I Dine with a Fascinating Stranger
The coroner dismissed the jury, and came down and shook hands with us.
"I'm going to reward you for your clever work, Mr. Royce," he said.
"Will you take the good news to Miss Holladay?"
My chief could not repress the swift flush of pleasure which reddened
his cheeks, but he managed to speak unconcernedly.
"Why, yes; certainly. I'll be glad to, if you wish it," he said.
"I do wish it," Goldberg assured him, with a tact and penetration I
though admirable. "You may dismiss the policeman who is with her."
Our junior looked inquiringly at the district attorney.
"Before I go," he said, "may I ask what you intend doing, sir?"
"I intend finding the writer of that note," answered Singleton,
smiling.
"But, about Miss Holladay?"
Singleton tapped his lips thoughtfully with his pencil.
"Before I answer," he said at last, "I should like to go with you and
ask her one question."
"Very well," assented Mr. Royce instantly, and led the way to the room
where Miss Holladay awaited us.
She rose with flushing face as we entered, and stood looking at us
without speaking; but, despite her admirable composure, I could guess
how she was racked with anxiety.
"Miss Holladay," began my chief, "this is Mr. Singleton, the district
attorney, who wishes to ask you a few questions."
"One question only," corrected Singleton, bowing. "Were you at your
father's office yesterday afternoon, Miss Holladay?"
"No, sir," she answered, instantly and emphatically. "I have not been
near my father's office for more than a week."
I saw him studying her for a moment, then he bowed again.
"That is all," he said. "I don't think the evidence justifies me in
holding her, Mr. Royce," and he left the room. I followed him, for I
knew that I had no further part in our junior's errand. I went back to
our table and busied myself gathering together our belongings. The
room had gradually cleared, and at the end of ten minutes only the
coroner and his clerk remained. They had another case, it seemed, to
open in the morning--another case which, perhaps, involved just as
great heartache and anguish as ours had. Five minutes later my chief
came hurrying back to me, and a glance at his beaming eyes told me how
he had been welcomed.
"Miss Holladay has started home with her maid," he said. "She asked me
to thank you for her for the great work you did this afternoon,
Lester. I told her it was really you who had done everything. Yes, it
was!" he added, answering my gesture of denial. "While I was groping
helplessly around in the dark, you found the way to the light. But
come; we must get back to the office."
We found a cab at the curb, and in a moment were rolling back over the
route we had traversed that morning--ages ago, as it seemed to me! It
was only a few minutes after three o'clock, and I reflected that I
should yet have time to complete the papers in the Hurd case before
leaving for the night.
Mr. Graham was still at his desk, and he at once demanded an account
of the hearing. I went back to my work, and so caught only a word here
and there--enough, however, to show me that our senior was deeply
interested in this extraordinary affair. As for me, I put all thought
of it resolutely from me, and devoted myself to the work in hand. It
was done at last, and I locked my desk with a sigh of relief. Mr.
Graham nodded to me kindly as I passed out, and I left the office with
the comfortable feeling that I had done a good day's work for myself,
as well as for my employers.
A man who had apparently been loitering in the hall followed me into
the elevator.
"This is Mr. Lester, isn't it?" he asked, as the car started to
descend.
"Yes," I said, looking at him in surprise. He was well dressed, with
alert eyes and strong, pleasing face. I had never seen him before.
"And you're going to dinner, aren't you, Mr. Lester?" he continued.
"Yes--to dinner," I assented, more and more surprised.
"Now, don't think me impertinent," he said, smiling at my look of
amazement, "but I want you to dine with me this evening. I can promise
you as good a meal as you will get at most places in New York."
"But I'm not dressed," I protested.
"That doesn't matter in the least--neither am I, you see. We will dine
in a _solitude à deux_."
"Where?" I questioned.
"Well, how would the Studio suit?"
The car had reached the ground floor, and we left it together. I was
completely in the dark as to my companion's purpose, and yet it could
have but one explanation--it must be connected in some way with the
Holladay case. Unless--and I glanced at him again. No, certainly, he
was not a confidence man--even if he was, I would rather welcome the
adventure. My curiosity won the battle.
"Very well," I said. "I'll be glad to accept your invitation, Mr.----"
He nodded approvingly.
"There spoke the man of sense. Well, you shall not go unrewarded.
Godfrey is my name--no, you don't know me, but I'll soon explain
myself. Here's my cab."
I mounted into it, he after me. It seemed to me that there was an
unusual number of loiterers about the door of the building, but we
were off in a moment, and I did not give them a second thought. We
rattled out into Broadway, and turned northward for the three-mile
straightaway run to Union Square. I noticed in a moment that we were
going at a rate of speed rather exceptional for a cab, and it steadily
increased, as the driver found a clear road before him. My companion
threw up the trap in the roof of the cab as we swung around into
Thirteenth Street.
"All right, Sam?" he called.
The driver grinned down at us through the hole.
"All right, sir," he answered. "They couldn't stand the pace a little
bit. They're distanced."
The trap snapped down again, we turned into Sixth Avenue, and stopped
in a moment before the Studio--gray and forbidding without, but a
dream within. My companion led the way upstairs to a private room,
where a table stood ready set for us. The oysters appeared before we
were fairly seated.
"You see," he smiled, "I made bold to believe that you'd come with me,
and so had the dinner already ordered."
I looked at him without replying. I was completely in the dark. Could
this be the writer of the mysterious note? But what could his object
be? Above all, why should he so expose himself? He smiled again, as he
caught my glance.
"Of course you're puzzled," he said. "Well, I'll make a clean breast
of the matter at once. I wanted to talk with you about this Holladay
case, and I decided that a dinner at the Studio would be just the
ticket."
I nodded. The soup was a thing to marvel at.
"You were right," I assented. "The idea was a stroke of genius."
"I knew you'd think so. You see, since this morning, I've been making
rather a study of you. That coup of yours at the coroner's court this
afternoon was admirable--one of the best things I ever saw."
I bowed my acknowledgments.
"You were there, then?" I asked.
"Oh, yes; I couldn't afford to miss it."
"The color-blind theory was a simple one."
"So simple that it never occurred to anyone else. I think we're too
apt to overlook the simple explanations, which are, after all, nearly
always the true ones. It's only in books that we meet the reverse. You
remember it's Gaboriau who advises one always to distrust the
probable?"
"Yes. I don't agree with him."
"Nor I. Now take this case, for instance. I think it's safe to state
that murder, where it's not the result of sudden passion, is always
committed for one of two objects--revenge or gain. But Mr. Holladay's
past life has been pretty thoroughly probed by the reporters, and
nothing has been found to indicate that he had ever made a deadly
enemy, at least among the class of people who resort to murder--so
that does away with revenge. On the other hand, no one will gain by
his death--many will lose by it--in fact, the whole circle of his
associates will lose by it. It might seem, at first glance, that his
daughter would gain; but I think she loses most of all. She already
had all the money she could possibly need; and she's lost her father,
whom, it's quite certain, she loved dearly. So what remains?"
"Only one thing," I said, deeply interested in this exposition.
"Sudden passion."
He nodded exultantly.
"That's it. Now, who was the woman? From the first I was certain it
could not be his daughter--the very thought was preposterous. It seems
almost equally absurd, however, to suppose that Holladay could be
mixed up with any other woman. He certainly has not been for the last
quarter of a century--but before that--well, it's not so certain. And
there's one striking point which seems to indicate his guilt."
"Yes--you mean, of course, her resemblance to his daughter."
"Precisely. Such a resemblance must exist--a resemblance unusual, even
striking--or it would not for a moment have deceived Rogers. We must
remember, however, that Rogers's office was not brilliantly lighted,
and that he merely glanced at her. Still, whatever minor differences
there may have been, she had the air, the general appearance, the look
of Miss Holladay. Mere facial resemblance may happen in a hundred
ways, by chance; but the air, the look, the 'altogether' is very
different--it indicates a blood relationship. My theory is that she is
an illegitimate child, perhaps four or five years older than Miss
Holladay."
I paused to consider. The theory was reasonable, and yet it had its
faults.
"Now, let's see where this leads us," he continued. "Let us assume
that Holladay has been providing for this illegitimate daughter for
years. At last, for some reason, he is induced to withdraw this
support; or, perhaps, the girl thinks her allowance insufficient. At
any rate, after, let us suppose, ineffectual appeals by letter, she
does the desperate thing of calling at his office to protest in
person. She finds him inexorable--we know his reputation for obstinacy
when he had once made up his mind. She reproaches him--she is already
desperate, remember--and he answers with that stinging sarcasm for
which he was noted. In an ecstacy of anger, she snatches up the knife
and stabs him; then, in an agony of remorse, endeavors to check the
blood. She sees at last that it is useless, that she cannot save him,
and leaves the office. All this is plausible, isn't it?"
"Very plausible," I assented, looking at him in some astonishment.
"You forget one thing, however. Rogers testified that he was
intimately acquainted with the affairs of his employer, and that he
would inevitably have known of any intrigue such as you suggest."
My companion paused for a moment's thought.
"I don't believe that Rogers would so inevitably have known of it," he
said, at last. "But, admit that--then there is another theory.
Holladay has _not_ been supporting his illegitimate child, who learns
of her parentage, and goes to him to demand her rights. That fits the
case, doesn't it?"
"Yes," I admitted. "It, also, is plausible."
"It is more than plausible," he said quietly. "Whatever the details
may be, the body of the theory itself is unimpeachable--it's the only
one which fits the facts. I believe it capable of proof. Don't you see
how the note helps to prove it?"
"The note?"
I started at the word, and my suspicions sprang into life again. I
looked at him quickly, but his eyes were on the cloth, and he was
rolling up innumerable little pellets of bread.
"That note," he added, "proved two things. One was that the writer was
deeply interested in Miss Holladay's welfare; the other was that he or
she knew Rogers, the clerk, intimately--more than intimately--almost
as well as a physician knows an old patient."
"I admit the first," I said. "You'll have to explain the second."
"The second is self-evident. How did the writer of the note know of
Rogers's infirmity?"
"His infirmity?"
"Certainly--his color-blindness. I confess, I'm puzzled. How _could_
anyone else know it when Rogers himself didn't know it? That's what I
should like to have explained. Perhaps there's only one man or woman
in the world who could know--well, that's the one who wrote the note.
Now, who is it?"
"But," I began, quickly, then stopped; should I set him right? Or was
this a trap he had prepared for me?
His eyes were not on the cloth now, but on me. There was a light in
them I did not quite understand. I felt that I must be sure of my
ground before I went forward.
"It should be very easy to trace the writer of the note," I said.
"The police have not found it so."
"No?"
"No. It was given to the door-keeper by a boy--just an ordinary boy of
from twelve to fourteen years--the man didn't notice him especially.
He said there was no answer and went away. How are the police to find
that boy? Suppose they do find him? Probably all he could tell them
would be that a man stopped him at the corner and gave him a quarter
to take the note to the coroner's office."
"He might give a description of the man," I ventured.
"What would a boy's description be worth? It would be, at the best,
vague and indefinite. Besides, they've not even found the boy. Now, to
return to the note."
We had come to the coffee and cigars, and I felt it time to protest.
"Before we return to the note, Mr. Godfrey," I said, "I'd like to ask
you two direct questions. What interest have you in the matter?"
"The interest of every investigator of crime," he answered, smiling.
"You belong to the detective force, then?"
"I have belonged to it. At present, I'm in other employ."
"And what was your object in bringing me here this evening?"
"One portion of my object has been accomplished. The other was to ask
you to write out for me a copy of the note."
"But who was it pursued us up Broadway?"
"Oh, I have rivals!" he chuckled. "I flatter myself that was rather
neatly done. Will you give me a copy of the note, Mr. Lester?"
"No," I answered squarely. "You'll have to go to the police for that.
I'm out of the case."
He bowed across the table to me with a little laugh. As I looked at
him, his imperturbable good humor touched me.
"I'll tell you one thing, though," I added. "The writer of the note
knew nothing of Rogers's color-blindness--you're off the scent there."
"I am?" he asked amazedly. "Then how did _you_ know it, Mr. Lester?"
"I suppose you detectives would call it deduction--I deduced it."
He took a contemplative puff or two, as he looked at me.
"Well," he exclaimed, at last, "I must say that beats me! Deduced it!
That was mighty clever."
Again I bowed my acknowledgments.
"And that's all you can tell me?" he added.
"I'm afraid that's all."
"Very well; thank you for that much," and he flicked the ashes from
his cigar. "Now, I fear that I must leave you. I've a good deal of
work to do, and you've opened up a very interesting line of
speculation. I assure you that I've passed a very pleasant evening. I
hope you've not found it tiresome?"
"Quite the contrary," I said heartily. "I've enjoyed myself
immensely."
"Then I'll ask one last favor. My cab is at the door. I've no further
use for it, and I beg you'll drive home in it."
I saw that he really wished it.
"Why, yes, certainly," I assented.
"Thank you," he said.
He took me down to the door, called the cab, and shook hands with me
warmly.
"Good-by, Mr. Lester," he said. "I'm glad of the chance to have met
you. I'm not really such a mysterious individual--it's merely a trick
of the trade. I hope we'll meet again some time."
"So do I," I said, and meant it.
I saw him stand for a moment on the curb looking after us as we drove
away, then he turned and ran rapidly up the steps of the Elevated.
The driver seemed in no hurry to get me home, and I had plenty of time
to think over the events of the evening, but I could make nothing of
them. What result he had achieved I could not imagine. And yet he had
seemed satisfied. As to his theory, I could not but admit that it was
an adroit one; even a masterly one--a better one, certainly, than I
should have evolved unaided.
The cab drew up at my lodging and I sprang out, tipped the driver, and
ran up the steps to the door. My landlady met me on the threshold.
"Oh, Mr. Lester!" she cried. "Such a time as I've had this night!
Every five minutes there's been somebody here looking for you, and
there's a crowd of them up in your room now. I tried to put them out,
but they wouldn't go!"