Kennedy and I had risen early, for we were hustling to get off for a
week-end at Atlantic City. Kennedy was tugging at the straps of his grip
and remonstrating with it under his breath, when the door opened and a
messenger-boy stuck his head in.
“Does Mr. Kennedy live here?” he asked.
Craig impatiently seized the pencil, signed his name in the book, and
tore open a night letter. From the prolonged silence that followed I
felt a sense of misgiving. I, at least, had set my heart on the Atlantic
City outing, but with the appearance of the messenger-boy I intuitively
felt that the board walk would not see us that week.
“I'm afraid the Atlantic City trip is off, Walter,” remarked Craig
seriously. “You remember Tom Langley in our class at the university?
Well, read that.”
I laid down my safety razor and took the message. Tom had not spared
words, and I could see at a glance at the mere length of the thing that
it must be important. It was from Camp Hang-out in the Adirondacks.
“Dear old K.,” it began, regardless of expense, “can you arrange to come
up here by next train after you receive this? Uncle Lewis is dead. Most
mysterious. Last night after we retired noticed peculiar odour about
house. Didn't pay much attention. This morning found him lying on floor
of living-room, head and chest literally burned to ashes, but lower part
of body and arms untouched. Room shows no evidence of fire, but full of
sort of oily soot. Otherwise nothing unusual. On table near body siphon
of seltzer, bottle of imported limes, and glass for rickeys. Have
removed body, but am keeping room exactly as found until you arrive.
Bring Jameson. Wire if you cannot come, but make every effort and spare
no expense. Anxiously, Tom Langley.”
Craig was impatiently looking at his watch as I hastily ran through the
letter.
“Hurry, Walter,” he exclaimed. “We can just catch the Empire State.
Never mind shaving--we'll have a stopover at Utica to wait for the
Montreal express. Here, put the rest of your things in your grip and
jam it shut. We'll get something to eat on the train--I hope. I'll wire
we're coming. Don't forget to latch the door.”
Kennedy was already half-way to the elevator, and I followed ruefully,
still thinking of the ocean and the piers, the bands and the roller
chairs.
It was a good ten-hour journey up to the little station nearest Camp
Hang-out and at least a two hour ride after that. We had plenty of time
to reflect over what this death might mean to Tom and his sister and to
speculate on the manner of it. Tom and Grace Langley were relatives by
marriage of Lewis Langley, who, after the death of his wife, had made
them his proteges. Lewis Langley was principally noted, as far as I
could recall, for being a member of some of the fastest clubs of both
New York and London. Neither Kennedy nor myself had shared in the
world's opinion of him, for we knew how good he had been to Tom in
college and, from Tom, how good he had been to Grace. In fact, he had
made Tom assume the Langley name, and in every way had treated the
brother and sister as if they had been his own children.
Tom met us with a smart trap at the station, a sufficient indication,
if we had not already known, of the “roughing it” at such a luxurious
Adirondack “camp” as Camp Hang-out. He was unaffectedly glad to see us,
and it was not difficult to read in his face the worry which the affair
had already given him.
“Tom; I'm awfully sorry to--” began Craig when, warned by Langley's
look at the curious crowd that always gathers at the railroad station
at train time, he cut it short. We stood silently a moment while Tom was
arranging the trap for us.
As we swung around the bend in the road that cut off the little station
and its crowd of lookers-on, Kennedy was the first to speak. “Tom,” he
said, “first of all, let me ask that when we get to the camp we are
to be simply two old classmates whom you had asked to spend a few days
before the tragedy occurred. Anything will do. There may be nothing at
all to your evident suspicions, and then again there may. At any
rate, play the game safely--don't arouse any feeling which might cause
unpleasantness later in case you are mistaken.”
“I quite agree with you,” answered Tom. “You wired, from Albany, I
think, to keep the facts out of the papers as much as possible. I'm
afraid it is too late for that. Of course the thing became vaguely known
in Saranac, although the county officers have been very considerate of
us, and this morning a New York Record correspondent was over and talked
with us. I couldn't refuse, that would have put a very bad face on it.”
“Too bad,” I exclaimed. “I had hoped, at least, to be able to keep the
report down to a few lines in the Star. But the Record will have such
a yellow story about it that I'll simply have to do something to
counteract the effect.”
“Yes,” assented Craig. “But--wait. Let's see the Record story first. The
office doesn't know you're up here. You can hold up the Star and give
us time to look things over, perhaps get in a beat on the real story and
set things right. Anyhow, the news is out. That's certain. We must work
quickly. Tell me, Tom, who are at the camp--anyone except relatives?”
“No,” he replied, guardedly measuring his words. “Uncle Lewis had
invited his brother James and his niece and nephew, Isabelle and James,
junior--we call him Junior. Then there are Grace and myself and
a distant relative, Harrington Brown, and--oh, of course, uncle's
physician, Doctor Putnam.”
“Who is Harrington Brown” asked Craig.
“He's on the other side of the Langley family, on Uncle Lewis's mother's
side. I think, or at least Grace thinks, that he is quite in love with
Isabelle. Harrington Brown would be quite a catch. Of course he isn't
wealthy, but his family is mighty well connected. Oh, Craig,” sighed
Langley, “I wish he hadn't done it--Uncle Lewis, I mean. Why did he
invite his brother up here now when he needed to recover from the swift
pace of last winter in New York? You know--or you don't know, I suppose,
but you'll know it now--when he and Uncle Jim got together there was
nothing to it but one drink after another. Doctor Putnam was quite
disgusted, at least he professed to be, but, Craig,” he lowered his
voice to a whisper, as if the very forest had ears, “they're all
alike--they've been just waiting for Uncle Lewis to drink himself to
death. Oh,” he added bitterly, “there's no love lost between me and the
relatives on that score, I can assure you.”
“How did you find him that morning?” asked Kennedy, as if to turn off
this unlocking of family secrets to strangers.
“That's the worst part of the whole affair,” replied Tom, and even in
the dusk I could see the lines of his face tighten. “You know Uncle
Lewis was a hard drinker, but he never seemed to show it much. We
had been out on the lake in the motor-boat fishing all the afternoon
and--well, I must admit both my uncles had had frequent recourse to
'pocket pistols,' and I remember they referred to it each time as
'bait.' Then after supper nothing would do but fizzes and rickeys. I was
disgusted, and after reading a bit went to bed. Harrington and my uncles
sat up with Doctor Putnam--according to Uncle Jim--for a couple of
hours longer. Then Harrington, Doctor Putnam, and Uncle Jim went to bed,
leaving Uncle Lewis still drinking. I remember waking in the night, and
the house seemed saturated with a peculiar odour. I never smelt anything
like it in my life. So I got up and slipped into my bathrobe. I met
Grace in the hall. She was sniffing.
“'Don't you smell something burning?' she asked.
“I said I did and started down-stairs to investigate. Everything was
dark, but that smell was all over the house. I looked in each
room down-stairs as I went, but could see nothing. The kitchen and
dining-room were all right. I glanced into the living-room, but, while
the smell was more noticeable there, I could see no evidence of a fire
except the dying embers on the hearth. It had been coolish that night,
and we had had a few logs blazing. I didn't examine the room--there
seemed no reason for it. We went back to our rooms, and in the morning
they found the gruesome object I had missed in the darkness and shadows
of the living-room.”
Kennedy was intently listening. “Who found him?” he asked.
“Harrington,” replied Tom. “He roused us. Harrington's theory is that
uncle set himself on fire with a spark from his cigar--a charred cigar
butt was found on the floor.”
We found Tom's relatives a saddened, silent party in the face of the
tragedy. Kennedy and I apologised very profusely for our intrusion, but
Tom quickly interrupted, as we had agreed, by explaining that he had
insisted on our coming, as old friends on whom he felt he could rely,
especially to set the matter right in the newspapers.
I think Craig noticed keenly the reticence of the family group in the
mystery--I might almost have called it suspicion. They did not seem to
know just whether to take it as an accident or as something worse,
and each seemed to entertain a reserve toward the rest which was very
uncomfortable.
Mr. Langley's attorney in New York had been notified, but apparently was
out of town, for he had not been heard from. They seemed rather anxious
to get word from him.
Dinner over, the family group separated, leaving Tom an opportunity to
take us into the gruesome living-room. Of course the remains had
been removed, but otherwise the room was exactly as it had been when
Harrington discovered the tragedy. I did not see the body, which was
lying in an anteroom, but Kennedy did, and spent some time in there.
After he rejoined us, Kennedy next examined the fireplace. It was full
of ashes from the logs which had been lighted on the fatal night.
He noted attentively the distance of Lewis Langley's chair from the
fireplace, and remarked that the varnish on the chair was not even
blistered.
Before the chair, on the floor where the body had been found, he pointed
out to us the peculiar ash-marks for some space around, but it really
seemed to me as if something else interested him more than these
ash-marks.
We had been engaged perhaps half an hour in viewing the room. At last
Craig suddenly stopped.
“Tom,” he said, “I think I'll wait till daylight before I go any
further. I can't tell with certainty under these lights, though perhaps
they show me some things the sunlight wouldn't show. We'd better leave
everything just as it is until morning.”
So we locked the room again and went into a sort of library across the
hall.
We were sitting in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts on the
mystery, when the telephone rang. It proved to be a long-distance call
from New York for Tom himself. His uncle's attorney had received the
news at his home out on Long Island and had hurried to the city to take
charge of the estate. But that was not the news that caused the grave
look on Tom's face as he nervously rejoined us.
“That was uncle's lawyer, Mr. Clark, of Clark & Burdick,” he said.
“He has opened uncle's personal safe in the offices of the Langley
estate--you remember them, Craig--where all the property of the Langley
heirs is administered by the trustees. He says he can't find the will,
though he knows there was a will and that it was placed in that safe
some time ago. There is no duplicate.”
The full purport of this information at once flashed on me, and I was
on the point of blurting out my sympathy, when I saw by the look which
Craig and Tom exchanged that they had already realised it and understood
each other. Without the will the blood-relatives would inherit all of
Lewis Langley's interest in the old Langley estate. Tom and his sister
would be penniless.
It was late, yet we sat for nearly an hour longer, and I don't think we
exchanged a half-dozen sentences in all that time. Craig seemed absorbed
in thought. At length, as the great hall-clock sounded midnight, we rose
as if by common consent.
“Tom,” said Craig, and I could feel the sympathy that welled up in his
voice, “Tom, old man, I'll get at the bottom of this mystery if human
intelligence can do it.”
“I know you will, Craig,” responded Tom, grasping each of us by the
hand. “That's why I so much wanted you fellows to come up here.”
Early in the morning Kennedy aroused me. “Now, Walter, I'm going to ask
you to come down into the living-room with me, and we'll take a look at
it in the daytime.”
I hurried into my clothes, and together we quietly went down. Starting
with the exact spot where the unfortunate man had been discovered,
Kennedy began a minute examination of the floor, using his pocket lens.
Every few moments he would stop to examine a spot on the rug or on
the hardwood floor more intently. Several times I saw him scrape
up something with the blade of his knife and carefully preserve the
scrapings, each in a separate piece of paper.
Sitting idly by, I could not for the life of me see just what good it
did for me to be there, and I said as much. Kennedy laughed quietly.
“You're a material witness, Walter,” he replied. “Perhaps I shall need
you some day to testify that I actually found these spots in this room.”
Just then Tom stuck his head in. “Can I help?” he asked. “Why didn't you
tell me you were going at it so early?”
“No, thanks,” answered Craig, rising from the floor. “I was just making
a careful examination of the room before anyone was up so that nobody
would think I was too interested. I've finished. But you can help me,
after all. Do you think you could describe exactly how everyone was
dressed that night?”
“Why, I can try. Let me see. To begin with, uncle had on a
shooting-jacket--that was pretty well burnt, as you know. Why, in fact,
we all had our shooting-jackets on. The ladies were in white.”
Craig pondered a little, but did not seem disposed to pursue the subject
further, until Tom volunteered the information that since the tragedy
none of them had been wearing their shooting jackets.
“We've all been wearing city clothes,” he remarked.
“Could you get your Uncle James and your Cousin Junior to go with
you for an hour or two this morning on the lake, or on a tramp in the
woods?” asked Craig after a moment's thought.
“Really, Craig,” responded Tom doubtfully, “I ought to go to Saranac to
complete the arrangements for taking Uncle Lewis's body to New York.”
“Very well, persuade them to go with you. Anything, so long as you keep
me from interruption for an hour or two.”
They agreed on doing that, and as by that time most of the family were
up, we went in to breakfast, another silent and suspicious meal.
After breakfast Kennedy tactfully withdrew from the family, and I did
the same. We wandered off in the direction of the stables and there fell
to admiring some of the horses. The groom, who seemed to be a sensible
and pleasant sort of fellow, was quite ready to talk, and soon he and
Craig were deep in discussing the game of the north country.
“Many rabbits about here?” asked Kennedy at length, when they had
exhausted the larger game.
“Oh, yes. I saw one this morning, sir,” replied the groom.
“Indeed?” said Kennedy. “Do you suppose you could catch a couple for
me?”
“Guess I could, sir--alive, you mean?”
“Oh, yes, alive--I don't want you to violate the game laws. This is the
closed season, isn't it?”
“Yes, sir, but then it's all right, sir, here on the estate.”
“Bring them to me this afternoon, or--no, keep them here in the stable
in a cage and let me know when you have them. If anybody asks you about
them, say they belong to Mr. Tom.”
Craig handed a small treasury note to the groom, who took it with a grin
and touched his hat.
“Thanks,” he said. “I'll let you know when I have the bunnies.”
As we walked slowly back from the stables we caught sight of Tom down
at the boat-house just putting off in the motor-boat with his uncle and
cousin. Craig waved to him, and he walked up to meet us.
“While you're in Saranac,” said Craig, “buy me a dozen or so test-tubes.
Only, don't let anyone here at the house know you are buying them. They
might ask questions.”
While they were gone Kennedy stole into James Langley's room and after
a few minutes returned to our room with the hunting-jacket. He carefully
examined it with his pocket lens. Then he filled a drinking-glass with
warm boiled water and added a few pinches of table salt. With a piece
of sterilised gauze from Doctor Putnam's medicine-chest, he carefully
washed off a few portions of the coat and set the glass and the gauze
soaking in it aside. Then he returned the coat to the closet where
he had found it. Next, as silently, he stole into Junior's room and
repeated the process with his hunting-jacket, using another glass and
piece of gauze.
“While I am out of the room, Walter,” he said, “I want you to take these
two glasses, cover them, and number them and on a slip of paper which
you must retain, place the names of the owners of the respective coats.
I don't like this part of it--I hate to play spy and would much rather
come out in the open, but there is nothing else to do, and it is much
better for all concerned that I should play the game secretly just
now. There may be no cause for suspicion at all. In that case I'd never
forgive myself for starting a family row. And then again but we shall
see.”
After I had numbered and recorded the glasses Kennedy returned, and we
went down-stairs again.
“Curious about the will, isn't it?” I remarked as we stood on the wide
verandah a moment.
“Yes,” he replied. “It may be necessary to go back to New York to delve
into that part of it before we get through, but I hope not. We'll wait.”
At this point the groom interrupted us to say that he had caught the
rabbits. Kennedy at once hurried to the stable. There he rolled up his
sleeves, pricked a vein in his arm, and injected a small quantity of his
own blood into one of the rabbits. The other he did not touch.
It was late in the afternoon when Tom returned from town with his uncle
and cousin. He seemed even more agitated than usual. Without a word he
hurried up from the landing and sought us out.
“What do you think of that?” he cried, opening a copy of the Record, and
laying it flat on the library table.
There on the front page was Lewis Langley's picture with a huge
scare-head: