THE VANISHING POINT
With Apologies to“The Breaking Point”
With Apologies to“The Breaking Point”
With Apologies to
“The Breaking Point”
“Give Elizabeth a kiss for me!” Uncle David called after him, as he left the house.
“David,” said Aunt Lucy, “he’ll never marry Elizabeth until the mystery is cleared up.”
“Nonsense!” said Doctor David. “Donaldson’s dead. Maggie will keep quiet for her own sake. She’s as criminally liable as I am. Beverly Carlysle hasn’t been heard of for years. The Thorwald woman will never tell. The whole thing’s dead and buried”....
At dinner, Dick was as cheerful as usual.
“I’ve asked Elizabeth Wheeler to go to the theatre on Wednesday to see Beverly Carlysle in ‘The Valley.’”
Aunt Lucy, fork in air, stared at him. Uncle David stared at his plate.
“Walter, who is Dick Livingston?” Mrs. Wheeler asked her husband.
“Son of Henry, Doctor David’s brother.”
“Walter, Dick’s been living in this town for ten years and everybody knows him and likes him, but suddenly everybody in town has remembered that Henry Livingston wasn’t married. It is most embarrassing for Elizabeth. I think you ought to do something about it.”
“Very well, dear. I’ll go to Wyoming and look into it.”
But he never reached Wyoming alive.
(To be continued.)
(To be continued.)
(To be continued.)
Because he never started. He was too busy.
Who was Dick Livingston? Dick did not know. He could remember that little cabin in the Wyoming mountains, the snow-storm, himself recovering from an illness, in the care of Doctor David—nothing back of that. The rest was walled off.
If he could only have a severe shock—a breaking point—get run over by a train or something—and awake surrounded by familiar thingsto stir his dormant memory—perhaps——?
Beverly Carlysle’s brother, Fred Gregory, saw him in the theatre. Louis Bassett, reporter on theTimes-American, saw Gregory see him. What did it mean?
He hurried back to the office, got out the files of the paper for ten years back, read them through, advertisements and all, then read them through again. It was four o’clock in the morning when his eye fell on this advertisement:
“Wanted—Cook. Protestant preferred, anything taken. Apply L-22 this office.”
He clipped it, put it in his note book, packed his bag and took the midnight train for Wyoming.
Gregory hastened to Beverly Carlysle’s dressing-room.
“Counted the house?” she asked.
“Fourteen hundred and one,” he answered.
“Why so particular about the one?”
“He’s worth more than all the rest put together.”
“Who is he?”
(To be continued.)
(To be continued.)
(To be continued.)
“Jud Clark, rightful heir to the millions of old Elihu Clark,” said Gregory.
“And, incidentally, the murderer of my husband,” said Beverly Carlysle.
“So they say,” said he.
“Isn’t it true?”
“You ought to know.”
“So ought you for that matter. Better than I.”
“Why talk in riddles?”
“It’s so much more mysterious.”
“Are you sure it was Jud Clark?”
“No, not at all, but who else could it be?”
“You’re going dotty. You’d better see a doctor.”
“Which doctor?” he asked.
“No, certainly not. A brain specialist.”
Gregory rang the doctor’s bell. Minnie came to the door.
“Is the doctor in?”
“Which doctor?”
“No, certainly not—I mean—either of them.”
He saw Doctor David.
“Have a chair?” said the doctor.
“Have you a photograph of your nephew?” asked Gregory.
“Here is one taken in Chicago.”
“Was he there at the time?”
“Where did you think he was? Overseas?”
“Well, it looks kind of half-seas-over.”
“Why did you want to see it?”
“Oh, I thought maybe it would add to the confusion.”
Dr. David’s right hand was fumbling in thedesk-drawer beside him. He found what he sought. Stealthily he drew it forth. Gregory caught the glitter of reflected light——
(To be continued.)
(To be continued.)
(To be continued.)
From the gilded band of the cigar which was offered him.
“Have a chair?” said the doctor.
“You asked me that before.”
“So I did, but that was a week ago, in the last number. Have another for this week.”
“Are you trying to bribe me?”
“Sir, leave this house!” thundered Doctor David. “Leave it at once—right where it is. I like this location.”
“Speaking of that—I’m going to-night.”
“Where?”
“To the next location—Wyoming.”
“Have a chair! I mean—have a care! Have a care!”
“Come along with me.”
“I’m going to Wyoming, dearest Elizabeth.”
“Gone long, Dick?”
“Probably not until the last chapter, dearest. There are bound to be complications. You see, I’m going to find out who I am, if any. I mustunravel the mystery of my adolescence. It is very annoying not to know whether or not you are whom. As it is now, I may be or I may not be.”
“Who? Whom? Whichever it is.”
“Jud Clark, the murderer of Beverly Carlysle’s husband,” said he.
“How interesting!” she murmured.
The midnight train to Wyoming carried all the principals—all except—those who remained at home.
Louis Bassett met Dick in the Norada Hotel. Bassett gave him a drink of good new post-war whisky and David immediately passed out.
They were nearly arrested by the prohibition agent, who had the exclusive boot-legging privilege for Norada and surrounding territory.
But Louis carried the unconscious man down the fire-escape, stole two horses and took him through a blinding blizzard to the well-known mountain-cabin, one of the most frequented points of interest in the State—rubber-neck wagons every two hours.
To the seclusion of this mountain fastness, Bassett brought the unconscious Richard, laidhim in a bunk (bunk! how appropriate!) surrounded him with a Gillette razor, an Ingersoll watch, an Arrow collar, a can of Campbell’s soup, and a Ford car. He watched narrowly.
The sleeping man awoke.
His eyes fell upon the old familiar things.
He started—“I remember”—stopped.
Bassett cranked him again.
“What do you remember?”
“I remember, I remember the house where I was born, the little window where the sun came peeping in at morn.”
“What is your name?” said Louis quietly.
“My name is——”
(To be continued.)
(To be continued.)
(To be continued.)
“My name is Norval. On the Grampian Hills——”
He relapsed into coma.
“Some hooch!” exclaimed Bassett.
Two days later he again awoke. “Are you normal now? Or still Norval?” asked Bassett.
“I am Jud Clark,” he answered. “I shot Beverly Carlysle’s husband in the”—he stopped.
“In what?” asked Bassett, regarding him steadily.
“In the billiard room. He tore the cloth with his cue. It was justifiable homicide. There were no witnesses. I could not possibly be convicted. We must flee at once.”
“Do you remember anything else?”
“Yes. I am Dick Livingston. I can remember Papa and Mamma, Uncle David, Aunt Lucy, the cook, Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler, the postman and the spot on the parlor rug—everything—everyone, except—one. I cannot remember Elizabeth. I remember how she looked, her voice, her eyes, her hair—but not her name—Elizabeth—I cannot remember that.”
Bassett took Dick on his back and carried him for days and days, miles and miles, up and down the mountains, through the blinding blizzard, without food, drink or sleep.
When he deposited his burden on the station platform at Norada, his hands and feet were worn to ribbons.
He looked cautiously around. A man approached—blue uniform, brass buttons. They must not be taken alive!
He shouldered the conscious man again, drew his revolver, set his back against a door. It yielded. They fell headlong backwards——
(To be continued.)
(To be continued.)
(To be continued.)
XI
Into the waiting room. Bassett shoved the still conscious man under a bench and met the blue-coated officer nonchalantly.
“Looking for any one?”
“Why, yes.”
“Who—whom?”
“Oh, only Jud Clark. They say there’s a reward on his head.”
Just then the still conscious man rolled out from under the bench. The officer sprang forward and snatched the hat from his head.
“Nope!” he said, “not him—nothing there but hair.”
“Who are you?”
“The sheriff of this county.”
“Gosh! I am relieved! I thought you were the prohibition officer.”
Again he lifted the still conscious man on his shoulder.
“Where are we going now?” asked Dick.
“New York,” said Bassett.
Three days later they reached New York—by train.
“We must find Fred Gregory,” said Bassett.
“I thought he told Uncle David he was going to Wyoming.”
“A bluff. He’ll be right out in front of the Martinique.”
But he was not. They found him in Beverly Carlysle’s house. They entered with drawn revolvers.
“Hands up!”
(To be continued.)
(To be continued.)
(To be continued.)
Up they went, Beverly’s and Gregory’s.
“You look natural, Jud,” said Beverly, “all dressed up with a gun.”
“Silence, woman!” said Bassett sternly. “I have brought a confession for you two to sign.”
“All right,” said Gregory. “Got a fountain pen?”
This was the confession:
“We, being of sound mind and in fear of death, do voluntarily make, sign, seal, publish and declare this our last confession:
Dick Livingston is not Jud Clark. He is Fred Gregory. Howard Lucas, Beverly Carlysle’s husband, was not killed by Jud Clark. She was not married to the man Jud Clark killed. It was Fred Gregory.
Howard Lucas did not gouge Jud Clark’s billiard table. It was a pool table. Fred Gregory gouged it, practicing putting.
Jud Clark was not killed by Howard Lucas. It was Fred Gregory. He was shot by Howard Lucas—orelse Howard Clark was shot by Fred Lucas—one or the other.
Beverly Carlysle saw the man shot in the billiard room. She was in her own room when the trigger was pulled and hurried down in time to see the fatal bullet hit Fred Clark or Howard Gregory—whichever it was.
Fred Gregory’s real name is Fred Gregory. He was the son of Henry Livingston on his mother’s side. The children were twins. So was Howard Lucas.
There is something wrong somewhere. The whole thing was a mistake.
We do further confess that Dick Livingston is not the son of Elihu Clark but of Fred Gregory—unless he decides to claim the Clark millions—in which case, he is.
We do further confess that Fred Gregory gave the drink to Dick Livingston in Norada. It was not Louis Bassett, who violated the Volstead Act.
God have mercy on our souls!”
(Signed) Beverly GregoryFred Carlysle
(Signed) Beverly GregoryFred Carlysle
(Signed) Beverly GregoryFred Carlysle
(Signed) Beverly Gregory
Fred Carlysle
Dick was back in Haverly. Aunt Lucy met him at the door.
“Elizabeth is engaged to Wallie Sayre,” she said.
“Who’s Elizabeth?” asked Dick.
Aunt Lucy remained unconscious for three days, but finally recovered.
It was weeks later when the door-bell rang and Minnie admitted Elizabeth to the doctor’s office.
“Name, please,” said Dick.
“Elizabeth Wheeler,” she replied.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“Marry me,” said Elizabeth.
“There now,” he said. “I knew I’d forgotten something. Please excuse me. I’ve been so busy.”
Louis Bassett, in theTimes Republicanoffice, stared at the notice in the paper.
“Married—on the 17th at St. Barnabas’s Church, Elizabeth, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Walter Wheeler, to Dr. Richard Livingston.”
“Gosh!” he said. “I wonder who she married.”