CHAPTER IV.
THE ANGLE OF REFLECTION.
As Nick Carter had inferred, even before finding the terse, explanatory note of his chauffeur, there was a very good reason for the disappearance of Danny Maloney. There were equally good reasons, too, for the brevity of his note and his delay in reporting at the home office.
Seated alone in the touring car after Nick had entered the Darling residence, Danny fell to watching a gang of men at work in the near distance, then installing the wires for an electric-lighting system, to one of which Nick had jestingly referred when approaching the place.
Scarce five minutes had passed, however, when something of much more importance caught Danny’s eye and instantly claimed his attention. It was the sudden appearance and significant actions of a man who rounded a corner some thirty yards back of the motionless car.
One might wonder, perhaps, how Danny, not having eyes in the back of his head, caught sight of the man the moment he turned the corner. As a matter of fact, however, Danny saw him reflected in the chauffeur’s mirror clamped to the frame of the windshield, in which he could distinctly see objects back of the car.
This led to a somewhat curious situation. The man saw the car and its solitary occupant, but he did not observe the mirror, and he evidently supposed that Danny, facing straight ahead, could not see him.
Danny easily saw the reflection, however, without turning his head. He saw the stranger stop short the moment he rounded the corner, and saw the car, at which he gazed suspiciously, which in turn was enough to arouse Danny’s suspicions.
“Gee! what’s eating him?” he muttered, watching him intently. “Here’s a reflex, back-action discovery, for fair. He don’t know I can see him; but who the dickens is he, and what’s struck him?”
The man stood gazing intently, first at the car and then at the Darling residence, several times from one to the other. He appeared in doubt, uncertain what to do.
Presently, frowning darkly, he took a pencil and a letter, from his pocket and made a memorandum of the envelope. Then he turned and retraced his steps and vanished around the corner as quickly as he had come.
“Gee whiz! there’s nothing to it,” thought Danny. “That fellow was going to the Darling residence. He was alarmed when he saw this car, and he has taken the number of it. He don’t know who owns it, then, so why did he change his mind? He certainly must be off color, or he would not have feared to enter the house. But why—why be hanged! It’s up to me, by gracious, to find out why.”
Danny abruptly ended his vain speculations. He quickly wrote the brief note that Nick found a little later, then sprang from the car and started after the departing stranger.
Danny discovered him nearly a block away, after rounding the corner—an erect, finely built man, fashionably clad, and having all of the outward indications of a gentleman. He was about thirty years old, with dark eyes and hair and clean-cut features, in many respects a strikingly handsome man.
Danny shadowed him to the city. He saw him enter an automobile garage and consult a reference book, one containing the license numbers of New York cars and the names of their owners. His face, when he departed, wore a darker cloud, a look of increasing apprehensions.
“Gee! he’s found out that the car belongs to Nick Carter,” Danny readily reasoned. “That don’t seem to please him worth a cent, which shows that my suspicions are all to the good. I’ll not lose sight of him, by gracious, until I learn who he is and where he hangs out.”
Danny then shadowed him to a leading hotel, where his quarry spent nearly an hour at lunch in the café, afterward sauntering out and bringing up, ten minutes later, near a large West Side apartment house, then known as the Ashburton Chambers.
This house evidently was his destination, for he gazed up at one of the side windows when crossing a street on the corner of which the lofty building stood.
“He’s got a date with some one,” thought Danny, watching him from the opposite side of the avenue. “Or mebbe he has a suite there and—no, by ginger, I was right. He’s here to see that woman.”
She emerged from a side door of the house just as the man was crossing the street—a finely formed woman in a stylish walking costume, a figure so striking and graceful that Danny at once felt sure that he had seen her before. Her face was partly hidden under a polka-dotted veil, however, precluding immediate recognition.
They caught sight of one another at the same moment, and the man stopped on the corner, while the woman hastened to join him. Remaining there, apparently heedless of numerous passing pedestrians, they entered into a subdued and earnest conversation, the gravity of which was obvious.
“I’ve got to have a nearer look at her,” thought Danny. “I’m dead sure I’ve seen her before. Mebbe, too, I can get a line on what they are talking about by passing near them.”
Retracing his steps, he quickly crossed the avenue and then slowly approached the couple, sauntering by them. He then saw the woman’s face distinctly—her large, lustrous eyes, glowing darkly through the meshes of her veil; her attractive features and clear, velvety complexion; her finely formed mouth and rounded chin—a strikingly handsome face, of that type and character for which men sometimes lose their heads.
“Great guns!” Danny muttered. “It’s Kate Crandall, that fly beauty who figured in the Maybrick case. She tried to throw down the church rector because he would not marry her. She must have found an easier way to get money and plenty of it, if fine feathers cut any ice.”
Danny paused in the broad main entrance to the house and furtively watched the couple. He had tried in vain to catch a word or two of their conversation. He now saw the man show Kate Crandall the memorandum made on his letter, and he rightly inferred that they were talking about the touring car and its owner.
Presently, parting abruptly, the man hailed a taxicab and rode away, while Kate Crandall quickly approached the front entrance to the house.
Danny as quickly withdrew to the office, where he began an examination of the register.
Kate Crandall entered and approached the counter, speaking to the clerk.
“If Ralph Sheldon comes in, Tom, send him up to my suite, will you?” she said familiarly.
“Certainly,” replied the clerk. “Does that go until evening?”
“It goes until he shows up,” replied Kate, with significant emphasis. “I will be at home all of this evening.”
“I’ll keep him in mind.”
“Thanks.”
Kate turned quickly away and entered the elevator.
Danny decided that he had picked up all that was coming to him, and he started for home. It was nearly six o’clock when he entered the house, and found Nick in his business office with his two chief assistants, Chick Carter and Patsy Garvan.
On the office table lay the several articles Nick had obtained from Doctor Lyons, which he was just beginning to examine, already having told Chick and Patsy about the case as thus far set forth.
It took Danny only a few minutes to report what he had seen and heard, and it was very nearly in line with what Nick had expected.
“Good work, Danny, very good work,” he said approvingly. “It will help some, my lad, even more than you imagine. I have left the car at the curbing. Take charge of it, please.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Carter,” cried Danny, glad to feel that he had been of service.
“So Kate Crandall is at the Ashburton Chambers, eh?” remarked Nick, with thoughtful frown, “I have wondered what became of her after that Maybrick affair. She is about as attractive a woman as one often meets, but she has an infernally evil streak in her.”
“You think she figures in this affair?” Chick inquired.
“I certainly do,” Nick declared. “Danny undoubtedly is right in thinking that the unknown man was going to the Darling residence. The fact that he has an interest there, and also in Kate Crandall, denotes plainly enough that Cyrus Darling also had an interest in the woman. The stranger, in view of his conduct, forms a connecting link between the other two, so to speak.”
“I see the point,” Chick replied.
“Gee! that point is plain enough,” put in Patsy. “But, holy smoke, it must be a case of suicide. How else can you size it up, chief? Darling had been in the dumps for two or three months, as down in the mouth as a sick horse, according to his wife’s story. Crooks could not have forced him to feign despondency for that length of time. In my opinion, chief, he just about blew in all of his money with some other woman, and blew out his brains when his bundle was gone. That’s how I size it up.”
“Really?” queried Nick dryly.
“That’s what. He certainly shot himself, chief, if what Doctor Lyons told you is true.”
“If what Doctor Lyons told me is true, Patsy, you probably are entirely wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“It’s a hundred to one.”
“Why so, chief?”
“Because in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred a person who commits suicide with a revolver shoots himself in the head,” said Nick. “That is the most natural spot for a suicide to select. He knows that a bullet in the brain will instantly render him insensible and preclude conscious suffering. Even if he does not stop to reason about it, he instinctively selects his head in which to send the fatal bullet. The records corroborate me. How often do you hear of a man shooting himself in the heart or lungs?”
“Very seldom, indeed,” Chick agreed. “I don’t know that I ever heard of a case.”
“But what of that?” questioned Patsy argumentatively. “I don’t see how that cuts any ice. Darling could have shot himself in the head.”
“I admit that he could—but he didn’t,” Nick said dryly.
“Why are you so sure of it, chief?”
“Because the bullet would have made a hole in his skull. Even if sent into his mouth, or through an eye, it would surely have passed through the brain and have fractured, at least, the back of the skull. Doctor Lyons is positive, however, that the skull was intact. I questioned him particularly about that. Admitting that my premises are correct, then, it’s a hundred to one that Cyrus Darling did not shoot himself.”
“Gee! there’s no getting around that argument,” Patsy thoughtfully allowed. “You must be right, chief, after all.”
“I think so.”
“But how came the revolver near him? Some one else must have shot him. In that case, chief, he must have been murdered, as Doctor Lyons and Lawyer Clayton suspect.”
“On the contrary, Patsy, both of them are wrong,” Nick said confidently. “Cyrus Darling was not shot at all.”
“Not shot at all!” echoed Patsy incredulously.
“That is my opinion.”
“Gee! that beats me. Why was the revolver there, then? Why——”
“Stop a moment,” Nick interrupted. “You have just said, Patsy, that crooks could not have forced Darling to feign despondency for eight consecutive weeks. If so, then, his despondency must either have been voluntarily feigned, or else it must have been genuine.”
“Sure thing, chief. That’s plain enough.”
“One fact, however, indicates that it was not genuine,” Nick proceeded. “I refer to the fact that he recently spent many evenings in town, far more than in the past. His wife thinks he sought diversion to relieve his depression. He did not, however, permit her to accompany him. That’s a very significant point.
“It is wholly inconsistent in a husband seeking such relief. He would have wanted his wife with him to cheer him up and help divert his mind—barring one contingency.”
“Namely, chief?”
“Another attraction.”
“Gee! there may be something in that,” said Patsy, quick to see the point. “You mean another woman.”
“Exactly.”
“Kate Crandall.”
“Quite likely, Patsy, in view of what Danny discovered.”
“Gee whiz! things are shaping up,” said Patsy, laughing. “I begin to think you are right, chief.”
“Let’s see, now, in how far this is confirmed by Darling’s conduct during the past three months,” said Nick. “It was then that his wife first noticed his reticence and lack of customary affection.”
“He must have been bestowing it upon the other.”
“Quite likely,” Nick dryly agreed. “Then came a long period of increasing depression, relieved by frequent evenings in town, ostensibly alone. Later he sold his business, also his bonds and securities. Obviously, he wanted all of his funds in cash. Finally came the suicide, the letter stating his intention, and the burning of the boathouse, which nearly consumed the corpse and precluded absolute identification.”
“By Jove, Nick, you evidently think the whole business was faked,” said Chick abruptly.
“That is precisely what I think.”
“And that Cyrus Darling is not dead?”
“Exactly.”
“But the body——”
“One obtained for a blind,” Nick interrupted. “Really, Chick, this entire combination of circumstances admits of no other conclusion. Darling’s conduct during the past three months, as I have just sized it up: the selection of the boathouse for the supposed suicide, where the arrangements for such a fraud could have been easily and secretly made, as well as a quick and undetected get-away on the river after the trick was turned; the setting fire to the building in order to cremate the corpse and preclude identification except by means of articles placed on it, the garments, ring, and even the false teeth of the supposed victim—all point to one conclusion, Chick; that the job was a frame-up from beginning to end.”
“By Jove, it’s a curious case, Nick, if you are right,” Chick answered.
“Not so very curious. It’s a case of a lost head.”
“A lost head?”
“Exactly. That of a man who has lost his head. It’s up to us to help him find it and set it back on his shoulders—if not too late.”
“Lost his head for a woman? Is that what you mean?”
“Precisely.”
“But why do you think we may be too late?”
“Because, though a week has passed since the supposed suicide, the cat has not jumped,” said Nick enigmatically.
“I don’t get you.”
“Nor I, chief,” put in Patsy. “What cat has not jumped?”
“The two-legged cat responsible for the whole business,” Nick explained. “We can safely assume, the foregoing being correct, that Darling turned his fortune into cash with a view to leaving the country with the woman; that he aimed to create a belief that he is dead, presumably to prevent investigations, pursuit, and a possible lawsuit, with consequent alimony, and that he intended living abroad under a fictitious name with the woman.”
“That now seems perfectly reasonable,” Chick agreed.
“The question is, then, assuming Kate Crandall to be the woman, why have they not jumped the country?” Nick added. “Why the delay? Why is she established in the Ashburton Chambers? Why the continued interest in the Darling residence, as appears in what Danny saw and heard? That shows plainly enough that she is the woman involved. It is confirmed by her acquaintance with Ralph Sheldon, mentioned by Mrs. Darling as a friend of her husband. His friendship may be of the left-handed kind.”
“Most likely, Nick.”
“All this, then, denotes that something has gone wrong. Why has Darling not fled with the woman? Has he been given the double cross? He may have been bunkoed out of his big bundle of cash and—well, there is no telling what has become of him. It’s up to us to find out.”
“I get you now, Nick,” Chick nodded. “He may, after all, be the man found dead in the boathouse.”
Nick quickly shook his head.
“I don’t think so,” said he. “If there were evidence showing positively that he was shot, rather than the contrary, I might think the rascals killed him. His going there voluntarily, however, his feigning despondency for close upon two months, apparently paving the way to get by with a fake suicide—all convinces me that he was not killed.”
“I see.”
“This is further confirmed by the removal of his photograph, which Mrs. Darling thinks is the only one in existence.”
“What was his object in removing it?”
“To prevent broadcast publication of it in the newspapers, in case the truth was suspected,” said Nick. “Verbal descriptions cut no great ice. A picture, however, has brought many a knave to the ringbolt. He was heading off that means of identification, exposure, and arrest.”
“Gee! that listens good to me, chief,” said Patsy. “Ten to one it hits the nail on the head.”
“I feel reasonably sure of it.”
“But what are your plans?” Chick inquired. “If Darling is up against a gang, as you suspect, and they discover that his wife has put us on the case, it’s long odds that they will lose no time in bolting.”
“That’s the very point I was coming to,” Nick said, more forcibly. “They must have discovered it. Danny’s report convinces me of that. Kate Crandall knows it, also the unknown man who informed her. He must be identified. We have Danny’s description of him, which will probably be recognized by persons employed in the Ashburton Chambers, if he has been in the habit of visiting Kate Crandall.”
“No doubt.”
“You tackle that part of the work, Chick, and we’ll get after these suspects before they can make a successful get-away.”
“But Kate Crandall said she would be in her apartments all of this evening, chief,” Patsy reminded him. “That don’t look much like bolting.”
“That may have been only a blind,” Nick replied. “She may have feared that she already was being watched, or that the clerk might be questioned later. Be that as it may, we’ll lose no time in seeking tangible proof of my suspicions. While Chick is hunting up the unknown man, Patsy, you see what you can learn about Ralph Sheldon and Philip Floyd.”
“I’ve got you, chief.”
“If the former visits Kate Crandall, as she directed, we may be lucky enough to clinch the case and round up the entire gang this very evening,” Nick added, rising abruptly. “I’ll tackle Kate Crandall personally. I’ll find out in short order what she knows about Cyrus Darling.”
“That’s the stuff, chief,” cried Patsy.
“We’ll be off at once. Danny is still waiting. We can make the Ashburton Chambers in twenty minutes.”