GONE!
Guy Morrow, after a sleepless night, presented himself at Henry
Blaine's office the next morning. The great detective, observing his
young subordinate with shrewd, kindly eyes, noted in one swift glance
his changed demeanor: his pallor, and the new lines graven about the
firm mouth, which added strength and maturity to his face. If he
guessed the reason for the metamorphosis, Blaine gave no sign, but
listened without comment until Morrow had completed his report.
"You obeyed my instructions?" he asked at length. "When you discovered
the forgery outfit in the cellar of Brunell's shop, you left
everything just as it had been--left no possible trace of your
presence?"
"Yes, sir. There's not a sign left to show any one had disturbed the
place. I am sure of that."
"Not a foot-print in the earth of the cellar steps?"
"No, sir."
"And the outfit--was there any evidence it had been used lately?"
"No--everything was dust-covered, and even rusty, as if it had not
even been touched in months, perhaps years. The whole thing might be
merely a relic of Jimmy Brunell's past performances, in the life he
gave up long ago."
Morrow spoke almost eagerly, as if momentarily off his guard, but
Blaine shook his head.
"Rather too dangerous a relic to keep in one's possession, Guy, simply
as a souvenir--a reminder of things the man is trying to forget, to
live down. You can depend on it: the outfit was there for some more
practical purpose. You say Paddington has not appeared in the
neighborhood, but another man has--a man Brunell's daughter seems to
dislike and fear?"
"Yes, sir. There's one significant fact about him, too--his name. He's
Charley Pennold. It didn't occur to me for some time after Miss
Brunell let that slip, that the name is the same as that of the
precious pair of old crooks over in Brooklyn, the ones Suraci and I
traced Brunell by."
"Charley Pennold!" Blaine repeated thoughtfully. "I hadn't thought of
him. He's old Walter Pennold's nephew. The boy was running straight
the last I heard of him, but you never can tell. Guy, I'm going to
take you off the Brunell trail for a while, and put you on this man
Paddington. I'll have Suraci look up Charley Pennold and get a line on
him. In the meantime, leave your key to the map-making shop with me. I
may want to have a look at that forgery outfit myself."
"You're going to take me off the Brunell trail!" Morrow's astonishment
and obvious distaste for the change of program confronting him was
all-revealing. "But I'll have to go back and make some sort of
explanation for leaving so abruptly, won't I? Will it pay to arouse
their suspicions--that is, sir, unless you've got some special reason
for doing so?"
Blaine's slow smile was very kindly and sympathetic as he eyed the
anxious young man before him.
"No. You will go back, of course, and explain that you have obtained
a clerkship which necessitates your moving downtown. Make your peace
with Miss Brunell if you like, but remember, Guy, don't mix sentiment
and business. It won't do. I may have to put you back on the job there
in a few days, and I know I can depend on you not to lose your head.
She's a young girl and a pretty one; but don't forget she's the
daughter of Jimmy Brunell, the man we're trying to get! Pennington
Lawton had a daughter, too; remember that--and she's been defrauded of
everything in the world but her lover and her faith in her father's
memory." His voice had gradually grown deeper and more stern, and he
added in brisk, businesslike tones, far removed from the personal
element. "Now get back to the Bronx. Come to me to-morrow morning, and
I'll have the data in the Paddington matter ready for you."
The young detective had scarcely taken his departure, when Ramon
Hamilton appeared. He was in some excitement, and glanced nervously
behind him as he entered, as if almost in fear of possible pursuit.
"Mr. Blaine," he began, "I'm confident that we're suspected. Here's a
note that came to me from President Mallowe this morning. He asks if I
inadvertently carried away with me that letter of Pennington Lawton's
written from Long Bay two years ago, in which I had shown such an
interest during our interview the other day. He has been unable to
find it since my departure. That's a rather broad hint, it seems to
me."
"I should not consider it as such," the detective responded. "Guilty
conscience, Mr. Hamilton!"
"That's not all!" the young lawyer went on. "He says that a curious
burglary was committed at his offices the night after my interview
with him--his watchman was chloroformed, and the safe in his private
office opened and rifled, yet nothing was taken, with the possible
exception of that letter. Mallowe asks me, openly, if I knew of an
ulterior motive which any one might have possessed in acquiring it,
and even remarks that he is thinking of putting you, Mr. Blaine, on
the mysterious attempt at robbery. That would be a joke, wouldn't it,
if it wasn't really, in my estimation at least, a covert threat. Why
should he, Mallowe, take me into his confidence about an affair which
took place in his private office? He did not make the excuse of
pretending to retain me as his attorney. I think he was merely warning
me that he was suspicious of me."
"Probably a mere coincidence," Blaine observed easily.
"I wonder if you'll think so when I tell you that twice since
yesterday my life has been attempted." Ramon spoke quietly enough, but
there was a slight trembling in his tones.
"What!" Blaine started forward in his chair, then sank back with an
incredulous smile, which none but he could have known was forced.
"Surely you imagine it, Mr. Hamilton. Since your automobile accident,
when you were run down and so nearly killed on the evening you sent
for me to undertake Miss Lawton's case, you may well be nervous."
As he spoke he glanced at the other's broken arm, which was still
swathed in bandages.
"But these were no accidents, Mr. Blaine, and I have always doubted
that the first one was, as you know. Yesterday afternoon, a new
client's case called me down to the sixth ward, at four o'clock. In
order to reach my client's address it was necessary to pass through
the street in which that shooting affray occurred which filled the
papers last evening. Two men darted out of a house, shot presumably
at each other, then turned and ran in opposite directions without
waiting to see if either of the shots took effect. You know that isn't
usual with the members of rival gangs down there. Remember, too, Mr.
Blaine, that it was prearranged for me to walk alone through that
street at just that psychological moment. It seemed to me that neither
man shot at the other, but both fired point-blank at me. I dismissed
the idea from my mind as absurd, the next minute, and would have
thought no more about it, beyond congratulating myself on my fortunate
escape, had not the second attempt been made."
"The sixth ward--" Blaine remarked, meditatively. "That's Timothy
Carlis' stamping ground, of course. But go on, Mr. Hamilton. What was
the second incident?"
"Late last night, I had a telephone message from my club that my best
friend, Gordon Brooke, had been taken suddenly ill with a serious
attack of heart-trouble, and wanted me. Brooke has heart-disease and
he might go off with it at any time, so I posted over immediately. The
club is only a few blocks away from my home, so I didn't wait to call
my machine or a taxi, but started over. Just a little way from the
club, three men sprang upon me and attempted to hold me up. I fought
them off, and when they came at me again, three to one, the idea
flashed upon me that this was a fresh attempt to assassinate me.
"I shouted for help, and then ran. When I reached the club I found
Brooke there, sitting in a poker game and quite as well as usual. No
telephone message had been sent to me from him. I tried this morning,
before I came to you, to have the number traced, but without success.
Do you blame me now, Mr. Blaine, for believing, after these three
manifestations, that my life is in actual danger?"
"I do not." The detective touched an electric button on his desk. "I
think it will be advisable for you to have a guard, for the next few
days, at least."
"A guard!" Ramon repeated, indignantly. "I'm not a coward. Any man
would be disturbed, to put it mildly, over the conviction that his
life was threatened every hour, but it was of her I was thinking--of
Anita! I could not bear to think of leaving her alone to face the
world, penniless and hedged in on all sides by enemies. But I want no
guard! I can take care of myself as well as the next man. Look at the
perils and dangers you have faced in your unceasing warfare against
malefactors of every grade. It is common knowledge that you have
invariably refused to be guarded."
"The years during which I have been constantly face to face with
sudden death have made me disregard the possibility of it. But I shall
not insist in your case, Mr. Hamilton, if you do not wish it; and
allow me to tell you that I admire your spirit. However, I should like
to have you leave town for a few days, if your clients can spare
you."
"Leave town? Run away?" Ramon started indignantly from his chair, but
Blaine waved him back with a fatherly hand.
"Not at all. On a commission for me, in Miss Lawton's interests. Mr.
Hamilton, you have known the Lawtons for several years, have you
not?"
"Ever since I can remember," the young lawyer said with renewed
eagerness.
"Two years ago, in August, Pennington Lawton and his daughter were at
'The Breakers,' at Long Bay, were they not?"
"Yes. Anita and I were engaged then, and I ran out myself for the
week-end."
"I want you to run out there for me now. The hotel will be closed at
this time of year, of course, but a letter which I will give you to
the proprietor, who lives close at hand, will enable you to look over
the register for an hour or two in private. Turn to the arrivals for
August of that year, and trace the names and home addresses on each
page; then bring it back to me."
"Is it something in connection with that forged letter to Mallowe?"
asked Ramon quickly.
"Perhaps," the detective admitted. He shrugged, then added leniently,
"I think, before proceeding any further with that branch of the
investigation, it would be well to know who obtained the notepaper
with the hotel letterhead, and if the paper itself was genuine. Bring
me back some of the hotel stationery, also, that I may compare it with
that used for the letter."
A discreet knock upon the door heralded the coming of an operative, in
response to Blaine's touch upon the bell.
"There has been a slight disturbance in the outer office, sir," he
announced. "A man, who appears to be demented, insists upon seeing
you. He isn't one of the ordinary cranks, or we would have dealt with
him ourselves. He says that if you will read this, you will be glad to
assent to an interview with him."
He presented a card, which Blaine read with every manifestation of
surprised interest.
"Tell him I will see him in five minutes," he said. When the operative
had withdrawn, the detective turned to Ramon.
"Who do you think is waiting outside? The man who threatened
Pennington Lawton's life ten years ago, the man whose name was
mentioned by the unknown visitor to the library on the night Lawton
met his death: Herbert Armstrong!"
"Good heavens!" Ramon exclaimed. "What brings him here now? I thought
he had disappeared utterly. Do you think it could have been he in the
library that night, come to take revenge for that fancied wrong, at
last?"
"That is what I'm going to find out," the detective responded, with a
touch of grimness in his tones.
"But you don't mean--it isn't possible that Mr. Lawton was murdered!
That he didn't die of heart-disease, after all!"
"I traced Armstrong to the town where he was living in obscurity, and
followed his movements." Blaine's reply seemed to be purposely
irrelevant. "I could not, however, find where he had been on the night
of Mr. Lawton's death. Now that he has come to me voluntarily, we
shall discover if the voice Miss Lawton overheard in that moment when
she listened on the stairs, was his or not.... Come back this
afternoon, Mr. Hamilton, and I will give you full information and
instructions about that Long Bay errand. In the meantime, guard
yourself well from a possible attack, although I do not think another
attempt upon your life will be made so soon. Take this, and if you
have need of it, do not hesitate to use it. We can afford no
half-measures now. Shoot, and shoot to kill!"
He opened a lower drawer in his massive desk and, drawing from it a
business-like looking revolver of large caliber, presented it to the
lawyer. With a warm hand-clasp he dismissed him, and, going to the
telephone, called up Anita Lawton's home.
"I want you to attend carefully, Miss Lawton. I am speaking from my
office. A man will be here with me in a few minutes, and I shall seat
him close to the transmitter of my 'phone, leaving the receiver off
the hook. Please listen carefully to his voice. I only wish you to
hear a phrase or two, when I will hang up the receiver, and call you
up later. Try to concentrate with all your powers, and tell me
afterward if you have ever heard that voice until now; if it is the
voice of the man you did not see, who was in the library with your
father just before he died."
He heard her give a quick gasp, and then her voice came to him, low
and sweet and steady.
"I will listen carefully, Mr. Blaine, and do my best to tell you the
truth."
The detective pulled a large leather chair close to the telephone, and
Herbert Armstrong was ushered in.
The man was pitiful in appearance, but scarcely demented, as the
operative had described him. He was tall and shabbily clothed, gaunt
almost to the point of emaciation, but with no sign of dissipation.
His eyes, though sunken, were clear, and they gazed levelly with those
of the detective.
"Come in, Mr. Armstrong." Blaine waved genially toward the arm-chair.
"What can I do for you?"
The man did not offer to shake hands, but sank wearily into the chair
assigned him.
"Do? You can stop hounding me, Henry Blaine! You and Pennington Lawton
brought my tragedy upon me as surely as I brought it upon myself, and
now you will not leave me alone with my grief and ruin, to drag my
miserable life out to the end, but you or your men must dog my every
foot-step, spy upon me, hunt me down like a pack of wolves! And why?
Why?"
The man's voice had run its gamut, in the emotion which consumed him,
and from a menacing growl of protest, it had risen to a shrill wail of
weakness and despair.
Henry Blaine was satisfied.
"Excuse me, Mr. Armstrong," he said gently. "The receiver is off my
telephone, here at your elbow. It would be unfortunate if we were
overheard. If you will allow me--"
But he got no further. Quick as he was, the other man was quicker. He
sprang up furiously, and dashed the telephone off the desk.
"Is this another of your d--d tricks?" he shouted. "If it is, whoever
was listening may hear the rest. You and Pennington Lawton between
you, drove my wife to suicide, but you'll not drive _me_ there! I'm
ruined, and broken, and hopeless, but I'll live on, live till I'm
even, do you hear? Live till I'm square with the game!"
His violence died out as swiftly as it had arisen, and he sank down in
the chair, his face buried in his bony hands, his thin shoulders
shaken with sobs.
Blaine quietly replaced the telephone and receiver, and seated
himself.
"Come, man, pull yourself together!" he said, not unkindly. "I'm not
hounding you; Lawton never harmed you, and now he is dead. He was my
client and I was bound to protect his interests, but as man to man,
the fault was yours and you know it. I tried to keep you from making a
fool of yourself and wrecking three lives, but I only succeeded in
saving one."
"But your men are hounding me, following me, shadowing me! I have come
to find out why!"
"And I would like to find out where you were on a certain night last
month--the ninth, to be exact," responded Blaine quietly.
"What affair is it of yours?" the other man asked wearily, adding:
"How should I know, now? One night is like another, to me."
"If you hate Pennington Lawton's memory as you seem to, the ninth of
November should stand out in your thoughts in letters of fire," the
detective went on, in even, quiet tone. "That was the night on which
Lawton died."
"Lawton?" Herbert Armstrong raised his haggard face. The meaning of
Blaine's remark utterly failed to pierce his consciousness. "The date
doesn't mean anything to me, but I remember the night, if that's what
you want to know about, although I'm hanged if I can see what it's got
to do with me! I'll never forget that night, because of the news which
reached me in the morning, that my worst enemy on earth had passed
away."
"Were you in Illington the evening before?" asked Blaine.
"I was not. I was in New Harbor, where I live, playing pinochle all
night long with two other down-and-outs like myself, in a cheap hall
bed-room--I, Herbert Armstrong, who used to play for thousands a game,
in the best clubs in Illington! And I never knew that the man who had
brought me to that pass was gasping his life away! Think of it! We
played until dawn, when the extras, cried in the street below, gave us
the news!"
"If you will give me the address of this boarding-house you mention,
and the names of your two friends, I can promise that you will be
under no further espionage, Mr. Armstrong."
"I don't care whether you know it or not, if that's all you want!" The
gaunt man shrugged wearily. "I'm tired of being hounded, and I'm too
weak and too tired to oppose you, even if it did matter."
He gave the required names and addresses, and slouched away, his
animosity gone, and only a dull, miserable lethargy sagging upon his
worn body.
When the outer door of the offices had closed upon him, Henry Blaine
again called up Anita Lawton. This time her voice came to him
sharpened by acute distress.
"I did not recognize the tones of the person's voice, Mr. Blaine, only
I am quite, quite sure that he was not the man in the library with my
father the night of his death. But oh, what did he mean by the
terrible things he said? It could not be that my father brought ruin
and tragedy upon any one, much less drove them to suicide. Won't you
tell me, Mr. Blaine? Ramon won't, although I am convinced he knows all
about it. I must know."
"You shall, Miss Lawton. I think the time has come when you should no
longer be left in the dark. I will tell Mr. Hamilton when he comes to
me this afternoon for the interview we have arranged that you must
know the whole story."
But Ramon Hamilton failed to appear for the promised interview. Henry
Blaine called up his office and his home, but was unable to locate
him. Then Miss Lawton began making anxious inquiries, and finally the
mother of the young lawyer appealed to the detective, but in vain.
Late that night the truth was established beyond peradventure of a
doubt. Ramon Hamilton had disappeared as if the earth had opened and
engulfed him.