The Man in Boston
I could not suppress a feeling of elation as I once again rang at the
door of Olive Raynor's home that evening. I almost began to feel a
proprietary interest in the mansion, as I now was practically the legal
adviser of its new mistress. And to be received as a privileged caller,
even a welcome one, was a source of gratification to my pride and
self-respect.
Mrs. Vail was present at our interview this time, and my first sight of
her gave me a very favorable impression. A distinguished-looking lady,
slightly past middle age, she was aristocratic of bearing and kindly
pleasant of manner. Perhaps a trifle of condescension mingled with her
courteous reception of me, but I put that down to her recent acquirement
of a position of importance. No such trait was visible in Miss Raynor's
simple and sincere greeting, and as Olive eagerly inquired as to the
result of my afternoon's quest, I told her my story at once.
She was greatly relieved that no trace of Amory Manning had been found on
the morgue records and though she was duly sympathetic when I told her of
the strange case of the man who fell through the earth, it only
momentarily claimed her preoccupied attention.
She first satisfied herself that by no chance could this man be Manning,
and then turned her thoughts back to her all-engrossing theme.
"I am sorry for him," she said, as I described his cheerful disposition
and rather winning personality, "and if I can do anything to help him, I
will do it. Does he want a position of some sort when he gets well enough
to take one?"
"I suppose he will," I returned; "he's an alive sort of chap, and of
course he'll earn his living one way or another."
"And he may soon recover his memory," began Mrs. Vail. "I knew a man once
who had amnesia and aphasia both, and it was six months before he got
over it. But when his memory came back, it came all at once, like a
flash, and then he was all right."
"In this case," I said, "the doctors want to find someone who knows the
man. It ought not to be difficult to find his friends, or someone who can
identify him. Why, that peculiar voice ought to do it."
"Imitate it," directed Mrs. Vail, and to the best of my ability I talked
in the monotonous tones of the amnesic victim.
Olive laughed. "I never heard anybody talk like that," she said. "It's
absolutely uninflected."
"Yes, that's just what it was. He had no inflections or shadings in his
tones."
"A voice is so individual," pursued Olive. "Amory Manning's voice is full
and musical; I've often told him he conveys as much meaning by his tones
as by his words."
"I knew a man once," put in Mrs. Vail, "who could recite the alphabet so
dramatically that he made his audience laugh or cry or shudder, just by
his tones."
"Yes, I've heard that done on the vaudeville stage," said Olive. "Now Mr.
Brice, what shall be our next step? I don't mind confessing I'm relieved
that your errand of today is over with. Our doctor told me there was no
chance of Mr. Manning having been killed or injured, without our
receiving notification of the fact, somehow. But I've been nervously
troubled about it, and nights I've dreamed of seeing him
somewhere,--alone and helpless,--and unable to let me know----"
"Maybe he is," said Mrs. Vail; "I knew a man once----"
But Olive cut short the tale of this acquaintance of her friend and kept
to the business in hand.
"I can't think of anything better to do," I said, "than to advertise. But
why are not other people doing this? Who are Mr. Manning's friends? Who
are his business people? Why are they silent?"
"I don't know that they are," Olive returned; "but to tell the truth, I
don't know much about Mr. Manning's affairs, in a business way. I know he
is a civil engineer, but that's about all. A consulting engineer he is,
too. As to his people, I know only his sister, and she doesn't know what
to do either. I've seen Mrs. Russell twice since, and we can only
sympathize with each other."
"Who is Mr. Russell?"
"Her husband? He's in France, and she's alone with her two little girls.
She and Amory are devoted to each other, and he was of such help and
comfort to her in her husband's absence. Now, she doesn't know which way
to turn."
"I must look these things up," I said; "I must talk with Mr. Manning's
business associates,--doubtless Mrs. Russell can tell me of them."
"Oh, yes, of course. You go to see her, and she'll be only too glad to
see you."
"And as to a detective? Shall I get in touch with Wise?"
"Yes, I think so. It does seem so queer for me to decide these things! I
can't get used to the fact that I'm my own guardian!"
"You're of age, Olive," and Mrs. Vail smiled.
"Oh, yes, and I've had entire control of my money for some time. But
Uncle always decided all matters of importance,--though, goodness knows,
there never were any such to decide as those that beset us now! Think of
my engaging a detective!"
"But Wise is so interesting and so adaptable, you'll really like him.
I'll ask him to call here with me some afternoon or evening and you can
get acquainted."
"I'd like to meet him," put in Mrs. Vail; "I knew a man once who wanted
to be a detective, but he died. I've never seen a real detective."
"Pennington Wise is a real one, all right," I declared. "Of course, Miss
Raynor, I shall tell the police that you are employing a private
detective, for I don't think it a good plan to do it secretly. It is
never wise to antagonize the police; they do all they can, popular
prejudice to the contrary notwithstanding."
"Very well, Mr. Brice," and Olive gave me a look of confidence. "I don't
care what you do, so long as you attend to it. I don't want to see those
horrid police people again."
I thought to myself that she might be obliged to do so, unless Penny Wise
could find another way to make them look. But I did not tell her so, for
nothing raised her ire like the hint of suspicion directed toward herself
in the matter of Amos Gately's murder.
"How dare they!" she exclaimed, her eyes fairly snapping with anger; "to
dream that I--Olive Raynor--could--why, it's impossible to put it into
words!"
It did seem so. To look at that dainty, lovely girl,--the very ideal of
all that is best and gentlest in human nature,--it was impossible to
breathe the word _murder_ in the same breath!
I went away from the house, when my visit was over, determined to track
down the assassin,--with the help of Penny Wise,--and thereby clear
Olive's name from the least taint of the ugly suspicion now held by the
police.
The next morning, in my office, I told Norah of all the developments of
Sunday.
The warm-hearted girl was deeply interested, and eager for me to
communicate with Wise at once, for which purpose she slipped a fresh
sheet of paper in her typewriter, and waited for my dictation of a letter
to the detective.
"Wait a minute, Norah," I laughed; "give me time to open my desk!"
But I did dispatch the letter that morning, and awaited the answer as
impatiently as Norah herself.
And then I went down to Police Headquarters.
There a surprise was given me. The Chief had received a letter that
seemed to have a decided bearing on the mystery of the murder. He handed
it to me without comment, and I read this:
To Police Headquarters;
New York City;
Sirs:
Last Wednesday afternoon, I was in New York, and was in the Building of
the Puritan Trust Company. I had occasion to transact some business on
the tenth floor, and afterward, when waiting for the elevator to take me
down, I saw a pistol lying on the floor of the hallway near the elevator.
I picked it up and put it in my pocket,--undecided, at the moment,
whether to consider it "findings-keepings" (as it was a first-class one!)
or whether to turn it in at the superintendent's office. As a matter of
fact, when I reached the street floor I forgot all about the thing, nor
did I remember it until I was back in Boston. And then, I read in the
papers the accounts of the murder in that same building, that same
afternoon, and I saw it was my duty to return the pistol and acquaint you
with these facts. But alas, for dilatory human nature! I procrastinated
(without meaning to) until today, and now I send this belated word, with
an apology for my tardiness. The pistol is safe in my possession, and I
will hold it pending your advices. Shall I send it to you,--and how? Or
shall I turn it over to the Boston police? My knowledge of the whole
matter begins and ends with the finding of the pistol, which after all,
may have nothing to do with the crime. But I found it at three o'clock,
or a very few minutes after, if that interests you. I shall be here, at
The Touraine, for another week, and will cheerfully allow myself to be
interviewed at your convenience, but, as I said, I have no further
information to give than that I have here set forth.
Very truly yours,
Nicholas Lusk.
The letter was dated from Boston, on Saturday evening, two days before.
Truly, Friend Lusk had delayed his statement, but as he said, that was
human nature, in matters not important to oneself.
The Chief was furiously angry at the lateness of the information, and had
already dispatched a messenger to get the weapon and to interview the
Boston man.
"It's all straight on the face of it," declared Chief Martin; "only an
honest, cheerful booby would write like that! He picks up a pistol,
forgets all about it, and then, when he learns it's evidence,--or may
be,--he calmly waits forty-eight hours before he pipes up!"
"Is it _the_ pistol?" I asked, quietly.
"How do I know?" blustered Martin. "Likely it is. I don't suppose half a
dozen people sowed pistols around that building at just three o'clock
last Wednesday afternoon!"
"How do you fit it in?"
"Well, this way,--if you want to know. Miss--well, that is,--whoever
_did_ do the shooting, ran out of the third room, just as Jenny
described, and ran downstairs,--it doesn't matter whether all the way
down or not, but at least to the tenth--two floors below, and there
dropped the pistol, either by accident or by design, and proceeded to
descend, as I said, either by the stairs or by taking an elevator at some
intervening floor. Now, we want that pistol. To be sure, it may not
incriminate anybody,--and yet, there's lots of individuality in
firearms!"
"In detective stories the owner's initials are on all well-conducted
pistols," I remarked, casually.
"Not in real life, though. There's a number on them, of course, but that
seldom helps. And yet, I've got a hunch that that pistol will tell its
own story, and my fingers itch to get a hold of it!"
"When do you expect it?"
"I've sent young Scanlon after it. He's a live wire, and he'll get back
soon's anybody could. See here, this is the way I dope it out. If a woman
did the shooting, she'd be more'n likely to throw away a pistol,--or to
drop it unintentional like, in her nervousness, but a man--nixy!"
I had foreseen this. And the statement was, in a way, true. A man, having
committed murder, does not drop his pistol,--unless, and I divulged this
thought to Martin, unless he wants to throw suspicion on someone else.
"Nothin' doin'," was his curt response. "Nobody on that floor possible to
suspect, 'ceptin' it's Rodman,--and small chance of him."
"Rodman!" I cried; "why, he got on the elevator at the seventh floor,
just after the shooting."
"He did!" the Chief straightened up; "how do you know?"
"Saw him. I was going down,--in Minny's elevator, you know,--to look for
Jenny----"
"When was this?"
"About ten minutes after the shooting--and of course I got on at the
twelfth floor, and there were no other passengers at first, so I talked
to Minny. But at the seventh Rodman got on, and so we stopped talking."
"His office is on the tenth," mused Martin; "s'posin'--just s'posin'
he'd--er--he was implicated, and that he ran downstairs afterward, to his
own floor, you know,--and then, later, walked to seven, and took a car
there----"
"Purposely leaving his pistol on his own floor!"
"Shucks, no! Dropped it accidentally."
"But you said male criminals don't do that!"
"Oh, pshaw! I say lots of things,--and you would, too, if you were as
bothered as I am!"
"That's so, Chief," I agreed, "and there is certainly something to be
looked into,--I should say, without waiting for a report from Boston."
"You bet there is! I'm going to send Hudson right up there. He's as good
a sleuth as we've got, and he'll deal with the Rodman matter in a right
and proper way. If there's nothing to find out, Rodman will never know he
looked."
Hudson was duly dispatched, and I returned to the Puritan Building. It
was queer, but Rodman had been in the back of my head all along,--and
yet, I had no real reason to think him implicated. I did not know whether
he knew Mr. Gately or not, but I, too, had confidence in Foxy Jim
Hudson's discretion, and I was pretty positive he'd find out
something,--if there were anything worth finding out.
And there was!
Rodman, by good luck, was out and his offices locked. Hudson gently
persuaded the locks to let go their grip, and, for he let me go with him,
we went in.
The first thing that hit me in the eyes, was a big war map on the wall.
Moreover, though not a duplicate of Mr. Gately's map, it was similar, and
it hung in a similar position. That is, as Rodman's offices were directly
under those of the bank president, two floors below, the rooms matched,
and in the "third room" as we called it in Mr. Gately's case, Rodman also
had his map hung.
There was but one conclusion, and Hudson and I sprang to it at once.
Together, we pulled aside the map, and sure enough, there was a door
exactly like the door in Mr. Gately's room, a small, flush door, usually
hidden by the map.
"To the secret elevator, of course," I whispered to Hudson, for walls
have ears, and these walls were in many ways peculiar.
"By golly, it is!" he returned; "let's open her up!"
He forced the door open, and assured himself that it did indeed lead into
the private elevator shaft, and there were the necessary buttons to cause
it to stop, if properly used. But now, the car being down on the ground
floor, where it had stayed ever since the day of the murder, of course,
the buttons could not be manipulated.
"Now," said Hudson, his brow furrowed, "to see where else this bloomin'
rogue trap lets 'em off! There's somethin' mighty queer goin' on that we
ain't caught on to yet!"
He carefully closed the door, readjusted the map, and making sure we had
left no traces of our visit, he motioned me out and we went away.
He asked me to return to my office, and promised to see me there later.
When he returned, he told me that he had visited every other office in
the building through whose rooms the elevator shaft descended and in no
other instance was there an opening into the shaft.
"Which proves," he summed up, "that Mr. Gately and Mr. Rodman was somehow
in cahoots, else why would Rodman have access to that secret elevator?
Answer me that!"
There were several possible answers. Rodman might have taken his offices
after the elevator was built, and might never have used it at all. His
map might have hung over it merely to cover the useless door.
Or, Rodman might have been a personal friend of Mr. Gately's and used the
little car for informal visits.
Again,--though I hated myself for the thought,--Mr. Gately might have had
guests whom he didn't wish to be seen entering his rooms, and he might
have had an arrangement with Rodman whereby the visitors could go in and
out through his rooms, and take the private elevator between the tenth
and twelfth floors.
I distrusted Rodman; without any definite reason, but all the same I did
distrust him, and I have frequently found my intuitions regarding
strangers hit pretty nearly right.
It was unnecessary, however, to answer Foxy Jim's question, for he
answered it himself.
"There's something about Mr. Gately," he said, and he spoke seriously,
almost solemnly, "that hasn't come to light yet, but it's bound to. Yes,
sir, it's bound to! And it's on the way. Now, if we can hook up that
Boston pistol with Mr. George Rodman, well and good; if we can't,
Rodman's got to be put through the grill anyhow. He's in it for
keeps--that elevator door isn't easily explained away."
"Does Mr. Rodman," it was Norah who spoke, and as before, Hudson turned
to her almost expectantly--he seemed to depend on her for suggestions, or
at least, he always listened to them--"I wonder, Mr. Brice," she went on
slowly, "does Mr. Rodman look at all like the figure you saw in the
shadow?"
I thought back.
"Yes," I said, decidedly, "he does! Now, hold on, Hudson, it's only a
memory, you know, and I may easily be mistaken. But it seems to me I can
remember a real resemblance between that shadowed head and the head of
George Rodman."
"It's worth an experiment," returned the foxy detective, and on the
strength of his decision he waited in my office until George Rodman
returned to his.
I didn't know, at the time, what argument Hudson used to get Rodman to do
it, but his foxiness prevailed and, obeying orders, I found myself
watching the shadow of George Rodman's head on Amos Gately's glass door,
as Hudson engaged his suspect in animated conversation.
Of course, the scene of the crime was not re-enacted, there was merely
the shadowed picture of the two men, but Hudson managed to have Rodman
conspicuously shadowed in various positions and postures.
And after it was over, and Hudson, back in my office, asked me for my
verdict, I was obliged to say:
"Mr. Hudson, if that is not the man I saw quarreling with Mr. Gately, it
is his exact counterpart! Were it a less grave occasion, I should not
hesitate to swear that it is the same man."
"That's enough, Mr. Brice," and Foxy Jim Hudson went back to Headquarters
with his report.