The Black Squall
If I had thought Mr. Talcott somewhat indifferent before, I changed my
opinion suddenly. His face turned a ghastly white and his eyes stared
with horror. There was more than his grief for a friend, though that was
evident enough, but his thoughts ran ahead to the larger issues involved
by this murder of a bank president and otherwise influential financier.
For murder it was, beyond all doubt. The briefest examination showed Mr.
Gately had been shot through the heart, and the absence of any weapon
precluded the idea of suicide.
The janitor, overcome at the sight, was in a state bordering on collapse,
and Mr. Talcott was not much more composed.
"Mr. Brice," he said, his face working convulsively, "this is a fearful
calamity! What can it mean? Who could have done it? What shall we do?"
Answering his last question first, I endeavored to take hold of the
situation.
"First of all, Mr. Talcott, we must keep this thing quiet for the moment.
I mean, we must not let a crowd gather here, before the necessary matters
are attended to. This passage must be guarded from intrusion, and the
bank people must be notified at once. Suppose you and the janitor stay
here, while I go back next door and tell--tell whom?"
"Let me think," groaned Mr. Talcott, passing his hand across his
forehead. "Yes, please, Mr. Brice, do that--go to the bank and tell Mr.
Mason, the vice-president--ask him to come here to me,--then, there is
Miss Raynor--oh, how horrible it all is!"
"Also, we must call a doctor," I suggested, "and, eventually, the
police."
"Must they be brought in? Yes, I suppose so. Well, Mr. Brice, if you will
attend to those errands, I will stay here. But we must shut up that
janitor!"
The man, on the verge of collapse, was groaning and mumbling prayers, or
something, as he rocked his big body back and forth.
"See here, my man," I said, "this is a great emergency and you must meet
it and do your duty. That, at present, is to stay here with Mr. Talcott,
and make sure that no one else comes into this small hall until some of
Mr. Gately's bank officers arrive. Also, cease that noise you're making,
and see what you can do in the way of being a real help to us."
This appeal to his sense of duty was not without effect, and he
straightened up and seemed equal to the occasion.
I ran off, then, and out of one big building back into the other. The
storm, still brewing, had not yet broken, but the sky was black, and a
feeling of more snow was in the atmosphere. I shivered as I felt the
bitterly cold outside air, and hurried into the bank building.
I had no trouble in reaching Mr. Mason, for the bank itself was closed
and many of the employees had gone home. My manner of grave importance
sufficed to let me pass any inquisitive attendants and I found Mr. Mason
in his office.
I told him the bare facts in a few words, for this was no time to
tarry,--I wanted to get up and tell Miss Raynor before any less
considerate messenger might reach her.
Mr. Mason was aghast at the terrible tidings, and closing his desk at
once, he quickly reached for his hat and coat and started on his fearsome
errand.
"I will call Mr. Gately's physician," he said, his mind working quickly,
as he paused a moment, "and you will break the news to Miss Raynor, you
say? I can't seem to comprehend it all! But my place is by Mr. Gately and
I will go there at once."
So I hastened up to the twelfth floor again, trying, on the way, to think
how I should best tell the awful story.
The elevator ride had never seemed so short,--the floors fairly flew past
me, and in a few moments I was in the beautiful third room of Mr.
Gately's, and found Miss Raynor and Mr. Manning eagerly awaiting my news.
"Have you found Mr. Gately?" Amory Manning asked, but at the same
instant, Olive Raynor cried out, "You have something dreadful to tell us,
Mr. Brice! I know you have!"
This seemed to help me, and I answered, "Yes, Miss Raynor,--the worst."
For I felt that this imperious, self-possessed girl would rather be told
abruptly, like that, than to have me mince matters.
And I was right, for she said, quickly, "Tell it all,--any knowledge is
better than suspense."
So I told her, as gently as I could, of our discovery of the body of Amos
Gately in his private elevator, at the bottom of the shaft.
"But I don't understand," said Manning. "Shot through the heart and alone
in the elevator?"
"That's the way it is. I've no idea of the details of the matter. We
didn't move the body, or examine it thoroughly, but the first glance
showed the truth. However, a doctor has been sent for, and the
vice-president and secretary of the Trust Company have things in charge,
so I came right up here to tell you people about it."
"And I thank you, Mr. Brice," Olive's lovely dark eyes gave me a grateful
glance. "What shall I do, Amory? Shall we go down there?"
Manning hesitated. "I will," he said, looking at her tenderly, "but--do
you want to? It will be hard for you----"
"I know,--but I must go. If Uncle Amos has been killed--surely I ought to
be there to--to--oh, I don't know what!"
Olive Raynor turned a piteous face to Manning, and he took her hand in
his as he responded: "Come, if you think best, dear. Shall we go
together?"
"Yes," she said; "I dread it, but I must go. And if you are with me I can
stand it. What are you going to do, Mr. Brice?"
"I was about to go home," I replied, "but I think I will go back to the
Matteawan Building, for I may be able to give assistance in some way."
I went across to my office and found that Norah had gone home. Snapping
on some lights, I sat down for a few minutes to straighten out my
bewildered, galloping thoughts.
Here was I, Tom Brice, a quiet, inconspicuous lawyer, thrown suddenly
into the very thick of a most mysterious murder case. I well knew that my
evidence concerning the shadows I had seen would be eagerly listened to
by the police, when the time came, and I wondered how soon that would be.
I wanted to go home. I wanted to avoid the coming storm and get into my
cozy rooms, and think the thing over. For, I had always felt that I had
detective ability, and now I had been given a wonderful chance to prove
it. I did not intend to usurp anybody's prerogative nor did I desire to
intrude. If I were not asked to assist, I should not offer; but I had a
vague hope that my early acquaintance with the vital facts would make me
of value as a witness and my mental acumen would bring forth some
original ideas in the way of investigation.
And I wanted some time to myself, to cogitate, and to formulate some
theories already budding in my brain. Now if the police were already on
the scene next door, they would not let me get away, if I appeared.
And yet, I longed for further news of the proceedings. So, I concluded to
look in at the Matteawan, and if that led me into the clutches of the
police inquisitors, I must submit. But, if I could get away before their
arrival, I should do so. I was quite willing to be called upon by them,
and to tell all I knew, but I wanted to postpone that until the next day,
if possible.
Not wishing to obtrude my presence further on Miss Raynor, I went down in
an elevator without returning to the Gately rooms. Indeed, I didn't know
whether she had gone down yet or not.
But she had, and when I reached the scene, both she and Manning were
there and were consulting with the men from the bank as to what should be
done.
The doctor came, too, and began to examine the body.
The rest of us stood huddled in the narrow hall, now grown hot and close,
but we dared not open the door to the main lobby, lest outsiders should
make their way in.
I asked the janitor if there were not some room that could be used as a
waiting place, but even as he answered me, the doctor made his report.
It was to the effect that Amos Gately had been shot before he entered the
elevator or immediately upon his entrance. That he had died instantly,
and, therefore it would seem that the body must have been placed in the
car and sent down by the assailant. But this was only conjecture; all the
doctor could assert was that Mr. Gately had been dead for perhaps an
hour, and that the position of the body on the floor indicated an
instantaneous death from a shot through the heart.
And then the janitor bestirred himself, and said he could give us the use
of a vacant office on the ground floor, and we went in there,--all except
the doctor, who remained by the elevator.
Mr. Mason and Mr. Talcott agreed that the police must be notified and
they declared their willingness to stay for their arrival. But the
vice-president told Miss Raynor she could go home if she preferred to.
"I'll wait a while," she said, with the quick decision that I found was
habitual with her, "the car is still here,--oh, ought we not to tell
Connor? He's our chauffeur."
"I'll tell him," volunteered Manning. "I have to go now, I've an
important matter to attend to before six o'clock. Olive, may I come up to
the house this evening?"
"Oh, do," she answered, "I'll be so glad to have you. Come early, won't
you?"
"Yes," said Manning, and after pausing for some further talk with the
doctor he went away.
I tarried, wondering if I might go also, or if I were needed there.
But as Mason and Talcott were deeply engrossed in a low-toned
conversation and as Miss Raynor was waiting an opportunity to confer with
the doctor, who was their family physician, I concluded I might as well
go home while I was free to do so.
So without definite adieux, but with a word to Miss Raynor that she might
command my services at any time, I started for home.
The long expected storm had begun, and enormous snowflakes were falling
thickly.
As I left the Matteawan, I discerned Amory Manning talking to the
chauffeur of a big limousine and knew that he was telling Amos Gately's
man what had happened to his master.
I slowed up, hoping Manning would get through the interview and walk
along, and I would join him.
When he left the chauffeur, however, he darted across the street, and
though I followed quickly, I almost lost sight of him in the blinding
snowfall.
I called out to him, but he didn't hear, and small wonder, for the wind
roared and the traffic noises were deafening.
So I hurried after him, still hoping to overtake him.
And I did, or, at least, when he finally boarded a Southbound car on
Third Avenue, I hopped on the same car.
I had intended taking a Madison Avenue car, but there was none in sight,
and I felt pretty sure there was a blockade on the line. The streets
showed snowpiles, black and crusted, and the street cleaners were few and
far apart.
The car Manning and I managed to get onto was crowded to the doors. We
both stood, and there were just too many people between us to make
conversation possible, but I nodded across and between the bobbing heads
and faces, and Manning returned my greeting.
Stopping occasionally to let off some struggling, weary standees and to
take on some new snow-besprinkled stampeders, we at last reached
Twenty-second Street, and here Manning nodded a farewell to me, as he
prepared to leave by the front end of the car.
This was only three blocks from my own destination, and I determined to
get off, too, still anxious to speak to him regarding the scene of
tragedy we had just left.
So I swung off the rear end of the car, and it moved on through the
storm.
I looked about for Manning, but as I stepped to the ground a gust of wind
gave me all I could do to preserve my footing. Moreover, it sent a flurry
of snowflakes against my glasses, which rendered them almost opaque.
I dashed them clear with my gloved hand, and looked for my man, but he
was nowhere to be seen from where I stood in the center of the four
street corners.
Where could Manning have disappeared to? He must have flown like the
wind, if he had already darted either up or down Third Avenue or along
Twenty-second Street in either direction.
However, those were the only directions he could have taken, and I
concluded that as I struggled to raise my umbrella and was at the same
time partially blinded by my snowed-under glasses, he had hurried away
out of sight. Of course, he had no reason to think I was trying to catch
up with him, indeed, he probably did not know that I also left the car,
so he had no need for apology.
And yet, I couldn't see how he had disappeared with such magical
celerity. I asked a street cleaner if he had seen him.
"Naw," he said, blowing on his cold fingers, "naw, didn't see nobody.
Can't see nothin' in this here black squall!"
And that's just what it was. A sudden fierce whirlwind, a maelstrom of
tossing flakes, and a black lowering darkness that seemed to envelop
everything.
"Mad Mary," the great clock nearby, boomed out five solemn notes that
somehow added to the weirdness of the moment, and I grasped my umbrella
handle, pushed my glasses more firmly into place, and strode toward my
home.
With some, home is where the heart is, but, as I was still heart-whole
and fancy-free, I had no romantic interest to build a home around, and my
home was merely two cozy, comfy rooms in the vicinity of Gramercy Park.
And at last I reached them, storm-tossed, weary, cold, and hungry, all of
which unpleasant conditions were changed for the better as rapidly as I
could accomplish it.
And when, finally, I found myself seated, with a lighted cigar, at my own
cheery reading table, I congratulated myself that I had come home instead
of remaining at the Matteawan Building.
For, I ruminated, if the police had corralled me as witness, and held me
for one of their protracted queryings, I might have stayed there until
late into the night or even all night. And the storm, still howling
outside my windows, made me glad of warmth and shelter.
Then, too, I was eager to get my thoughts in order. I am of a methodical
mentality, and I wanted to set down in order the events I had experienced
and draw logical and pertinent deductions therefrom.
I greatly wished I had had a few moments' chat with Amory Manning. I
wanted to ask him some questions concerning Amos Gately that I didn't
like to ask of the bank men. Although I knew Gately's name stood for all
that was honorable and impeccable in the business world, I had not
forgotten the hatpin on his desk, nor the queer smile on Jenny's face as
she spoke of his personal callers.
I am not one to harbor premature or unfounded suspicions of my fellow
creatures, but
"_A little nonsense, now and then,_
_Is relished by the best of men,_"
And Amos Gately may not have been above enjoying some relaxations that he
felt no reason to parade.
But this was speculation, pure and simple, and until I could ask somebody
concerning Mr. Gately's private life, I had no right to surmise anything
about it.
Carefully, I went over all I knew about the tragedy from the moment when
I had opened my outer office door ready to start for home. Had I left a
few moments sooner, I should probably never have known anything much of
the matter except what I might learn from the newspapers or from the
reports current among the tenants of the Puritan Building.
As it was, and from the facts as I marshaled them in order before my
mind, I believed I had seen shadowed forth the actual murder of Amos
Gately. A strange thing, to be an eye-witness, and yet to witness only
the shadows of the actors in the scene!
I strove to remember definitely the type of man who did the shooting.
That is, I supposed he did the shooting. As I ruminated, I realized I had
no real knowledge of this. I saw the shadowed men rise, clinch, struggle,
and disappear. Yes, I was positive they disappeared from my vision before
I heard the shot. This argued, then, that they wrestled,--though I
couldn't say which was attacker and which attacked,--then they rushed to
the next room, where the elevator was concealed by the big map; and then,
in that room, the shot was fired that ended Amos Gately's life.
This must be the truth, for I heard only one shot, and it must have been
the fatal one.
Then, I could only think that the murderer had deliberately,--no, not
deliberately, but with exceeding haste,--had put his victim in the
elevator and sent the inert body downstairs alone.
This proved the full knowledge of the secret elevator on the part of the
assassin, so he must have been a frequenter of Mr. Gately's rooms, or, at
least had been there before, and was sufficiently intimate to know of the
private exit.
To learn the man's identity then, one must look among Mr. Gately's
personal friends,--or, rather, enemies.
I began to feel I was greatly handicapped by my utter ignorance of the
bank president's social or home life. But it might be that in the near
future I should again see Miss Raynor, and perhaps in her home, where I
could learn something of her late uncle's habits.
But, returning to matters I did know about, I tried hard to think what
course of procedure the murderer probably adopted after his crime.
And the conclusion I reached was all too clear. He had, of course, gone
down the stairs, as Jenny had said, for at least a few flights.
Then, I visualized him, regaining his composure, assuming a nonchalant,
business-like air, and stopping an elevator on a lower floor, where he
stepped in, without notice from the elevator girl or the other
passengers.
Just as Rodman had entered from a middle floor, when I was descending
with Minny.
Perhaps Rodman was the murderer! I knew him slightly and liked him not at
all. I had no earthly reason to suspect him,--only,--he had got on, I
remembered, at the seventh floor, and his office was on the tenth. This
didn't seem terribly incriminating, I had to admit, but I made a note of
it, and determined to look Mr. Rodman up.
My telephone bell rang, and with a passing wonder at being called up in
such a storm, I responded.
To my delight, it proved to be Miss Raynor speaking.
"Forgive me for intruding, Mr. Brice," she said, in that musical voice of
hers, "but I--I am so lonesome,--and there isn't anyone I want to talk
to."
"Talk to me, then, Miss Raynor," I said, gladly. "Can I be of any service
to you--in any way?"
"Oh, I think so. I want to see you tomorrow. Can you come to see me?"
"Yes, indeed. At what time?"
"Come up in the morning,--that is, if it's perfectly convenient for you."
"Certainly; in the morning, then. About ten?"
"Yes, please. They--they brought Uncle home."
"Did they? I'm glad that was allowed. Are you alone?"
"Yes; and I'm frightfully lonely and desolate. It's such a terrible night
I wouldn't ask any of my friends to come to stay with me."
"You expected Mr. Manning to call, I thought."
"I did; but he hasn't come. Of course, the reason is that it isn't a fit
night for anyone to go out. I telephoned his rooms, but he wasn't in. So
I don't know what to think. I'd suppose he'd telephone even if he
couldn't get here."
"Traffic must be pretty nearly impossible," I said, "it was awful going
when I reached home soon after five, and now, there's a young blizzard
raging."
"Yes, I couldn't expect him; and perhaps the telephone wires are
affected."
"This one isn't, at any rate, so chat with me as long as you will. You
can get some friend to come to stay with you tomorrow, can't you?"
"Oh, yes; I could have got somebody tonight, but I hadn't the heart to
ask it. I'm all right, Mr. Brice, I'm not a very nervous person,--only,
it is sort of awful. Our housekeeper is a nice old thing, but she's
nearly in hysterics and I sent her to bed. I'll say good-by now, and I'll
be glad to see you tomorrow."