MACKENZIE’S SECRET.
Nick Carter reached Elmwood a few minutes after eight o’clock that
night, and went straight to the only hotel in the town--a very
comfortable and well-kept, though small, hostelry.
He made his appearance in Elmwood in the guise of a lawyer, and
registered as “Wylie Ketchum, New York City.”
As soon as he had been assigned to a room, he inquired of the landlord:
“Can you tell me where Mr. Mackenzie lives?”
“I can tell you where he did live,” was the reply, made in a mysterious
tone of voice.
“Where he did live? You don’t mean to tell me he has moved away?”
“Well, he has!”
“Rather sudden, wasn’t it?”
“Very.”
“Do you know where he has gone?”
“Well, not for sure, though, seeing the old man was a good sort o’
person as men go--a member of the Presbyterian Church, and one who never
refused a call in the name of charity, I presume he has gone to heaven,
if a man ever gets there.”
“Dead?”
“As a doornail.”
“When did he die?”
“Yesterday. Are you a friend of the family?”
“Oh, no; only a lawyer who has done business for him occasionally.”
“Ah, yes.”
“How did he die?”
“Suddenly. Dr. Abbott can tell you all about it.”
“Who is Dr. Abbott?” asked Nick, at the same time remembering that the
telegrams to the insurance companies, announcing Mackenzie’s death, were
signed “John A. Abbott.”
“Why, he’s the oldest physician in these parts. Has been here since a
boy, and----”
“But was he Mackenzie’s physician?”
“Yes; and more than his physician. The two men were intimates. No one in
Elmwood knew Mackenzie better than Abbott--not even his minister.”
“Then I want to meet Dr. Abbott as soon as possible,” Nick thought.
Ten minutes later he was introducing himself to “the oldest physician in
Elmwood.”
Dr. Abbott was fully sixty years old; he was a large, well-fed,
jolly-appearing gentleman, who no sooner looked Nick Carter in the eye
than he impressed the latter most favorably.
“No matter how much of a villain Mackenzie was, this man was not his
accomplice,” was Nick’s verdict of Dr. Abbott.
“Well, Mr. Ketchum, how can I serve you?” asked the doctor.
“I came to Elmwood to transact a little business with a client, and was
shocked to learn as soon as I reached town that he is dead.”
“Who? Mackenzie?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! poor Mackenzie! It was a great shock to me.”
“You were his intimate friend?”
“We were almost like brothers.”
“So I was told, and that is why I came to you.”
“How can I serve you?”
“By giving advice. I came here to draw up a new will.”
“Why, I didn’t know he had made one. He sent for you?”
“No; he arranged for my visit when he was in New York yesterday a week
ago.”
“Ah!”
“So I’m too late, and it’s my fault. I should have come several days
earlier, but couldn’t get away. Besides, I supposed he was in the best
of health and there was no hurry.”
“That was Mackenzie’s secret and mine. We expected a quick ending, but
its sudden arrival astonished me, at least, in spite of my knowledge of
his condition.”
“Then he has been failing for some time?”
“For about a year. He came to me when he experienced the first symptoms,
and told me how he felt. I kept from him the knowledge of his condition
as long as I thought it wise. But he grew so rapidly and alarmingly
worse, I was forced, a few months ago, to lay bare to him his
precarious state of ill-health. He heard his doom like the brave
Christian he was.”
“Then death did not find him unprepared?”
“No; certainly not.”
“How long did you know him?”
“A little over two years--ever since he came to Elmwood!”
“Where did he live before he moved to this place?”
“In Australia, though he originally came from Scotland. He was a
Scotchman by birth.”
“How did you and he come to be such friends?”
“Well, in the first place he was my tenant.”
“Your tenant?”
“Yes. I own the house in which they have lived ever since they came to
this place.”
“He rented it?”
“Yes.”
“Then he was not, as I supposed, a wealthy man?”
“On the contrary, he was worth half a million, besides his large life
insurance.”
“And yet he was a renter?”
“He rented, with the privilege of purchasing. You see, he was not sure
of making this his home until after he was stricken with his fatal
disease, and then I discouraged him from buying for two reasons. One was
because the rent he was paying was satisfactory, and the other was
because I made up my mind that I would move into the house myself,
should he die and his wife go away.”
“Where would she go?”
“Back to her old home in Australia. Mackenzie told me she has never been
satisfied since she left that far-off place of her nativity.”
“Then she will return there, now that her husband is dead?”
“I think it quite likely.”
“You have spoken only of his wife. Has he no children?”
“None by the present Mrs. Mackenzie, who is his second wife and
comparatively a young woman. But he had a son living--the issue of his
first marriage.”
“Where is this son?”
“I don’t know where he is at present. When last heard from he was in
Paris and talked about coming here to visit his father soon. Indeed,
Mackenzie, when he showed me the Paris letter, said he’d not be
surprised if his boy would drop in on him almost any time.”
“He showed you the son’s letters?”
“Oh! yes. You see, Mackenzie made me his full confidant ever since he
first met me. He has talked a great deal about his absent son, and has
shown me all the letters he received from the young man from time to
time, written at different places. He confided in me as if I were his
brother.”
“You said something about his life insurance?”
“Yes; Mackenzie had half a million dollars on his life. You see, he
wanted to leave his entire possessions to this son, and yet arrange it
so that his widow would not receive a cent less at his death. He
consulted me about the plan, which was adopted, and it was this: His
income was sufficient for the family’s modest mode of living, and for
the payment of premiums on a half million of life insurance besides. So,
instead of putting the accumulating revenues with the principal, he used
them to carry the insurance. Did he never explain this to you, his
lawyer?”
“No, I have done very little business with Mackenzie. Had he lived, I
should have known more.”
“Well, as his trusted friend, I will gladly consult with you on all
matters pertaining to his estate. Now you are here, had you not better
remain till after the funeral? Your services may be needed.”
“When will the funeral occur?”
“To-morrow afternoon.”
“Then I will stay.”
“I was just going over to the house to see if I could be of service to
the widow in making the arrangements for the funeral. Will you go
along?”
It was just what Nick hoped for--this opportunity to visit the dead
man’s late home, and he accepted Dr. Abbott’s invitation.
As the doctor was getting ready to leave his office, Nick made a mental
summing up in the case, so far as he had got.
“This Mackenzie’s plot, if there be one, was deep-laid. He was probably
an excellent reader of human nature, and when he got ready to pick out
an innocent aid-de-camp in this town, he wisely selected Dr. Abbott, for
the triple reason that Abbott was the most pliable, unsophisticated man
in town: because he was a man of high standing in the community, and
because he was a doctor by profession.
“He was careful not to let his chosen friend discover the fact that he,
himself, thoroughly understood diseases and all their symptoms.
Therefore, he easily led Abbott into the belief that he--Mackenzie--was
a victim to some deadly malady.
“He has taken Abbott into his confidence about the absent son, even to
showing the letters from the latter. Those letters we shall find among
his effects, no doubt, and the son may or may not turn up hereafter.
“He even consulted the doctor, and used him in some way to further his
ends about the life insurance. I must find out just how, after I have
seen the corpse. Yes, I must see the corpse of Miles Mackenzie when we
reach the house of mourning.”