NICK CARTER STORIES
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=No. 122.= NEW YORK, January 9, 1915. =Price Five Cents.=
THE SUICIDE;
Or, NICK CARTER AND THE LOST HEAD.
Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.
CHAPTER I.
HOW THE END CAME.
“Slow down, Danny, and look out for that wire,” said Nick Carter to his
chauffeur. “It may be a live one.”
“I’m onto it, chief.”
“Onto it, eh? Don’t you run onto it while I’m in the car, not if it’s a
live one. You may fancy absorbing the output of an electric-lighting
plant, but not for mine, Danny, not for mine! I know what it would do to
me. I’ve seen men electrocuted.”
Danny Maloney laughed, for it was obvious that the famous detective was
jesting.
“Onto it with my lamps, chief, is what I meant,” he replied.
“Say what you mean, then,” said Nick, with a smile. “Precision is one of
the valuable assets of a detective. Luckily, however, you are addressing
one who can read between the lines--barring those of the ambiguous
letter that brought us out here.”
“Can’t you fathom it? It must be mighty blind, chief, if it fools you.”
“On the contrary, Danny, it is perfectly plain--what there is of it,”
said Nick dryly. “A woman, one Mrs. Myra Darling, states that she is in
great trouble, that a very devoted friend of mine has advised her to
appeal to me, and will I favor her with a call at my earliest
convenience.”
“That all?” questioned Danny tersely.
“The whole business,” said Nick. “Of course, the appeal coming from a
woman, I cannot turn it down. Noblesse oblige.”
“You don’t know her?”
“Not from a side of leather. I am acquainted with no Darling
woman--suppress that smile, Danny. I know what you are thinking. But
all women are not darlings--far from it.”
“This one might be,” said Danny, his smile spreading to a grin.
“That’s neither here nor there,” said Nick, with a laugh. “Not being in
the market, Danny, all women look alike to me. Now, the said Mrs.
Darling’s trouble may be--ah, but we are near an answer to the momentous
question. Yonder is the place, unless I am much mistaken. Stop at the
driveway gate. I’ll walk into the grounds. Keep your eye peeled, by the
way, while I’m engaged with her ladyship.”
The place referred to was out beyond Washington Heights and overlooking
the Hudson. It was an attractive estate, without being at all
pretentious, as were others in the immediate locality.
The grounds flanked a broad street in which electric lighting was being
introduced, and from which the house stood back some thirty yards, with
a well-kept lawn and a few shade trees. In the rear were a stable and
garage, beyond which the land sloped down sharply toward the river.
Nick did not wait for an answer from his chauffeur. He sprang from the
car while speaking, then walked briskly up the driveway and approached
the house, quite a large wooden dwelling of the colonial type. Nick
mounted the broad front veranda and rang the bell.
It was answered almost immediately by a tall, graceful woman, clad in
black, and about thirty years of age. She was of medium complexion, with
brown hair and eyes and a finely poised head. Her features were regular,
but her face was a strong one, rather than handsome, evincing will
power, intellectuality, and a lofty character. She bowed and smiled a
bit gravely, saying immediately:
“You are Mr. Carter, I think.”
“Yes,” said Nick politely.
“I am Mrs. Darling. Walk in, please, and come into the library. I am
very glad you could comply so soon with my request. It is very good of
you.”
“I happened to be at liberty this afternoon,” Nick replied, following
her into the hall. “I received your letter this morning.”
Mrs. Darling conducted him into a prettily furnished library and invited
him to be seated. Taking an opposite chair, she then said gravely:
“I will take as little as possible of your valuable time. I will tell
you with few and simple words, Mr. Carter, why I have sent for you.”
“Cover all of the ground, Mrs. Darling,” Nick suggested. “My time just
now is at your disposal.”
“Thank you,” she replied, bowing. “I will in that case begin at the
beginning. I was married eight years ago to Mr. Cyrus Darling, a New
York tobacco dealer, a man whom I have always supposed had considerable
means, though he has never informed me definitely. He owned this place,
however, and we have always lived well, and he has provided for me
generously.”
“Mr. Darling is not living?”
“No. I will explain presently.”
“Continue.”
“I was nearly twenty years younger than he, Mr. Carter, but our married
life was a uniformly happy one, though not as gay and festive as he
perhaps would have preferred. I am inclined to be domestic, while he was
of a volatile nature, having neither a strong or stable character. I
frankly admit, Mr. Carter, that he was subservient to my will and
wishes.”
“I understand you,” said Nick.
“I have no children, and I keep only two servants, aside from a
chauffeur, whom I occasionally employ,” Mrs. Darling continued. “My
husband’s habits were good, as the world goes, and I noticed nothing
unusual in his conduct until about three months ago.”
“And then?”
“I then thought he appeared strangely reticent, at times very
self-absorbed and less frank and affectionate than before. I asked him
whether there was anything wrong, but he assured me to the contrary,
though he seemed a bit irritated because I questioned him.”
“I follow you.”
“Later, Mr. Carter, he appeared quite despondent, and I feared that his
business troubled him. He said that my fears were groundless, and that
his business was never better. He went from bad to worse. He said very
little at home, and remained in town evenings much more frequently than
in years past, which I attributed to his seeming depression and his
desire to find relief in the excitement and diversions of the city.”
“Did you occasionally accompany him?” Nick inquired.
“Very seldom. He did not seem inclined to have me do so.”
“Was he addicted to drink?”
“Only moderately. I never saw him intoxicated, nor anything like it.”
“Proceed.”
“About two weeks ago, Mr. Carter, he decided to sell his business,
saying that he was sick of it and would try something else. I
remonstrated with him, telling him that he was making a mistake, and
that it is not easy for a man over fifty to make such changes
profitably.”
“That is very true, Mrs. Darling.”
“It had no effect upon him, however, and he let the business go,” she
replied, sadly shaking her head. “During the following week he was at
home part of each day, but he spent most of the afternoons and evenings
in town. On Tuesday, one week ago yesterday, he appeared unusually
nervous and depressed. I missed him soon after lunch, and supposed he
had gone into town. I had an appointment with my dentist and was absent
from two o’clock until nearly six. When I returned home--well, Mr.
Carter, the end had come.”
“You mean?” questioned Nick gravely.
“My husband had committed suicide--or was the victim of foul play.”
“H’m, I see!” Nick drew up in his chair. “Were you in any uncertainty at
that time, Mrs. Darling, as to the cause of his death?”
“No, not at that time, Mr. Carter,” she quickly informed him. “I know
what you have in mind--that I should have called in the police
immediately. I did not then, however, nor at any time until yesterday,
have even a thought of anything but suicide. The circumstances suggested
nothing else.”
“What were the circumstances, Mrs. Darling?” Nick inquired. “State them
briefly.”
“There is very little to tell,” she rejoined. “My husband was last seen
alive by one of my servants. She saw him going out of the back door of
the house and around the stable, and she supposed he was going down to
our boathouse, which was on the river bank and out of view from here,
owing to the sharp slope of the land.”
“I see,” said Nick, glancing from the window.
“Soon after, Mr. Carter, the boathouse was seen to be on fire. It
contained a motor boat and considerable gasoline, which caused it to
burn very rapidly. It was completely destroyed. In the ruins were found
the remains of my husband, little more than a charred skeleton, from
which the flesh was almost entirely burned.”
Mrs. Darling paused to dry her eyes, maintaining with an effort her
outward composure. Appreciating her feelings, Nick waited a few moments
and then inquired:
“Are you sure, Mrs. Darling, that his death was not due to an accident?”
“Positively,” she replied. “To begin with, Mr. Carter, he left this
letter on the chiffonier in my bedroom. You may read it.”
She took it from the library table while speaking and tendered it to the
detective.
Nick read it, the following few lines written with pen and ink.
“MY DEAR MYRA: Forgive me for the step I am going to take. I am
driven to it by feelings I cannot describe. I am sick and tired of
the whole business--of life itself. I am going to end it. Forgive
and forget me.
RIGHT
“CYRUS.”
Nick replaced the letter on the table, saying considerately:
“There seems, indeed, to be no reasonable doubt of Mr. Darling’s
intentions. You recognize the writing, I infer.”
“Yes, surely,” she replied. “Furthermore, Mr. Carter, there were found
in the ruins numerous articles that positively identify my husband’s
remains. They included the buttons on his garments, which were entirely
consumed; also his pocketknife, his false teeth, and a plain gold ring.
His revolver also was found near by, and it is supposed that he shot
himself after setting fire to the boathouse, presumably to make sure
that his terrible design could not miscarry.”
“Who examined the articles and investigated the case?” asked Nick.
“Doctor Lyons, my physician, who is also the coroner.”
“A capable man,” Nick nodded. “I am acquainted with him. What is his
opinion?”
“He thinks it a case of suicide. He could find no evidence of anything
else, and is very positive in his opinion.”
“Had your husband any money, jewelry, or----”
“He left those in the bedroom, his watch, diamonds, and pocketbook, also
his ring of keys,” Mrs. Darling interposed. “Only one key was missing
from the ring.”
“Which one?”
“The key to the boathouse.”
Nick did not reply for a few moments. He sat gazing thoughtfully at a
figure in the heavy carpet. Superficially viewed, the circumstances
stated seemed to admit of only one reasonable theory--that Mr. Cyrus
Darling had, indeed, deliberately ended his own life.
“The funeral and burial were last Thursday,” Mrs. Darling added, during
the brief silence on Nick’s part. “Doctor Lyons did not think the case
called for any investigations beyond those he personally made, nor did I
at that time. He----”
“One moment,” said Nick, looking up. “What have you since learned, Mrs.
Darling, that occasions your misgivings? Why do you now suspect foul
play? That, I think, is the term you used.”
“I have two reasons for apprehending something of the kind,” she
replied. “One relates to my husband’s estate. I have learned from his
lawyer, who has been assisting me, and in whom I have absolute
confidence, that Mr. Darling left no will, that he has recently
withdrawn considerable money from the bank, and that his safety-deposit
drawer contains only a few securities, worth less than three thousand
dollars. From dividends which I know that he has been in the habit of
receiving, as well as from our living expenses for several years, I know
that he was worth at least a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Is your lawyer investigating the matter?”
“I have requested him to do so.”
“What is his name?” Nick inquired, taking out his notebook.
“Henry Clayton. He has an office in town.”
“I am acquainted with him, also,” said Nick, noting the name. “You
mentioned a second reason for your misgivings. What is that?”
“One of my servants.”
“You mean?”
“I referred in my letter, Mr. Carter, to a very devoted friend of yours,
who advised me to appeal to you.”
“Yes, I remember,” said Nick, wondering. “A devoted friend of mine--one
of your servants?”
“I refer to my table girl, who also serves me as a maid. You have, I am
very sure, no more grateful and devoted an admirer. I will call her.”
Nick bowed and waited, still more deeply puzzled as to the girl’s
identity.
Mrs. Darling touched a bell on the library table.
Nick glanced again from one of the windows--and discovered another
perplexing fact.
His touring car was standing where he had left it, but his chauffeur was
missing. Danny Maloney had disappeared.
The quick, light steps of the approaching maid sounded in the hall.
Turning in that direction just as she appeared at the open door, Nick
beheld----
Nancy Nordeck.