“There was an old lady, to see about her husband’s pension,—and——”
“Well? I suppose not all the callers were beneficiaries?”
“No, sir. One was a—a lady.”
“A lady? Describe her.”
“Why, she was Miss Olive Raynor,—Mr. Gately’s ward.”
“Oh, Miss Raynor. Well, there’s no use discussing her. Were there any other ladies?”
“No, sir.”
“Nor any other men?”
“No, sir; that is, not through my room. You know, people could go in to Mr. Gately’s private offices without going through my room.”
“Yes, I know. But couldn’t you see them?”
“Only dimly,—through the clouded glass window between my room and Mr. Gately’s.”
“And what did you see of the callers in Mr. Gately’s room just before you heard the shot fired?”
Jenny looked dubious. She seemed inclined not to tell all she knew. But Mr. Talcott spoke sharply.
“Come,” he said; “speak up. Tell all you know.”
“I didn’t hear anybody come in,” said Jenny, slowly; “and then, all of a sudden, I heard loud voices,—and then, I heard quarrelly words——”
“Quarrelly?”
“Yes, sir, as if somebody was threatening Mr. Gately. I didn’t hear clearly, but I heard enough to make me look through the window between the two rooms——”
“This window?”
“Yes, sir,” and Jenny nodded at the clouded glass pane between her room and Mr. Gately’s office. “And I saw sort of shadows,—and then in a minute I saw the shadows get up—you know, Mr. Gately and another man,—and then,—I heard a pistol fired off, and I yelled!”
“It was your scream I heard, then!” I exclaimed.
“I don’t know,” Jenny replied, “but I did scream, because I am fearfully scared of pistol shots, and I didn’t know who was shooting.”
“What did you do next?” asked Mr. Talcott, in his quiet way.
“I ran into Mr. Gately’s room——”
“And you weren’t frightened?”
“Not for myself. I was frightened of the shot,—I always am afraid of firearms, but I wanted to know what was doing. So, I opened the door and ran in——”
“Yes; and?”
“I saw nobody in Mr. Gately’s room,—I mean this room next to mine,—so I ran on, to the third room,—I am not supposed to go in there,—but I did, and there I saw a man just going out to the hall and in his hand was a smoking revolver.”
“Out to the hall? Did you follow him?”
“Of course I did! But he ran down the staircase. I didn’t go down that way, because I thought I’d get down quicker and head him off by going down in the elevator.”
“So you went down in the elevator?”
“Yes, sir. It was Minny’s elevator,—Minny’s my sister,—and after I got in,—and saw Minny, I got sort of hysterical and nervous, and I couldn’t remember what I was about.”
“What became of the man?” asked Talcott, uninterested in Jenny’s nerves.
“I don’t know, sir. I was so rattled,—and I only saw him a moment,—and——”
“Would you know him if you saw him again?”
“I don’t know,—I don’t think so.”
“I wish you could say yes,—it may be of gravest importance.”
But Jenny seemed to resent Mr. Talcott’s desire.
“I don’t see how you could expect it, sir,” she said, pettishly; “I saw him only in a glimpse,—I was scared to death at the sound of the pistol shot,—and when I burst into this room and found Mr. Gately gone I was so kerflummixed I didn’t know what I was about! That I didn’t!”
“And yet,” Norah remarked, quietly, “after you went downstairs and these gentlemen found you in the lunchroom, you were perfectly calm and collected——”
“Nothing of the sort!” blazed back Jenny; “I’m all on edge! My nerves are completely unstrung!”
“Quite so,” said Mr. Talcott, kindly, “and I suggest that you go back to the lunchroom, Miss Jenny, and rest and calm yourself. But please remain there, until I call for you again.”
Jenny looked a little disappointed at being thus thrust out of the limelight, but as Mr. Talcott held the door open for her, she had no choice but to depart, and we presently heard her go down in her sister’s elevator.
“Now,” Mr. Talcott resumed, “we will look into this matter further.
“You see,” he proceeded, speaking, to my surprise, as much to Norah as to myself, “I can’t really apprehend that anything serious has happened to Mr. Gately. For, if the shot which Jenny heard, and which you, Mr. Brice, heard,—had killed Mr. Gately, the body, of course, would be here. Again, if the shot had wounded him seriously, he would in some way contrive to make his condition known. Therefore, I feel sure that Mr. Gately is either absolutely all right, or, if slightly wounded, he is in some anteroom or in some friend’s room nearby. And, if this is the case,—I mean, if our Mr. Gately is ill or hurt, we must find him. Therefore, careful search must be made.”
“But,” spoke up Norah, “perhaps Mr. Gately went home. There is no positive assurance that he did not.”
Mr. Talcott looked at Norah keenly. He didn’t seem to regard her as an impertinent young person, but he took her suggestion seriously.
“That may be,” he agreed. “I think I will call up his residence.”
He did so, and I gathered from the remarks he made on the telephone that Amos Gately was not at his home, nor was his niece, Miss Olive Raynor, there.
Talcott made another call or two, and I finally learned that he had located Miss Raynor.
For, “Very well,” he said; “I shall hope to see you here in ten or fifteen minutes, then.”
He hung up the receiver,—he had used the instrument in Jenny’s room, and not the upset one on Mr. Gately’s desk,—and he vouchsafed:
“I think it is all right. Miss Raynor says she saw her uncle here this afternoon, shortly after luncheon, and he said he was about to leave the office for the day. She thinks he is at his club or on the way home. However, she is coming around here, as she is in the limousine, and fearing a storm, she wants to take Mr. Gately home.”
Mr. Talcott returned to the middle room and looked more carefully at the disturbed condition of things around and on Mr. Gately’s desk.
“It is certain that Mr. Gately left the room in haste,” he said, “for here is what is undoubtedly a private and personal checkbook left open. I shall take on myself the responsibility of putting it away, for the moment, at least.”
Mr. Talcott closed the checkbook and put it in a small drawer of the desk.
“Why don’t you put away that hatpin, too?” suggested Norah, eying the pin curiously. “I don’t think it belongs to Miss Raynor.”
“Take it up by the edge,” I warned; “I may be jumping to conclusions, but there is a possibility that a crime has been committed, and we must preserve whatmaybe evidence.”
“Quite right, Mr. Brice,” agreed Talcott, and he gingerly picked up the pin by taking the edges of its ornate head between his thumb and forefinger. The head was an Egyptian scarab,—whether a real one or not I couldn’t tell,—and was set on a flat backing of gold. This back might easily retain the thumb print of the woman who had drawn that pin from her hat in Mr. Gately’s office. And who, Norah surmised, was the person who had fired the pistol that I had heard discharged.
Placing the hatpin in the drawer with the checkbook, Mr. Talcott locked the drawer and slipped the key in his pocket.
I wondered if he had seen some entry in the book that made him wish to hide Mr. Gately’s private affairs from curious eyes.
“There is indeed a possibility of something wrong,” he went on, “at first I couldn’t think it, but seeing this room, that overturned chair and upset telephone, in connection with the shooting, as you heard it, Mr. Brice, it certainly seems ominous. And most mysterious! Two people quarreling, a shot fired by one or other of them, and no sign of the assailant, his victim, or his weapon! Now, there are three propositions, one of whichmustbe the truth. Mr. Gately is alive and well, he is wounded, or he is killed. The last seems impossible, as his body could not have been taken away without discovery; if he were wounded, I think that, too, would have to be known; so, I still feel that things are all right. But until we can prove that, we must continue our search.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “search for Mr. Gately and also, search for the man who was here and who quarreled with him.”
“Or the woman,” insisted Norah.
“I can’t think it was a woman,” I said. “Although the shadow was indistinct, it struck me as that of a man, the motions and attitudes were masculine, as I recall them. The hatpin may have been left here this morning or any time.”
“The visitor must be found,” declared Mr. Talcott, “but I don’t know how to go about it.”
“Ask the elevator girls,” I suggested; “one of them must have brought the caller up here.”
We did this, but the attendants of the three elevators all denied having brought anyone up to Mr. Gately’s offices since the old man and the elderly lady who had been mentioned by Jenny.
Miss Raynor had been brought up by one of the girls also, but we couldn’t quite ascertain whether she had come before or after the other two.
While waiting for Miss Raynor to come again, I tried to do a little scientific deduction from any evidence I might notice.
But I gained small information. The desk-blotter, inkwell, and pens were in immaculate order, doubtless they were renewed every day by a careful attendant. All the minor accessories, such as paperweights and letter openers were of individual styles and of valuable materials.
There was elaborate smoking paraphernalia and a beautiful single rose in a tall silver vase.
“Can you read anything bearing on the mystery, Mr. Brice,” asked Talcott, noting my thoughtful scrutiny.
“No; nothing definite. In fact, nothing of any importance. I see that on one occasion, at least, Mr. Gately kept a chauffeur waiting an unconscionably long time, and the man was finally obliged to go away without him.”
“Well, now, how do you guess that?” and Mr. Talcott looked decidedly interested.
“Like most of those spectacular deductions,” I responded, “the explanation takes all the charm out of it. There is a carriage check on the desk,—one of those queer cards with a lot of circular holes in it. That must have been given to Mr. Gately when he left his car, or perhaps a taxicab, outside of some hotel or shop. As he didn’t give it up, the chauffeur must have waited for him until he was tired.”
“He may have gone off with some friend, and sent word to the man not to wait,” offered Talcott.
“But then he would have sent the call-check out to identify him. What a queer-looking thing it is,” and I picked up the card, with its seven round holes in a cabalistic array.
“Perhaps the caller left it,” spoke up Norah; “perhaps he, or she, came here in a cab, or a car, and——”
“No, Norah,” I said, “such checks are not given out at a building of this sort. Only at hotels, theaters, or shops.”
“It’s of no importance,” and Mr. Talcott gave a slight shrug of impatience; “the thing is, where is Mr. Gately?”
Restless and unable to sit still, I wandered into the third room. I had heard of this sanctum, but I had never expected to see inside of it. The impulse came to me now to make the most of this chance, for when Mr. Gately returned I might be summarily, if courteously, ejected.
The effect of the room was that of dignified splendor. It had evidently been done but not overdone by a decorator who was a true artist. The predominant color was a soft, deep blue, and the rugs and textile fabrics were rich and luxurious. There were a few fine paintings in gold frames and the large war map occupied the greater part of a paneled wall space. The chairs were spacious and cushioned, and a huge davenport stood in front of a wide fireplace, where some logs were cheerily burning.
A cozy place to entertain friends, I ruminated, and then, turning back to the middle room, I reconstructed the movements of the two people I had seen shadowed.
“As they rose,” I said to Mr. Talcott, “Amos Gately was behind this big table-desk, and the other man,—for I still think it was a man,—was opposite. The other man upset his chair, on rising, so he must have risen hastily. Then the shot was fired, and the two disappeared. As Jenny came into the room at once, and saw the strange man going through the third room and on out to the stairs, we are forced to the conclusion that Mr. Gately preceded him.”
“Down the stairs?” asked Mr. Talcott.
“Yes, for the flight, at least, or Jenny would have seen him. Also, I should have seen him, had he remained in this hall.”
“And the woman?” asked Norah, “what became of her?”
“I don’t think there was any woman present at that time,” I returned. “The hatpin was, doubtless, left by a woman caller, but we’ve no reason to suppose she was there at the same time the shooting occurred.”
“I can’t think of any reason why anyone should shoot Mr. Gately,” said Talcott, musingly. “He is a most estimable gentleman, the soul of honor and uprightness.”
“Of course,” I assented; “but has he no personal enemies?”
“None that I know of, and it is highly improbable, anyway. He is not a politician, or, indeed, a public man of any sort. He is exceedingly charitable, but he rarely makes known his good deeds. He has let it be known that he wishes his benefactions kept quiet.”
“What are his tastes?” I asked, casually.
“Simple in the extreme. He rarely takes a vacation, and though his home is on a magnificent scale, he doesn’t entertain very much. I have heard that Miss Raynor pleads in vain for him to be more of a society man.”
“She is his ward?”
“Yes; no relation, although she calls him uncle. I believe he was a college chum of Miss Raynor’s father, and when the girl was left alone in the world, he took her to live with him, and took charge of her fortune.”
“A large one?”
“Fairly so, I believe. Enough to tempt the fortune-hunters, anyway, and Mr. Gately frowns on any young man who approaches him with a request for Olive Raynor’s hand.”
“Perhaps the caller today was a suitor.”
“Oh, I hardly think a man would come armed on such an errand. No; to me, the most mysterious thing about it all, is why anyone should desire to harm Mr. Gately. It must have been a homicidal maniac,—if there is really such a being.”
“The most mysterious part to me,” I rejoined, “is how they both got away so quickly. You see, I stood in my doorway opposite, looking at them, and then as soon as I heard the shot I ran to the middle door as fast as I could, then to the third room door, and then back to the first. Of course, had I known which room was which, I should have gone to door number one first. But, as you see, I was in the hall, going from one door to another, and I must have seen the men if they came out into the hall from any door.”
“They left room number three, as you entered number one,” said Norah, carefully thinking it out.
“That must be so, but where did they go? Why, if Mr. Gately went downstairs, has he not been visible since? I can’t help feeling that Amos Gately is unable to move, for some reason or other. May he have been kidnaped? Or is he bound and gagged in some unused room, say on the floor below this?”
“No,” said Talcott, briefly. “Without saying anything about it I put one of the bank clerks on the hunt and I told him to look into every room in the building. As he has not reported, he hasn’t yet found Mr. Gately.”
And then, Olive Raynor arrived.
I shall never forget that first sight of her. Heralded by a fragrant whiff of fresh violets, she came into the first room, and paused at the doorway of the middle room, where we still sat.
Framed in the mahogany door-casing, the lovely bit of femininity seemed a laughing bundle of furs, velvets, and laces.
“What’s the matter?” said a soft, sweet voice. “Has Uncle Amos run away? I hope he is in a sheltered place for there’s a ferocious storm coming up and the wind is blowing a gale.”
The nodding plumes on her hat tossed as she raised her head inquiringly and looked about.
“What do I smell?” she exclaimed; “it’s like—like pistol-smoke!”
“It is,” Mr. Talcott said. “But there’s no pistol here now——”
“How exciting! What’s it all about? Do tell me.”
Clearly the girl apprehended no serious matter. Her wide-open eyes showed curiosity and interest, but no thought of trouble had as yet come to her.
She stepped further into the room, and throwing back her furs revealed a slender graceful figure, quick of movement and of exquisite poise. Neither dark nor very fair, her wavy brown hair framed a face whose chief characteristic seemed to be its quickly changing expressions. Now smiling, then grave, now wondering, then merry, she looked from one to another of us, her big brown eyes coming to rest at last on Norah.
“Who are you?” she asked, with a lovely smile that robbed the words of all curtness.
“I am Norah MacCormack, Miss Raynor,” my stenographer replied. “I am in Mr. Brice’s office, across the hall. This is Mr. Brice.”
There was no reason why Norah should be the one to introduce me, but we were all a little rattled, and Mr. Talcott, who, of course, was the one to handle the situation, seemed utterly at a loss as to how to begin.
“How do you do, Mr. Brice?” and Miss Raynor flashed me a special smile. “And now, Mr. Talcott, tell me what’s the matter? I see something has happened. What is it?”
She was grave enough now. She had suddenly realized that there was something to tell, and she meant to have it told.
“I don’t know, Miss Raynor,” Talcott began, “whether anything has happened, or not. I mean, anything serious. We—that is,—we don’t know where Mr. Gately is.”
“Go on. That of itself doesn’t explain your anxious faces.”
So Talcott told her,—told her just what we knew ourselves, which was so little and yet so mysterious.
Olive listened, her great, dark eyes widening with wonder. She had thrown off her fur coat and was seated in Amos Gately’s desk-chair, her dainty foot turning the chair on its swivel now and then.
Her muff fell to the floor, and, unconsciously, she drew off her gloves and dropped them upon it. She said no word during the recital, but her vivid face showed all the surprise and fear she felt as the tale was told.
Then, “I don’t understand,” she said, simply. “Do you think somebody shot Uncle Amos? Then where is he?”
“We don’t understand, either,” returned Talcott. “We don’t know that anybody shot him. We only know a shot was fired and Mr. Gately is missing.”
Just then a man entered Jenny’s room, from the hall. He, too, paused in the doorway to the middle room.
“Oh, Amory, come in!” cried Miss Raynor. “I’m so glad you’re here. This is Mr. Brice,—and Miss MacCormack,—Mr. Manning. Mr. Talcott, of course you know.”
I had never met Amory Manning before, but one glance was enough to show how matters stood between him and Olive Raynor. They were more than friends,—that much was certain.
“I saw Mr. Manning downstairs,” Miss Raynor said to Talcott, with a lovely flush, “and—as Uncle Amos doesn’t—well, he isn’t just crazy over him, I asked him not to come up here with me, but to wait for me downstairs.”
“And as you were so long about coming down, I came up,” said Mr. Manning, with a little smile. “What’s this,—what about a shot? Where’s Mr. Gately?”
Talcott hesitated, but Olive Raynor poured out the whole story at once.
Manning listened gravely, and at the end, said simply: “Hemustbe found. How shall we set about it?”
“That’s what I don’t know,” replied Talcott.
“I’ll help,” said Olive, briskly. “I refuse to believe any harm has come to him. Let’s call up his clubs.”
“I’ve done that,” said Talcott. “I can’t think he went away anywhere—willingly.”
“How, then?” cried Olive. “Oh, wait a minute,—I know something!”
“What?” asked Talcott and I together, for the girl’s face glowed with her sudden happy thought.
“Why, Uncle Amos has a private elevator of his own. He went down in that!”
“Where is it?” asked Manning.
“I don’t know,” and Olive looked about the room. “And Uncle forbade me ever to mention it,—but this is an emergency, isn’t it? and I’m justified,—don’t you think?”
“Yes,” said Manning; “tell all you know.”
“But that’s all I do know. There is a secret elevator that nobody knows about. Surely you can find it.”
“Surely we can!” said I, and jumping up, I began the search.
Nor did it take long. There were not very many places where a private entrance could be concealed, and I found it behind the big war map, in the third room.
The door was flush with the wall, and painted the same as the panel itself. The map simply hung on the door, but overlapped sufficiently to hide it. Thus the door was concealed, though not really difficult of discovery.
“It won’t open,” I announced after a futile trial.
“Automatic,” said Talcott. “You can’t open that kind, when the car is down.”
“How do you know the car is down?” I asked.
“Because the door won’t open. Well, it does seem probable that Mr. Gately went away by this exit, then.”
“And the woman, too,” remarked Norah.
As before Mr. Talcott didn’t object to Norah’s participation in our discussion, in fact, he seemed rather to welcome it, and in a way, deferred to her opinions.
“Perhaps so,” he assented. “Now, Miss Raynor, where does this elevator descend to? I mean, where does it open on the ground floor?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” and the girl looked perplexed. “I’ve never been up or down in it. I shouldn’t have known of it, but once Uncle let slip a chance reference to it, and when I asked him about it, he told me, but told me not to tell. You see, he uses it to get away from bores or people he doesn’t want to see.”
“It ought to be easy to trace its shaft down through the floors,” said Amory Manning. “Though I suppose there’s no opening on any floor until the street floor is reached.”
Manning was a thoughtful-looking chap. Though we had never met before, I knew of him and I had an impression that he was a civil engineer or something like that. I felt drawn to him at once, for he had a pleasant, responsive manner and a nice, kindly way with him.
In appearance, he was scholarly, rather than business-like. This effect was probably due in part to the huge shell-rimmed glasses he wore. I can’t bear those things myself, but some men seem to take to them naturally. For the rest, Manning had thick, dark hair, and he was a bit inclined to stoutness, but his goodly height saved him from looking stocky.
“Well, I think we ought to investigate this elevator,” said Talcott. “Suppose you and I, Mr. Brice, go downstairs to see about it, leaving Miss Raynor and Mr. Manning here,—in case,—in case Mr. Gately returns.”
I knew that Talcott meant, in case we should find anything wrong in the elevator, but he put it the more casual way, and Miss Raynor seemed satisfied.
“Yes, do,” she said, “and we’ll wait here till you come back. Of course, you can find where it lands, and—oh, wait a minute! Maybe it opens in the next door building. I remember, sometimes when I’ve been waiting in the car for Uncle, he has come out of the building next door instead of this one, and when I asked him why, he always turned the subject without telling me.”
“It may be,” and Talcott considered the position of the shaft. “Well, we’ll see.”
Norah discreetly returned to my offices, but I felt pretty sure she wouldn’t go home, until something was found out concerning the mysterious disappearance.
On the street floor we could find no possible outlet for the elevator in question, and had it not been for Olive’s hint as to where to look, I don’t know how we should have found it at all.
But on leaving the Trust Company Building, we found the place at last. At least, we found a door which was in the position where we supposed the elevator shaft would require it, and we tried to open it.
This we failed to do.
“Looks bad,” said Talcott, shaking his head. “If Amos Gately is in there, it’s because he’s unable to get out—or—unconscious.”
He couldn’t bring himself to speak the crueler word that was in both our minds, and he turned abruptly aside, as he went in search of the janitor or the superintendent of the building.
Left by myself I stared at the silent door. It was an ordinary-looking door, at the end of a small side passage which communicated with the main hall or lobby of the building. It was inconspicuous, and as the passage had an angle in it, Amos Gately could easily have gone in and out of that door without exciting comment.
Of course, the janitor would know all about it; and he did.
He returned with Mr. Talcott, muttering as he came.
“I always said Mr. Gately’d get caught in that thing yet! I don’t hold with them automaticky things, so I don’t. They may go all right for years and then cut up some trick on you. If that man’s caught in there, he must be pretty sick by this time!”
“Does Mr. Gately use the thing much?” I asked.
“Not so very often, sir. Irregular like. Now, quite frequent, and then, again, sort of seldom. Well, we can’t open it, Mr. Talcott. These things won’t work, only just so. After anybody gets in, and shuts the door, it can’t be opened except by pressing a button on the inside. Can’t you get in upstairs?”
“No,” said Talcott, shortly. “Get help, then, and break the door down.”
This was done, the splintered door fell away, and there, in a crumpled heap on the floor of the car, was Amos Gately,—dead.
If I had thought Mr. Talcott somewhat indifferent before, I changed my opinion suddenly. His face turned a ghastly white and his eyes stared with horror. There was more than his grief for a friend, though that was evident enough, but his thoughts ran ahead to the larger issues involved by this murder of a bank president and otherwise influential financier.
For murder it was, beyond all doubt. The briefest examination showed Mr. Gately had been shot through the heart, and the absence of any weapon precluded the idea of suicide.
The janitor, overcome at the sight, was in a state bordering on collapse, and Mr. Talcott was not much more composed.
“Mr. Brice,” he said, his face working convulsively, “this is a fearful calamity! What can it mean? Who could have done it? What shall we do?”
Answering his last question first, I endeavored to take hold of the situation.
“First of all, Mr. Talcott, we must keep this thing quiet for the moment. I mean, we must not let a crowd gather here, before the necessary matters are attended to. This passage must be guarded from intrusion, and the bank people must be notified at once. Suppose you and the janitor stay here, while I go back next door and tell—tell whom?”
“Let me think,” groaned Mr. Talcott, passing his hand across his forehead. “Yes, please, Mr. Brice, do that—go to the bank and tell Mr. Mason, the vice-president—ask him to come here to me,—then, there is Miss Raynor—oh, how horrible it all is!”
“Also, we must call a doctor,” I suggested, “and, eventually, the police.”
“Must they be brought in? Yes, I suppose so. Well, Mr. Brice, if you will attend to those errands, I will stay here. But we must shut up that janitor!”
The man, on the verge of collapse, was groaning and mumbling prayers, or something, as he rocked his big body back and forth.
“See here, my man,” I said, “this is a great emergency and you must meet it and do your duty. That, at present, is to stay here with Mr. Talcott, and make sure that no one else comes into this small hall until some of Mr. Gately’s bank officers arrive. Also, cease that noise you’re making, and see what you can do in the way of being a real help to us.”
This appeal to his sense of duty was not without effect, and he straightened up and seemed equal to the occasion.
I ran off, then, and out of one big building back into the other. The storm, still brewing, had not yet broken, but the sky was black, and a feeling of more snow was in the atmosphere. I shivered as I felt the bitterly cold outside air, and hurried into the bank building.
I had no trouble in reaching Mr. Mason, for the bank itself was closed and many of the employees had gone home. My manner of grave importance sufficed to let me pass any inquisitive attendants and I found Mr. Mason in his office.
I told him the bare facts in a few words, for this was no time to tarry,—I wanted to get up and tell Miss Raynor before any less considerate messenger might reach her.
Mr. Mason was aghast at the terrible tidings, and closing his desk at once, he quickly reached for his hat and coat and started on his fearsome errand.
“I will call Mr. Gately’s physician,” he said, his mind working quickly, as he paused a moment, “and you will break the news to Miss Raynor, you say? I can’t seem to comprehend it all! But my place is by Mr. Gately and I will go there at once.”
So I hastened up to the twelfth floor again, trying, on the way, to think how I should best tell the awful story.
The elevator ride had never seemed so short,—the floors fairly flew past me, and in a few moments I was in the beautiful third room of Mr. Gately’s, and found Miss Raynor and Mr. Manning eagerly awaiting my news.
“Have you found Mr. Gately?” Amory Manning asked, but at the same instant, Olive Raynor cried out, “You have something dreadful to tell us, Mr. Brice! I know you have!”
This seemed to help me, and I answered, “Yes, Miss Raynor,—the worst.”
For I felt that this imperious, self-possessed girl would rather be told abruptly, like that, than to have me mince matters.
And I was right, for she said, quickly, “Tell it all,—any knowledge is better than suspense.”
So I told her, as gently as I could, of our discovery of the body of Amos Gately in his private elevator, at the bottom of the shaft.
“But I don’t understand,” said Manning. “Shot through the heart and alone in the elevator?”
“That’s the way it is. I’ve no idea of the details of the matter. We didn’t move the body, or examine it thoroughly, but the first glance showed the truth. However, a doctor has been sent for, and the vice-president and secretary of the Trust Company have things in charge, so I came right up here to tell you people about it.”
“And I thank you, Mr. Brice,” Olive’s lovely dark eyes gave me a grateful glance. “What shall I do, Amory? Shall we go down there?”
Manning hesitated. “I will,” he said, looking at her tenderly, “but—do you want to? It will be hard for you——”
“I know,—but I must go. If Uncle Amos has been killed—surely I ought to be there to—to—oh, I don’t know what!”
Olive Raynor turned a piteous face to Manning, and he took her hand in his as he responded: “Come, if you think best, dear. Shall we go together?”
“Yes,” she said; “I dread it, but I must go. And if you are with me I can stand it. What are you going to do, Mr. Brice?”
“I was about to go home,” I replied, “but I think I will go back to the Matteawan Building, for I may be able to give assistance in some way.”
I went across to my office and found that Norah had gone home. Snapping on some lights, I sat down for a few minutes to straighten out my bewildered, galloping thoughts.
Here was I, Tom Brice, a quiet, inconspicuous lawyer, thrown suddenly into the very thick of a most mysterious murder case. I well knew that my evidence concerning the shadows I had seen would be eagerly listened to by the police, when the time came, and I wondered how soon that would be. I wanted to go home. I wanted to avoid the coming storm and get into my cozy rooms, and think the thing over. For, I had always felt that I had detective ability, and now I had been given a wonderful chance to prove it. I did not intend to usurp anybody’s prerogative nor did I desire to intrude. If I were not asked to assist, I should not offer; but I had a vague hope that my early acquaintance with the vital facts would make me of value as a witness and my mental acumen would bring forth some original ideas in the way of investigation.
And I wanted some time to myself, to cogitate, and to formulate some theories already budding in my brain. Now if the police were already on the scene next door, they would not let me get away, if I appeared.
And yet, I longed for further news of the proceedings. So, I concluded to look in at the Matteawan, and if that led me into the clutches of the police inquisitors, I must submit. But, if I could get away before their arrival, I should do so. I was quite willing to be called upon by them, and to tell all I knew, but I wanted to postpone that until the next day, if possible.
Not wishing to obtrude my presence further on Miss Raynor, I went down in an elevator without returning to the Gately rooms. Indeed, I didn’t know whether she had gone down yet or not.
But she had, and when I reached the scene, both she and Manning were there and were consulting with the men from the bank as to what should be done.
The doctor came, too, and began to examine the body.
The rest of us stood huddled in the narrow hall, now grown hot and close, but we dared not open the door to the main lobby, lest outsiders should make their way in.
I asked the janitor if there were not some room that could be used as a waiting place, but even as he answered me, the doctor made his report.
It was to the effect that Amos Gately had been shot before he entered the elevator or immediately upon his entrance. That he had died instantly, and, therefore it would seem that the body must have been placed in the car and sent down by the assailant. But this was only conjecture; all the doctor could assert was that Mr. Gately had been dead for perhaps an hour, and that the position of the body on the floor indicated an instantaneous death from a shot through the heart.
And then the janitor bestirred himself, and said he could give us the use of a vacant office on the ground floor, and we went in there,—all except the doctor, who remained by the elevator.
Mr. Mason and Mr. Talcott agreed that the police must be notified and they declared their willingness to stay for their arrival. But the vice-president told Miss Raynor she could go home if she preferred to.
“I’ll wait a while,” she said, with the quick decision that I found was habitual with her, “the car is still here,—oh, ought we not to tell Connor? He’s our chauffeur.”
“I’ll tell him,” volunteered Manning. “I have to go now, I’ve an important matter to attend to before six o’clock. Olive, may I come up to the house this evening?”
“Oh, do,” she answered, “I’ll be so glad to have you. Come early, won’t you?”
“Yes,” said Manning, and after pausing for some further talk with the doctor he went away.
I tarried, wondering if I might go also, or if I were needed there.
But as Mason and Talcott were deeply engrossed in a low-toned conversation and as Miss Raynor was waiting an opportunity to confer with the doctor, who was their family physician, I concluded I might as well go home while I was free to do so.
So without definite adieux, but with a word to Miss Raynor that she might command my services at any time, I started for home.
The long expected storm had begun, and enormous snowflakes were falling thickly.
As I left the Matteawan, I discerned Amory Manning talking to the chauffeur of a big limousine and knew that he was telling Amos Gately’s man what had happened to his master.
I slowed up, hoping Manning would get through the interview and walk along, and I would join him.
When he left the chauffeur, however, he darted across the street, and though I followed quickly, I almost lost sight of him in the blinding snowfall.
I called out to him, but he didn’t hear, and small wonder, for the wind roared and the traffic noises were deafening.
So I hurried after him, still hoping to overtake him.
And I did, or, at least, when he finally boarded a Southbound car on Third Avenue, I hopped on the same car.
I had intended taking a Madison Avenue car, but there was none in sight, and I felt pretty sure there was a blockade on the line. The streets showed snowpiles, black and crusted, and the street cleaners were few and far apart.
The car Manning and I managed to get onto was crowded to the doors. We both stood, and there were just too many people between us to make conversation possible, but I nodded across and between the bobbing heads and faces, and Manning returned my greeting.
Stopping occasionally to let off some struggling, weary standees and to take on some new snow-besprinkled stampeders, we at last reached Twenty-second Street, and here Manning nodded a farewell to me, as he prepared to leave by the front end of the car.
This was only three blocks from my own destination, and I determined to get off, too, still anxious to speak to him regarding the scene of tragedy we had just left.
So I swung off the rear end of the car, and it moved on through the storm.
I looked about for Manning, but as I stepped to the ground a gust of wind gave me all I could do to preserve my footing. Moreover, it sent a flurry of snowflakes against my glasses, which rendered them almost opaque.
I dashed them clear with my gloved hand, and looked for my man, but he was nowhere to be seen from where I stood in the center of the four street corners.
Where could Manning have disappeared to? He must have flown like the wind, if he had already darted either up or down Third Avenue or along Twenty-second Street in either direction.
However, those were the only directions he could have taken, and I concluded that as I struggled to raise my umbrella and was at the same time partially blinded by my snowed-under glasses, he had hurried away out of sight. Of course, he had no reason to think I was trying to catch up with him, indeed, he probably did not know that I also left the car, so he had no need for apology.
And yet, I couldn’t see how he had disappeared with such magical celerity. I asked a street cleaner if he had seen him.