  Nearly every evening Coley Coe came to report to Elsie. The first time that he met the other members of the Powell family he quite took them by storm. His big, blue eyes had a frank, even impudent stare, but his smile was so winning and his laugh so spontaneous that it was impossible to be otherwise than friendly toward him. “Awful glad to meet you, Mrs. Powell,” he said, shaking hands cordially, “and I want to congratulate you on your daughter. Miss Powell’s a wonder! How? Oh, in every way, but especially in having a sense of humour. So few girls do, nowadays!” Coley spoke as a man of wide experience, though as a matter of fact, he was only about Elsie’s age himself. “And you have, too,” he went on, seeing the twinkle in Mrs. Powell’s eyes. “I suppose it runs in the family.” “You’re likely to find out,” said Elsie, as Gerty came into the room and Coleman was presented to her. Another of the young man’s comprehensive glances seemed to gather Gerty into his acquaintance, and after pleasant greetings he said, “Now, we’re all acquainted, and ready to begin work.” He trotted around the room, selected the chair he preferred, and pulling out the smallest from a nest of little tables, placed it in front of him, and produced a notebook and pencil. “I don’t want to know the facts or details of the case, for I know all those,” he said, “I want to find some sleeping dogs to stir up. By which, I mean,” his wavy mop of hair shook over his forehead as he explained, “I want to get sidelights, I want to find out things that you people know of, that others don’t,—I want your opinions, your suspicions, your ideas,—no matter how absurd they may seem.” Coe’s eyes were of that intense, yet light, China blue, that is said by physiognomists to denote the vagabond character. And vagabond partly describes the boy’s nature. Not that he was one, but his temperament was roving, erratic, receptive and of wide interests. He saw everything that came within the vision of those alert blue eyes, and most things he saw he understood at once; if not, he kept at them until he did. “Suspects, for instance,” he went on. “Whom do you suspect?” and he turned suddenly to Mrs. Powell. “Gracious! I don’t know,—” the good lady replied, flustered at his attack. “But there must be somebody,—that seems to you a possible factor in the removal of Mr. Webb. Somebody, of whom you would say, if that person proved to be the criminal, ‘I thought so!’ Isn’t there, now?” “No,” said Mrs. Powell, but she spoke hesitantly. “There! you’ve proved there is, by your tone. Come, now, who is it?” “The Webbs,” said Mrs. Powell, speaking sharply. “I don’t say I’m right, but I can’t get it out of my head, that they know where Kimball is.” “That’s the ticket!” Coley smiled at her. “I’ve got to get a line on this thing. Now, Mrs. Seaman, your suspect is—” “Wallace Courtney,” Gerty declared. “I’d suspect the Webbs, but I can’t think they’d want all the opprobrium of the cancelled wedding party and all the unpleasant notoriety that it caused—” “A lot they cared for that!” exclaimed Elsie. “Go on, Mrs. Seaman,” urged Coe. “You think that Mr. Courtney—” “I think he somehow arranged to have Kimball Webb kidnapped,” Gerty said, positively; “I don’t know how he accomplished it, but you see, he just learned that very evening, that Mr. Webb’s play was so nearly like his own and much farther along. He realized that Kimball’s play would be done and produced before his own could be finished, and he was desperate. He knew he couldn’t do anything after the wedding, so he made a grand dash and put Kimball out of the way at once.” “How?” cried Elsie, looking scornful. “Never mind that side of it for the moment, Miss Powell,” Coley Coe shook his forelock at her and smiled. “I’m going to find out the manner of the exit, but first I want to find the guilty man.” “The guilty man is a woman,” Mrs. Powell persisted, “two women, in fact.” A blue-eyed smile from Coe quieted her, and Gerty went on, “I know Wallace Courtney pretty well, and he’s a man who, with all his quiet ways is a firebrand at heart. If he wants a thing, everything else must give way. He is unconventional and lawless. He cares nothing for appearances,—why, look at him! He’s practically living with Lulie Lloyd,—” “Oh, that’s all right,” Elsie broke in, “he merely took rooms in that same house, to be quiet for his work and to have the services of Lulie. I went there, you know. Mrs. Lloyd lives with Lulie,—and, too, there’s nothing that interests Wallace Courtney but his play. He is bound up in it, and, as Gerty says, he would sacrifice everything,—his reputation, or Lulie’s either,—if it would help him along with his work.” “That’s right,” Coley agreed; “I’ve looked up the Courtney side of the case, and it’s all as Miss Powell says. I don’t trust the fair Lulie, though,—do you?” and he looked at Elsie. “No, I don’t. She adores Wallace, and I know she’ll tell him a whole lot of points from Kim’s play, which Mr. Courtney will use in his own. But I don’t care, if we can only get Kim back,—his play can go into the discard.” “That’s the talk! Now, Miss Powell, who’s your suspect?” “I’m of a divided opinion, between the Webbs and Mr. Courtney. And sometimes,—I don’t think it could have been either of them.” “Spooks, then?” “Oh, gracious, no! Cut out all thought of that idea!” “But what about the queer things that have happened in the room Mr. Webb used? I’m told there have been unexplained sounds and missing jewels and pulled-off bedclothes—” “All garbled reports of servants or the Webb ladies themselves, who are foolishly inclined to the supernatural.” “Miss Webb, as well as her mother?” “Partially. Henrietta doesn’t admit it, but she believes in visitations,—or premonitions, anyway.” “Well, so much for suspects. Now, for motives: The Webbs’ motive being, of course, to prevent their beloved son and brother from making a match of which they don’t wholly approve.” “Right,” said Elsie, her lip curling. “Mr. Courtney’s motive being the sequestration of Kimball Webb, his rival playwright, until his own play is completed.” “Motive enough in his estimation,” commented Elsie. “Yes; motive enough for his desire to put the man away, but not enough to explain his accomplishment of what must have been for him a difficult feat. The abduction of Mr. Webb would have been easy enough for his own people but for no one else. That so?” “Yes,” Elsie added. “But if his own people did it, where are they keeping him all this time?” “The same question is pertinent, whoever is responsible for the disappearance. I’m leaving out the reckoning that Mr. Webb went away willingly. I don’t believe that for a minute. I’m working entirely on the assumption that he was kidnapped, abducted, carried off by force and for a wrong purpose. That means there’s a criminal to be found, and I’m going to find him. The witnesses against him are sleeping dogs, so far, but I’m going to stir them up! You’ll see!” “But there couldn’t have been any witnesses,” exclaimed Elsie. “Why not? Granting that somebody took Mr. Webb away from his home,—and, unless he’s still in that house, somebody did, why couldn’t some other body have seen him taken?” “I suppose somebody could,” Elsie admitted, “but in that case, why haven’t they come forward and told of it?” “There are lots of good and expensive reasons why they don’t.” “But you know there’s a reward of fifty thousand dollars—” “Which, to my mind, goes to prove that whoever took him had a bigger deal on than that. Now, let’s consider a motive. This isn’t a murder case,—so far as we know—oh, don’t do that!” for Elsie broke down at his implied suggestion and shook with sobs. “Look here, Miss Powell, we’re going to stir up things and we must be prepared for whatever we find. I’ve not the slightest reason to think of foul play in the case, but we must hunt the criminal just as carefully as if we were looking for a murderer. Now, brace up and don’t be scared by a sleeping dog that isn’t there!” “Go on about a motive,” said Gerty, who was listening intently. “Well, we’ve got to admit that Kimball Webb has been stolen. We’ll use that term as being more graphic than kidnapped or abducted. The former always connotes an infant, and the latter seems to me to imply a girl. Let’s say Mr. Webb has been stolen, and we’re out to get back the stolen goods. Now, what’s the reason he was stolen? It’s got to be an awful big reason, for the robber took awful big risks. And it’s a daring,—a stupendously daring stunt that he pulled off! He’s been planning it for a long time,—I say, he,—but if it turns out to be the Webb ladies, we’ll change our pronoun. Now, there’s no reason big enough but money. I’m prepared to stand by that statement. Love is a strong motive for lots of crimes,—but you don’t suspect any of your disappointed suitors, do you, Miss Powell?” “No,” and Elsie smiled at his expression. “There are lots of them heartbroken, of course, but none that I can think would have inclination or ability to cut up such a trick.” “Well, then, grant the reason is acquisition of money, somehow. Perhaps the reward is not big enough,—” “Fifty thousand dollars!” “Maybe the criminal is out for bigger loot. Who would benefit financially by the disappearance of Kimball Webb?” “Nobody; he is not a rich man by any means,” Elsie informed him. The mass of brown hair wagged wildly, as Coley Cole shook his head. “Not from his estate,—the man isn’t dead. But supposing you, Miss Powell, stuck to your resolution not to marry any one else, thereby losing your aunt’s money, who would benefit?” “Joe Allison!” “Exactly. No, we’ve no definite reason to suspect Mr. Allison, we’ve no scrap of evidence against him, no clue to his guilt. But I shall stir up some sleeping dogs and see how they bark at him.” “Joe!” Gerty exclaimed; “ridiculous!” “So, Mrs. Seaman? And who wouldn’t be ridiculous?” “The Webbs wouldn’t. It would be natural, quite in keeping with their way of doing things, and it wouldn’t be ridiculous to suspect them.” “Now, I think it would,” Coley put his head on one side, and his blue eyes smiled at her. “I do think it would be ridiculous to imagine two staid, respectable ladies putting a man out of the way, against his will. And, if with his consent, why the mystery at all? Why not let the man go off of his own accord,—or, even tell Miss Powell of his wish to break off the affair, and ask her to release him.” “He didn’t want to be released!” Elsie cried, indignantly, “and you know it, Gert!” “Of course I know it! No, Mr. Coe, Elsie’s bridegroom never deserted her! I know him well, and I know his devotion to my sister was loyal and faithful.” “Yes, I know all that, too,” Coley tossed back his hair. “If the Webbs are responsible for his disappearance, it was done without his knowledge or consent.” “How do you mean?” Elsie exclaimed. “I mean he was carried off while unconscious.” “Impossible!” “Any other theory is impossible. Mr. Webb is no weakling,—although hampered by his wounded knee. He would put up a stiff fight if he knew he was being stolen!” “How do you know that?” “Oh, I told you I had all the facts of the case. I’m getting fancies now,—and I’ll admit yours are illuminating.” “Go on,” Elsie said, “ask for more,—we’ll give ’em.” “Nope. Got enough now. Next I want to see friend Allison.” “Don’t let him know you suspect him,” Gerty begged. “He can’t be the one.” “Leave me to judge of that. How can I see him?” “He’ll probably be here soon,” Elsie said, “but as Gerty says, don’t suspect him,—it’s foolish.” Coley glared at her, his blue eyes glinting with mock severity. “Don’t tell me whom to suspect, Miss Powell! I shall suspect everybody. Not omitting yourself, your mother, your sister,—or her babies! Now, will you be good?” “Oh, if it’s merely a matter of universal suspicion, all right.” “That’s my custom. Suspect everybody, and then eliminate the useless suspects as fast as you can.” “Eliminate my two kiddies as soon as possible, won’t you?” laughed Gerty, and Coe promised. Before Allison came, Fenn Whiting turned up. He looked at Coley Coe with interest, as they were introduced, and Coe’s business there explained. “Good work!” Whiting said, heartily. “Count on me to help.” “First you must be suspected, Fenn,” Elsie said, and Whiting looked inquiringly at Coe. “You’re after me?” he asked, genially. “After everybody,” Coe returned. “I’ve just crossed off the two Seaman children as suspects, because of the pleadings of their mother, but no one else may be stricken from my list until he is proved to be beyond suspicion.” “Good! Go ahead. Where do I get off? Want my alibi or what? I’m not impatient, but I’d like to be passed, so I can begin to help you.” “Good for you, I want help. Start in, will you, by telling me whom you suspect,—if any?” “Suspect is too strong a word,—but my theory is that Kimball Webb abducted himself, with the connivance and help of his butler and chauffeur.” “And the knowledge and consent of his mother and sister?” “That I’m not so sure of. But looked at from the viewpoint of plain common sense, there seems to me no other way for that man to have gotten out of that room and out of that house, but to have walked out voluntarily.” “And the locked doors?” “A fabrication of the said servants. You may theorize and talk fairy tales all you like, but there’s no other rational explanation.” “And the motive?” “I can’t say. Quite aside from the rudeness and impoliteness of hinting any lack of his desire to marry Miss Powell, I can’t believe such a thing could be true. I’m positive that man, when at his own bachelor dinner, at which I was present, expected and intended to become a bridegroom the following day. Now, I believe something transpired, after his return home, that made it impossible or undesirable that he should be married. I can’t say what,—for I’ve no idea,—but something pretty big and unavoidable.” “You mean something disgraceful?” the blue eyes of his questioner looked into his own. The steel grey eyes of Fenn Whiting met the others squarely. “I don’t want to say that,” he spoke slowly, “but it may have been. Better men than Kimball Webb have been brought to bay by force of circumstances; wiser men than he have been the victims of blackmailing schemes; stronger men than he have met disaster through no fault of their own. I make no suggestions,—I have none to make,—but I maintain the only logical theory of Webb’s disappearance is that he went voluntarily, if not willingly.” “I think you’re horrid!” Elsie cried, her eyes flashing. “Kim never did anything wrong or underhanded! He couldn’t have been blackmailed! He couldn’t have been involved in any thing disgraceful! How idiotic!” “If the idea is idiotic, Miss Powell, it will meet the fate it deserves. But we must stir up those sleeping dogs of blackmailers, if they exist. It is a plausible theory, if not the only possible one, and I shall remember it.” Whiting gave the young detective a look of appreciative interest and the glance was returned, for the two men seemed to understand each other. “I admit it’s only a theory,” Whiting said, his prominent, muscular jaw set with a grim decision, “but you’ll be hard put to it, to trump up a better one.” “That may well be,” Coe agreed, “but I’d be sorry to depend on one theory alone. I like to have lots of them, then, if I pick up a clue here or there, I can fit it in where it belongs.” Like a Skye Terrier, he blinked through the absurd mop of hair that covered his forehead, and Whiting, his own brow bared, showing lines that sloped up to a point, gazed at Coe with a fascinated curiosity. He wondered why the man chose that peculiar haircut, but it was not his business and he asked no questions. “All right,” he said; “any of your theories ripe for discussion?” “Yes; one of them. I think a very strong motive could be ascribed to the young man from the West,—the alternative heir, you know.” “Allison?” said Whiting. “Oh, come, now, you’ve nothing against him.” “Only his certainty of inheriting the millions, in case Miss Powell doesn’t marry by the stated date. Fine scheme, to steal the bridegroom,—thus lessening by a large percentage the chances of her immediate wedding.” “Yes, the motive is all right,” Whiting agreed, “but you don’t know Joe! Why, he’s the whitest young chap—” “On the surface; why not? But, do you suppose a criminal goes about labelled? Count every man guilty until he’s proved innocent, is a better plan to work on than the reverse principle. If Joe Allison is innocent it will be far easier for him to prove it, than for me to prove it if he’s guilty.” Whiting pondered over this, then he said, “Well, I admit, you’re the most novel detective I’ve ever run up against! Have you usually succeeded in your quests?” “That’s a leading question.” Coley Coe looked a little surprised at it, as if he thought it a breach of etiquette. Whiting flushed and his thin lips shut together sharply, as they did when he was a bit embarrassed. “I beg your pardon,” he said, simply. “That did sound rude, but honestly, I didn’t mean it so. It was the unconsidered expression of my interest in your methods,—which, if I may say it, are refreshingly unusual.” Coe accepted the honourable apology, and met Whiting half-way. “My methods are unusual, and I’m properly ashamed of them.” His eyes smiled. “But they do work,—and I have had successes,—oh, lots of ’em!” he wound up, boyishly. Then Allison came. The others looked on curiously as Coley Cole made his first survey of the young Westerner. Unsuspectingly, Joe stood the ordeal well. He looked his usual frank, good-natured self, and he greeted the detective with unconcealed interest. “Miss Powell told me about you,” he said, “and I’m downright glad you’ve begun to look into this thing. It seemed to me nothing was being done. Not that it’s my business,—but I’m more or less mixed up in it, and I want to see the mystery cleared up.” “When did you arrive in New York?” Coe asked him, with a straightforward glance. “About a week after the disappearance of Mr. Webb. Why?” “Merely getting information. You’ve no objection to giving it?” “Not a bit. But if you’re suspecting me, say so, right out. I’d like it better.” “I daresay you would, but we detectives don’t always ask suspects their preferences.” Joe’s blank look of surprise at this speech was funny to see. He glared at Coe, and then under the influence of the shining eyes and the ridiculous hair, Allison laughed and said, “You’ll do! And so you don’t suspect me, after all? Why don’t you?” “That’s part of the tricks of my trade,” Coe returned. “I never let my suspects think I suspect them. It would spoil my investigation work if I did.” “By George!” ejaculated Allison; “you’ll get me scared if you talk like that. I suppose you think I had a motive for putting Mr. Webb out of the way—” “Oh, Joe,” cried Gerty, “don’t take Mr. Coe so seriously; of course he doesn’t suspect you.” “Of course I do,” said Coley, calmly. “I suspect everybody. I’ve told you that before. At this moment I suspect every person who I’ve heard has any connection with the matter at all,—any connection, mind you,—and I shall finally fasten the guilt on one of my suspects.” “Do you know already which one?” Elsie cried, quickly. “I do not; but I’ll say that I suspect some more than others,—though I may be mistaken. I’m not infallible.” |
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