CHAPTER III.
POINTERS TO CRIME.
Nick Carter made no comments upon the disappearance of the photograph, or, at least, none that expressed his thoughts. Mrs. Darling could not say how long it had been gone from the album, nor could she conceive of any reason for its removal.
“He may have led a much more gay and festive life than she suspected,” thought Nick, upon leaving the house after giving her a few additional instructions. “He may also have been a thousand times more sly than she imagined. Another woman now has the photograph, perhaps, the gift of a recreant husband, who thought it easier to give her that than to sit for a new one. It would be worth while to know the woman’s name, in that case—and also to know what has become of Danny Maloney.”
Nick’s mental digression occurred while he emerged from the driveway gate and found that his chauffeur was nowhere to be seen. The touring car stood at the curbing, but there was no sign of Danny.
“H’m, that’s a bit odd,” Nick soliloquized, gazing in each direction. “I thought he might be merely stretching his legs. He must have seen some one, or something, that he thought it worth while to learn more about. He never neglects—ah, that will explain.”
A scrap of paper protruding from under the chauffeur’s seat had caught Nick’s eye as he was about to enter the car. He drew it out and read, scribbled with a lead pencil:
“Don’t wait for me, chief. I’ll report later.”
Nick smiled and sprang into the car. Ten minutes later he arrived at the residence of Doctor Lyons, whom he found alone in his office.
“Well, well, Nick, this is an unexpected pleasure,” said the physician, after their greeting. “It’s ages since I have seen you. What’s on your mind? I know your call is not entirely a social one, nor do you look as if you needed a prescription.”
“No, I’m as right as a trivet,” said Nick, smiling. “It’s about the suicide of Mr. Cyrus Darling.”
“What about it?”
“This is strictly between us, mind you, and must not go farther.”
“Enough said. Mum’s the word.”
“You view the remains, I am told, and pronounced it a case of suicide?”
“Certainly. There was nothing else to it, absolutely nothing.”
“I’m not so sure of it,” said Nick.
“Coming from any one else, Nick, I should laugh derisively at that,” Doctor Lyons replied, with a look of surprise. “Coming from you, however, it demands serious consideration. What do you mean?”
“I’m not prepared to say,” Nick rejoined. “I have just begun to look into the case at the request of Mrs. Darling. When I learn anything definite, Lyons, I will make it a point to inform you.”
“That’s good enough for me,” said the physician. “But I really think, Nick, that you are on a wild-goose chase. There’s nothing to it. Darling committed suicide, Nick, as sure as you’re alive.”
“It will be wise to report nothing different at present,” said Nick. “You may be right, of course, and I may drop the case within twenty-four hours.”
“I’ll wager you will.”
“I would like to know how you sized up the circumstances, nevertheless,” Nick went on. “Darling left a note which stated his suicidal intention, then went to the boathouse and set it on fire, immediately shooting himself. That is your opinion, I understand, briefly stated?”
“Yes, that is about the size of it,” admitted the physician.
“Were you among the first to view the remains?”
“Yes. I was sent for immediately. I saw all that remained of the unfortunate man. He was almost entirely cremated.”
“You made a careful examination, I suppose.”
“Certainly.”
“Of the skull?”
“I examined his remains thoroughly, Nick.”
“Did you find any fractured bone, or splintered, as if caused by a bullet?” Nick inquired.
“No, I did not.”
“Did you find the bullet that killed him?”
“No. The body was terribly burned, parts of it being entirely consumed. It was impossible to perform a satisfactory autopsy. There is no question of his identity, however, if that is what you have in mind. Darling’s ring was found on his finger. He wore a double set of false teeth, which alone are enough to establish his identity. We found some of the horn buttons on his clothing, moreover, which his wife readily recognized. Really, Nick, there is nothing to it.”
“Why do you think, then, that he set fire to the building before shooting himself?”
“Possibly to make sure of his death in case he only wounded himself. Or, perhaps, the fire was caused by the flash of the revolver. There was a lot of gasoline in the building. It may have caught from the flash of the weapon. It certainly caused a very intense fire. The house and all it contained were completely consumed.”
“I was told that you still have the revolver and the articles mentioned.”
“That is true.”
“May I take them temporarily? I will guarantee to return them.”
“Certainly,” Doctor Lyons readily consented. “If the matter were a less solemn one, however, I would wager a big round roll, Nick, that you are wasting your energies on a fog bank. There’s nothing in it. Cyrus Darling killed himself, as sure as death and taxes.”
“We’ll let it go at that, then, for the present,” said the detective, with a smile. “I will return these articles in a few days.”
“Whenever convenient, Nick,” replied the physician.
He had taken them from a drawer in his desk while speaking, a parcel wrapped in thick brown paper and securely tied with a string.
Nick thanked him and departed.
Half an hour later he entered the New York office of Clayton & Craige, attorneys, and was received in the private office of the senior partner.
Nick found, however, that Clayton could add but little to the information already imparted by Mrs. Darling.
Clayton stated that he had been Darling’s legal adviser for a number of years, that the latter had left no will, and that his personal estate, as far as could be discovered, consisted of less than five thousand dollars. From several brokers with whom Darling had been in the habit of dealing, nevertheless, Clayton had learned that he had sold bonds and securities within two months amounting to nearly a hundred thousand dollars.
“It certainly looks bad, Mr. Carter, deucedly bad,” he added gravely, after stating these facts. “Though I have not yet mentioned it to Mrs. Darling, I can form only one theory consistent with the circumstances, and that is not entirely consistent.”
“What is your theory?” Nick inquired.
“I think Mr. Darling was murdered.”
“By whom?”
“I have no idea, not the slightest.”
“Do you know of any persons with whom he has had business relations, who might have committed the crime?”
“I do not. I am entirely in the dark.”
“How would you account for the letter stating his suicidal intention? That was found in his wife’s bedroom.”
“It may be a forgery.”
“Put in the bedroom by some one else?”
“Exactly.”
“That would have been possible, perhaps, if a conspiracy existed,” Nick allowed tentatively.
“Conspiracy—that’s just the word,” said the lawyer. “I think that Cyrus Darling was the victim of a dastardly conspiracy, Nick, carried out with infernal cleverness.”
“And that his fortune was the incentive to the crime?”
“Precisely,” said Clayton. “I don’t know how it was framed up, of course, nor who are involved. I do believe that Darling was terribly jockeyed in some way, however, and either persuaded, or forced, to turn all of his bonds and securities into cash. I know positively that he did so, for all of the brokers with whom he dealt are well acquainted with him and absolutely sure of his identity at the time. He certainly is the man who made the sales and received the money. There is no question about that.”
“Admitting that,” said Nick; “what more do you suspect?”
“I think that Darling was bunkoed out of it by some means and later lured to the boathouse and killed, the rascals covering their tracks by setting fire to the house, and contriving to leave a forged letter, pointing to suicide. Either that is the case, Nick, or else he got in wrong and lost all of his money, and then really committed suicide.”
“You think either theory is tenable?” questioned Nick, smiling a bit oddly.
“I do think so.”
“I am going to look a little deeper into the case.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Carter, on my word,” Clayton quickly declared. “No man would be more likely to ferret out the true solution of the mystery.”
“There is no solution, Clayton, but the true solution,” Nick replied. “I may require some little time. Meanwhile, kindly say and do nothing about the matter, nor reveal anything that would add to Mrs. Darling’s distress. She appears to be a fine woman.”
“She is a fine woman, Nick. That goes without saying, and I know what I’m talking about.”
“Has Darling lived happily with her?”
“Surely,” Clayton replied. “Why not, indeed? She is just the type of woman to steady a man of his temperament. He liked a good time, you know, and was easily influenced. But for her, Nick, he might have gone clean over the traces. She was his balance wheel. She kept him going nicely, instead of off on a tangent. Yes, yes, they have lived happily, all right, or I would have heard of it.”
“No doubt,” Nick allowed.
He took his hat and arose to go.