AN UNLUCKY MORNING.
Patsy Garvan had reason to congratulate himself on the outcome of his
night’s vigil, but it is to be feared that he did not follow it up
in the best way. It was nearly half past four in the morning when he
reached Nick’s headquarters, and he unwisely decided that there was no
use of rousing Chick at that hour. Breakfast was only about three hours
off, and he reasoned that the delay could make little difference.
Whatever Follansbee had done to Stone was an accomplished fact, and it
was not likely that any more serious steps would be taken that night.
Besides, St. Swithin’s Hospital was not an easy place to commit a
crime, even though the criminal was at the head of it. If Follansbee
meant to murder Stone, and had drugged him to get him into his power,
the murder would probably be a slow and subtle one. In that case a few
hours were unimportant.
Consequently Patsy made his way quietly to his own room without rousing
Chick or leaving any word for him. He removed his make-up, slipped out
of his ragged suit with a sigh of relief, and was asleep almost as
soon as he touched the bed. He fully expected to be up again by half
past seven at the latest, and counted on being called if he showed any
tendency to oversleep. He did not realize, however, that he had had
very little rest for several days, and that Nature would do her best to
make up the shortage as soon as she had the chance. Nor did it occur to
him that Chick, knowing that he had been doing double duty, might give
orders not to have him called if he did not appear for breakfast on
time.
The result was that when he awakened, it was to discover that the sun
was pouring into his room with a warmth and intensity which proved
that the day was several hours old. He rose up in bed with a start and
looked at the little clock on the table.
“Half past eleven!” he ejaculated, in amazement. “Great Scott! I
wouldn’t have had this happen for the world. Why the dickens didn’t I
make a report of some sort last night before turning in? I might have
known that I would sleep like a log, and that Chick might see I wasn’t
disturbed.”
Without stopping to dress, he stuck his head out of the door and
shouted Chick’s name at the top of his voice. The housekeeper heard
him, and came bustling down the hall.
“Mr. Chick was called out of town this morning,” she said, greatly to
the young assistant’s chagrin.
“Where to?” he demanded.
“To Providence.”
“To a hotel?”
“I’ll bring you the note he left for Mr. Carter.”
She hurried into the celebrated detective’s study and presently
returned with a slip of paper. On it the chief assistant had explained
his errand, and said that he hoped to be back by night, but would be
running about most of the day. He added that he would try to keep in
touch with the Sound Hotel, and could be reached there if he was wanted.
The information did not sound promising, but Patsy was obliged to
make the best of it. Putting on a bath robe and slippers, he ran to
the chief’s study and attempted to reach Chick on the long-distance
telephone. As he had anticipated, he had not yet arrived at the hotel.
He left a message asking that he be called as soon as possible; but
after he had done so, he decided that he could not wait for that. There
were too many uncertainties, and the delay might prove serious.
“Confound it, this is a pretty mess,” he told himself. “I can’t be sure
about Chick any more. I’ll have to ’fess up to the chief—if I can get
hold of him.”
The housekeeper was once more summoned, and from her Patsy learned that
the chief had not been there either the night before or that morning.
“He’s still at the Windermere, I suppose,” the housekeeper suggested.
“Let’s hope he is,” Patsy answered, and returned to the phone. He gave
the number of the Hotel Windermere, and was promptly connected.
“Is Mr. Mortimer—Mr. Thomas Mortimer—there?” he inquired anxiously.
“One moment, please.”
He kept the receiver to his ear for a few seconds, and then the clerk’s
voice sounded again.
“Hello?” it said. “Mr. Mortimer isn’t in at present. He went out with a
friend immediately after breakfast. He’s been gone about two hours now.”
Patsy could have kicked himself at that moment. “Have you any idea
where he has gone?”
“No, I haven’t. He went out with another of our guests, though, and——”
The assistant caught eagerly at that clew. “Was it Mr. Crawford?” he
asked.
“Yes, that’s the gentleman. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more. Mr.
Mortimer doesn’t seem to have left any word. Will you leave a message
for him?”
Patsy thought for a moment. “No, I believe not,” he said, after a
pause. “I’ll telephone later on, or drop around there.”
He replaced the receiver and leaned back disappointedly. “Worse and
more of it,” he mused. “First, Chick slips out of my reach, and now
the chief is off somewhere. This is certainly my unlucky morning. Of
course, Chick didn’t suppose I had anything of importance to report,
and that’s why he let me sleep. Now time is flying. Follansbee has got
Stone in his clutches for some beastly purpose of his own, and I don’t
know what to do about it. It’s up to the chief to decide that, and I
can’t reach him.”
He had not dictated a message for Carter because the matter was too
confidential for that; besides, he expected to present himself at the
hotel before long and wait for his chief, if the latter had not yet
returned.
First, though, he must dress and snatch a bite of breakfast. His
dressing and shaving occupied only about twenty minutes in all—with a
cold plunge thrown in—and when he reached the dining room, he found the
housekeeper waiting for him. His coming seemed to be a signal, for she
vanished at once into the regions behind, but soon returned bearing a
tray. Patsy was a favorite of hers, and she was doing him the honor of
serving him in person.
“Mr. Chick said to let you sleep,” she declared, nodding her gray head.
“Heaven only knows when you came in last night. I was awake until
twelve.”
Patsy grinned. “You missed me by a minute or two,” he answered, as he
attacked his breakfast.
His conscience was pricking him most uncomfortably, and although he
was hungry, he would have eaten little if he had had his own way. The
housekeeper stood over him, however, and saw to it that he made a good
meal. The breakfast consumed fifteen minutes of his precious time, and
even then the elderly lady sniffed as she picked up the tray.
“You oughtn’t to bolt your food like that, Mr. Garvan,” she complained.
“You’ll be a martyr to indigestion before you’re forty. Don’t you think
you might bite a thing twice before it goes down?”
She had gained her main point, however, and that was something. She
returned to the kitchen, and Patsy hurried out of the house.
He had ordered one of Nick’s runabouts brought round, and in it he
drove to the hotel.
“Mr. Mortimer” had not yet returned.
He said something under his breath, and decided not to wait. He was
too uneasy by that time, for James Stone’s fate was troubling him.
Accordingly he left word with the clerk for “Mr. Mortimer” to remain in
when he came, if possible, until he could be communicated with. That
done, he jumped into the runabout again and headed northward in the
direction of St. Swithin’s Hospital.
It was well that he did so, for his luck was to change.