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

THE night’s reflections served to alter Gaunt’s plans for the next day, and, at as early an hour as he conventionally could, he stepped from his motor at the door of the Blenheim, and was guided to Mrs. Finlay Appleton’s apartments. That lady, mindful that his affliction prevented a betrayal of her early-morning appearance, received him without delay, and all but inundated him under a storm of anxious queries. When the eager flow of questioning had abated somewhat, the detective ventured to speak:

“Please, please, my dear Mrs. Appletonl You must believe that I appreciate, in part at least, your feeling as a mother, in so heartrending an affair as this, and I am doing my utmost to shorten the suspense and horror of the situation for you; but you really must have patience. Remember that the picked men of the detective squad of the police force are working night and day, also, on this case, and, although many clues have been unearthed, it is too soon to expect anything definite. Such an affair as this cannot be brought to a conclusion in a day.”

“I most heartily wish it were not necessary for the police to be concerned—at least, until the man who killed my poor boy is caught!” returned the elderly lady, asperity struggling with grief in her tones. “That Inspector person—Hanrahan, I beheve his name is—called upon me yesterday afternoon, and asked me the most preposterous and unbelievably impertinent questions about Garret — quite as if he suspected him of having some disgraceful secret in his past! As if my son could have any secret from his mother! The man’s impudence was astounding, and I told him so, and soon sent him about his business!”

The detective’s face relaxed ever so slightly. He could imagine the result of Inspector Hanrahan’s impoUte visit.

“It was a terrible experience, Mr. Gaunt; absolute torture, coming, as it did, immediately after my poor son’s burial!”

“I read of the funeral in the papers, this morning,” the detective remarked.

“It was terrible—terrible!” she cried. “My husband would have turned in his grave, had he known! The horrible crowds, Mr. Gaunt—the horrible, gaping, staring crowds! In spite of the cordons of police, they pressed in upon us on all sides, turning our grief into a sort of hideous public holiday! The last service which could be rendered my poor boy was robbed of all solenmity, all sacredness, by that mob of morbid, heartlessly curious people.”

“Indeed, you have my sympathy, Mrs. Appleton. I wish with all my heart that you and yours could have been spared that; but it is inevitably a part of such a tragedy as this. I am sure the police did all in their power to protect you—”

“Perhaps they did. But, as to discovering the murderer of my son, I have no faith in them. Yates and I rely entirely upon you.”

“I trust that I shall not disappoint you. But, Mrs. Appleton, I did not come here to distress or annoy you, I assure you. A little matter has turned up, which I should like some information about. Mr. Garret Appleton’s fortune was not entirely in real estate, was it.”

“No,” she replied, in evident surspise. “He held stocks and bonds, and traded quite a little in them, I believe.”

“Can you tell me who his brokers were?”

“Palmer and Leach, on Broad Street.”

“Have they been his brokers for a long time.”

Mrs. Appleton paused, as if trying to recall to her memory that which he had asked of her; but he detected a slight quickening of her audible breathing, and the dry rustle of her hands stirring in the silken lap of her morning-robe.

“Really, I don’t remember, exactly. For a year or two prior to his marriage, I think.”

“And, before that, who were his brokers.” The nervous, annoyed stirring became more apparent in the srillness of the room. “Was the firm, by any chance. Smith, Hitchcock V. Gregory?” he persisted.

“I—I believe it was!” came faintly from the thin, compressed lips.

“Ah! A most unfortunate failure!” commented the detective. “I remember my secretary reading of it to me, at the time. There were only two members of the firm, were there not—only the man Smith, and Rupert Hitchcock? If my memory serves me, the name Gregory was merely retained to keep the title of the firm intact. I believe Mr. Gregory died many years ago.”

“Really, I cannot say,” murmured Mrs. Appleton, somewhat coldly. “I remember something about a failure, of course; but I know very little of affairs of finance.”

“I trust your son didn’t lose by it,” the detective remarked, and paused for a moment before continuing. “It was one of the worst failures the Street has ever known, and hundreds went down in the crash.”

“My son was a very astute business man, Mr. Gaunt, and a very reticent one. If he lost very much in the failure of the firm with whom he traded, he said nothing of it, to me at least. He seldom discussed business matters at home.” Her tone was flatly uninterested, and there was a note of finality in it, which Gaunt recognized.

He rose.

“Palmer and Leach, I think you said, were the names of the latest brokers with whom Mr. Appleton traded? Thank you very much. I will remember it…. Good-morning. I will report to you as soon as anything definite is discovered.”

Mrs. Appleton gave him a limp handshake^ and he departed, returning at once to his rooms, where he found Miss Barnes awaiting him. As Jenkins relieved him of his coat and hat, he asked his secretary to get him a number on the telephone. It was that of a man, although not a financier himself, who was probably the most cordially detested and feared of any man connected with Wall Street. Purporting to be the editor of a so-called financial news-sheet, Jerome Wetmore was in reality a spy, who managed in some seemingly inexplicable manner to become possessed of the secret plans and operations of the biggest men on the Exchange, and who used them for his own private ends, in a subtle way, which succeeded in keeping Jiim out of the hands of the police, or shared them with others, at a price. No one knew the extent of his resources, or the number or identity of his hirelings in the offices of different magnates; but that they existed was undoubted. On whatever questionable enterprise he was engaged, however, one thing was certain. The man was a walking chronology of events in the financial world, and as such he had not infrequently been of use to Gaunt.

“Hello, Mr. Wetmore! This is Gaunt—Damon Gaunt,” the detective announced. “Have you a few minutes to spare for me? I want some information.”

“Surest thing you know!” came in short, quick accents over the ‘phone. “Always time for you, Gaunt. What is it?”

“Can you reply freely, without fear of being overheard—mention names if necessary?” Gaunt asked, cautiously.

There was a chuckle at the other end of the wire.

“I should—hope sol This office is a padded cell. If it weren’t, I might have been a fit subject for you, long ago!” Mr. Wetmore returned, frankly. Then he added: “What can I do for you?”

“Tell me all you can of the’ Smith, Hitchcock V. Gregory failure, four years ago.”

A low whistle sounded in the detective’s ear.

“Now you’re talkin’! Whatever started you on that? Wait a minute—hold the wire.”

There was a faint resounding jar, as of the receiver being hastily thumped down upon the desk, and then silence, while the detective waited patiently.” At length, when several minutes hadj>assed, he heard the voice of his informant again:

“You there. Gaunt?”

“Yes.”

“I looked it up, to be sure of the facts. There wasn’t any Gregory in the firm; only Smith and Hitchcock. Gregory’d been dead fifteen years. They failed four years ago next January, on the twenty-seventh, for seventeen hundred thousand dollars, in round figures. Only four hundred thousand was’ recovered, or could be accounted for. Smith showed a clean sheet. He’d been a very sick man, and had traveled in Europe for eight months prior to the failure, leaving everything in his partner’s hands, and the books of the firm were straight as a string up to his departure. Of course, he was technically guilty with his partner, Hitchcock, of the misappropriation of funds, and all that; but he came home at once when the failure was announced, and made what restitution he could. He and his wife put every dollar they had in the world into the hands of the receivers—country place, town house, automobiles, his wife’s jewels, even her heirlooms, wedding-presents, and her own little private fortune, which she’d had before they were married. In view of that, and the fact that the doctor and nurses, who’d traveled with him, testified that he’d been permitted, because of the state of his health, to receive no business letters or cables while in Europe, not even to glance at a newspaper, his lawyers got him off in some way—released on his own recognizance, or something like that. Clever lawyers he had, Reilly and Fitzhugh. I guess his physical condition had something to do with it, too—he wouldn’t have lasted two months behind bars. A lot of sympathy was expressed for him. A man can’t start life over again at his age, with death staring him in the face, and not a cent to fall back on.

He paused and a faint rustle of papers sounded in the detective’s ears, as if Mr. Wetmore was looking up fresh data.

“Do you know what became of him?” Gaunt asked.

“Can’t say positively. He dropped out of sight; but I heard somewhere that his friends helped him temporarily. JThe police must have kept track of him, to see if by any chance he unearthed any of that million, or more, that disappeared at the time of the failure. But I guess he was straight enough; for, the last I heard, he and his wife were living in sheer poverty, somewhere in Jersey. So much for him. You know, yourself, about the other one, Hitchcock, don’t you?”

“Convicted and sent to prison, wasn’t he?” The detective’s voice was a triumph of studied carelessness.

“Yes, for seven years. But I read in the paper the other day that he’d been pardoned, because of his health. Haven’t heard anything of him, though. Tisn’t likely he’d show up down here, any way. I’ve got a list here of their biggest customers: Bender, Matthews, Samuelson, Houck — I’ll send it up to you.”

“Thanks, I wish you would.” Gaunt prepared to add a phrase in pursuance of his line of thought, when a yell of amazement over the wire cut him short.

“Say! Look here! That chap who was murdered’ the other day, Garret Appleton, was one of their heaviest traders! What do you know about that?” And then, before