<h2 id="c6"><span class="small">CHAPTER VI</span> <br/>Clews</h2>
<p>I didn’t reach my office until afternoon, and
there I found Norah, in a brown study.</p>
<p>She looked up with a smile as I came in.</p>
<p>“I’m neglecting my work,” she said, with a
glance at a pile of papers, “but that affair across
the hall has taken hold of me and I can’t put it out
of my mind.”</p>
<p>“Nor can I. I feel as if I were deeply involved
in it,—if not indeed, an accessory! But there are
new developments. Mr. Manning is missing.”</p>
<p>“Mr. Manning? What has he got to do with
it?”</p>
<p>“With the crime? Nothing. He didn’t come
up here until Miss Raynor came, you know.
But——”</p>
<p>“Are they engaged?”</p>
<p>“Not that I know of. I think not.”</p>
<p>“Well, they will be, then. And don’t worry
about Mr. Manning’s absence. He’ll not stay long
away from Miss Raynor. Who is he, anyway? I
mean what does he do?”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_91">[91]</div>
<p>“He’s a civil engineer and he lives in Gramercy
Park. That’s the extent of my knowledge of him.
I’ve seen him down in the bank once or twice since
I’ve been here, and I like his looks. I hope, for
Miss Raynor’s sake, he’ll turn up soon. She expected
him to call on her last evening and he didn’t
go there at all.”</p>
<p>“I shouldn’t think he would! Why, it was a
fearful night. I was going to the movies, but I
couldn’t think of going out in that wild gale! But
never mind Mr. Manning now, let’s talk about the
Gately affair. I want to go over there and look
around the office. Do you suppose they’d let me?”</p>
<p>“Why, I expect so. Is anybody there now?”</p>
<p>“Yes, a police detective,—that man, Hudson.
You know they call him Foxy Jim Hudson, and I
suppose he’s finding out a lot of stuff that isn’t
so!”</p>
<p>“You haven’t a very high opinion of our arms
of the law.”</p>
<p>“Oh, they’re all right,—but most detectives can’t
see what’s right under their noses!”</p>
<p>“Not omniscient Sherlocks, are they? And you
think you could do a lot of smarty-cat deduction?”</p>
<p>Norah didn’t resent my teasing, but her gray eyes
were very earnest as she said, “I wish I could try.
A woman was in that room yesterday afternoon;
someone besides Miss Raynor and the old lady
Driggs.”</p>
<p>“How do you know?”</p>
<p>“Take me over there and I’ll show you. They’ll
let me in, with you to back me.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_92">[92]</div>
<p>We went across and the officer made no objections
to our entrance. In fact, he seemed rather
glad of someone to talk to.</p>
<p>“We’re sorta up against it,” he confessed.
“Our suspicions are all running in one direction,
and we don’t like it.”</p>
<p>“You have a suspect, then?” I asked.</p>
<p>“Hardly that, but we begin to think we know
which way to look.”</p>
<p>“Any clews around, to verify your suspicions?”</p>
<p>“Lots of ’em. But take a squint yourself, Mr.
Brice. You’re shrewd-witted, and—my old eyes
ain’t what they used to was.”</p>
<p>I took this mock humility for what it was worth,—nothing
at all,—and I humored the foxy one by
a properly flattering disclaimer.</p>
<p>But I availed myself of his permission and tacitly
assuming that it included Norah, we began a new
scrutiny of the odds and ends on Mr. Gately’s desk,
as well as other details about the rooms.</p>
<p>Norah opened the drawer that Mr. Talcott had
locked,—the key was now in it.</p>
<p>“Where’s the checkbook?” she asked, casually.</p>
<p>Hudson looked grave. “Mr. Pond’s got that,”
he said; “Mr. Pond’s Mr. Gately’s lawyer, and he
took all his accounts and such. But that check-book’s
a clew. You see the last stub in it shows
a check drawn to a woman——”</p>
<p>“I said it was a woman!” exclaimed Norah.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_93">[93]</div>
<p>“Well, maybe,—maybe. Anyhow the check was
drawn <i>after</i> the ones made out to Smith and the
Driggs woman. So, the payee of that last check
was in here later than the other two.”</p>
<p>“Who was she?” was Norah’s not unnatural
inquiry.</p>
<p>But Hudson merely looked at her, with a slight
smile that she should expect an answer to that
question.</p>
<p>“Oh, all right,” she retorted; “I see her hatpin
is still here.”</p>
<p>“If that there hatpin is a clew, you’re welcome
to it. We don’t think it is. Mr. Gately had frequent
lady callers, as any man’s got a right to have,
but because they leaves their hatpins here, that
don’t make ’em murderers. No, I argue that if a
woman shot Mr. Gately she would be cute
enough <i>not</i> to leave her hatpin by way of a visitin’
card.”</p>
<p>This raised Hudson’s mentality in my opinion,
and I could see it also scored with Norah.</p>
<p>“That’s true,” she generously agreed. “In
books, as soon as I come to the dropped handkerchief
or broken cuff-link, I know that <i>isn’t</i> the property
of the criminal. But, all the same, people do
leave clews,—why, Sherlock Holmes says a person
can’t enter and leave a room without his presence
there being discoverable.”</p>
<p>“Poppycock,” said Hudson, briefly, and resumed
his cogitation.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_94">[94]</div>
<p>He was sitting at ease in Mr. Gately’s desk-chair,
but I could see the man was thinking deeply, and
as he had material for thought that he wasn’t
willing to share with us, I returned to my own
searching.</p>
<p>“Here’s something the lady left!” I exclaimed,
as on a silver ash-tray I saw a cigarette stub, whose
partly burned gold monogram betokened it had
served a woman’s use.</p>
<p>“Hey, let that alone!” warned Hudson. “And
don’t be too previous; sometimes men have gilt-lettered
cigs, don’t they?”</p>
<p>Without reply, I scrutinized the monogram. But
only a bit remained unburnt, and I couldn’t make
out the letters.</p>
<p>Norah was digging in the waste basket, and, the
scamp! when Hudson’s head was turned, she surreptitiously
fished out something which she hid in
her hand, and later transferred to her pocket.</p>
<p>“Nothing doing!” scoffed Hudson, as he turned
and saw her occupation, “we been all through that,
and anything incriminating has been weeded out.
They wasn’t much,—some envelopes and letters,
but nothing of any account. Oh, well, straws show
which way the wind blows, and we’ve got some
several straws!”</p>
<p>“Is this one?” and Norah pointed to the carriage
check, which still lay on the desk.</p>
<div class="fig">> <ANTIMG src="images/p95.jpg" alt="Carriage Check: The Electric Carriage Call Co." width-obs="462" height-obs="228" /> <p class="center">Carriage Check/The Electric Carriage Call Co.</p> </div>
<div class="pb" id="Page_95">[95]</div>
<p>“Nope. Me and the Chief, we decided that
didn’t mean nothing at all. It’s old, you can see,
from its grimy look, so it wasn’t left here yesterday.
Those things are always clean and fresh
when they’re given out, and that’s sorta soiled with
age, you see.”</p>
<p>“Well!” I exclaimed, “<i>why</i> would a carriage
check be soiled with age? They’re used the same
day they’re given out. Why is it here, anyway?”</p>
<p>Hudson looked interested. “That’s so, Mr.
Brice,” he admitted. “I take it that there check
was given to Mr. Gately at some hotel, say. Well,
he didn’t use it for some reason or other, and
brought it home in his pocket. But as you say,
why is it here? <i>Why</i> did he keep it? And, what
did he do with it to give it that thumbed, used
look?”</p>
<p>We all examined the check. A bit of white cardboard,
about two by four inches in size, and pierced
with seven circular holes in irregular order. Across
the top was printed “Don’t fold this card,” and at
one end was the number 743 in large red letters.
Also, the right-hand upper corner was sliced off.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_96">[96]</div>
<p>“Why,” I exclaimed, “here’s a narrow strip of
paper pasted across the end, and—look,—it’s almost
transparent! I can read through it—‘Hotel
St. Charles!’ That’s where it came from!”</p>
<p>“Hold your horses!” and Hudson smiled condescendingly,
“that’s where it <i>didn’t</i> come from!
It came from any hotel <i>except</i> the St. Charles.
You may not know it, but often a hotel will use
electric call-checks of other hotels, with a slip of
paper pasted over the name. That’s an item for
you to remember. No, Mr. Brice, I can’t attach
any importance to that check, but I’m free to confess
I don’t see why it’s there. Unless Mr. Gately
found it in his pocket after it had been there unnoticed
for some time. And yet, it is very much
thumbed, isn’t it? That’s queer. Maybe he used
it for a bookmark, or something like that.”</p>
<p>“Maybe the lady left it here,” suggested Norah.
“The same time she left her hatpin.”</p>
<p>“Now, maybe she did,” and Foxy Jim Hudson
smiled benignly at her. “Any ways, you’ve made
the thing seem curious, and I guess I’ll keep it for
a while.”</p>
<p>He put the card away in his pocketbook, and
Norah and I grinned at each other in satisfaction
that we had given him a clew to ponder over.</p>
<p>“You know, Mr. Brice,” Hudson remarked,
after another period of silent thought, “you missed
it, when you didn’t fly in here quicker and catch
the murderer redhanded.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_97">[97]</div>
<p>“If I’d known that the first door, Jenny’s door,
was the only one I could open, of course I should
have gone there first. But I’d never been in here
at all,—I’ve only been in the building a week or
so, and I <i>did</i> lose valuable time running from one
door to another. But I still think it’s queer that I
didn’t see anything of the man Jenny describes.”</p>
<p>“One reason is, there wasn’t any such man,” and
Hudson seemed to enjoy my blank look.</p>
<p>“What became of the murderer, then?”</p>
<p>“Went down in the car with Mr. Gately. Private
elevator. Shot him on the way down——”</p>
<p>“But man, I heard the shot,—and this room was
full of smoke.”</p>
<p>“Shot him twice, then. Say the first time, Mr.
Gately wasn’t killed and could get into the elevator.
Then murderer jumps in, too, and finishes the job
on the way down. It’s a long trip to the ground
floor, you know. Then, murderer leaves elevator,
slams door shut, and walks off.”</p>
<p>I ruminated on this. It seemed absurd on the
face of it, and yet——</p>
<p>“Why, then, did Jenny say she saw a man?”
demanded Norah.</p>
<p>“Maybe she thought she did,—you know people
think they see what they think they ought to see.
Jenny heard a shot, and running in, she <i>expected</i>
to see a man with a pistol,—therefore, she thought
she <i>did</i> see him. Or, again, the girl is quite capable
of making up a yarn out of the solid. For the
dramatic effect, you know, and to put her silly little
self in the limelight.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_98">[98]</div>
<p>This was not unbelievable. Jenny was most unreliable
as a witness. She stumbled and contradicted
herself as to the man’s hat and had given
conflicting testimony about his overcoat.</p>
<p>“Well, as I say, Mr. Brice, the chance was yours
to be on the spot but you missed it. Of course,
you are not to blame,—but it’s a pity. Now, s’pose
you tell me again, as near as you can rec’lect, about
that other shadow,—the one that wasn’t Mr.
Gately.”</p>
<p>I tried hard to add to my previously related
details, but found it impossible to do so.</p>
<p>“Well, could it have been a woman?”</p>
<p>“At first I should have said no, Mr. Hudson.
But on thinking it over, I suppose I may say it
<i>could</i> have been but I do not think it was.”</p>
<p>“You know nowadays the women folks wear
their hair plastered so close to their heads that their
heads wouldn’t shadow up any bigger’n a man’s.”</p>
<p>“That’s so,” cried Norah. “A woman’s head is
smaller than a man’s, but her hair makes it appear
larger in a shadow. Unless, as Mr. Hudson says,
she wore it wrapped round her head,—and didn’t
have much, anyway.”</p>
<p>“You go outside, Mr. Brice,” directed Hudson,
“and look at the shadows of me and Miss MacCormack,
and then come back and tell us what you
can notice.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_99">[99]</div>
<p>I did this, and the two heads were shadowed
forth on the same door that I had watched the day
before. But the brighter daylight made the shadows
even more vague than yesterday, and I returned
without much information.</p>
<p>“I could tell which was which, of course,” I reported,
“but it’s true that if I hadn’t known you
people at all, I could have mistaken Norah’s head
for a man, and I might have believed, Hudson,
that you were a woman. It’s surprising how little
individuality was shown in the shadows.”</p>
<p>“Well, of course they were clearer yesterday, as
the hall was darker,” mused Hudson. “After all,
Mr. Brice, your testimony can’t amount to much
unless we can get the actual murderer behind that
glass, and some peculiar shape or characteristic
makes you recognize the head beyond all doubt.”</p>
<p>“I think I could do that,” I returned; “for
though I can’t describe any peculiarity, I’m sure
I’d recognize the <i>same</i> head.”</p>
<p>“You are?” and Hudson looked at me keenly.
“Well, perhaps we’ll try you out on that.”</p>
<p>They had a definite suspect, then. And they
proposed to experiment with my memory. Well, I
was ready, whenever they were.</p>
<p>Norah and I went into the third room, Hudson
making no objection. At another time we would
have been deeply interested in the pictures and the
furnishings but now we had eyes and thoughts only
for one thing.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_100">[100]</div>
<p>We looked behind the war map and saw the elevator
door, but could not open it.</p>
<p>“The car’s down,” spoke up Hudson, who was
watching us sharply. “I dunno will it ever be
used again. Though I suppose these rooms will be
let to somebody else, some time. Mr. Gately’s
things here will be sent to his house, I expect, but
his estate is a big one and will take a deal of settling.”</p>
<p>“Who’s his executor?”</p>
<p>“Mr. Pond, his lawyer. But his financial affairs
are all right. Nothing crooked about Amos Gately—financially.
You can bank on that!”</p>
<p>“How, then?” I asked, for the tone implied a
mental reservation.</p>
<p>“I’m not saying. But they do say every man
has a secret side to his life, and why should Mr.
Gately be a lone exception?”</p>
<p>“A woman?” asked Norah, always harking back
to her basic suspicion.</p>
<p>Foxy Jim Hudson favored her with that blank
stare which not infrequently was his answer to an
unwelcome question, and which, perhaps, had a
share in earning him his sobriquet.</p>
<p>Then he laughed, and said, “You’ve been reading
detective stories, miss. And you remember how
they always say ‘Churches lay femmy!’ Well,
go ahead and church, if you like. But be prepared
for a sad and sorrowful result.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_101">[101]</div>
<p>The man was obviously deeply moved, and his
big, homely face worked with emotion.</p>
<p>But as he would tell us nothing further, and as
Norah and I had finished our rather unproductive
search of the rooms, we went back to my office.</p>
<p>Here Norah showed me what she had taken from
the waste basket.</p>
<p>“I’ll give it back to him, if you say so,” she
offered; “but he could do nothing with it, and
maybe I can.”</p>
<p>It was only a tiny scrap of pinkish paper, thin
and greatly crumpled. I took it.</p>
<p>“Be careful,” warned Norah; “I don’t suppose
it could show finger prints, but anyway, it’s a sort
of a kind of a clew.”</p>
<p>“But what is it?” I asked, blankly, as I held
the crumpled paper gingerly in thumb and forefinger.</p>
<p>“It’s a powder-paper,” vouchsafed Norah,
briefly.</p>
<p>“A what?”</p>
<p>“A powder-paper. Women carry them,—they
come in little books. That’s one of the leaves.
They’re to rub on your face, and the powder comes
off on your nose or cheeks.”</p>
<p>“Is that so? I never saw any before.”</p>
<p>“Lots of girls use them.” Norah’s clear, wholesome
complexion refuted any idea of her needing
such, and she spoke a bit scornfully.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_102">[102]</div>
<p>“Proving once more the presence of what
Friend Hudson calls a femmy,” I smiled.</p>
<p>“Yes; but these things have great individuality,
Mr. Brice. This is of exceedingly fine quality, it
has a distinct, definite fragrance, and is undoubtedly
an imported article,—from France, likely.”</p>
<p>“Can they get such things over now?”</p>
<p>“Oh, pshaw, it may have been imported before
the war. This quality would keep its odor forever!
Anyway, don’t you believe we could trace
the woman who used it and left it there? It must
have happened yesterday, for the basket is, of
course, emptied every day in that office.”</p>
<p>“Good girl, Norah!” and I nodded approval.
“You are truly a She Sherlock! A bit intimate,
isn’t it, for a woman to powder her nose in a man’s
office?”</p>
<p>“Not at all, Mr. Old Fogey! Why, you can see
the girls doing that everywhere, nowadays. In the
street-cars, in the theater,—anywhere.”</p>
<p>“All right. How do you propose to proceed?”</p>
<p>“I think I’ll go to the smartest Fifth Avenue
perfume shops and try to get a line on the maker
of this paper.”</p>
<p>My door opened then, and the Chief of Police
stood in the doorway.</p>
<p>“Will you come over, across the hall, Mr.
Brice?” he said.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_103">[103]</div>
<p>“May I come?” piped up Norah, and without
waiting for the answer, which, by the way, never
came, she followed us.</p>
<p>“We have learned a great deal,” began the
Chief, as I waited, inquiringly. “And, now think
carefully, Mr. Brice, I want you to tell me if the
head you saw shadowed on the door, could by any
possibility have been a woman’s head?”</p>
<p>“I think it could have been, Chief; we’ve been
talking that over, and I’m prepared to say that it
could have been,—but I don’t think it was.”</p>
<p>“And the shoulders? Though broad, like a
man’s, might not a woman’s figure, say, wrapped
in furs, give a similar effect?”</p>
<p>An icy chill went through me, but I answered,
“It might; the outlines were very indistinct.”</p>
<p>“We are carefully investigating the movements
of Miss Raynor,” he went on, steadily, “and we
find she told a deliberate untruth about where she
spent yesterday afternoon. She said she was at
the house of a friend on Park Avenue. We learned
the name of the young lady and she says Miss
Raynor was not there at all yesterday. Also, we
find that Miss Raynor was in this office <i>after</i> the
calls of the old people we know about, and not
<i>before</i> them, as Miss Raynor herself testified.”</p>
<p>“But——” I began.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_104">[104]</div>
<p>“Wait a moment, please. This is positively
proved by the fact that a check drawn to Miss
Raynor by Mr. Gately follows immediately <i>after</i>
the two checks drawn to Mr. Smith and Mrs.
Driggs.”</p>
<p>“Proving?” I gasped.</p>
<p>“That Miss Raynor is the last one known to be
in this room before the shooting occurred.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” cried Norah, “for shame! To suspect
that lovely girl! Why, she wouldn’t harm a fly!”</p>
<p>“Do you know her?”</p>
<p>“No, sir; but——”</p>
<p>“It is an oft proven fact that the mildest, gentlest
woman, if sufficiently provoked to it, or if
given a sudden opportunity, will in a moment of
passion do what no one would dream she could do!
Miss Raynor was very angry with her uncle,—Jenny
admitted that, after much delay. Mr.
Gately had a revolver, usually in his desk drawer,
but <i>not</i> there now. And,”—an impressive pause
preceded the next argument, “Mr. Amory Manning
is not to be found.”</p>
<p>“What do you deduce from that?” I asked,
amazedly.</p>
<p>“That he has purposely disappeared, lest he be
brought as a witness against Miss Raynor. He
could best help her cause, by being out of town and
impossible to locate. So, he went off, and she pretended
she did not know it. Of course, she did,—they
connived at it——”</p>
<p>“Stop!” I cried, “you are romancing. You are
assuming conditions that are untrue!”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_105">[105]</div>
<p>“I wish it were so,” and the Chief exhibited a
very human aspect for the moment; “but I have
no choice in the matter. I am driven by an inexorable
army of facts that cannot be beaten back.
What else can you think of that would account for
Mr. Manning’s sudden disappearance? Attacked?
Nonsense! Not in the storm of last evening. Abducted?
Why? He is an inoffensive citizen, not
a millionaire or man of influence. You said you
saw him last night, Mr. Brice. Where, exactly, was
that?”</p>
<p>I told of my trip down in the Third Avenue car,
and of my getting off at Twenty-second Street,
meaning to speak to Mr. Manning. Then I told
of his sudden, almost mysterious disappearance.</p>
<p>“Not mysterious at all,” said the Chief. “He
gave you the slip purposely. He went away at once,
and has hidden himself carefully. But we will find
him. It’s not easy for a man to hide from the
police in this day and generation!”</p>
<p>“But, Miss Raynor!” I said, still incredulous.
“Why? What motive?”</p>
<p>“Because her uncle wouldn’t let her marry
Amory Manning. When she said she went to her
friend, Miss Clark’s house, she really went to the
home of a Mrs. Russell, the sister of Manning.
She was to meet Manning there. I have all this
straight from Mrs. Russell.”</p>
<p>“And you think it was Miss Raynor’s shadow
I saw on the door!”</p>
<p>“You said it might have been a woman.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_106">[106]</div>
<p>“Very well, then look for another woman! It
was never Miss Raynor!”</p>
<p>“Your indignation, Mr. Brice, is both natural
and admirable, but it is based on your disinclination
to think ill of Miss Raynor. The police are
not allowed the luxury of such sentiments.”</p>
<p>“But—but—how did she—how did Miss Raynor
get out of the room?”</p>
<p>“We do not entirely credit Jenny’s story of the
man with a revolver running downstairs. And we
do think that the person who did the shooting may
have gone down in the private elevator with the
victim. It would be easy to gain the street unnoticed,
and it presupposes someone acquainted with
the working of the automatic elevator.”</p>
<p>“But Miss Raynor said she had never seen it,”
I cried, triumphantly. “She said she had only
heard her uncle speak of it!”</p>
<p>“I know she <i>said</i> so,” returned the Chief.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_107">[107]</div>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />