MR. LARCHER INQUIRES
Larcher and the landlady stood gazing at each other in silence. Larcher
spoke first.
“He's always prompt to the minute. He may be coming now.”
The young man went out to the stoop and looked up and down the street.
But no familiar figure was in sight. He turned back to the landlady.
“Perhaps he left a note for me on the table,” said Larcher. “I have the
freedom of his room, you know.”
“Go up and see, then. I'll go with you.”
The landlady, in climbing the stairs, used a haste very creditable in a
person of her amplitude. Davenport's room appeared the same as ever.
None of his belongings that were usually visible had been packed away or
covered up. Books and manuscript lay on his table. But there was nothing
addressed to Larcher or anybody else.
“It certainly looks as if he'd meant to come back soon,” remarked the
landlady.
“It certainly does.” Larcher's puzzled eyes alighted on the table drawer.
He gave an inward start, reminded of the money in Davenport's possession
at their last meeting. Davenport had surely taken that money with him on
leaving the house the next morning. Larcher opened his lips, but
something checked him. He had come by the knowledge of that money in a
way that seemed to warrant his ignoring it. Davenport had manifestly
wished to keep it a secret. It was not yet time to tell everything.
“Of course,” said Larcher, “he might have met with an accident.”
“I've looked through the newspapers yesterday, and to-day, but there's
nothing about him, or anybody like him. There was an unknown man knocked
down by a street-car, but he was middle-aged, and had a black mustache.”
“And you're positively sure Mr. Davenport would have let you know if he'd
meant to stay away so long?”
“Yes, sir, I am. Especially that morning he'd have spoke of it, for he
met me in the hall and paid me the next four weeks' room rent in
advance.”
“But that very fact looks as if he thought he mightn't see you for some
time.”
“No, because he's often done that. He'll come and say, 'I've got a little
money ahead, Mrs. Haze, and I might as well make sure of a roof over me
for another month.' He knew I gener'ly--had use for money whenever it
happened along. He was a kind-hearted--I mean he _is_ a kind-hearted man.
Hear me speakin' of him as if--What's that?”
It was a man's step on the stairs. With a sudden gladness, Larcher turned
to the door of the room. The two waited, with smiles ready. The step came
almost to the threshold, receded along the passage, and mounted the
flight above.
“It's Mr. Wigfall; he rooms higher up,” said Mrs. Haze, in a dejected
whisper.
The young man's heart sank; for some reason, at this disappointment, the
hope of Davenport's return fled, the possibility of his disappearance
became certainty. The dying footsteps left Larcher with a sense of chill
and desertion; and he could see this feeling reflected in the face of
the landlady.
“Do you think the matter had better be reported to the police?” said
she, still in a lowered voice.
“I don't think so just yet. I can't say whether they'd send out a general
alarm on my report. The request must come from a near relation, I
believe. There have been hoaxes played, you know, and people frightened
without sufficient cause.”
“I never heard that Mr. Davenport had any relations. I guess they'd send
out an alarm on my statement. A hard-workin' landlady ain't goin' to make
a fuss and get her house into the papers just for fun.”
“That's true. I'm sure they'd take your report seriously. But we'd better
wait a little while yet. I'll stay here an hour or two, and then, if he
hasn't appeared, I'll begin a quiet search myself. Use your own judgment,
though; it's for you to see the police if you like. Only remember, if a
fuss is made, and Mr. Davenport turns up all right with his own reasons
for this, how we shall all feel.”
“He'd be annoyed, I guess. Well, I'll wait till you say. You're the only
friend that calls here regular to see him. Of course I know how a good
many single men are,--that lives in rooms. They'll stay away for days at
a time, and never notify anybody, and nobody thinks anything about it.
But Mr. Davenport, as I told you, isn't like that. I'll wait, anyhow,
till you think it's time. But you'll keep coming here, of course?”
“Yes, indeed, several times a day. He might turn up at any moment. I'll
give him an hour and a half to keep this one o'clock engagement. Then,
if he's still missing, I'll go to a place where there's a bare chance
he might be. I've only just now thought of it.”
The place he had thought of was the room of old Mr. Bud. Davenport had
spoken of going there often to sketch. Such a queer, snug old place might
have an attraction of its own for the man. There was, indeed, a chance--a
bare chance--of his having, upon a whim, prolonged a stay in that place
or its neighborhood. Or, at least, Mr. Bud might have later news of him
than Mrs. Haze had.
That good woman went back to her work, and Larcher waited alone in the
very chair where Davenport had sat at their last meeting. He recalled
Davenport's odd look at parting, and wondered if it had meant anything
in connection with this strange absence. And the money? The doubt and
the solitude weighed heavily on Larcher's mind. And what should he say
to the girls when he met them at tea?
At two o'clock his impatience got the better of him. He went
down-stairs, and after a few words with Mrs. Haze, to whom he promised
to return about four, he hastened away. He was no sooner seated in an
elevated car, and out of sight of the lodging-house, than he began to
imagine his friend had by that time arrived home. This feeling remained
with him all the way down-town. When he left the train, he hurried to the
house on the water-front. He dashed up the narrow stairs, and knocked at
Mr. Bud's door. No answer coming, he knocked louder. It was so silent in
the ill-lighted passage where he stood, that he fancied he could hear the
thump of his heart. At last he tried the door; it was locked.
“Evidently nobody at home,” said Larcher, and made his way down-stairs
again. He went into the saloon, where he found the same barkeeper he had
seen on his first visit to the place.
“I thought I might find a friend of mine here,” he said, after ordering a
drink. “Perhaps you remember--we were here together five or six weeks
ago.”
“I remember all right enough,” said the bar-keeper. “He ain't here now.”
“He's been here lately, though, hasn't he?”
“Depends on what yuh call lately. He was in here the other day with old
man Bud.”
“What day was that?”
“Let's see, I guess it was--naw, it was Monday, because it was the day
before Mr. Bud went back to his chickens. He went home Toosdy, Bud did.”
It was on Tuesday night that Larcher had last beheld Davenport. “And so
you haven't seen my friend since Monday?” he asked, insistently.
“That's what I said.”
“And you're sure Mr. Bud hasn't been here since Tuesday?”
“That's what I said.”
“When is Mr. Bud coming back, do you know?”
“You can search _me,_” was the barkeeper's subtle way of disavowing all
knowledge of Mr. Bud's future intentions.
Back to the elevated railway, and so up-town, sped Larcher. The feeling
that his friend must be now at home continued strong within him until he
was again upon the steps of the lodging-house. Then it weakened somewhat.
It died altogether at sight of the questioning eyes of the negro. The
telegram was still on the hat-stand.
“Any news?” asked the landlady, appearing from the rear.
“No. I was hoping you might have some.”
After saying he would return in the evening, he rushed off to keep his
engagement for tea. He was late in arriving at the flat.
“Here he is!” cried Edna, eagerly. Her eyes sparkled; she was in high
spirits. Florence, too, was smiling. The girls seemed to have been in
great merriment, and in possession of some cause of felicitation as yet
unknown to Larcher. He stood hesitating.
“Well? Well? Well?” said Edna. “How did he take it? Speak. Tell us your
good news, and then we'll tell you ours.” Florence only watched his face,
but there was a more poignant inquiry in her silence than in her friend's
noise.
“Well, the fact is,” began Larcher, embarrassed, “I can't tell you any
good news just yet. Davenport couldn't keep his engagement with me
to-day, and I haven't been able to see him.”
“Not able to see him?” Edna exclaimed, hotly. “Why didn't you go and
find him? As if anything could be more important! That's the way with
men--always afraid of intruding. Such a disappointment! Oh, what an
unreliable, helpless, futile creature you are, Tom!”
Stung to self-defence, the helpless, futile creature replied:
“I wasn't at all afraid of intruding. I did go trying to find him; I've
spent the afternoon doing that.”
“A woman would have managed to find out where he was,” retorted Edna.
“His landlady's a woman,” rejoined Larcher, doggedly, “and she hasn't
managed to find out.”
“Has she been trying to?”
“Well--no,” stammered Larcher, repenting.
“Yes, she has!” said Edna, with a changed manner. “But what for? Why is
she concerned? There's something behind this, Tom--I can tell by your
looks. Speak out, for heaven's sake! What's wrong?”
A glance at Florence Kenby's pale face did not make Larcher's task easier
or pleasanter.
“I don't think there's anything seriously wrong. Davenport has been away
from home for a day or two without saying anything about it to his
landlady, as he usually does in such cases. That's all.”
“And didn't he send you word about breaking the engagement with you?”
persisted Edna.
“No. I suppose it slipped his mind.”
“And neither you nor the landlady has any idea where he is?”
“Not when I saw her last--about half an hour ago.”
“Well!” ejaculated Edna. “That _is_ a mysterious disappearance!”
The landlady had used the same expression. Such was Larcher's mental
observation in the moment's silence that followed,--a silence broken by
a low cry from Florence Kenby.
“Oh, if anything has happened to him!”
The intensity of feeling in her voice and look was something for which
Larcher had not been prepared. It struck him to the heart, and for a time
he was without speech for a reassuring word. Edna, though manifestly awed
by this first full revelation of her friend's concern for Davenport,
undertook promptly the office of banishing the alarm she had helped to
raise.
“Oh, don't be frightened, dear. There's nothing serious, after all. Men
often go where business calls them, without accounting to anybody. He's
quite able to take care of himself. I'm sure it isn't as bad as Tom
says.”
“As I say!” exclaimed Larcher. “_I_ don't say it's bad at all. It's your
own imagination, Edna,--your sudden and sensational imagination. There's
no occasion for alarm, Miss Kenby. Men often, as Edna says--”
“But I must make sure,” interrupted Florence. “If anything _is_ wrong,
we're losing time. He must be sought for--the police must be notified.”
“His landlady--a very good woman, her name is Mrs. Haze--spoke of that,
and she's the proper one to do it. But we decided, she and I, to wait
awhile longer. You see, if the police took up the matter, and it got
noised about, and Davenport reappeared in the natural order of
things--as of course he will--why, how foolish we should all feel!”
“What do feelings of that sort matter, when deeper ones are concerned?”
“Nothing at all; but I'm thinking of Davenport's feelings. You know how
he would hate that sort of publicity.”
“That must be risked. It's a small thing compared with his safety. Oh, if
you knew my anxiety!”
“I understand, Miss Kenby. I'll have Mrs. Haze go to police headquarters
at once. I'll go with her. And then, if there's still no news, I'll go
around to the--to other places where people inquire in such cases.”
“And you'll let me know immediately--as soon as you find out anything?”
“Immediately. I'll telegraph. Where to? Your Fifth Avenue address?”
“Stay here to-night, Florence,” put in Edna. “It will be all right,
_now_.”
“Very well. Thank you, dear. Then you can telegraph here, Mr. Larcher.”
Her instant compliance with Edna's suggestion puzzled Larcher a little.
“She's had an understanding with her father,” said Edna, having noted
his look. “She's a bit more her own mistress to-day than she was
yesterday.”
“Yes,” said Florence, “I--I had a talk with him--I spoke to him about
those letters, and he finally--explained the matter. We settled many
things. He released me from the promise we were talking about yesterday.”
“Good! That's excellent news!”
“It's the news we had ready for you when you brought us such a
disappointment,” bemoaned Edna.
“It's news that will change the world for Davenport,” replied Larcher.
“I _must_ find him now. If he only knew what was waiting for him, he
wouldn't be long missing.”
“It would be too cruel if any harm befell him”--Florence's voice quivered
as she spoke--“at this time, of all times. It would be the crowning
misfortune.”
“I don't think destiny means to play any such vile trick, Miss Kenby.”
“I don't see how Heaven could allow it,” said Florence, earnestly.
“Well, he's simply _got_ to be found. So I'm off to Mrs. Haze. I can
go tea-less this time, thank you. Is there anything I can do for you
on the way?”
“I'll have to send father a message about my staying here. If you would
stop at a telegraph-office--”
“Oh, that's all right,” broke in Edna. “There's a call-box down-stairs.
I'll have the hall-boy attend to it. You mustn't lose a minute, Tom.”
Miss Hill sped him on his way by going with him to the elevator. While
they waited for that, she asked, cautiously:
“Is there anything about this affair that you were afraid to say before
Florence?”
A thought of the twenty thousand dollars came into his head; but again
he felt that the circumstance of the money was his friend's secret, and
should be treated by him--for the present, at least--as non-existent.
“No,” he replied. “I wouldn't call it a disappearance, if I were you. So
far, it's just a non-appearance. We shall soon be laughing at ourselves,
probably, for having been at all worked up over it.--She's a lovely girl,
isn't she? I'm half in love with her myself.”
“She's proof against your charms,” said Edna, coolly.
“I know it. What a lot she must think of him! The possibility of harm
brings out her feelings, I suppose. I wonder if you'd show such concern
if _I_ were missing?”
“I give it up. Here's the elevator. Good-by! And don't keep us in
suspense. You're a dear boy! _Au revoir!_”
With the hope of Edna's approval to spur him, besides the more unselfish
motives he already possessed, Larcher made haste upon the business. This
time he tried to conquer the expectation of finding Davenport at home;
yet it would struggle up as he approached the house of Mrs. Haze. The
same deadening disappointment met him as before, however; and was
mirrored in the landlady's face when she saw by his that he brought no
news.
Mrs. Haze had come up from preparations for dinner. Hers was a house in
which, the choice being “optional,” sundry of the lodgers took their
rooms “with board.” Important as was her occupation, at the moment, of
“helping out” the cook by inducing a mass of stale bread to fancy itself
disguised as a pudding, she flung that occupation aside at once, and
threw on her things to accompany Larcher to police headquarters. There
she told all that was necessary, to an official at a desk,--a big,
comfortable man with a plenitude of neck and mustache. This gentleman,
after briefly questioning her and Larcher, and taking a few illegible
notes, and setting a subordinate to looking through the latest entries
in a large record, dismissed the subject by saying that whatever was
proper to be done _would_ be done. He had a blandly incredulous way with
him, as if he doubted, not only that Murray Davenport was missing, but
that any such person as Murray Davenport existed to _be_ missing; as if
he merely indulged his visitors in their delusion out of politeness; as
if in any case the matter was of no earthly consequence. The subordinate
reported that nothing in the record for the past two days showed any
such man, or the body of any such man, to have come under the all-seeing
eye of the police. Nevertheless, Mrs. Haze wanted the assurance that an
investigation should be started forthwith. The big man reminded her that
no dead body had been found, and repeated that all proper steps would be
taken. With this grain of comfort as her sole satisfaction, she returned
to her bread pudding, for which her boarders were by that time waiting.
When the big man had asked the question whether Davenport was accustomed
to carry much money about with him, or was known to have had any
considerable sum on his person when last seen, Larcher had silently
allowed Mrs. Haze to answer. “Not as far as I know; I shouldn't think
so,” she had said. He felt that, as Davenport's absence was still so
short, and might soon be ended and accounted for, the situation did not
yet warrant the disclosure of a fact which Davenport himself had wished
to keep private. He perceived the two opposite inferences which might be
made from that fact, and he knew that the police would probably jump at
the inference unfavorable to his friend. For the present, he would guard
his friend from that.
Larcher's work on the case had just begun. For what was to come he
required the fortification of dinner. Mrs. Haze had invited him to dine
at her board, but he chose to lose that golden opportunity, and to eat
at one of those clean little places which for cheapness and good cooking
together are not to be matched, or half-matched, in any other city in
the world. He soon blessed himself for having done so; he had scarcely
given his order when in sauntered Barry Tompkins.
“Stop right here,” cried Larcher, grasping the spectacled lawyer and
pulling him into a seat. “You are commandeered.”
“What for?” asked Tompkins, with his expansive smile.
“Dinner first, and then--”
“All right. Do you give me _carte blanche_ with the bill of fare? May I
roam over it at my own sweet will? Is there no limit?”
“None, except a time limit. I want you to steer me around the hospitals,
station-houses, morgue, _et cetera_. There's a man missing. You've made
those rounds before.”
“Yes, twice. When poor Bill Southford jumped from the ferry-boat; and
again when a country cousin of mine had knockout drops administered to
him in a Bowery dance-hall. It's a dismal quest.”
“I know it, but if you have nothing else on your hands this evening--”
“Oh, I'll pilot you. We never know when we're likely to have
search-parties out after ourselves, in this abounding metropolis. Who's
the latest victim of the strenuous life?”
“Murray Davenport!”
“What! is he occurring again?”
Larcher imparted what it was needful that Tompkins should know. The two
made an expeditious dinner, and started on their long and fatiguing
inquiry. It was, as Tompkins had said, a dismal quest. Those who have
ever made this cheerless tour will not desire to be reminded of the
experience, and those who have not would derive more pain than pleasure
from a recital of it. The long distances from point to point, the
rebuffs from petty officials, the difficulty in wringing harmless
information from fools clad in a little brief authority, the mingled
hope and dread of coming upon the object of the search at the next place,
the recurring feeling that the whole fatiguing pursuit is a wild goose
chase and that the missing person is now safe at home, are a few features
of the disheartening business. The labors of Larcher and Tompkins
elicited nothing; lightened though they were by the impecunious lawyer's
tact, knowledge, and good humor, they left the young men dispirited and
dead tired. Larcher had nothing to telegraph Miss Kenby. He thought of
her passing a sleepless night, waiting for news, the dupe and victim of
every sound that might herald a messenger. He slept ill himself, the
short time he had left for sleep. In the morning he made a swift
breakfast, and was off to Mrs. Haze's. Davenport's room was still
untenanted, his bed untouched; the telegram still lay unclaimed in the
hall below.
Florence and Edna were prepared, by the absence of news during the night,
for Larcher's discouraged face when he appeared at the flat in the
morning. Miss Kenby seemed already to have fortified her mind for an
indefinite season of anxiety. She maintained an outward calm, but it was
the forced calm of a resolution to bear torture heroically. She had her
lapses, her moments of weakness and outcry, her periods of despair,
during the ensuing days,--for days did ensue, and nothing was seen or
heard of the missing one,--but of these Larcher was not often a witness.
Edna Hill developed new resources as an encourager, a diverter, and an
unfailing optimist in regard to the outcome. The girls divided their time
between the flat and the Kenby lodgings down Fifth Avenue. Mr. Kenby was
subdued and self-effacing when they were about. He wore a somewhat meek,
cowed air nowadays, which was not without a touch of martyrdom. He
volunteered none but the most casual remarks on the subject of
Davenport's disappearance, and was not asked even for those. His
diminution spoke volumes for the unexpected force of personality
Florence must have shown in that unrelated interview about the letters,
in which she had got back her promise.
The burden of action during those ensuing days fell on Larcher. Besides
regular semi-diurnal calls on the young ladies and at Mrs. Haze's house,
and regular consultations of police records, he made visits to every
place he had ever known Davenport to frequent, and to every person he
had ever known Davenport to be acquainted with. Only, for a time Mr.
Bagley had to be excepted, he not having yet returned from Chicago.
It appeared that the big man at police headquarters had really caused
the proper thing to be done. Detectives came to Mrs. Haze's house and
searched the absent man's possessions, but found no clue; and most of
the newspapers had a short paragraph to the effect that Murray
Davenport, “a song-writer,” was missing from his lodging-house. Larcher
hoped that this, if it came to Davenport's eye, though it might annoy
him, would certainly bring word from him. But the man remained as silent
as unseen. Was there, indeed, what the newspapers call “foul play”? And
was Larcher called upon yet to speak of the twenty thousand dollars? The
knowledge of that would give the case an importance in the eyes of the
police, but would it, even if the worst had happened, do any good to
Davenport? Larcher thought not; and held his tongue.
One afternoon, in the week following the disappearance,--or, as Larcher
preferred to call it, non-appearance,--that gentleman, having just sat
down in a north-bound Sixth Avenue car, glanced over the first page of
an evening paper--one of the yellow brand--which he had bought a minute
before. All at once he was struck in the face, metaphorically speaking,
by a particular set of headlines. He held his breath, and read the
following opening paragraph:
“The return of George A. Bagley from Chicago last night puts a new phase
on the disappearance of Murray Davenport, the song-writer, who has not
been seen since Wednesday of last week at his lodging-house,--East----th
Street. Mr. Bagley would like to know what became of a large amount of
cash which he left with the missing man for certain purposes the
previous night on leaving suddenly for Chicago. He says that when he
called this morning on brokers, bankers, and others to whom the money
should have been handed over, he found that not a cent of it had been
disposed of according to orders. Davenport had for some years frequently
acted as a secretary or agent for Bagley, and had handled many thousands
of dollars for the latter in such a manner as to gain the highest
confidence.”
There was a half-column of details, which Larcher read several times over
on the way up-town. When he entered Edna's drawing-room the two girls
were sitting before the fire. At the first sight of his face, Edna
sprang to her feet, and Florence's lips parted.
“What is it?” cried Edna. “You've got news! What is it?”
“No. Not any news of _his_ whereabouts.”
“What of, then? It's in that paper.”
She seized the yellow journal, and threw her glance from headline to
headline. She found the story, and read it through, aloud, at a rate of
utterance that would have staggered the swiftest shorthand writer.
“Well! What do you think of _that_?” she said, and stopped to take
breath.
“Do you think it is true?” asked Florence.
“There is some reason to believe it is!” replied Larcher, awkwardly.
Florence rose, in great excitement. “Then this affair _must_ be cleared
up!” she cried. “For don't you see? He may have been robbed--waylaid for
the money--made away with! God knows what else can have happened! The
newspaper hints that he ran away with the money. I'll never believe that.
It must be cleared up--I tell you it _must_!”
Edna tried to soothe the agitated girl, and looked sorrowfully at
Larcher, who could only deplore in silence his inability to solve the
mystery.