The Mystery of the Hidden Room

by Marion Harvey

  CHAPTER XXV

  THE DECEPTION

  I did drive McKelvie home after all, for he quite suddenly insisted thatI partake of his hospitality, saying that we should find a better dinnerat his house than at any restaurant in Greater New York. From there Iphoned Jenkins to look after Mr. Trenton, and then followed McKelvieinto a low-ceilinged old room lighted by a mellow glow which made theheavy mahogany furniture seem even more ancient than it really was.

  I had not realized how tired I was mentally and physically (it's hardwork racing around the city in a car) until I faced my host across thetable, and saw how weary he looked. He smiled a little as Iunconsciously relaxed after partaking of the soup which the old darkyhad served to us.

  "Mr. Davies," he said, "I shouldn't drag you around with me. It's notfair to you. Go on home after dinner and I'll go to Water Street alone."

  "You are tired, too," I returned.

  "I'm paid to do this work. It's part of my business to chase afterclues," he said. "You are my client, so to speak, and the client is notexpected to aid the cause except in furnishing the means to carry iton."

  But I shook my head. "I'm too keen on the result to stop now," Ireplied.

  "Even if it should lead you into unforeseen channels?" he queried.

  "Even so. Ruth is the first consideration," I responded firmly.

  "Very well, and now the best thing we can do is to cease talking aboutit," and forthwith he launched into an account of a trip he had oncetaken through Africa.

  He was a born narrator, and under the spell of his voice and theinfluence of that most excellent dinner, cooked as only Southern darkiesknow how to cook, I forgot the problem that was troubling me, forgotthat there were such things as crimes and criminals; aye, even forgotthat there was such a place on the globe as New York City, while Ifollowed McKelvie on a lion hunt in the heart of northern Africa.

  "And that's where I got that skin," he said, as we rose and saunteredinto the living-room.

  I gazed at the great rug spread out before the fireplace, and picturedto myself how it had looked the day McKelvie shot it when he spokeagain.

  "I'm afraid we'll have to smoke our cigars on the way. It's gettinglate."

  With a sigh I returned to the business in hand, and as I drove throughthe poorer sections of New York on my way to Water Street my mindreverted to the first time I had visited that locality, which brought mearound to Dick and the signet ring. So Dick had been in the Darwin homethat night, and since his ring was in the secret room, then he must havebeen behind the safe at some time during the evening. McKelvie claimedthat the criminal was hiding in the safe when Orton entered the room ateleven-thirty, but he also maintained that the criminal was the man wehad heard when we ourselves had been in the study this very evening. Ifthat were the truth then it could hardly have been Dick, since Dick wasdead. Yet what did McKelvie hope to learn by visiting the scene of thesuicide?

  When we reached Water Street we pulled up before the lodging house whereDick had stayed and rang the bell. Mrs. Blake opened the door and eyedus suspiciously.

  "No lodgings," she said uncompromisingly, beginning to close the door.

  "Just a moment. We don't want lodgings," said McKelvie crisply, at thesame time displaying a bill as he held his hand toward the lighteddoorway. "We want you to answer a few questions."

  Seeing that we were not of the class to which she was accustomed, andher suspicions allayed by the greenback, she wiped her hands on herapron and asked us in.

  We went as far as the hallway, which was more ill-smelling than when Ihad first made its acquaintance, and paused near the shabby oldstaircase.

  "On the tenth of October a lodger of yours committed suicide bydrowning," said McKelvie abruptly. "Is this the man?"

  He took a photograph from his pocket and handed it to her. As shegrasped it I had a glimpse of the pictured face and was not surprised tonote that it was Dick's.

  "Well, I won't say for sure. It looks like the same man, only 'totherwas more like the men I takes to lodge," said Mrs. Blake after gazing atthe photograph.

  "And this one looks like a gentleman, is that it?" supplemented McKelviewith a smile.

  The woman nodded, and taking a piece of charcoal from his pocketMcKelvie reclaimed the photograph and proceeded to blacken the lowerpart of the face, giving Dick an untidy appearance, as though he hadnot shaved for a week or more. Then he showed it to her again.

  "Yes, sir. It looks more like him now," she added.

  McKelvie pocketed the picture. "What's the name of the man who told youabout the suicide?"

  "Ben Kite."

  "Thank you," and he placed the bill in her hands.

  "Phew! It's good to get out into the fresh air. How do they stand it!" Iexclaimed.

  "So used to it they don't even notice it," McKelvie returned with ashrug. "Drive down to the wharves and we'll have a talk with Ben Kite,if we can find him."

  "What do you expect to learn by all this questioning?" I inquiredanxiously.

  He did not answer except to draw my attention to a group of men loungingon the wharf. "Stay in the machine while I find out if Kite is amongthem."

  He alighted and approached the group, but it was too dark for me to beable to distinguish more than a general blur of outlines.

  "Can you tell me where I can find Ben Kite to-night?" I heard McKelvieask.

  "Who wants 'im?" growled a coarse voice in answer.

  "I do," replied McKelvie.

  "What you want, stranger?" remarked the same voice again.

  "Are you Ben Kite?"

  "That's the name me mither give me," the man returned, detaching himselffrom the group, which laughed immoderately at his words. "What youwant?"

  "A moment's conversation and I'll make it worth your while, but I don'tcare particularly for an audience. Do you see that car? Tell yourfriends to remain where they are. You'll find me waiting in the machineif you want a ten-spot."

  McKelvie returned to my side and entered the machine. Hardly had hesettled himself when the man was beside us. He was the same fellow I hadquestioned. I knew his ugly face in the light cast upon it by the lampunder which I had parked, but he failed to recognize me, since my facewas in shadow.

  "On October the tenth a man who lodged at Mrs. Blake's jumped into theEast River and was drowned. Am I right?" asked McKelvie withoutpreliminary.

  "Sure. I told the bulls all I knowed at the time," responded Kite.

  "I know. But I want the information first hand. He came to the wharf andjumped in. Was that the way it happened?"

  "Sort of like that. When I seed him he was right on the edge. I hallooedand he flung up his arms high and duve in. I ran to the edge, but henever cum up. Current got 'im, I guess," answered Kite indifferently.

  "And the body has not been recovered?" continued McKelvie.

  The man grinned. "Well, they ain't had time. It's only four days. Hemight bob up yet."

  I shuddered at the callous way in which he spoke of this boy of whom Ihad been fond.

  "Is this the man?" McKelvie turned his flash on the picture.

  "Sure, that's 'im, all right."

  "Thank you. Here's your money. Drive quickly, Mr. Davies," McKelvieadded in my ear as the man moved away. "If they think we have money theymay try to get some of it for themselves."

  I gave the car more gas and we were speeding round the corner before theman had more than joined his friends.

  "Where did you get that picture of Dick? I do not recall having seen itbefore. It must be a recent one, for he looks older than I rememberhim."

  "What picture of Dick?" he asked.

  "The one you just showed Kite," I returned.

  "Oh, that. I noticed it this morning when I examined the house, beforeyour arrival, and that is what I went back to get after our adventure inthe study to-night."

  "Do you think the body will ever be recovered?" I asked as we turnedinto the Bowery from Catherine Street.

  "No. It would be a very strange thing to
recover a corpse that neverexisted," McKelvie responded grimly.

  "A corpse that never existed," I repeated slowly and recalled my owndoubts when Jones had first given me the news. "I understand. He washardly likely to drown, since he could swim too well."

  "Yes. Kite told us that plainly to-night. His words were: 'He flung hisarms high and dove in,' which meant that he could dive; from which Ideduced that he was probably a good swimmer. When a man who can swim,strikes the water his instinct is to swim, no matter how much he maywant to drown. Besides, a suicide generally goes in feet first, not headfirst, for it takes a lot of skill to dive, even when you don'tcontemplate drowning," he replied, giving me his line of reasoning.

  "Then he left his things at Mrs. Blake's to create the impression thathe had committed suicide," I said heavily.

  "Yes, so that the world would believe that Richard Trenton had drownedhimself," returned McKelvie.

  "But why? In God's name why? Not because he--" I broke off, unable tofinish. Yes, I know I had dallied with the thought before, but then ithad only been conjecture with the belief that such a thing wasimpossible to sustain me. Now, however, it was grim reality that staredme in the face. What other reason could Dick have for the deceptionwhich he had practised upon us all?

  "We're not going to jump at conclusions, Mr. Davies." McKelvie laid ahand on my arm. "He may have had good reasons for his act."

  "What reasons could he possibly have?" I said impatiently.

  "When I hear from Chicago, which ought to be any day now, I can answerthat question more definitely. Until then we will give him the benefitof the doubt, for, after all, he is not the only one who has vanishedwithout a trace, nor, which is more important, is he the only one inlove with Cora Manning," he added significantly.

  "That's the second time you've mentioned that the criminal is in lovewith Cora Manning," I said, as we neared his house. "But there seems tome to be a flaw in that assumption."

  "Why?"

  "It stands to reason, does it not, that if the murderer loves MissManning he must know that she uses rose jacqueminot perfume?" Iremarked.

  "Yes, he knows it," agreed McKelvie. "In fact, it wouldn't surprise meif he owned one of those yellow satin sachet bags himself."

  "Then he can't be as clever as you make out, or he would never havemade the mistake of putting a handkerchief scented with rose jacqueminotin Mr. Darwin's hands, under the belief that it belonged to Ruth,particularly if he saw Cora Manning in the study."

  McKelvie smiled. "Do you remember my saying that Lee's use of rosejacqueminot looked bad for him? It was because of that handkerchief thatI made the assertion. The criminal, as I said before, uses rosejacqueminot, and he has become so accustomed to the scent of it that hisolfactory nerves have lost the power to respond to it except when it ispresent in a fairly detectable amount. There was only the merest traceon that handkerchief, indistinguishable to him, and, therefore, deemingit unscented, he decided it belonged to Mrs. Darwin. I have an idea thathe found it somewhere near the door leading into the hall. He would havedone better to carry away the handkerchief with him, but like all therest of his kind, he could not resist the chance to strengthen theevidence against Mrs. Darwin and so put himself into our hands," heexplained.

  "But what applies to Lee, applies to Dick as well," I returned. "He alsopossesses a yellow satin sachet bag."

  "Yes, that is true," he responded as he alighted before his door."Therefore we have no right to condemn one more than the other until wehave a few more facts at our disposal. I'll call you if there are anynew developments. By the way, don't tell Mr. Trenton that his son didnot commit suicide until we know definitely what happened in the studythat night. _Au revoir_, Mr. Davies."

  "I understand. Good-night, McKelvie," I replied.