A WASHINGTON MYSTERY.
"No," continued Nick, "I am ready to take a short rest. The
Leonard-Dashwood case is ended. The missing bank-notes are a small
matter. Some common thief, a river roustabout, may have robbed the
body."
"I don't think so. I have no reason for my belief, so I must have an
occult hunch, for I am eaten up with the idea that you are going to
hear something regarding those notes before you are many months older."
The telephone rang before Nick could reply to Chick's last remark. The
great detective placed the receiver at his ear.
"That you, Nick?"
"Yes, inspector."
"You're wanted in Washington. Come down to the office at once, if you
can, and I'll explain."
"All right, inspector. I'll be with you inside of half an hour."
Nick was as good as his word, and, after the usual friendly greetings,
the inspector began:
"Jackson Feversham, of Washington, is an old friend of mine, and
naturally he first puts himself in communication with me, although
he wants you. He wasn't certain that you were in the city, though he
might have easily ascertained whether or not you were by wiring your
residence. If you were not in town, Chick, Patsy, or Ten-Ichi would
have answered. But I see you are impatient. You want me to come to the
point. Here it is: A murder, which is shrouded in mystery, has been
committed in the national capital; the detectives there are at sea, and
the call is for Nick Carter, the man of no failures."
"The Playfair case, isn't it?"
"Yes, I suppose you read the newspaper account this morning. Then you
know as much about the affair as I do."
"Let me see if I can recite the facts as given in the press despatch,"
said Nick. "James Playfair, a retired merchant, widower, and childless,
was found dead last night beyond the Mt. Vernon Ferry, at the foot of
Seventh Street. He had been out for a moonlight excursion down the
river, but instead of returning to his home on Maryland Avenue, nearly
a mile beyond the capitol, he saw all his fellow excursionists depart
and then walked down by the river shore. The body was found near one
of the old, disused wharfs, now nothing but rows of unsightly piles.
The only evidence of violence were finger-marks about the throat. The
police theory is that he was choked to death. Motive, robbery; for
everything of value--purse, pocketbook, watch, and rings, etc.--was
stolen. No one was seen in his company after he left the Mt. Vernon
wharf. He had no known enemies, and he had lived an upright life."
"You have stated the case correctly, Nick," said the inspector. "Of
course, there may be facts, clues, suspicions, which the reporters were
unable to cover."
"I understand. Detectives are not in the habit of exposing their
hands at the beginning of an investigation. There is a time for broad
publicity as there is also a time for secrecy. What did your friend
Feversham say in addition to what you have told me?"
"Nothing. He wants you, and that means that the mystery is a deep one.
Playfair was Feversham's close friend. They were like brothers, and
Feversham will spend a fortune, if necessary, to bring the murderer to
justice. Can you start to-night?"
"Yes, and Chick and Patsy will go with me."
The next day Nick Carter and his two assistants were in Washington.
Apprised of their coming, Jackson Feversham was at the B. & O. depot
to meet them. Nick took to the man at once. He was past middle age,
small, wiry, alert, with good humor and keen intelligence written on a
thin, smoothly shaven face and sparkling from bright, black eyes. There
was a striking resemblance in face, figure, and expression to the late
Lawrence Barrett, the popular tragedian and man of letters.
Private quarters on E Street--the great detective was disposed to shun
the publicity of the hotels--were secured, and late in the afternoon,
when the conversation could be carried on with ease and freedom,
Feversham told his story.
"The newspapers have given nearly all the facts that are in possession
of the officers. I will now disclose to you what has not been
published and also give you my own ideas concerning the murder: James
Playfair had an appointment with me for eleven o'clock that fatal
night. We were to make the final arrangements for a fishing-trip to the
Chesapeake. The excursion boat was scheduled to return at ten o'clock,
for the river ride was to be a short one, having been gotten up for the
benefit of some foreign visitors. I saw him off on the boat, and his
last words were: 'I am going on this excursion as a matter of duty'--he
was a member of the committee which had arranged the affair--'and when
I return I shall hurry to your rooms.' These words, when taken in
connection with my intimate knowledge of his private affairs, carry
with them the conviction that he left the boat to keep an appointment."
"Then that appointment must have been made after you parted with him
and before the boat left the wharf," said Nick.
"I think so, otherwise his parting words to me would have been
different. He went off alone. Several persons saw him leave the wharf
to go down toward the river shore. The person with whom he had the
appointment, therefore, must have had powerful reasons of his own for
not accompanying him. The matter is very suspicious, very mysterious,
as you must perceive."
Nick nodded his head. Then he said: "Was Playfair a man of slight, or
powerful physique? In other words, would he have been able to have held
his own with a man of ordinary strength?"
"Yes. He was of abstemious habits, remarkably well preserved, and hardy
of constitution, and, in his prime, one of the best all-around athletes
in the city."
"Then the man who murdered him must have been of more than ordinary
muscular power. That is, if Playfair were strangled."
"How could he have met his death otherwise?" replied Feversham,
regarding the detective in surprise. "The finger-marks on the throat
determine the manner of death. The inquest is set for this evening. If
there is other evidence you will learn it then."
"Have you anything more to tell, Mr. Feversham? I have been informed
that Playfair had no enemies and that he led a very quiet life."
"That is true, Mr. Carter."
"Do you think he had anything on his mind lately?"
"No. He was as cheerful as usual when I last saw him alive. If he had
been oppressed by any worry I should have known it."
"How long had he been a widower?"
"Ten years."
"No children, I believe?"
"No children of his own. His wife had a son by a former husband."
Nick pricked up his ears. "Where is that son?" he asked quietly.
"I do not know. He was a wild sort of a chap and left home before
his mother's death. I know that he was a source of great annoyance
to Playfair, who spent many thousands of dollars in paying Arthur's
gambling debts."
"Did Playfair ever mention his stepson's name?"
"It never passed his lips. For twelve years--ever since the young man
left home--he was as dead to his stepfather."
"What is the fellow's full name?"
"Arthur Mannion; and if he is alive he should be about thirty years of
age."
As Nick had no more questions to ask, Jackson Feversham went on:
"Playfair was always considered an easy mark for both the society and
the professional beggar. He had a soft heart and could rarely resist an
appeal for money, no matter whether it came from a charity committee
from his own walk in life or from the dirtiest, most whisky-sodden
hobo that ever perambulated the streets. Therefore, my opinion is that
some crime-hardened grafter accosted him just as the boat was about
to leave. The fellow, of course, must have been well dressed, of fair
intelligence, and prepossessing appearance, who, after handing out
the opening chapter of hard luck and woe, proposed the appointment by
the river shore for the conclusion of the tale. Murder must have been
intended in the first place, and murder was done."
"Have any of the residents of the locality been interviewed?"
"I believe so."
"And no one was seen about the shore that night?"
"No. Even Playfair, as I have said, was not seen after he left the
wharf."
"This shows that the people thereabouts were not out of doors that
night. But, perhaps, the ground was not thoroughly gone over. Chick,
suppose you go down there at once and interview everybody--white,
black, child, and adult."
"All right, Nick," and Chick was off.
"And now," said Nick, "for the beginning of the work. I shall require
a list of the property stolen from the body. Have the officers been
furnished with this?"
"Yes."
"Then my first visit must be to headquarters. While I am away, Patsy,
you will mingle with the people and pick up crumbs, if there are any."
The secret service men, as well as the local police, of the capital had
taken hold of the case, and from the superintendent Nick obtained a
list of the valuables stolen, as far as the same could be ascertained.
He was also put into possession of an item which imbued with new and
strange interest the remarks made by Chick at the opening of this
chapter.
"About a hundred yards from the spot where the body was found," said
the superintendent, "a crumpled one-hundred-dollar bank-note was
picked up. It may have been the property of the dead man, or it may
have belonged to the murderer, who dropped it while replenishing his
pocketbook after the robbery."
Nick looked at the note. It was upon a Chicago bank, and the number
corresponded with a number on a list of bank-notes which he had carried
away from St. Louis. Every number on the list was burned into his
memory, for they were the notes stolen from the body of Cora Reesey.
It was plain, therefore, that if this bank-note which the detective
held in his hand was not filched from the pocket of James Playfair, but
had been stowed away in the pocket of the murderer, then the murderer
was the St. Louis robber.
And who was he?
Nick had the glimmer of an idea, but that was all.