At One-Thirty, Isabel Ostrander [ebook reader with highlight function .TXT] 📗

INSPECTOR HANRAHAN presented himself at Gaunt’s rooms at an early hour, and it was plainly evident, in the exuberance of his handshake and his jubilant tone, that his self-satisfaction of the previous day had increased

“You’re on the trail, Inspector. I can tell from your manner that you have got the scent.”

“I think I have, sir—I think I have. Whatever it leads to, Louis and the butler were right. There’s something mysterious been going on that Garret Appleton was concerned with, all right.”

“What did you learn at the inn, last night? Had Mr. Appleton met someone up there for a conference?”

“He had not. He was too clever for that. He wasn’t going to give the chauffeur anything on him, if he could help it. He reached there about halfpast twelve, and, after seeing that his chauffeur’s wants would be attended to, instead of lunching there, he went into the bar alone, and had a drink, and then beat it out a side door, after looking carefully to see that his man had put the car up, and gone to the chauffeur’s diningroom.

“An assistant bartender and one of the waiters, who was serving a party on the side porch^ saw him go across the fields—it’s real country up there, you know—and disappear in a patch of woodland to the left. He stayed away until almost three o’clock, and, when he reappeared, there were two men with him; a short stoutish man, and a tall, younger one. That’s all the description I could get of them from the waiter who saw them, because they halted at the edge of the field, talked together for a moment, and then Mr. Appleton came straight back to the inn.”

“Did you investigate beyond that patch of woodland, Inspector,” Gaunt asked, thoughtfully.

“Of course, I did; but it was dark, and I couldn’t make out very much. After I found out all I could at the inn, I told the chauffeur of the car I hired to drive around by way of that patch of woods. He found a lane leading to it, after a little trouble^ and we came upon a little farmhouse, painted white, or light yellow. I went in an asked for some water for the engine, and found out that a stolid old English couple, named Crabtree, lived there quite alone, and there isn’t any other house for a long distance around; but back of their place is a short cut that leads into the Boston Post Road, near Greenwich.”

“Did you learn anything else at the inn?”

“Only that, wherever Mr. Appleton had been, he hadn’t had any lunch, and he hadn’t time to get any there. He bolted down a couple of sandwiches and another drink, while his chauffeur was bringing the car around, and they must have exceeded the speed limit going back to town, for, by the butler’s testimony, he reached his own house at five or a little after.”

“And the other end of the string—the men you sent down to Jersey, to the farmhouse near New Brunswick? What have you heard from them?”

“Well, they ran up against a snag; but it’s a significant one. A middle-aged couple lived there, a man and his wife, named Smith; but they have gone, and the house is deserted. They left about two weeks ago. They’d been living there for nearly four years. Their last year’s lease had still about seven months to run, and they went unexpectedly, in a great hurry.

“My men got their information from the neighbors around. It seems this Smith rented the place from his next-door neighbor, who had a great big farm. The Smith’s place was little and mean, and they paid only ten dollars a month for it. They seemed to be very poor, but far above the class around them—more like gentlefolks, down on their luck. That’s all my men could find out. They didn’t leave any address, or tell anyone where they were going, and they took only their trunks with them. The furniture—just a few cheap sticks which they brought with them when they came— they left standing in the house, I understand; so that looks as if they expected to come back.

“I think I’ll run down myself, this afternoon, and have a look around; but I guess what you call the other end of the string is the best chance, I’ll get back to that inn tomorrow in the daylight, and see if I can’t find some trace of those two men, or someone who saw them come in an automobile or carriage, and remembers the direction.”

“Have you any theory to fit the facts. Inspector?” asked the detective, with quiet humor.

The Inspector shifted rather uneasily.

“Well, sir, I haven’t much to go on. But why should he have gone to that out-of-the-way hole in Jersey to have an interview with a perfectly respectable, middle-aged couple, who’d lived there four years; and then, a week later, they up and disappear? Then, on the very day before his death, he goes to another quiet spot in the country, and meets two men for a talk. If it’s business, why don’t they come to his oflSice? If it’s a family matter, why not see him in his home openly? There’s ���1 nigger in the woodpile^ somewhere. It looks like blackmail to me. That’s my theory—blackmail. They were getting money out of him for something, I’m pretty sure.”

“You haven’t any proof of that from what you have told me.”

“Haven’t I? Didn’t he pay that couple in Jersey to get out of the way, and get out quick? And he was murdered within a few hours after his interview with the two men—maybe he refused to give them any money; maybe he was tired of being bled, and told them so, and they took their revenge. I know it sounds like a Fourteenth Street melodrama, Mr. Gaunt; but, nevertheless, it’s happening every day in real life, as you and I both know, and the police records can show. Anyway, I’m off to look up that Jersey couple.”

When Inspector Hanrahan had departed, Gaunt took his watch from his pocket—a curious affair it was, made without a crystal, with strong hands and raised numerals, and the detective’s fingers played delicately across the open face. It was just past eleven. Saunders could get him up to the Rocky Point Inn in good time for lunch. He would change places with the Inspector, who was going to Jersey, and the following day, when the police official went to the inn. Gaunt would, in turn, visit that empty farmhouse near New Brunswick, and learn what he could of the couple with the significantly ordinary name.

After ordering the car, he called the Appleton house on the telephone, and, at his request, Miss Ellerslie came to the wire. He learned that young Mrs. Appleton, although still very ill, was resting more quietly, and, although she could not be disturbed by an interview for several days, the doctor thought her on the road to a safe and reasonably rapid recovery.

Jenkins announced the car, and Gaunt was soon speeding up Broadway. The air was milder than on the previous day, and gave a hint of the coming Indian summer. The swift run through the warm air was delightful, and the detective listened eagerly to the noises of street life all about him, which gave place, gradually, to the sounds and smells of the country in the autumn; the groaning and creaking of heavily laden produce-and haywagons, the odor of drying leaves and ripening grain, and the wine-like scent of crushed and dying grapes.

They did not drive at breakneck speed, and it was halfpast one before the car came to a grinding stop on the gravel driveway, before the entrance of the inn. To, the head waiter, who came obsequiously to greet him. Gaunt said:

‘^I am lunching alone. I should like a table on the side porch—the left side of the house, nearest the door leading from the bar out to the driveway. See that my chauffeur has his luncheon also, please. He will guide me to the table.” In a matter-of-fact tone he added: “I am blind.”

When he was seated, the detective asked of the chauffeur, in a low tone:

“Saunders, is this the table I asked for?”

“Yes, sir; the nearest table to the door leading from the bar. It’s all right, sir.”

“All right. Go and have your own lunch now. I want to start off again in about an hour.”

Because of his inability to tell by the sense of touch the denomination of the bills he carried. Gaunt kept them in separate purses, of different sizes, stowed about his pockets, and the indefatigable Miss Barnes sorted them for him each morning on her arrival. Currency, of course, he could tell; but he found it inconvenient to carry much gold about with him.

After Saunders had departed, he produced the purse containing the five-dollar notes, and handed one to the head waiter, who was still hovering about.

“Look here, my man,” he said. “Did you know Mr. Garret Appleton by sight? Was he a frequent customer here? You need not be afraid to talk to me—I am not a reporter.”

The head waiter’s fingers closed eagerly over the bill.

“Yes, sir, I knew him very well, sir. IVe heard of his—his murder, of course. He was up here just the day before.”

“It’s about that last trip of his that I want to ask you some questions. I’m