Missing men
man of considerable wealth obviously, with wide interests that brought
him a constant and comfortable flow of money without the necessity of
desk labor. In the evening he often went to the theatre, usually alone,
since he was a widower, and he reached his home about eleven o’clock or
between eleven and twelve. Very seldom was he later than midnight.
It was a commendable and consequently prosy record.
“There were three of your letters, I understand, that he did not
receive,” continued Lavender, probing for a gleam of light. “About when
would the first of them have been written?”
“About a week ago. I wrote pretty often.”
“So that he may have been away for a week, possibly a little less. All
right, Miss Minor, I’ll make the proper inquiries and report as soon as
I have anything to report. And be sure to let me know if you hear of
anything.”
I looked at Lavender when she had gone. “Well?” I said.
“Well what?”
“The fourth disappearance!” said I. “It does look like an epidemic,
doesn’t it?”
He smiled. “Well, yes, superficially. Of course it’s nothing of the
sort. People disappear every day, I’m sure, and most of them don’t get a
line in the papers. This looks significant to us because of Morley’s
visit and because of my remarks about the two cases mentioned by the
press. Miss Minor’s visit so immediately followed Morley’s that the
temptation to find a connection is natural. Natural, but romantic,” he
added dryly. “Which is not to say that both cases are not serious. They
may be very serious indeed, and again they may be very trifling and
unimportant. At the moment I prefer not to reach conclusions.”
He lighted a cigarette and lost himself in thought for a few minutes.
Then, looking at the clock, he got quickly to his feet.
“Just the same, since I’ve undertaken this case and have promised Morley
to have a look at his case, I must not waste time. But I’m bound to say,
Gilly, that on the face of things I never knew two cases that promised
less.”
Even Lavender, however, was no prophet.
—— II ——
We drew a stiff though courteous blank at the Waldron. Without being
outstandingly eager to aid us, the club staff was polite and answered
what questions Lavender had to put. This was natural, for we had said
nothing about Miss Minor’s visit to us and the club attendants naturally
wondered what our call portended. Lavender is a plausible person,
however, and merely let it be known that he was anxious to get into
touch with Cyril Minor, who was not to be found at his home.
Mr. Minor, it seemed, had not been seen about the club for a week. Yes,
it was a bit unusual but not perhaps extraordinary. There was no mail
waiting for him. He received very little mail at the club, however. None
of his particular friends were in, at the moment. Perhaps Mr. Minor
himself would be back before long. Who was he to be told had called?
As this latter suggestion was something more than a possibility Lavender
penned a brief note, sealed it, and left it to await the return of the
missing man. In it he advised Mr. Minor to get into immediate
communication with his daughter who was at home and anxious about him.
“Whether the fellow is a good citizen or a scoundrel, I suppose he’s
fond of his daughter,” remarked Lavender as we left the building. “I
would be,” he added. “And now, Gilly, we are exactly where we began. I
shall have to visit Miss Minor in her home apparently, and look over her
father’s papers if she will permit it. Meanwhile we are in the general
neighborhood of Morley’s difficulties, suppose we have a look at
Vanderdonck’s office.”
“It’s a long way to two o’clock,” I reminded him.
“So it is,” agreed Lavender, stepping out briskly. “The absence of
Sergeant Morley at the scene of his failure will greatly expedite our
own investigation, I am sure.”
A few blocks lay between us and the building in part occupied by the
picture broker’s establishment. We covered them rapidly. A dingy
building it was, too, when we had found it. A building occupied for the
most part by second-rate lawyers and booking agents, with one creaking
elevator and four flights of toilsome, reminiscent stairs. We took the
elevator for choice and ascended to the third story, where in time we
came upon the dismal office of Peter Vanderdonck. The name was on the
door. On the door also was a fly-specked card with the legend in black.
“Back in an hour.” No doubt it had been used for years; it looked as if
it were never taken down. No doubt also it had been put up on the
occasion of Peter Vanderdonck’s last farewell to his office. Had he
expected to be back in an hour, I wondered? Or had his going been
voluntary and final? Or for the matter of that, had it been involuntary
and final?
It was an old key-lock, typical of the building, and Lavender had hardly
touched it with a little steel instrument that he carried when the door
opened. Used to my friend and his ways, I was not at all shocked. I had
watched him pick many a lock in my time, although I had never seen him
pick one with greater ease.
There were two rooms within, an anteroom and an inner sanctum. The
anteroom, into which we first penetrated, was soberly, even dingily,
furnished with a table, a couch, three chairs, and a telephone. Some
framed prints were on the walls, some books and magazines were on the
table beside the telephone. It was all old but in good enough taste, and
it reminded me of a small doctor’s anteroom more than anything else. I
wondered why a picture broker should inhabit such a dull hole.
With a comprehensive glance Lavender pushed through into the inner
chamber. To our surprise it was no more handsomely furnished than the
outer room had been. A great safe stood alongside one wall, with the
name “Peter Vanderdonck” upon it in letters of red and gold. There was a
small rolltop desk standing open, a swivel chair, a small table, and a
telephone extension. In a corner, quite unscreened, was a porcelain
washstand, and in the closet we found towels—three of them, one of which
was dirty. There were no pictures whatever on the walls, although there
were marks to show where pictures once had hung, and there were screw
holes in the floor near the window where evidently something once had
been clamped to the floor. All in all it was an amazing office to be
occupied by a “well known picture broker.” Lavender thought so, too.
Besides the closet door there was one other. It was paneled with ground
glass and was obviously another entrance, or exit, giving onto the other
corridor of the building. No lettering appeared on it and the door was
locked. There was no key.
I looked my distaste.
“Queer place, isn’t it?” Lavender answered my glance. “I don’t wonder
that Morley was stumped. I begin to think better of this case than I do
of my own, Gilly.”
He picked the lock of the door leading to the second corridor and looked
out. He tried the door on its hinges.
“Works well,” said he. “I suppose Vanderdonck has the key, wherever Mr.
Vanderdonck is! A place with two entrances and exits is always useful.”
He examined the dirty towel hanging in the closet, carrying it to the
light for a better scrutiny. Then he cocked an eye at the big safe. I
knew that he was seriously considering a more serious pick-lock job than
the earlier ones. Finally he walked over to the washstand and examined
the bowl. He touched the porcelain with his sensitive fingers, looked at
his forefinger, sniffed it, and turned on the water.
“Doesn’t run out very readily,” he remarked at length. “A bit clogged, I
fancy. And notice how the drops at the last cling to the sides of the
bowl.”
“Very interesting,” I smiled, “but what do you gather from that?”
“I’d like to see the contents of that safe,” he answered thoughtfully.
Once more putting temptation away from him, however, he turned his
attention to the holes in the floor, then to the small desk. The latter
yielded little. There was a quantity of stationery, letterheads and
envelopes, all bearing the name of Peter Vanderdonck, and the top sheet
and envelope of each pile was dusty save where a thumb had smeared the
dust into a smudge.
“Morley’s thumb,” grunted Lavender, staccato.
In the meantime I devoted myself to an investigation of the anteroom.
But the table drawer was empty and nothing offered but the books and
magazines. In the heap of the latter was one newspaper a month old,
which I resurrected and idly glanced over. Then I noticed that a
paragraph had been ringed with a blue pencil mark and I read the notice.
After which I carried it to Lavender.
“Do you suppose this is important?” I asked and handed him the paper.
He carefully read the marked paragraph and a quaint wrinkle appeared
above the bridge of his nose.
“An interesting coincidence, at any rate,” he said half to himself.
“A dramatic criticism—” I began.
“In which he happened to be interested? Just that, Gilly. But why was he
interested, supposing Vanderdonck to have marked the paper? For that
matter, why was he interested, supposing someone else to have marked the
paper and sent it to him? Did you note the cast of characters?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I did.” Then an idea struck me, and I added with a
smile, “But Charles Merritt’s name is not in the cast, Jimmie. You can’t
connect up that case.”
“So you thought of the Merritt mystery, did you? Well, it’s true that
his name isn’t here, but someone else’s name is. The part of ‘Mabel
Greensleeve’ is played, if you please, by Miss Sidney Kane. And who is
Miss Sidney Kane, Gilly?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“She is, although somewhat elderly, one of the bright and shining stars,
I believe, of the ‘Tinfoil Revue,’ in which Charles Merritt played a
character sketch until his disappearance.”
I considered this in silence.
“It’s pretty thin, Lavender,” I said at length.
“Of course it’s thin! But she’s there, and it’s an interesting
coincidence, as I remarked. In connection with the disappearance of Mr.
Vanderdonck and the condition of his washstand, it’s doubly
interesting.”
“His washstand?” I echoed feebly.
“And his towel,” said Lavender.
A moment later his eye was again on the great safe against the wall.
“I’d give a cookie to see the contents of that thing,” he observed
thoughtfully. “But it’s Morley’s job after all, and if it’s to be opened
it must be his responsibility. I suspect the police are waiting for
relatives to turn up.”
Saying which, he strolled over to the safe and began to play with the
knob. What would have happened had he continued, I have no idea, but he
had barely begun when a key was inserted in the outer door, and Lavender
desisted and rose to his feet.
“Morley. Ahead of time,” I ventured.
But it was not Morley. There entered instead a little old man with a
warty face, hooked nose, and wide mouth. These with his stooping
shoulders and small beady eyes gave him a generally inferior presence
that was offensive. The apparition looked from Lavender to me and back
at Lavender.
“What are you doing here?” it barked.
“Mr. Giles, I believe?” responded Lavender with suave courtesy. “Your
question is surprising, to say the least. I had supposed our
investigation to have been undertaken by your desire and authority.”
The extraordinary ability possessed by my friend to convey a false
impression without falsehood always has been my envy and delight. The
ironic purport of the remark quite bowled over the little man in the
doorway.
“I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “I thought Sergeant Morley was in
charge of the case.”
“Sergeant Morley will be here at two,” said Lavender icily. “But it’s
all right, Mr. Giles. Now that you are here perhaps you can give us some
information.”
“Anything at all, anything at all,” stuttered Giles. He now appeared to