  Kimball Webb didn’t look at all like a man who would disappear mysteriously. Though I’m not sure mysteriously disappearing men, as a class, have physical characteristics in common. But one rather imagines them eerie looking, with deep, cavernous eyes and hollow cheeks. Kimball Webb had nothing of the sort. He was a bit distinguished looking, but that was because he was a New Englander by birth, and a playwright by profession and had won the D. S. C. in the late war. Now, though a lame knee interfered slightly with his outdoor pursuits, his mind was alert and eager to return to work and his brain was fairly bursting with new ideas for his plays. First, however, he must needs attend to a certain business of getting married. A delightful business it seemed to Webb, for Elsie Powell was as lovely and desirable in the flesh as she had looked to him when seen in his troubled dreams in far off France. There is a lot to be said about Elsie, but that properly comes in the next chapter. Mrs. Webb and Miss Henrietta Webb sat at their pleasant breakfast table, and while they wait for the son and brother, I’ll describe them. Every detail of their appearance and manner shrieked Boston,—so you don’t need much more surface description. A mental interior view would show hearts devotedly, even absurdly, fond of Kimball Webb, and minds which reasoned against showing fully that devotion. The New England repression of feeling is not effaced by life in New York; indeed, the circumstance often accentuates the trait. And the Webbs lived in New York. This condition crucified the souls of both women but they came cheerfully, because it was Kimball’s wish. He felt his dramatic talent was of a wing-spread too wide for the narrow opportunities of his native town, and there were other lures in the metropolis, especially Elsie. So, with a smile on their lips but tears in their eyes, his mother and sister left the shadow of their State House dome, and set up their household gods in an old but comfortable house in the East Sixties, not far from Park Avenue. It was on Park Avenue that Elsie lived. Webb’s love of all beautiful things,—especially Elsie,—had led him to have the back yard of their home fixed up like an old patio or close or some such doings, and had scattered over its paved area, benches, statues, lions and other more or less damaged stoneware, picked up from certain worthwhile dealers in antiques. So it was on this picturesque outlook the dining room windows opened, and the house being on the south side of the street, the morning sun added cheer to the already pleasant breakfast scene. “Kimball is late this morning,” said Miss Webb, naturally, though unnecessarily. “Small wonder,” returned her mother. “I happen to know that he was up till all hours at his dinner party.” “What a foolish idea, having a bachelor dinner the night before one is married. I should think he’d prefer a good night’s rest to fit him for the responsibilities of the ceremony.” “Few responsibilities devolve on Kimball’s shoulders. The best man looks after everything, I’m told.” “And Fenn Whiting can do that. He is the most capable man I ever saw, when it comes to social matters of any sort. But I’m a little surprised at his consenting to be best man. You know he worships Elsie.” “I know. He tried to cut Kim out.” “And I wish he had! I shall never be reconciled to Kim’s marrying that girl—” “Rather late now to raise objections, Henrietta.” “As if I hadn’t been raising them right along from the day I first heard the outrageous news!” “Yes, and what good did it do?” “None. But I’ve put myself on record as against the marriage.” “You certainly have! And now, do hold your tongue about it; I think I shall send Hollis up to Kimball’s room—” “Oh, let the poor boy alone. The wedding isn’t until four o’clock, and he may as well sleep late if he wants to. What time did he get in?” “It was after two. He looked in to say good-night to me. He had the pendant with him.” “He did? I thought he was to give it to Elsie yesterday.” “He was. But she was afraid to keep it in her possession over night,—they have no safe.” “Neither have we.” “Well, anyway, she asked Kimball to keep it for her till today. He wanted me to put it in my jewel box, but I said no. I didn’t want the responsibility of such a valuable thing.” “It is perfectly stunning. It’s wicked, I think, for Kim to put so much money in diamonds.” “It never was done in our family,” Mrs. Webb sighed. “But the Powells, of course, have different standards.” “Shall we go on and eat our breakfast?” “I hate to, on Kim’s last day under this roof. I shall send up and at least find out if he is still asleep.” Hollis, the butler and general factotum of the establishment, was dispatched on the errand. When Hollis returned, though his face showed amazement and doubt, there was no sign of fear, but rather a suppressed smile and an indulgent twinkle of his eye. “Mr. Kimball is very sound asleep, ma’am,” he reported to his mistress. “Will you not leave him lay for awhile?” “You are implying,” said Mrs. Webb, astutely, “that Mr. Kimball was at a gay party last night. He spoke with me on his return, and I can assure you, Hollis, that he had not been over-celebrating in any way.” The butler looked chagrined, then relieved, then puzzled. “In that case, ma’am, why does he sleep so very soundly? I rapped as loud as I could, and also shook at the door-knob. And then, I listened at the keyhole, but I could hear no deep breathing, as of a sound sleeper.” “I will go up myself,” said Kimball Webb’s mother, and the man held the door open for her to pass through. “It is very strange,” said Henrietta, with a covert glance at the butler. “Yes, Miss Webb,” and the man looked at her until she fidgeted. “Leave the room,” she ordered, sharply, and he obeyed. “There’s something wrong, Henrietta,” her mother declared, as she came hastily back. “I’ve called and called, and pleaded with him to let me in, but he won’t.” “Did he reply at all?” “No; not a sound. I should think he was up and out early, about some business, but that his door is locked.” “He always locks it at night.” “Of course. And last night, as he had the diamonds in his keeping, I daresay he fastened the door with extra care.” “Oh, mother, perhaps somebody has murdered him and stolen the diamonds!” Henrietta was always outspoken, and the result of this speech was a hysterical scream from the elder lady, that brought Hollis to the scene again, followed by the cook and a housemaid. Leaving her mother to the attentions of the women servants, Henrietta spoke to the butler. “Mr. Kimball’s room must be opened,” she said; “can you do it, Hollis?” “Not alone, Miss Henrietta. Shall I get the chauffeur?” “Yes, and quickly. Meantime I’m going upstairs myself. Come up as soon as you can get Oscar.” Slowly Henrietta Webb mounted the two flights of stairs to her brother’s room. A strange, thoughtful look was on her handsome face. Not a young woman was Miss Webb, indeed she was three years older than Kimball, who was thirty. But she was what is known as well-preserved, and every detail of her perfect grooming spoke of a determination to look her best at any expense of time, trouble or money. A tradition in the Webb family was that “haste” is a word unknown to a lady. It may have been the observance of this that caused the lagging footsteps, but to an onlooker it would have appeared that Henrietta Webb was thinking with a rapidity in inverse proportion to her movements. At Kimball’s door, the door from the hall into the front room on the third floor, she paused, and stood looking at it with a sort of fascination. What lay behind it? Tragedy?—or merely the comedy of over sleeping? “If it should be!” she murmured, in an irrepressible whisper, and her hands clinched into one another, as if in expression of some strong emotion. “Can’t you rouse him, Miss Webb?” asked Hollis, solicitously, as he and the chauffeur came upstairs two or three steps at a bound. “I—I haven’t tried,” said Henrietta, dully. “I—I’m afraid—” “Now, now, Miss Webb,” Oscar, the chauffeur, put in cheerily, “I’ll bet he’s all right. Anyway, we’ll soon see.” The mechanician quickly picked the lock, but a firm bolt still held the door closed. “Have to smash in,” he exclaimed; “no other way.” The door was heavy and solid, as doors of old New York houses are, but after a few futile attempts, the two men burst the bolt from its fastenings and threw the door open. Kimball Webb was not in the room. The three, crowding through the doorway, took in this fact without, at first, grasping its full significance. Then, “The bathroom,” said Henrietta, and Oscar, who was more alert than the butler, flung open the bathroom door. When the Webbs took the old house, they remodelled it slightly to suit their needs. On this third floor, there had been a joint lavatory and dressing room between two large bedrooms. This had been changed to make it a private bath connected only with Kimball’s room, and having no outlet elsewhere. The room behind it was used as a family sitting-room or library, and there were no other rooms on the floor. What might have been hall bedrooms were alcoves in the two rooms. Therefore, when Oscar entered the bathroom, and found no one in it, the situation resolved itself into the simple fact that Kimball Webb had disappeared from a room that had but one exit door, and that had been found locked and bolted. Oscar turned white and shook, Hollis turned red and shivered, but Miss Webb preserved her colour and her poise. It was not remarkable that her colour remained stationary, she had applied it with that intention, but her unshattered nerves bespoke a marvellous self-control. “Where is he?” she said, and her voice betrayed her agitation, though she strove to control it. “Where can he be, miss?” exclaimed Oscar. “I never saw the like! He must have jumped out of a window.” “He couldn’t,” said Henrietta, briefly; “they’re all fastened.” The two men, unfamiliar with these details, examined the windows. There were three of them, facing front, on the street. Each was opened at the top for the space of about six inches, and was securely held thus by a patent device that proved to be very firm and strong. The small window of the bathroom opened on a narrow airshaft, but this window was closed and fastened. Clearly, there was no outlet but the main door into the hall. Closets and wardrobes were thrown open and examined, Oscar even looked under the bed and behind the heavy window curtains, but there was no sign of Kimball Webb. “I never saw anything so queer!” exclaimed Henrietta, who had not yet thought of tragedy in connection with her brother’s absence. “I should think he has risen early and gone on some errand,—only how could he have gotten out?” Hollis merely stared in response to her inquiry. “He couldn’t, ma’am,” declared Oscar. “Nobody could go out of this room, and leave that door bolted behind him. And it was locked on the inside, too, you know. I turned the key from the other side, with strong pincers.” Henrietta stared at him blankly. “Where, then,” she said, “is my brother?” “I don’t know, I’m sure, miss,” Oscar began, and then Mrs. Webb reached the top of the stairs, and joined the astounded group. After her, trailed the cook and the housemaid, joined as they passed the second floor, by the chambermaid, so that there was a goodly company of startled and excited people to discuss the amazing circumstance. The servants, however, said little, save a few scared whispers among themselves, for though the lady of the house was often lenient, yet they well knew that no emergency or unusual occurrence was sufficient excuse in Miss Henrietta’s eyes, for any breach of strict adherence to orders. “Where’s Kimball, Henrietta?” demanded Mrs. Webb, as if her daughter were entirely responsible for her brother’s keeping. “I don’t know, mother; it’s the queerest thing! He’s gone off somewhere, and yet, he left the door locked behind him.” “I can understand that,” and Mrs. Webb looked superiorly informed. “He had—that is, there was, something of value—” “Oh, yes, I know he had Elsie’s wedding gift here,—but the question is, how did he get out? The door was locked when we came up here.” “He locked it himself, Etta. What ails you?” “Listen here, Mrs. Webb,” broke in Oscar, a little forgetful of his etiquette in his excitement. “We found the door locked on the inside,—bolted, too,—we broke in,—so you see it’s most mysterious, ma’am.” “Broke in! How dared you?” “Hush, mother, I told them to,” interrupted Henrietta; “there’s something strange,—inexplicable,—impossible, even! What shall we do?” “What is there to do, but wait for Kim to come back and explain matters?” “How can he come back? How did he get out? How—” “Don’t be foolish, Henrietta. However he got out, he can certainly come back. I’ve not the slightest doubt he’s over at Elsie’s.” “At nine o’clock in the morning!” “It’s half after now,—nearly ten. He must be over there, for where else would he go,—on his wedding day? Why don’t you telephone Elsie, and inquire?” “Oh, mother, you are talking rubbish! Try to see things more clearly. Kimball’s gone, and—he’s mysteriously gone!” “Pooh, people don’t go mysteriously nowadays. Kim’s all right; he’ll turn up soon, and have a good laugh at you.” “Very well then, how did he leave this room, and lock the door behind him, on the inside, leaving the key on in the lock?” “On the inside?” “Yes, on the inside, and bolted as well.” “I don’t know, my dear, how he did it,—but Kimball can do anything!” And with this comprehensive statement of her trust in her son’s omnipotence, the elder lady went downstairs again. “My mother doesn’t take it all in,” said Miss Webb to Oscar, who was rapidly assuming the position of right hand man. “We must do something, I think; can you suggest anything?” She looked at the young chauffeur with an air of command, whereupon he felt the immediate necessity of suggesting something,—however absurd. “Shall I call the police, ma’am?” he said. “No!” she cried. “What an idea! Of course not. My brother has not absconded!” “But we ought, by rights, to do something,” Oscar went on. “There’s nothing to do,” Henrietta returned, evidently dissuaded from all action by the mention of the police. “If I might look around the room a bit, miss?” Oscar ventured. Henrietta nodded, and the alert youth started on a tour of investigation. “Don’t touch nothin’,” Hollis growled. He stood, with stern eyes glaring at the eager searcher. “Why not?” “It’s against the law—” “Oh, Hollis,” and Miss Webb frowned at him. “This is not a criminal case!” “How do you know it ain’t, Miss Webb?” Ignoring him, Henrietta watched the other. Without touching anything, Oscar made a very intelligent and quick search of conditions. “Where’s his clothes?” he demanded. “You see, he’d been to bed,—yet his night things are gone, and I don’t see the day clothes he took off. What was he wearing last night, ma’am?” “Evening dress. He gave his bachelor dinner, you know. Didn’t you drive him to the club?” “Yes, ma’am, but I didn’t bring him home. He said for me not to go for him, he’d come home with some of his friends.” “Well, he had on his customary evening clothes. Are they not in his clothes closet?” But they were not. Henrietta looked dumfounded. It had become evident to her, at last, that there was a mystery connected with her brother’s absence. And today was his wedding day! Ah, he must be over at Elsie’s. No matter how contradictory the facts, no matter if he was wearing evening clothes in the morning, there must be a rational explanation,—if only for the reason that there was certainly no irrational one! “Do let’s do something, miss!” urged Oscar. Henrietta turned now to the butler as the man of better judgment. “What do you think, Hollis?” “I don’t know what to think, Miss Henrietta. There’s nothing possible to think. But I agree, something ought to be done. Suppose you telephone to Mr. Whiting.” “The very thing! Mr. Whiting is most capable and efficient. And too, he’s to be my brother’s best man. I’ll call him up at once.” And Henrietta ran downstairs to telephone. |
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