“What was the dark secret?” I asked Tom, a few moments later.
“It _is_ dark too!” Tom answered. “Sit down here, Brent,” (he indicated
the willow rocker in front of the hearth) “while I tell you something
mighty interesting.”
“Ah,” said Brent, “a bedtime story.”
“Nothing of the kind,” Tom said. “But I went up to that garage. Mighty
nice country fellow has it. Just keeps a helper during the day so the
job was handed over to him. There wasn’t much the matter with it and the
owner said the kid could do it as well as he.”
“Didn’t I tell you a child could fix your car?” Brent teased.
“Aw, hold on, Brent. This fellow that owns the garage--his name is Joe
something or other. It doesn’t matter. Well, he took me into his little
office while I was waiting. We got talking together.
“He has one of those old-fashioned roll-topped desks. I was sitting in
the chair that goes with it and he in another one close by.
“I happened to glance at the desk casually. Saw a newspaper on it.
Picked it up like anyone will. Was a New York paper. Opened it up and
for a minute or so looked through it while we talked.
“As I went to put it back again, I noticed Mr. McClintick’s picture and
a small headline beneath. Just a review of the case. No new clues.
Police as much in the dark as ever, it said.
“This fellow Joe, saw me looking at it and told me he never saw a
picture of McClintick in the paper that he didn’t think of one night
when he got the fright of his life.”
“Another ghost story, Tommy?” Brent asked. “I won’t sleep again to-night
if it is.”
“Wrong again, Brent,” Tom replied. “No ghost at all. A real live
person!”
“Go on, Tom!” I said.
“Joe is single. He has a little room back of the office we were sitting
in, where he sleeps and eats.
“He explained to me that he is a very heavy sleeper. Consequently, he
leaves a dim light in the office all night and doesn’t lock the doors.
He said he never keeps much money around and what he has is always in a
safe place.”
“That reminds me,” Brent interrupted, “of the Scotchman who tied strings
around his pennies. And----”
“Joe’s not Scotch,” laughed Tom. “One evening about a year ago in
November, he said he was taken with a severe attack of neuralgia. First
time he ever had it, so he took some kind of a sedative and he said he
felt so drowsy in a little while that he went to bed.
“He said he imagined he had been sleeping for a few hours. Must have
been around midnight when he was aroused by the sound of a male voice
outside in his office. He listened and heard the ’phone receiver
clicking. Then the voice again saying: ‘Yes, that’s right. One hundred!
O-n-e-h-u-n-d-r-e-d. Hurry, please!’
“Joe listened and then he sat up in bed and grabbed for his gun. He said
he was scared all right. Then the voice fairly yelled, ‘Thank you!
Hello! Father? It’s I. I’m safe.’
“Then, ‘O, Father? Can’t you think of some other way?’ Joe said the
fellow talked as though he was crying, ‘Don’t communicate with me in
Montreal unless you have to.’ Then there was a pause and, ‘Don’t go
through with it! Don’t let him urge you! Please! Good-bye Father!’
“That was all. There came sounds of a chair being shoved across the
floor and Joe got up and pushed the door open slowly.
“He saw a young man sitting in the desk chair, well dressed; and leaning
over looking at his right foot which he was holding out at length.
“Joe went back to the bed and slipped the gun under a pillow and feeling
a good deal easier in mind. Then he opened the door quite noisily this
time. The young man looked up, startled.
“‘Oh, I beg your pardon!’ he said to Joe. ‘I tried to waken you, but you
were sleeping too hard. Had to telephone someone, so took the liberty as
long as you leave your doors open. Much obliged and sorry I disturbed
you!’ he said, handing Joe a five dollar bill and telling him to keep
the change.
“Joe thanked him and as the fellow got up to go he limped. Joe asked him
if he had hurt his foot and the chap said yes. Probably sprained it.
Seeming to be such a nice fellow Joe made him sit down and told him he’d
bandage it. So he got some iodine and gauze and took the shoe and sock
off, proceeding to fix it up the best he knew how.
“The chap was awfully pleased and thanked Joe many times over as he
helped him out and into his car. Said he hoped they would meet again
sometime and drove off.”
“I suppose your friend, Joe, did get quite a scare,” I said to Tom.
“Waking up and hearing that strange voice shouting in his office. But
why, when he sees McClintick’s picture in the paper--_why_, should it
remind him of that particular night?”
“That’s where our turn comes in,” said Tom, with an air of having
something up his sleeve.
“Ah, ha!” Brent said, quite tragically. “Where’s the dustpan? We need it
for the dirt!”
“You know how much these country people make of small things,” Tom
started to explain. “I mean, such as connecting perfectly irrelevant
things with the relevant. For instance, one would say that they always
remembered the day Johnny Jones fell through the ice and drowned,
because it was only the night before that the cat walked over the piano
keys and gave the whole household a terrible scare.”
“Country people aren’t alone in those matters,” I said.
“I know it,” said Tom. “But can you see the reason why this Joe is
always reminded of that night by McClintick’s picture in the paper?”
“No, Tommy, I can’t!” Brent answered, in an indulgent manner. “I’ve been
neglecting my crossword puzzles in the interest of the Scouts and I’m
out of practice.”
“Well,” said Tom, “it’s just this: everyone within a radius of fifty
miles up here knew of the McClinticks. Even though they never saw them
and would probably never see them (and Joe was one of them), they were
always interested to hear any gossip concerning them. More so because
the McClinticks were so extravagant with their wealth.
“If they arrived at the Lodge on the first day of April at nine o’clock
in the morning, it would be passed along from one to the other, until it
finally reached Joe about twelve o’clock noon.
“The same with all their public comings and goings. From what Joe said,
he always heard things before they were twenty-four hours old.
“Of course, when visitors came or went away from the Lodge, the country
people took little notice of them. It was the ‘rich McClinticks’ they
were concerned about. I suppose it was because they felt a certain pride
in having people of such fabulous wealth for neighbors.
“At any rate, the day when the son was reported killed, the news spread
like wild-fire. Joe said as soon as it reached him he felt right off
that they wouldn’t hear much more of the McClinticks. He said everyone
felt the same way and they regretted it.”
“I’m beginning to see light,” I said.
“You see,” Tom said and moved his chair nearer the fireplace, “what they
regretted (Joe included) was the fact that the tragedy brought to a
close the ever pleasant round of gossip which wealthy city people
furnish with their extravagances.”
“You preach a fine sermon, Tom!” Brent put in.
“Aw, wait a second, Brent,” Tom said breathlessly. “I could tell by
Joe’s manner that neither the young man’s midnight visit or Roland
McClintick’s death had visibly affected his intelligence enough to
connect the two really relevant incidents. And the murder of the elder
McClintick, he discussed without feeling. They meant nothing to him;
none of them. Except to make small talk and while away a pleasant hour
or so with an amiable customer.
“But his love of small talk has proven a blessing. It’s given us a real
clue!”
“How?” I asked, still in the dark.
“Well, you watch me unravel it,” Tom said proudly. “Joe remembers that
night a year ago in November because he wasn’t feeling well. The fact
that the young man gave him a shock on that same night freshens his
memory as to the terrible attack of neuralgia he had. And being human he
enjoyed telling about his sufferings.
“In other words he couldn’t tell me about his sufferings that night
without telling me about the young man. They fit together because of the
fact that he was sleeping so soundly with the sedative he had taken, he
didn’t hear the young man calling him. And then the next day he heard
about Roland McClintick which of course would serve to give him three
things to talk of all happening in a few hours’ time. Consequently,
every time he sees Mr. McClintick’s picture it makes him think of the
day Roland was killed and his own scare and sufferings the night
before.”
“That’s reducing it to its common denominator,” I admitted, “but still I
fail to see the clue.”
“You see, if it wasn’t that he loved small talk he wouldn’t have ever
thought of remembering in such detail that the night of his sufferings
and the other incident was just the night before Roland McClintick was
supposed to have lost his life. And that is where our clue comes in.
“His simple country habit of connecting incidents with his own private
life enabled him to tell me word for word the ’phone conversation of
that young fellow, who mentioned Montreal and asked for the number one
hundred. His talk to his father was lucid enough for us to know that the
young chap was going away because of something dire about to happen. And
he was pleading with his father not to do it. Who else could it be but
Roland McClintick that ’phoned from Joe’s garage that night? And yet,
the next morning when he was really in Montreal, his father reported him
dead.”
“And six months later,” I said, “so Peters told us, he calls from
Montreal. Minnie Schultz wasn’t having any idle dream, I guess!”
“Minnie’s my find!” said Brent, mockingly indignant.
“Last, but not least,” Tom concluded, “Joe mentioned to me quite
casually that, when he raised the young fellow’s foot up to bandage it,
he noticed something unusual about it.”
“What?” I asked, although sensing the answer.
“A long thick scar!” Tom said quietly.