Tangled Trails

by Raine, William MacLeod

  A satiric smile touched the face of Cunningham without warming it, "That active imagination of yours again. You do let it run away with you."

  "You were seen getting into a car with Miss McLean."

  "Did she step in of her own free will?"

  "We don't claim an abduction."

  "On your own statement of the case, then, you have no ground of complaint whatever."

  "Do you refuse to tell us where she is?" Kirby asked.

  "I refuse to admit that I know where the young lady is."

  "We'll find her. Don't make any mistake about that."

  Kirby rose. The interview was at an end. Cole Sanborn strode forward. He leaned over the desk toward the oil broker, his blue eyes drilling into those of the broker.

  "We sure will, an' if you've hurt our li'l' friend—if she's got any grievance against you an' the way you treat her—I'll certainly wreck you proper, Mr. Cunningham."

  James flushed angrily. "Get out of here—all of you! Or I'll send for the police and have you swept out. I'm fed up on your interference."

  "Is it interference for Miss McLean here to want to know where her sister is?" asked Kirby quietly.

  "Why should you all assume I know?"

  "Because the evidence points to you."

  "Absurd. You come down here from Wyoming and do nothing but make trouble for me and Jack even though we try to stand your friend. I've had about enough of you."

  "Sorry you look at it that way." Kirby's smile was friendly. It was even wistful. "I appreciate what you did for me, but I've got to go through with what I've started. I can't quit on the job because I'm under an obligation to you. By the way, I've arranged the matter of the bond. We're to take it up at the district attorney's office at eleven this morning."

  "Glad to hear it. I want to be quit of you," snapped Cunningham tartly.

  Outside, Kirby gave directions to his lieutenants. "It's up to you two to dig up some facts. I'm gonna be busy all mornin' with this bond business so's I can keep outa jail. Rose, you go up to the Secretary of State's office and find the number of the license of my cousin's car and the kind of machine it is. Then you'd better come back an' take a look at all the cars parked within three or four blocks of here. He may have driven it down when he came to work this mornin'. Look at the speedometer an' see what the mileage record is of the last trip taken. Cole, you go to this address. That's where my cousin lives. Find out at what garage he keeps his car. If they don't know, go to all the garages within several blocks of the place. See if it's a closed car. Get the make an' the number an' the last trip mileage. Meet me here at twelve o'clock, say. Both of you."

  "Suits me," said Cole. "But wise me up. What's the idea in the mileage?"

  "Just this. James was outa town last night probably. We couldn't find him anywhere. My notion is that he's taken Esther somewhere into the mountains. If we can get the mileage of the last trip, all we have to do is to divide it by two to know how far away Esther is. Then we'll draw a circle round Denver at that distance an'—"

  Cole slapped his thigh with his hat. "Bully! You're sure the white-haired lad in this deteckative game."

  "Maybe he didn't set the speedometer for the trip," suggested Rose.

  "Possible. Then again more likely he did. James is a methodical chap. Another thing, while you're at the private hotel where he lives, Cole. Find out if you can where James goes when he fishes or drives into the mountains. Perhaps he's got a cottage of his own or some favorite spot."

  "I'm on my way, old-timer!" Cole announced with enthusiasm.

  At luncheon the committee reported progress. Cole had seen James

  Cunningham's car. It was a sedan. He had had it out of the garage all

  afternoon and evening and had brought it back just before midnight.

  The trip record on the speedometer registered ninety-two miles.

  From his pocket Kirby drew an automobile map and a pencil. He notched on the pencil a mark to represent forty-six miles from the point, based on the scale of miles shown at the foot of the map. With the pencil as a radius he drew a semicircle from Denver as the center. The curved line passed through Loveland, Long's Peak, and across the Snow Range to Tabernash. It included Georgetown, Gray's Peak, Mount Evans, and Cassell's. From there it swept on to Palmer Lake.

  "I'm not includin' the plains country to the east," Kirby explained. "You'll have enough territory to cover as it is, Cole. By the way, did you find anything about where James goes into the hills?"

  "No."

  "Well, we'll make some more inquiries. Perhaps the best thing for you to do would be to go out to the small towns around Denver an' find out if any of the garage people noticed a car of that description passin' through. That would help a lot. It would give us a line on whether he went up Bear Cañon, Platte Cañon, into Northern Colorado, or south toward the Palmer Lake country."

  "You've allowed forty-six miles by an air line," Rose pointed out. "He couldn't have gone as far as Long's Peak or Evans—nowhere nearly as far, because the roads are so winding when you get in the hills. He could hardly have reached Estes Park."

  "Right. You'll have to check up the road distances from Denver, Cole. Your job's like lookin' for a needle in a haystack. I'll put a detective agency on James. He might take a notion to run out to the cache any fine evenin'. He likely will, to make sure Esther is contented."

  "Or he'll send Jack," Rose added.

  "We'll try to keep an eye on him, too."

  "This is my job, is it?" Cole asked, rising.

  "You an' Rose can work together on it. My job's here in town on the murder mystery."

  "If we work both of them out—-finding Esther and proving who killed your uncle—I think we'll learn that it's all the same mystery, anyhow," Rose said, drawing on her gloves.

  Cole nodded sagely. "You've said somethin', Rose."

  "Say when, not if, we work 'em out. We'll be cuttin' hot trail poco tempo," Kirby prophesied, smiling up at them.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  THE DETECTIVE GETS TWO SURPRISES

  Kirby stared down at the document in front of him. He could scarcely believe the evidence flashed by his eyes to his brain. It was the document he had asked the county recorder at Golden to send him—and it certified that, on July 21, James Cunningham and Phyllis Harriman had been united in marriage at Golden by the Reverend Nicodemus Rankin.

  This knocked the props from under the whole theory he had built up to account for the disappearance of Esther McLean. If Esther were not the widow of his uncle, then the motive of James in helping her to vanish was not apparent. Perhaps he told the truth and knew nothing about the affair whatever.

  But Kirby was puzzled. Why had his uncle, who was openly engaged to Phyllis Harriman, married her surreptitiously and kept that marriage a secret? It was not in character, and he could see no reason for it. Foster had sent him to Golden on the tacit hint that there was some clue in the license register to the mystery of James Cunningham's death. What bearing had this marriage on it, if any?

  It explained, of course, the visit of Miss Harriman to his uncle's apartments on the night he was murdered. She had an entire right to go there at any time, and if they were keeping their relation a secret would naturally go at night when she could slip in unobserved.

  But Kirby's mind wandered up and down blind alleys. The discovery of this secret seemed only to make the tangle more difficult.

  He had a hunch that there was a clue at Golden he had somehow missed, and that feeling took him back there within three hours of the receipt of the certificate.

  The clerk in the recorder's office could tell him nothing new except that he had called up Mrs. Rankin by telephone and she had brought up the delayed certificate at once. Kirby lost no time among the records. He walked to the Rankin house and introduced himself to an old lady sunning herself on the porch. She was a plump, brisk little person with snapping eyes younger than her years.

  "I'm sorry I wasn't at home when you called. Can I hel
p you now?" she asked.

  "I don't know. James Cunningham was my uncle. We thought he had married a girl who is a sister of the friend with me the day I called. But it seems we were mistaken. He married Phyllis Harriman, the young woman to whom he was engaged."

  Mrs. Rankin smiled, the placid, motherly smile of experience. "I've noticed that men sometimes do marry the girls to whom they are engaged."

  "Yes, but—" Kirby broke off and tried another tack. "How old was the lady? And was she dark or fair?"

  "Miss Harriman? I should think she may be twenty-five. She is dark, slender, and beautifully dressed. Rather an—an expensive sort of young lady, perhaps."

  "Did she act as though she were much—well, in love with—Mr.

  Cunningham?"

  The bright eyes twinkled. "She's not a young woman who wears her heart on her sleeve, I judge. I can't answer that question. My opinion is that he was very much in love with her. Why do you ask?"

  "You have read about his death since, of course," he said.

  "Is he dead? No, I didn't know it." The birdlike eyes opened wider.

  "That's strange too."

  "It's on account of the mystery of his death that I'm troubling you,

  Mrs. Rankin. We want it cleared up, of course."

  "But—two James Cunninghams haven't died mysteriously, have they?" she asked. "The nephew isn't killed, too, is he?"

  "Oh, no. Just my uncle."

  "Then we're mixed up somewhere. How old was your uncle?"

  "He was past fifty-six—just past."

  "That's not the man my husband married."

  "Not the man! Oh, aren't you mistaken, Mrs. Rankin? My uncle was strong and rugged. He did not look his age."

  The old lady got up swiftly. "Please excuse me a minute." She moved with extraordinary agility into the house. It was scarcely a minute before she was with him again, a newspaper in her hand. In connection with the Cunningham murder mystery several pictures were shown. Among them were photographs of his uncle and two cousins.

  "This is the man whose marriage to Miss Harriman I witnessed," she said.

  Her finger was pointing to the likeness of his cousin James Cunningham.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  THE FINGER OF SUSPICION POINTS

  The words of the preacher's little wife were like a bolt from a sunny heaven. Kirby could not accept them without reiteration. Never in the wildest dreams of the too vivid imagination of which his cousin had accused him had this possibility occurred to him.

  "Do you mean that this man—the younger one—is the husband of Phyllis Harriman?" His finger touched the reproduction of his cousin's photograph.

  "Yes. He's the man my husband married her to on the twenty-first of

  July."

  "You're quite sure of that?"

  "I ought to be," she answered rather dryly. "I was a witness."

  A young woman came up the walk from the street. She was a younger and more modern replica of Mrs. Rankin. The older lady introduced her.

  "Daughter, this is Mr. Lane, the gentleman who called on Father the other day while we were away. Mr. Lane, my daughter Ellen." Briskly she continued, showing her daughter the picture of James Cunningham, Junior. "Did you ever see this man, dear?"

  Ellen took one glance at it. "He's the man Father married the other day."

  "When?" the mother asked.

  "It was—let me see—about the last week in July. Why?"

  "Married to who?" asked Mrs. Rankin colloquially.

  "To that lovely Miss Harriman, of course."

  The old lady wheeled on Kirby triumphantly. "Are you satisfied now that I'm in my right mind?" she demanded smilingly.

  "Have to ask your pardon if I was rude," he said, meeting her smile.

  "But the fact is it was such a surprise I couldn't take it in."

  "This gentleman is the nephew of the Mr. Cunningham who was killed. He thought it was his uncle who had married Miss Harriman," the mother explained to Ellen.

  The girl turned to Kirby. "You know I've wondered about that myself. The society columns of the papers said it was the older Mr. Cunningham that was going to marry her. And I've seen, since your uncle's death, notices in the paper about his engagement to Miss Harriman. But I thought it must have been a mistake, since it was the younger Mr. Cunningham she did marry. Maybe the reporters got the two mixed. They do sometimes get things wrong in the papers, you know."

  This explanation was plausible, but Kirby happened to have inside information. He remembered the lovely photograph of the young woman in his uncle's rooms and the "Always, Phyllis" written across the lower part of it. He recalled the evasive comments of both James and his brother whenever any reference had been made to the relation between Miss Harriman and their uncle. No, Phyllis Harriman had been engaged to marry James Cunningham, Senior. He was sure enough of that. In point of fact he had seen at the district attorney's office a letter written by her to the older man, a letter which acknowledged that they were to be married in October. It had been one of a dozen papers turned over to the prosecutor's office for examination. Then she had jilted the land promoter for his nephew.

  Did his uncle know of the marriage of his nephew? That was something Kirby meant to find out if he could. The news he had just heard lit up avenues of thought as a searchlight throws a shaft into the darkness. It brought a new factor into the problem at which he was working. Roughly speaking, the cattleman knew his uncle, the habits of mind that guided him, the savage and relentless passions that swayed him. If the old man knew his favorite nephew and his fiancée had made a mock of him, he would move swiftly to a revenge that would hurt. The first impulse of his mind would be to strike James from his will.

  And even if his uncle had not yet discovered the secret marriage, he would soon have done so. It could not have been much longer concealed. This thing was as sure as any contingency in human life can be: if Cunningham had lived, his nephew James would never have inherited a cent of his millions. The older man had died in the nick of time for James.

  Already Kirby had heard a hint to this effect. It had been at a restaurant much affected by the business men of the city during the lunch hour. Two men had been passing his table on their way out. One, lowering his voice, had said to the other: "James Cunningham ought to give a medal to the fellow that shot his uncle. Didn't come a day too soon for him. Between you and me, J. C. has been speculating heavy and has been hit hard. He was about due to throw up the sponge. Luck for him, I'll say."

  It was on the way back from Golden, while he was being rushed through the golden fields of summer, that suspicion of his cousin hit Kirby like a blow in the face. Facts began to marshal themselves in his mind, an irresistible phalanx of them. James was the only man, except his brother, who benefited greatly by the death of his uncle. Not only was this true; the land promoter had to die soon to help James, just how soon Kirby meant to find out. Phyllis and a companion had been in the victim's apartment either at the time of his death or immediately afterward. That companion might have been James and not Jack. James had lost the sheets with the writing left by the Japanese valet Horikawa. The rage he had vented on his clerk might easily have been a blind. When James knew he was going to Golden to look up the marriage register, he had at once tried to forestall him by destroying the information.

  Kirby tried to fight off his suspicions. He wanted to believe in his cousin. In his own way he had been kind to him. He had gone on his bond to keep him out of prison after he had tried to conceal the fact of his existence at the coroner's inquest. But doubts began to gnaw at the Wyoming man's confidence in him. Had James befriended him merely to be in a position to keep closer tab on anything he discovered? Had he wanted to be close enough to throw him off the track with the wrong suggestions?

  The young cattleman was ashamed of himself for his doubts. But he could not down them. His discovery of the marriage changed the situation. It put his cousin James definitely into the list of the suspects.

  As soo
n as he reached town he called at the law offices of Irwin,

  Foster & Warren. The member of the firm he wanted to see was in.

  "I've been to Golden, Mr. Foster," he said, when he was alone with that gentleman. "Now I want to ask you a question."

  The lawyer looked at him, smiling warily. Both of the James

  Cunninghams had been clients of his.

  "I make my living giving legal advice," he said.

  "I don't want legal advice just now," Kirby answered. "I want to ask you if you know whether my uncle knew that James and Miss Harriman were married."

  Foster looked out of the window and drummed with his finger-tips on the desk. "Yes," he said at last.

  "He knew?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you know when he found out?"

  "I can answer that, too. He found out on the evening of the twenty-first—two days before his death. I told him—after dinner at the City Club."

  "You had just found it out yourself?"

  "That afternoon."

  "How did you decide that the James Cunningham mentioned in the license you saw was the younger one?"

  "By the age given."

  "How did my uncle take the news when you told him?"

  "He took it standing," the lawyer said. "Didn't make any fuss, but looked like the Day of Judgment for the man who had betrayed him."

  "What did he do?"

  "Wrote a note and called for a messenger to deliver it."

  "Who to?" Kirby asked colloquially.

  "I don't know. Probably the company has a record of all calls. If so, you can find the boy who delivered the message."

  "I'll get busy right away."

  Foster hesitated, then volunteered another piece of information. "I don't suppose you know that your uncle sent for me next day and told me to draft a new will for him and get it ready for his signature."

  "Did you do it?"