  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 what may be 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 which must be 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: “He must be 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. |
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