The Bartlett Mystery

“Nonsense, mother, you are emerging into light. If your friends are so ready to drop you because you are poor – with the exceeding poverty of twenty-five hundred a year – of what value were they as friends? When you know Winifred you will be glad. You will feel as Dante felt when he emerged from the Inferno.”

“So you are determined to marry her?”

“Unquestionably. And mark you, mother, when the clouds pass, and we are rich again, you will be proud of your daughter-in-law. She will bear all your skill in dressing. Gad! how the women of your set will envy her complexion.”

Mrs. Carshaw smiled wanly at that. She knew her “set,” as Rex termed the Four Hundred.

“Why is she called Bartlett?” she inquired after a pause, and Rex looked at her in surprise. “I have a reason,” she continued. “Is that her real name?”

“Now,” he cried, “I admit you are showing some of your wonted cleverness.”

“Ah! Then I am right. I have been thinking. Cessation from society duties is at least restful. Last night, lying awake and wondering where you were, my thoughts reverted to that girl. I remembered her face. All at once a long-forgotten chord of memory hummed its note. Twenty years ago, when you were a little boy, Rex, I met a Mrs. Marchbanks. She was a sweet singer. Does your Winifred sing?”

Carshaw drew his chair closer to his mother and placed an arm around her shoulder.

“Yes,” he said.

“Rex,” she murmured brokenly, hiding her face, “do you forgive me?”

“Mother, I ask you to forgive me if I said harsh things.”

There was silence for a while. Then she raised her eyes. They were wet, but smiling.

“This Mrs. Marchbanks,” she went on bravely, “had your Winifred’s face. She was wealthy and altogether charming. Her husband, too, was a gentleman. She was a ward of the elder Meiklejohn, the present Senator’s father. My recollection of events is vague, but there was some scandal in Burlington.”

“I know all, or nearly all, about it. That is why I was called to Vermont. Mother, in future, you will work with me, not against me?”

“I will – indeed I will,” she sobbed.

“Then you must not drop your car. I have money to pay for that. Keep in with Helen Tower, and find out what hold she has on Meiklejohn. You are good at that, you know. You understand your quarry. You will be worth twenty detectives. First, discover where Meiklejohn is. He has bolted, or shut himself up.”

“You must trust me fully, or I shall not see the pitfalls. Tell me everything.”

He obeyed. Before he had ended, Mrs. Carshaw was weeping again, but this time it was out of sympathy with Winifred. Next morning, although it was Sunday, her smart limousine took her to the Tower’s house. Mrs. Tower was at home.

“I have heard dreadful things about you, Sarah,” she purred. “What on earth is the matter? Why have you given up your place on Long Island?”

“A whim of Rex’s, my dear. He is still infatuated over that girl.”

“She must have played her cards well.”

“Yes, indeed. One does not look for such skill in the lower orders. And how she deceived me! I went to see her, and she promised better behavior. Now I find she has gone again, and Rex will not tell me where she is. Do you know?”

“I? The creature never enters my mind.”

“Of course not. She does not interest you, but I am the boy’s mother, and you cannot imagine, Helen, how this affair worries me.”

“My poor Sarah! It is too bad.”

“Such a misfortune could not have happened had his father lived. We women are of no use where a headstrong man is concerned. I am thinking of consulting Senator Meiklejohn. He is discreet and experienced.”

“But he is not in town.”

“What a calamity! Do tell me where I can find him.”

“I have reason to know that Rex would not brook any interference from him.”

“Oh, no, of course not. It would never do to permit his influence to appear. I was thinking that the Senator might act with the girl, this wonderful Winifred. He might frighten her, or bribe her, or something of the sort.”

Now, Helen Tower was not in Meiklejohn’s confidence. He was compelled to trust her in the matter of the Costa Rica concession, but he was far too wise to let her into any secret where Winifred was concerned. Anxious to stab with another’s hand, she thought that Mrs. Carshaw might be used to punish her wayward son.

“I’m not sure – ” She paused doubtfully. “I do happen to know Mr. Meiklejohn’s whereabouts, but it is most important he should not be troubled.”

“Helen, you used to like Rex more than a little. With an effort, I can save him still.”

“But he may suspect you, have you watched, your movements tracked.”

Mrs. Carshaw laughed. “My dear, he is far too much taken up with his Winifred.”

“Has he found her, then?”

“Does he not see her daily?”

Here were cross purposes. Mrs. Tower was puzzled.

“If I tell you where the Senator is, you are sure Rex will not follow you?”

“Quite certain.”

“His address is the Marlborough-Blenheim, Atlantic City.”

“Helen, you’re a dear! I shall go there to-morrow, if necessary. But it will be best to write him first.”

“Don’t say I told you.”

“Above all things, Helen, I am discreet.”

“I fear he cannot do much. Your son is so wilful.”

“Don’t you understand? Rex is quite unmanageable. I depend wholly on the girl – and Senator Meiklejohn is just the man to deal with her.”

They kissed farewell – alas, those Judas kisses of women! Both were satisfied, each believing she had hoodwinked the other. Mrs. Carshaw returned to her flat to await her son’s arrival. If the trail at East Orange proved difficult he promised to be home for dinner.

“There will be a row if Rex meets Meiklejohn,” she communed. “Helen will be furious with me. What do I care? I have won back my son’s love. I have not many years to live. What else have I to work for if not for his happiness?”

So one woman in New York that night was fairly well content. There may be, as the Chinese proverb has it, thirty-six different kinds of mothers-in-law, but there is only one mother.

CHAPTER XXII

THE HUNT

Steingall, not Clancy, presented his bulk at Carshaw’s apartment next morning. He contrived to have a few minutes’ private talk with Mrs. Carshaw while her son was dressing. Early as it was, he lighted a second cigar as he stepped into the automobile, for Carshaw thought it an economy to retain a car.

“Surprised to see me?” he began. “Well, it’s this way. We may drop in for a rough-house to-day. Between them, Voles and ‘Mick the Wolf,’ own three sound legs and three strong arms. I can’t risk Clancy. He’s too precious. He kicked like a mule, of course, but I made it an order.”

“What of the local police?” said Carshaw.

“Nix on the cops,” laughed the chief. “You share the popular delusion that a policeman can arrest any one at sight. He can do nothing of the sort, unless he and his superior officers care to face a whacking demand for damages. And what charge can we bring against Voles and company? Winifred bolted of her own accord. We must tread lightly, Mr. Carshaw. Really, I shouldn’t be here at all. I came only to help, to put you on the right trail, to see that Winifred is not detained by force if she wishes to accompany you. Do you get me?”

“I believe there is good authority for the statement that the law is an ass,” grumbled the other.

“Not the law. Personal liberty has to be safeguarded by the law. Millions of men have died to uphold that principle. Remember, too, that I may have to explain in court why I did so-and-so. Strange as it may sound, I’ve been taught wisdom by legal adversity. Now, let’s talk of the business in hand. It’s an odd thing, but people who wish to do evil deeds often select secluded country places to live in. I don’t mind betting a box of cigars that ‘East Orange’ means a quiet, old-fashioned locality where there isn’t a crime once in a generation.”

“Some spot one would never suspect, eh?”

“Yes, in a sense. But if ever I set up as a crook – which is unlikely, as my pension is due in eighteen months – I’ll live in a Broadway flat.”

“I thought the city police kept a very close eye on evil-doers.”

“Yes, when we know them. But your real expert is not known; once held he’s done for. Of course he tries again, but he is a marked man – he has lost his confidence. Nevertheless, he will always try to be with the crowd. There is safety in numbers.”

“Do you mean that East Orange is a place favorable to our search?”

“Of course it is. The police, the letter-carriers, and the storekeepers, know everybody. They can tell us at once of several hundred people who certainly had nothing to do with the abduction of a young lady. There will remain a few dozens who might possibly be concerned in such an affair. Inquiry will soon whittle them down to three or four individuals. What a different job it would be if we had to search a New York precinct, which, I take it, is about as populous as East Orange.”

This was a new point of view to Carshaw, and it cheered him proportionately. He stepped on the gas, and a traffic policeman at Forty-second Street and Seventh Avenue cocked an eye at him.

“Steady,” laughed Steingall. “It would be a sad blow for mother if we were held for furious driving. These blessed machines jump from twelve to forty miles an hour before you can wink twice.”

Carshaw abated his ardor. Nevertheless, they were in East Orange forty minutes after crossing the ferry.

Unhappily, from that hour, the pace slackened. Gateway House had been rented from a New York agent for “Mr. and Mrs. Forest,” Westerners who wished to reside in New Jersey a year or so.

Its occupants had driven thither from New York. Rachel Craik, heavily veiled and quietly attired, did her shopping in the nearest suburb, and had choice of more than one line of rail. So East Orange knew them not, nor had it even seen them.

In nowise discouraged, the man from the Bureau set about his inquiry methodically. He interviewed policemen, railway officials, postmen, and cabmen. Although the day was Sunday, he tracked men to their homes and led them to talk. Empty houses, recently let houses, houses tenanted by people who were “not particular” as to their means of getting a living, divided his attention with persons who answered to the description of Voles, Fowle, Rachel, or even the broken-armed Mick the Wolf; while he plied every man with a minutely accurate picture of Winifred.

Hither and thither darted the motor till East Orange was scoured and noted, and among twenty habitations jotted in the detective’s notebook the name of Gateway House figured. It was slow work, this task of elimination, but they persisted, meeting rebuff after rebuff, especially in the one or two instances where a couple of sharp-looking strangers in a car were distinctly not welcome. They had luncheon at a local hotel, and, by idle chance, were not pleased by the way in which the meal was served.

So, when hungry again, and perhaps a trifle dispirited as the day waned to darkness with no result, they went to another inn to procure a meal. This time they were better looked after. Instead of a jaded German waiter they were served by the landlord’s daughter, a neat, befrilled young damsel, who cheered them by her smile; though, to be candid, she was anxious to get out for a walk with her young man.

“Have you traveled far?” she asked, by way of talk while laying the table.

“From New York,” said Steingall.

“At this hour – in a car?”

“Yes. Is that a remarkable thing here?”

“Not the car; but people in motors either whizz through of a morning going away down the coast, or whizz back again of an evening returning to New York.”

“Ah!” put in Carshaw, “here is a pretty head which holds brains. It goes in for ratiocinative reasoning. Now, I’ll be bound to say that this pretty head, which thinks, can help us.”

A good deal of this was lost on the girl, but she caught the compliment and smiled.

“It all depends on what you want to know,” she said.

“I really want to find a private prison of some sort,” he said. “The sort of place where a nice-looking young lady like you might be kept in against her will by nasty, ill-disposed people.”

“There is only one house of that kind in the town, and that is out of it, as an Irishman might say.”

“And where is it?”

“It’s called Gateway House – about a mile along the road from the depot.”

Steingall, inclined at first to doubt the expediency of gossip with the girl, now pricked up his ears.

“Who lives in Gateway House?” he asked.

“No one that I know of at the moment,” she answered. “It used to belong to a mad doctor. I don’t mean a doctor who was mad, but – ”

“No matter about his sanity. Is he dead?”

“No, in prison. There was a trial two years ago.”

“Oh! I remember the affair. A patient was beaten to death. So the house is empty?”

“It is, unless some one has rented it recently. I was taken through the place months ago. The rooms are all right, and it has beautiful grounds, but the windows frightened me. They were closely barred with iron, and the doors were covered with locks and chains. There were some old beds there, too, with straps on them. Oh, I quite shivered!”

“After we have eaten will you let us drive you in that direction in my car?” said Carshaw.

She simpered and blushed slightly. “I’ve an appointment with a friend,” she admitted, wondering whether the swain would protest too strongly if she accepted the invitation.

“Bring him also,” said Carshaw. “I assume it’s a ‘he.’”

“Oh, that’ll be all right!” she cried.

So in the deepening gloom the automobile flared with fierce eyes along the quiet road to Gateway House, and in its seat of honor sat the hotel maid and her young man.

“That is the place,” she said, after the, to her, all too brief run.

“Is this the only entrance?” demanded the chief, as he stepped out to try the gate.

“Yes. The high wall runs right round the property. It’s quite a big place.”

“Locked!” he announced. “Probably empty, too.”

He tried squinting through the keyhole to catch a gleam of interior light.

“No use in doin’ that,” announced the young man. “The house stands way back, an’ is hidden by trees.”

“I mean having a look at it, wall or no wall,” insisted Carshaw.

“But the gate is spiked and the wall covered with broken glass,” said the girl.

“Such obstacles can be surmounted by ladders and folded tarpaulins, or even thick overcoats,” observed Steingall.

“I’m a plumber,” said the East Orange man. “If you care to run back to my place, I c’n give you a telescope ladder and a tarpaulin. But perhaps we may butt into trouble?”

“For shame, Jim! I thought you’d do a little thing like that to help a girl in distress.”

“First I’ve heard of any girl.”

“My name is Carshaw,” came the prompt assurance. “Here’s my card; read it by the lamp there. I’ll guarantee you against consequences, pay any damages, and reward you if our search yields results.”

“Jim – ” commenced the girl reproachfully, but he stayed her with a squeeze.

“Cut it out, Polly,” he said. “You don’t wish me to start housebreaking, do you? But if there’s a lady to be helped, an’ Mr. Carshaw says it’s O.K., I’m on. A fellow who was with Funston in the Philippines won’t sidestep a little job of that sort.”

Polly, appeased and delighted with the adventure, giggled. “I’d think not, indeed.”

“It is lawbreaking, but I am inclined to back you up,” confided Steingall to Carshaw when the car was humming back to East Orange. “At the worst you can only be charged with trespass, as my evidence will be taken that you had no unlawful intent.”

“Won’t you come with me?”

“Better not. You see, I am only helping you. You have an excuse; I, as an official, have none – if a row springs up and doors have to be kicked open, for instance. Moreover, this is the State of New Jersey and outside my bailiwick.”

“Perhaps the joker behind us may be useful.”

“He will be, or his girl will know the reason why. He may have fought in every battle in the Spanish War, but she has more pep in her.”

The soldierly plumber was as good as his word. He produced the ladder and the tarpaulin, and a steel wrench as well.

“If you do a thing at all do it thoroughly. That’s what Funston taught us,” he grinned.

Carshaw thanked him, and in a few minutes they were again looking at the tall gate and the dark masses of the garden trees silhouetted against the sky. They had not encountered many wayfarers during their three journeys. The presence of a car at the entrance to such a pretentious place would not attract attention, and the scaling of the wall was only a matter of half a minute.

“No use in raising the dust by knocking. Go over,” counseled Steingall. “Try to open the gate. Then you can return the ladder and tarpaulin at once. Otherwise, leave them in position. If satisfied that the house is inhabited by those with whom you have no concern, come away unnoticed, if possible.”

Carshaw climbed the ladder, sat on the tarpaulin, and dropped the ladder on the inner side of the wall. They heard him shaking the gate. His head reappeared over the wall.

“Locked,” he said, “and the key gone. I’ll come back and report quickly.”

Jim, who had been nudged earnestly several times by his companion, cried quickly:

“Isn’t your friend goin’ along, too, mister?”

“No. I may as well tell you that I am a detective,” put in Steingall.

“Gee whizz! Why didn’t you cough it up earlier? Hol’ on, there! Lower that ladder. I’m with you.”

“Good old U. S. Army!” said Steingall, and Polly glowed with pride.

Jim climbed rapidly to Carshaw’s side, the latter being astride the wall. Then they vanished.

For a long time the two in the car listened intently. A couple of cyclists passed, and a small boy, prowling about, took an interest in the car, but was sternly warned off by Steingall. At last they caught the faint but easily discerned sound of heavy blows and broken woodwork.

“Things are happening,” cried Steingall. “I wish I had gone with them.”

“Oh, I hope my Jim won’t get hurt,” said Polly, somewhat pale now.

They heard more furious blows and the crash of glass.

“Confound it!” growled Steingall. “Why didn’t I go?”

“If I stood on the back of the car against the gate, and you climbed onto my shoulders, you might manage to stand between the spikes and jump down,” cried Polly desperately.

“Great Scott, but you’re the right sort of girl. The wall is too high, but the gate is possible. I’ll try it,” he answered.

With difficulty, having only slight knowledge of heavy cars, he backed the machine against the gate. Then the girl caught the top with her hands, standing on the back cushions.

Steingall was no light weight for her soft shoulders, but she uttered no word until she heard him drop heavily on the gravel drive within.

“Thank goodness!” she whispered. “There are three of them now. I only wish I was there, too!”

CHAPTER XXIII

“HE WHO FIGHTS AND RUNS AWAY – ”

“I don’t like the proposition, an’ that’s a fact,” muttered Fowle, lifting a glass of whisky and glancing furtively at Voles, when the domineering eyes of the superior scoundrel were averted for a moment.

“Whether you like it or not, you’ve got to lump it,” was the ready answer.

“I don’t see that. I agreed to help you up to a certain point – ”

Voles swung around at him furiously, as a mastiff might turn on a wretched mongrel.

“Say, listen! If I’m up to the neck in this business, you’re in it over your ears. You can’t duck now, you white-livered cur! The cops know you. They had you in their hands once, and warned you to leave this girl alone. If I stand in the dock you’ll stand there, too, and I’m not the man to say the word that’ll save you.”

“But she’s with her aunt. She’s under age. Her aunt is her legal guardian. I know a bit about the law, you see. This notion of yours is a bird of another color. Sham weddings are no joke. It will mean ten years.”

“Who wants you to go in for a sham wedding, you swab?”

“You do, or I haven’t got the hang of things.”

Voles looked as though he would like to hammer his argument into Fowle with his fists. He forebore. There was too much at stake to allow a sudden access of bad temper to defeat his ends.

He was tired of vagabondage. It was true, as he told his brother long before, that he hungered for the flesh-pots of Egypt, for the life and ease and gayety of New York. An unexpected vista had opened up before him. When he came back to the East his intention was to squeeze funds out of Meiklejohn wherewith to plunge again into the outer wilderness. Now events had conspired to give him some chance of earning a fortune quickly, had not the irony of fate raised the winsome face and figure of Winifred as a bogey from the grave to bar his path.

So he choked back his wrath, and shoved the decanter of spirits across the table to his morose companion. They were sitting in the hall of Gateway House, about the hour that Carshaw and the detective, tired by their weary hunt through East Orange, sought the inn.

“Now look here, Fowle,” he said, “don’t be a poor dub, and don’t kick at my way of speaking. Por Dios! man, I’ve lived too long in the sage country to scrape my tongue to a smooth spiel like my – my friend, the Senator. Let’s look squarely at the facts. You admire the girl?”

“Who wouldn’t? A pippin, every inch of her.”

“You’re broke?”

“Well – er – ”

“You were fired from your last job. You’re in wrong with the police. You adopted a disguise and told lies about Winifred to those who would employ her. What chance have you of getting back into your trade, even if you’d be satisfied with it after having lived like a plute for weeks?”

“That goes,” said Fowle, waving his pipe.

“You’d like to hand one to that fellow Carshaw?”

“Wouldn’t I!”

“Yet you kick like a steer when I offer you the girl, a soft, well-paid job, and the worst revenge you can take on Carshaw.”

“Yes, all damn fine. But the risk – the infernal risk!”

“That’s where I don’t agree with you. You go away with her and her father – ”

“Father! You’re not her father!”

“You should be the first to believe it. Her aunt will swear it to you or to any judge in the country. Once out of the United States, she will be only too glad to avail herself of the protection matrimony is supposed to offer. What are you afraid of?”

“You talked of puttin’ up some guy to pretend to marry us.”

“Forget it. We can’t keep her insensible or dumb for days. But, in the company of her loving father and her devoted husband, what can she do? Who will believe her? Depend on me to have the right sort of boys on the ship. They’ll just grin at her. By the time she reaches Costa Rica she’ll be howling for a missionary to come aboard in order to satisfy her scruples. You can suggest it yourself.”

“I believe she’d die sooner.”

“What matter? You only lose a pretty wife. There’s lots more of the same sort when your wad is thick enough. Why, man, it means a three-months’ trip and a fortune for life, however things turn out. You’re tossing against luck with an eagle on both sides of the quarter.”

Fowle hesitated. The other suppressed a smile. He knew his man.

“Don’t decide in a minute,” he said seriously. “But, once settled, there must be no shirking. Make up your mind either to go straight ahead by my orders or clear out to-night. I’ll give you a ten-spot to begin life again. After that don’t come near me.”

“I’ll do it,” said Fowle, and they shook hands on their compact.

It was not in Winifred’s nature to remain long in a state of active resentment with any human being. A prisoner, watched diligently during the day, locked into her room at night, she met Rachel Craik’s grim espionage and Mick the Wolf’s evil temper with an equable cheerfulness that exasperated the one while mollifying the other.

She wondered greatly what they meant to do with her. It was impossible to believe that in the State of New Jersey, within a few miles of New York, they could keep her indefinitely in close confinement. She knew that her Rex would move heaven and earth to rescue her. She knew that the authorities, in the person of Mr. Steingall, would take up the hunt with unwearying diligence, and she reasoned, acutely enough, that a plot which embraced in its scope so many different individuals could not long defy the efforts made to elucidate it.