think of words, and the depressing atmosphere of the
place had evidently begun to affect Miss Atwood. In fact, Marsh
thought that she seemed to brighten as soon as they passed through
the gateway.
"Are you in the real estate business, Mr. Marsh?" she asked.
"No," he replied. "What made you think that?"
"You never told me what your business was," she answered, "and your
coming out here to look at that house today gave me the idea that
you might be interested in real estate."
"No," he said, "I am not interested in real estate," then added,
evasively, but not quite untruthfully, "I am planning, however, to
go into some sort of business in Chicago."
The fact was that since meeting this girl, Marsh had began to take
an entirely different view of life. He looked back upon his
wanderings and realized the emptiness of the passing years. It
seemed to him now that a man could ask for nothing more than to
settle down to some regular employment in such a wonderful city, and
go home every night to find this girl waiting for him.
Marsh stepped off the motor bus at Oak Street to keep his
appointment with Hunt. He reflected that he had never seen a street
so representative of Chicago and its rapid growth. At his back was
the great new Drake Hotel and the whole neighborhood was one of
wealth and fashion. Yet, as he passed along the street, he noticed
tiny frame or brick dwellings nestling shoulder to shoulder with
obviously wealthy homes, and here and there the dark, towering
structures of old and new apartment buildings. He found Hunt's
apartment in one of the new buildings and paused for a moment on the
curb to look it over. Though handsome architecturally and modern in
every respect, there was a peculiar sombreness about the building,
and the bright lamps that gleamed at the entrance but served to
exaggerate the dim interior of the hallway.
Not realizing exactly why he did so, but probably responding to an
instinct for caution, Marsh strolled back and forth before entering
the building. He noted the two dark and narrow alleyways on either
side. One of these, reached through a dim, deep recess in the front
wall, was evidently the tradesmen's entrance. Marsh then entered the
vestibule and pushed the bell under Hunt's name. This was
immediately answered by the clicking of the electric door opener.
Hunt's man-servant stood at the apartment door, and after closing it
behind him, ushered Marsh down a short hall and into the living
room. Marsh's quick eye took in the luxuriousness of the
furnishings--and something more. He surmised that Hunt was a
bachelor. Hunt advanced to meet him with extended hand.
"Good evening, Mr. Marsh," Hunt greeted him, affably. "I hope you
bring me some important information."
"I think it will at least be interesting," returned Marsh, as he
handed his hat and coat to Hunt's man.
A log fire blazed in a large open fireplace. Before this was a
deeply upholstered davenport plentifully supplied with extra
cushions, and at either side of the fireplace were large lounging
chairs. Hunt called Marsh's attention to these and told him to make
himself comfortable. As Hunt seated himself on the davenport, Marsh
decided to take one of the chairs near the fire. This gave him the
advantage of having the firelight on Hunt's face while his own was
more or less in the shadow, for the heavily shaded lamps about the
room furnished only a soft glow that made details indistinct.
Hunt clasped his hands and leaning forward rested his elbows on his
knees. "Tell me what you found in Merton's rooms yesterday," he
said.
"I found absolutely nothing of importance," replied Marsh. It might
be splitting hairs, he thought, but it was Morgan who had actually
discovered the notebook. "I looked carefully through his dresser,"
he want on, "and also examined all the papers in the desk."
"And you found nothing of importance, Mr. Marsh?"
"Nothing," replied March, putting as strong a note of positiveness
into his voice as possible, for he now began to suspect to whom the
notebook had belonged. "The desk contained only personal and a
little business correspondence. Morgan and I examined all the
signatures. If you looked that correspondence over, as I presume you
did, you will acknowledge that no suspicion could be directed at the
men whose names appeared there."
Hunt nodded in an absent-minded way and again asked, "Perhaps this
man Morgan found something?"
"I would have known if he had," said Marsh, again evasively. "I
entered the room with him, and as you know, we left together."
Hunt now seemed satisfied that Marsh had no special information to
give him about the contents of Merton's rooms: "Well, tell me just
what you have discovered," he said, settling back into a corner of
the davenport.
"For one thing," Marsh began, "I know that Mr. Merton is dead."
He leisurely took out his cigarette case, carefully selected a
cigarette, and touch a match to it. It was evident, that this act on
Marsh's part was intended to give Hunt time in which to think and
pass some comment if he cared to. The man remained silent.
"All right, my friend," thought Marsh. "We'll tell you a little
more; just enough to make you think--and perhaps act." Then he
continued aloud, "I work along somewhat different lines than those
followed by the police. For example, I frequently get better results
by sitting down quietly in my room, laying certain obvious
circumstances before me, and, through what you might call a method
of addition, derive an answer to my problem."
"Quite interesting," murmured Hunt.
"And that is the way I have worked out this problem."
"Tell me the details," said Hunt.
"While you reported to the police that Mr. Merton had been missing
for ten days, I discovered by inquiries at his hotel that he was in
his room as late as last Monday night. In fact, he was seen to leave
the hotel at midnight."
"So I have heard," Hunt broke in hastily. "At the time I notified
the police I had not seen Mr. Merton at the office for about ten
days."
Marsh nodded, and inquired, "I suppose you follow the papers
carefully every day?"
"Naturally," was the reply.
"Then," said Marsh, "you probably read about the murder on Sheridan
Road last Tuesday morning--the Sheridan Road Mystery, the papers
called it."
"Yes, I read about that affair."
"Didn't it make you think?" asked Marsh.
"I don't understand."
"I'll explain," said Marsh. "Mr. Merton left his hotel at midnight
Monday. Two hours later a man was murdered in the Sheridan Road
apartment. Mr. Merton has not been seen since."
"Well?" queried Hunt.
"I've just been wondering--that's all," answered Marsh, throwing the
remains of his cigarette into the fire place. There was a slight
pause as he selected another from his case and lit it.
"Mr. Marsh," said Hunt, "you're driving at something. What is it?"
"Just this,". answered Marsh, leaning forward and looking Hunt in
the eye. "You hold a power of attorney from Mr. Merton. You are to
be sole executor of his estate. Mrs. Merton may not return for
years. That's an easy way to get a business, Mr. Hunt."
Hunt adjusted a couple of pillows and settled back again. "Do I
gather from your remarks, Mr. Marsh, that you mean to imply
something?"
"No," returned Marsh, "I am just stating an obvious situation."
Hunt now leaned toward Marsh. "Have the police arrived at the same
conclusions?"
"Have you ever noticed," countered Marsh, "that what the police know
usually appears in the papers?"
"You mean by that that the police have not formed the same
connection which you have?"
"I inferred as much," returned Marsh.
"Are you thinking of bringing your theories to their attention?"
asked Hunt, as he again settled himself back against the cushions.
"That depends."
"On what?" inquired Hunt.
"Yourself."
Hunt remained silent for a moment, then said, "Do I understand that
you are making me a proposition?"
"I'm not laying myself open to a charge of blackmail, Mr. Hunt."
"No," jeered Hunt, "I see you're a clever rogue. I might have
guessed as much when you offered to investigate this matter for me."
"A man must make a living," returned Marsh.
"This is a cheap way to do it."
"I haven't had your opportunities," snapped Marsh.
"Damn you!" cried Hunt, leaping to his feet and shaking his fist in
Marsh's face. "I'll hand you over to the police."
"And lose a good lieutenant, Mr. Hunt?"
"You're a dirty blackguard, Marsh," stormed Hunt. "You've worked
your way into my confidence and now attempt to use your knowledge to
hold me up. I admit that you've got me by the throat. A man placed
in the position which you have made only too clear to me has only
one way out. Of course, I could clear myself, but the stigma and
suspicion would remain. All right, what's your price?"
Marsh stared in puzzled silence for a moment, as Hunt glared down at
him. In some ways the outcome of the conversation was not exactly
what he had expected.
"Mr. Hunt," he said, rising, "I'm in this thing for bigger game than
a few hundred dollars."
"I told you to name your price," replied Hunt.
"As I told you before," returned Marsh, "I'm not laying myself open
to a charge of blackmail. You think the matter over for a day or
two; and in the meantime I'll take my coat and hat."
Hunt hesitated for a moment, then struck a bell which stood on a
small table by the davenport. A moment later his man appeared with
Marsh's coat and hat and assisted him to put on his coat.
"Good night, Mr. Hunt," said Marsh, smiling, and holding out his
hand.
"Good night," said Hunt, shortly, turning away and ignoring the
proffered hand.
The servant opened the door and Marsh; passed out. He hurried over
to Rush Street and into the telephone booth in a nearby drug store.
He talked for a few minutes over the telephone and then took a
street car for home.
A half hour later an observant person might have noticed a man
lingering in the shadows of Oak Street.