A PROBLEM OF DISAPPEARANCE.
After patient study of the disappearance of Horace Endicott, for five
years, Richard Curran decided to give up the problem. All clues had come
to nothing. Not the faintest trace of the missing man had been found.
His experience knew nothing like it. The money earned in the pursuit
would never repay him for the loss of self-confidence and of nerve, due
to study and to ill success. But for his wife he would have withdrawn
long ago from the search.
"Since you have failed," she said, "take up my theory. You will find
that man in Arthur Dillon."
"That's the strongest reason for giving up," he replied. "Once before I
felt my mind going from insane eagerness to solve the problem. It would
not do to have us both in the asylum at once."
"I made more money in following my instincts, Dick, than you have made
in chasing your theories. Instinct warned me years ago that Arthur
Dillon is another than what he pretends. It warns me now that he is
Horace Endicott. At least before you give up for good, have a shy at my
theory."
"Instinct! Theory! It is pure hatred. And the hate of a woman can make
her take an ass for Apollo."
"No doubt I hate him. Oh, how I hate that man ... and young Everard...."
"Or any man that escapes you," he filled in with sly malice.
"Be careful, Dick," she screamed at him, and he apologized. "That hate
is more to me than my child. It will grow big enough to kill him yet.
But apart from hate, Arthur Dillon is not the man he seems. I could
swear he is Horace Endicott. Remember all I have told you about his
return. He came back from California about the time Endicott
disappeared. I was playing Edith Conyngham then with great success,
though not to crowded houses."
She laughed heartily at the recollection.
"I remarked to myself even then that Anne Dillon ... she's the choice
hypocrite ... did not seem easy in showing the letter which told of his
coming back, how sorry he was for his conduct, how happy he would make
her with the fortune he had earned."
"All pure inference," said Curran. "Twenty men arrived home in New York
about the same time with fortunes from the mines, and some without
fortunes from the war."
"Then how do you account for this, smart one? Never a word of his life
in California from that day to this. Mind that. No one knows, or seems
to know, just where he had been, just how he got his money ... you
understand ... all the little bits o' things that are told, and guessed,
and leak out in a year. I asked fifty people, I suppose, and all they
knew was: California. You'd think Judy Haskell knew, and she told me
everything. What had she to tell? that no one dared to ask him about
such matters."
"Dillon is a very close man."
"Endicott had to be among that long-tongued Irish crowd. I watched him.
He was stupid at first ... stuck to the house ... no one saw him for
weeks ... except the few. He listened and watched ... I saw him ... his
eyes and his ears ought to be as big as a donkey's from it ... and he
said nothing. They made excuses for a thing that everyone saw and talked
about. He was ill. I say he wanted to make no mistakes; he was learning
his part; there was nothing of the Irish in him, only the sharp Yankee.
It made me wonder for weeks what was wrong. He looked as much like the
boy that ran away as you do. And then I had no suspicions, mind you. I
believed Anne Dillon's boy had come back with a fortune, and I was
thinking how I could get a good slice of it."
"And you didn't get a cent," Curran remarked.
"He hated me from the beginning. It takes one that is playing a part to
catch another in the same business. After a while he began to bloom. He
got more Irish than the Irish. There's no Yankee living, no Englishman,
can play the Irishman. He can give a good imitation maybe, d'ye hear?
That's what Dillon gave. He did everything that young Dillon used to do
before he left home ... a scamp he was too. He danced jigs, flattered
the girls, chummed with the ditch-diggers and barkeepers ... and he
hated them all, women and men. The Yankees hate the Irish as easy as
they breathe. I tell you he had forgotten nothing that he used to do as
a boy. And the fools that looked on said, oh, it's easy to see he was
sick, for now that he is well we can all recognize our old dare-devil,
Arthur."
"He's dare-devil clear enough," commented her husband.
"First point you've scored," she said with contempt. "Horace Endicott
was a milksop: to run away when he should have killed the two idiots.
Dillon is a devil, as I ought to know. But the funniest thing was his
dealings with his mother. She was afraid of him ... as much as I am ...
she is till this minute. Haven't I seen her look at him, when she dared
to say a sharp thing? And she's a good actress, mind you. It took her
years to act as a mother can act with a son."
"Quite natural, I think. He went away a boy, came back a rich man, and
was able to boss things, having the cash."
"You think! You! I've seen ten years of your thinking! Well, I thought
too. I saw a chance for cash, where I smelled a mystery. Do you know
that he isn't a Catholic? Do you know that he's strange to all Catholic
ways? that he doesn't know how to hear Mass, to kneel when he enters a
pew, to bless himself when he takes the holy water at the door? Do you
know that he never goes to communion? And therefore he never goes to
confession. Didn't I watch for years, so that I might find out what was
wrong with him, and make some money?"
"All that's very plausible," said her husband. "Only, there are many
Catholics in this town, and in particular the Californians, that forgot
as much as he forgot about their religion, and more."
"But he is not a Catholic," she persisted. "There's an understanding
between him and Monsignor O'Donnell. They exchange looks when they meet.
He visits the priest when he feels like it, but in public they keep
apart. Oh, all round, that Arthur Dillon is the strangest fellow; but
he plays his part so well that fools like you, Dick, are tricked."
"You put a case well, Dearie. But it doesn't convince me. However," for
he knew her whim must be obeyed, "I don't mind trying again to find
Horace Endicott in this Arthur Dillon."
"And of course," with a sneer, "you'll begin with the certainty that
there's nothing in the theory. What can the cleverest man discover, when
he's sure beforehand that there's nothing to discover?"
"My word, Colette, if I take up the matter, I'll convince you that
you're wrong, or myself that you're right. And I'll begin right here
this minute. I believe with you that we have found Endicott at last.
Then the first question I ask myself is: who helped Horace Endicott to
become Arthur Dillon?"
"Monsignor O'Donnell of course," she answered.
"Then Endicott must have known the priest before he disappeared: known
him so as to trust him, and to get a great favor from him? Now, Sonia
didn't know that fact."
"That fool of a woman knows nothing, never did, never will," she
snapped.
"Well, for the sake of peace let us say he was helped by Monsignor, and
knew the priest a little before he went away. Monsignor helped him to
find his present hiding-place; quite naturally he knew Mrs. Dillon, how
her son had gone and never been heard of: and he knew it would be a
great thing for her to have a son with an income like Endicott's. The
next question is: how many people know at this moment who Dillon really
is?"
"Just two, sir. He's a fox ... they're three foxes ... Monsignor, Anne
Dillon, and Arthur himself. I know, for I watched 'em all, his uncle,
his friends, his old chums ... the fellows he played with before he ran
away ... and no one knows but the two that had to know ... sly Anne and
smooth Monsignor. They made the money that I wasn't smart enough to get
hold of."
"Then the next question is: is it worth while to make inquiries among
the Irish, his friends and neighbors, the people that knew the real
Dillon?"
"You won't find out any more than I've told you, but you may prove how
little reason they have for accepting him as the boy that ran away."
"After that it would be necessary to search California."
"Poor Dick," she interrupted with compassion, smoothing his beard. "You
are really losing your old cleverness. Search California! Can't you see
yet the wonderful 'cuteness of this man, Endicott? He settled all that
before he wrote the letter to Anne Dillon, saying that her son was
coming home. He found out the career of Arthur Dillon in California. If
he found that runaway he sent him off to Australia with a lump of money,
to keep out of sight for twenty years. Did the scamp need much
persuading? I reckon not. He had been doing it for nothing ten years.
Or, perhaps the boy was dead: then he had only to make the proper
connections with his history up to the time of his death. Or he may have
disappeared forever, and that made the matter all the simpler for
Endicott. Oh, you're not clever, Dick," and she kissed him to sweeten
the bitterness of the opinion.
"I'm not convinced," he said cheerfully. "Then tell me what to do."
"I don't know myself. Endicott took his money with him. Where does
Arthur Dillon keep his money? How did it get there? Where was it kept
before that? How is he spending it just now? Does he talk in his sleep?
Are there any mementoes of his past in his private boxes? Could he be
surprised into admissions of his real character by some trick, such as
bringing him face to face on a sudden with Sonia? Wouldn't that be worth
seeing? Just like the end of a drama. You know the marks on Endicott's
body, birthmarks and the like ... are they on Dillon's body? The boy
that ran away must have had some marks.... Judy Haskell would know ...
are they on Endicott's body?"
"You've got the map of the business in that pretty head perfect," said
Curran in mock admiration. "But don't you see, my pet, that if this man
is as clever as you would have him he has already seen to these things?
He has removed the birthmarks and peculiarities of Horace, and adopted
those of Arthur? You'll find it a tangled business the deeper you dive
into it."
"Well, it's your business to dive deeper than the tangle," she answered
crossly. "If I had your practice----"
"You would leave me miles behind, of course. Here's the way I would
reason about this thing: Horace Endicott is now known as Arthur Dillon;
he has left no track by which Endicott can be traced to his present
locality; but there must be a very poor connection between the Dillon at
home and the real Dillon in California, in Australia, or in his grave;
if we can trace the real Arthur Dillon then we take away the foundations
of his counterfeit. Do you see? I say a trip to California and a clean
examination there, after we have done our best here to pick flaws in the
position of the gentleman who has been so cruel to my pet. He must get
his punishment for that, I swear."
"Ah, there's the rub," she whimpered in her childish way. "I hate him,
and I love him. He's the finest fellow in the world. He has the strength
of ten. See how he fought the battles of the Irish against his own. One
minute I could tear him like a wolf, and now I could let him tear me to
pieces. You are fond of him too, Dick."
"I would follow him to the end of the world, through fire and flood and
fighting," said the detective with feeling. "He loves Ireland, he loves
and pities our poor people, he is spending his money for them. But I
could kill him just the same for his cruelty to you. He's a hard man,
Colette."
"Now I know what you are trying to do," she said sharply. "You think you
can frighten me by telling me what I know already. Well, you can't."
"No, no," he protested, "I was thinking of another thing. We'll come to
the danger part later. There is one test of this man that ought to be
tried before all others. When I have sounded the people about Arthur
Dillon, and am ready for California, Sonia Endicott should be brought
here to have a good look at him in secret first; and then, perhaps, in
the open, if you thought well of it."
"Why shouldn't I think well of it? But will it do any good, and mayn't
it do harm? Sonia has no brains. If you can't see any resemblance
between Arthur and the pictures of Horace Endicott, what can Sonia see?"
"The eyes of hate, and the eyes of love," said he sagely.
"Then I'd be afraid to bring them together," she admitted whispering
again, and cowering into his arms. "If he suspects I am hunting him
down, he will have no pity."
"No doubt of it," he said thoughtfully. "I have always felt the devil in
him. Endicott was a fat, gay, lazy sport, that never so much as rode
after the hounds. Now Arthur Dillon has had his training in the mines.
That explains his dare-devil nature."
"And Horace Endicott was betrayed by the woman he loved," she cried with
sudden fierceness. "That turns a man sour quicker than all the
mining-camps in the world. That made him lean and terrible like a wolf.
That sharpened his teeth, and gave him a taste for woman's blood. That's
why he hates me."
"You're wrong again, my pet. He has a liking for you, but you spoil it
by laying hands on his own. You saw his looks when he was hunting for
young Everard."
"Oh, how he frightens me," and she began to walk the room in a rage.
"How I would like to throw off this fear and face him and fight him, as
I face you. I'll do it if the terror kills me. I shall not be terrified
by any man. You shall hunt him down, Dick Curran. Begin at once. When
you are ready send for Sonia. I'll bring them together myself, and take
the responsibility. What can he do but kill me?"
Sadness came over the detective as she returned to her seat on his knee.
"He is not the kind, little girl," said he, "that lays hands on a woman
or a man outside of fair, free, open fight before the whole world."
"What do you mean?" knowing very well what he meant.
"If he found you on his trail," with cunning deliberation, so that every
word beat heart and brain like a hammer, "and if he is really Horace
Endicott, he would only have to give your character and your
address----"
"To the dogs," she shrieked in a sudden access of horror.
Then she lay very still in his arms, and the man laughed quietly to
himself, sure that he had subdued her and driven her crazy scheme into
limbo. The wild creature had one dread and by reason of it one master.
Never had she been so amenable to discipline as under Dillon's remote
and affable authority. Curran had no fear of consequences in studying
the secret years of Arthur Dillon's existence. The study might reveal
things which a young man preferred to leave in the shadows, but would
not deliver up to Sonia her lost Horace; and even if Arthur came to know
what they were doing, he could smile at Edith's vagaries.
"What shall we do?" he ventured to say at last.
"Find Horace Endicott in Arthur Dillon," was the unexpected answer,
energetic, but sighed rather than spoken. "I fear him, I love him, I
hate him, and I'm going to destroy him before he destroys me. Begin
to-night."