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THE CREVICE
by
WILLIAM J. BURNS and ISABEL OSTRANDER
Illustrations by Will Grefe
[Illustration: "I supposed that father was working late over some papers
and I knew that I must not disturb him."]
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Copyright, 1915, by
W. J. Watt & Company
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I PENNINGTON LAWTON AND THE GRIM REAPER 1
II REVELATIONS 16
III HENRY BLAINE TAKES A HAND 29
IV THE SEARCH 38
V THE WILL 53
VI THE FIRST COUNTER-MOVE 66
VII THE LETTER 78
VIII GUY MORROW FACES A PROBLEM 98
IX GONE! 104
X MARGARET HEFFERMAN'S FAILURE 116
XI THE CONFIDENCE OF EMILY 134
XII THE CIPHER 154
XIII THE EMPTY HOUSE 171
XIV IN THE OPEN 192
XV CHECKMATE! 207
XVI THE LIBRARY CHAIR 224
XVII THE RESCUE 240
XVIII THE TRAP 255
XIX THE UNSEEN LISTENER 272
XX THE CREVICE 290
XXI CLEARED SKIES 308
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"I supposed that father was working late over some
papers and I knew that I must not disturb him." Frontispiece
With the cunning of a Jimmy Valentine he manipulated
the tumblers. Ramon Hamilton, his discomfiture
forgotten, watched with breathless interest. 94
Her head was thrown back, her eyes blazing: and as she
faced him, she slowly raised her arm and pointed a
steady finger at the recoiling figure. 262
THE CREVICE
CHAPTER I
PENNINGTON LAWTON AND THE GRIM REAPER
Had New Illington been part of an empire instead of one of the most
important cities in the greatest republic in the world, the cry "The
King is dead! Long live the King!" might well have resounded through
its streets on that bleak November morning when Pennington Lawton was
found dead, seated quietly in his arm-chair by the hearth in the
library, where so many vast deals of national import had been first
conceived, and the details arranged which had carried them on and on
to brilliant consummation.
Lawton, the magnate, the supreme power in the financial world of the
whole country, had been suddenly cut down in his prime.
The news of his passing traveled more quickly than the extras which
rolled damp from the presses could convey it through the avenues and
alleys of the city, whose wealthiest citizen he had been, and through
the highways and byways of the country, which his marvelous mentality
and finesse had so manifestly strengthened in its position as a world
power.
At the banks and trust companies there were hurriedly-called
directors' meetings, where men sat about long mahogany tables, and
talked constrainedly about the immediate future and the vast changes
which the death of this great man would necessarily bring. In the
political clubs, his passing was discussed with bated breath.
At the hospitals and charitable institutions which he had so
generously helped to maintain, in the art clubs and museums, in the
Cosmopolitan Opera House--in the founding of which he had been leading
spirit and unfailingly thereafter, its most generous contributor--he
was mourned with a sincerity no less deep because of its admixture of
self-interest.
In aristocratic drawing-rooms, there were whispers over the tea-cups;
the luck of Ramon Hamilton, the rising young lawyer, whose engagement
to Anita Lawton, daughter and sole heiress of the dead financier, had
just been announced, was remarked upon with the frankness of envy,
left momentarily unguarded by the sudden shock.
For three days Pennington Lawton lay in simple, but veritable state.
Telegrams poured in from the highest representatives of State, clergy
and finance. Then, while the banks and charitable institutions
momentarily closed their doors, and flags throughout the city were
lowered in respect to the man who had gone, the funeral procession
wound its solemn way from the aristocratic church of St. James, to the
graveyard. The last extras were issued, detailing the service; the
last obituaries printed, the final paeans of praise were sung, and the
world went on its way.
During the two days thereafter, multitudinous affairs of more
imperative public import were brought to light; a celebrated murder
was committed; a notorious band of criminals was rounded up; a
political boss toppled and fell from his self-made pedestal; a
diplomatic scandal of far-reaching effect was unearthed, and in the
press of passing events, the fact that Lawton had been eliminated from
the scheme of things faded into comparative insignificance, from the
point of view of the general public.
In the great house on Belleair Avenue, which the man who was gone had
called home, a tall, slender young girl sat listlessly conversing with
a pompous little man, whose clerical garb proclaimed the reason for
his coming. The girl's sable garments pathetically betrayed her youth,
and in her soft eyes was the pained and wounded look of a child face
to face with its first comprehended sorrow.
The Rev. Dr. Franklin laid an obsequious hand upon her arm.
"The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of
the Lord."
Anita Lawton shivered slightly, and raised a trembling, protesting
hand.
"Please," she said, softly, "I know--I heard you say that at St.
James' two days ago. I try to believe, to think, that in some
inscrutable way, God meant it for the best when he took my father so
ruthlessly from me, with no premonition, no sign of warning. It is
hard, Dr. Franklin. I cannot coordinate my thoughts just yet. You must
give me a little time."
The minister bent his short body still lower before her.
"My dear child, do you remember, also, a later prayer in the same
service?"--unconsciously he assumed the full rich, rounded, pulpit
tones, which were habitual with him. "'Lord, Thou hast been our refuge
from one generation to another; before the mountains were brought
forth or ever the earth and world were made--'"
A low knocking upon the door interrupted him, and the butler
appeared.
"Mr. Rockamore and Mr. Mallowe," Anita Lawton read aloud from the
cards he presented. "Oh, I can't see them now. Tell them, Wilkes, that
my minister is with me, and they must forgive me for denying myself to
them."
The butler retired, and the Rev. Dr. Franklin, at the mention of two
of the most prominent and influential men in the city since the death
of Lawton, turned bulging, inquiring eyes upon the girl.
"My dear child, is it wise for you to refuse to see two of your
father's best friends? You will need their help, their kindness--a
woman alone in the world, no matter how exalted her position, needs
friends. Mr. Mallowe is not one of my parishioners, but I understand
that as president of the Street Railways, he was closely associated
with your dear father in many affairs of finance. Mr. Rockamore I know
to be a man of almost unlimited power in the world in which Mr. Lawton
moved. Should you not see them? Remember that you are under my
protection in every way, of course, but since our Heavenly Father has
seen fit to take unto Himself your dear one, I feel that it would be
advisable for you to place yourself under the temporal guidance of
those whom he trusted, at any rate for the time being."
"Oh, I feel that they were my father's friends, but not mine. Since
mother and my little sister and brother were lost at sea, so many
years ago, I have learned to depend wholly upon my father, who was
more comrade than parent. Then, as you know, I met Ramon--Mr.
Hamilton, and of course I trust him as implicitly as I must trust you.
But although, on many occasions, I assisted my father to receive his
financial confreres on a social basis, I cannot feel at a time like
this that I care to talk with any except those who are nearest and
dearest to me."
"But suppose they have come, not wholly to offer you consolation, but
to confer with you upon some business matters upon which it would be
advantageous for you to inform yourself? Your grief and desire for
seclusion are most natural, under the circumstances, but one must
sometimes consider earthly things also." The minister's evidently
eager desire to be present at an interview with the great men and to
place himself on a more familiar footing with them was so obvious that
Anita's gesture of dissent held also something of repugnance.
"I could not, Dr. Franklin. Perhaps later, when the first shock has
passed, but not yet. You understand that I like them both most
cordially. Those whom father trusted must be men of sterling worth,
but just now I feel as must an animal which has been beaten. I want to
creep off into a dark and silent place until my misery dulls a
little."
"You have borne up wonderfully well, dear child, under the severe
shock of this tragedy. Mrs. Franklin and I have remarked upon it. You
have exhibited the same self-mastery and strength of character which
made your father the man he was." Dr. Franklin arose from his chair
with a sigh which was not altogether perfunctory. "Think well over
what I have said. Try to realize that your only consolation and
strength in this hour of your deepest sorrow come from on High, and
believe that if you take your poor, crushed heart to the Throne of
Grace it shall be healed. That has been promised us. Think, also, of
what I have just said to you concerning your father's associates, and
when next they call, as they will, of course, do very shortly, try to
receive them with your usual gracious charms, and should they offer
you any advice upon worldly matters, which we must not permit
ourselves to neglect, send for me. I will leave you now. Mrs.
Franklin will call upon you to-morrow. Try to be brave and calm, and
pray for the guidance which will be vouchsafed you, should you ask it,
frankly and freely."
Anita Lawton gave him her hand and accompanied him in silence to the
door. There, with a few gentle words, she dismissed him, and when the
sound of his measured footsteps had diminished, she closed the door
with a little gasp of half relief, and turned to the window. It had
been an effort to her to see and talk with her spiritual adviser,
whose hypocrisy she had vaguely felt.
If only Ramon had come--Ramon, whose wife she would be in so short a
time, and who must now be father as well as husband to her. She
glanced at the little French clock on the mantel. He was late--he had
promised to be there at four. As she parted the heavy curtains, the
telephone upon her father's desk, in the corner, shrilled sharply.
When she took the receiver off the hook, the voice of her lover came
to the girl as clearly, tenderly, as if he, himself, stood beside
her.
"Anita, dear, may I come to you now?"
"Oh, please do, Ramon; I have been waiting for you. Dr. Franklin
called this afternoon, and while he was here with me Mr. Rockamore and
Mr. Mallowe came, but I could not see them. There is something I feel
I must talk over with you."
She hung up the receiver with a little sigh, and for the first time in
days a faint suspicion of a smile lightened her face. As she turned
away, however, her eyes fell upon the great leather chair by the
hearth, and her expression changed as she gave an uncontrollable
shudder. It was in that chair her father had been found on that
fateful morning, about a week ago, clad still in the dinner-clothes of
the previous evening, a faint, introspective smile upon his keen,
inscrutable face; his eyes wide, with a politely inquiring stare, as
if he had looked upon things which until then had been withheld from
his vision. She walked over to the chair, and laid her hand where his
head had rested. Then, all at once, the tension within her seemed to
snap and she flung herself within its capacious, wide-reaching arms,
in a torrent of tears--the first she had shed.
It was thus that Ramon Hamilton found her, on his arrival twenty
minutes later, and without ado, he gathered her up, carried her to the
window-seat, and made her cry out her heart upon his shoulder.
When she was somewhat quieted he said to her gently, "Dearest, why
will you insist upon coming to this room, of all others, at least
just for a little time? The memories here will only add to your
suffering."
"I don't know; I can't explain it. That chair there in which poor
father was found has a peculiar, dreadful fascination for me. I have
heard that murderers invariably return sooner or later to the scene of
their crime. May we not also have the same desire to stay close to the
place whence some one we love has departed?"
"You are morbid, dear. Bring your maid and come to my mother's house
for a little, as she has repeatedly asked you to do. It will make it
so much easier for you."
"Perhaps it would. Your mother has been so very kind, and yet I feel
that I must remain here, that there is something for me to do."
"I don't understand. What do you mean, dearest?"
She turned swiftly and placed her hands upon his broad shoulders. Her
childish eyes were steely with an intensity of purpose hitherto
foreign to them.
"Ramon, there is something I have not told you or any one; but I feel
that the time has come for me to speak. It is not nervousness, or
imagination; it is a fact which occurred on the night of my father's
death."
"Why speak of it, Anita?" He took her hands from his shoulders, and
pressed them gently, but with quiet strength. "It is all over now, you
know. We must not dwell too much upon what is past; I shall have to
help you to put it all from your mind--not to forget, but to make your
memories tender and beautiful."
"But I must speak of it. It will be on my mind day and night until I
have told you. Ramon, you dined with us that night--the night before.
Did my father seem ill to you?"
"Of course not. I had never known him to be in better health and
spirits." Ramon glanced at her in involuntary surprise.
"Are you sure?"
"Why do you ask me that? You know that heart-disease may attack one at
any time without warning."
Anita sank upon the window-seat again, and leaned forward pensively,
her hands clasped over her knees.
"You will remember that after you and father had your coffee and
cigars together in the dining-room, you both joined me?"
"Of course. You were playing the piano, ramblingly, as if your
thoughts were far away, and you seemed nervous, ill at ease. I
wondered about it at the time."
"It was because of father. To you he appeared in the best of spirits,
as you say, but I, who knew him better than any one else on earth,
realized that he was forcing himself to be genial, to take an interest
in what we were saying. For days he had been overwrought and
depressed. As you know, he has confided in me, absolutely, since I
have been old enough to be a real companion to him. I thought that I
knew all his business affairs--those of the last two or three years at
least--but latterly his manner has puzzled and distressed me. Then,
while you were in the dining-room, the telephone rang twice."
"Yes; the calls were for your father. When he was summoned to the wire
he immediately had the connection given to him on his private line,
here in the library. After he returned to the dining-room he did seem
slightly absent-minded, now that I think of it; but it did not occur
to me that there could have been any serious trouble. You know,
dearest, ever since the evening when he promised to give you to me, he
has consulted me, also, to a great extent about his financial
interests, and I think if any difficulty had arisen he would have
mentioned it."
"Still, I am convinced that something was on his mind. I tried to
approach him concerning it, but he was evasive, and put me off,
laughingly. You know that father was not the sort of man whose
confidence could be forced even by those dearest to him. I had been so
worried about him, though, that I had a nervous headache, and after
you left, Ramon, I retired at once. An hour or two later, father had a
visitor--that fact as you know, the coroner elicited from the
servants, but it had, of course, no bearing on his death, since the
caller was Mr. Rockamore. I heard his voice when I opened the door of
my room, after ringing for my maid to get some lavender salts. I could
not sleep, my headache grew worse; and while I was struggling against
it, I heard Mr. Rockamore depart, and my father's voice in the hall,
after the slamming of the front door, telling Wilkes to retire, that
he would need him no more that night. I heard the butler's footsteps
pass down the hall, and then I rose and opened my door again. I don't
know why, but I felt that I wanted to speak to father when he came up
on his way to bed."
Anita paused, and Ramon, in spite of himself, felt a thrill of puzzled
wonder at her expression, upon which a dawning look, almost of horror,
spread and grew.
"But he did not come, and after a while I stole to the head of the
stairs and looked down. There was a low light in the hall and a
brighter one from the library, the door of which was ajar. I supposed
that father was working late over some papers, and I knew that I must
not disturb him. I crept back to bed at last, with a sigh, but left my
own door slightly open, so that if I should happen to be awake when he
passed, I might call to him.
"Presently, however, I dozed off. I don't know how long I slept, but I
awakened to hear voices--angry voices, my father's and another, which
I did not recognize. I got up and by the night-light I saw that the
hands of the little clock on my dresser pointed to nearly three
o'clock. I could not imagine who would call on father so very late at
night, and I feared at first it might be a burglar, but my common
sense assured me that father would not stop to parley with a burglar.
While I stood wondering, father raised his voice slightly, and I
caught one word which he uttered. Ramon, that word sounded to me like
'blackmail!' Why, what is it? Why do you look at me so strangely?" she
added hastily, at his uncontrollable start.
"I? I am not looking at you strangely, dear; it is not possible that
you could have heard aright. It must have been simply a fancy of
yours, born of the state of your nerves. You could not really have
understood." But Ramon Hamilton looked away from her as he spoke, with
a peculiarly significant gleam in his candid eyes. After a slight
pause he went on: "No one in the world could have attempted to
blackmail your father. He was the soul of honor and integrity, as no
one knows better than you. Why, his opinion was sought on every public
question. You remember hearing of some of the political honors which
he repeatedly refused, but he could, had he wished, have held the
highest office at the disposal of the people. You must have been
mistaken, Anita. There has never been a reason for the word
'blackmail' to cross your father's lips."
"I know that I was not mistaken, for I heard more--enough to convince
me that I had been right in my surmise! Father was keeping something
from me!"
"Dear little girl, suppose he had been? Nothing, of course, that could
possibly reflect upon his integrity,--don't misunderstand me--but you
are only twenty, you know. It is not to be expected that you could
quite comprehend the details of all the varied business interests of a
man who had virtually led the finances of his country for more than
twenty years. Perhaps it was a purely business matter."
"I tell you, Ramon, that that man, whoever he was, actually dared to
threaten father. When I heard that word 'blackmail' in the angriest
tones which I had ever heard my father use, I did something mean,
despicable, which only my culminating anxiety could have induced me to
do. I slipped on my robe and slippers, stole half-way downstairs and
listened deliberately."
"Anita, you should not have done that! It was not like you to do so.
If your father had wished you to know of this interview, don't you
think he would have told you?"
"Perhaps he would have, but what opportunity was he given? A few hours
later, he was found dead in that chair over there; the chair in which
he sat while he was talking with his unknown visitor."
The young man sprang to his feet. "You can't realize what you are
saying; what you are hinting! It is unthinkable! If you let these
morbid fancies prey upon your mind, you will be really ill." His tones
were full of horror. "Your father died of heart-disease. The doctors
and the coroner established that beyond the shadow of a doubt, you
know. Any other supposition is beyond the bounds of possibility."
"Of heart-disease, yes. But might not the sudden attack have been
brought on by his altercation with this man? His sudden rage,
controlled as it was, at the insults hurled at him?"
"What insults, Anita? Tell me what you heard when you crept down the
stairs. You know you can trust me, dear--you must trust me."
"The man was saying: 'Come, Lawton, be sensible; half a loaf is better
than no bread. There is no blackmail about this, even if you choose to
call it so. It is an ordinary business proposition, as you have been
told a hundred times!'"
"'It's a damnable crooked scheme, as I have told you a hundred times,
and I shall have nothing to do with it! This is final!' Father's tones
rang out clearly and distinctly, quivering with suppressed fury. 'My
hands are clean, my financial operations have been open and
above-board; there is no stain upon my life or character, and I can
look every man in the face and tell him to go where you may go now!'
"'Oh, is that so!' sneered the other man loudly. Then his voice became
insinuatingly low. 'How about poor Herbert--' His tones were so
indistinct that I could not catch the name. Then he went on more
defiantly, 'His wife--' He didn't finish the sentence, Ramon, for
father groaned suddenly, terribly, as if he were in swift pain; the
man gave a little sneering laugh, and I could hear him moving about in
the library, whistling half under his breath in sheer bravado. I could
not bear to hear any more. I put my hands over my ears and fled back
to my room. What could it mean, Ramon? What is this about father and
some other man and his wife which the stranger dared to insinuate!
reflected upon father's integrity? Why should he have groaned as if
the very mention of these people hurt him inexpressibly?"
"I don't know, dear." Ramon Hamilton sat with his honest eyes still
turned from her. "You must have been mistaken; perhaps you even
dreamed it all." Anita Lawton gave an impatient gesture.
"I am not quite the child you think me, Ramon. Could that man have
meant to insinuate that father in his own advancement had trod upon
and ruined some one else, as financiers have always done? Could he
have meant that father had driven this man and his wife to despair? I
cannot bear to think of it. I try to thrust it from my thoughts a
dozen times a day, but that groan from father's lips sounded so much
like one of remorse that hideous ideas come beating in on my brain.
Was my father like other rich men, Ramon? He did not live for money,
although the successful manipulation of it was almost a passion with
him. He lived for me, always for me, and the good that he would be
able to do in this world."
"Of course he did, darling. No one who knew him could imagine
otherwise for a moment." He hesitated, and then added, "No one else
discovered this man's presence in the house that night? You have told
no one? Not the doctor, or the coroner, or Dr. Franklin?"
"Oh, no; if I had it would have been necessary for me to have told
what I overheard. Besides, it could have had no direct bearing on
daddy's death; that was caused by heart-disease, as you say. But I
believe, and I always will believe, that that man killed father, as
surely, as inevitably, as if he had stabbed or shot or poisoned him!
Why did he come like a thief in the night? Father's integrity, his
honor, were known to all the world. Why did that reference to this
Herbert and his wife cause him such pain?"
"I don't know, dear; I have no more idea than you. If you really,
really overheard that conversation, as you seem convinced you did, you
did well in keeping it to yourself. Let that hour remain buried in
your thoughts, as in your father's grave. Only rest assured that
whatever it is, it casts no stain upon your father's good name or his
memory." He rose and gathered her into his arms. "I must go now,
Anita; I'll come again to-morrow. You are quite sure that you will not
accept my mother's invitation? I really think it would be better for
you."
She looked deeply into his eyes, then drew herself gently from his
clasp. "Not yet. Thank her for me, Ramon, with all my heart, but I
will not leave my father's house just yet, even for a few days. I am
sure that I shall be happier here." He kissed her, and left the room.
She stood where he had left her until she heard the heavy thud of the
front door. Then, turning to the window, she thrust her slim little
hand between the sedately drawn curtains, and waved him a tender
good-by; then with a little sigh, she dropped among the pillows of the
couch, lost in thought.
"Whatever was meant by that conversation which I overheard," she
murmured to herself, "Ramon knows. I read it in his eyes."
The young man, as he made his way down the crowded avenue, was turning
over in his mind the extraordinary story which the girl he loved had
told him.
"What could it mean? Who could the man have been? Surely not Herbert
himself, and yet--oh! why will they not let sleeping dogs lie; why
must that old scandal, that one stain on Pennington Lawton's past have
been brought again to light, and at such a time? I pray God that Anita
never mentions it to anyone else, never learns the truth. By Jove, if
any complications arise from this, there will be only one thing for me
to do. I must call upon the Master Mind."