Death Locked In

by Douglas G. Greene (ed)

  “This lady was seen to come to this house. It’s known that she came to see you. She’d been here often before. Now she’s disappeared as mysteriously as ever I knew any person to vanish. Some of her property has been found in your rooms. There’s her cloak, with blood on it. Here’s her purse, found hidden in that drawer. Catch her, Reardon! She’s fainting.”

  Indeed, the sturdy washerwoman was tottering as if she would fall. But she recovered before the policeman could reach her side.

  She put out a strong arm and repelled him. “Let me alone, ye brute!” she said. “Oi’m all roight. An’ ye needn’t question me, nayther. Oi know youse an’ your ways. Ye’ll testify ag’in me if Oi talks to ye. Not a word will Oi say till Oi’ve seen a lawyer.”

  “Well, this beats me,” muttered the ward man. “I’ll be hanged if I understand this business at all. Why, Mrs. Manahan,” he continued, raising his voice, “you’re crazy. Don’t you know that I’ll have to arrest you for murder?”

  “Do it thin, ye loon!” cried the woman; “an’ don’t talk so much about it.”

  That was the last words she could be induced to speak. She maintained an absolute silence as she was led away.

  Willie Gray turned to the ward man. “I must go to my father,” he said; and was about to leave the room.

  “Hold on,” rejoined Burke. “I can’t let you go. For all I can see, you’re in it as deep as the woman.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why, it’s like this: I’m convinced that one of the most devilish and mysterious crimes on record has been committed in this house.

  “There’s been violence, and there’s been bloodshed. Now, you’ve been found here with a wound in your head. How did you get it? You tell a plausible story; but what do I know about it? I found you trying to get away, and you made a desperate push for it. You may be all right, and your story may be straight; but I don’t know. Who was the woman who has disappeared? Are you her son? What were you both here for? I’ve only your word for any of it; and these questions have got to be answered by good evidence before I take my eyes off you, my young friend.”

  “Arrested for my mother’s murder!” groaned the boy, and he sank into a chair.

  It was a situation that might have frightened a timid boy out of his wits; but Willie Gray was not that kind of a boy. He was a lad of great nerve, and he proved it on this trying occasion. For a minute or more he sat with his face buried in his hands. When he raised his head, he looked the officer straight in the eye, with calmness and determination.

  “You will take me to the station?” he said. “Very well. There are two things that must be done before that, and I think you will not object to either of them. The first is to send a message to my father.”

  “By all means, “ said Burke.

  “The second is to secure the services of Nick Carter in this case.”

  “You can’t do better than that. I’d be glad to see him take hold of it, and, when he knows the facts, I believe he’ll come.” The two messages were sent while Burke and his prisoner were on the way to the station. The house where the mysterious affair had occurred, was left, meanwhile, under guard of the police.

  The famous detective happened to be at home when Willie Gray’s note was brought to the house. He lost no time in getting to the station, for the facts, as briefly stated, interested him. He found the boy in the police captain’s room, undergoing examination. Nick was put in possession of all the facts known to the reader.

  “What’s been done?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” was the reply. “We have waited for you.”

  “Call Burke.” The ward man was summoned.

  “Where were you stationed,” said Nick, “while you were watching for Gallagher to enter that house?”

  “I was hidden in a jag of the wall of the alley, near the door of the tenement house.”

  “Could you see into the door?”

  “Not far.”

  “There’s a cellar under the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you see the head of the stairway leading down to the cellar?”

  “No.”

  “Then a person might have gone down there unseen by you.”

  “Yes.”

  “What sort of floor has the cellar?”

  “Earth.”

  “Was it examined?”

  “Not carefully, as yet.”

  “I see your drift,” said the captain. “You think that the woman was decoyed to the house, murdered in Mrs. Manahan’s room, and that her body was buried in the cellar.”

  “It’s worth investigating. If such a crime was committed, it is certain that the body is now in the house: and it must be found.”

  “Attend to it, Burke, if Mr. Carter has no further questions.”

  “I have one. Mrs. Manahan was carrying a large basket when she attempted to leave the house. What was in it?”

  “A gentleman’s washing—clean clothes that she was returning.”

  “Whose clothes?”

  “She refused to say.”

  “Weren’t they marked?”

  “That’s one on me. I forgot to look. The point didn’t seem to be important. But the basket, with the clothes, is here.”

  “Bring it.”

  It was brought. Nick looked at the clothes.’ Only initials,” he said. “‘M. P. B.’” Captain, have one of your men look through the B’s in the directory for those initials. This man is rich and a bachelor. Note especially addresses of clubs or bachelor apartment buildings.”

  The necessary order was given.

  “What is known of Mrs. Manahan in that house?”

  “Almost nothing. She doesn’t have much to do with her neighbors. She sticks to her rooms. Sometimes they don’t see her for a fortnight at a time.”

  “Let me see the garments found in the room.”

  They were handed to him, and he spent some time in looking at them. The men who had been at work on the directory then made their report. To everybody’s surprise, it was discovered that there was only one man mentioned in the directory who answered the conditions.

  He was Merton P. Benedict, broker, with rooms in the Union Club building. Of course, the initials were repeated many times, but in every case but Benedict’s, it was possible to exclude the person from the investigation in hand.

  At this point, Nick’s researches were interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Gray. He was greatly excited, as was natural under the circumstances. The note from his son had put him in possession of the essential facts in the case. Gray was a lean and nervous man, not much over forty, but seeming much older, with his scanty, grizzled hair, and deeply wrinkled forehead. He was expensively, but not correctly, dressed, and his manner, even making all allowances, was not quite that of a gentleman.

  “This is all nonsense!” he exclaimed. “You’ve made a great fuss about nothing. Mrs. Gray is safe and well. This poor woman should be released.”

  “Where is Mrs. Gray?” asked Nick.

  “Where is she? Well, it’s nobody’s business; but I don’t mind telling you that she’s in Brooklyn, visiting our relatives.”

  “How do you know?”

  “By this, said Gray; and he took an envelope from his pocket.

  Drawing a note from the envelope, he handed it to Nick, who read as follows:

  Friday, four o’clock.

  Dearest: I am going to Brooklyn to drive with Ned and Alice. Ned will come back with me in the evening. Au revoir.

  Charlotte.

  “There; you see? This was written after this absurd affair was all over.”

  “William,” said Nick to young Gray, who, of course, was overjoyed at this news of his mother’s safety. “I wish you would go out into the other room and ask the sergeant to bring Mrs. Manahan from her cell. Tell him to wait till I call for her, and you wait with him.”

  Willie hurried away, and Nick, after the door was shut, turned to the captain. “This case gets darker at every step,” he sai
d. “It was bad enough before, but what can we think of it now?”

  “I should think it was all cleared up.”

  “Not at all. We now have a new problem. It is this: Why does Mr. Gray come here and assert that his wife is in Brooklyn, with friends, when he knows she is not?”

  Gray sprang to his feet. His face was pale. “I demand an explanation of this outrageous assertion!” he cried.

  “Don’t speak so loud. Your son may hear. I sent him away to spare him. And now to the point. Mr. Gray, we are not children. Why do you come and attempt to pass off such a note as this upon experienced men? You say it was written since your wife’s mysterious disappearance. I tell you that it was not written this week, probably not this month. I am entirely familiar, sir, with the ink with which this is written. It does not assume this deep black color inside of three days. It is certain, then, that you have attempted to impose upon us with a note written by your wife on some other occasion, and happening to bear date on this day of the week. You have clumsily altered the hour, but that does not matter. I should have detected the fraud without that. And in view of all the facts in the case, I think that your conduct in attempting this imposition is sufficiently suspicious to warrant your arrest.”

  In The Rooms of Broker Benedict

  “I begin to see through this business,” said the captain, sternly. “There’s a conspiracy here for the removal of this woman. Gray, you are under arrest.”

  Gray ground his teeth with rage. “Cursed luck!” he muttered. “The devil himself is in this!”

  “We do not wish to be harsh,” said Nick. “For the present, we shall not permit the facts of this case to gain publicity. Your own conduct will determine our action. I shall ask you now to leave the room in charge of the captain, and to passively obey his orders. That is the way to avoid scandal, and to spare your boy—who, by the way, is a fine fellow, and worth the trouble.”

  As he spoke, Nick made a secret sign to the police captain. That officer instantly rose, and motioned Gray to accompany him out of the room.

  Gray sullenly obeyed.

  They went out into the main room of the station, where Mrs. Manahan was waiting to be sent into the private office where the great detective sat alone. The captain gave the order, and she was obliged to go in, though she protested, in her richest brogue, that it was no use asking her any more questions.

  For nearly two hours they all awaited the result of Nicks examination.

  Meanwhile a report came from Burke to the effect that traces of recent disturbance of the earthen floor of the tenement-house cellar had been discovered, and that there seemed to be every chance that their search would be grimly rewarded.

  And then came a surprise, the most complete that could have overtaken the experienced captain of police; and it was not less overwhelming to Gray, if one might judge from the expression of his countenance. A carriage was driven rapidly up to the door. A woman alighted and entered the station. She raised the thick veil which covered her face.

  “Charlotte!” exclaimed Gray.

  “Mother!” cried the boy, and, overcome with joy, he threw his arms around her neck while the tears ran down his cheeks. It must be remembered that he had not seen the note which his father had brought. He had only his father’s statement that Mrs. Gray was alive, and in his heart he had believed that his father was mistaken. He had the evidence of his own eyes that his mother had entered that tenement house, and he could not understand how it was possible for her to have left it.

  “You have a woman here,” said Mrs. Gray to the captain, “under arrest, on suspicion of having robbed and murdered me. You see that I have not been murdered, and I give you my word that I have not been robbed. Therefore, I ask her release.”

  “Well, this beats me!” exclaimed the captain, unconsciously repeating the words of his ward man. He opened the door of the private office, and called to Nick. “We can let Mrs. Manahan go,” he said; “Mrs. Gray is here.”

  The detective was comfortably tilted back in a chair, smoking a cigar, and reading a newspaper. There was nobody else in the room.

  “I have already released her.” he said. “I learned the facts regarding Mrs. Gray, and so I gave the old woman her basket and let her go. She went out by the private way.” He tossed his cigar into the grate, and followed the captain into the outer office.

  “Mr. Gray, “ he said, “I want you and your son to go at once to the elevated station and get home as quickly as you can. You will follow my advice, if you are wise.” He looked keenly into Gray’s face. It was a glance which always secures obedience.

  Then he turned to Mrs. Gray. “Allow me to see you to your carriage,” he said.

  “Wait for me at home,” she said to her husband and her son; and then walked out of the station with Nick.

  Half an hour later, the great detective sat in the rooms of broker M. P. Benedict. “I have been engaged in a case this afternoon and evening,” he was saying, “which affects somebody you know. I refer to Mrs. Manahan.”

  “A very estimable woman,” said the broker. “I hope no harm has come to her.”

  “As to that, you shall be the judge, after you have seen her. If I am not mistaken, she is at the door.”

  There was a knock. The broker called: “Come in.”

  The door opened, and Mrs. Gray entered. She was followed by a servant carrying a large basket. He set it down, and left the room.

  “Here is your laundry, Mr. Benedict,” said the woman, in a voice choked with embarrassment.

  “I—I beg your pardon!” cried the broker, starting back. “I don’t think I have the honor of your acquaintance.”

  “This is Mrs. Manahan,” said the detective.

  “Mr. Carter, upon my word, sir, what does this mean?” stammered Benedict.

  “It means that I have stumbled upon a strange story. I will tell it to you. Pray be seated, Mrs. Gray. It is not new to you, but it is necessary that you should hear it. Years ago, Mr. Benedict, you employed a woman, named Mrs. Manahan, to do your washing. Mrs. Gray, whose husband was then a poor man, knew this Mrs. Manahan, and was kind to her. One day, Mrs. Manahan was ill, and Mrs. Gray, like the excellent woman that she is, volunteered to do the other’s work. It consisted, principally, of your laundry, Mr. Benedict. When she went home that night, Mrs. Gray mentioned to her husband—who was then employed in a broker’s office at a miserable salary—that a certain Mr. Benedict had a queer habit of making figures with a pencil all over his cuffs. Mr. Gray has an intelligence which is sharper than the point of a cambric needle. When he heard what his wife said, he saw what few other men would have seen; that those figures on your cuffs were a fortune to anybody who could read them aright. The next time Mrs. Manahan brought home your soiled clothes, Mrs. Gray was there. She cleverly abstracted the cuffs with the figures on them, and carried them to her husband, who made an accurate copy of them. He saw that they were calculations of the advance of certain stocks, and that they indicated the course of operations which you were about to make upon the exchange.

  “Mrs. Gray succeeded in returning the cuffs to Mrs. Manahan’s room, and neither she nor you knew that they had been seen by anybody else. Meanwhile, Mr. Gray raked and scraped all the money he could get together, and speculated on your tips. He won. This habit of figuring on your cuffs, as you ride up and down town, is an old one with you. I wonder if you borrowed it from that other well-known broker whose washerwoman died a dozen years ago, worth eighty thousand dollars, made in the same way as Mr. Gray’s money has been made.”

  “I never heard of it,” said Benedict.

  “That’s curious. It was in the papers. Well, to proceed, shortly after Gray’s first operation, Mrs. Manahan died suddenly. Here was a great misfortune. The supply of tips threatened to be cut off. But the Grays were equal to the emergency. I need not tell you now that since that time, Mrs. Gray has personated Mrs. Manahan. She has done your washing every week. For the remainder of the time she has lived the life of a rich wom
an. Extremely cautious, she has always carried out the details of the plot. She has had a tenement in the so-called “Soapsuds Hall,” and has actually spent a small part of her time there in order that the neighbors might be deceived. Of course, the two entrances to the house favored the work. Mrs. Gray was seen to arrive there. She was supposed to come on a charitable mission. The tenants who saw her come in, and didn’t see her go out, supposed that she had used the other door. For years, this has been going on; but this afternoon, by an extraordinary series of coincidences, the secret was lost.”

  He then described the adventure of Willie Gray. “It certainly looked like a murder,” he continued. “There was the blood, for instance, which, of course, really came from the boy’s wound. He was so excited that he did not notice that it dripped upon the cape. I do not wonder that Burke was deceived. The only surprising thing—outside of the pure chance of the encounter with your son—was your extraordinary nerve, Mrs. Gray, and the skill with which you played your part. Of course, you were utterly desperate in your determination that he should not read your secret. It was that which carried you through. Well, I think he need not know it. When I discovered the secret of her disguise in the station house, Mr. Benedict, I stipulated only that you should be informed. She agreed; and I let* her out by the private way. She hurried to her house, where she procured the necessary hat and outer garment, and then she appeared as Mrs. Gray at the station. Now, my duty is done. I shall make no disclosures.”

  “There is nothing that I can say,” said Mrs. Gray, “except that this is all true. I can only ask your pardon.”

  Benedict was pacing the floor with a grim smile.

  “Will you ask your husband to come and see me tomorrow?” he said, at last. “I have felt for some time that I needed a partner, but I have doubted whether there was a man on earth who was smart enough to fill the bill.”

  The Man Who Disappeared by L. T. Meade (1844-1914) and Robert Eustace (1854-1943)

  Elizabeth Thomasina Meade Smith, though now remembered only by specialists, was one of the most innovative of turn-of-the-century mystery mongers. Among her contributions were the first series of medical detective stories (Stories from the Diary of a Doctor), the second or third collection of secret-service tales (The Lost Square), and early tales of female criminals (The Brotherhood of the Seven Kings and The Sorceress of the Strand). In 1898, she published The Master of Mysteries, the first collection of stories entirely dedicated to impossible crimes. All of these books have a strong strain of scientific gadgetry contributed by her co-authors, Clifford Halifax and Robert Eustace. One of her finest forays into the miracle problem is “The Man Who Disappeared,” which is reprinted from a 1901 issue of The Strand Magazine.