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The Detective’s Clew
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Illustration: HE STEPPED AROUND TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE
MOTIONLESS FORM.
THE SECRET SERVICE SERIES――NO. 14.
A Monthly Periodical,
DEVOTED TO STORIES OF THE DETECTION OF CRIME.
SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, $3 PER YEAR. =DECEMBER, 1888.=
_Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second-Class Matter._
The Detective’s Clew:
OR,
THE TRAGEDY OF ELM GROVE.
BY
“OLD HUTCH.”
NEW YORK:
STREET & SMITH, Publishers,
31 Rose Street.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1888,
BY STREET & SMITH,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.
Table of Contents.
I. THE BROTHER’S MESSAGE.
II. GEOFFREY HAYWOOD.
III. “SEVEN O’CLOCK.”
IV. A FIGHT AND A FLIGHT.
V. THE WRONG MAN.
VI. UNDERGROUND.
VII. IN STRANGE QUARTERS.
VIII. THE ARREST.
IX. GEOFFREY HAYWOOD’S MOVEMENTS.
X. THE PRISONER AND HIS CAPTORS.
XI. THE EXAMINATION.
XII. THE NEW YORK DETECTIVE.
XIII. STRANGE DISCOVERIES.
XIV. THE CUSTOM-HOUSE DETECTIVE.
XV. FREE.
XVI. A REFUGE.
XVII. A GLAD MEETING.
XVIII. GEOFFREY HAYWOOD’S SECRET JOURNEY.
XIX. THREE INTERVIEWS.
XX. AN ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL THE REV. MR. WITHERS.
XXI. FLORENCE DARLEY.
XXII. THE NEW MUSIC-TEACHER.
XXIII. A STRANGE REVELATION.
XXIV. DANGER AND MORE EXPOSURE.
XXV. GEOFFREY HAYWOOD AT WORK――A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.
XXVI. A DARK NIGHT’S WORK.
XXVII. ON THE TRACK.
XXVIII. VICTORY.
XXIX. CONCLUSION.
THE DETECTIVE’S CLEW.
CHAPTER I.
THE BROTHER’S MESSAGE.
The little steamer Neptune plowed through the water, sweeping past
lovely scenes of green verdure and jutting rocks, almost making her
passengers regret that their journey’s end was so near. And, in truth,
the approach to Dalton did form a most delightful close to a journey
of some forty miles from one of the principal cities on the New England
coast. The trip could be made by rail, but the Neptune had been fitted
up by a company of enterprising men, who offered comfort and pleasure
in opposition to speed and dust. The project succeeded well, the
little steamer receiving its fair proportion of passenger traffic.
On she sped, cutting the water cleanly, and rapidly drawing near the
wharf.
Two young men stood on the deck in a position where they could
best view the town. One of them was a trifle below the medium height,
but his form was well proportioned, and his features indicative of
individuality and character. His complexion was rather light, and so
was his hair, but his eyes were black, deep-set, and luminous. He had
a frank expression, which was marred, however, for the moment by a look
of uneasiness and a shade of sadness.
His companion was a fair sample of the young American of the present
day. He was a trifle taller than his companion, well built, with brown
hair and blue eyes, a dark mustache overhanging a well-cut mouth,
erect in carriage, deliberate in his motions, his general appearance
designating him to the casual observer as a “man of business.” You
would naturally feel that he would be equal to any emergency――that his
self possession would not be likely, even under trying circumstances,
to desert him. Very different in this respect was he from his companion,
who was plainly excitable, and whose total “make-up” suggested that he
might not at all times be master of himself.
The latter spoke:
“I don’t know how my uncle will receive me, Leonard,” he said. “I
almost tremble at going into his presence.”
“Nonsense!” said the other. “I should not tremble at all. All you have
to do is to tell your story, and then, if he doesn’t behave himself,
quietly bid him good-day.”
“Ah, I know that would be your way,” was the reply, “but I could not do
it. He is my father’s brother.”
“Yes, and a model brother, too. His course has entitled him to so much
respect that I should think you would be considerate of his feelings.”
The tone was impatient and ironical.
“But I am here for reconciliation, you know. They have been like
strangers so long――never holding any communication with each other――and
on his dying bed my father enjoined me to go to him and tell him how
it all came about――how Geoffrey Haywood produced, by his lies and
misrepresentations, an estrangement between two brothers that had
always been so fond of each other. They were both passionate, and
neither would seek explanations. Haywood was cool and calculating,
and knew how to approach both of them.”
“And Haywood now lives in Dalton?”
“Yes; he still keeps on the right side of Colonel Conrad, and, I
suspect, owes all his prosperity to his influence and aid.”
“When did your father discover that Haywood had been the means of the
feud?”
“Nearly a year ago. His health was at that time poor, and he was unable
to leave Europe, where he was traveling. He wrote to his brother, but
the letter came back unopened. My father never grew better. He thought
that, if I could see my uncle and lay the case before him, he might go
down to his grave without the old hate rankling in his heart.”
The youth grew excited, and paced up and down the deck. Then he
continued:
“I am to see this savage monster――this irate beast, as I have learned
to regard him――and run the risk of hearing the memory of my father
reviled, and his name insulted. It seems as if I could not bear it. His
living face is yet too fresh in my memory. But the mission is intrusted
to me, and I must fulfill it. I will tell him the facts, and my duty
will have been done.”
Leonard Lester looked upon his cousin as he spoke, and smiled a pitying
smile.
“It is rather tough,” he said, “to be obliged to get down on your knees
to such an individual as I imagine your, or, rather, _our_ uncle, to
be――for I suppose he must be my uncle, since you and I are cousins,
although I have never seen him. But I believe I am to accompany you,
and if he lets off too much steam, I will let off some, too. I can do
it, when there’s occasion.”
His eyes proclaimed the truth of what he said.
Leonard Lester and Carlos Conrad were distant cousins, and cherished
a strong regard for each other. Carlos was the son of Anthony Conrad,
who, years before, had married a Spanish girl. Her dark beauty had won
the affection of the American, and they had lived together ten years,
when she died. The only fruit of the union was a boy, whom they named
Carlos. He inherited the warm and voluptuous nature of his mother,
and the firm and stable, though somewhat passionate, character of
his father. And there was within him a vein of delicate sensibility,
peculiarly his own, which added to the refinement of his nature,
though it might at times render him weak and irresolute. A considerable
portion of his life had been spent in Europe, near the home of his
mother, and in other portions of the Continent.
His father had died but a few weeks before the time at which this
chapter opens, and had charged Carlos with a mission which, as we have
seen, he was about to undertake.
Leonard Lester was connected with a large importing house in New York.
He had been abroad on business for the firm several times, and had met
Carlos in Paris, Vienna, Berlin, and other places. The cousins seemed
to gravitate toward each other, and a warm affection sprang up between
them.
On this occasion they were going together to the residence of Anthony
Conrad’s brother, Colonel William Conrad, whose home was in the suburbs
of the beautiful village of Dalton.
The steamer bumped against the dock, making everybody give an
involuntary pitch forward, and was soon fastened to her moorings. The
plank was thrown out, and the passengers thronged ashore.
Leonard and Carlos stood looking about for a moment, endeavoring to
decide which way to turn.
“Shall we go to a hotel?” asked Leonard.
“Yes, by all means,” quickly responded Carlos. “We will not intrude on
his hospitality until we know what our reception is to be.”
“It will be all right, I will venture,” said Leonard, cheeringly. “If
you have proofs of what you are about to say, he surely will not be so
unreasonable as to turn you off.”
Carlos sighed, but did not reply, as they stepped into a hack. They
were driven rapidly through the lively streets of the busy village,
and conveyed to a hospitable-looking hotel. A pleasant room, which
commanded a fine view of the ocean in the distance, was placed at their
disposal.
After an hour’s rest and a good supper, they approached the hotel clerk,
Leonard saying:
“I believe that Colonel Conrad is a resident of this place?”
“Yes, sir, he is,” replied the clerk.
“Can you inform me where he lives?”
“He lives on his place――Elm Grove――about a mile out of the village.”
“In what direction is Elm Grove?”
“Straight north, on this street――Main street it is called.”
“Thank you.”
And the cousins stepped aside.
“I wonder what they can want of ♦Colonel Conrad?” mused the clerk,
staring after them.
After discussing the matter, Carlos and Leonard determined not to
visit their uncle until the next morning. So, after spending an hour
in rambling about town, and by the shore of the bay, they returned to
the hotel and retired at an early hour.
The next morning they set out for Colonel Conrad’s residence. The walk
was dusty at first, but soon merged into a pleasant avenue, shaded on
either side by ancient and noble trees. Then there was a gentle ascent,
a slope downward, and a short distance farther, situated on a rise of
ground, was Elm Grove, the residence of Colonel Conrad.
The heart of Carlos beat nervously, his step was hurried, and his
motions were quick. Not so with Leonard. He was cool and composed, and,
as the two passed through the open gate, and up the broad gravel walk,
he said:
“Come, now pick up courage. Think of your father, be a man, and defend
him from insult, whoever it comes from.”
The words had their desired effect. A look of resolution came into
Carlos’ face, which Leonard regarded with satisfaction.
They ascended the steps and rang the door-bell.
A servant appeared.
“Is Colonel Conrad at home?” asked Carlos.
“I think he is,” replied the servant. “Shall I take your names?”
They handed him their cards. Carlos’ was edged with black. Soon the
servant returned, and said that Colonel Conrad would see them.
They were ushered through a wide hall, on the left side of which was
the room where Colonel Conrad awaited them.
The servant bowed them in.
The room was not a large one, but it was fitted up with elegance and
taste. On one side was a row of shelves, on which were ranged books of
all sizes and colors.
It was the colonel’s library, and a choice one it was, too, valuable
principally for the age and rarity of some of the volumes.
There was a fire-place, a writing-table, a closed desk, heavy, rich,
and antique in pattern, a huge clock, reaching from the floor to the
ceiling, a smaller case of book-shelves near it, a couch, and a few
chairs.
All this was taken in at a glance, as was also the figure of the
proprietor of the mansion, seated in an easy-chair, with an open book
lying on the table beside him.
Never were two persons more surprised than were the cousins at the
appearance of Colonel Conrad. They had expected to see in their uncle
a large, frowzy, ferocious-looking monster in human form, with a face
expressive of malice, and that peculiar expression that always belongs
to lips given to invective and denunciation.
Instead, there sat before them a man not above the medium size, with
hair thickly tinged with gray, and a careworn, studious, thoughtful
face. His eyes were blue, and, in contrast with his appearance
otherwise, were bright as those of a youth of twenty. His brow was
wrinkled irregularly, suggesting inward conflict and mental anxiety.
He sat and looked at his nephews steadily without speaking. Carlos
gazed earnestly and apprehensively into his face, while Leonard stood
in an easy attitude, apparently not in the least discomfited.
At length the uncle bent his gaze more particularly on Carlos. It was
impossible to tell the thoughts that occupied his mind. Finally he said:
“You’re his son?”
“I am your brother’s son,” replied Carlos.
“I suppose it is unnecessary to ask what that means?” said Colonel
Conrad, holding up the card edged with black.
“You can readily imagine,” said Carlos, with difficulty controlling his
emotion.
The old man bowed his head for an instant, and then looking up again,
said, impatiently:
“Well, well, why don’t you be seated? What are you standing up for?
There are plenty of chairs.”
The cousins smiled, and acted on the hint thus conveyed.
“I’m a wonderfully forgiving man,” began Colonel Conrad; “if I were
not, I wouldn’t so much as suffer your presence in sight of my house.”
He was addressing himself to Carlos. “You know the old saying is that
the sins of the fathers shall be visited on the children, and I ought
to visit the sins of your father on you; for you know how he deeply
wronged me, or at least you ought to know it, for if he didn’t confess
it on his dying bed I should have but little hope for his future――――”
“Colonel Conrad,” interrupted Carlos, endeavoring to control himself
so as to appear calm, “you must not talk in that way. I’ll not hear
it――no, not even from you. Your dead brother was a good man, and I, his
son, will not hear his name traduced.”
“Y-o-u’-l-l not h-e-a-r his name tr-a-d-u-c-e-d!” repeated Colonel
Conrad, in a prolonged, contemptuous tone, staring at Carlos with his
piercing eyes. “I’d like to know what you are going to do about it?”
“I’ll defend him, sir, with my right arm,” said Carlos, rising to his
feet. “I’ll call out the first man who dares to slander him. He was a
good and true man, and I am here to prove it.”
“You had better sit down, young man,” said the colonel. “I suppose you
have come here begging, but you’ll not gain anything by such behavior,
I can tell you.”
“I am no beggar,” retorted Carlos, angrily, “and I will accept none of
your money. But I have an errand to do, and after it is performed, I
will leave you. It is a message from my father.”
“Well, Carlos,” said his uncle, suddenly assuming a nonchalant manner,
“I see you have pluck, and I like you for it. But too much pluck is not
always a good thing. I have had too much of it in my day, so has your
father, the vil――but no, I’ll not call him names now; let him rest in
peace.”
After a pause and a moment’s dreamy silence, he resumed:
“I have seen much sorrow in my time, boys, and have gone through some
hard experiences. There was that quarrel with my brother――we were both
hasty, and have not seen each other since. There was my wife――bless her
memory!――who died many years ago, leaving me no children. Yes, I have
passed through some sad experiences, and all I have to do in my old age
is to sit still and think about them. I tinker a little with one thing
and another――bother my head over machinery and philosophy――and that
is about all I have to relieve the tedium of my life. But no, there’s
Florence――she’s a good girl.”
The last words he spoke rather to himself than to his listeners.
“You have a nephew living in Dalton, have you not?” said Leonard, who
had as yet taken no part in the conversation.
“A nephew? Oh, yes――Geoffrey Haywood, I suppose you mean. He is a very
good man――very pious and very honest. He has met with great success in
his business. Yes, Geoffrey is my best friend.”
He glanced up, as he spoke, in a slightly defiant manner, as if he
expected to be contradicted; but seeing no such purpose on the part of
his auditors, he ceased speaking, and drummed nervously on the table.
“Well, Colonel Conrad,” said Leonard, “Carlos has come here on an
errand, and he wishes, though he dreads, to open the subject. It
is from your dead brother, Anthony. Carlos knows of the enmity that
existed between you and him, but he hopes and I hope that you will hear
him through.”
The old man shook his head.
“No good can come of any talk about my dead brother,” he said, sadly;
“but he may speak. I will hear what he has to say, for if his father
left with him a message, it is his duty to deliver it.”
“Thank you for those words, uncle,” said Carlos, “for now I can go
on and tell the story untrammeled. It is a tale of deep wrong, which
should bring curses on the perpetrator. The quarrel between you and my
father was the work of a villain, whose heart must have been black and
rotten――whose sordid desire for wealth must have made him forget all
that was noble and manly within him.”
Carlos then began at a period dating years back, giving the details
of a plot that had separated Anthony and William Conrad, filling them
with hate and venom toward each other. There was one who had caused it
all――who had studied his plans well, and carried them out with fiendish
precision; and who was now reaping the harvest of his mischief by
living near Colonel Conrad, enjoying his friendship and――his gold.
“Need I mention the name of the villain?” asked Carlos. “Is not one,
and only one, person brought to your mind, and that Geoffrey Haywood?
Stop! do not interrupt me now. I must finish, and then I will go or
stay, as you bid me. My father learned all the facts a year ago. He
wrote to you, but the letter was returned unopened――――”
“I never received it,” said Colonel Conrad, huskily.
“Ah! that is some more of Haywood’s work. My father’s health was poor,
and he never left Europe after writing the letter. But a few weeks ago,
on his dying bed, he told me about it, and charged me to come to you
and inform you how you had both been wronged. He gave me this package
to deliver to you, which he says contains convincing proofs. He died
reconciled to you in his heart, and wished you to forgive him while he
yet lived on this earth. Take the package and examine it impartially,
for the memory of the love which you once cherished for your brother.”
Carlos laid the package down and ceased speaking. He had performed his
duty.
Colonel Conrad’s head was bowed, and he appeared to be in deep thought.
A hard, impenetrable look came across his features, and he said, in a
perfectly calm voice:
“Carlos, your story is a strange one. If true, it is indeed a terrible
record of wrong. You have done your duty, and I cherish no ill-will
toward you. But I am lost and perplexed. Don’t you think it would
stagger any man? I must think. You must leave me for the rest of the
day――or rather I must leave you, for you will, both of you, be my
guests. I must shut myself up. I will read the papers contained in the
package, for that will be no more than an act of simple justice.”
“Thank you, my uncle,” said Carlos. “But I shall not consent to
share your hospitality at present. As yet, you are my father’s enemy,
and may continue to be so. We will remain at a hotel until you have
investigated the matter and rendered a decision.”
“Yes,” said Leonard, “Carlos is right. For the present our
abiding-place shall be the hotel.”
Colonel Conrad was not in a condition to dispute their decision or urge
them to stay. His mind seemed to be under a cloud, and he made no reply
to their remarks.
He did not rise, nor speak, but simply bowed, as they bade him good-day
and took their departure.