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The Mystery of Murray Davenport

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




Florence's eyes glistened through her tears. "I should be so glad," she
said, gently, "if--if only--you see, I promised not to hold any sort of
communication with him."

"Oh, that promise!" cried Edna. "Just think how it was obtained. And
think about those letters that were stopped. If that alone doesn't
release you, I wonder what!"

Florence's face clouded with humiliation at the reminder.

"Moreover," said Larcher, "you won't be holding communication. The
matter has come to my knowledge fairly enough, through Edna's lucky
forgetfulness. I take it on myself to tell Davenport. I'm to meet him
to-morrow, anyhow--it looks as though it had all been ordained. I really
don't see how you can prevent me, Miss Kenby."

Florence's face threw off its cloud, and her conscience its scruples, and
a look of gratitude and relief, almost of sudden happiness, appeared.

"You are so good, both of you. There's nothing in the world I'd rather
have than to see him made happy."

"If you'd like to see it with your own eyes," said Larcher, "let me send
him to you for the news."

"Oh, no! I don't mean that. He mustn't know where to find me. If he came
to see me, I don't know what father would do. I've been so afraid of
meeting him by chance; or of his finding out I was in New York."

Larcher understood now why Edna had prohibited his mentioning the Kenbys
to anybody. "Well," said he, "in that case, Murray Davenport shall be
made happy by me at about one o'clock to-morrow afternoon."

"And you shall come to tea afterward and tell us all about it," cried
Edna. "Flo, you _must_ be here for the news, if I have to go in a hansom
and kidnap you." "I think I can come voluntarily," said Florence, smiling
through her tears.

"And let's hope this is only the beginning of matters, in spite of any
silly old promise obtained by false pretences! I say, we've let our tea
get cold. I must have another cup." And Miss Hill rang for fresh hot
water.

The rest of the afternoon in that drawing-room was all mirth and
laughter; the innocent, sweet laughter of youth enlisted in the generous
cause of love and truth against the old, old foes--mercenary design,
false appearance, and mistaken duty.

Larcher had two reasons for not going to his friend before the time
previously set for his call. In the first place he had already laid out
his time up to that hour, and, secondly, he would not hazard the
disappointment of arriving with his good news ready, and not finding his
friend in. To be doubly sure, he telegraphed Davenport not to forget the
appointment on any account, as he had an important disclosure to make.
Full of his revelation, then, he rang the bell of his friend's
lodging-house at precisely one o'clock the next day.

"I'll go right up to Mr. Davenport's room," he said to the negro boy at
the door.

"All right, sir, but I don't think you'll find Mr. Davenport up there,"
replied the servant, glancing at a brown envelope on the hat-stand.

Larcher saw that it was addressed to Murray Davenport. "When did that
telegram come?" he inquired.

"Last evening."

"It must be the one I sent. And he hasn't got it yet! Do you mean he
hasn't been in?"

Heavy slippered footsteps in the rear of the hall announced the coming
of somebody, who proved to be a rather fat woman in a soiled wrapper,
with tousled light hair, flabby face, pale eyes, and a worried but kindly
look. Larcher had seen her before; she was the landlady.

"Do you know anything about Mr. Davenport?" she asked, quickly.

"No, madam, except that I was to call on him here at one o'clock."

"Oh, then, he may be here to meet you. When did you make that
engagement?"

"On Tuesday, when I was here last! Why?--What's the matter?"

"Tuesday? I was in hopes you might 'a' made it since. Mr. Davenport
hasn't been home for two days!"

"Two days! Why, that's rather strange!"

"Yes, it is; because he never stayed away overnight without he either
told me beforehand or sent me word. He was always so gentlemanly about
saving me trouble or anxiety."

"And this time he said nothing about it?"

"Not a word. He went out day before yesterday at nine o'clock in the
morning, and that's the last we've seen or heard of him. He didn't carry
any grip, or have his trunk sent for; he took nothing but a parcel
wrapped in brown paper."

"Well, I can't understand it. It's after one o'clock now--If he doesn't
soon turn up--What do you think about it?"

"I don't know what to think about it. I'm afraid it's a case of
mysterious disappearance--that's what I think!"




CHAPTER VIII.


MR. LARCHER INQUIRES

Larcher and the landlady stood gazing at each other in silence. Larcher
spoke first.

"He's always prompt to the minute. He may be coming now."

The young man went out to the stoop and looked up and down the street.
But no familiar figure was in sight. He turned back to the landlady.

"Perhaps he left a note for me on the table," said Larcher. "I have the
freedom of his room, you know."

"Go up and see, then. I'll go with you."

The landlady, in climbing the stairs, used a haste very creditable in a
person of her amplitude. Davenport's room appeared the same as ever.
None of his belongings that were usually visible had been packed away or
covered up. Books and manuscript lay on his table. But there was nothing
addressed to Larcher or anybody else.

"It certainly looks as if he'd meant to come back soon," remarked the
landlady.

"It certainly does." Larcher's puzzled eyes alighted on the table drawer.
He gave an inward start, reminded of the money in Davenport's possession
at their last meeting. Davenport had surely taken that money with him on
leaving the house the next morning. Larcher opened his lips, but
something checked him. He had come by the knowledge of that money in a
way that seemed to warrant his ignoring it. Davenport had manifestly
wished to keep it a secret. It was not yet time to tell everything.

"Of course," said Larcher, "he might have met with an accident."

"I've looked through the newspapers yesterday, and to-day, but there's
nothing about him, or anybody like him. There was an unknown man knocked
down by a street-car, but he was middle-aged, and had a black mustache."

"And you're positively sure Mr. Davenport would have let you know if he'd
meant to stay away so long?"

"Yes, sir, I am. Especially that morning he'd have spoke of it, for he
met me in the hall and paid me the next four weeks' room rent in
advance."

"But that very fact looks as if he thought he mightn't see you for some
time."

"No, because he's often done that. He'll come and say, 'I've got a little
money ahead, Mrs. Haze, and I might as well make sure of a roof over me
for another month.' He knew I gener'ly--had use for money whenever it
happened along. He was a kind-hearted--I mean he _is_ a kind-hearted man.
Hear me speakin' of him as if--What's that?"

It was a man's step on the stairs. With a sudden gladness, Larcher turned
to the door of the room. The two waited, with smiles ready. The step came
almost to the threshold, receded along the passage, and mounted the
flight above.

"It's Mr. Wigfall; he rooms higher up," said Mrs. Haze, in a dejected
whisper.

The young man's heart sank; for some reason, at this disappointment, the
hope of Davenport's return fled, the possibility of his disappearance
became certainty. The dying footsteps left Larcher with a sense of chill
and desertion; and he could see this feeling reflected in the face of
the landlady.

"Do you think the matter had better be reported to the police?" said
she, still in a lowered voice.

"I don't think so just yet. I can't say whether they'd send out a general
alarm on my report. The request must come from a near relation, I
believe. There have been hoaxes played, you know, and people frightened
without sufficient cause."

"I never heard that Mr. Davenport had any relations. I guess they'd send
out an alarm on my statement. A hard-workin' landlady ain't goin' to make
a fuss and get her house into the papers just for fun."

"That's true. I'm sure they'd take your report seriously. But we'd better
wait a little while yet. I'll stay here an hour or two, and then, if he
hasn't appeared, I'll begin a quiet search myself. Use your own judgment,
though; it's for you to see the police if you like. Only remember, if a
fuss is made, and Mr. Davenport turns up all right with his own reasons
for this, how we shall all feel."

"He'd be annoyed, I guess. Well, I'll wait till you say. You're the only
friend that calls here regular to see him. Of course I know how a good
many single men are,--that lives in rooms. They'll stay away for days at
a time, and never notify anybody, and nobody thinks anything about it.
But Mr. Davenport, as I told you, isn't like that. I'll wait, anyhow,
till you think it's time. But you'll keep coming here, of course?"

"Yes, indeed, several times a day. He might turn up at any moment. I'll
give him an hour and a half to keep this one o'clock engagement. Then,
if he's still missing, I'll go to a place where there's a bare chance
he might be. I've only just now thought of it."

The place he had thought of was the room of old Mr. Bud. Davenport had
spoken of going there often to sketch. Such a queer, snug old place might
have an attraction of its own for the man. There was, indeed, a chance--a
bare chance--of his having, upon a whim, prolonged a stay in that place
or its neighborhood. Or, at least, Mr. Bud might have later news of him
than Mrs. Haze had.

That good woman went back to her work, and Larcher waited alone in the
very chair where Davenport had sat at their last meeting. He recalled
Davenport's odd look at parting, and wondered if it had meant anything
in connection with this strange absence. And the money? The doubt and
the solitude weighed heavily on Larcher's mind. And what should he say
to the girls when he met them at tea?

At two o'clock his impatience got the better of him. He went
down-stairs, and after a few words with Mrs. Haze, to whom he promised
to return about four, he hastened away. He was no sooner seated in an
elevated car, and out of sight of the lodging-house, than he began to
imagine his friend had by that time arrived home. This feeling remained
with him all the way down-town. When he left the train, he hurried to the
house on the water-front. He dashed up the narrow stairs, and knocked at
Mr. Bud's door. No answer coming, he knocked louder. It was so silent in
the ill-lighted passage where he stood, that he fancied he could hear the
thump of his heart. At last he tried the door; it was locked.

"Evidently nobody at home," said Larcher, and made his way down-stairs
again. He went into the saloon, where he found the same barkeeper he had
seen on his first visit to the place.

"I thought I might find a friend of mine here," he said, after ordering a
drink. "Perhaps you remember--we were here together five or six weeks
ago."

"I remember all right enough," said the bar-keeper. "He ain't here now."

"He's been here lately, though, hasn't he?"

"Depends on what yuh call lately. He was in here the other day with old
man Bud."

"What day was that?"

"Let's see, I guess it was--naw, it was Monday, because it was the day
before Mr. Bud went back to his chickens. He went home Toosdy, Bud did."

It was on Tuesday night that Larcher had last beheld Davenport. "And so
you haven't seen my friend since Monday?" he asked, insistently.

"That's what I said."

"And you're sure Mr. Bud hasn't been here since Tuesday?"

"That's what I said."

"When is Mr. Bud coming back, do you know?"

"You can search _me,_" was the barkeeper's subtle way of disavowing all
knowledge of Mr. Bud's future intentions.

Back to the elevated railway, and so up-town, sped Larcher. The feeling
that his friend must be now at home continued strong within him until he
was again upon the steps of the lodging-house. Then it weakened somewhat.
It died altogether at sight of the questioning eyes of the negro. The
telegram was still on the hat-stand.

"Any news?" asked the landlady, appearing from the rear.

"No. I was hoping you might have some."

After saying he would return in the evening, he rushed off to keep his
engagement for tea. He was late in arriving at the flat.

"Here he is!" cried Edna, eagerly. Her eyes sparkled; she was in high
spirits. Florence, too, was smiling. The girls seemed to have been in
great merriment, and in possession of some cause of felicitation as yet
unknown to Larcher. He stood hesitating.

"Well? Well? Well?" said Edna. "How did he take it? Speak. Tell us your
good news, and then we'll tell you ours." Florence only watched his face,
but there was a more poignant inquiry in her silence than in her friend's
noise.

"Well, the fact is," began Larcher, embarrassed, "I can't tell you any
good news just yet. Davenport couldn't keep his engagement with me
to-day, and I haven't been able to see him."

"Not able to see him?" Edna exclaimed, hotly. "Why didn't you go and
find him? As if anything could be more important! That's the way with
men--always afraid of intruding. Such a disappointment! Oh, what an
unreliable, helpless, futile creature you are, Tom!"

Stung to self-defence, the helpless, futile creature replied:

"I wasn't at all afraid of intruding. I did go trying to find him; I've
spent the afternoon doing that."

"A woman would have managed to find out where he was," retorted Edna.

"His landlady's a woman," rejoined Larcher, doggedly, "and she hasn't
managed to find out."

"Has she been trying to?"

"Well--no," stammered Larcher, repenting.

"Yes, she has!" said Edna, with a changed manner. "But what for? Why is
she concerned? There's something behind this, Tom--I can tell by your
looks. Speak out, for heaven's sake! What's wrong?"

A glance at Florence Kenby's pale face did not make Larcher's task easier
or pleasanter.

"I don't think there's anything seriously wrong. Davenport has been away
from home for a day or two without saying anything about it to his
landlady, as he usually does in such cases. That's all."

"And didn't he send you word about breaking the engagement with you?"
persisted Edna.

"No. I suppose it slipped his mind."

"And neither you nor the landlady has any idea where he is?"

"Not when I saw her last--about half an hour ago."

"Well!" ejaculated Edna. "That _is_ a mysterious disappearance!"

The landlady had used the same expression. Such was Larcher's mental
observation in the moment's silence that followed,--a silence broken by
a low cry from Florence Kenby.

"Oh, if anything has happened to him!"

The intensity of feeling in her voice and look was something for which
Larcher had not been prepared. It struck him to the heart, and for a time
he was without speech for a reassuring word. Edna, though manifestly awed
by this first full revelation of her friend's concern for Davenport,
undertook promptly the office of banishing the alarm she had helped to
raise.

"Oh, don't be frightened, dear. There's nothing serious, after all. Men
often go where business calls them, without accounting to anybody. He's
quite able to take care of himself. I'm sure it isn't as bad as Tom
says."

"As I say!" exclaimed Larcher. "_I_ don't say it's bad at all. It's your
own imagination, Edna,--your sudden and sensational imagination. There's
no occasion for alarm, Miss Kenby. Men often, as Edna says--"

"But I must make sure," interrupted Florence. "If anything _is_ wrong,
we're losing time. He must be sought for--the police must be notified."

"His landlady--a very good woman, her name is Mrs. Haze--spoke of that,
and she's the proper one to do it. But we decided, she and I, to wait
awhile longer. You see, if the police took up the matter, and it got
noised about, and Davenport reappeared in the natural order of
things--as of course he will--why, how foolish we should all feel!"

"What do feelings of that sort matter, when deeper ones are concerned?"

"Nothing at all; but I'm thinking of Davenport's feelings. You know how
he would hate that sort of publicity."

"That must be risked. It's a small thing compared with his safety. Oh, if
you knew my anxiety!"

"I understand, Miss Kenby. I'll have Mrs. Haze go to police headquarters
at once. I'll go with her. And then, if there's still no news, I'll go
around to the--to other places where people inquire in such cases."

"And you'll let me know immediately--as soon as you find out anything?"

"Immediately. I'll telegraph. Where to? Your Fifth Avenue address?"

"Stay here to-night, Florence," put in Edna. "It will be all right,
_now_."

"Very well. Thank you, dear. Then you can telegraph here, Mr. Larcher."

Her instant compliance with Edna's suggestion puzzled Larcher a little.

"She's had an understanding with her father," said Edna, having noted
his look. "She's a bit more her own mistress to-day than she was
yesterday."

"Yes," said Florence, "I--I had a talk with him--I spoke to him about
those letters, and he finally--explained the matter. We settled many
things. He released me from the promise we were talking about yesterday."

"Good! That's excellent news!"

"It's the news we had ready for you when you brought us such a
disappointment," bemoaned Edna.

"It's news that will change the world for Davenport," replied Larcher.
"I _must_ find him now. If he only knew what was waiting for him, he
wouldn't be long missing."

"It would be too cruel if any harm befell him"--Florence's voice quivered
as she spoke--"at this time, of all times. It would be the crowning
misfortune."

"I don't think destiny means to play any such vile trick, Miss Kenby."

"I don't see how Heaven could allow it," said Florence, earnestly.

"Well, he's simply _got_ to be found. So I'm off to Mrs. Haze. I can
go tea-less this time, thank you. Is there anything I can do for you
on the way?"

"I'll have to send father a message about my staying here. If you would
stop at a telegraph-office--"

"Oh, that's all right," broke in Edna. "There's a call-box down-stairs.
I'll have the hall-boy attend to it. You mustn't lose a minute, Tom."

Miss Hill sped him on his way by going with him to the elevator. While
they waited for that, she asked, cautiously:

"Is there anything about this affair that you were afraid to say before
Florence?"

A thought of the twenty thousand dollars came into his head; but again
he felt that the circumstance of the money was his friend's secret, and
should be treated by him--for the present, at least--as non-existent.

"No," he replied. "I wouldn't call it a disappearance, if I were you. So
far, it's just a non-appearance. We shall soon be laughing at ourselves,
probably, for having been at all worked up over it.--She's a lovely girl,
isn't she? I'm half in love with her myself."

"She's proof against your charms," said Edna, coolly.

"I know it. What a lot she must think of him! The possibility of harm
brings out her feelings, I suppose. I wonder if you'd show such concern
if _I_ were missing?"

"I give it up. Here's the elevator. Good-by! And don't keep us in
suspense. You're a dear boy! _Au revoir!_"

With the hope of Edna's approval to spur him, besides the more unselfish
motives he already possessed, Larcher made haste upon the business. This
time he tried to conquer the expectation of finding Davenport at home;
yet it would struggle up as he approached the house of Mrs. Haze. The
same deadening disappointment met him as before, however; and was
mirrored in the landlady's face when she saw by his that he brought no
news.

Mrs. Haze had come up from preparations for dinner. Hers was a house in
which, the choice being "optional," sundry of the lodgers took their
rooms "with board." Important as was her occupation, at the moment, of
"helping out" the cook by inducing a mass of stale bread to fancy itself
disguised as a pudding, she flung that occupation aside at once, and
threw on her things to accompany Larcher to police headquarters. There
she told all that was necessary, to an official at a desk,--a big,
comfortable man with a plenitude of neck and mustache. This gentleman,
after briefly questioning her and Larcher, and taking a few illegible
notes, and setting a subordinate to looking through the latest entries
in a large record, dismissed the subject by saying that whatever was
proper to be done _would_ be done. He had a blandly incredulous way with
him, as if he doubted, not only that Murray Davenport was missing, but
that any such person as Murray Davenport existed to _be_ missing; as if
he merely indulged his visitors in their delusion out of politeness; as
if in any case the matter was of no earthly consequence. The subordinate
reported that nothing in the record for the past two days showed any
such man, or the body of any such man, to have come under the all-seeing
eye of the police. Nevertheless, Mrs. Haze wanted the assurance that an
investigation should be started forthwith. The big man reminded her that
no dead body had been found, and repeated that all proper steps would be
taken. With this grain of comfort as her sole satisfaction, she returned
to her bread pudding, for which her boarders were by that time waiting.

When the big man had asked the question whether Davenport was accustomed
to carry much money about with him, or was known to have had any
considerable sum on his person when last seen, Larcher had silently
allowed Mrs. Haze to answer. "Not as far as I know; I shouldn't think
so," she had said. He felt that, as Davenport's absence was still so
short, and might soon be ended and accounted for, the situation did not
yet warrant the disclosure of a fact which Davenport himself had wished
to keep private. He perceived the two opposite inferences which might be
made from that fact, and he knew that the police would probably jump at
the inference unfavorable to his friend. For the present, he would guard
his friend from that.

Larcher's work on the case had just begun. For what was to come he
required the fortification of dinner. Mrs. Haze had invited him to dine
at her board, but he chose to lose that golden opportunity, and to eat
at one of those clean little places which for cheapness and good cooking
together are not to be matched, or half-matched, in any other city in
the world. He soon blessed himself for having done so; he had scarcely
given his order when in sauntered Barry Tompkins.

"Stop right here," cried Larcher, grasping the spectacled lawyer and
pulling him into a seat. "You are commandeered."

"What for?" asked Tompkins, with his expansive smile.

"Dinner first, and then--"

"All right. Do you give me _carte blanche_ with the bill of fare? May I
roam over it at my own sweet will? Is there no limit?"

"None, except a time limit. I want you to steer me around the hospitals,
station-houses, morgue, _et cetera_. There's a man missing. You've made
those rounds before."

"Yes, twice. When poor Bill Southford jumped from the ferry-boat; and
again when a country cousin of mine had knockout drops administered to
him in a Bowery dance-hall. It's a dismal quest."

"I know it, but if you have nothing else on your hands this evening--"

"Oh, I'll pilot you. We never know when we're likely to have
search-parties out after ourselves, in this abounding metropolis. Who's
the latest victim of the strenuous life?"

"Murray Davenport!"

"What! is he occurring again?"

Larcher imparted what it was needful that Tompkins should know. The two
made an expeditious dinner, and started on their long and fatiguing
inquiry. It was, as Tompkins had said, a dismal quest. Those who have
ever made this cheerless tour will not desire to be reminded of the
experience, and those who have not would derive more pain than pleasure
from a recital of it. The long distances from point to point, the
rebuffs from petty officials, the difficulty in wringing harmless
information from fools clad in a little brief authority, the mingled
hope and dread of coming upon the object of the search at the next place,
the recurring feeling that the whole fatiguing pursuit is a wild goose
chase and that the missing person is now safe at home, are a few features
of the disheartening business. The labors of Larcher and Tompkins
elicited nothing; lightened though they were by the impecunious lawyer's
tact, knowledge, and good humor, they left the young men dispirited and
dead tired. Larcher had nothing to telegraph Miss Kenby. He thought of
her passing a sleepless night, waiting for news, the dupe and victim of
every sound that might herald a messenger. He slept ill himself, the
short time he had left for sleep. In the morning he made a swift
breakfast, and was off to Mrs. Haze's. Davenport's room was still
untenanted, his bed untouched; the telegram still lay unclaimed in the
hall below.

Florence and Edna were prepared, by the absence of news during the night,
for Larcher's discouraged face when he appeared at the flat in the
morning. Miss Kenby seemed already to have fortified her mind for an
indefinite season of anxiety. She maintained an outward calm, but it was
the forced calm of a resolution to bear torture heroically. She had her
lapses, her moments of weakness and outcry, her periods of despair,
during the ensuing days,--for days did ensue, and nothing was seen or
heard of the missing one,--but of these Larcher was not often a witness.
Edna Hill developed new resources as an encourager, a diverter, and an
unfailing optimist in regard to the outcome. The girls divided their time
between the flat and the Kenby lodgings down Fifth Avenue. Mr. Kenby was
subdued and self-effacing when they were about. He wore a somewhat meek,
cowed air nowadays, which was not without a touch of martyrdom. He
volunteered none but the most casual remarks on the subject of
Davenport's disappearance, and was not asked even for those. His
diminution spoke volumes for the unexpected force of personality
Florence must have shown in that unrelated interview about the letters,
in which she had got back her promise.

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