The Man Who Fell Through the Earth

by Carolyn Wells

  CHAPTER IX The Man in Boston

  I could not suppress a feeling of elation as I once again rang at thedoor of Olive Raynor's home that evening. I almost began to feel aproprietary interest in the mansion, as I now was practically the legaladviser of its new mistress. And to be received as a privileged caller,even a welcome one, was a source of gratification to my pride andself-respect.

  Mrs. Vail was present at our interview this time, and my first sight ofher gave me a very favorable impression. A distinguished-looking lady,slightly past middle age, she was aristocratic of bearing and kindlypleasant of manner. Perhaps a trifle of condescension mingled with hercourteous reception of me, but I put that down to her recent acquirementof a position of importance. No such trait was visible in Miss Raynor'ssimple and sincere greeting, and as Olive eagerly inquired as to theresult of my afternoon's quest, I told her my story at once.

  She was greatly relieved that no trace of Amory Manning had been found onthe morgue records and though she was duly sympathetic when I told her ofthe strange case of the man who fell through the earth, it onlymomentarily claimed her preoccupied attention.

  She first satisfied herself that by no chance could this man be Manning,and then turned her thoughts back to her all-engrossing theme.

  "I am sorry for him," she said, as I described his cheerful dispositionand rather winning personality, "and if I can do anything to help him, Iwill do it. Does he want a position of some sort when he gets well enoughto take one?"

  "I suppose he will," I returned; "he's an alive sort of chap, and ofcourse he'll earn his living one way or another."

  "And he may soon recover his memory," began Mrs. Vail. "I knew a man oncewho had amnesia and aphasia both, and it was six months before he gotover it. But when his memory came back, it came all at once, like aflash, and then he was all right."

  "In this case," I said, "the doctors want to find someone who knows theman. It ought not to be difficult to find his friends, or someone who canidentify him. Why, that peculiar voice ought to do it."

  "Imitate it," directed Mrs. Vail, and to the best of my ability I talkedin the monotonous tones of the amnesic victim.

  Olive laughed. "I never heard anybody talk like that," she said. "It'sabsolutely uninflected."

  "Yes, that's just what it was. He had no inflections or shadings in histones."

  "A voice is so individual," pursued Olive. "Amory Manning's voice is fulland musical; I've often told him he conveys as much meaning by his tonesas by his words."

  "I knew a man once," put in Mrs. Vail, "who could recite the alphabet sodramatically that he made his audience laugh or cry or shudder, just byhis tones."

  "Yes, I've heard that done on the vaudeville stage," said Olive. "Now Mr.Brice, what shall be our next step? I don't mind confessing I'm relievedthat your errand of today is over with. Our doctor told me there was nochance of Mr. Manning having been killed or injured, without ourreceiving notification of the fact, somehow. But I've been nervouslytroubled about it, and nights I've dreamed of seeing himsomewhere,--alone and helpless,--and unable to let me know----"

  "Maybe he is," said Mrs. Vail; "I knew a man once----"

  But Olive cut short the tale of this acquaintance of her friend and keptto the business in hand.

  "I can't think of anything better to do," I said, "than to advertise. Butwhy are not other people doing this? Who are Mr. Manning's friends? Whoare his business people? Why are they silent?"

  "I don't know that they are," Olive returned; "but to tell the truth, Idon't know much about Mr. Manning's affairs, in a business way. I know heis a civil engineer, but that's about all. A consulting engineer he is,too. As to his people, I know only his sister, and she doesn't know whatto do either. I've seen Mrs. Russell twice since, and we can onlysympathize with each other."

  "Who is Mr. Russell?"

  "Her husband? He's in France, and she's alone with her two little girls.She and Amory are devoted to each other, and he was of such help andcomfort to her in her husband's absence. Now, she doesn't know which wayto turn."

  "I must look these things up," I said; "I must talk with Mr. Manning'sbusiness associates,--doubtless Mrs. Russell can tell me of them."

  "Oh, yes, of course. You go to see her, and she'll be only too glad tosee you."

  "And as to a detective? Shall I get in touch with Wise?"

  "Yes, I think so. It does seem so queer for me to decide these things! Ican't get used to the fact that I'm my own guardian!"

  "You're of age, Olive," and Mrs. Vail smiled.

  "Oh, yes, and I've had entire control of my money for some time. ButUncle always decided all matters of importance,--though, goodness knows,there never were any such to decide as those that beset us now! Think ofmy engaging a detective!"

  "But Wise is so interesting and so adaptable, you'll really like him.I'll ask him to call here with me some afternoon or evening and you canget acquainted."

  "I'd like to meet him," put in Mrs. Vail; "I knew a man once who wantedto be a detective, but he died. I've never seen a real detective."

  "Pennington Wise is a real one, all right," I declared. "Of course, MissRaynor, I shall tell the police that you are employing a privatedetective, for I don't think it a good plan to do it secretly. It isnever wise to antagonize the police; they do all they can, popularprejudice to the contrary notwithstanding."

  "Very well, Mr. Brice," and Olive gave me a look of confidence. "I don'tcare what you do, so long as you attend to it. I don't want to see thosehorrid police people again."

  I thought to myself that she might be obliged to do so, unless Penny Wisecould find another way to make them look. But I did not tell her so, fornothing raised her ire like the hint of suspicion directed toward herselfin the matter of Amos Gately's murder.

  "How dare they!" she exclaimed, her eyes fairly snapping with anger; "todream that I--Olive Raynor--could--why, it's impossible to put it intowords!"

  It did seem so. To look at that dainty, lovely girl,--the very ideal ofall that is best and gentlest in human nature,--it was impossible tobreathe the word _murder_ in the same breath!

  I went away from the house, when my visit was over, determined to trackdown the assassin,--with the help of Penny Wise,--and thereby clearOlive's name from the least taint of the ugly suspicion now held by thepolice.

  The next morning, in my office, I told Norah of all the developments ofSunday.

  The warm-hearted girl was deeply interested, and eager for me tocommunicate with Wise at once, for which purpose she slipped a freshsheet of paper in her typewriter, and waited for my dictation of a letterto the detective.

  "Wait a minute, Norah," I laughed; "give me time to open my desk!"

  But I did dispatch the letter that morning, and awaited the answer asimpatiently as Norah herself.

  And then I went down to Police Headquarters.

  There a surprise was given me. The Chief had received a letter thatseemed to have a decided bearing on the mystery of the murder. He handedit to me without comment, and I read this:

  To Police Headquarters; New York City; Sirs:

  Last Wednesday afternoon, I was in New York, and was in the Building ofthe Puritan Trust Company. I had occasion to transact some business onthe tenth floor, and afterward, when waiting for the elevator to take medown, I saw a pistol lying on the floor of the hallway near the elevator.I picked it up and put it in my pocket,--undecided, at the moment,whether to consider it "findings-keepings" (as it was a first-class one!)or whether to turn it in at the superintendent's office. As a matter offact, when I reached the street floor I forgot all about the thing, nordid I remember it until I was back in Boston. And then, I read in thepapers the accounts of the murder in that same building, that sameafternoon, and I saw it was my duty to return the pistol and acquaint youwith these facts. But alas, for dilatory human nature! I procrastinated(without meaning to) until today, and now I send this belated word, withan apology for my
tardiness. The pistol is safe in my possession, and Iwill hold it pending your advices. Shall I send it to you,--and how? Orshall I turn it over to the Boston police? My knowledge of the wholematter begins and ends with the finding of the pistol, which after all,may have nothing to do with the crime. But I found it at three o'clock,or a very few minutes after, if that interests you. I shall be here, atThe Touraine, for another week, and will cheerfully allow myself to beinterviewed at your convenience, but, as I said, I have no furtherinformation to give than that I have here set forth.

  Very truly yours, Nicholas Lusk.

  The letter was dated from Boston, on Saturday evening, two days before.Truly, Friend Lusk had delayed his statement, but as he said, that washuman nature, in matters not important to oneself.

  The Chief was furiously angry at the lateness of the information, and hadalready dispatched a messenger to get the weapon and to interview theBoston man.

  "It's all straight on the face of it," declared Chief Martin; "only anhonest, cheerful booby would write like that! He picks up a pistol,forgets all about it, and then, when he learns it's evidence,--or maybe,--he calmly waits forty-eight hours before he pipes up!"

  "Is it _the_ pistol?" I asked, quietly.

  "How do I know?" blustered Martin. "Likely it is. I don't suppose half adozen people sowed pistols around that building at just three o'clocklast Wednesday afternoon!"

  "How do you fit it in?"

  "Well, this way,--if you want to know. Miss--well, that is,--whoever_did_ do the shooting, ran out of the third room, just as Jennydescribed, and ran downstairs,--it doesn't matter whether all the waydown or not, but at least to the tenth--two floors below, and theredropped the pistol, either by accident or by design, and proceeded todescend, as I said, either by the stairs or by taking an elevator at someintervening floor. Now, we want that pistol. To be sure, it may notincriminate anybody,--and yet, there's lots of individuality infirearms!"

  "In detective stories the owner's initials are on all well-conductedpistols," I remarked, casually.

  "Not in real life, though. There's a number on them, of course, but thatseldom helps. And yet, I've got a hunch that that pistol will tell itsown story, and my fingers itch to get a hold of it!"

  "When do you expect it?"

  "I've sent young Scanlon after it. He's a live wire, and he'll get backsoon's anybody could. See here, this is the way I dope it out. If a womandid the shooting, she'd be more'n likely to throw away a pistol,--or todrop it unintentional like, in her nervousness, but a man--nixy!"

  I had foreseen this. And the statement was, in a way, true. A man, havingcommitted murder, does not drop his pistol,--unless, and I divulged thisthought to Martin, unless he wants to throw suspicion on someone else.

  "Nothin' doin'," was his curt response. "Nobody on that floor possible tosuspect, 'ceptin' it's Rodman,--and small chance of him."

  "Rodman!" I cried; "why, he got on the elevator at the seventh floor,just after the shooting."

  "He did!" the Chief straightened up; "how do you know?"

  "Saw him. I was going down,--in Minny's elevator, you know,--to look forJenny----"

  "When was this?"

  "About ten minutes after the shooting--and of course I got on at thetwelfth floor, and there were no other passengers at first, so I talkedto Minny. But at the seventh Rodman got on, and so we stopped talking."

  "His office is on the tenth," mused Martin; "s'posin'--just s'posin'he'd--er--he was implicated, and that he ran downstairs afterward, to hisown floor, you know,--and then, later, walked to seven, and took a carthere----"

  "Purposely leaving his pistol on his own floor!"

  "Shucks, no! Dropped it accidentally."

  "But you said male criminals don't do that!"

  "Oh, pshaw! I say lots of things,--and you would, too, if you were asbothered as I am!"

  "That's so, Chief," I agreed, "and there is certainly something to belooked into,--I should say, without waiting for a report from Boston."

  "You bet there is! I'm going to send Hudson right up there. He's as gooda sleuth as we've got, and he'll deal with the Rodman matter in a rightand proper way. If there's nothing to find out, Rodman will never know helooked."

  Hudson was duly dispatched, and I returned to the Puritan Building. Itwas queer, but Rodman had been in the back of my head all along,--andyet, I had no real reason to think him implicated. I did not know whetherhe knew Mr. Gately or not, but I, too, had confidence in Foxy JimHudson's discretion, and I was pretty positive he'd find outsomething,--if there were anything worth finding out.

  And there was!

  Rodman, by good luck, was out and his offices locked. Hudson gentlypersuaded the locks to let go their grip, and, for he let me go with him,we went in.

  The first thing that hit me in the eyes, was a big war map on the wall.Moreover, though not a duplicate of Mr. Gately's map, it was similar, andit hung in a similar position. That is, as Rodman's offices were directlyunder those of the bank president, two floors below, the rooms matched,and in the "third room" as we called it in Mr. Gately's case, Rodman alsohad his map hung.

  There was but one conclusion, and Hudson and I sprang to it at once.

  Together, we pulled aside the map, and sure enough, there was a doorexactly like the door in Mr. Gately's room, a small, flush door, usuallyhidden by the map.

  "To the secret elevator, of course," I whispered to Hudson, for wallshave ears, and these walls were in many ways peculiar.

  "By golly, it is!" he returned; "let's open her up!"

  He forced the door open, and assured himself that it did indeed lead intothe private elevator shaft, and there were the necessary buttons to causeit to stop, if properly used. But now, the car being down on the groundfloor, where it had stayed ever since the day of the murder, of course,the buttons could not be manipulated.

  "Now," said Hudson, his brow furrowed, "to see where else this bloomin'rogue trap lets 'em off! There's somethin' mighty queer goin' on that weain't caught on to yet!"

  He carefully closed the door, readjusted the map, and making sure we hadleft no traces of our visit, he motioned me out and we went away.

  He asked me to return to my office, and promised to see me there later.

  When he returned, he told me that he had visited every other office inthe building through whose rooms the elevator shaft descended and in noother instance was there an opening into the shaft.

  "Which proves," he summed up, "that Mr. Gately and Mr. Rodman was somehowin cahoots, else why would Rodman have access to that secret elevator?Answer me that!"

  There were several possible answers. Rodman might have taken his officesafter the elevator was built, and might never have used it at all. Hismap might have hung over it merely to cover the useless door.

  Or, Rodman might have been a personal friend of Mr. Gately's and used thelittle car for informal visits.

  Again,--though I hated myself for the thought,--Mr. Gately might have hadguests whom he didn't wish to be seen entering his rooms, and he mighthave had an arrangement with Rodman whereby the visitors could go in andout through his rooms, and take the private elevator between the tenthand twelfth floors.

  I distrusted Rodman; without any definite reason, but all the same I diddistrust him, and I have frequently found my intuitions regardingstrangers hit pretty nearly right.

  It was unnecessary, however, to answer Foxy Jim's question, for heanswered it himself.

  "There's something about Mr. Gately," he said, and he spoke seriously,almost solemnly, "that hasn't come to light yet, but it's bound to. Yes,sir, it's bound to! And it's on the way. Now, if we can hook up thatBoston pistol with Mr. George Rodman, well and good; if we can't,Rodman's got to be put through the grill anyhow. He's in it forkeeps--that elevator door isn't easily explained away."

  "Does Mr. Rodman," it was Norah who spoke, and as before, Hudson turnedto her almost expectantly--he seemed to depend
on her for suggestions, orat least, he always listened to them--"I wonder, Mr. Brice," she went onslowly, "does Mr. Rodman look at all like the figure you saw in theshadow?"

  I thought back.

  "Yes," I said, decidedly, "he does! Now, hold on, Hudson, it's only amemory, you know, and I may easily be mistaken. But it seems to me I canremember a real resemblance between that shadowed head and the head ofGeorge Rodman."

  "It's worth an experiment," returned the foxy detective, and on thestrength of his decision he waited in my office until George Rodmanreturned to his.

  I didn't know, at the time, what argument Hudson used to get Rodman to doit, but his foxiness prevailed and, obeying orders, I found myselfwatching the shadow of George Rodman's head on Amos Gately's glass door,as Hudson engaged his suspect in animated conversation.

  Of course, the scene of the crime was not re-enacted, there was merelythe shadowed picture of the two men, but Hudson managed to have Rodmanconspicuously shadowed in various positions and postures.

  And after it was over, and Hudson, back in my office, asked me for myverdict, I was obliged to say:

  "Mr. Hudson, if that is not the man I saw quarreling with Mr. Gately, itis his exact counterpart! Were it a less grave occasion, I should nothesitate to swear that it is the same man."

  "That's enough, Mr. Brice," and Foxy Jim Hudson went back to Headquarterswith his report.