Chapter 16
CHAPTER XVI. We searched through the house, grimly and purposefully. But Nealman, the genial host of Castle Crags, was neither revealed to our eyes or gave answer to our calls. It was no longer possible to doubt, but that it was his voice that had uttered that fearful
cry for help. While the coroner, whose special province's death, led the guests in a detailed search through the grounds, Sheriff Slattery and I examined the missing man's room, and here I was to learn the contents of those mysterious telegrams that had reached Nealman after the inquest of the preceding day. They were lying on his desk, one of them torn in two as if in a fit of anger. The other rumpled from a hundred readings. I read aloud to the sheriff. Blair
combined forcing I.S. and H. to bottom. Move quick if you can. The second read, I.S. and H. down to twenty-eight. All your industrials smashed wide open. Fletcher Nealman goes down and smash. The sheriff halted in his search and took the messages from my hand. I'm not much on the stock market, he said. Do you know what these mean?
Not exactly. I know that I.S. and H. Stock has taken a fearful drop. If he had bought heavily on margin, his whole fortune might have been wiped out. Blair is a prominent speculator on the exchange. Industrials refer, of course, to industrial stocks.
Fletcher Nealman was Mr. Nealman's uncle, supposed to be a man of great wealth. Then you think Nealman was ruined financially? He paused, seemingly studying his hands. I wonder if it could be true. You mean, of course, the same thing that you guessed about Flory, suicide?
Yes, I'll admit there's plenty against it. If suicide, why did he cry for help? Many a man cries for help after he started to do himself in. The darkness scares him when it's too late to turn back. That wouldn't puzzle me at all.
Kildare, do you know the importance of example? I know what one man does, another's likely to do. I'm not saying that Nealman killed himself, but listen how much there is to say for such a theory. You're right.
What one man does, another's likely to do. A curious thing about suicides, Weldon tells me, is that they usually come in droves. One man sets an example for another. Say you're worrying to death.
About something, sick perhaps, or financially ruined, and you hear of some fellow, some chap you know, perhaps a man you respect almost as much as you respect yourself. Suddenly getting out of all his difficulties, all nice and quiet, with one little click to the head, isn't it likely you'd begin thinking about the same thing for yourself? Call it mob psychology. I only know it happens in fact. I'm more confident than ever that Flory did himself in on account of his sickness.
Here was Neilman, worried to death, over money matters, holding a lot of options on a falling market. It's true that we didn't find Flory's knife, but who can say but maybe Neilman himself threw it into the lagoon and dragged the body afterward so that no one would guess it was suicide. He liked Flory. He didn't want anyone to know he had done himself in. Maybe he was thinking already about doing the same thing to himself, and in such a case, he'd been glad enough to have someone hide the evidence of suicide.
Today, he gets word of a final smash. And he stays all day in his room, brooding about it. Tonight comes this heat, enough to drive a man crazy. Maybe he just called out, to make us think it was murder. Proud men don't usually want the world to know that they've killed themselves.
Then there's one other thing, more important still. What's that book? Open, on the table? I glanced at its leathern cover. The Bible, I told him.
The holy book. And how often do you find a worldly man like this, Neilman, getting out the Bible and reading it? Doesn't it show that he was planning something mighty serious? That he wanted to give his soul every chance before he took the last step? It's a common thing for suicides to read the Bible.
the last thing. And what are these? He showed me a rumpled sheet of paper procured from the wastebasket, on which had been written a number of unrelated figures. I can't say, I told him. Probably he was doing some figuring about his losses. Looks to me like he was out of his head. Was just ratting any old figures down. But maybe you're right. It was true that the bed had not been slept in. Nealman had laid down on it, however, and disarranged the spread. Many cigarette
and cigar stubs filled the smoking stand, and a half-filled whiskey and soda glass stood on the windowsill. No other clues were revealed, so we went down to the study. The guests of Castle Crags had not gone back to their beds. They sat in a little white-faced group beside the window, talking quietly. Martin beckoned the sheriff to his side. What have you found out, Slatterly? he asked. He spoke like a man used to having his questions answered. There was a note of
impatience in his voice, too, perhaps of distrust, Slatterly straightened. Nothing definite. Nealman has unquestionably vanished. His bed hasn't been slept in, but is ruffled. Undoubtedly, it was his voice we heard. I think I'll be able to give you something definite in little while. I'd like something definite now, if you could possibly give it. That's two men that have disappeared in two nights, and we seem to be no nearer an explanation than we were at first.
This isn't a business that can be delayed, Mr. Slatterly. If you must know, I think both men committed suicide. You do? It certainly is the most reasonable theory, in spite of all there is against it. Then he told of Nealman's financial disaster, of the Bible open on his desk, and all the other points he had to back his theory. And I suppose Flory swallowed his knife and threw his own body into the lagoon? Fargo commented grimly. Slaughterly turned to him,
his eyes hard and bright. We'll have your jokes tomorrow, he reproved him sternly. Of course, someone else did that. I've got a theory not yet proven to explain it, but I can't give it out yet. How do you account for Flory's body not being found in the lagoon? Martin asked quietly. I can't account for it. We might have missed it. I don't see how we could, but we might have done so. I'm going to have men dragging the lagoon all day, over and over again, until we find both bodies.
You are convinced that Nielman, too, lies dead in the lagoon? Where else could it be? Did you hear that cry a few hours ago? Good heavens! Could I ever forget it?
My old friend! Was it faked? Could any man have faked a cry like that? Heavens, no! It had the fear and the agony of death right in it.
There can't be any hope of that, Slatterley. The sheriff gazed about the little circle of white faces. No one dissented. That cry was real, and there had been tragic need and extremity behind it. We knew that fact if we knew that we lived.
Evidently, the sheriff had completely given over the theory that he had suggested, half-heartedly, to me, that Nealman might have cried out to hide the fact of his own suicide. No man could have cried out like that to deceive and then disappear. No, Mr. Martin. The man that gave that cry is dead, in all probability, in the lagoon,
and there seems no doubt but that Nim was the man. Yet you think he was a suicide. A suicide often cries out for help when it is too late to back out. But, of course, I can't say for sure. You're mistaken in that, Slatterly.
Van Hope drew himself together with a perceptible effort. I've known this man for years, and in the end, you'll see it isn't suicide. He wasn't the type that commits suicide. He's young. He'd be getting himself together to meet that Blair gang that ruined him and chase them into their holes.
The suicide theory is far-fetched, at best. It may be, the sheriff agreed. I only wish there could be some light thrown on this affair. There will be, Slatterley. Martin's voice dropped almost to a monotone.
This is too big a deal for one man. Or two men, either. We've been talking, and we've decided to send for someone to help you out. You have, eh? Slatterly stiffened.
If I need help, I can send through my own channels. Get some state or national detectives. That's all right. Get them if you want to. The more, the better.
But you haven't got any help yet. Even the district attorney has failed to come and won't come for at least a day or two more. We've got a private detective in mind, one of the biggest in America. His name's Lacombe. You've heard of him?
It won't be an official matter at all. Van Hoop is hiring him. A wholly private enterprise. I know you'll all be glad to have his cooperation. If it's a very private venture, I have nothing further to say, Slatterly told him stiffly.
When do you expect him? He's operating in the Middle West. He can't possibly make it until day after tomorrow. Twenty-four hours, eh? It's after midnight now, probably not for forty-eight hours.
By that time, I hoped to have the matter solved. Then his business took him elsewhere, and he strode away. There was one thing more I could do. It was an obligation, and yet, because it was in the way of service, it was a happiness, too. I climbed the broad stairs and stopped at last before Edith's door.
she called softly in answer to my knock and in a moment she had opened the door she was fully dressed waiting ready for any call that might be made upon her and the picture that she made framed in the doorway went straight to my heart her eyes were still lustrous with tears and the high girlish color and the light of happiness was gone from her face it was wistful like that of a grief-stricken child her voice was changed too in spite of all her struggle to make it sound the same and at first i stood helpless not knowing what to say or do i came just to see if i could be of any aid in any way i don't think you can she answered it's so good of you though to remember there's no one to notify no telegrams to send i don't think so yet we're not sure yet ned is there any chance for him to be alive not any her hand touched my arm you haven't any idea how he died no it's absolutely baffling but try not to think about it everything will come out right for you in the end
I hadn't meant to say just that, to recall her to the uncertainty of her own future now that her uncle, financially ruined, had disappeared. I'm not thinking about what will happen to me, she suddenly straightened and her eyes kindled, about the other. Ned, I'm not going to try to keep from thinking about it. I'm going to think about it all I can until I see it through. Only thought, and keen, true thought, can help us now.
"'I've had to do a lot of thinking in my life, overcoming difficulties, and there's no one really vitally interested but me. "'I was the closest relative, except for his uncle, that Newman had. "'I'm going to find out the mystery of that lagoon. "'Perhaps in finding it I can solve a lot of other problems, too. "'Perhaps the one you just mentioned.
"'Uncle Grover was kind to me. He gave me his protection and shelter, and I'm going to know what killed him. I found myself staring into her blazing determined eyes. She meant what she said. The fire of a zalet was in her face.
Good heavens, Edith, that isn't work for a woman. It's work for anybody with a clear enough brain to see the truth and courage to prove it out. In some mysterious way, her hands had got into mine. We were standing face to face in the shadowed hall. But promise me you won't go into danger.
I promise that I'll take every precaution to preserve myself. End of chapter 16
