BROTHER RALPH.
Clancy forced Senator Meiklejohn's hand early in the fray. He was at the
Senator's flat within an hour of the time Ronald Tower was dragged into
the Hudson, but a smooth-spoken English man-servant assured the
detective that his master was out, and not expected home until two or
three in the morning.
This arrangement obviously referred to the Van Hofen festivity, so
Clancy contented himself with asking the valet to give the Senator a
card on which he scribbled a telephone number and the words, "Please
ring up when you get this."
Now, he knew, and Senator Meiklejohn knew, the theater at which Mrs.
Tower was enjoying herself. He did not imagine for an instant that the
Senator was discharging the mournful duty of announcing to his friend's
wife the lamentable fate which had overtaken her husband. Merely as a
perfunctory duty he went to the theater and sought the manager.
"You know Mrs. Ronald Tower?" he said.
"Sure I do," said the official. "She's inside now. Came here with Bobby
Forrest."
"Anybody called for her recently?"
"I think not, but I'll soon find out."
No. Mrs. Tower's appreciation of Belasco's genius had not been disturbed
that evening.
"Anything wrong?" inquired the manager.
Clancy's answer was ready.
"If Senator Meiklejohn comes here within half an hour, see that the lady
is told at once," he said. "If he doesn't show up in that time, send for
Mr. Forrest, tell him that Mr. Tower has met with an accident, and leave
him to look after the lady."
"Wow! Is it serious? Why wait?"
"The slight delay won't matter, and the Senator can handle the situation
better than Forrest."
Clancy gave some telephonic instruction to the man on night duty at
headquarters. He even dictated a paragraph for the press. Then he went
straight to bed, for the hardiest detectives must sleep, and he had a
full day's work before him when next the sun rose over New York.
He summed up Meiklejohn's action correctly. The Senator did not
communicate with Mulberry Street during the night, so Clancy was an
early visitor at his apartment.
"The Senator is ill and can see no one," said the valet.
"No matter how ill he may be, he must see me," retorted Clancy.
"But he musn't be disturbed. I have my orders."
"Take a fresh set. He's going to be disturbed right now, by you or me.
Choose quick!"
The law prevailed. A few minutes later Senator Meiklejohn entered the
library sitting-room, where the little detective awaited him. He looked
wretchedly ill, but his sufferings were mental, not physical. Examined
critically now, in the cold light of day, he was a very different man
from the spruce, dandified politician and financier who figured so
prominently among Van Hofen's guests the previous evening. Yet Clancy
saw at a glance that the Senator was armed at all points. Diplomacy
would be useless. The situation demanded a bludgeon. He began the attack
at once.
"Why didn't you ring up Mulberry Street last night, Senator?" he said.
"I was too upset. My nerves were all in."
"You told the patrolman at Eighty-sixth Street that you were hurrying
away to break the news to Mrs. Tower, yet you did not go near her?"
Meiklejohn affected to consult Clancy's card to ascertain the
detective's name.
"Perhaps I had better get in touch with the Bureau now," he said, and a
flush of anger darkened his haggard face.
"No need. The Bureau is right here. Let us get down to brass tacks,
Senator. A woman named Rachel met you outside the Four Hundred Club at
eight o'clock as you were coming out. You had just spoken to Mrs. Tower,
when this woman told you that you must meet two men who would await you
at the Eighty-sixth landing-stage at nine. You were to bring five
hundred dollars. At nine o'clock these same men killed Mr. Tower, and
you yourself admitted to me that they mistook him for you. Now, will you
be good enough to fill in the blanks? Who is Rachel? Where does she
live? Who were the two men? Why should you give them five hundred
dollars, apparently as blackmail?"
Clancy was exceedingly disappointed by the result of this thunderbolt.
Any ordinary man would have shrivelled under its crushing impact. If
the police knew so much that might reasonably be regarded as secret,
of what avail was further concealment? Yet Senator Meiklejohn bore up
wonderfully. He showed surprise, as well he might, but was by no means
pulverized.
"All this is rather marvelous," he said slowly, after a long pause. He
had avoided Clancy's gaze after the first few words, and sank into an
armchair with an air of weariness that was not assumed.
"Simple enough," commented the detective readily. Above all else he
wanted Meiklejohn to talk. "I was on duty outside the club, and heard
almost every word that passed between you and Rachel."
"Well, well."
The Senator arose and pressed an electric bell.
"If you don't mind," he explained suavely, "I'll order some coffee and
rolls. Will you join me?"
This was the parry of a skilled duelist to divert an attack and gain
breathing-time. Clancy rather admired such adroitness.
"Sorry, I can't on principle," he countered.
"How--on principle?"
"You see, Senator, I may have to arrest you, and I never eat with any
man with whom I may clash professionally."
"You take risks, Mr. Clancy."
"I love 'em. I'd cut my job to-day if it wasn't for the occasional
excitement."
The valet appeared.
"Coffee and rolls for two, Phillips," said Meiklejohn. He turned to
Clancy. "Perhaps you would prefer toast and an egg?"
"I have breakfasted already, Senator," smiled the detective, "but I may
dally with the coffee."
When the door was closed on Phillips, his master glanced at a clock on
the mantelpiece. The hour was eight-fifteen. Some days elapsed before
Clancy interpreted that incident correctly.
"You rose early," said the Senator.
"Yes, but worms are coy this morning."
"Meaning that you still await answers to your questions. I'll deal with
you fully and frankly, but I'm curious to know on what conceivable
ground you could arrest me for the murder of my friend Ronald Tower."
"As an accessory before the act."
"But, consider. You have brains, Mr. Clancy. I am glad the Bureau sent
such a man. How can a bit of unthinking generosity on my part be
construed as participation in a crime?"
"If you explain matters, Senator, the absurdity of the notion may become
clear."
"Ah, that's better. Let me assure you that my coffee will not affect
your fine sensibilities. Miss Rachel Craik is a lady I have known nearly
all my life. I have assisted her, within my means. She resides in East
One Hundred and Twelfth Street, and the man about whom she was so
concerned last night is her brother. He committed some technical offense
years ago, and has always been a ne'er-do-well. To please his sister,
and for no other reason, I undertook to provide him with five hundred
dollars, and thus enable him to start life anew. I have never met the
man. I would not recognize him if I saw him. I believe he is a desperate
character; his maniacal behavior last night seems to leave no room for
doubt in that respect. Don't you see, Mr. Clancy, that it was I, and not
poor Tower, whom he meant attacking? But for idle chance, it is my
corpse, not Tower's, that would now be floating in the Hudson. You heard
what Tower said. I did not. I assume, however, that some allusion was
made to the money--which, by the way, is still in my pocketbook--and
Tower scoffed at the notion that he had come there to hand over five
hundred dollars. There you have the whole story, in so far as I can tell
it."
"For the present, Senator."
"How?"
"It should yield many more chapters. Is that all you're going to say?
For instance, did you call on Rachel Craik after leaving Eighty-sixth
Street?"
Meiklejohn's jaws closed like a steel trap. He almost lost his temper.
"No," he said, seemingly conquering the desire to blaze into anger at
this gadfly of a detective.
"Sure?"
"I said 'no.' That is not 'yes.' I was so overcome by Tower's miserable
fate that I dismissed my car and walked home. I could not face any one,
least of all Helen--Mrs. Tower."
"Or the Bureau?"
"Mr. Clancy, you annoy me."
Clancy stood up.
"I must duck your coffee, Senator," he said cheerfully. "Is Miss Craik
on the phone?"
"No. She is poor, and lives alone--or, to be correct, with a niece, I
believe."
"Well, think matters over. I'll see you again soon. Then you may be able
to tell me some more."
"I have told you everything."
"Perhaps _I_ may do the telling."
"Now, as to this poor woman, Miss Craik. You will not adopt harsh
measures, I trust?"
"We are never harsh, Senator. If she speaks the truth, and all the
truth, she need not fear."
In the hall Clancy met the valet, carrying a laden tray.
"Do you make good coffee, Phillips?" he inquired.
"I try to," smiled the other.
"Ah, that's modest--that's the way real genius speaks. Sorry I can't
sample your brew to-day. So few Englishmen know the first thing about
coffee."
"Nice, friendly little chap," was Phillips's opinion of the detective.
Senator Meiklejohn's description of the same person was widely
different. When Clancy went out, he, too, rose and stretched his stiff
limbs.
"I got rid of that little rat more easily than I expected," he
mused--that is to say, the Senator's thoughts may be estimated in some
such phrase. But he was grievously mistaken in his belief. Clancy was no
rat, but a most stubborn terrier when there were rats around.
While Meiklejohn was drinking his coffee the telephone rang. It was Mrs.
Tower. She was heartbroken, or professed to be, since no more selfish
woman existed in New York.
"Are you coming to see me?" she wailed.
"Yes, yes, later in the day. At present I dare not. I am too unhinged.
Oh, Helen, what a tragedy! Have you any news?"
"News! My God! What news can I hope for except that Ronald's poor,
maimed body has been found?"
"Helen, this is terrible. Bear up!"
"I'm doing my best. I can hardly believe that this thing has really
happened. Help me in one small way, Senator. Telephone Mr. Jacob and
explain why our luncheon is postponed."
"Yes, I'll do that."
Meiklejohn smiled grimly as he hung up the receiver. In the midst of
her tribulations Helen Tower had not forgotten Jacob and the little
business of the Costa Rica Cotton Concession! The luncheon was only
"postponed."
An inquiry came from a newspaper, whereupon he gave a curt order that no
more calls were to be made that day, as the apartment would be empty. He
dressed, and devoted himself forthwith to the task of overhauling
papers. He had a fire kindled in the library.
Hour after hour he worked, until the grate was littered with the ashes
of destroyed documents. Sending for newspapers, he read of Rachel
Craik's arrest. At last, when the light waned, he looked at his watch.
Should he not face his fellow-members at the Four Hundred Club? Would it
not betray weakness to shirk the ordeal of inquiry, of friendly scrutiny
and half-spoken wonder that he, the irreproachable, should be mixed up
in such a weird tragedy. Once he sought support from a decanter of
brandy.
"Confound it!" he muttered, "why am I so shaky. _I_ didn't murder Tower.
My whole life may be ruined by one false step!"
He was still pondering irresolutely a visit to the club when Phillips
came. The valet seemed flurried.
"There's a gentleman outside, sir, who insists on seeing you," he said
nervously. "He's a very violent gentleman, sir. He said if I didn't
announce him he----"
"What name?" interrupted Meiklejohn.
"Name of Voles, sir."
"Voles?"
"Yes, sir, but he says you'll recognize him better by the initials R. V.
V."
Men of Meiklejohn's physique--big, fleshy, with the stamp of success on
them--are rare subjects for nervous attacks. They seem to defy events
which will shock the color out of ordinary men's cheeks, yet Meiklejohn
felt that if he dared encounter the eyes of his discreet servant he
would do something outrageous--shriek, or jump, or tear his hair. He
bent over some papers on the table.
"Send Mr. Voles in," he murmured. "If any other person calls, say I'm
engaged."
The man who was ushered into the room was of a stature and demeanor
which might well have cowed the valet. Tall, strongly built, altogether
fitter and more muscular than the stalwart Senator, he carried with him
an impression of truculence, of a savage forcefulness, not often clothed
in the staid garments of city life. Were his skin bronze, were he decked
in the barbaric trappings of a Pawnee chief, his appearance would be
more in accord with the chill and repellant significance of his
personality. His square, hard features might have been chiseled out of
granite. A pair of singularly dark eyes blazed beneath heavy and
prominent eyebrows. A high forehead, a massive chin, and a well-shaped
nose lent a certain intellectuality to the face, but this attribute was
negatived by the coarse lines of a brutal mouth.
From any point of view the visitor must invite attention, while
compelling dislike--even fear. In a smaller frame, such qualities might
escape recognition, but this man's giant physique accentuated the evil
aspect of eyes and mouth. Hardly waiting till the door was closed, he
laughed sarcastically.
"You are well fixed here, brother o' mine," he said.
The man whom he addressed as "brother" leaned with his hands on the
table that separated them. His face was quite ghastly. All his
self-control seemed to have deserted him.
"You?" he gasped. "To come here! Are you mad?"
"Need you ask? It will not be the first time you have called me a
lunatic, nor will it be the last, I reckon."
"But the risk, the infernal risk! The police know of you. Rachel is
arrested. A detective was here a few hours ago. They are probably
watching outside."
"Bosh!" was the uncompromising answer. "I'm sick of being hunted. Just
for a change I turn hunter. Where's the mazuma you promised Rachel?"
Meiklejohn, using a hand like one in a palsy, produced a pocketbook and
took from it a bundle of notes.
"Here!" he quavered. "Now, for Heaven's sake----"
"Just the same old William," cried the stranger, seating himself
unceremoniously. "Always ready to do a steal, but terrified lest the law
should grab him. No, I'm not going. It will be good nerve tonic for you
to sit down and talk while you strain your ears to hear the tramp of
half a dozen cops in the hall. What a poor fish you are!" he continued,
voice and manner revealing a candid contempt, as Meiklejohn did indeed
start at the slamming of a door somewhere in the building. "Do you think
I'd risk my neck if I were likely to be pinched? Gad! I know my way
around too well for that."
"But you don't understand," whispered the other in mortal terror. "By
some means the detective bureau may know of your existence. Rachel
promised to be close-lipped, but--"
"Oh, take a bracer out of that decanter. At the present moment I am
registered in a big Fifth Avenue hotel, a swell joint which they
wouldn't suspect in twenty years."
"How can that be? Rachel said you were in desperate need."
"So I was until I went through that idiot's pockets. He had two hundred
dollars in bills and chicken-feed. I knew I'd get another wad from you
to-night."
"Why did you want to murder me, Ralph?"
"Murder! Oh, shucks! I didn't want to kill anybody. But I don't trust
you, William. I'm always expecting you to double-cross me. Last night it
was a lasso. To-night it is this." And he suddenly whipped out a
revolver.