Chapter XII A Check Stub
And so as Miss Wadsworth seemed to be the only one to decide the question, she did so by quietly directing that a professional detective be engaged. “Don’t think I don’t appreciate your offer,” she said to Fred Crane; “but with all the willingness in the world, I don’t think you could do the work of a trained detective. And anyway, you can both work together. No doubt the Central Office man will be glad of your sympathetic interest and assistance.”
Crane was not overly pleased at this, but he couldn’t very well insist, so he agreed to do all he could to help, vowing to himself that he would accomplish some wonderful sleuthing that would make the real detective “sit up and take notice.”
As there was no reason for delay and there might be reason for immediate action, Gale telephoned at once to the Central Office for a first-class detective.
He was advised that James Wheeler would be sent the next morning and that Mr. Wheeler was one of the best and cleverest men on the force.
“I think he might have come to-night,” said Miss Abby; “if anything dreadful has happened to Justin, every hour counts.”
“He couldn’t do anything to-night,” Crosby assured her. “I’ve heard of Wheeler, he’s a very clever man, and I’ve no doubt when he comes he will solve the mystery.”
“And perhaps it will be but a simple solution,” said Leila Duane, hopefully, “and perhaps there isn’t any dreadfulness about it at all.”
“Then where’s Justin?” demanded Dorothy, looking up with tearful eyes, from her mother’s embrace.
“We don’t know yet, dear,” returned Mrs. Duncan, gently; “we hope Mr. Wheeler will find out.”
“Meantime, let us be doing something by way of investigation,” said Gale, who was of an impatient nature. “What do you say, Miss Wadsworth, do you think I’m justified in looking through the papers in Arnold’s desk or safe? I don’t want to intrude, but mightn’t we learn something, perhaps, that way?”
Miss Abby considered. “As his lawyer, Mr. Gale, I think you have a perfect right to look over his papers. As confidential secretary, Mr. Chapin, also has a right. So if you and Mr. Crosby and Mr. Chapin choose to go over his business papers, I’m sure I have no objections.” The three men went off on their errand, and if Mr. Crane felt any chagrin at not being asked to accompany them, he successfully concealed it.
Following Ernest Chapin, Gale and Crosby soon found themselves in the pleasant room which Justin Arnold used as his business office, though its elaborate appointments made such a name seen inappropriate.
Everything was in perfect order, for Arnold was methodical and systematic in all his ways, and his secretary was no less so.
With professional rapidity, Gale and Crosby ran through the desk. There was nothing in any of the business papers, letters, or books of memoranda to indicate anything unusual or mysterious in the life or habits of Justin Arnold.
At the request of the lawyers, Ernest Chapin opened the great safe, which was built into the wall, and which was of modern and elaborate device. Here too everything was in order. Certain bonds and deeds were there, and memoranda told of others that were in banks or safety deposit vaults.
The extent of their client’s wealth was a slight surprise to both Gale and Crosby, for though they had known Arnold to be a rich man, they did not know the extent of his fortune. Emory Gale gave a low whistle as he read some of the statements, but Crosby said frankly, “By George! I didn’t know old Justin had such a lot of money!”
“His investments for many years have turned out very favorably,” said Ernest Chapin, but he spoke in a dull, hard voice, and with a preoccupied air, as if thinking of other matters.
“Well, there’s certainly nothing here by way of a clue to steer us in any direction,” remarked Gale; “but I’m glad, Crosby, that we went through these papers ourselves. Now there’s no need of that detective prying into them. We can assure him that there’s absolutely nothing to be found that would throw any light on Justin’s disappearance.”
“That’s so,” agreed Crosby. “Hello, Gale, here’s his private check-book. I suppose we ought to look through that, though it does seem intrusive.”
“Is it necessary?” asked Ernest Chapin, making a half-involuntary movement, as if to take the book.
Campbell Crosby looked at him curiously. A flush had risen to Chapin’s temples, and a slight quiver in his voice showed an agitation he was striving hard to control.
Crosby noted this, and said coolly, “Why, yes, I think it is necessary.” So saying, he opened the book and ran over the stubs. They seemed innocent enough, and suggested nothing mysterious. The names on the stubs were mostly such firms as tailors or hatters, with here and there a friend’s name or that of a charitable organization. About to return it to its place, Crosby caught sight of the last entry, and he stared at it in astonishment. “Why, Chapin, this last stub is for a check made out to you, for five thousand dollars!” he said.
“Yes?” said Chapin, in a faint voice, while his face went white. “Is it?”
“Is it,” went on Crosby; “and, what’s more, it’s dated to-day. To-day, October seventh! Have you seen Arnold to-day?”
“N-no,” stammered Chapin; “well, that is, not exactly to-day.”
“What nonsense are you talking?” demanded Gale. “What do you mean by ‘not exactly to-day’? Why did Arnold give you a check for five thousand dollars? You have seen him to-day? Where is he?”
This rapid fire of angry questions seemed to restore Chapin’s self-possession, and he answered coldly, “I resent the tone you use, Mr. Gale, and I refuse to answer questions couched in such language As Mr. Arnold’s secretary, and in his confidence, I refuse to discuss any expenditures he may have made, whether to myself or any one else.”
“But, man alive,” went on Gale, in amazement, “don’t take that attitude! Don’t array yourself against us! Are we not all working for the same end? Are we not all interested in finding Arnold? And if you have seen him to-day, and this check is dated to-day, you must tell us!”
“You have no right to say ‘must’ to me, Mr. Gale.”
“Oh, don’t quibble about words,” said Crosby. “Explain it, Chapin, as man to man. Have you the check that was torn from that stub?”
“Of course I have. Mr. Arnold gave it to me.”
“When?”
“I must ask what right you gentlemen have to cross-question me. Am I on trial?”
“You are not,” said Gale coldly; “but if you persist in showing such strong disinclination to answer questions bearing directly on the business in hand, I am forced to think you ought to be on trial. I ask you in a friendly manner to explain the peculiar circumstance of your receiving a large check from Justin Arnold to-day, when nobody else knows where the man is.”
Chapin looked both injured and sullen. “The check is of a private and personal nature,” he said, at last “Mr. Arnold gave it to me last night, here in this office. As it was after midnight when he drew the check, of course he dated it to-day. As I have already declared, I left Mr. Arnold here last night at about half-past twelve. That’s what I meant by saying I hadn’t exactly seen him to-day. Of course, last night after midnight was literally to-day, and it was before Mr. Arnold’s mysterious disappearance.”
Emory Gale looked perturbed and a little suspicious. Campbell Crosby looked frankly amazed. It might all be exactly as Chapin had said, and Justin Arnold might have had ample reasons for presenting his secretary with a sum of money probably equal to his year’s salary; but it was a peculiar coincidence that the man should disappear immediately afterward. If Chapin had treated it lightly, and explained why he received so large a sum at one time, and whether or not it was by way of salary, the lawyers would have thought little of it. But when the secretary was so evidently rattled, so unwilling to explain matters, and so clearly annoyed at being questioned, it was but natural for the two lawyers to feel some curiosity concerning the occurrence.
However, Emory Gale, who was perhaps more far-sighted than his junior partner, said calmly, “You’re right, Mr. Chapin; it isn’t exactly in our province to question you. Whatever conclusions we may draw from the examination of the papers are of course our own affairs, as your relations with your employer are yours.”
Though spoken quietly, Mr. Gale’s words seemed to have a deeper meaning than was apparent on the surface, and the pallor that overspread Ernest Chapin’s face proved that he realized this. Leaving the agitated secretary with the check-book in his hand, and the safe open beside him, Mr. Gale and Mr. Crosby walked away.
“Deucedly queer development!” said Crosby; and Gale returned, “It’s more than that. To my mind, it implicates Chapin pretty deeply in the matter. But it isn’t up to us to probe the case. When the detective comes to-morrow, he can do that. Any way, Chapin can’t run away as long as this place is guarded like a fortress. I wonder if they’ll turn on their precious burglar-alarm to-night.”
“Of course they will. Old Driggs always did it when Justin was away, so, naturally, he’ll attend to it.”
It was early the next morning that Dorothy came downstairs. That is, it was early for her to make an appearance, though the other members of the household had already assembled. But the girl was too anxious to learn if there were any news to remain in her room as usual.
Absolutely nothing had been discovered concerning Arnold, and breakfast was eaten in an atmosphere of almost gloomy silence. Now and then some one would endeavor to make a cheerful remark, but it was not followed up in the same spirit.
After breakfast, Dorothy strolled out to the terrace, where she was immediately joined by Crosby and Chapin. It was not a congenial trio, but Dorothy was accustomed to managing men who were at odds with each other, and she found no difficulty in keeping them both in her company.
“Just think,” she said, “of not knowing anything about where Justin may be! Why, he might be drowned, or anything!”
“I think we ought to have the pools dragged,” said Ernest Chapin, and as he spoke directly to Dorothy, he evaded Crosby’s searching glance.
“I think so, too,” agreed the girl; “for I think we ought to do everything that could possibly be of any use. But I can’t seem to imagine Justin walking out in the middle of the night, and falling into one of his own pools.”
“They’re very deep,” said Crosby.
“I know they are; that black one under the willows makes me shiver to look at it; and that dark one down in that deepest ravine is positively uncanny!”
Leila and Gale strolled past the group, saying they were going around the grounds to hunt for clues.
Crosby looked after them, a little amusedly. “They won’t see any clues, if they stumble over them!” he said. “They don’t know there’s anything in this world but each other.”
“That’s so,” said Dorothy; “aren’t they desperately in love? It must be beautiful to be in love like that!”
It was almost unthinkingly that Dorothy spoke thus out of the fulness of her heart. Though she did love Chapin, she had no intention of confessing it or even letting it be suspected; for Ernest Chapin was a poor man, and Dorothy Duncan was a girl who fully intended to marry money.
But the two men who listened to this speech were both deeply in love with her, and each determined then and there that she should yet be desperately in love with him. How this desirable state of things was to be brought about, neither knew, but each was none the less positive in his intention.
A little later, Miss Wadsworth claimed Crosby’s attention, and Ernest Chapin was left alone with Dorothy.
“Listen to me,” he said, without preamble. “That detective is coming at ten o’clock, and I want to remind you, once more, to say nothing about Arnold’s seeing us on the balcony together. The detective will question you, but no good can possibly come of your telling of that scene, and it might result in harm.”
“Well, I won’t; but I want you to tell me what Justin said to you after I left you.”
“Nothing of any importance—as I told you before.”
“Was he angry?”
“Yes, he was.” And then, as if on a sudden impulse, Chapin whispered earnestly to the girl, “Dorothy, darling, if you’ll only admit you love me—I know you do—I’ll tell you everything about it. What Arnold said, and all that happened. And you can confide in me, too.”
Dorothy’s eyes opened wide. “Ernest, you don’t mean that you know anything about Justin’s going away!”
“I’ll tell you nothing,” he returned doggedly, “until you tell me what I ask. Tell me, dear.” Dorothy looked at him with a gentle tenderness. “Ernest,” she said softly, “this isn’t the time or place for such a question.”
“Yes, it is, darling. There couldn’t be a more beautiful place than this terrace, with the bright sunshine and blue sky above, and no one near to overhear us. Answer me, Dorothy. Crown my happiness of loving you, by your dear confession that you love me.”
Dorothy was strongly tempted to tell this man that she did love him. She longed to see his eyes light up with the happiness that she knew such an admission would bring. Then her glance roved out over the wide domain spread out before her: the beautiful terrace on which they stood, and the great mansion behind them. Could she give up all this for her love of Ernest Chapin? It didn’t seem to her that she could. Then, at the intrusion of a sudden thought, she ignored her lover’s pleading, and said, “As Justin’s secretary, Mr. Chapin, of course you know all about his business matters. If he should—if he should never come back, who would own White Birches?”
“I am not quite sure. If Mr. Arnold made no will, his whole estate will go to Campbell Crosby; but if he made a will—and I’m quite sure he did, though I’ve never seen it—of course the disposition of his fortune will be in accordance with that. I do know that he intended to make a will before his marriage, leaving everything to you, but whether he has done so or not, I’m not sure.”
“His lawyers will know, won’t they?”
“Yes; unless he made merely a private memorandum, which, if signed, will be valid. But, Dorothy, you talk as if he were dead! And, oh, child, if he is, if he should be, you don’t mean,—you can’t mean, that you want to know who inherits White Birches—to know where to turn your affections next!”
Dorothy had the grace to look ashamed of herself, and, moved by Chapin’s evident misery, she said softly, “If Justin never returns, there is only one place for my affections.”
The look she gave Chapin left no doubt of her meaning, and, taking both her hands in his, he said, “Oh, darling, you’ve admitted it at last! You make me so happy, dear, and, whether Arnold returns or not, he shall never claim you after that admission!”
“Oh, yes, he will! I’m bound to him, and of course he will return, and of course I shall marry him. But now tell me what he said to you. You promised you would.”
“He wasn’t at all nice, dear. He accused me of being a traitor to him, and of acting dishonorably in loving the girl he was engaged to.”
“Well, it isn’t very honorable, is it?”
“All’s fair in love and war. And, any way, if I could win you only through dishonor, I would pause at no crime!”
“Oh, Ernest, what a dreadful speech! Don’t say such things. You make me shiver!”
“But it’s true, Dorothy: I would hesitate at nothing, if you were the reward.”
Just then Gale and Leila returned from a walk through the grounds, and though Dorothy greeted them casually, as if her conversation with Chapin were most unimportant, the man could not so easily shake off a feeling of self-consciousness. To hide it, he became glum and taciturn, responding in monosyllables, when he spoke at all.
“We didn’t find any clues around the place,” said Leila. “Now we’re going to look through the house. Mr. Gale and I have discovered that we both have the ‘detective instinct,’ and we’re working together on this case.” It was clear to the most incurious observer that Gale and Leila were more interested in their discoveries about each other than in their “case,” but Dorothy had affairs of her own on her mind, and Chapin was uninterested, so the two amateur detectives passed on into the house to continue their search.
In a few moments Leila came running back. “Dorothy,” she cried, “did you take a green sofa-pillow from the couch in the living-room? The one embroidered in gold thread?”
“No, Leila, I haven’t seen it. Why should I take a sofa-cushion from its place?”
“Well, it’s gone; and nobody knows anything about it, and we think it is a clue!”
“Oh, Leila, how ridiculous! How could a missing sofa-pillow be a clue? Probably one of the maids took it to mend it, or something.”
“No,” and Leila spoke positively; “it didn’t need mending. It was a new one, and it was so pretty that I was going to copy the embroidery. That’s the way I happened to miss it. It’s gone, and nobody knows anything about it!”
“It does seem queer,” said Gale, who had followed Leila out.
“Fiddlesticks!” said Dorothy. “If you two people weren’t so anxious to make anything serve as a clue, you’d know that that sofa-pillow would turn up somewhere. Do you suppose Justin kidnapped it and took it away, or do you suppose a burglar came in through a keyhole, purposely to get it?”
Ernest Chaplin looked thoughtful. “Did it have a thick gold cord all round it, and tassels at one corner?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Leila eagerly. “Did you take it away, Mr. Chapin?”
“No,” and Ernest Chapin spoke slowly; “I remember having seen it, that is all.”
Leila and Gale went away to make further search for the sofa-pillow, and Chapin fell into a brown study, from which even Dorothy’s chatter failed to rouse him.