A DOG’S INSTINCT.
As Nick Carter and Dr. Abbott walked through the main street of the town
of Elmwood, on their way toward the residence of the late Miles
Mackenzie, the detective had an opportunity to note the great popularity
and widespread esteem in which his companion was held in that community.
Everyone they met had a word of greeting, and received from the
whole-souled man some response in return. Very often inquiries were made
about the funeral, and it was evident that a very general feeling of
regret existed for the death of the man who had so recently come among
them.
Abbott explained to Nick that the house, in which Mackenzie’s body lay,
was half a mile beyond the edge of the town. The night was pleasant, and
they walked along in the full enjoyment of the summer weather.
“Dr. Abbott,” said Nick, when they were fairly out of the town, “your
friend died suddenly, you say. Might not the insurance company, on that
account, be inquisitive, and be inclined to make trouble before they pay
over such a large sum?”
“There are five companies, Mr. Ketchum. He held a policy in each of five
companies. When it became evident that he would drop dead some day, we
discussed that very point. Mackenzie had a horror of being dug up after
burial, and having his body subjected to a postmortem examination. So we
prepared against that contingency.”
“Indeed! How?”
“As soon as he died, I telegraphed to each of the insurance companies,
notifying them of his demise. If they hold an autopsy, it must be done
before to-morrow afternoon. If they fail to do it by that time, they
will never be able to set up a plea that the body was removed beyond
their reach without giving them a fair chance to investigate the cause
of death.”
“But that would not prevent them from digging up the body or having it
disinterred for the purpose of an autopsy later,” said Nick.
“Oh! yes, it would. An autopsy after to-morrow night will be
impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because the body will be incinerated at the Long Island Crematory.”
“Then, after all,” said Nick to himself, “it is not his body lying in a
self-inflicted trance, nor is it a perfectly made wax image. What is it
I am up against?”
A huge Newfoundland dog met them at the gate leading into the spacious
grounds surrounding the house. The dog greeted Dr. Abbott familiarly and
with demonstrations of great friendship.
“Poor Rover!” exclaimed Abbott, patting the Newfoundland on the head.
“You have lost your good, kind master.”
Then to Nick he said:
“This dog and Mackenzie were almost inseparable. When the poor brute
realizes his loss, he will be inconsolable.”
As they neared the house, Nick said:
“Dr. Abbott, I wish you would not mention to the widow my profession nor
the business which brought me to Elmwood.”
“Why not?”
“I mean until after the funeral. Might it not be a source of additional
worry to her to know that I had been brought here by her dead husband?”
“You are right, Mr. Ketchum. I will introduce you as a friend from the
city visiting me.”
“Thank you.”
The house stood in the center of a large lawn, and there was no other
residence within a radius of a quarter of a mile. It was a frame
building of moderate size, two stories in height, and by no means of
modern architecture.
A very large, buxom woman, of middle age, met Dr. Abbott at the door. He
addressed her as “Emma,” and Nick supposed she was a servant.
“Where is Mrs. Mackenzie, Emma?”
“In the sitting room, sir, with Rev. Playfair and Deacon Cotton.”
“Then we’ll not disturb her till they have gone. I’ve brought a friend,
who is visiting me, and we’ll go in and look at the remains, if you have
no objections.”
“Why, certainly not, doctor,” was the stout woman’s reply, but Nick was
aware that she was at the same time staring at him with a gaze which was
full of suspicion or curiosity.
Abbott and Nick followed Emma through the first door on the right, into
a room which had all the blinds drawn and was but faintly illuminated by
a lamp burning low.
The servant turned up the light, and Nick saw a coffin resting on two
chairs near the mantel.
Softly and silently he and Abbott walked forward and looked down at the
dead man.
They saw the face of what was undoubtedly a corpse; the face of an old
man, with very white hair and very white beard.
Abbott looked but a few moments. Then he turned away, while tears
trickled down his face.
Nick stood a little longer, carefully noting every feature of the dead
man in the coffin, and all this time he was aware of the fact that the
stout woman never once took her eyes off his face. When they emerged
from the parlor, the minister and deacon were just leaving. Abbott,
therefore, instructed the servant to conduct them to the widow.
During that short visit to the corpse, Nick made one very important
observation, which was lost upon Abbott and the woman, Emma.
Rover had followed them in, and, while Nick was looking at the dead man,
the dog came up to the coffin, also looked at the face of the corpse,
gave one or two sniffs and walked away, without exhibiting a particle of
canine grief over his loss.
They found the young and comely widow in the sitting room, surrounded by
several condoling neighboring women, who took their departure as Abbott
entered.
The doctor introduced his friend and visitor, Mr. Ketchum, from the
city, and made his excuses for bringing a stranger to the house of
mourning.
“The fact is, my dear Mrs. Mackenzie, we may need an additional witness,
when the life insurance is collected, and as Mr. Ketchum is a stranger
in Elmwood, he will serve as such much better than one of your
neighbors.”
This explanation may have been satisfactory to the widow, but Nick
noticed that she, too, bestowed more attention upon him than the
circumstances seemed to call for.
“You will pardon me, Mrs. Mackenzie, for mentioning such a matter now, I
know, because you are aware what good friends your husband and I were;
but I’m going to ask whether you have any knowledge of a will which he
left?”
“He never spoke to me of a will. Did he to you?”
“Yes. That is why I asked. He told me that it was his design to give you
the proceeds of his life insurance, and his estate in hand to his son,
Leo.”
“Then he made more of a confidant of you than of me. If there is such a
will, it may be in his room--in his desk. Shall we go and see?”
Abbott readily assented, and Mrs. Mackenzie led the way into an
apartment between the sitting room and the parlor.
This, as Nick surmised, had been the private room of the late Miles
Mackenzie.
A bed stood in one corner. At its foot was a door, partly ajar, which
Nick’s quick eye observed gave entrance to a large clothes closet.
The dog followed them into this room also. Nick’s eyes never lost sight
of the brute, though to an observer he was giving Rover no attention.
He saw the dog trot across to the closet, push the door further open
with his nose, and look up toward the ceiling, while he uttered a very
low whine.
The stout woman was right on Rover’s heels, and the toe of her heavy
shoe gave him an admonishing punch in the ribs to indicate that his
exit from the room and from that closet in particular was greatly
desired.
And Rover took the prompt hint.
Nick’s back was turned nearly all the time, while the closet incident
was occurring, and the stout woman no doubt said, in her soul:
“Thank Heaven! he didn’t see what the fool dog did!”
And Nick was thinking:
“That brute will tell me more than Abbott can, if I follow the
four-footed fellow up.”
“Here is the desk and here are the keys,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, as she
unlocked a small desk sitting between the two windows. “Will you search
for what you want, Dr. Abbott?”
Abbott accepted the invitation and began a search of the various
drawers.
They found numerous letters from the absent son, and such odds and ends
as one might expect to find in a private desk of a man whose life was
uneventful. But no will turned up.
“This desk is especially arranged to throw off the unwary,” thought
Nick, as he watched Abbott sorting papers and investigating pigeonholes.
“If I were to search the house, that desk would be the last place I
should overhaul.”
The moon was shining brightly as they walked down the path through the
lawn, on their return to town. Nick was slightly behind Dr. Abbott, as
the path was narrow, and the grass wet with a heavy dew.
Suddenly he saw at his feet a small, square piece of paper, which the
wind was playing with. It looked to him like the label from a bottle.
He stooped, picked it up, and, assuring himself that he had made no
mistake as to the nature of its former usage, he stuck it into one of
his vest pockets.
When he left Abbott, to return to his hotel, he promised the latter to
call on him again next morning.
Once safely in his room at the hotel, Nick took the label from his
pocket and examined it by the light of his lamp. On it he read:
“Madame Reclaire,
“No. 1871 ----th St.,
“Philadelphia.”
For thirty seconds Nick looked at the address on the label, after
reading it. Then he muttered:
“So! so! Madame Reclaire, of Philadelphia! We shall meet again. I have
not seen you since I worked out the identity of Daly. I then promised
myself to look into your business at some future time a little more
closely. Now, here is some more of your peculiar article in trade, and
it has been used to further the ends of a stupendous crime.
“This label came from a bottle of your mixture which changes the color
of hair, after a few applications, and keeps it of the desired hue.
“What a little thing often works out the fate of man! This small, square
bit of paper, which the sportive wind blew to the feet of Nick Carter,
has solved the mystery of that man who lies back yonder in his coffin.”