A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

The Mystery of Murray Davenport

R >> Robert Neilson Stephens >> The Mystery of Murray Davenport




"He was favored in one essential matter--that of a place in which to
perform his operations with secrecy, and to let the wounds heal at
leisure. To be observed during the progress of the transformation would
spoil his purpose and be highly inconvenient besides. He couldn't lock
himself up in his room, or in any new lodging to which he might move, and
remain unseen for weeks, without attracting an attention that would
probably discover his secret. In a remote country place he would be more
under curiosity and suspicion than in New York. He must live in comfort,
in quarters which he could provision; must have the use of mirrors, heat,
water, and such things; in short, he could not resort to uninhabited
solitudes, yet must have a place where his presence might be unknown to a
living soul--a place he could enter and leave with absolute secrecy. He
couldn't rent a place without precluding that secrecy, as investigations
would be made on his disappearance, and his plans possibly ruined by the
intrusion of the police. It was a lucky circumstance which he owed to
you, Larcher,--one of the few lucky circumstances that ever came to the
old Murray Davenport, and so to be regarded as a happy augury for his
design,--that led him into the room and esteem of Mr. Bud down on the
water-front.

"He learned that Mr. Bud was long absent from the room; obtained his
permission to use the room for making sketches of the river during his
absence; got a duplicate key; and waited until Mr. Bud should be kept
away in the country for a long enough period. Nobody but Mr. Bud--and
you, Larcher--knew that Davenport had access to the room. Neither of you
two could ever be sure when, or if at all, he availed himself of that
access. If he left no traces in the room, you couldn't know he had been
there. You could surmise, and might investigate, but, if you did that, it
wouldn't be with the knowledge of the police; and at the worst, Davenport
could take you into his confidence. As for the rest of the world, nothing
whatever existed, or should exist, to connect him with that room. He need
only wait for his opportunity. He contrived always to be informed of Mr.
Bud's intentions for the immediate future; and at last he learned that
the shipment of turkeys for Thanksgiving and Christmas would keep the old
man busy in the country for six or seven weeks without a break. He was
now all ready to put his design into execution."




CHAPTER XV.


TURL'S NARRATIVE CONTINUED

"On the very afternoon," Turl went on, "before the day when Davenport
could have Mr. Bud's room to himself, Bagley sent for him in order to
confide some business to his charge. This was a customary occurrence,
and, rather than seem to act unusually just at that time, Davenport went
and received Bagley's instructions. With them, he received a lot of
money, in bills of large denomination, mostly five-hundreds, to be placed
the next day for Bagley's use. In accepting this charge, or rather in
passively letting it fall upon him, Davenport had no distinct idea as to
whether he would carry it out. He had indeed little thought that evening
of anything but his purpose, which he was to begin executing on the
morrow. As not an hour was to be lost, on account of the time necessary
for the healing of the operations, he would either have to despatch
Bagley's business very quickly or neglect it altogether. In the latter
case, what about the money in his hands? The sum was nearly equal to
that which Bagley had morally defrauded him of.

"This coincidence, coming at that moment, seemed like the work of fate.
Bagley was to be absent from town a week, and Murray Davenport was about
to undergo a metamorphosis that would make detection impossible. It
really appeared as though destiny had gone in for an act of poetic
justice; had deliberately planned a restitution; had determined to
befriend the new man as it had afflicted the old. For the new man would
have to begin existence with a very small cash balance, unless he
accepted this donation from chance. If there were any wrong in accepting
it, that wrong would not be the new man's; it would be the bygone Murray
Davenport's; but Murray Davenport was morally entitled to that much--and
more--of Bagley's money. To be sure, there was the question of breach of
trust; but Bagley's conduct had been a breach of friendship and common
humanity. Bagley's act had despoiled Davenport's life of a hundred times
more than this sum now represented to Bagley.

"Well, Davenport was pondering this on his way home from Bagley's rooms,
when he met Larcher. Partly a kind feeling toward a friend he was about
to lose with the rest of his old life, partly a thought of submitting the
question of this possible restitution to a less interested mind, made him
invite Larcher to his room. There, by a pretended accident, he contrived
to introduce the question of the money; but you had no light to volunteer
on the subject, Larcher, and Davenport didn't see fit to press you. As
for your knowing him to have the money in his possession, and your
eventual inferences if he should disappear without using it for Bagley,
the fact would come out anyhow as soon as Bagley returned to New York.
And whatever you would think, either in condemnation or justification,
would be thought of the old Murray Davenport. It wouldn't matter to the
new man. During that last talk with you, Davenport had such an impulse of
communicativeness--such a desire for a moment's relief from his
long-maintained secrecy--that he was on the verge of confiding his
project to you, under bond of silence. But he mastered the impulse; and
you had no sooner gone than he made his final preparations.

"He left the house next morning immediately after breakfast, with as few
belongings as possible. He didn't even wear an overcoat. Besides the
Bagley money, he had a considerable sum of his own, mostly the result of
his collaboration with you, Larcher. In a paper parcel, he carried a few
instruments from those he had kept since his surgical days, a set of
shaving materials, and some theatrical make-up pencils he had bought the
day before. He was satisfied to leave his other possessions to their
fate. He paid his landlady in advance to a time by which she couldn't
help feeling that he was gone for good; she would provide for a new
tenant accordingly, and so nobody would be a loser by his act.

"He went first to a drug-store, and supplied himself with medicines of
tonic and nutritive effect, as well as with antiseptic and healing
preparations, lint, and so forth. These he had wrapped with his parcel.
His reason for having things done up in stout paper, and not packed as
for travelling, was that the paper could be easily burned afterward,
whereas a trunk, boxes, or gripsacks would be more difficult to put out
of sight. Everything he bought that day, therefore, was put into
wrapping-paper. His second visit was to a department store, where he got
the linen and other articles he would need during his seclusion,--sheets,
towels, handkerchiefs, pajamas, articles of toilet, and so forth. He
provided himself here with a complete ready-made 'outfit' to appear in
immediately after his transformation, until he could be supplied by
regular tailors, haberdashers, and the rest. It included a hat, shoes,
everything,--particularly shoulder braces; he put those on when he came
to be fitted with the suit and overcoat. Of course, nothing of the old
Davenport's was to emerge with the new man.

"Well, he left his purchases to be called for. His paper parcel,
containing the instruments, drugs, and so forth, he thought best to
cling to. From the department store he went to some other shops in the
neighborhood and bought various necessaries which he stowed in his
pockets. While he was eating luncheon, he thought over the matter of the
money again, but came to no decision, though the time for placing the
funds as Bagley had directed was rapidly going by, and the bills
themselves were still in Davenport's inside coat pocket. His next
important call was at one of Clark & Rexford's grocery stores. He had
got up most carefully his order for provisions, and it took a large part
of the afternoon to fill. The salesmen were under the impression that he
was buying for a yacht, a belief which he didn't disturb. His parcels
here made a good-sized pyramid. Before they were all wrapped, he went
out, hailed the shabbiest-looking four-wheeled cab in sight, and was
driven to the department store. The things he had bought there were put
on the cab seat beside the driver. He drove to the grocery store, and
had his parcels from there stowed inside the cab, which they almost
filled up. But he managed to make room for himself, and ordered the man
to drive to and along South Street until told to stop. It was now quite
dark, and he thought the driver might retain a less accurate memory of
the exact place if the number wasn't impressed on his mind by being
mentioned and looked for.

"However that may have been, the cab arrived at a fortunate moment, when
Mr. Bud's part of the street was deserted, and the driver showed no great
interest in the locality,--it was a cold night, and he was doubtless
thinking of his dinner. Davenport made quick work of conveying his
parcels into the open hallway of Mr. Bud's lodging-house, and paying the
cabman. As soon as the fellow had driven off, Davenport began moving his
things up to Mr. Bud's room. When he had got them all safe, the door
locked, and the gas-stove lighted, he unbuttoned his coat and his eye
fell on Bagley's money, crowding his pocket. It was too late now to use
it as Bagley had ordered. Davenport wondered what he would do with it,
but postponed the problem; he thrust the package of bills out of view,
behind the books on Mr. Bud's shelf, and turned to the business he had
come for. No one had seen him take possession of the room; no eye but
the cabman's had followed him to the hallway below, and the cabman would
probably think he was merely housing his goods there till he should go
aboard some vessel in the morning.

"A very short time would be employed in the operations themselves. It was
the healing of the necessary cuts that would take weeks. The room was
well enough equipped for habitation. Davenport himself had caused the
gas-stove to be put in, ostensibly as a present for Mr. Bud. To keep the
coal-stove in fuel, without betraying himself, would have been too great
a problem. As for the gas-stove, he had placed it so that its light
couldn't reach the door, which had no transom and possessed a shield for
the keyhole. For water, he need only go to the rear of the hall, to a
bath-room, of which Mr. Bud kept a key hung up in his own apartment.
During his secret residence in the house, Davenport visited the bath-room
only at night, taking a day's supply of water at a time. He had first
been puzzled by the laundry problem, but it proved very simple. His
costume during his time of concealment was limited to pajamas and
slippers. Of handkerchiefs he had provided a large stock. When the towels
and other articles did require laundering, he managed it in a wash-basin.
On the first night, he only unpacked and arranged his things, and slept.
At daylight he sat down before a mirror, and began to design his new
physiognomy with the make-up pencils. By noon he was ready to lay aside
the pencils and substitute instruments of more lasting effect. Don't
fear, Miss Hill, that I'm going to describe his operations in detail.
I'll pass them over entirely, merely saying that after two days of work
he was elated with the results he could already foresee upon the healing
of the cuts. Such pain as there was, he had braced himself to endure. The
worst of it came when he exchanged knives for tweezers, and attacked his
eyebrows. This was really a tedious business, and he was glad to find
that he could produce a sufficient increase of curve without going the
full length of his design. In his necessary intervals of rest, he
practised the new handwriting. He was most regular in his diet, sleep,
and use of medicines. After a few days, he had nothing left to do, as far
as the facial operations were concerned, but attend to their healing. He
then began to wear the shoulder-braces, and took up the matter of voice.

"But meanwhile, in the midst of his work one day,--his second day of
concealment, it was,--he had a little experience that produced quite as
disturbing a sensation in him as Robinson Crusoe felt when he came
across the footprints. While he was busy in front of his mirror, in the
afternoon, he heard steps on the stairs outside. He waited for them, as
usual, to pass his door and go on, as happened when lodgers went in and
out. But these steps halted at his own door, and were followed by a
knock. He held his breath. The knock was repeated, and he began to fear
the knocker would persist indefinitely. But at last the steps were heard
again, this time moving away. He then thought he recognized them as
yours, Larcher, and he was dreadfully afraid for the next few days that
they might come again. But his feeling of security gradually returned.
Later, in the weeks of his sequestration in that room, he had many little
alarms at the sound of steps on the stairs and in the passages, as people
went to and from the rooms above. This was particularly the case after he
had begun the practice of his new voice, for, though the sound he made
was low, it might have been audible to a person just outside his door.
But he kept his ear alert, and the voice-practice was shut off at the
slightest intimation of a step on the stairs.

"The sound of his voice-practice probably could not have been heard many
feet from his door, or at all through the wall, floor, or ceiling. If it
had been, it would perhaps have seemed a low, monotonous, continuous
sort of growl, difficult to place or identify.

"You know most speaking voices are of greater potential range than their
possessors show in the use of them. This is particularly true of American
voices. There are exceptions enough, but as a nation, men and women, we
speak higher than we need to; that is, we use only the upper and middle
notes, and neglect the lower ones. No matter how good a man's voice is
naturally in the low register, the temptation of example in most cases is
to glide into the national twang. To a certain extent, Davenport had done
this. But, through his practice of singing, as well as of reading verse
aloud for his own pleasure, he knew that his lower voice was, in the
slang phrase, 'all there.' He knew, also, of a somewhat curious way of
bringing the lower voice into predominance; of making it become the
habitual voice, to the exclusion of the higher tones. Of course one can
do this in time by studied practice, but the constant watchfulness is
irksome and may lapse at any moment. The thing was, to do it once and for
all, so that the quick unconscious response to the mind's order to speak
would be from the lower voice and no other. Davenport took Mr. Bud's
dictionary, opened it at U, and recited one after another all the words
beginning with that letter as pronounced in 'under.' This he did through
the whole list, again and again, hour after hour, monotonously, in the
lower register of his voice. He went through this practice every day,
with the result that his deeper notes were brought into such activity as
to make them supplant the higher voice entirely. Pronunciation has
something to do with voice effect, and, besides, his complete
transformation required some change in that on its own account. This was
easy, as Davenport had always possessed the gift of imitating dialects,
foreign accents, and diverse ways of speech. Earlier in life he had
naturally used the pronunciation of refined New Englanders, which is
somewhat like that of the educated English. In New York, in his
association with people from all parts of the country, he had lapsed into
the slovenly pronunciation which is our national disgrace. He had only to
return to the earlier habit, and be as strict in adhering to it as in
other details of the well-ordered life his new self was to lead.

"As I said, he was provided with shaving materials. But he couldn't cut
his own hair in the new way he had decided on. He had had it cut in the
old fashion a few days before going into retirement, but toward the end
of that retirement it had grown beyond its usual length. All he could do
about it was to place himself between two mirrors, and trim the longest
locks. Fortunately, he had plenty of time for this operation. After the
first two or three weeks, his wounds required very little attention each
day. His vocal and handwriting exercises weren't to be carried to excess,
and so he had a good deal of time on his hands. Some of this, after his
face was sufficiently toward healing, he spent in physical exercise,
using chairs and other objects in place of the ordinary calisthenic
implements. He was very leisurely in taking his meals, and gave the
utmost care to their composition from the preserved foods at his
disposal. He slept from nightfall till dawn, and consequently needed no
artificial light. For pure air, he kept a window open all night, being
well wrapped up, but in the daytime he didn't risk leaving open more than
the cracks above and below the sashes, for fear some observant person
might suspect a lodger in the room. Sometimes he read, renewing an
acquaintance which the new man he was beginning to be must naturally have
made, in earlier days, with Scott's novels. He had necessarily designed
that the new man should possess the same literature and general knowledge
as the bygone Davenport had possessed. For already, as soon as the
general effect of the operations began to emerge from bandages and
temporary discoloration, he had begun to consider Davenport as
bygone,--as a man who had come to that place one evening, remained a
brief, indefinite time, and vanished, leaving behind him his clothes and
sundry useful property which he, the new man who found himself there,
might use without fear of objection from the former owner.

"The sense of new identity came with perfect ease at the first bidding.
It was not marred by such evidences of the old fact as still remained.
These were obliterated one by one. At last the healing was complete;
there was nothing to do but remove all traces of anybody's presence in
the room during Mr. Bud's absence, and submit the hair to the skill of a
barber. The successor of Davenport made a fire in the coal stove,
starting it with the paper the parcels had been wrapped in; and feeding
it first with Davenport's clothes, and then with linen, towels, and other
inflammable things brought in for use during the metamorphosis. He made
one large bundle of the shoes, cans, jars, surgical instruments,
everything that couldn't be easily burnt, and wrapped them in a sheet,
along with the dead ashes of the conflagration in the stove. He then made
up Mr. Bud's bed, restored the room to its original appearance in every
respect, and waited for night. As soon as access to the bath-room was
safe, he made his final toilet, as far as that house was concerned, and
put on his new clothes for the first time. About three o'clock in the
morning, when the street was entirely deserted, he lugged his
bundle--containing the unburnable things--down the stairs and across the
street, and dropped it into the river. Even if the things were ever
found, they were such as might come from a vessel, and wouldn't point
either to Murray Davenport or to Mr. Bud's room.

"He walked about the streets, in a deep complacent enjoyment of his new
sensations, till almost daylight. He then took breakfast in a market
restaurant, after which he went to a barber's shop--one of those that
open in time for early-rising customers--and had his hair cut in the
desired fashion. From there he went to a down-town store and bought a
supply of linen and so forth, with a trunk and hand-bag, so that he could
'arrive' properly at a hotel. He did arrive at one, in a cab, with bag
and baggage, straight from the store. Having thus acquired an address, he
called at a tailor's, and gave his orders. In the tailor's shop, he
recalled that he had left the Bagley money in Mr. Bud's room, behind the
books on the shelf. He hadn't yet decided what to do with that money, but
in any case it oughtn't to remain where it was; so he went back to Mr.
Bud's room, entering the house unnoticed.

"He took the money from the cover it was in, and put it in an inside
pocket. He hadn't slept during the previous night or day, and the effects
of this necessary abstinence were now making themselves felt, quite
irresistibly. So he relighted the gas-stove, and sat down to rest awhile
before going to his hotel. His drowsiness, instead of being cured, was
only increased by this taste of comfort; and the bed looked very
tempting. To make a long story short, he partially undressed, lay down on
the bed, with his overcoat for cover, and rapidly succumbed.

"He was awakened by a knock at the door of the room. It was night, and
the lights and shadows produced by the gas-stove were undulating on the
floor and walls. He waited till the person who had knocked went away; he
then sprang up, threw on the few clothes he had taken off, smoothed down
the cover of the bed, turned the gas off from the stove, and left the
room for the last time, locking the door behind him. As he got to the
foot of the stairs, two men came into the hallway from the street. One of
them happened to elbow him in passing, and apologized. He had already
seen their faces in the light of the street-lamp, and he thanked his
stars for the knock that had awakened him in time. The men were Mr. Bud
and Larcher."

Turl paused; for the growing perception visible on the faces of Florence
and Larcher, since the first hint of the truth had startled both, was now
complete. It was their turn for whatever intimations they might have to
make, ere he should go on. Florence was pale and speechless, as indeed
was Larcher also; but what her feelings were, besides the wonder shared
with him, could not be guessed.




CHAPTER XVI.


AFTER THE DISCLOSURE

The person who spoke first was Edna Hill. She had seen Turl less often
than the other two had, and Davenport never at all. Hence there was no
great stupidity in her remark to Turl:

"But I don't understand. I know Mr. Larcher met a man coming through that
hallway one night, but it turned out to be you."

"Yes, it was I," was the quiet answer. "The name of the new man, you see,
was Francis Turl."

As light flashed over Edna's face, Larcher found his tongue to express a
certain doubt: "But how could that be? Davenport had a letter from you
before he--before any transformation could have begun. I saw it the night
before he disappeared--it was signed Francis Turl."

Turl smiled. "Yes, and he asked if you could infer the writer's
character. He wondered if you would hit on anything like the character
he had constructed out of his imagination. He had already begun
practical experiments in the matter of handwriting alone. Naturally some
of that practice took the shape of imaginary correspondence. What could
better mark the entire separateness of the new man from the old than
letters between the two? Such letters would imply a certain brief
acquaintance, which might serve a turn if some knowledge of Murray
Davenport's affairs ever became necessary to the new man's conduct. This
has already happened in the matter of the money, for example. The name,
too, was selected long before the disappearance. That explains the
letter you saw. I didn't dare tell this earlier in the story,--I feared
to reveal too suddenly what had become of Murray Davenport. It was best
to break it as I have, was it not?"

He looked at Florence wistfully, as if awaiting judgment. She made an
involuntary movement of drawing away, and regarded him with something
almost like repulsion.

"It's so strange," she said, in a hushed voice. "I can't believe it. I
don't know what to think."

Turl sighed patiently. "You can understand now why I didn't want to tell.
Perhaps you can appreciate what it was to me to revive the past,--to
interrupt the illusion, to throw it back. So much had been done to
perfect it; my dearest thought was to preserve it. I shall preserve it,
of course. I know you will keep the secret, all of you; and that you'll
support the illusion."

"Of course," replied Larcher. Edna, for once glad to have somebody's lead
to follow, perfunctorily followed it. But Florence said nothing. Her mind
was yet in a whirl. She continued to gaze at Turl, a touch of bewildered
aversion in her look.

"I had meant to leave New York," he went on, watching her with cautious
anxiety, "in a very short time, and certainly not to seek any of the
friends or haunts of the old cast-off self. But when I got into the
street that night, after you and Mr. Bud had passed me, Larcher, I fell
into a strong curiosity as to what you and he might have to say about
Davenport. This was Mr. Bud's first visit to town since the
disappearance, so I was pretty sure your talk would be mainly about that.
Also, I wondered whether he would detect any trace of my long occupancy
of his room. I found I'd forgot to bring out the cover taken from the
bankbills. Suppose that were seen, and you recognized it, what theories
would you form? For the sake of my purpose I ought to have put curiosity
aside, but it was too keen; I resolved to gratify it this one time only.
The hallway was perfectly dark, and all I had to do was to wait there
till you and Mr. Bud should come out. I knew he would accompany you
down-stairs for a good-night drink in the saloon when you left. The
slightest remark would give me some insight into your general views of
the affair. I waited accordingly. You soon came down together. I stood
well out of your way in the darkness as you passed. And you can imagine
what a revelation it was to me when I heard your talk. Do you remember?
Davenport--it couldn't be anybody else--had disappeared just too soon to
learn that 'the young lady'--so Mr. Bud called her--had been true, after
all! And it broke your heart to have nothing to report when you saw her!"

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