Books: Initials Only
A >>
Anna Katharine Green >> Initials Only
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19 Initials Only
by Anna Katharine Green
CONTENTS
BOOK I
AS SEEN BY TWO STRANGERS
I POINSETTIAS
II "I KNOW THE MAN"
III THE MAN
IV SWEET LITTLE MISS CLARKE
V THE RED CLOAK
VI INTEGRITY
VII THE LETTERS
VIII STRANGE DOINGS FOR GEORGE
IX THE INCIDENT OF THE PARTLY LIFTED SHADE
BOOK II
AS SEEN BY DETECTIVE SWEETWATER
X A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION
XI ALIKE IN ESSENTIALS
XII Mr. GRYCE FINDS AN ANTIDOTE FOR OLD AGE
XIII TIME, CIRCUMSTANCE, AND A VILLAIN'S HEART
XIV A CONCESSION
XV THAT'S THE QUESTION
XVI OPPOSED
XVII IN WHICH A BOOK PLAYS A LEADING PART
XVIII WHAT AM I TO DO NOW?
XIX THE DANGER MOMENT
XX CONFUSION
XXI A CHANGE
XXII O. B. AGAIN
BOOK III
THE HEART OF MAN
XXIII DORIS
XXIV SUSPENSE
XXV THE OVAL HUT
XXVI SWEETWATER RETURNS
XXVII THE IMAGE OF DREAD
XXVIII I HOPE NEVER TO SEE THAT MAN
XXIX DO YOU KNOW MY BROTHER?
XXX CHAOS
XXXI WHAT IS HE MAKING?
XXXII TELL ME, TELL IT ALL
XXXIII ALONE!
XXXIV THE HUT CHANGES ITS NAME
XXXV SILENCE--AND A KNOCK
XXXVI THE MAN WITHIN AND THE MAN WITHOUT
XXXVII HIS GREAT HOUR
XXXVIII NIGHT
XXXIX THE AVENGER
XL DESOLATE
XLI FIVE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING
XLII AT SIX
BOOK I
AS SEEN BY TWO STRANGERS
I
"A remarkable man!"
It was not my husband speaking, but some passerby. However, I
looked up at George with a smile, and found him looking down at me
with much the same humour. We had often spoken of the odd phrases
one hears in the street, and how interesting it would be sometimes
to hear a little more of the conversation.
"That's a case in point," he laughed, as he guided me through the
crowd of theatre-goers which invariably block this part of Broadway
at the hour of eight. "We shall never know whose eulogy we have
just heard. 'A remarkable man!' There are not many of them."
"No," was my somewhat indifferent reply. It was a keen winter night
and snow was packed upon the walks in a way to throw into sharp
relief the figures of such pedestrians as happened to be walking
alone. "But it seems to me that, so far as general appearance goes,
the one in front answers your description most admirably."
I pointed to a man hurrying around the corner just ahead of us.
"Yes, he's remarkably well built. I noticed him when he came out
of the Clermont." This was a hotel we had just passed.
"But it's not only that. It's his height, his very striking
features, his expression--" I stopped suddenly, gripping George's
arm convulsively in a surprise he appeared to share. We had turned
the corner immediately behind the man of whom we were speaking and
so had him still in full view.
"What's he doing?" I asked, in a low whisper. We were only a few
feet behind. "Look! look! don't you call that curious?"
My husband stared, then uttered a low, "Rather." The man ahead of
us, presenting in every respect the appearance of a gentleman, had
suddenly stooped to the kerb and was washing his hands in the snow,
furtively, but with a vigour and purpose which could not fail to
arouse the strangest conjectures in any chance onlooker.
"Pilate!" escaped my lips, in a sort of nervous chuckle. But
George shook his head at me.
"I don't like it," he muttered, with unusual gravity. "Did you
see his face?" Then as the man rose and hurried away from us down
the street, "I should like to follow him. I do believe--"
But here we became aware of a quick rush and sudden clamour around
the corner we had just left, and turning quickly, saw that something
had occurred on Broadway which was fast causing a tumult.
"What's the matter?" I cried. "What can have happened? Let's go
see, George. Perhaps it has something to do with our man."
My husband, with a final glance down the street at the fast
disappearing figure, yielded to my importunity, and possibly to
some new curiosity of his own.
"I'd like to stop that man first," said he. "But what excuse have
I? He may be nothing but a crank, with some crack-brained idea in
his head. We'll soon know; for there's certainly something wrong
there on Broadway."
"He came out of the Clermont," I suggested.
"I know. If the excitement isn't there, what we've just seen is
simply a coincidence." Then, as we retraced our steps to the corner
"Whatever we hear or see, don't say anything about this man. It's
after eight, remember, and we promised Adela that we would be at the
house before nine."
"I'll be quiet."
"Remember."
It was the last word he had time to speak before we found ourselves
in the midst of a crowd of men and women, jostling one another in
curiosity or in the consternation following a quick alarm. All were
looking one way, and, as this was towards the entrance of the
Clermont, it was evident enough to us that the alarm had indeed had
its origin in the very place we had anticipated. I felt my husband's
arm press me closer to his side as we worked our way towards the
entrance, and presently caught a warning sound from his lips as the
oaths and confused cries everywhere surrounding us were broken here
and there by articulate words and we heard:
"Is it murder?"
"The beautiful Miss Challoner!"
"A millionairess in her own right!"
"Killed, they say."
"No, no! suddenly dead; that's all."
"George, what shall we do?" I managed to cry into my husband's ear.
"Get out of this. There is no chance of our reaching that door,
and I can't have you standing round any longer in this icy slush."
"But--but is it right?" I urged, in an importunate whisper.
"Should we go home while he--"
"Hush! My first duty is to you. We will go make our visit; but
to-morrow--"
"I can't wait till to-morrow," I pleaded, wild to satisfy my
curiosity in regard to an event in which I naturally felt a keen
personal interest.
He drew me as near to the edge of the crowd as he could. There
were new murmurs all about us.
"If it's a case of heart-failure, why send for the police?" asked
one.
"It is better to have an officer or two here," grumbled another.
"Here comes a cop."
"Well, I'm going to vamoose."
"I'll tell you what I'll do," whispered George, who, for all his
bluster was as curious as myself. "We will try the rear door where
there are fewer persons. Possibly we can make our way in there,
and if we can, Slater will tell us all we want to know."
Slater was the assistant manager of the Clermont, and one of
George's oldest friends.
"Then hurry," said I. "I am being crushed here."
George did hurry, and in a few minutes we were before the rear
entrance of the great hotel. There was a mob gathered here also,
but it was neither so large nor so rough as the one on Broadway.
Yet I doubt if we should have been able to work our way through it
if Slater had not, at that very instant, shown himself in the
doorway, in company with an officer to whom he was giving some
final instructions. George caught his eye as soon as he was through
with the man, and ventured on what I thought a rather uncalled for
plea.
"Let us in, Slater," he begged. "My wife feels a little faint; she
has been knocked about so by the crowd."
The manager glanced at my face, and shouted to the people around
us to make room. I felt myself lifted up, and that is all I remember
of this part of our adventure. For, affected more than I realised
by the excitement of the event, I no sooner saw the way cleared for
our entrance than I made good my husband's words by fainting away
in earnest.
When I came to, it was suddenly and with perfect recognition of my
surroundings. The small reception room to which I had been taken
was one I had often visited, and its familiar features did not hold
my attention for a moment. What I did see and welcome was my
husband's face bending close over me, and to him I spoke first. My
words must have sounded oddly to those about. "Have they told you
anything about it?" I asked. "Did he--"
A quick pressure on my arm silenced me, and then I noticed that we
were not alone. Two or three ladies stood near, watching me, and
one had evidently been using some restorative, for she held a
small vinaigrette in her hand. To this lady, George made haste to
introduce me, and from her I presently learned the cause of the
disturbance in the hotel.
It was of a somewhat different nature from what I expected, and
during the recital, I could not prevent myself from casting furtive
and inquiring glances at George.
Edith, the well-known daughter of Moses Challoner, had fallen
suddenly dead on the floor of the mezzanine. She was not known to
have been in poor health, still less in danger of a fatal attack,
and the shock was consequently great to her friends, several of
whom were in the building. Indeed, it was likely to prove a shock
to the whole community, for she had great claims to general
admiration, and her death must be regarded as a calamity to persons
in all stations of life.
I realised this myself, for I had heard much of the young lady's
private virtues, as well as of her great beauty and distinguished
manner. A heavy loss, indeed, but--
"Was she alone when she fell?" I asked.
"Virtually alone. Some persons sat on the other side of the room,
reading at the big round table. They did not even hear her fall.
They say that the band was playing unusually loud in the musicians'
gallery."
"Are you feeling quite well, now?"
"Quite myself," I gratefully replied as I rose slowly from the
sofa. Then, as my kind informer stepped aside, I turned to George
with the proposal we should go now.
He seemed as anxious as myself to leave and together we moved towards
the door, while the hum of excited comment which the intrusion of a
fainting woman had undoubtedly interrupted, recommenced behind us
till the whole room buzzed.
In the hall we encountered Mr. Slater, whom I have before mentioned.
He was trying to maintain order while himself in a state of great
agitation. Seeing us, he could not refrain from whispering a few
words into my husband's ear.
"The doctor has just gone up--her doctor, I mean. He's simply
dumbfounded. Says that she was the healthiest woman in New York
yesterday--I think--don't mention it, that he suspects something
quite different from heart failure."
"What do you mean?" asked George, following the assistant manager
down the broad flight of steps leading to the office. Then, as I
pressed up close to Mr. Slater's other side, "She was by herself,
wasn't she, in the half floor above?"
"Yes, and had been writing a letter. She fell with it still in her
hand."
"Have they carried her to her room?" I eagerly inquired, glancing
fearfully up at the large semi-circular openings overlooking us from
the place where she had fallen.
"Not yet. Mr. Hammond insists upon waiting for the coroner." (Mr.
Hammond was the proprietor of the hotel.) "She is lying on one of
the big couches near which she fell. If you like, I can give you a
glimpse of her. She looks beautiful. It's terrible to think that
she is dead."
I don't know why we consented. We were under a spell, I think. At
all events, we accepted his offer and followed him up a narrow
staircase open to very few that night. At the top, he turned upon
us with a warning gesture which I hardly think we needed, and led
us down a narrow hall flanked by openings corresponding to those we
had noted from below. At the furthest one he paused and, beckoning
us to his side, pointed across the lobby into the large writing-room
which occupied the better part of the mezzanine floor.
We saw people standing in various attitudes of grief and dismay
about a couch, one end of which only was visible to us at the
moment. The doctor had just joined them, and every head was turned
towards him and every body bent forward in anxious expectation. I
remember the face of one grey haired old man. I shall never forget
it. He was probably her father. Later, I knew him to be so. Her
face, even her form, was entirely hidden from us, but as we watched
(I have often thought with what heartless curiosity) a sudden
movement took place in the whole group--and for one instant a
startling picture presented itself to our gaze. Miss Challoner
was stretched out upon the couch. She was dressed as she came from
dinner, in a gown of ivory-tinted satin, relieved at the breast by
a large bouquet of scarlet poinsettias. I mention this adornment,
because it was what first met and drew our eyes and the eyes of
every one about her, though the face, now quite revealed, would
seem to have the greater attraction. But the cause was evident and
one not to be resisted. The doctor was pointing at these poinsettias
in horror and with awful meaning, and though we could not hear his
words, we knew almost instinctively, both from his attitude and the
cries which burst from the lips of those about him, that something
more than broken petals and disordered laces had met his eyes; that
blood was there--slowly oozing drops from the heart--which for
some reason had escaped all eyes till now.
Miss Challoner was dead, not from unsuspected disease, but from the
violent attack of some murderous weapon; As the realisation of this
brought fresh panic and bowed the old father's head with emotions
even more bitter than those of grief, I turned a questioning look
up at George's face.
It was fixed with a purpose I had no trouble in understanding.
II
"I KNOW THE MAN"
Yet he made no effort to detain Mr. Slater, when that gentleman,
under this renewed excitement, hastily left us. He was not the man
to rush into anything impulsively, and not even the presence of
murder could change his ways.
"I want to feel sure of myself," he explained. "Can you bear the
strain of waiting around a little longer, Laura? I mustn't forget
that you fainted just now."
"Yes, I can bear it; much better than I could bear going to Adela's
in my present state of mind. Don't you think the man we saw had
something to do with this? Don't you believe--"
"Hush! Let us listen rather than talk. What are they saying over
there? Can you hear?"
"No. And I cannot bear to look. Yet I don't want to go away. It's
all so dreadful."
"It's devilish. Such a beautiful girl! Laura, I must leave you
for a moment. Do you mind?"
"No, no; yet--"
I did mind; but he was gone before I could take back my word. Alone,
I felt the tragedy much more than when he was with me. Instead of
watching, as I had hitherto done, every movement in the room opposite,
I drew back against the wall and hid my eyes, waiting feverishly for
George's return.
He came, when he did come, in some haste and with certain marks of
increased agitation.
"Laura," said he, "Slater says that we may possibly be wanted and
proposes that we stay here all night. I have telephoned Adela and
have made it all right at home. Will you come to your room? This
is no place for you."
Nothing could have pleased me better; to be near and yet not the
direct observer of proceedings in which we took so secret an
interest! I showed my gratitude by following George immediately.
But I could not go without casting another glance at the tragic
scene I was leaving. A stir was perceptible there, and I was just
in time to see its cause. A tall, angular gentleman was approaching
from the direction of the musicians' gallery, and from the manner
of all present, as well as from the whispered comment of my husband,
I recognised in him the special official for whom all had been
waiting.
"Are you going to tell him?" was my question to George as we made
our way down to the lobby.
"That depends. First, I am going to see you settled in a room quite
remote from this business."
"I shall not like that."
"I know, my dear, but it is best."
I could not gainsay this.
Nevertheless, after the first few minutes of relief, I found it
very lonesome upstairs. The pictures which crowded upon me of the
various groups of excited and wildly gesticulating men and women
through which we had passed on our way up, mingled themselves with
the solemn horror of the scene in the writing-room, with its
fleeting vision of youth and beauty lying pulseless in sudden death.
I could not escape the one without feeling the immediate impress of
the other, and if by chance they both yielded for an instant to
that earlier scene of a desolate Street, with its solitary lamp
shining down on the crouched figure of a man washing his shaking
hands in a drift of freshly fallen snow, they immediately rushed
back with a force and clearness all the greater for the momentary
lapse.
I was still struggling with these fancies when the door opened, and
George came in. There was news in his face as I rushed to meet him.
"Tell me--tell," I begged.
He tried to smile at my eagerness, but the attempt was ghastly.
"I've been listening and looking," said he, "and this is all I
have learned. Miss Challoner died, not from a stroke or from
disease of any kind, but from a wound reaching the heart. No one
saw the attack, or even the approach or departure of the person
inflicting this wound. If she was killed by a pistol-shot, it was
at a distance, and almost over the heads of the persons sitting at
the table we saw there. But the doctors shake their heads at the
word pistol-shot, though they refuse to explain themselves or to
express any opinion till the wound has been probed. This they are
going to do at once, and when that question is decided, I may feel
it my duty to speak and may ask you to support my story."
"I will tell what I saw," said I.
"Very good. That is all that will be required. We are strangers
to the parties concerned, and only speak from a sense of justice.
It may be that our story will make no impression, and that we shall
be dismissed with but few thanks. But that is nothing to us. If
the woman has been murdered, he is the murderer. With such a
conviction in my mind, there can be no doubt as to my duty."
"We can never make them understand how he looked."
"No. I don't expect to."
"Or his manner as he fled."
"Nor that either."
"We can only describe what we saw him do."
"That's all."
"Oh, what an adventure for quiet people like us! George, I don't
believe he shot her."
"He must have."
"But they would have seen--have heard--the people around, I mean."
"So they say; but I have a theory--but no matter about that now.
I'm going down again to see how things have progressed. I'll be
back for you later. Only be ready."
Be ready! I almost laughed,--a hysterical laugh, of course, when I
recalled the injunction. Be ready! This lonely sitting by myself,
with nothing to do but think was a fine preparation for a sudden
appearance before those men--some of them police-officers, no doubt.
But that's enough about myself; I'm not the heroine of this story.
In a half hour or an hour--I never knew which--George reappeared
only to tell me that no conclusions had as yet been reached; an
element of great mystery involved the whole affair, and the most
astute detectives on the force had been sent for. Her father, who
had been her constant companion all winter, had not the least
suggestion to offer in way of its solution. So far as he knew--and
he believed himself to have been in perfect accord with his daughter
--she had injured no one. She had just lived the even, happy and
useful life of a young woman of means, who sees duties beyond those
of her own household and immediate surroundings. If, in the
fulfillment of those duties, she had encountered any obstacle to
content, he did not know it; nor could he mention a friend of hers
--he would even say lovers, since that was what he meant--who to
his knowledge could be accused of harbouring any such passion of
revenge as was manifested in this secret and diabolical attack.
They were all gentlemen and respected her as heartily as they
appeared to admire her. To no living being, man or woman, could he
point as possessing any motive for such a deed. She had been the
victim of some mistake, his lovely and ever kindly disposed
daughter, and while the loss was irreparable he would never make it
unendurable by thinking otherwise.
Such was the father's way of looking at the matter, and I own that
it made our duty a trifle hard. But George's mind, when once made
up, was persistent to the point of obstinacy, and while he was yet
talking he led me out of the room and down the hall to the elevator.
"Mr. Slater knows we have something to say, and will manage the
interview before us in the very best manner," he confided to me
now with an encouraging air. "We are to go to the blue reception
room on the parlour floor."
I nodded, and nothing more was said till we entered the place
mentioned. Here we came upon several gentlemen, standing about, of
a more or less professional appearance. This was not very agreeable
to one of my retiring disposition, but a look from George brought
back my courage, and I found myself waiting rather anxiously for the
questions I expected to hear put.
Mr. Slater was there according to his promise, and after introducing
us, briefly stated that we had some evidence to give regarding the
terrible occurrence which had just taken place in the house.
George bowed, and the chief spokesman--I am sure he was a
police-officer of some kind--asked him to tell what it was.
George drew himself up--George is not one of your tall men, but he
makes a very good appearance at times. Then he seemed suddenly to
collapse. The sight of their expectation made him feel how flat and
childish his story would sound. I, who had shared his adventure,
understood his embarrassment, but the others were evidently at a
loss to do so, for they glanced askance at each other as he
hesitated, and only looked back when I ventured to say:
"It's the peculiarity of the occurrence which affects my husband.
The thing we saw may mean nothing."
"Let us hear what it was and we will judge."
Then my husband spoke up, and related our little experience. If it
did not create a sensation, it was because these men were well
accustomed to surprises of all kinds.
"Washed his hands--a gentleman--out there in the snow--just
after the alarm was raised here?" repeated one.
"And you saw him come out of this house?" another put in.
"Yes, sir; we noticed him particularly."
"Can you describe him?"
It was Mr. Slater who put this question; he had less control over
himself, and considerable eagerness could be heard in his voice.
"He was a very fine-looking man; unusually tall and unusually
striking both in his dress and appearance. What I could see of
his face was bare of beard, and very expressive. He walked with
the swing of an athlete, and only looked mean and small when he
was stooping and dabbling in the snow."
"His clothes. Describe his clothes." There was an odd sound in
Mr. Slater's voice.
"He wore a silk hat and there was fur on his overcoat. I think
the fur was black."
Mr. Slater stepped back, then moved forward again with a determined
air.
"I know the man," said he.
III
THE MAN
"You know the man?"
"I do; or rather, I know a man who answers to this description. He
comes here once in a while. I do not know whether or not he was in
the building to-night, but Clausen can tell you; no one escapes
Clausen's eye."
"His name."
"Brotherson. A very uncommon person in many respects; quite capable
of such an eccentricity, but incapable, I should say, of crime. He's
a gifted talker and so well read that he can hold one's attention for
hours. Of his tastes, I can only say that they appear to be mainly
scientific. But he is not averse to society, and is always very well
dressed."
"A taste for science and for fine clothing do not often go together."
"This man is an exception to all rules. The one I'm speaking of, I
mean. I don't say that he's the fellow seen pottering in the snow."
"Call up Clausen."
The manager stepped to the telephone.
Meanwhile, George had advanced to speak to a man who had beckoned
to him from the other side of the room, and with whom in another
moment I saw him step out. Thus deserted, I sank into a chair near
one of the windows. Never had I felt more uncomfortable. To
attribute guilt to a totally unknown person--a person who is little
more to you than a shadowy silhouette against a background of snow
--is easy enough and not very disturbing to the conscience. But
to hear that person named; given positive attributes; lifted from
the indefinite into a living, breathing actuality, with a man's
hopes, purposes and responsibilities, is an entirely different
proposition. This Brotherson might be the most innocent person
alive; and, if so, what had we done? Nothing to congratulate
ourselves upon, certainly. And George was not present to comfort
and encourage me. He was--
Where was he? The man who had carried him off was the youngest in
the group. What had he wanted of George? Those who remained
showed no interest in the matter. They had enough to say among
themselves. But I was interested--naturally so, and, in my
uneasiness, glanced restlessly from the window, the shade of which
was up. The outlook was a very peaceful one. This room faced
a side street, and, as my eyes fell upon the whitened pavements, I
received an answer to one, and that the most anxious, of my queries.
This was the street into which we had turned, in the wake of the
handsome stranger they were trying at this very moment to identify
with Brotherson. George had evidently been asked to point out the
exact spot where the man had stopped, for I could see from my
vantage point two figures bending near the kerb, and even pawing
at the snow which lay there. It gave me a slight turn when one of
them--I do not think it was George--began to rub his hands
together in much the way the unknown gentleman had done, and, in
my excitement, I probably uttered some sort of an ejaculation, for
I was suddenly conscious of a silence in the room, and when I
turned saw all the men about me looking my way.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19