Well, I reflected as I drove away, I hadn’t learned anything so very
shocking after all. What surprised me most was that the leather king had
lost his fortune. I thought that Tom, when I saw him, would be
interested to hear about these things. But long before I saw Tom my
tidbits of information were thrown in the shadow by an occurrence which
shocked this whole section of the country. Tom and his comrades did not
learn of it in their lonely retreat until I found time to write, and
even then my letter waited four days in the little post office at
Harkness. So out of touch with the outside world were those workers in
the new camp!
The letter which I sent to Tom was brief for it enclosed a lengthy
clipping from a New York paper that spoke for itself. That same
clipping, returned to me by Tom, is before me on my table now, and the
sight of that glaring headline recalls the sensation which followed the
shocking news contained in the article. I will paste it to my manuscript
so that you may read it just as I did, and as Tom and his friends did a
little later.
MANUFACTURER FOUND KILLED
MYSTERY SURROUNDS DEATH OF HARRISON
MCCLINTICK IN HIS NEW YORK APARTMENT
ROBBERY THOUGHT TO BE MOTIVE
FINGERPRINTS ONLY CLEW
Harrison McClintick, one of the most picturesque figures in
the financial world, was found killed in his apartment in
the Raleigh Arms on Central Park West early this morning. A
maid, entering the living room to turn on the heat at a
radiator, discovered the body on the floor. Greatly
affrighted, she summoned Mrs. Estelle Trevor, the victim’s
widowed sister, who has been the mistress of his home since
the death of Mrs. McClintick in 1921. It was found that Mr.
McClintick had not occupied his room during the night.
Physicians later declared that he had been dead some hours.
No weapon had been used; he had evidently been strangled. An
overturned chair and disordered rugs gave evidence of a
struggle.
Mr. McClintick’s pockets had been rifled and the contents of
a wallet were strewn about the floor. Two twenty dollar
bills and several bills of smaller denomination were found
among the papers which had been thrown about the floor.
Several of these papers contained finger marks and these
markings are the only clew the police have to go upon.
Robbery seems the only plausible motive, yet the discovery
of the money left on the scene seems to discount this
theory. If robbery was the motive, the police say, why did
the robber leave this considerable sum? If robbery was not
the motive, why did the murderer go through his victim’s
pockets, leaving a gold watch and chain as well as the bills
strewn on the floor?
The Raleigh Arms is a modern, but by no means palatial
apartment house. Mr. McClintick’s apartment is on the ground
floor, and is entered by a door in the foyer to the left of
the main entrance. Three windows in the apartment overlook
the street, but they are protected by heavy and elaborate
grille work. Careful inspection of the premises gave no
indication of violent entry and it is thought that the
assailant must have rung the apartment bell and been
admitted by Mr. McClintick himself sometime during the
evening. Neither Mrs. Trevor nor the maid heard or saw any
one in the apartment during the evening. Both retired at
about ten o’clock. The telephone operator, who sat in the
public foyer, does not remember seeing any one approach the
apartment entrance during the evening. This young woman was
reading a novel and though she heard people passing in and
out, paid no attention to them. She went home at about
nine-thirty and from that time on, no one was near the
public entrance of the building.
HIS SPECTACULAR CAREER
The McClintick millions were a product of the world war. The
rise of Harrison McClintick in that period was Napoleonic.
He began life at a bench in a shoe factory in New England.
Later he went west and worked in a tannery, subsequently
becoming foreman, and in time owner. He was a prosperous,
moderately wealthy man when the war broke out. Almost as if
by magic the McClintick tannery became the center of a group
of factories in which were turned out every variety of
leather article used by the war department. During their
period of intensive production, the McClintick plants fell
under the frowning scrutiny of the government and charges of
gross profiteering resulted in an investigation which put
the leather king on the front page of the public prints.
McClintick’s profits were beyond the dreams of avarice and
he spent and gave lavishly. His magnificent Wave Crest Villa
at Newport was only one of his bizarre extravagances. His
palatial yacht was seized by the government for use in the
navy. His estate at Long Branch, New Jersey, was the scene
of hospitality out of keeping with the tragic drama from
which his princely fortune was drawn. His camp in the
Adirondacks with its rubble-stone hunting lodge was a model
of a wilderness retreat. It was here that a year or two ago,
his only son lost his life in one of those tragic accidents
that occur in the hunting season. On a misty morning he was
shot while swimming in the lake, the shooter mistaking his
bobbing head for a wild duck.
Misfortune fell heavily on the head of McClintick after the
war. His wife died in 1921. Already the spectacular fortune
was ebbing away. The place at Newport, and later, the place
at Long Branch, was given up. His town residence on
Riverside Drive was sold and the culminating tragedy of his
death occurred in a comparatively unpretentious apartment
where he was living in reduced circumstances with his
widowed sister and one servant.
So that was the story of Millionaire McClintick. And such was his tragic
end. I was shocked by his death, as the heedless public could not have
been, for I felt almost as if I had known him. At least I could have
added one item to the newspaper report; I could have told the curious
that Leatherstocking Camp, the last of his properties, had been sold
also, and was at that very time being made over to meet the requirements
of a scout camp.
So, you see, two of my mind pictures were smashed. The noble son had
been, to say the least, not without his faults. And the quiet camp,
harboring only sorrowful memories for a bereaved father, had been sold
not so much because of grief as because of pressing need. Well, well,
that was quite a little dose for a story-book dreamer like myself.
But, after all, was the whole business any the less sad? Here was this
crude, strong man forging his way ahead and making a vast fortune. The
“tumult and the shouting died” and his house of cards began to fall
about his head. His wife gone. One estate, then another, sold. Perhaps
it was to get away from all his trouble just for a little season that he
and his party, his son and their friend, went up to their wilderness
retreat. Perhaps, after all, the quiet woods beckoned to this shrewd old
hustler.
And there, in this remote lakeside camp, his only son was taken from
him. What matter why he sold his camp? Poor man, the story was sad
enough in any case, thought I. The newspaper had printed a picture of
him which showed him a stolid looking man; a man with indomitable will
printed on his hard rugged features. He had an uncompromising jaw. But,
I thought, it is just these wilful and triumphant men who suffer keenest
when fate shows itself more powerful and relentless than they.
It was about a month after the tragedy, and the newspapers were still
full of false alarms about an arrest, when Brent Gaylong and I went up
to the camp where Tom and his crew were working with might and main in
the heroic hope of getting the place in some sort of shape during the
late spring.