  So absorbed was I in the new interests that had come into my life, so anxious to be of assistance to Olive Raynor, and so curious to watch the procedure of Pennington Wise, that I confess I forgot all about the poor chap I had seen at Bellevue Hospital,—the man who “fell through the earth”! And I’m not sure I should ever have thought of him again, save as a fleeting memory, if I hadn’t received a letter from him.
I smiled at the note, and as I had taken a liking to the man from the start, I went at once to see him. “No,” I assured him, after receiving his cordial welcome, “my offer had no string attached. I’m more than ready to help in any way I can, to find a niche for you in this old town and fit you into it. It doesn’t matter where you hail from, or how you got here; New York is an all-comers’ race, and the devil take the hindmost.” “He won’t get me, then,” and Rivers nodded his head determinedly; “I may not be in the van, just at first, but give me half a chance, and I’ll make good!” This was not bumptiousness or braggadocio, I could see, but an earnest determination. The man was sincere and he had a certain doggedness of purpose, which was evident in his looks and manner as well as in his words. Rivers was up and dressed now, and I saw he was a good-looking chap. His light-brown hair was carefully parted and brushed; his smooth-shaven face was thin and pale, but showed strong lines of character. He had been fitted with glasses,—a pince-nez, held by a tiny gold chain over one ear,—and this corrected the vacant look in his eyes. His clothes were inexpensive and quite unmistakably ready-made. He was apologetic. “I’d rather have better duds,” he said, “but as I had to borrow money to clothe myself at all, I didn’t want to splurge. One doctor here is a brick! He’s going to follow up my ‘case,’ and so I accepted his loan. It’s a fearful predicament to be a live, grown-up man, without a cent to your name!” “Let me be your banker,” I offered, in all sincerity; “I——” “No; I don’t want coin so much as I want a way to earn some. Now, if you’ll put me in the way of getting work,—anything that pays pretty well,—I’ll be obliged, sir, and I’ll be on my way.” His smile was of that frank, chummy sort that makes for sympathy and I agreed to help him in any way I could think of. “What can you do?” I asked, preliminarily. “Dunno. Have to investigate myself, and learn what are my latent talents. Doubtless their name is legion. But I’ve nailed one of them. I can draw! Witness these masterpieces!” He held up some sheets of scribble paper on which I saw several careful and well-done mechanical drawings. “You were a draughtsman!” I exclaimed, “in that lost life of yours.” “I don’t know. I may have been. Anyway, these things are all right.” “What are they?” “Not much of anything. They’re sort of designs for wall-paper or oilcloth. See? Merely suggestions, you know, but this one, repeated, would make a ripping study for a two-toned paper.” “You’re right,” I exclaimed, in admiration of the pattern. “You must have been a designer of such things.” “No matter what I was,—the thing is what can I be now, to take my place in the economic world. These are, do you see, adaptations from snow crystals.” “So they are! It takes me back to my school days.” “Perhaps I’m harking back to those, too. I remember the pictures of snow crystals in ‘Steele’s Fourteen Weeks in Natural Science.’ Did you study that?” “I did!” I replied, grinning; “in high school! But, is your memory returning?” “Not so’s you’d notice it! I have recollection of all I learned in an educational way, but I can’t see any individual picture of me, personally,—oh, never mind! How can I get a position as master designer in some great factory?” “That’s a big order,” I laughed. “But you can begin in a small way and rise to a proud eminence——” “No, thanky! I’m not as young as I once was,—my favorite doctor puts me down at thirty,—plus or minus,—but I feel about sixty.” “Really, Rivers, do you feel like an old man?” “Not physically,—that’s the queer part. But I feel as if my life was all behind me——” “Oh, that’s because of your temporary mental——” “I know it. And I’m going to conquer it,—or get around it some way. Now, if you’ll introduce me,—and, yes, act as my guarantee, my reference,—I know it’s asking a lot, but if you’ll do that, I’ll make good, I promise you!” “I believe you will, and I’m only too glad to do it. I’ll take you, whenever you say, around to a firm I know of, that I believe will be jolly glad to get you. You see, so many men of your gifts have gone to war——” “Yes, I know, and I’d like to enlist myself, but Doc says I can’t, being a—a defective.” “I wish you were a detective instead,” I said, partly to turn the current of his thoughts from his condition and partly because my mind was so full of my own interests that he was a secondary consideration. “I’d like to be. I’ve been reading a bunch of detective stories since I’ve been here in hospital, and I don’t see as that deduction business is such a great stunt. Sherlock Holmes is all right, but most of his imitators are stuff and nonsense.” And then, unable to hold it back any longer, I told him all about the Gately case and about Pennington Wise. He was deeply interested, and his eyes sparkled when I related Wise’s deductions from the hatpin. “Has he proved it yet?” he asked; “have you checked him up?” “No, but there hasn’t been time. He’s only just started his work. He has another task; to find Amory Manning.” “Who’s he?” “A man who has disappeared, and there is fear of foul play.” “Is he suspected of killing Gately?” “Oh, no, not that; but he was suspected of hiding to shield Miss Raynor——” “Pshaw! a girl wouldn’t commit a murder like that.” “I don’t think this girl did, anyway. And, in fact, they—the police I mean—have a new suspect. There’s a man named Rodman, who is being looked up.” “Oh, it’s all a great game! I wish I could get out into the world and take part in such things!” “You will, old man. Once you’re fairly started, the world will be——” “My cellar-door! You bet it will! I’m going to slide right down it.” “What about your falling through it? Do you remember any more details of that somewhat—er—unusual performance?” “Yes, I do! And you can laugh all you like. That’s no hallucination, it’s a clear, true memory,—the only memory I have.” “Just what do you remember?” “That journey through the earth——” “You been reading Jules Verne lately?” “Never read it. But that long journey down, down,—miles and miles,—I can never forget it! I’ve had a globe to look at, and I suppose I must have started thousands of miles from here——” “Oh, now, come off——” “Well, it’s no use. I can’t make anybody believe it, but it’s the truth!” “Write it up for the movies. The Man Who Fell Through the Earth would be a stunning title!” “Now you’re guying me again. Guess I’ll shut up on that subject. But I’ll stick you for one more helping-hand act. Where can I get a room to live in for a short time?” “Why a short time?” “Because I must take a dinky little cheap place at first, then soon, I’ll be on my feet, financially speaking, and I can move to decenter quarters. You see, I’m going to ask you after all to trust me with a few shekels, right now, and I’ll return the loan, with interest, at no far distant date.” His calm assumption of success in a business way impressed me favorably. Undoubtedly, he had been one accustomed to making and spending money in his previous life, and he took it as a matter of course. But his common sense, which had by no means deserted him, made him aware that he could get no satisfactory position without some sort of credentials. As he talked he was idly, it seemed, unconsciously, drawing on the paper pad that lay on the table at his elbow—delicate penciled marks that resolved themselves into six-sided figures, whose radii blossomed out into beautiful tendrils or spikes until they formed a perfect, harmonious whole; each section alike, just as in a snow crystal. They were so exquisitely done that I marveled at his peculiar gift. “You ought to design lace,” I observed; “those designs are too fine for papers or carpets.” “Perhaps so,” he returned, seriously gazing at his drawings. “Anyway, I’ll design something,—and it’ll be something worthwhile!” “Maybe you were an engraver,” I hazarded, “before you——” “Before I fell through the earth? Maybe I was. Well, then, suppose tomorrow I so far encroach on your good offices as to go with you to see the firm you mentioned. Or, if you’ll give me a letter of introduction——” “Do you know your way around New York?” “I’m not sure. I have a feeling I was in New York once,—a long time ago, but I can’t say for certain.” “I’ll go with you then. I’ll call for you tomorrow, and escort you to the office I have in mind, and also, look up a home and fireside that appeals to you.” “The sort that appeals to me is out of the question at present,” he said, firmly determined to put himself under no greater obligation to me than need be. “I’ll choose a room like the old gentleman in the Bible had with a bed and a table and a stool and a candlestick.” “You remember your literature all right.” “I do, mostly; though I’ll confess I read of that ascetic individual since I’ve been here. The hospital is long on Bibles and detective stories, and short on belles-lettres. Well, so long, old man!” I went away, pondering. It was a strange case, this of Case Rivers. I smiled at the name he had chosen. He was positively a well-educated and well-read man. His speech gave me a slight impression of an Englishman, and I wondered if he might be Canadian. Of course, I didn’t believe an atom of his yarn about coming from Canada to our fair city via the interior of the globe,—but he may have had a lapse of memory that included his railroad journey, and dreamed that he came in some fantastic way. And then, as is usual, when leaving one scene for another, my thoughts flew ahead to my next errand, which was a visit to Police Headquarters. Here Chief Martin gave me a lot of new information. It seemed they had unearthed damaging evidence in the case of George Rodman, and he was, without a doubt, a malefactor,—but in what particular branch of evil the Chief omitted to state. Nor could any rather broad hints produce any result. At last I said: “Why don’t you arrest Rodman, then?” “Not enough definite evidence. I’m just about sure that he killed Gately, and I think I know why, but I can’t prove it,—yet. Your statement that his head shadowed on that glass door was the same head you saw the day of the murder, is our strongest point——” “Oh, I didn’t say that!” I cried, aghast; “I do say it looked like the same head, but I wouldn’t swear that it was!” “Well, I think it was, and though we can’t connect up the pistol with Rodman——” “Did you get the pistol from the Boston man?” “Yes; Scanlon brought home that bacon. But careful grilling failed to get any more information from Lusk, the man who found the pistol. He tells a straight tale of his visit to the Puritan Building, and his business there, all corroborated by the people he called on. He found that pistol, just as he says he did. And, of course, I knew he told the truth in his letter. If he were involved, or had any guilty knowledge of the crime, he surely wouldn’t write to tell us of it! So now we have the pistol, and we know it was picked up in the tenth floor hall near Rodman’s door,—but that proves nothing, since we can’t claim it is Rodman’s weapon. It may be, of course, but there’s nothing to show it.” “What does Rodman say for himself?” “Denies everything. Says he had the merest nodding acquaintance with Gately,—this we know is a lie!—says he knew there was an elevator door in his room, but he had never used it, nor even opened it. Said he hung a big war map over it because it was a good place for a map. We’ve no living witness to give a shred of evidence against Rodman, except your statement about his shadow,—and that is uncertain at best.” “Yes, it is. I do say it looked like Rodman’s head,—that is, I mean, Rodman’s head looked like the one I saw that day. But other heads might look as much like it.” “That’s the trouble. George Rodman is a slick chap, and what he does that he doesn’t want known, doesn’t get known! But I’m onto him! And I’ll bet I’ll get him yet. He’s so comfoundedly cool that all I say to him rolls off like water off a duck’s back. He knows I’ve got no proof, and he’s banking on that to get through.” “What about Jenny? Can’t she tell you anything?” “She knows nothing about Rodman. And that very point proves that if he visited Gately often, as I think he did, he came and went by that private elevator which connected their two offices, as well as made a street exit for either or both of them.” “Did old man Boyd ever see Rodman leave the Matteawan by way of that elevator?” “He says he never did, but sometimes I think Rodman has fixed him.” “And Jenny, too, maybe.” “Maybe. And here’s another thing. There’s somebody called ‘The Link,’ who figures largely in the whole affair, but figures secretly. I won’t say how I found this little joker, but if I can dig up who ‘The Link’ is, I’ve made a great stride toward success.” Naturally, I said nothing about Pennington Wise to the Chief of Police, but I made a mental note of “The Link” to report to the detective. “Reward’s offered,” we were suddenly informed, as Foxy Jim Hudson burst into the room. “For what?” asked the Chief, a little absent-mindedly. “For information leading to the whereabouts of Amory Manning.” Martin wheeled round in his chair to look at his subordinate. “Who offered it? How much?” “That’s the queer part, Chief. Not the amount,—that’s five thousand dollars, but it’s a person or persons unknown who will put up the kale. It’s done through the firm of Kellogg and Kellogg,—about the whitest bunch of lawyers in town. I mean whoever offers that reward is somebody worthwhile. No shyster business. I’m for it,—the money, I mean. Do you know, Chief, the disappearance of that Manning chap is in some way connected with the Gately murder? I’ve got a hunch on that. And here’s how I dope it out. Manning saw Rodman,—well, perhaps he didn’t see him shoot, but he saw something that incriminated Rodman, and so he,—Rodman, had to get Manning out of the way. And did! You see, Friend Rodman is not only a deep-dyed scoundrel,—but the dye was ‘made in Germany’!” “Well, I’m glad the reward is offered,” commented the Chief. “Now some rank outsider’ll pipe up and speak his little piece.” “Meaning anybody in particular?” I asked. With that peculiarly irritating trick of his, Chief Martin not only made no reply but gave no evidence of having heard my question. He went on: “That makes two rewards. The Puritan Trust Company has offered five thousand for the apprehension of Gately’s murderer. This other five thousand adds to the excitement and ought to produce a good result.” “I’m out for both,” announced Hudson. “Can’t say I expect to get ’em, but I’ll make a fierce stab at it. Rodman has an awful big income, and no visible means of support. That fact ought to help.” “How?” I asked. “Oh, it proves to my mind that he was mixed up in lucrative business that he didn’t—well—advertise. ‘The Link’ was mixed in, too. That is,—I suppose,—‘The Link’ was a sort of go-between, who enabled Rodman to transact his nefarious deals secretly.” “Well, Foxy, you know a lot,” and the Chief laughed good-humoredly. I felt that I now knew a lot, too, and as I went away I determined to see Penny Wise at once, and report all I had learned. I dropped in first at my own office, and found Norah in a brown study, her hands behind her head and a half-written letter in her typewriter. She gazed at me absently, and then, noting my air of excitement, she became alert and exclaimed, “What’s happened? What do you know new?” “Heaps,” I vouchsafed, and then I told her, briefly, of Rodman’s probable guilt and also of the offered rewards. “Jenny’s your trump card,” she said after a thoughtful silence. “That girl knows a good deal that she hasn’t told. I shouldn’t be surprised if she’s in Rodman’s employ.” “What do you mean?” “Oh, she’s too glib. She admits so many things that she has seen or heard and then when you ask her about others, she is a blank wall. Now, she does know about them, but she won’t tell. Why? Because she’s paid not to.” “Then how can we get around her?” “Pay her more.” And Norah returned to her typing. But she looked up again to say: “Mrs. Russell called here about an hour ago.” “She did! What for?” “I don’t know. She wanted to see you. She was a bit forlorn, so I talked to her a little.” “I’m glad you did. Poor lady, she feels her brother’s absence terribly.” “Yes; we discussed it. She thinks he has been killed.” “Has she any reason to think that?” “No, except that she dreamed it.” “A most natural dream for a nervous, worried woman.” “Of course. I wonder if she knows there’s a reward offered for Mr. Manning?” “Maybe she offered it,—through the Kellogg people.” “No, she didn’t.” “Pray, how do you know, oh, modern Cassandra?” “I don’t know your old friend Cassandra, but I do know Mrs. Russell isn’t offering any five thousand dollars. She can’t afford it.” “Why, she’s a rich woman.” “She passes for one, and, of course, she isn’t suffering for food or clothes. But she is economizing. She was wearing her last year’s hat and muff, and she maids herself.” “Perhaps she wore her old clothes because she was merely out to call on my unworthy self.” “No. She was on her way to a reception. They’re her best clothes now. And a tiny rip in one glove and a missing snap-fastener on her bodice proves she keeps no personal lady’s maid, as people in her position usually do. So, I’m sure she isn’t offering big reward money, though she loves her brother.” “You’re a born detectivess, Norah. You’ll beat Penny Wise at his own game, if he doesn’t watch out!” “Maybe,” said Norah, and she laid her fingertips gracefully back on her typewriter keys. |
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