The Man Who Fell Through the Earth

“I am Norah MacCormack, Miss Raynor,” my stenographer replied. “I am in Mr. Brice’s office, across the hall. This is Mr. Brice.”

There was no reason why Norah should be the one to introduce me, but we were all a little rattled, and Mr. Talcott, who, of course, was the one to handle the situation, seemed utterly at a loss as to how to begin.

“How do you do, Mr. Brice?” and Miss Raynor flashed me a special smile. “And now, Mr. Talcott, tell me what’s the matter? I see something has happened. What is it?”

She was grave enough now. She had suddenly realized that there was something to tell, and she meant to have it told.

“I don’t know, Miss Raynor,” Talcott began, “whether anything has happened, or not. I mean, anything serious. We – that is, – we don’t know where Mr. Gately is.”

“Go on. That of itself doesn’t explain your anxious faces.”

So Talcott told her, – told her just what we knew ourselves, which was so little and yet so mysterious.

Olive listened, her great, dark eyes widening with wonder. She had thrown off her fur coat and was seated in Amos Gately’s desk-chair, her dainty foot turning the chair on its swivel now and then.

Her muff fell to the floor, and, unconsciously, she drew off her gloves and dropped them upon it. She said no word during the recital, but her vivid face showed all the surprise and fear she felt as the tale was told.

Then, “I don’t understand,” she said, simply. “Do you think somebody shot Uncle Amos? Then where is he?”

“We don’t understand, either,” returned Talcott. “We don’t know that anybody shot him. We only know a shot was fired and Mr. Gately is missing.”

Just then a man entered Jenny’s room, from the hall. He, too, paused in the doorway to the middle room.

“Oh, Amory, come in!” cried Miss Raynor. “I’m so glad you’re here. This is Mr. Brice, – and Miss MacCormack, – Mr. Manning. Mr. Talcott, of course you know.”

I had never met Amory Manning before, but one glance was enough to show how matters stood between him and Olive Raynor. They were more than friends, – that much was certain.

“I saw Mr. Manning downstairs,” Miss Raynor said to Talcott, with a lovely flush, “and – as Uncle Amos doesn’t – well, he isn’t just crazy over him, I asked him not to come up here with me, but to wait for me downstairs.”

“And as you were so long about coming down, I came up,” said Mr. Manning, with a little smile. “What’s this, – what about a shot? Where’s Mr. Gately?”

Talcott hesitated, but Olive Raynor poured out the whole story at once.

Manning listened gravely, and at the end, said simply: “He must be found. How shall we set about it?”

“That’s what I don’t know,” replied Talcott.

“I’ll help,” said Olive, briskly. “I refuse to believe any harm has come to him. Let’s call up his clubs.”

“I’ve done that,” said Talcott. “I can’t think he went away anywhere – willingly.”

“How, then?” cried Olive. “Oh, wait a minute, – I know something!”

“What?” asked Talcott and I together, for the girl’s face glowed with her sudden happy thought.

“Why, Uncle Amos has a private elevator of his own. He went down in that!”

“Where is it?” asked Manning.

“I don’t know,” and Olive looked about the room. “And Uncle forbade me ever to mention it, – but this is an emergency, isn’t it? and I’m justified, – don’t you think?”

“Yes,” said Manning; “tell all you know.”

“But that’s all I do know. There is a secret elevator that nobody knows about. Surely you can find it.”

“Surely we can!” said I, and jumping up, I began the search.

Nor did it take long. There were not very many places where a private entrance could be concealed, and I found it behind the big war map, in the third room.

The door was flush with the wall, and painted the same as the panel itself. The map simply hung on the door, but overlapped sufficiently to hide it. Thus the door was concealed, though not really difficult of discovery.

“It won’t open,” I announced after a futile trial.

“Automatic,” said Talcott. “You can’t open that kind, when the car is down.”

“How do you know the car is down?” I asked.

“Because the door won’t open. Well, it does seem probable that Mr. Gately went away by this exit, then.”

“And the woman, too,” remarked Norah.

As before Mr. Talcott didn’t object to Norah’s participation in our discussion, in fact, he seemed rather to welcome it, and in a way, deferred to her opinions.

“Perhaps so,” he assented. “Now, Miss Raynor, where does this elevator descend to? I mean, where does it open on the ground floor?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” and the girl looked perplexed. “I’ve never been up or down in it. I shouldn’t have known of it, but once Uncle let slip a chance reference to it, and when I asked him about it, he told me, but told me not to tell. You see, he uses it to get away from bores or people he doesn’t want to see.”

“It ought to be easy to trace its shaft down through the floors,” said Amory Manning. “Though I suppose there’s no opening on any floor until the street floor is reached.”

Manning was a thoughtful-looking chap. Though we had never met before, I knew of him and I had an impression that he was a civil engineer or something like that. I felt drawn to him at once, for he had a pleasant, responsive manner and a nice, kindly way with him.

In appearance, he was scholarly, rather than business-like. This effect was probably due in part to the huge shell-rimmed glasses he wore. I can’t bear those things myself, but some men seem to take to them naturally. For the rest, Manning had thick, dark hair, and he was a bit inclined to stoutness, but his goodly height saved him from looking stocky.

“Well, I think we ought to investigate this elevator,” said Talcott. “Suppose you and I, Mr. Brice, go downstairs to see about it, leaving Miss Raynor and Mr. Manning here, – in case, – in case Mr. Gately returns.”

I knew that Talcott meant, in case we should find anything wrong in the elevator, but he put it the more casual way, and Miss Raynor seemed satisfied.

“Yes, do,” she said, “and we’ll wait here till you come back. Of course, you can find where it lands, and – oh, wait a minute! Maybe it opens in the next door building. I remember, sometimes when I’ve been waiting in the car for Uncle, he has come out of the building next door instead of this one, and when I asked him why, he always turned the subject without telling me.”

“It may be,” and Talcott considered the position of the shaft. “Well, we’ll see.”

Norah discreetly returned to my offices, but I felt pretty sure she wouldn’t go home, until something was found out concerning the mysterious disappearance.

On the street floor we could find no possible outlet for the elevator in question, and had it not been for Olive’s hint as to where to look, I don’t know how we should have found it at all.

But on leaving the Trust Company Building, we found the place at last. At least, we found a door which was in the position where we supposed the elevator shaft would require it, and we tried to open it.

This we failed to do.

“Looks bad,” said Talcott, shaking his head. “If Amos Gately is in there, it’s because he’s unable to get out – or – unconscious.”

He couldn’t bring himself to speak the crueler word that was in both our minds, and he turned abruptly aside, as he went in search of the janitor or the superintendent of the building.

Left by myself I stared at the silent door. It was an ordinary-looking door, at the end of a small side passage which communicated with the main hall or lobby of the building. It was inconspicuous, and as the passage had an angle in it, Amos Gately could easily have gone in and out of that door without exciting comment.

Of course, the janitor would know all about it; and he did.

He returned with Mr. Talcott, muttering as he came.

“I always said Mr. Gately’d get caught in that thing yet! I don’t hold with them automaticky things, so I don’t. They may go all right for years and then cut up some trick on you. If that man’s caught in there, he must be pretty sick by this time!”

“Does Mr. Gately use the thing much?” I asked.

“Not so very often, sir. Irregular like. Now, quite frequent, and then, again, sort of seldom. Well, we can’t open it, Mr. Talcott. These things won’t work, only just so. After anybody gets in, and shuts the door, it can’t be opened except by pressing a button on the inside. Can’t you get in upstairs?”

“No,” said Talcott, shortly. “Get help, then, and break the door down.”

This was done, the splintered door fell away, and there, in a crumpled heap on the floor of the car, was Amos Gately, – dead.

CHAPTER IV

The Black Squall

If I had thought Mr. Talcott somewhat indifferent before, I changed my opinion suddenly. His face turned a ghastly white and his eyes stared with horror. There was more than his grief for a friend, though that was evident enough, but his thoughts ran ahead to the larger issues involved by this murder of a bank president and otherwise influential financier.

For murder it was, beyond all doubt. The briefest examination showed Mr. Gately had been shot through the heart, and the absence of any weapon precluded the idea of suicide.

The janitor, overcome at the sight, was in a state bordering on collapse, and Mr. Talcott was not much more composed.

“Mr. Brice,” he said, his face working convulsively, “this is a fearful calamity! What can it mean? Who could have done it? What shall we do?”

Answering his last question first, I endeavored to take hold of the situation.

“First of all, Mr. Talcott, we must keep this thing quiet for the moment. I mean, we must not let a crowd gather here, before the necessary matters are attended to. This passage must be guarded from intrusion, and the bank people must be notified at once. Suppose you and the janitor stay here, while I go back next door and tell – tell whom?”

“Let me think,” groaned Mr. Talcott, passing his hand across his forehead. “Yes, please, Mr. Brice, do that – go to the bank and tell Mr. Mason, the vice-president – ask him to come here to me, – then, there is Miss Raynor – oh, how horrible it all is!”

“Also, we must call a doctor,” I suggested, “and, eventually, the police.”

“Must they be brought in? Yes, I suppose so. Well, Mr. Brice, if you will attend to those errands, I will stay here. But we must shut up that janitor!”

The man, on the verge of collapse, was groaning and mumbling prayers, or something, as he rocked his big body back and forth.

“See here, my man,” I said, “this is a great emergency and you must meet it and do your duty. That, at present, is to stay here with Mr. Talcott, and make sure that no one else comes into this small hall until some of Mr. Gately’s bank officers arrive. Also, cease that noise you’re making, and see what you can do in the way of being a real help to us.”

This appeal to his sense of duty was not without effect, and he straightened up and seemed equal to the occasion.

I ran off, then, and out of one big building back into the other. The storm, still brewing, had not yet broken, but the sky was black, and a feeling of more snow was in the atmosphere. I shivered as I felt the bitterly cold outside air, and hurried into the bank building.

I had no trouble in reaching Mr. Mason, for the bank itself was closed and many of the employees had gone home. My manner of grave importance sufficed to let me pass any inquisitive attendants and I found Mr. Mason in his office.

I told him the bare facts in a few words, for this was no time to tarry, – I wanted to get up and tell Miss Raynor before any less considerate messenger might reach her.

Mr. Mason was aghast at the terrible tidings, and closing his desk at once, he quickly reached for his hat and coat and started on his fearsome errand.

“I will call Mr. Gately’s physician,” he said, his mind working quickly, as he paused a moment, “and you will break the news to Miss Raynor, you say? I can’t seem to comprehend it all! But my place is by Mr. Gately and I will go there at once.”

So I hastened up to the twelfth floor again, trying, on the way, to think how I should best tell the awful story.

The elevator ride had never seemed so short, – the floors fairly flew past me, and in a few moments I was in the beautiful third room of Mr. Gately’s, and found Miss Raynor and Mr. Manning eagerly awaiting my news.

“Have you found Mr. Gately?” Amory Manning asked, but at the same instant, Olive Raynor cried out, “You have something dreadful to tell us, Mr. Brice! I know you have!”

This seemed to help me, and I answered, “Yes, Miss Raynor, – the worst.”

For I felt that this imperious, self-possessed girl would rather be told abruptly, like that, than to have me mince matters.

And I was right, for she said, quickly, “Tell it all, – any knowledge is better than suspense.”

So I told her, as gently as I could, of our discovery of the body of Amos Gately in his private elevator, at the bottom of the shaft.

“But I don’t understand,” said Manning. “Shot through the heart and alone in the elevator?”

“That’s the way it is. I’ve no idea of the details of the matter. We didn’t move the body, or examine it thoroughly, but the first glance showed the truth. However, a doctor has been sent for, and the vice-president and secretary of the Trust Company have things in charge, so I came right up here to tell you people about it.”

“And I thank you, Mr. Brice,” Olive’s lovely dark eyes gave me a grateful glance. “What shall I do, Amory? Shall we go down there?”

Manning hesitated. “I will,” he said, looking at her tenderly, “but – do you want to? It will be hard for you – ”

“I know, – but I must go. If Uncle Amos has been killed – surely I ought to be there to – to – oh, I don’t know what!”

Olive Raynor turned a piteous face to Manning, and he took her hand in his as he responded: “Come, if you think best, dear. Shall we go together?”

“Yes,” she said; “I dread it, but I must go. And if you are with me I can stand it. What are you going to do, Mr. Brice?”

“I was about to go home,” I replied, “but I think I will go back to the Matteawan Building, for I may be able to give assistance in some way.”

I went across to my office and found that Norah had gone home. Snapping on some lights, I sat down for a few minutes to straighten out my bewildered, galloping thoughts.

Here was I, Tom Brice, a quiet, inconspicuous lawyer, thrown suddenly into the very thick of a most mysterious murder case. I well knew that my evidence concerning the shadows I had seen would be eagerly listened to by the police, when the time came, and I wondered how soon that would be. I wanted to go home. I wanted to avoid the coming storm and get into my cozy rooms, and think the thing over. For, I had always felt that I had detective ability, and now I had been given a wonderful chance to prove it. I did not intend to usurp anybody’s prerogative nor did I desire to intrude. If I were not asked to assist, I should not offer; but I had a vague hope that my early acquaintance with the vital facts would make me of value as a witness and my mental acumen would bring forth some original ideas in the way of investigation.

And I wanted some time to myself, to cogitate, and to formulate some theories already budding in my brain. Now if the police were already on the scene next door, they would not let me get away, if I appeared.

And yet, I longed for further news of the proceedings. So, I concluded to look in at the Matteawan, and if that led me into the clutches of the police inquisitors, I must submit. But, if I could get away before their arrival, I should do so. I was quite willing to be called upon by them, and to tell all I knew, but I wanted to postpone that until the next day, if possible.

Not wishing to obtrude my presence further on Miss Raynor, I went down in an elevator without returning to the Gately rooms. Indeed, I didn’t know whether she had gone down yet or not.

But she had, and when I reached the scene, both she and Manning were there and were consulting with the men from the bank as to what should be done.

The doctor came, too, and began to examine the body.

The rest of us stood huddled in the narrow hall, now grown hot and close, but we dared not open the door to the main lobby, lest outsiders should make their way in.

I asked the janitor if there were not some room that could be used as a waiting place, but even as he answered me, the doctor made his report.

It was to the effect that Amos Gately had been shot before he entered the elevator or immediately upon his entrance. That he had died instantly, and, therefore it would seem that the body must have been placed in the car and sent down by the assailant. But this was only conjecture; all the doctor could assert was that Mr. Gately had been dead for perhaps an hour, and that the position of the body on the floor indicated an instantaneous death from a shot through the heart.

And then the janitor bestirred himself, and said he could give us the use of a vacant office on the ground floor, and we went in there, – all except the doctor, who remained by the elevator.

Mr. Mason and Mr. Talcott agreed that the police must be notified and they declared their willingness to stay for their arrival. But the vice-president told Miss Raynor she could go home if she preferred to.

“I’ll wait a while,” she said, with the quick decision that I found was habitual with her, “the car is still here, – oh, ought we not to tell Connor? He’s our chauffeur.”

“I’ll tell him,” volunteered Manning. “I have to go now, I’ve an important matter to attend to before six o’clock. Olive, may I come up to the house this evening?”

“Oh, do,” she answered, “I’ll be so glad to have you. Come early, won’t you?”

“Yes,” said Manning, and after pausing for some further talk with the doctor he went away.

I tarried, wondering if I might go also, or if I were needed there.

But as Mason and Talcott were deeply engrossed in a low-toned conversation and as Miss Raynor was waiting an opportunity to confer with the doctor, who was their family physician, I concluded I might as well go home while I was free to do so.

So without definite adieux, but with a word to Miss Raynor that she might command my services at any time, I started for home.

The long expected storm had begun, and enormous snowflakes were falling thickly.

As I left the Matteawan, I discerned Amory Manning talking to the chauffeur of a big limousine and knew that he was telling Amos Gately’s man what had happened to his master.

I slowed up, hoping Manning would get through the interview and walk along, and I would join him.

When he left the chauffeur, however, he darted across the street, and though I followed quickly, I almost lost sight of him in the blinding snowfall.

I called out to him, but he didn’t hear, and small wonder, for the wind roared and the traffic noises were deafening.

So I hurried after him, still hoping to overtake him.

And I did, or, at least, when he finally boarded a Southbound car on Third Avenue, I hopped on the same car.

I had intended taking a Madison Avenue car, but there was none in sight, and I felt pretty sure there was a blockade on the line. The streets showed snowpiles, black and crusted, and the street cleaners were few and far apart.

The car Manning and I managed to get onto was crowded to the doors. We both stood, and there were just too many people between us to make conversation possible, but I nodded across and between the bobbing heads and faces, and Manning returned my greeting.

Stopping occasionally to let off some struggling, weary standees and to take on some new snow-besprinkled stampeders, we at last reached Twenty-second Street, and here Manning nodded a farewell to me, as he prepared to leave by the front end of the car.

This was only three blocks from my own destination, and I determined to get off, too, still anxious to speak to him regarding the scene of tragedy we had just left.

So I swung off the rear end of the car, and it moved on through the storm.

I looked about for Manning, but as I stepped to the ground a gust of wind gave me all I could do to preserve my footing. Moreover, it sent a flurry of snowflakes against my glasses, which rendered them almost opaque.

I dashed them clear with my gloved hand, and looked for my man, but he was nowhere to be seen from where I stood in the center of the four street corners.

Where could Manning have disappeared to? He must have flown like the wind, if he had already darted either up or down Third Avenue or along Twenty-second Street in either direction.

However, those were the only directions he could have taken, and I concluded that as I struggled to raise my umbrella and was at the same time partially blinded by my snowed-under glasses, he had hurried away out of sight. Of course, he had no reason to think I was trying to catch up with him, indeed, he probably did not know that I also left the car, so he had no need for apology.

And yet, I couldn’t see how he had disappeared with such magical celerity. I asked a street cleaner if he had seen him.

“Naw,” he said, blowing on his cold fingers, “naw, didn’t see nobody. Can’t see nothin’ in this here black squall!”

And that’s just what it was. A sudden fierce whirlwind, a maelstrom of tossing flakes, and a black lowering darkness that seemed to envelop everything.

“Mad Mary,” the great clock nearby, boomed out five solemn notes that somehow added to the weirdness of the moment, and I grasped my umbrella handle, pushed my glasses more firmly into place, and strode toward my home.

With some, home is where the heart is, but, as I was still heart-whole and fancy-free, I had no romantic interest to build a home around, and my home was merely two cozy, comfy rooms in the vicinity of Gramercy Park.

And at last I reached them, storm-tossed, weary, cold, and hungry, all of which unpleasant conditions were changed for the better as rapidly as I could accomplish it.

And when, finally, I found myself seated, with a lighted cigar, at my own cheery reading table, I congratulated myself that I had come home instead of remaining at the Matteawan Building.

For, I ruminated, if the police had corralled me as witness, and held me for one of their protracted queryings, I might have stayed there until late into the night or even all night. And the storm, still howling outside my windows, made me glad of warmth and shelter.

Then, too, I was eager to get my thoughts in order. I am of a methodical mentality, and I wanted to set down in order the events I had experienced and draw logical and pertinent deductions therefrom.

I greatly wished I had had a few moments’ chat with Amory Manning. I wanted to ask him some questions concerning Amos Gately that I didn’t like to ask of the bank men. Although I knew Gately’s name stood for all that was honorable and impeccable in the business world, I had not forgotten the hatpin on his desk, nor the queer smile on Jenny’s face as she spoke of his personal callers.

I am not one to harbor premature or unfounded suspicions of my fellow creatures, but

“A little nonsense, now and then,Is relished by the best of men,”

And Amos Gately may not have been above enjoying some relaxations that he felt no reason to parade.

But this was speculation, pure and simple, and until I could ask somebody concerning Mr. Gately’s private life, I had no right to surmise anything about it.

Carefully, I went over all I knew about the tragedy from the moment when I had opened my outer office door ready to start for home. Had I left a few moments sooner, I should probably never have known anything much of the matter except what I might learn from the newspapers or from the reports current among the tenants of the Puritan Building.

As it was, and from the facts as I marshaled them in order before my mind, I believed I had seen shadowed forth the actual murder of Amos Gately. A strange thing, to be an eye-witness, and yet to witness only the shadows of the actors in the scene!

I strove to remember definitely the type of man who did the shooting. That is, I supposed he did the shooting. As I ruminated, I realized I had no real knowledge of this. I saw the shadowed men rise, clinch, struggle, and disappear. Yes, I was positive they disappeared from my vision before I heard the shot. This argued, then, that they wrestled, – though I couldn’t say which was attacker and which attacked, – then they rushed to the next room, where the elevator was concealed by the big map; and then, in that room, the shot was fired that ended Amos Gately’s life.