Sunday morning was gray and dark, with low-hanging clouds and a frosty snap in the air that gave the city its first touch of real autumn weather. Returning from breakfast, Marsh lit the gas logs in his fireplace and sat down before their cheery blaze to smoke and think.
Step by step he analyzed and strove to connect the developments of the last few days. The case was strange in many ways. With numerous clues, suspicions circumstances and half-identified people on every hand, there was no one feature upon which definite action could be taken. Atwood was the most elusive criminal he had ever pursued. Never at any time had the man become an actual personality. Like a will-o'-the-wisp, he was ever in sight, yet just beyond reach. While the detectives struggled along tangled paths that led nowhere, Atwood's long arm continually reached out to strike back.
As he thought along these lines, an explanation slowly took form in Marsh's mind. In some of its features it seemed weird and unreal. This, perhaps, was due to the fact that the few definite pieces of information in his possession had to be largely supported and connected by theories and deductions. Strange as the explanation might seem, it nevertheless gave birth to a well-defined plan of action.
In this way the morning slipped by and Marsh was surprised, on looking at his watch, to find that it was nearly noon. He went to his telephone, called the Monmouth Hotel, and asked to speak to Miss Atwood. When the girl answered the telephone, Marsh inquired if she would care to have dinner with him. The invitation was accepted with quite evident pleasure on the girl's part, and Marsh soon left to keep his appointment with her. On his way to the hotel, Marsh stepped into a cigar store, looked up Gilbert Hunt's telephone number, and made an appointment for the evening. Marsh took this precaution of telephoning Hunt from a pay station because a telephone call is easily traced, and he had not yet decided to advise Hunt of his real address.
Jane Atwood joined Marsh in the lobby of the hotel, and the friendliness of her greeting made him glad of his decision to take her on the trip he had planned for the afternoon.
They had dinner at the Edgewater Beach Hotel. It was the girl's first visit to this show-place of the North Side, and Marsh was delighted with her animated interest in everything about her. In fact, he found it hard to believe that this girl, whose bright chatter, sunny smile and sparkling eyes now held him fascinated, had so recently been through such trying experiences. Marsh felt that it was a natural reaction brought about by this diversion, and he long afterward remembered it as one of the happiest hours in a life that had been replete with professional adventure, but barren in the companionship of women of her sort.
As they sat sipping their coffee, Marsh said, "I imagine you have seen very little of Chicago, Miss Atwood?"
"Yes," she admitted. "One takes less interest in things when sight-seeing trips must be made alone. You know, I have not seemed to make any friends in Chicago."
"When I can spare the time, I want to take you around a little. I am sure that you would enjoy the art museum, for art is akin to music and from what you have told me I know that you are deeply interested in that."
"Yes," she replied, "music has always been my chief companion. The dreams that other girls confide in chums, I have told to my piano."
Marsh lit a cigarette and smoked for a moment in silence.
"How would you like to take a little trip with me out to one of the North Shore suburbs this afternoon?" he inquired.
"I should enjoy it very much," she said.
"Well," Marsh went on, "there is a house out at Hubbard Woods that I want to look over this afternoon for a friend. This is just the day for a stroll along the autumn-leafed roads. I thought perhaps you would like to go with me."
Marsh aided her with her wraps and they walked across to the elevated railroad. At Evanston, a few miles north of the city, they changed to the suburban electric line. The girl took a lively interest in the pretty suburban towns through which they passed, and it seemed to Marsh as if they had but just boarded the train when the conductor called out their station and they alighted.
The place was well named. A lonely little station set down in the midst of thick woods, and a road that wound slightly downhill and away among the trees were all that met the eye. They strolled down this road, passing occasional homes. These were usually well back from the road and almost concealed among the trees. In fact, in some places the house itself was not visible, the only indication of a residence being an ornamental gateway, or sometimes just a simple driveway disappearing into the woods. Fallen leaves rustled about their feet, but much of the foliage remained on the trees. Some of this was still green, setting off the masses of autumn colors that ranged from a sombre brown to vivid reds and many shades of yellow.
"And a great city only a few miles away," mused Marsh, giving voice to both their thoughts.
"It is beautiful," admitted the girl, "but so lonely and quiet. Somehow, one, feels so far, far away from everything. Perhaps the gloomy day affects me, but it seems as if the air were full of some solemn mystery."
At this point Marsh saw a young couple, strolling on the other side of the road. He surmised that they were local residents, and excusing himself to Miss Atwood, crossed over and inquired of the man if he knew where the Merton estate was located.
"Yes," was the reply. "Just keep on south along Sheridan Road. It won't take you five minutes to get there. The place is on the left hand side of the road. You can't miss it; a gateway with gray stone posts, and there are two big pines inside the entrance to the driveway."
Thanking him, Marsh rejoined Miss Atwood.
"I wanted to find out how to locate the place I was looking for," he explained. "You will pardon my leaving you alone, but it seemed unnecessary to make you cross the street."
"Oh, I didn't mind," she replied.
Marsh's real reason, however, in thus leaving Miss Atwood, was to prevent her hearing mention of the name of Merton. Unquestionably, the girl had read of the case in the papers, and after her own recent experiences might feel a certain timidity in approaching the missing broker's home; especially after her recent mention of how the surroundings affected her.
A slight turn in the road brought them to the driveway which the young man had described. There was no mistaking the two great pines that stood like sentinels at either side, just back of the imposing stone gateway. One of these trees was evidently dead, for it was gaunt and bare, in marked contrast to its companion; and as they paused a moment before the entrance, the wind broke off a rotting branch, which fell at her feet. The gates of iron grill work were standing open, and they turned in and started up the driveway, which was covered with crushed gray stone. The house was farther from the road than Marsh had expected, for it was several minutes before they reached it. As he stood before the great pile of stone and wood, with its drawn shades and general appearance of desertion, Marsh thought of the long, winding road through the woods behind them and half regretted that he had brought Miss Atwood with him. His desire had been to attract as little attention as possible in his inspection of the house. One man scouting around this lonely place would have been a suspicious object. On the other hand, it had seemed to him that a man and woman, out for an afternoon stroll, might exhibit an interest in a large country-house without attracting suspicious attention. But now, as he stood there in the gray autumn light, with the wind sighing through the trees about them and a fine snow beginning to drift down, the place seemed to take on an uncanny atmosphere that, even though nothing worse could happen, would have a depressing effect on the girl. It was too late to back out, however. It would be hard to explain a sudden retreat to the girl, and there was no time to be lost in trying to get the information which he sought. Marsh glanced at his companion. She was looking around with evident interest, and he was glad to note that as yet she exhibited no signs of nervousness.
"I understand there is a caretaker here. Will you come up with me while I ring the bell?"
The girl assented, and they climbed the wide steps over which the autumn leaves were thickly scattered. Whether or not the bell rang, Marsh could not tell, but certainly no sound came to them. He decided to knock and struck the door with the knuckles of his clenched hand. At the first blow, the door moved and swung inward.
A large hall stretched dimly before them. At one side, Marsh saw a stairway and at the other a high curtained doorway, which probably led to the drawing room. At the back of the hall seemed to be another smaller doorway, but Marsh could not be sure in the dim light. He was in a quandary. So far as he could see, the house was deserted. Possibly the caretaker was spending his Sunday afternoon with friends, and the door had been closed carelessly so that the latch had not caught. Had Marsh been alone he would have welcomed this opportunity to carefully inspect the house. The girl now blocked such an attempt, for it was obviously unwise, for many reasons, to ask her to accompany him into the house; and he could not consider the idea of leaving her alone, even for a few minutes. There was no alternative but to postpone his visit until the next day.
Marsh stepped through the doorway, pulled the door closed, and tried the knob to see that the door had latched securely. As he turned away, he glanced toward the shrubbery that bordered the adjoining woods. Although he turned instantly to the girl, and started to assist her down the steps, Marsh's quick eyes had noted a man crouching half-concealed in the shrubbery.
As they retraced their steps down the driveway, Marsh kept a firm grasp on the automatic in his pocket while his eyes, without apparent interest, continually watched the trees and shrubbery on either side. They reached the main road without incident and turned north toward the station. Not a word had been spoken as they passed along the driveway, for Marsh had been too intent upon keeping a keen watch to think of words, and the depressing atmosphere of the place had evidently begun to affect Miss Atwood. In fact, Marsh thought that she seemed to brighten as soon as they passed through the gateway.
"Are you in the real estate business, Mr. Marsh?" she asked.
"No," he replied. "What made you think that?"
"You never told me what your business was," she answered, "and your coming out here to look at that house today gave me the idea that you might be interested in real estate."
"No," he said, "I am not interested in real estate," then added, evasively, but not quite untruthfully, "I am planning, however, to go into some sort of business in Chicago."
The fact was that since meeting this girl, Marsh had began to take an entirely different view of life. He looked back upon his wanderings and realized the emptiness of the passing years. It seemed to him now that a man could ask for nothing more than to settle down to some regular employment in such a wonderful city, and go home every night to find this girl waiting for him.
Marsh stepped off the motor bus at Oak Street to keep his appointment with Hunt. He reflected that he had never seen a street so representative of Chicago and its rapid growth. At his back was the great new Drake Hotel and the whole neighborhood was one of wealth and fashion. Yet, as he passed along the street, he noticed tiny frame or brick dwellings nestling shoulder to shoulder with obviously wealthy homes, and here and there the dark, towering structures of old and new apartment buildings. He found Hunt's apartment in one of the new buildings and paused for a moment on the curb to look it over. Though handsome architecturally and modern in every respect, there was a peculiar sombreness about the building, and the bright lamps that gleamed at the entrance but served to exaggerate the dim interior of the hallway.
Not realizing exactly why he did so, but probably responding to an instinct for caution, Marsh strolled back and forth before entering the building. He noted the two dark and narrow alleyways on either side. One of these, reached through a dim, deep recess in the front wall, was evidently the tradesmen's entrance. Marsh then entered the vestibule and pushed the bell under Hunt's name. This was immediately answered by the clicking of the electric door opener. Hunt's man-servant stood at the apartment door, and after closing it behind him, ushered Marsh down a short hall and into the living room. Marsh's quick eye took in the luxuriousness of the furnishings—and something more. He surmised that Hunt was a bachelor. Hunt advanced to meet him with extended hand.
"Good evening, Mr. Marsh," Hunt greeted him, affably. "I hope you bring me some important information."
"I think it will at least be interesting," returned Marsh, as he handed his hat and coat to Hunt's man.
A log fire blazed in a large open fireplace. Before this was a deeply upholstered davenport plentifully supplied with extra cushions, and at either side of the fireplace were large lounging chairs. Hunt called Marsh's attention to these and told him to make himself comfortable. As Hunt seated himself on the davenport, Marsh decided to take one of the chairs near the fire. This gave him the advantage of having the firelight on Hunt's face while his own was more or less in the shadow, for the heavily shaded lamps about the room furnished only a soft glow that made details indistinct.
Hunt clasped his hands and leaning forward rested his elbows on his knees. "Tell me what you found in Merton's rooms yesterday," he said.
"I found absolutely nothing of importance," replied Marsh. It might be splitting hairs, he thought, but it was Morgan who had actually discovered the notebook. "I looked carefully through his dresser," he want on, "and also examined all the papers in the desk."
"And you found nothing of importance, Mr. Marsh?"
"Nothing," replied March, putting as strong a note of positiveness into his voice as possible, for he now began to suspect to whom the notebook had belonged. "The desk contained only personal and a little business correspondence. Morgan and I examined all the signatures. If you looked that correspondence over, as I presume you did, you will acknowledge that no suspicion could be directed at the men whose names appeared there."
Hunt nodded in an absent-minded way and again asked, "Perhaps this man Morgan found something?"
"I would have known if he had," said Marsh, again evasively. "I entered the room with him, and as you know, we left together."
Hunt now seemed satisfied that Marsh had no special information to give him about the contents of Merton's rooms: "Well, tell me just what you have discovered," he said, settling back into a corner of the davenport.
"For one thing," Marsh began, "I know that Mr. Merton is dead."
He leisurely took out his cigarette case, carefully selected a cigarette, and touch a match to it. It was evident, that this act on Marsh's part was intended to give Hunt time in which to think and pass some comment if he cared to. The man remained silent.
"All right, my friend," thought Marsh. "We'll tell you a little more; just enough to make you think—and perhaps act." Then he continued aloud, "I work along somewhat different lines than those followed by the police. For example, I frequently get better results by sitting down quietly in my room, laying certain obvious circumstances before me, and, through what you might call a method of addition, derive an answer to my problem."
"Quite interesting," murmured Hunt.
"And that is the way I have worked out this problem."
"Tell me the details," said Hunt.
"While you reported to the police that Mr. Merton had been missing for ten days, I discovered by inquiries at his hotel that he was in his room as late as last Monday night. In fact, he was seen to leave the hotel at midnight."
"So I have heard," Hunt broke in hastily. "At the time I notified the police I had not seen Mr. Merton at the office for about ten days."
Marsh nodded, and inquired, "I suppose you follow the papers carefully every day?"
"Naturally," was the reply.
"Then," said Marsh, "you probably read about the murder on Sheridan Road last Tuesday morning—the Sheridan Road Mystery, the papers called it."
"Yes, I read about that affair."
"Didn't it make you think?" asked Marsh.
"I don't understand."
"I'll explain," said Marsh. "Mr. Merton left his hotel at midnight Monday. Two hours later a man was murdered in the Sheridan Road apartment. Mr. Merton has not been seen since."
"Well?" queried Hunt.
"I've just been wondering—that's all," answered Marsh, throwing the remains of his cigarette into the fire place. There was a slight pause as he selected another from his case and lit it.
"Mr. Marsh," said Hunt, "you're driving at something. What is it?"
"Just this,". answered Marsh, leaning forward and looking Hunt in the eye. "You hold a power of attorney from Mr. Merton. You are to be sole executor of his estate. Mrs. Merton may not return for years. That's an easy way to get a business, Mr. Hunt."
Hunt adjusted a couple of pillows and settled back again. "Do I gather from your remarks, Mr. Marsh, that you mean to imply something?"
"No," returned Marsh, "I am just stating an obvious situation."
Hunt now leaned toward Marsh. "Have the police arrived at the same conclusions?"
"Have you ever noticed," countered Marsh, "that what the police know usually appears in the papers?"
"You mean by that that the police have not formed the same connection which you have?"
"I inferred as much," returned Marsh.
"Are you thinking of bringing your theories to their attention?" asked Hunt, as he again settled himself back against the cushions.
"That depends."
"On what?" inquired Hunt.
"Yourself."
Hunt remained silent for a moment, then said, "Do I understand that you are making me a proposition?"
"I'm not laying myself open to a charge of blackmail, Mr. Hunt."
"No," jeered Hunt, "I see you're a clever rogue. I might have guessed as much when you offered to investigate this matter for me."
"A man must make a living," returned Marsh.
"This is a cheap way to do it."
"I haven't had your opportunities," snapped Marsh.
"Damn you!" cried Hunt, leaping to his feet and shaking his fist in Marsh's face. "I'll hand you over to the police."
"And lose a good lieutenant, Mr. Hunt?"
"You're a dirty blackguard, Marsh," stormed Hunt. "You've worked your way into my confidence and now attempt to use your knowledge to hold me up. I admit that you've got me by the throat. A man placed in the position which you have made only too clear to me has only one way out. Of course, I could clear myself, but the stigma and suspicion would remain. All right, what's your price?"
Marsh stared in puzzled silence for a moment, as Hunt glared down at him. In some ways the outcome of the conversation was not exactly what he had expected.
"Mr. Hunt," he said, rising, "I'm in this thing for bigger game than a few hundred dollars."
"I told you to name your price," replied Hunt.
"As I told you before," returned Marsh, "I'm not laying myself open to a charge of blackmail. You think the matter over for a day or two; and in the meantime I'll take my coat and hat."
Hunt hesitated for a moment, then struck a bell which stood on a small table by the davenport. A moment later his man appeared with Marsh's coat and hat and assisted him to put on his coat.
"Good night, Mr. Hunt," said Marsh, smiling, and holding out his hand.
"Good night," said Hunt, shortly, turning away and ignoring the proffered hand.
The servant opened the door and Marsh; passed out. He hurried over to Rush Street and into the telephone booth in a nearby drug store. He talked for a few minutes over the telephone and then took a street car for home.
A half hour later an observant person might have noticed a man lingering in the shadows of Oak Street.
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