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The Mystery of Murray Davenport

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




"I do remember," said Larcher. Florence's lip quivered.

"I stood there in the darkness, like a man stunned, for several minutes,"
Turl proceeded. "There was so much to make out. Perhaps there had been
something going on, about the time of the disappearance, that I--that
Davenport hadn't known. Or the disappearance itself may have brought out
things that had been hidden. Many possibilities occurred to me; but the
end of all was that there had been a mistake; that 'the young lady' was
deeply concerned about Murray Davenport's fate; and that Larcher saw her
frequently.

"I went out, and walked the streets, and thought the situation over. Had
I--had Davenport--(the distinction between the two was just then more
difficult to preserve)--mistakenly imagined himself deprived of that
which was of more value than anything else in life? had he--I--in
throwing off the old past, thrown away that precious thing beyond
recovery? How precious it was, I now knew, and felt to the depths of my
soul, as I paced the night and wondered if this outcome was Fate's last
crudest joke at Murray Davenport's expense. What should I do? Could I
remain constant to the cherished design, so well-laid, so painfully
carried out, and still keep my back to the past, surrendering the
happiness I might otherwise lay claim to? How that happiness lured me! I
couldn't give it up. But the great design--should all that skill and
labor come to nothing? The physical transformation of face couldn't be
undone, that was certain. Would that alone be a bar between me and the
coveted happiness? My heart sank at this question. But if the
transformation should prove such a bar, the problem would be solved at
least. I must then stand by the accomplished design. And meanwhile, there
was no reason why I should yet abandon it. To think of going back to the
old unlucky name and history!--it was asking too much!

"Then came the idea on which I acted. I would try to reconcile the
alternatives--to stand true to the design, and yet obtain the happiness.
Murray Davenport should not be recalled. Francis Turl should remain, and
should play to win the happiness for himself. I would change my plans
somewhat, and stay in New York for a time. The first thing to do was to
find you, Miss Kenby. This was easy. As Larcher was in the habit of
seeing you, I had only to follow him about, and afterward watch the
houses where he called. Knowing where he lived, and his favorite resorts,
I had never any difficulty in getting on his track. In that way, I came
to keep an eye on this house, and finally to see your father let himself
in with a door-key. I found it was a boarding-house, took the room I
still occupy, and managed very easily to throw myself in your father's
way. You know the rest, and how through you I met Miss Hill and Larcher.
In this room, also, I have had the--experience--of meeting Mr. Bagley."

"And what of his money?" asked Florence.

"That has remained a question. It is still undecided. No doubt a third
person would hold that, though Bagley morally owed that amount, the
creditor wasn't justified in paying himself by a breach of trust. But the
creditor himself, looking at the matter with feeling rather than
thought, was sincere enough in considering the case at least debatable.
As for me, you will say, if I am Francis Turl, I am logically a third
person. Even so, the idea of restoring the money to Bagley seems against
nature. As Francis Turl, I ought not to feel so strongly Murray
Davenport's claims, perhaps; yet I am in a way his heir. Not knowing what
my course would ultimately be, I adopted the fiction that my claim to
certain money was in dispute--that a decision might deprive me of it. I
didn't explain, of course, that the decision would be my own. If the
money goes back to Bagley, I must depend solely upon what I can earn. I
made up my mind not to be versatile in my vocations, as Davenport had
been; to rely entirely on the one which seemed to promise most. I have to
thank you, Larcher, for having caused me to learn what that was, in my
former iden--in the person of Murray Davenport. You see how the old and
new selves will still overlap; but the confusion doesn't harm my sense of
being Francis Turl as much as you might imagine; and the lapses will
necessarily be fewer and fewer in time. Well, I felt I could safely fall
back on my ability as an artist in black and white. But my work should be
of a different line from that which Murray Davenport had followed--not
only to prevent recognition of the style, but to accord with my new
outlook--with Francis Turl's outlook--on the world. That is why my work
has dealt with the comedy of life. That is why I elected to do comic
sketches, and shall continue to do them. It was necessary, if I decided
against keeping the Bagley money, that I should have funds coming in
soon. What I received--what Davenport received for illustrating your
articles, Larcher, though it made him richer than he had often found
himself, had been pretty well used up incidentally to the transformation
and my subsequent emergence to the world. So I resorted to you to
facilitate my introduction to the market. When I met you here one day, I
expressed a wish that I might run across a copy of the Boydell
Shakespeare Gallery. I knew--it was another piece of my inherited
information from Davenport--that you had that book. In that way I drew an
invitation to call on you, and the acquaintance that began resulted as I
desired. Forgive me for the subterfuge. I'm grateful to you from the
bottom of my heart."

"The pleasure has been mine, I assure you," replied Larcher, with a
smile.

"And the profit mine," said Turl. "The check for those first three
sketches I placed so easily through you came just in time. Yet I hadn't
been alarmed. I felt that good luck would attend me--Francis Turl was
born to it. I'm confident my living is assured. All the same, that Bagley
money would unlock a good store of the sweets of life."

He paused, and his eyes sought Florence's face again. Still they found no
answer there--nothing but the same painful difficulty in knowing how to
regard him, how to place him in her heart.

"But the matter of livelihood, or the question of the money," he resumed,
humbly and patiently, "wasn't what gave me most concern. You will
understand now--Florence"--his voice faltered as he uttered the
name--"why I sometimes looked at you as I did, why I finally said what
I did. I saw that Larcher had spoken truly in Mr. Bud's hallway that
night: there could be no doubt of your love for Murray Davenport. What
had caused your silence, which had made him think you false, I dared
not--as Turl--inquire. Larcher once alluded to a misunderstanding, but it
wasn't for me--Turl--to show inquisitiveness. My hope, however, now was
that you would forget Davenport--that the way would be free for the
newcomer. When I saw how far you were from forgetting the old love, I was
both touched and baffled--touched infinitely at your loyalty to Murray
Davenport, baffled in my hopes of winning you as Francis Turl. I should
have thought less of you--loved you less--if you had so soon given up the
unfortunate man who had passed; and yet my dearest hopes depended on your
giving him up. I even urged you to forget him; assured you he would never
reappear, and begged you to set your back to the past. Though your
refusal dashed my hopes, in my heart I thanked you for it--thanked you in
behalf of the old self, the old memories which had again become dear to
me. It was a puzzling situation,--my preferred rival was my former self;
I had set the new self to win you from constancy to the old, and my
happiness lay in doing so; and yet for that constancy I loved you more
than ever, and if you had fallen from it, I should have been wounded
while I was made happy. All the time, however, my will held out against
telling you the secret. I feared the illusion must lose something if it
came short of being absolute reality to any one--even you. I'm afraid I
couldn't make you feel how resolute I was, against any divulgence that
might lessen the gulf between me and the old unfortunate self. It seemed
better to wait till time should become my ally against my rival in your
heart. But to-night, when I saw again how firmly the rival--the old
Murray Davenport--was installed there; when I saw how much you
suffered--how much you would still suffer--from uncertainty about his
fate, I felt it was both futile and cruel to hold out."

"It _was_ cruel," said Florence. "I have suffered."

"Forgive me," he replied. "I didn't fully realize--I was too intent on
my own side of the case. To have let you suffer!--it was more than cruel.
I shall not forgive myself for that, at least."

She made no answer.

"And now that you know?" he asked, in a low voice, after a moment.

"It is so strange," she replied, coldly. "I can't tell what I think. You
are not the same. I can see now that you are he--in spite of all your
skill, I can see that."

He made a slight movement, as if to take her hand. But she drew back,
saying quickly:

"And yet you are not he."

"You are right," said Turl. "And it isn't as he that I would appear. I am
Francis Turl--"

"And Francis Turl is almost a stranger to me," she answered. "Oh, I see
now! Murray Davenport is indeed lost--more lost than ever. Your design
has been all too successful."

"It was _his_ design, remember," pleaded Turl. "And I am the result of
it--the result of his project, his wish, his knowledge and skill. Surely
all that was good in him remains in me. I am the good in him, severed
from the unhappy, and made fortunate."

"But what was it in him that I loved?" she asked, looking at Turl as if
in search of something missing.

He could only say: "If you reject me, he is stultified. His plan
contemplated no such unhappiness. If you cause that unhappiness, you so
far bring disaster on his plan."

She shook her head, and repeated sadly: "You are not the same."

"But surely the love I have for you--that is the same--the old love
transmitted to the new self. In that, at least, Murray Davenport survives
in me--and I'm willing that he should."

Again she vainly asked: "What was it in him that I loved--that I still
love when I think of him? I try to think of you as the Murray Davenport I
knew, but--"

"But I wouldn't have you think of me as Murray Davenport. Even if I
wished to be Murray Davenport again, I could not. To re-transform myself
is impossible. Even if I tried mentally to return to the old self, the
return would be mental only, and even mentally it would never be
complete. You say truly the old Murray Davenport is lost. What was it you
loved in him? Was it his unhappiness? His misfortune? Then, perhaps, if
you doom me to unhappiness now, you will in the end love me for my
unhappiness." He smiled despondently.

"I don't know," she said. "It isn't a matter to decide by talk, or even
by thought. I must see how I feel. I must get used to the situation. It's
so strange as yet. We must wait." She rose, rather weakly, and supported
herself with the back of a chair. "When I'm ready for you to call, I'll
send you a message."

There was nothing for Turl to do but bow to this temporary dismissal, and
Larcher saw the fitness of going at the same time. With few and rather
embarrassed words of departure, the young men left Florence to the
company of Edna Hill, in whom astonishment had produced for once the
effect of comparative speechlessness.

Out in the hall, when the door of the Kenby suite had closed behind them,
Turl said to Larcher: "You've had a good deal of trouble over Murray
Davenport, and shown much kindness in his interest. I must apologize for
the trouble,--as his representative, you know,--and thank you for the
kindness."

"Don't mention either," said Larcher, cordially. "I take it from your
tone," said Turl, smiling, "that my story doesn't alter the friendly
relations between us."

"Not in the least. I'll do all I can to help the illusion, both for the
sake of Murray Davenport that was and of you that are. It wouldn't do for
a conception like yours--so original and bold--to come to failure. Are
you going to turn in now?"

"Not if I may go part of the way home with you. This snow-storm is worth
being out in. Wait here till I get my hat and overcoat."

He guided Larcher into the drawing-room. As they entered, they came face
to face with a man standing just a pace from the threshold--a bulky man
with overcoat and hat on. His face was coarse and red, and on it was a
look of vengeful triumph.

"Just the fellow I was lookin' for," said this person to Turl. "Good
evening, Mr. Murray Davenport! How about my bunch of money?"

The speaker, of course, was Bagley.




CHAPTER XVII.


BAGLEY SHINES OUT

"I beg pardon," said Turl, coolly, as if he had not heard aright.

"You needn't try to bluff _me_," said Bagley. "I've been on to your game
for a good while. You can fool some of the people, but you can't fool me.
I'm too old a friend, Murray Davenport."

"My name is Turl."

"Before I get through with you, you won't have any name at all. You'll
just have a number. I don't intend to compound. If you offered me my
money back at this moment, I wouldn't take it. I'll get it, or what's
left of it, but after due course of law. You're a great change artist,
you are. We'll see what another transformation'll make you look like.
We'll see how clipped hair and a striped suit'll become you."

Larcher glanced in sympathetic alarm at Turl; but the latter seemed
perfectly at ease.

"You appear to be laboring under some sort of delusion," he replied.
"Your name, I believe, is Bagley."

"You'll find out what sort of delusion it is. It's a delusion that'll go
through; it's not like your _ill_usion, as you call it--and very ill
you'll be--"

"How do you know I call it that?" asked Turl, quickly. "I never spoke of
having an illusion, in your presence--or till this evening."

Bagley turned redder, and looked somewhat foolish.

"You must have been overhearing," added Turl.

"Well, I don't mind telling you I have been," replied Bagley, with
recovered insolence.

"It isn't necessary to tell me, thank you. And as that door is a thick
one, you must have had your ear to the keyhole."

"Yes, sir, I had, and a good thing, too. Now, you see how completely I've
got the dead wood on you. I thought it only fair and sportsmanlike"
--Bagley's eyes gleamed facetiously--"to let you know before I notify the
police. But if you can disappear again before I do that, it'll be a
mighty quick disappearance."

He started for the hall, to leave the house.

Turl arrested him by a slight laugh of amusement. "You'll have a simple
task proving that I am Murray Davenport."

"We'll see about that. I guess I can explain the transformation well
enough to convince the authorities."

"They'll be sure to believe you. They're invariably so credulous--and
the story is so probable."

"You made it probable enough when you told it awhile ago, even though I
couldn't catch it all. You can make it as probable again."

"But I sha'n't have to tell it again. As the accused person, I sha'n't
have to say a word beyond denying the identity. If any talking is
necessary, I shall have a clever lawyer to do it."

"Well, I can swear to what I heard from your own lips."

"Through a keyhole? Such a long story? so full of details? Your having
heard it in that manner will add to its credibility, I'm sure."

"I can swear I recognize you as Murray Davenport."

"As the accuser, you'll have to support your statement with the testimony
of witnesses. You'll have to bring people who knew Murray Davenport. What
do you suppose they'll swear? His landlady, for instance? Do you think,
Larcher, that Murray Davenport's landlady would swear that I'm he?"

"I don't think so," said Larcher, smiling.

"Here's Larcher himself as a witness," said Bagley.

"I can swear I don't see the slightest resemblance between Mr. Turl and
Murray Davenport," said Larcher.

"You can swear you _know_ he is Murray Davenport, all the same."

"And when my lawyer asks him _how_ he knows," said Turl, "he can only
say, from the story I told to-night. Can he swear that story is true, of
his own separate knowledge? No. Can he swear I wasn't spinning a yarn for
amusement? No."

"I think you'll find me a difficult witness to drag anything out of," put
in Larcher, "if you can manage to get me on the stand at all. I can take
a holiday at a minute's notice; I can even work for awhile in some other
city, if necessary."

"There are others,--the ladies in there, who heard the story," said
Bagley, lightly.

"One of them didn't know Murray Davenport," said Turl, "and the other--I
should be very sorry to see her subjected to the ordeal of the
witness-stand on my account. I hardly think you would subject her to it,
Mr. Bagley,--I do you that credit."

"I don't know about that," said Bagley. "I'll take my chances of showing
you up one way or another, just the same. You _are_ Murray Davenport,
and I know it; that's pretty good material to start with. Your story has
managed to convince _me_, little as I could hear of it; and I'm not
exactly a 'come-on' as to fairy tales, at that--"

"It convinced you as I told it, and because of your peculiar sense of the
traits and resources of Murray Davenport. But can you impart that sense
to any one else? And can you tell the story as I told it? I'll wager you
can't tell it so as to convince a lawyer."

"How much will you wager?" said Bagley, scornfully, the gambling spirit
lighting up in him.

"I merely used the expression," said Turl. "I'm not a betting man."

"I am," said Bagley. "What'll you bet I can't convince a lawyer?"

"I'm not a betting man," repeated Turl, "but just for this occasion I
shouldn't mind putting ten dollars in Mr. Larcher's hands, if a lawyer
were accessible at this hour."

He turned to Larcher, with a look which the latter made out vaguely as a
request to help matters forward on the line they had taken. Not quite
sure whether he interpreted correctly, Larcher put in:

"I think there's one to be found not very far from here. I mean Mr.
Barry Tompkins; he passes most of his evenings at a Bohemian resort near
Sixth Avenue. He was slightly acquainted with Murray Davenport, though.
Would that fact militate?"

"Not at all, as far as I'm concerned," said Turl, taking a bank-bill from
his pocket and handing it to Larcher.

"I've heard of Mr. Barry Tompkins," said Bagley. "He'd do all right. But
if he's a friend of Davenport's--"

"He isn't a friend," corrected Larcher. "He met him once or twice in my
company for a few minutes at a time."

"But he's evidently your friend, and probably knows you're Davenport's
friend," rejoined Bagley to Larcher.

"I hadn't thought of that," said Turl. "I only meant I was willing to
undergo inspection by one of Davenport's acquaintances, while you told
the story. If you object to Mr. Tompkins, there will doubtless be some
other lawyer at the place Larcher speaks of."

"All right; I'll cover your money quick enough," said Bagley, doing so.
"I guess we'll find a lawyer to suit in that crowd. I know the place
you mean."

Larcher and Bagley waited, while Turl went upstairs for his things. When
he returned, ready to go out, the three faced the blizzard together. The
snowfall had waned; the flakes were now few, and came down gently; but
the white mass, little trodden in that part of the city since nightfall,
was so thick that the feet sank deep at every step. The labor of walking,
and the cold, kept the party silent till they reached the place where
Larcher had sought out Barry Tompkins the night he received Edna's first
orders about Murray Davenport. When they opened the basement door to
enter, the burst of many voices betokened a scene in great contrast to
the snowy night at their backs. A few steps through a small hallway led
them into this scene,--the tobacco-smoky room, full of loudly talking
people, who sat at tables whereon appeared great variety of bottles and
glasses. An open door showed the second room filled as the first was. One
would have supposed that nobody could have heard his neighbor's words for
the general hubbub, but a glance over the place revealed that the noise
was but the composite effect of separate conversations of groups of three
or four. Privacy of communication, where desired, was easily possible
under cover of the general noise.

Before the three newcomers had finished their survey of the room,
Larcher saw Barry Tompkins signalling, with a raised glass and a grinning
countenance, from a far corner. He mentioned the fact to his companions.

"Let's go over to him," said Bagley, abruptly. "I see there's room
there."

Larcher was nothing loath, nor was Turl in the least unwilling. The
latter merely cast a look of curiosity at Bagley. Something had indeed
leaped suddenly into that gentleman's head. Tompkins was manifestly not
yet in Turl's confidence. If, then, it were made to appear that all was
friendly between the returned Davenport and Bagley, why should
Tompkins, supposing he recognized Davenport upon Bagley's assertion,
conceal the fact?

Tompkins had managed to find and crowd together three unoccupied chairs
by the time Larcher had threaded a way to him. Larcher, looking around,
saw that Bagley had followed close. He therefore introduced Bagley first;
and then Turl. Tompkins had the same brief, hearty handshake, the same
mirthful grin--as if all life were a joke, and every casual meeting were
an occasion for chuckling at it--for both.

"I thought you said Mr. Tompkins knew Davenport," remarked Bagley to
Larcher, as soon as all in the party were seated.

"Certainly," replied Larcher.

"Then, Mr. Tompkins, you don't seem to live up to your reputation as a
quick-sighted man," said Bagley.

"I beg pardon?" said Tompkins, interrogatively, touched in one of
his vanities.

"Is it possible you don't recognize this gentleman?" asked Bagley,
indicating Turl. "As somebody you've met before, I mean?"

"Extremely possible," replied Tompkins, with a sudden curtness in his
voice. "I do _not_ recognize this gentleman as anybody I've met before.
But, as I never forget a face, I shall always recognize him in the future
as somebody I've met to-night." Whereat he grinned benignly at Turl, who
acknowledged with a courteous "Thank you."

"You never forget a face," said Bagley, "and yet you don't remember this
one. Make allowance for its having undergone a lot of alterations, and
look close at it. Put a hump on the nose, and take the dimples away, and
don't let the corners of the mouth turn up, and pull the hair down over
the forehead, and imagine several other changes, and see if you don't
make out your old acquaintance--and my old friend--Murray Davenport."

Tompkins gazed at Turl, then at the speaker, and finally--with a
wondering inquiry--at Larcher. It was Turl who answered the inquiry.

"Mr. Bagley is perfectly sane and serious," said he. "He declares I am
the Murray Davenport who disappeared a few months ago, and thinks you
ought to be able to identify me as that person."

"If you gentlemen are working up a joke," replied Tompkins, "I hope I
shall soon begin to see the fun; but if you're not, why then, Mr. Bagley,
I should earnestly advise you to take something for this."

"Oh, just wait, Mr. Tompkins. You're a well-informed man, I believe. Now
let's go slow. You won't deny the possibility of a man's changing his
appearance by surgical and other means, in this scientific age, so as
almost to defy recognition?"

"I deny the possibility of his doing such a thing so as to defy
recognition by _me_. So much for your general question. As to this
gentleman's being the person I once met as Murray Davenport, I can only
wonder what sort of a hoax you're trying to work."

Bagley looked his feelings in silence. Giving Barry Tompkins up, he said
to Larcher: "I don't see any lawyer here that I'm acquainted with. I was
a bit previous, getting let in to decide that bet to-night."

"Perhaps Mr. Tompkins knows some lawyer here, to whom he will introduce
you," suggested Turl.

"You want a lawyer?" said Tompkins. "There are three or four here. Over
there's Doctor Brady, the medico-legal man; you've heard of him, I
suppose,--a well-known criminologist."

"I should think he'd be the very man for you," said Turl to Bagley.
"Besides being a lawyer, he knows surgery, and he's an authority on the
habits of criminals."

"Is he a friend of yours?" asked Bagley, at the same time that his eyes
lighted up at the chance of an auditor free from the incredulity of
ignorance.

"I never met him," said Turl.

"Nor I," said Larcher; "and I don't think Murray Davenport ever did."

"Then if Mr. Tompkins will introduce Mr. Larcher and me, and come away at
once without any attempt to prejudice, I'm agreed, as far as our bet's
concerned. But I'm to be let alone to do the talking my own way."

Barry Tompkins led Bagley and Larcher over to the medico-legal
criminologist--a tall, thin man in the forties, with prematurely gray
hair and a smooth-shaven face, cold and inscrutable in expression--and,
having introduced and helped them to find chairs, rejoined Turl. Bagley
was not ten seconds in getting the medico-legal man's ear.

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