“I think it is all right. Miss Raynor says she saw her uncle here this afternoon, shortly after luncheon, and he said he was about to leave the office for the day. She thinks he is at his club or on the way home. However, she is coming around here, as she is in the limousine, and fearing a storm, she wants to take Mr. Gately home.”
CHAPTER III
The Elevator
Mr. Talcott returned to the middle room and looked more carefully at the disturbed condition of things around and on Mr. Gately’s desk.
“It is certain that Mr. Gately left the room in haste,” he said, “for here is what is undoubtedly a private and personal checkbook left open. I shall take on myself the responsibility of putting it away, for the moment, at least.”
Mr. Talcott closed the checkbook and put it in a small drawer of the desk.
“Why don’t you put away that hatpin, too?” suggested Norah, eying the pin curiously. “I don’t think it belongs to Miss Raynor.”
“Take it up by the edge,” I warned; “I may be jumping to conclusions, but there is a possibility that a crime has been committed, and we must preserve what may be evidence.”
“Quite right, Mr. Brice,” agreed Talcott, and he gingerly picked up the pin by taking the edges of its ornate head between his thumb and forefinger. The head was an Egyptian scarab, – whether a real one or not I couldn’t tell, – and was set on a flat backing of gold. This back might easily retain the thumb print of the woman who had drawn that pin from her hat in Mr. Gately’s office. And who, Norah surmised, was the person who had fired the pistol that I had heard discharged.
Placing the hatpin in the drawer with the checkbook, Mr. Talcott locked the drawer and slipped the key in his pocket.
I wondered if he had seen some entry in the book that made him wish to hide Mr. Gately’s private affairs from curious eyes.
“There is indeed a possibility of something wrong,” he went on, “at first I couldn’t think it, but seeing this room, that overturned chair and upset telephone, in connection with the shooting, as you heard it, Mr. Brice, it certainly seems ominous. And most mysterious! Two people quarreling, a shot fired by one or other of them, and no sign of the assailant, his victim, or his weapon! Now, there are three propositions, one of which must be the truth. Mr. Gately is alive and well, he is wounded, or he is killed. The last seems impossible, as his body could not have been taken away without discovery; if he were wounded, I think that, too, would have to be known; so, I still feel that things are all right. But until we can prove that, we must continue our search.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “search for Mr. Gately and also, search for the man who was here and who quarreled with him.”
“Or the woman,” insisted Norah.
“I can’t think it was a woman,” I said. “Although the shadow was indistinct, it struck me as that of a man, the motions and attitudes were masculine, as I recall them. The hatpin may have been left here this morning or any time.”
“The visitor must be found,” declared Mr. Talcott, “but I don’t know how to go about it.”
“Ask the elevator girls,” I suggested; “one of them must have brought the caller up here.”
We did this, but the attendants of the three elevators all denied having brought anyone up to Mr. Gately’s offices since the old man and the elderly lady who had been mentioned by Jenny.
Miss Raynor had been brought up by one of the girls also, but we couldn’t quite ascertain whether she had come before or after the other two.
While waiting for Miss Raynor to come again, I tried to do a little scientific deduction from any evidence I might notice.
But I gained small information. The desk-blotter, inkwell, and pens were in immaculate order, doubtless they were renewed every day by a careful attendant. All the minor accessories, such as paperweights and letter openers were of individual styles and of valuable materials.
There was elaborate smoking paraphernalia and a beautiful single rose in a tall silver vase.
“Can you read anything bearing on the mystery, Mr. Brice,” asked Talcott, noting my thoughtful scrutiny.
“No; nothing definite. In fact, nothing of any importance. I see that on one occasion, at least, Mr. Gately kept a chauffeur waiting an unconscionably long time, and the man was finally obliged to go away without him.”
“Well, now, how do you guess that?” and Mr. Talcott looked decidedly interested.
“Like most of those spectacular deductions,” I responded, “the explanation takes all the charm out of it. There is a carriage check on the desk, – one of those queer cards with a lot of circular holes in it. That must have been given to Mr. Gately when he left his car, or perhaps a taxicab, outside of some hotel or shop. As he didn’t give it up, the chauffeur must have waited for him until he was tired.”
“He may have gone off with some friend, and sent word to the man not to wait,” offered Talcott.
“But then he would have sent the call-check out to identify him. What a queer-looking thing it is,” and I picked up the card, with its seven round holes in a cabalistic array.
“Perhaps the caller left it,” spoke up Norah; “perhaps he, or she, came here in a cab, or a car, and – ”
“No, Norah,” I said, “such checks are not given out at a building of this sort. Only at hotels, theaters, or shops.”
“It’s of no importance,” and Mr. Talcott gave a slight shrug of impatience; “the thing is, where is Mr. Gately?”
Restless and unable to sit still, I wandered into the third room. I had heard of this sanctum, but I had never expected to see inside of it. The impulse came to me now to make the most of this chance, for when Mr. Gately returned I might be summarily, if courteously, ejected.
The effect of the room was that of dignified splendor. It had evidently been done but not overdone by a decorator who was a true artist. The predominant color was a soft, deep blue, and the rugs and textile fabrics were rich and luxurious. There were a few fine paintings in gold frames and the large war map occupied the greater part of a paneled wall space. The chairs were spacious and cushioned, and a huge davenport stood in front of a wide fireplace, where some logs were cheerily burning.
A cozy place to entertain friends, I ruminated, and then, turning back to the middle room, I reconstructed the movements of the two people I had seen shadowed.
“As they rose,” I said to Mr. Talcott, “Amos Gately was behind this big table-desk, and the other man, – for I still think it was a man, – was opposite. The other man upset his chair, on rising, so he must have risen hastily. Then the shot was fired, and the two disappeared. As Jenny came into the room at once, and saw the strange man going through the third room and on out to the stairs, we are forced to the conclusion that Mr. Gately preceded him.”
“Down the stairs?” asked Mr. Talcott.
“Yes, for the flight, at least, or Jenny would have seen him. Also, I should have seen him, had he remained in this hall.”
“And the woman?” asked Norah, “what became of her?”
“I don’t think there was any woman present at that time,” I returned. “The hatpin was, doubtless, left by a woman caller, but we’ve no reason to suppose she was there at the same time the shooting occurred.”
“I can’t think of any reason why anyone should shoot Mr. Gately,” said Talcott, musingly. “He is a most estimable gentleman, the soul of honor and uprightness.”
“Of course,” I assented; “but has he no personal enemies?”
“None that I know of, and it is highly improbable, anyway. He is not a politician, or, indeed, a public