THE ANGLE OF REFLECTION.
As Nick Carter had inferred, even before finding the terse, explanatory
note of his chauffeur, there was a very good reason for the
disappearance of Danny Maloney. There were equally good reasons, too,
for the brevity of his note and his delay in reporting at the home
office.
Seated alone in the touring car after Nick had entered the Darling
residence, Danny fell to watching a gang of men at work in the near
distance, then installing the wires for an electric-lighting system, to
one of which Nick had jestingly referred when approaching the place.
Scarce five minutes had passed, however, when something of much more
importance caught Danny’s eye and instantly claimed his attention. It
was the sudden appearance and significant actions of a man who rounded a
corner some thirty yards back of the motionless car.
One might wonder, perhaps, how Danny, not having eyes in the back of his
head, caught sight of the man the moment he turned the corner. As a
matter of fact, however, Danny saw him reflected in the chauffeur’s
mirror clamped to the frame of the windshield, in which he could
distinctly see objects back of the car.
This led to a somewhat curious situation. The man saw the car and its
solitary occupant, but he did not observe the mirror, and he evidently
supposed that Danny, facing straight ahead, could not see him.
Danny easily saw the reflection, however, without turning his head. He
saw the stranger stop short the moment he rounded the corner, and saw
the car, at which he gazed suspiciously, which in turn was enough to
arouse Danny’s suspicions.
“Gee! what’s eating him?” he muttered, watching him intently. “Here’s a
reflex, back-action discovery, for fair. He don’t know I can see him;
but who the dickens is he, and what’s struck him?”
The man stood gazing intently, first at the car and then at the Darling
residence, several times from one to the other. He appeared in doubt,
uncertain what to do.
Presently, frowning darkly, he took a pencil and a letter, from his
pocket and made a memorandum of the envelope. Then he turned and
retraced his steps and vanished around the corner as quickly as he had
come.
“Gee whiz! there’s nothing to it,” thought Danny. “That fellow was going
to the Darling residence. He was alarmed when he saw this car, and he
has taken the number of it. He don’t know who owns it, then, so why did
he change his mind? He certainly must be off color, or he would not have
feared to enter the house. But why--why be hanged! It’s up to me, by
gracious, to find out why.”
Danny abruptly ended his vain speculations. He quickly wrote the brief
note that Nick found a little later, then sprang from the car and
started after the departing stranger.
Danny discovered him nearly a block away, after rounding the corner--an
erect, finely built man, fashionably clad, and having all of the outward
indications of a gentleman. He was about thirty years old, with dark
eyes and hair and clean-cut features, in many respects a strikingly
handsome man.
Danny shadowed him to the city. He saw him enter an automobile garage
and consult a reference book, one containing the license numbers of New
York cars and the names of their owners. His face, when he departed,
wore a darker cloud, a look of increasing apprehensions.
“Gee! he’s found out that the car belongs to Nick Carter,” Danny readily
reasoned. “That don’t seem to please him worth a cent, which shows that
my suspicions are all to the good. I’ll not lose sight of him, by
gracious, until I learn who he is and where he hangs out.”
Danny then shadowed him to a leading hotel, where his quarry spent
nearly an hour at lunch in the café, afterward sauntering out and
bringing up, ten minutes later, near a large West Side apartment house,
then known as the Ashburton Chambers.
This house evidently was his destination, for he gazed up at one of the
side windows when crossing a street on the corner of which the lofty
building stood.
“He’s got a date with some one,” thought Danny, watching him from the
opposite side of the avenue. “Or mebbe he has a suite there and--no, by
ginger, I was right. He’s here to see that woman.”
She emerged from a side door of the house just as the man was crossing
the street--a finely formed woman in a stylish walking costume, a figure
so striking and graceful that Danny at once felt sure that he had seen
her before. Her face was partly hidden under a polka-dotted veil,
however, precluding immediate recognition.
They caught sight of one another at the same moment, and the man stopped
on the corner, while the woman hastened to join him. Remaining there,
apparently heedless of numerous passing pedestrians, they entered into a
subdued and earnest conversation, the gravity of which was obvious.
“I’ve got to have a nearer look at her,” thought Danny. “I’m dead sure
I’ve seen her before. Mebbe, too, I can get a line on what they are
talking about by passing near them.”
Retracing his steps, he quickly crossed the avenue and then slowly
approached the couple, sauntering by them. He then saw the woman’s face
distinctly--her large, lustrous eyes, glowing darkly through the meshes
of her veil; her attractive features and clear, velvety complexion; her
finely formed mouth and rounded chin--a strikingly handsome face, of
that type and character for which men sometimes lose their heads.
“Great guns!” Danny muttered. “It’s Kate Crandall, that fly beauty who
figured in the Maybrick case. She tried to throw down the church rector
because he would not marry her. She must have found an easier way to get
money and plenty of it, if fine feathers cut any ice.”
Danny paused in the broad main entrance to the house and furtively
watched the couple. He had tried in vain to catch a word or two of their
conversation. He now saw the man show Kate Crandall the memorandum made
on his letter, and he rightly inferred that they were talking about the
touring car and its owner.
Presently, parting abruptly, the man hailed a taxicab and rode away,
while Kate Crandall quickly approached the front entrance to the house.
Danny as quickly withdrew to the office, where he began an examination
of the register.
Kate Crandall entered and approached the counter, speaking to the clerk.
“If Ralph Sheldon comes in, Tom, send him up to my suite, will you?” she
said familiarly.
“Certainly,” replied the clerk. “Does that go until evening?”
“It goes until he shows up,” replied Kate, with significant emphasis. “I
will be at home all of this evening.”
“I’ll keep him in mind.”
“Thanks.”
Kate turned quickly away and entered the elevator.
Danny decided that he had picked up all that was coming to him, and he
started for home. It was nearly six o’clock when he entered the house,
and found Nick in his business office with his two chief assistants,
Chick Carter and Patsy Garvan.
On the office table lay the several articles Nick had obtained from
Doctor Lyons, which he was just beginning to examine, already having
told Chick and Patsy about the case as thus far set forth.
It took Danny only a few minutes to report what he had seen and heard,
and it was very nearly in line with what Nick had expected.
“Good work, Danny, very good work,” he said approvingly. “It will help
some, my lad, even more than you imagine. I have left the car at the
curbing. Take charge of it, please.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Carter,” cried Danny, glad to feel that he had been of
service.
“So Kate Crandall is at the Ashburton Chambers, eh?” remarked Nick,
with thoughtful frown, “I have wondered what became of her after that
Maybrick affair. She is about as attractive a woman as one often meets,
but she has an infernally evil streak in her.”
“You think she figures in this affair?” Chick inquired.
“I certainly do,” Nick declared. “Danny undoubtedly is right in thinking
that the unknown man was going to the Darling residence. The fact that
he has an interest there, and also in Kate Crandall, denotes plainly
enough that Cyrus Darling also had an interest in the woman. The
stranger, in view of his conduct, forms a connecting link between the
other two, so to speak.”
“I see the point,” Chick replied.
“Gee! that point is plain enough,” put in Patsy. “But, holy smoke, it
must be a case of suicide. How else can you size it up, chief? Darling
had been in the dumps for two or three months, as down in the mouth as a
sick horse, according to his wife’s story. Crooks could not have forced
him to feign despondency for that length of time. In my opinion, chief,
he just about blew in all of his money with some other woman, and blew
out his brains when his bundle was gone. That’s how I size it up.”
“Really?” queried Nick dryly.
“That’s what. He certainly shot himself, chief, if what Doctor Lyons
told you is true.”
“If what Doctor Lyons told me is true, Patsy, you probably are entirely
wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“It’s a hundred to one.”
“Why so, chief?”
“Because in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred a person who commits
suicide with a revolver shoots himself in the head,” said Nick. “That is
the most natural spot for a suicide to select. He knows that a bullet in
the brain will instantly render him insensible and preclude conscious
suffering. Even if he does not stop to reason about it, he instinctively
selects his head in which to send the fatal bullet. The records
corroborate me. How often do you hear of a man shooting himself in the
heart or lungs?”
“Very seldom, indeed,” Chick agreed. “I don’t know that I ever heard of
a case.”
“But what of that?” questioned Patsy argumentatively. “I don’t see how
that cuts any ice. Darling could have shot himself in the head.”
“I admit that he could--but he didn’t,” Nick said dryly.
“Why are you so sure of it, chief?”
“Because the bullet would have made a hole in his skull. Even if sent
into his mouth, or through an eye, it would surely have passed through
the brain and have fractured, at least, the back of the skull. Doctor
Lyons is positive, however, that the skull was intact. I questioned him
particularly about that. Admitting that my premises are correct, then,
it’s a hundred to one that Cyrus Darling did not shoot himself.”
“Gee! there’s no getting around that argument,” Patsy thoughtfully
allowed. “You must be right, chief, after all.”
“I think so.”
“But how came the revolver near him? Some one else must have shot him.
In that case, chief, he must have been murdered, as Doctor Lyons and
Lawyer Clayton suspect.”
“On the contrary, Patsy, both of them are wrong,” Nick said confidently.
“Cyrus Darling was not shot at all.”
“Not shot at all!” echoed Patsy incredulously.
“That is my opinion.”
“Gee! that beats me. Why was the revolver there, then? Why----”
“Stop a moment,” Nick interrupted. “You have just said, Patsy, that
crooks could not have forced Darling to feign despondency for eight
consecutive weeks. If so, then, his despondency must either have been
voluntarily feigned, or else it must have been genuine.”
“Sure thing, chief. That’s plain enough.”
“One fact, however, indicates that it was not genuine,” Nick proceeded.
“I refer to the fact that he recently spent many evenings in town, far
more than in the past. His wife thinks he sought diversion to relieve
his depression. He did not, however, permit her to accompany him. That’s
a very significant point.
“It is wholly inconsistent in a husband seeking such relief. He would
have wanted his wife with him to cheer him up and help divert his
mind--barring one contingency.”
“Namely, chief?”
“Another attraction.”
“Gee! there may be something in that,” said Patsy, quick to see the
point. “You mean another woman.”
“Exactly.”
“Kate Crandall.”
“Quite likely, Patsy, in view of what Danny discovered.”
“Gee whiz! things are shaping up,” said Patsy, laughing. “I begin to
think you are right, chief.”
“Let’s see, now, in how far this is confirmed by Darling’s conduct
during the past three months,” said Nick. “It was then that his wife
first noticed his reticence and lack of customary affection.”
“He must have been bestowing it upon the other.”
“Quite likely,” Nick dryly agreed. “Then came a long period of
increasing depression, relieved by frequent evenings in town, ostensibly
alone. Later he sold his business, also his bonds and securities.
Obviously, he wanted all of his funds in cash. Finally came the suicide,
the letter stating his intention, and the burning of the boathouse,
which nearly consumed the corpse and precluded absolute identification.”
“By Jove, Nick, you evidently think the whole business was faked,” said
Chick abruptly.
“That is precisely what I think.”
“And that Cyrus Darling is not dead?”
“Exactly.”
“But the body----”
“One obtained for a blind,” Nick interrupted. “Really, Chick, this
entire combination of circumstances admits of no other conclusion.
Darling’s conduct during the past three months, as I have just sized it
up: the selection of the boathouse for the supposed suicide, where the
arrangements for such a fraud could have been easily and secretly made,
as well as a quick and undetected get-away on the river after the trick
was turned; the setting fire to the building in order to cremate the
corpse and preclude identification except by means of articles placed on
it, the garments, ring, and even the false teeth of the supposed
victim--all point to one conclusion, Chick; that the job was a frame-up
from beginning to end.”
“By Jove, it’s a curious case, Nick, if you are right,” Chick answered.
“Not so very curious. It’s a case of a lost head.”
“A lost head?”
“Exactly. That of a man who has lost his head. It’s up to us to help him
find it and set it back on his shoulders--if not too late.”
“Lost his head for a woman? Is that what you mean?”
“Precisely.”
“But why do you think we may be too late?”
“Because, though a week has passed since the supposed suicide, the cat
has not jumped,” said Nick enigmatically.
“I don’t get you.”
“Nor I, chief,” put in Patsy. “What cat has not jumped?”
“The two-legged cat responsible for the whole business,” Nick explained.
“We can safely assume, the foregoing being correct, that Darling turned
his fortune into cash with a view to leaving the country with the woman;
that he aimed to create a belief that he is dead, presumably to prevent
investigations, pursuit, and a possible lawsuit, with consequent
alimony, and that he intended living abroad under a fictitious name with
the woman.”
“That now seems perfectly reasonable,” Chick agreed.
“The question is, then, assuming Kate Crandall to be the woman, why have
they not jumped the country?” Nick added. “Why the delay? Why is she
established in the Ashburton Chambers? Why the continued interest in the
Darling residence, as appears in what Danny saw and heard? That shows
plainly enough that she is the woman involved. It is confirmed by her
acquaintance with Ralph Sheldon, mentioned by Mrs. Darling as a friend
of her husband. His friendship may be of the left-handed kind.”
“Most likely, Nick.”
“All this, then, denotes that something has gone wrong. Why has Darling
not fled with the woman? Has he been given the double cross? He may have
been bunkoed out of his big bundle of cash and--well, there is no
telling what has become of him. It’s up to us to find out.”
“I get you now, Nick,” Chick nodded. “He may, after all, be the man
found dead in the boathouse.”
Nick quickly shook his head.
“I don’t think so,” said he. “If there were evidence showing positively
that he was shot, rather than the contrary, I might think the rascals
killed him. His going there voluntarily, however, his feigning
despondency for close upon two months, apparently paving the way to get
by with a fake suicide--all convinces me that he was not killed.”
“I see.”
“This is further confirmed by the removal of his photograph, which Mrs.
Darling thinks is the only one in existence.”
“What was his object in removing it?”
“To prevent broadcast publication of it in the newspapers, in case the
truth was suspected,” said Nick. “Verbal descriptions cut no great ice.
A picture, however, has brought many a knave to the ringbolt. He was
heading off that means of identification, exposure, and arrest.”
“Gee! that listens good to me, chief,” said Patsy. “Ten to one it hits
the nail on the head.”
“I feel reasonably sure of it.”
“But what are your plans?” Chick inquired. “If Darling is up against a
gang, as you suspect, and they discover that his wife has put us on the
case, it’s long odds that they will lose no time in bolting.”
“That’s the very point I was coming to,” Nick said, more forcibly. “They
must have discovered it. Danny’s report convinces me of that. Kate
Crandall knows it, also the unknown man who informed her. He must be
identified. We have Danny’s description of him, which will probably be
recognized by persons employed in the Ashburton Chambers, if he has been
in the habit of visiting Kate Crandall.”
“No doubt.”
“You tackle that part of the work, Chick, and we’ll get after these
suspects before they can make a successful get-away.”
“But Kate Crandall said she would be in her apartments all of this
evening, chief,” Patsy reminded him. “That don’t look much like
bolting.”
“That may have been only a blind,” Nick replied. “She may have feared
that she already was being watched, or that the clerk might be
questioned later. Be that as it may, we’ll lose no time in seeking
tangible proof of my suspicions. While Chick is hunting up the unknown
man, Patsy, you see what you can learn about Ralph Sheldon and Philip
Floyd.”
“I’ve got you, chief.”
“If the former visits Kate Crandall, as she directed, we may be lucky
enough to clinch the case and round up the entire gang this very
evening,” Nick added, rising abruptly. “I’ll tackle Kate Crandall
personally. I’ll find out in short order what she knows about Cyrus
Darling.”
“That’s the stuff, chief,” cried Patsy.
“We’ll be off at once. Danny is still waiting. We can make the Ashburton
Chambers in twenty minutes.”