“Please call and see Miss Louise Templin at the St. James Hotel. Don’t wait to see me first. See her. Very urgent.”
“Please call and see Miss Louise Templin at the St. James Hotel. Don’t wait to see me first. See her. Very urgent.”
Nick did not need to glance at the signature to find out who had written this characteristic note.
“When the chief says ‘very urgent,’ he means it,” was Nick’s inward comment.
A pile of letters had accumulated in his absence, but it did not take him long to deal with his correspondents; then directing one of his assistants to inform the chief that he had returned and was acting on the urgent message, he started for the St. James and sent up his card to Miss Templin.
He was invited to “come right up,” and he soon afterward stood before the entrance to a suite of rooms on the second floor.
His knock was answered by a woman’s voice, which bade him enter.
Accepting the invitation, he found himself standing inthe presence of a young lady, richly and tastefully dressed, and remarkably handsome.
She held in her hand the card which Nick had sent up, and, glancing at it, the young lady said:
“You are Mr. Carter?”
“At your service, Miss Templin.”
“You come from the chief of police, I presume?”
“I have just arrived in the city and have had an urgent message from the chief asking me to call here.”
“Please be seated, Mr. Carter.”
When Nick had taken the chair which the young lady pointed out to him, she continued:
“It can scarcely be necessary, Mr. Carter, for me to apologize for receiving you here, rather than in the public reception rooms of the hotel, where we might be overheard in our conversation.”
“I understand all that, Miss Templin. You wish to consult me professionally.”
“Yes. I called on your chief of police yesterday, and he advised me to put the case in your hands. He also promised to send you to me, and I see he has kept his promise promptly.”
“I will be pleased to hear from you the nature of the work which you have for me to do,” said Nick, in order to hasten matters.
“Briefly, it is to find a man with a long, white beard,” she replied.
“That is rather a vague undertaking,” smiled Nick.
“You will not think so after I have told you more about it.
“Five years ago my father, as I have up to a recent date had reason to believe, died, and was buried. Last week I met either him alive and in the flesh, or his double. I want you to run this mystery down and solve it. That is the gist of the story. Now I will go into details.”
“If you please, Miss Templin.”
“As I said before, I had, up to last week, a perfect belief that my father, Jason Templin, was dead and buried for three years.”
“You were not present at his death and burial?”
“No. I have been in Europe for four years.”
“From whom did you get the news of his death?”
“From my guardian, and my father’s most intimate friend.”
“His name?”
“Lawrence Lonsdale.”
“Where does he live?”
“In San Francisco.”
“Where your father lived, and—is supposed to have died?”
“Yes.”
“Cannot you trust this Lonsdale?”
“I have always believed I could until the sight of that man last week raised a doubt in my mind of Mr. Lonsdale’s honesty. I am very anxious to speedily have the doubt removed, or confirmed, and that is why I applied to your chief of police for help. The affair must be cleared up within the next few days.”
“Why?”
“Because I am the promised wife of Lawrence Lonsdale. He left San Francisco for New York last evening, and we are to be married when he reaches this city. There must be no uncertainty about this affair when he arrives.”
“Well, give me the details of the case, and I’ll see what can be done,” said Nick.
“For several years before his death,” began Miss Templin, “my father was mentally dead and helpless.”
“Insane?”
“Hardly insane. His case puzzled the most eminent physicians on the Pacific Coast. He retired one night, apparently in his usual good health. Next morning he was found lying in bed, helpless, speechless and, as it was soon discovered, with a brain which was mentally a blank.
“After that day he never spoke, or showed signs of possessing the powers of reasoning, understanding or hearing, and he never moved a muscle of either leg.
“The most wonderful part of the case was that his appetite was not impaired, and he took nourishment regularly. Physically, he was as well as ever, except that he never afterward would, or could, walk, talk or hear.
“For two years we called into his case all the medical skill on the coast, but without a particle of success. Mr. Templin lived on, his physical form as perfect as ever, but his mental or spiritual part seemed to have died and left the body.
“At the end of these two years a Dr. Greene, who conducted a sanitarium near Oakland, devoted to mental diseases of the milder form, expressed the belief that hecould restore my father to the use of all his faculties, if the afflicted man was placed in his care at his private retreat.
“I visited the sanitarium, and was shown the suite of rooms which Greene offered to set aside for my poor father’s use. He also introduced me to the two nurses and a male assistant, who would be in constant attendance.
“I saw at once that my afflicted parent would receive better attention than he had been getting, and, although Greene’s charges were excessively large, Mr. Lonsdale and I concluded to have him removed to the retreat.
“This was the more readily agreed to by me because I was going to Europe for a four years’ stay among the art studios of Italy.”
“You have been there as a student?”
“Yes. From my mother, who died when I was young, I inherited a love for painting, and it was my father’s dearest desire that when I came out of school I should go to Italy and get the benefit of the best teachers in painting. Mr. Lonsdale, therefore, urged me to place my father in this retreat, where he would have better care than we could give him, and go to Europe, as originally arranged.”
“Your father, as you supposed, died in the retreat?”
“Yes. The first news I got of it was about a year after I had been in Rome. Mr. Lonsdale cabled that papa was dead. Several weeks later I got his letter, which set forth the details.”
“Then the death was tragic?”
“You shall judge for yourself. Mr. Lonsdale, as hewrote to me in his letter, was summoned to the sanitarium by a telegram which informed him that my father was dead.
“He was not surprised at the bare news, for by that time we had surrendered all hopes of a final recovery; but the manner of the death was a shock.
“The weather was cool, and a grate fire burned in my father’s room that night. In the temporary absence of the attendants from the apartment, it was supposed the patient recovered the use of his legs, got up and went to the fire.
“While there it was thought he fell in a fatal faint.
“When the attendant came back, he found the patient dead at the grate, with his head on the fender, and his face nearly burned away.
“Mr. Templin wore a long, white beard, and very white hair. All of the beard and hair had been consumed.
“Dr. Greene wanted to hold an autopsy, but Mr. Lonsdale would not consent. In fact, he had the remains consigned to a vault, because he feared the intense desire of the medical profession of California to get a look at the brain of the man who furnished this remarkable case was so great and so general that the body would not be safe in a grave.”
“And yet you have some doubts, Miss Templin, whether it really is your father’s body which lies in that vault back there?” commented Nick Carter, as the young lady indicated that her story was told.
“Yes.”
“And that Mr. Lonsdale, your guardian and affianced husband, has in some way deceived you?”
“Mr. Lonsdale was my guardian. I am now of age.”
“But you have not answered my question.”
“Well, I had rather believe that if I have been deceived about my father’s death, he has been deceived also.”
“Why not wait, then, till he arrives in New York before making this investigation?”
“No. I greatly desire that it be made before he arrives.”
“And if you find that the man you saw last week is not your father, you do not want Mr. Lonsdale to know that the investigation was made?”
“I should prefer it so.”
“She knows more than she is willing to tell me,” thought Nick.
“Where did you see the man you believed to be your father?” he asked.
“At the office of the Scotia Life Insurance Company, in this city.”
“When?”
“Wednesday of last week.”
“And this is Thursday. That was eight days ago?”
“Yes.”
“Why so much delay in beginning your search for the man?”
“It was hard for me to make up my mind to stamp my doubts of the honor of the man I love with the brand of investigation. It was only when I realized that he was on his way to claim my hand in marriage that I decided to have that doubt removed when he stood before me again.”
“Did you speak to this man whom you thought was your father?”
“No. He got away before the opportunity offered, or rather before I recovered from the shock of my surprise. When I saw him he was some distance away, and just about to go out upon the street. By the time I had turned back to follow him, he had disappeared among the crowd outside.”
“You made no attempt to find out who he was?”
“No. How could I?”
“What was he doing when you saw him? Was anyone with him?”
“He was alone, and held something in his hand which had the appearance of a note, a check or a receipt. He was looking at this paper the moment I saw him.”
“You went to the Scotia’s office on business?”
“I went there under Mr. Lonsdale’s instructions to get a remittance which he telegraphed to me from San Francisco,” explained Miss Templin.
“He expected to meet me here in New York when I landed, but was detained a week in San Francisco. He therefore telegraphed, asking me to remain till he could come on. At the same time he sent me to his friend, the president of the Scotia Life Insurance Company, for what money I needed. I was just entering the office when I saw that man leaving.”
“Did you mention the matter to your friend, the president of the Scotia?”
“No. I was not well enough acquainted with him to speak on a subject so delicate. I called at the office yesterday, but he was not in—would not be in till to-day.”
“Then we might find him there now?”
“I suppose so.”
“Can you accompany me to his office?”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Certainly.”
“Then let us go at once.”
“What for?”
“To take up the trail of your man of mystery.”
“I scarcely see——”
“Will you leave that to me, Miss Templin?”
“Why, certainly.”
“Then, if you are ready, we will start at once.”
On the way to the office of the Scotia, Nick continued his inquisition:
“Your father was a rich man, Miss Templin, was he not?”
“Yes, sir; very.”
“You are his heiress?”
“I am, so far as I know, the only blood relative he has living.”
“Who is this Lawrence Lonsdale, the man you are going to marry?”
“A lawyer, and papa’s most trusted friend and agent.”
“How did he become your guardian?”
“By my father’s will, under which he was also made executor of the estate.”
“You were lovers before you went to Europe?”
“Yes. Mr. Lonsdale and I have been lovers since I was fifteen years old.”
“Is there any way in which Mr. Lonsdale could benefit by deceiving you about your father’s fate?”
“None that I can imagine.”
“He is anxious to make you his wife?”
“Oh, yes. He wanted to marry me before I went to Europe.”
“Ah! You refused?”
“Yes. I told him I would not marry while my father was lying in that half-dead state. After papa died, he wanted to come to Europe and marry me, but I was determined to finish my studies first.”
“You ought to easily prove your father’s death without Mr. Lonsdale’s testimony, Miss Templin.”
“Why, how? He is the only witness on that point in America.”
“This Dr. Greene?”
“He, as well as the nurses and attendant in charge of my father, went to Australia or New Zealand soon after Mr. Templin’s death.”
“Ah!”
It was only a word of two letters, but it caused the young woman to look at Nick sharply.
The detective pretended not to notice that searching look, but he was confident his little aspirate would set Miss Templin’s mind to work on a brand-new lead.
They found the president of the Scotia Life Insurance Company in his office, and Miss Templin introduced herself. She met with a warm welcome from the friend of her affianced husband.
Then she introduced Nick Carter.
“What! Not the celebrated detective!” exclaimed the insurance president. “How fortunate! I was upon the point of going to your house to consult you on a matter of considerable concern to not only our company, but to four or five other companies in this city, who have been hit equally hard.”
“Hit!” exclaimed Nick.
“Why, yes. A man who insured with us two years ago has died. There are some circumstances about the case which have aroused our suspicions that everything is not exactly straight. Before we pay the money we want the case thoroughly investigated, and we have decided you are the man to do it.”
“How much is involved?”
“Half a million. He was insured for one hundredthousand dollars in each of five companies. If you can show up fraud in the case, it will pay you well.”
“What was the man’s name?”
“Miles Mackenzie.”
“Where does he live?”
“At a town in eastern Pennsylvania named Elmwood.”
“Well, as soon as I finish Miss Templin’s business, I’ll be glad to look into this affair for you, if it can wait a few days.”
“Oh, yes, a week, if necessary. The money will not be paid till you get time to look up the Mackenzie affair. So you have a mystery to clear up, too, eh, Miss Templin?”
“Yes; and we’ve come to you to help us out.”
“I help you out? Why, how can I? What is it?”
Miss Templin explained as briefly as she could what had happened when she called the week previous.
“And you want to trace this man if you can from our office?” asked the president of Nick.
“Yes,” replied the detective.
“But how?”
“He was here on business, I suppose?”
“That seems a reasonable deduction.”
“For what purpose do men usually call?”
“To pay premiums.”
“Then let us make inquiries of your cashier first.”
“Had your man any prominent appearance by which he would be likely to impress the cashier’s memory?”
“I think so.”
“Then I’ll send for him.”
The president touched a button and summoned a messenger.
“Tell Mr. Grandin I wish to see him, and ask him to bring his accounts along for Wednesday of last week.”
The cashier shortly appeared, with an account book under his arm.
“Mr. Grandin, this gentleman”—indicating Nick Carter—“wants to make some inquiries, and I wish you would answer him to the best of your ability.”
“I shall be pleased if I can accommodate you, sir,” said the cashier, bowing to the detective.
“Well, then, Mr. Grandin, a gentleman was seen to leave this office on the day mentioned and our belief is that he was here for the purpose of paying a premium, because he had a piece of paper in his hand when he went out which looked like one of the company’s receipts.”
“And you want to learn who he was—what his name is?”
“That’s it.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Miss Templin can,” said Nick, looking at the young lady. Whereupon the latter said:
“The man was perhaps sixty years old, but looked older on account of very white hair and long white whiskers, white eyebrows and a very red face. He——”
“Wait a moment,” exclaimed the cashier, interrupting Miss Templin. “There is no need of your going any further.”
“Then you know him?” asked Nick.
“Yes. He was here on that day, as my books will show.”
“Well, what is his name?”
“His name was Miles Mackenzie.”
“What!” shouted the president, springing up from his chair. “The man who——”
“The man who died yesterday at Elmwood, in Pennsylvania, who was so heavily insured,” said the cashier.
“This is astonishing!” exclaimed the president, dismissing the cashier with a wave of his hand.
“It certainly is a remarkable coincidence,” said Nick Carter. “If your cashier is correct in what he has just told us, then the man who was mistaken by Miss Templin for her father was Mackenzie, late of Elmwood, Pennsylvania.”
“There doesn’t seem to be a doubt about that,” agreed the president.
“Then while I prosecute my inquiries for Miss Templin, I can at the same time probably serve your company,” said Nick, addressing the president of the Scotia.
“Not only my company, but the four other companies besides. I have seen the presidents or managers of the other four this forenoon, and they authorized me to take charge of the affair and secure an investigation.”
“When were your suspicions aroused that the Mackenzie affair might not be exactly all right?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“How?”
“By the receipt of a telegram from Elmwood, announcing the death of Mackenzie.”
“Who sent the telegram?”
“It was signed ‘John A. Abbott.’”
“Do you know him?”
“No; never heard of him.”
“You thought it strange that the death should thus be announced to your company?”
“Yes. It is quite unusual. But there are other strange features about the case. A similar telegram was received by each of the other four companies. What is more suspicious still, the premiums on three of the other policies would have been due to-day, and the remaining one next week. The first insurance was secured in our company. Nine days later he took out policies in three more companies, and a week later still, in the fifth.”
“This is all you have upon which to base your suspicions that something is wrong in the case?”
“No. After these telegrams were received yesterday, our general manager, during my absence from the city, secretly sent an agent of the company to Elmwood for a little private investigation. This morning we received a message from him. Here it is.”
The president handed a telegram to Nick, which the detective read:
“Better send a shrewd detective at once.”
“Anything more?”
“No.”
“I will go to Elmwood.”
“When?”
“This evening. I can get a train at five o’clock, which will set me down at Elmwood about eight.”
“Good. You will find our man, Foster, at the best hotel in the town.”
“No. I want you to recall your man immediately. He must not be there when I arrive.”
“But you’ll be gone before he can reach New York.”
“Yes. We’ll probably pass each other on the way.”
“Then how can you get the benefit of his investigation?”
“I don’t want it.”
“Why?”
“Maybe I should have said I do not need it. Surely I ought to be able to discover anything he has discovered. Then I don’t want his deductions. They might mislead me. A detective’s own theories are usually better and safer than those of an amateur.”
“Very well, Mr. Carter. We will recall Foster.”
“Before I go, will you give me what information you have of the history of Mackenzie? I mean as to his age, birthplace, family history and other things shown by his application for a policy.”
“Oh, I see. I’ll send and get the application from the files.”
When the insurance company’s application in the case of Miles Mackenzie was laid before Nick, he looked itrapidly over, and mentally noted such points as he thought might be of interest in his investigation.
The application was made two years before.
The applicant’s age was given as fifty-seven years; born in Scotland; only child of parents who were both dead; family history good; father and mother both died at a ripe old age; never had been seriously ill in his life; medical examination eminently satisfactory; married the second time; had one child—a son by first wife; his living wife was made the beneficiary under the policy.
“Seems to have been a good risk,” commented Nick, as he handed the application to the president.
“One of the best we ever had at that age,” was the reply.
“His premiums must have been very large?”
“They were. In the two years he has paid to the five companies more than sixty thousand dollars.”
Nick arose to go.
“You will hear from me, Mr. President, within a few days,” he said.
“Then you think there will be little trouble in showing fraud of some kind in this case?”
“Oh, I did not intend to convey that idea. If there be fraud, it ought to be proven in a very short time. If everything is legitimate, then the fact must also be readily established. Therefore, I anticipate a speedy report, but whether it will be favorable to your interests or not, I cannot promise until I have first gone to Elmwood.”
On their way uptown, Nick said to Miss Templin:
“Did this Dr. Greene own his sanitarium at Oakland when Mr. Templin was a patient at that place?”
“You mean the real estate?”
“Yes.”
“I think he did.”
“Then when he went to Australia, he sold out to some one?”
“That is what I understand—to the man who is now in possession.”
“Can you find out for me the amount realized by him in this conveyance?”
“Quite easily. An intimate friend in San Francisco, with whom I have constantly corresponded, can get the information, through her brother.”
“Then telegraph to her to send it to you without delay.”
“Mr. Carter, do you——”
“Now, Miss Templin, you must ask me no questions, but be ready to answer those I have to put to you at any time. You will stay here in New York a few days?”
“Oh, yes. I must remain at the St. James until Mr. Lonsdale arrives, and that will be nearly a week longer.”
“Then stay in your room as much as is altogether convenient, and hold yourself in readiness to come to me at Elmwood in an hour’s notice, should I send for you,” was Nick’s parting injunction, as Miss Templin got ready to leave the elevated train at Twenty-eighth Street.
Nick continued on uptown, and Miss Templin proceeded at once to the St. James.
Just as she was going into the hotel at the Twenty-eighth Street entrance, she was noticed by one of two men who happened to be passing on Broadway.
One was a man apparently about fifty years of age, of medium height and stockily built. He wore a closely cropped, full beard, of a sandy hue, and was clad in a business suit of light gray.
His companion was a much younger man, whose age could not have been more than thirty-five. He wore no beard at all, but his smooth, pale face showed the close-shaved stubble of a beard which would be intensely black were it allowed to grow, and his closely-cropped head of hair was of the same hue.
It was this younger one of the two who first saw Miss Templin. Instantly he grew excited and exclaimed, as he grasped his companion by the arm:
“Good heavens, Dent! Look there!”
“Look where? Why, what is the matter?”
“Did you see that woman go into the St. James just now?”
“No. Who was it?”
“Louise Templin.”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as I am that you are you and I am I.”
“That’s bad—at this time.”
“I should say it was. I’m going to see what she is doing in New York. I had no idea she was back from Europe. Go on up to the Coleman House. I’ll join you there in the bar.”
The man addressed as Dent continued on up Broadway, and his companion entered the St. James Hotel from the Broadway side.
Miss Templin was standing in front of the telegraph booth, writing a message.
The stranger walked slowly past, behind her back, and managed to read at a glance what the young lady had written, and to which she was putting her signature.
The telegram read:
“Find out and telegraph me at once sum paid to Dr. Greene by present owner of Greene’s Sanitarium.”
The newcomer strolled on up to the office desk, and thence into the reading room, from which place he saw Miss Templin enter the elevator and go upstairs.
Then he left by the Twenty-eighth Street door, and soon joined his companion at the Coleman House.
“Dent,” he said, “it is worse than I feared. That woman is here for no good.”
“What have you discovered?”
“She just now sent a telegram to San Francisco, asking for information as to the price paid for Greene’s Sanitarium by the present owner.”
“Are you sure?”
“I read the telegram.”
“What will you do?”
“What will I do? That telegram sealed Louise Templin’s fate. She’ll never get an answer.”
Nick Carter reached Elmwood a few minutes after eight o’clock that night, and went straight to the only hotel in the town—a very comfortable and well-kept, though small, hostelry.
He made his appearance in Elmwood in the guise of a lawyer, and registered as “Wylie Ketchum, New York City.”
As soon as he had been assigned to a room, he inquired of the landlord:
“Can you tell me where Mr. Mackenzie lives?”
“I can tell you where he did live,” was the reply, made in a mysterious tone of voice.
“Where he did live? You don’t mean to tell me he has moved away?”
“Well, he has!”
“Rather sudden, wasn’t it?”
“Very.”
“Do you know where he has gone?”
“Well, not for sure, though, seeing the old man was a good sort o’ person as men go—a member of the Presbyterian Church, and one who never refused a call in the name of charity, I presume he has gone to heaven, if a man ever gets there.”
“Dead?”
“As a doornail.”
“When did he die?”
“Yesterday. Are you a friend of the family?”
“Oh, no; only a lawyer who has done business for him occasionally.”
“Ah, yes.”
“How did he die?”
“Suddenly. Dr. Abbott can tell you all about it.”
“Who is Dr. Abbott?” asked Nick, at the same time remembering that the telegrams to the insurance companies, announcing Mackenzie’s death, were signed “John A. Abbott.”
“Why, he’s the oldest physician in these parts. Has been here since a boy, and——”
“But was he Mackenzie’s physician?”
“Yes; and more than his physician. The two men were intimates. No one in Elmwood knew Mackenzie better than Abbott—not even his minister.”
“Then I want to meet Dr. Abbott as soon as possible,” Nick thought.
Ten minutes later he was introducing himself to “the oldest physician in Elmwood.”
Dr. Abbott was fully sixty years old; he was a large, well-fed, jolly-appearing gentleman, who no sooner looked Nick Carter in the eye than he impressed the latter most favorably.
“No matter how much of a villain Mackenzie was, this man was not his accomplice,” was Nick’s verdict of Dr. Abbott.
“Well, Mr. Ketchum, how can I serve you?” asked the doctor.
“I came to Elmwood to transact a little business with a client, and was shocked to learn as soon as I reached town that he is dead.”
“Who? Mackenzie?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! poor Mackenzie! It was a great shock to me.”
“You were his intimate friend?”
“We were almost like brothers.”
“So I was told, and that is why I came to you.”
“How can I serve you?”
“By giving advice. I came here to draw up a new will.”
“Why, I didn’t know he had made one. He sent for you?”
“No; he arranged for my visit when he was in New York yesterday a week ago.”
“Ah!”
“So I’m too late, and it’s my fault. I should have come several days earlier, but couldn’t get away. Besides, I supposed he was in the best of health and there was no hurry.”
“That was Mackenzie’s secret and mine. We expected a quick ending, but its sudden arrival astonished me, at least, in spite of my knowledge of his condition.”
“Then he has been failing for some time?”
“For about a year. He came to me when he experienced the first symptoms, and told me how he felt. I kept from him the knowledge of his condition as long as I thought it wise. But he grew so rapidly and alarmingly worse, I was forced, a few months ago, to lay bare tohim his precarious state of ill-health. He heard his doom like the brave Christian he was.”
“Then death did not find him unprepared?”
“No; certainly not.”
“How long did you know him?”
“A little over two years—ever since he came to Elmwood!”
“Where did he live before he moved to this place?”
“In Australia, though he originally came from Scotland. He was a Scotchman by birth.”
“How did you and he come to be such friends?”
“Well, in the first place he was my tenant.”
“Your tenant?”
“Yes. I own the house in which they have lived ever since they came to this place.”
“He rented it?”
“Yes.”
“Then he was not, as I supposed, a wealthy man?”
“On the contrary, he was worth half a million, besides his large life insurance.”
“And yet he was a renter?”
“He rented, with the privilege of purchasing. You see, he was not sure of making this his home until after he was stricken with his fatal disease, and then I discouraged him from buying for two reasons. One was because the rent he was paying was satisfactory, and the other was because I made up my mind that I would move into the house myself, should he die and his wife go away.”
“Where would she go?”
“Back to her old home in Australia. Mackenzie told me she has never been satisfied since she left that far-off place of her nativity.”
“Then she will return there, now that her husband is dead?”
“I think it quite likely.”
“You have spoken only of his wife. Has he no children?”
“None by the present Mrs. Mackenzie, who is his second wife and comparatively a young woman. But he had a son living—the issue of his first marriage.”
“Where is this son?”
“I don’t know where he is at present. When last heard from he was in Paris and talked about coming here to visit his father soon. Indeed, Mackenzie, when he showed me the Paris letter, said he’d not be surprised if his boy would drop in on him almost any time.”
“He showed you the son’s letters?”
“Oh! yes. You see, Mackenzie made me his full confidant ever since he first met me. He has talked a great deal about his absent son, and has shown me all the letters he received from the young man from time to time, written at different places. He confided in me as if I were his brother.”
“You said something about his life insurance?”
“Yes; Mackenzie had half a million dollars on his life. You see, he wanted to leave his entire possessions to this son, and yet arrange it so that his widow would not receive a cent less at his death. He consulted me about the plan, which was adopted, and it was this: His income was sufficient for the family’s modest mode of living, and for the payment of premiums on a half million of life insurance besides. So, instead of putting the accumulating revenues with the principal, he used them to carry the insurance. Did he never explain this to you, his lawyer?”
“No, I have done very little business with Mackenzie. Had he lived, I should have known more.”
“Well, as his trusted friend, I will gladly consult with you on all matters pertaining to his estate. Now you are here, had you not better remain till after the funeral? Your services may be needed.”
“When will the funeral occur?”
“To-morrow afternoon.”
“Then I will stay.”
“I was just going over to the house to see if I could be of service to the widow in making the arrangements for the funeral. Will you go along?”
It was just what Nick hoped for—this opportunity to visit the dead man’s late home, and he accepted Dr. Abbott’s invitation.
As the doctor was getting ready to leave his office, Nick made a mental summing up in the case, so far as he had got.
“This Mackenzie’s plot, if there be one, was deep-laid. He was probably an excellent reader of human nature, and when he got ready to pick out an innocent aid-de-camp in this town, he wisely selected Dr. Abbott, for the triple reason that Abbott was the most pliable, unsophisticated man in town: because he was a man of high standing in the community, and because he was a doctor by profession.
“He was careful not to let his chosen friend discover the fact that he, himself, thoroughly understood diseases and all their symptoms. Therefore, he easily led Abbott into the belief that he—Mackenzie—was a victim to some deadly malady.
“He has taken Abbott into his confidence about the absent son, even to showing the letters from the latter. Those letters we shall find among his effects, no doubt, and the son may or may not turn up hereafter.
“He even consulted the doctor, and used him in some way to further his ends about the life insurance. I must find out just how, after I have seen the corpse. Yes, I must see the corpse of Miles Mackenzie when we reach the house of mourning.”
As Nick Carter and Dr. Abbott walked through the main street of the town of Elmwood, on their way toward the residence of the late Miles Mackenzie, the detective had an opportunity to note the great popularity and widespread esteem in which his companion was held in that community.
Everyone they met had a word of greeting, and received from the whole-souled man some response in return. Very often inquiries were made about the funeral,and it was evident that a very general feeling of regret existed for the death of the man who had so recently come among them.
Abbott explained to Nick that the house, in which Mackenzie’s body lay, was half a mile beyond the edge of the town. The night was pleasant, and they walked along in the full enjoyment of the summer weather.
“Dr. Abbott,” said Nick, when they were fairly out of the town, “your friend died suddenly, you say. Might not the insurance company, on that account, be inquisitive, and be inclined to make trouble before they pay over such a large sum?”
“There are five companies, Mr. Ketchum. He held a policy in each of five companies. When it became evident that he would drop dead some day, we discussed that very point. Mackenzie had a horror of being dug up after burial, and having his body subjected to a postmortem examination. So we prepared against that contingency.”
“Indeed! How?”
“As soon as he died, I telegraphed to each of the insurance companies, notifying them of his demise. If they hold an autopsy, it must be done before to-morrow afternoon. If they fail to do it by that time, they will never be able to set up a plea that the body was removed beyond their reach without giving them a fair chance to investigate the cause of death.”
“But that would not prevent them from digging up the body or having it disinterred for the purpose of an autopsy later,” said Nick.
“Oh! yes, it would. An autopsy after to-morrow night will be impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because the body will be incinerated at the Long Island Crematory.”
“Then, after all,” said Nick to himself, “it is not his body lying in a self-inflicted trance, nor is it a perfectly made wax image. What is it I am up against?”
A huge Newfoundland dog met them at the gate leading into the spacious grounds surrounding the house. The dog greeted Dr. Abbott familiarly and with demonstrations of great friendship.
“Poor Rover!” exclaimed Abbott, patting the Newfoundland on the head. “You have lost your good, kind master.”
Then to Nick he said:
“This dog and Mackenzie were almost inseparable. When the poor brute realizes his loss, he will be inconsolable.”
As they neared the house, Nick said:
“Dr. Abbott, I wish you would not mention to the widow my profession nor the business which brought me to Elmwood.”
“Why not?”
“I mean until after the funeral. Might it not be a source of additional worry to her to know that I had been brought here by her dead husband?”
“You are right, Mr. Ketchum. I will introduce you as a friend from the city visiting me.”
“Thank you.”
The house stood in the center of a large lawn, and there was no other residence within a radius of a quarter of a mile. It was a frame building of moderate size, two stories in height, and by no means of modern architecture.
A very large, buxom woman, of middle age, met Dr. Abbott at the door. He addressed her as “Emma,” and Nick supposed she was a servant.
“Where is Mrs. Mackenzie, Emma?”
“In the sitting room, sir, with Rev. Playfair and Deacon Cotton.”
“Then we’ll not disturb her till they have gone. I’ve brought a friend, who is visiting me, and we’ll go in and look at the remains, if you have no objections.”
“Why, certainly not, doctor,” was the stout woman’s reply, but Nick was aware that she was at the same time staring at him with a gaze which was full of suspicion or curiosity.
Abbott and Nick followed Emma through the first door on the right, into a room which had all the blinds drawn and was but faintly illuminated by a lamp burning low.
The servant turned up the light, and Nick saw a coffin resting on two chairs near the mantel.
Softly and silently he and Abbott walked forward and looked down at the dead man.
They saw the face of what was undoubtedly a corpse; the face of an old man, with very white hair and very white beard.
Abbott looked but a few moments. Then he turned away, while tears trickled down his face.
Nick stood a little longer, carefully noting every feature of the dead man in the coffin, and all this time he was aware of the fact that the stout woman never once took her eyes off his face. When they emerged from the parlor, the minister and deacon were just leaving. Abbott, therefore, instructed the servant to conduct them to the widow.
During that short visit to the corpse, Nick made one very important observation, which was lost upon Abbott and the woman, Emma.
Rover had followed them in, and, while Nick was looking at the dead man, the dog came up to the coffin, also looked at the face of the corpse, gave one or two sniffs and walked away, without exhibiting a particle of canine grief over his loss.
They found the young and comely widow in the sitting room, surrounded by several condoling neighboring women, who took their departure as Abbott entered.
The doctor introduced his friend and visitor, Mr. Ketchum, from the city, and made his excuses for bringing a stranger to the house of mourning.
“The fact is, my dear Mrs. Mackenzie, we may need an additional witness, when the life insurance is collected, and as Mr. Ketchum is a stranger in Elmwood, he will serve as such much better than one of your neighbors.”
This explanation may have been satisfactory to the widow, but Nick noticed that she, too, bestowed moreattention upon him than the circumstances seemed to call for.
“You will pardon me, Mrs. Mackenzie, for mentioning such a matter now, I know, because you are aware what good friends your husband and I were; but I’m going to ask whether you have any knowledge of a will which he left?”
“He never spoke to me of a will. Did he to you?”
“Yes. That is why I asked. He told me that it was his design to give you the proceeds of his life insurance, and his estate in hand to his son, Leo.”
“Then he made more of a confidant of you than of me. If there is such a will, it may be in his room—in his desk. Shall we go and see?”
Abbott readily assented, and Mrs. Mackenzie led the way into an apartment between the sitting room and the parlor.
This, as Nick surmised, had been the private room of the late Miles Mackenzie.
A bed stood in one corner. At its foot was a door, partly ajar, which Nick’s quick eye observed gave entrance to a large clothes closet.
The dog followed them into this room also. Nick’s eyes never lost sight of the brute, though to an observer he was giving Rover no attention.
He saw the dog trot across to the closet, push the door further open with his nose, and look up toward the ceiling, while he uttered a very low whine.
The stout woman was right on Rover’s heels, and the toe of her heavy shoe gave him an admonishing punch inthe ribs to indicate that his exit from the room and from that closet in particular was greatly desired.
And Rover took the prompt hint.
Nick’s back was turned nearly all the time, while the closet incident was occurring, and the stout woman no doubt said, in her soul:
“Thank Heaven! he didn’t see what the fool dog did!”
And Nick was thinking:
“That brute will tell me more than Abbott can, if I follow the four-footed fellow up.”
“Here is the desk and here are the keys,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, as she unlocked a small desk sitting between the two windows. “Will you search for what you want, Dr. Abbott?”
Abbott accepted the invitation and began a search of the various drawers.
They found numerous letters from the absent son, and such odds and ends as one might expect to find in a private desk of a man whose life was uneventful. But no will turned up.
“This desk is especially arranged to throw off the unwary,” thought Nick, as he watched Abbott sorting papers and investigating pigeonholes. “If I were to search the house, that desk would be the last place I should overhaul.”
The moon was shining brightly as they walked down the path through the lawn, on their return to town. Nick was slightly behind Dr. Abbott, as the path was narrow, and the grass wet with a heavy dew.
Suddenly he saw at his feet a small, square piece ofpaper, which the wind was playing with. It looked to him like the label from a bottle.
He stooped, picked it up, and, assuring himself that he had made no mistake as to the nature of its former usage, he stuck it into one of his vest pockets.
When he left Abbott, to return to his hotel, he promised the latter to call on him again next morning.
Once safely in his room at the hotel, Nick took the label from his pocket and examined it by the light of his lamp. On it he read:
“Madame Reclaire,“No. 1871 ——th St.,“Philadelphia.”
For thirty seconds Nick looked at the address on the label, after reading it. Then he muttered:
“So! so! Madame Reclaire, of Philadelphia! We shall meet again. I have not seen you since I worked out the identity of Daly. I then promised myself to look into your business at some future time a little more closely. Now, here is some more of your peculiar article in trade, and it has been used to further the ends of a stupendous crime.
“This label came from a bottle of your mixture which changes the color of hair, after a few applications, and keeps it of the desired hue.
“What a little thing often works out the fate of man! This small, square bit of paper, which the sportive wind blew to the feet of Nick Carter, has solved the mystery of that man who lies back yonder in his coffin.”
It was ten o’clock next morning before Nick Carter reached Dr. Abbott’s office, and then he found the doctor absent on his daily round among his patients.
At noon he went back, with better success.
“I have promised to accompany Mrs. Mackenzie to New York with her husband’s remains this evening, Ketchum. Can you remain here till we return?”
“When will that be?”
“To-morrow morning. The remains will be incinerated to-night. We must stay in the city over night and come back early to-morrow forenoon.”
“I think I will have to return. But I’ll run up again in a few days,” said Nick, after pretending to study over the situation a little while.
“Then go to New York with us.”
“What time does the train leave Elmwood?”
“At four o’clock.”
“All right. I’ll be on hand. Any of the neighbors going but you?”
“No, and I’m really glad you will be one of our party, for I don’t exactly like being the only disinterested witness to the cremation. I want you to follow the remains with me to the crematory and see them put into the retort.”
“To oblige you, doctor, I’ll do it.”
“Thank you. Now, let us go up to the house. Theservice takes place at one o’clock. We’ll find nearly the whole town present, for Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie, though they never entertained, were immensely popular.”
“Mackenzie must have been a good citizen.”
“A better man did not live in Elmwood. He and his wife were prominently identified with every good work undertaken by the churches.”
“Church members, eh?”
“Yes. Like nearly all Scotchmen, Mackenzie was a profound Presbyterian of the strong foreordination faith. Yet he was always ready to join hands with the members of any Christian sect in doing deeds of good. You will see in this last tribute how great was the respect in which he was held.”
And what Nick saw during the funeral services went to confirm Dr. Abbott’s assertions.
The attendance was so large that the coffin was carried out under a large tree, near the front of the house, and there the funeral sermon was preached before several hundred neighbors, many of whom shed the tears of sincere sorrow.
The sermon was pronounced by everyone to be the most eloquent effort of the reverend speaker’s life. The subject, it was agreed, was an inspiration.
Nick’s attention was quietly divided between the widow and the dog. The widow’s face was hidden beneath a deep crape veil, and she seemed to weep silently and incessantly.
The dog did not simulate. He expressed no sorrow in his brute way, but to Nick’s practiced eye, the animalwas plainly nonplussed. He walked around among the vast crowd, sniffing at everybody and peering up anxiously into the faces of all he passed.
“Rover is looking for his master,” silently commented Nick. “What a splendid assistant I have in that dog.”
After the services, the neighbors were dismissed. Only the undertaker, Dr. Abbott and a few chosen friends remained at the house.
Nick excused himself to the doctor, with the plea that he must go to the hotel and get ready for his departure. He promised to meet Abbott at the depot.
At half-past three o’clock a train arrived from New York.
Among the passengers who left the train at Elmwood was a rather handsome, smoothed-faced young man, an entire stranger to the loungers about the station, who were already collecting to pay a last tribute of respect to the remains of their dead townsman, as he would be borne away forever by the four o’clock train.
The stranger inquired the way to the nearest hotel and set out to walk there, after getting his directions.
With his traveling bag in hand he entered the hotel just as Nick came into the office with his valise, and went to the desk to settle his bill.
The comfort of the parting guest is always made subservient to the welcome which awaits the fresh arrival at country hotels.
So Nick waited while the landlord received his new patron.
The detective noticed a look of surprise on the landlord’s face, as he turned the register around and examined it, after the stranger had written his name.
The good man’s voice had a slight tremble when he asked:
“Just come in on the half-past three train?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Beg pardon for seeming to be impertinent, but are you Miles Mackenzie’s son?”
“I am.”
“Just arrived from foreign ports?”
“Exactly!”
“I’ve often heard your father speak of you. And now I look at you, I think you resemble him somewhat.”
“Is that so?”
“You weren’t expected, I suppose?”
“Well, no. That is why I want to brush up a little before I go to the house and surprise him. So I just stopped in. Can you give me a room with plenty of soap, water and towels?”
The poor landlord was growing very nervous.
“Ahem!” he began, clearing his husky throat. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard any news since you arrived?”
“News? Why, no! I didn’t suppose you ever had any news in such a quiet, graveyard sort of a place. What on earth induced father to come to this town and bury himself alive with all his money, I cannot conceive. I marvel that he hasn’t died of sheer lonesomeness.”
“Mr. Mackenzie, I ought not to detain you here.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“You should go straight to the house.”
“Go straight to the house? What are you driving at?”
“Your father leaves for New York on the four o’clock train. He must now be on the road to the depot.”
“Why, then, I’ll go back and surprise him at the train. I can go along and——”
“How can I tell you? Your father will make the journey in a coffin.”
“What! Merciful Heaven! Don’t tell me he is dead?”
“I must. He died the day before yesterday, and will be taken to New York for burial this afternoon.”
“This is terrible,” groaned the afflicted son, as he let his face fall into his hands and sank back into a chair.
The landlord was so absorbed in the overpowering grief of his new guest, that he scarcely mustered up enough presence of mind to make out and receipt the bill of the departing lawyer, Wylie Ketchum, of New York.
As this task was finally completed, the sound of slowly revolving wheels came in from the street, accompanied by the measured tread of many feet.
The tender-hearted landlord came out from behind his desk, laid his hand gently on the afflicted man’s shoulder, and said, while tears came into his eyes:
“There comes the body, now, on the way to the depot. Will you accompany it to New York?”
The young man raised his face, and looked toward the street. Nick was sure the face was paler than it had been when its owner covered it with his hands a few moments before. The eyes certainly were filled with horror, and a wild expression distorted the countenance.
“No! No!” he muttered. “I couldn’t bear it. It’s toolate, now. Let them go on. I’ll remain here till—till—my stepmother returns.”
Then he drew back to a place where he could look through a window into the street without being seen.
From that place he watched the funeral procession pass the hotel, on its slow journey to the depot.
Nick looked, also, and his eyes rested longest upon the dog, Rover, which followed among the crowd, still maintaining that animal expression of puzzled wonder.
Just as the end of the procession passed the hotel, the dog stopped, put his nose to the ground, sniffed vigorously a few moments, and came running back. His nose remained close to the ground, and he came straight into the hotel.
The next moment he uttered a joyful whine, and, bounding across the room, began to lick the hand of the stranger and manifest other signs of doggish joy.
Nick Carter was busy fastening his bag, yet he noticed the look of terror, mixed with rage, which came into the young man’s face.
The landlord was looking on with open-mouthed astonishment.
“Whose dog is this?” asked young Mackenzie, patting the delighted Rover on the head.
“Well, that beats the dickens!” muttered mine host. “Why, that’s your father’s Rover. The instinct of these brutes is wonderful. He knows you are a member of the family, I guess.”
Just then the landlord’s attention was called to another part of the room, and Nick’s head was bent down till itseemed to have his body between his eyes and Mackenzie, Jr. Yet he saw the latter give the dog a vicious kick, which sent the brute howling toward the door.
“Poor fellow!” coaxed Mackenzie, “did I step on your foot! Well, I ask your pardon, old boy, I’m sure.”
The dog approached suspiciously and received the man’s caress, with some misgivings expressed in his honest face.
“Landlord, I’m going to the house to remain till my stepmother returns. I suppose I’ll find some one there?”
“Only the servant, sir.”
“All the better, then; I’ll not be disturbed in my sorrow. Can you direct me?”
“Certainly,” was the response, and the landlord gave the necessary directions, concluding with: “You can’t miss it.”
“Come on, old fellow; we’ll go together,” said the afflicted man to the dog.
And as Nick was driven to the depot, in the town bus, he saw the wandering prodigal walking up the road in the opposite direction, while Rover went gamboling along at his side.
“If men were endowed with the instinct of dogs,” muttered Nick, “crimes like this would never be committed.”
Then he heaved a sigh as he watched the capers of the happy dog, and again muttered:
“Poor brute! Your instinct this time will cost you your life. You know too much to live. And if I was suspected of sharing your knowledge, my life would also be in danger.”