The Leavenworth Case (14 page)

“Mr. Gryce,” said I, “I have but few facts to add to those already known to you. Indeed, I am more moved by convictions than facts. That Eleanore Leavenworth never committed this crime, I am assured. That, on the other hand, the real perpetrator is known to her, I am equally certain; and that for some reason she considers it a sacred duty to shield the assassin, even at the risk of her own safety, follows as a matter of course from the facts. Now, with such data, it cannot be a very difficult task for you or me to work out satisfactorily, to our own minds at least, who this person can be. A little more knowledge of the family—”

“You know nothing of its secret history, then?”

“Nothing.”

“Do not even know whether either of these girls is engaged to be married?”

“I do not,” I returned, wincing at this direct expression of my own thoughts.

He remained a moment silent. “Mr. Raymond,” he cried at last, “have you any idea of the disadvantages under which a detective labors? For instance, now, you imagine I can insinuate myself into all sorts of society, perhaps; but you are mistaken. Strange as it may appear, I have never by any possibility of means succeeded with one class of persons at all. I cannot pass myself off for a gentleman. Tailors and barbers are no good; I am always found out.”

He looked so dejected I could scarcely forbear smiling, notwithstanding my secret care and anxiety.

“I have even employed a French valet, who understood dancing and whiskers; but it was all of no avail. The first gentleman I approached stared at me,—real gentleman, I mean, none of your American dandies,—and I had no stare to return; I had forgotten that emergency in my confabs with Pierre Catnille Marie Make-face.”

Amused, but a little discomposed by this sudden turn in the conversation, I looked at Mr. Gryce inquiringly.

“Now you, I dare say, have no trouble? Was born one, perhaps. Can even ask a lady to dance without blushing, eh?”

“Well,—” I commenced.

“Just so,” he replied; “now, I can’t. I can enter a house, bow to the mistress of it, let her be as elegant as she will, so long as I have a writ of arrest in my hand, or some such professional matter upon my mind; but when it comes to visiting in kid gloves, raising a glass of champagne in response to a toast—and such like, I am absolutely good for nothing.” And he plunged his two hands into his hair, and looked dolefully at the head of the cane I carried in my hand. “But it is much the same with the whole of us. When we are in want of a gentleman to work for us, we have to go outside of our profession.”

I began to see what he was driving at; but held my peace, vaguely conscious I was likely to prove a necessity to him, after all.

“Mr. Raymond,” he now said, almost abruptly; “do you know a gentleman by the name of Clavering residing at present at the Hoffman House?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“He is very polished in his manners; would you mind making his acquaintance?”

I followed Mr. Gryce’s example, and stared at the chimney-piece. “I cannot answer till I understand matters a little better,” I returned at length.

“There is not much to understand. Mr. Henry Clavering, a gentleman and a man of the world, resides at the Hoffman House. He is a stranger in town, without being strange; drives, walks, smokes, but never visits; looks at the ladies, but is never seen to bow to one. In short, a person whom it is desirable to know; but whom, being a proud man, with something of the old-world prejudice against Yankee freedom and forwardness, I could no more approach in the way of acquaintance than I could the Emperor of Austria.”

“And you wish—”

“He would make a very agreeable companion for a rising young lawyer of good family and undoubted respectability. I have no doubt, if you undertook to cultivate him, you would find him well worth the trouble.”

“But—”

“Might even desire to take him into familiar relations; to confide in him, and—”

“Mr. Gryce,” I hastily interrupted; “I can never consent to plot for any man’s friendship for the sake of betraying him to the police.”

“It is essential to your plans to make the acquaintance of Mr. Clavering,” he dryly replied.

“Oh!” I returned, a light breaking in upon me; “he has some connection with this case, then?”

Mr. Gryce smoothed his coat-sleeve thoughtfully. “I don’t know as it will be necessary for you to betray him. You wouldn’t object to being introduced to him?”

“No.”

“Nor, if you found him pleasant, to converse with him?”

“No.”

“Not even if, in the course of conversation, you should come across something that might serve as a clue in your efforts to save Eleanore Leavenworth?”

The no I uttered this time was less assured; the part of a spy was the very last one I desired to play in the coming drama.

“Well, then,” he went on, ignoring the doubtful tone in which my assent had been given, “I advise you to immediately take up your quarters at the Hoffman House.”

“I doubt if that would do,” I said. “If I am not mistaken, I have already seen this gentleman, and spoken to him.”

“Where?”

“Describe him first.”

“Well, he is tall, finely formed, of very upright carriage, with a handsome dark face, brown hair streaked with gray, a piercing eye, and a smooth address. A very imposing personage, I assure you.”

“I have reason to think I have seen him,” I returned; and in a few words told him when and where.

“Humph!” said he at the conclusion; “he is evidently as much interested in you as we are in him.

“How’s that? I think I see,” he added, after a moment’s thought. “Pity you spoke to him; may have created an unfavorable impression; and everything depends upon your meeting without any distrust.”

He rose and paced the floor.

“Well, we must move slowly, that is all. Give him a chance to see you in other and better lights. Drop into the Hoffman House reading-room. Talk with the best men you meet while there; but not too much, or too indiscriminately. Mr. Clavering is fastidious, and will not feel honored by the attentions of one who is hail-fellow-well-met with everybody. Show yourself for what you are, and leave all advances to him; he’ll make them.”

“Supposing we are under a mistake, and the man I met on the corner of Thirty-seventh Street was not Mr. Clavering?”

“I should be greatly surprised, that’s all.”

Not knowing what further objection to make, I remained silent.

“And this head of mine would have to put on its thinking-cap,” he pursued jovially.

“Mr. Gryce,” I now said, anxious to show that all this talk about an unknown party had not served to put my own plans from my mind, “there is one person of whom we have not spoken.”

“No?” he exclaimed softly, wheeling around until his broad back confronted me. “And who may that be?”

“Why, who but Mr.—” I could get no further. What right had I to mention any man’s name in this connection, without possessing sufficient evidence against him to make such mention justifiable? “I beg your pardon,” said I; “but I think I will hold to my first impulse, and speak no names.”

“Harwell?” he ejaculated easily.

The quick blush rising to my face gave an involuntary assent.

“I see no reason why we shouldn’t speak of him,” he went on; “that is, if there is anything to be gained by it.”

“His testimony at the inquest was honest, you think?”

“It has not been disproved.”

“He is a peculiar man.”

“And so am I.”

I felt myself slightly nonplussed; and, conscious of appearing at a disadvantage, lifted my hat from the table and prepared to take my leave; but, suddenly thinking of Hannah, turned and asked if there was any news of her.

He seemed to debate with himself, hesitating so long that I began to doubt if this man intended to confide in me, after all, when suddenly he brought his two hands down before him and exclaimed vehemently:

“The evil one himself is in this business! If the earth had opened and swallowed up this girl, she couldn’t have more effectually disappeared.”

I experienced a sinking of the heart. Eleanore had said: “Hannah can do nothing for me.” Could it be that the girl was indeed gone, and forever?

“I have innumerable agents at work, to say nothing of the general public; and yet not so much as a whisper has come to me in regard to her whereabouts or situation. I am only afraid we shall find her floating in the river some fine morning, without a confession in her pocket.”

“Everything hangs upon that girl’s testimony,” I remarked.

He gave a short grunt. “What does Miss Leavenworth say about it?”

“That the girl cannot help her.”

I thought he looked a trifle surprised at this, but he covered it with a nod and an exclamation. “She must be found for all that,” said he, “and shall, if I have to send out Q.”

“Q?”

“An agent of mine who is a living interrogation point; so we call him
Q,
which is short for query.” Then, as I turned again to go: “When the contents of the will are made known, come to me.”

The will! I had forgotten the will.

XV. WAYS OPENING

“It is not and it cannot come to good.”

—Hamlet.

I ATTENDED THE FUNERAL
of Mr. Leavenworth, but did not see the ladies before or after the ceremony. I, however, had a few moments’ conversation with Mr. Harwell; which, without eliciting anything new, provided me with food for abundant conjecture. For he had asked, almost at first greeting, if I had seen the
Telegram
of the night before; and when I responded in the affirmative, turned such a look of mingled distress and appeal upon me, I was tempted to ask how such a frightful insinuation against a young lady of reputation and breeding could ever have got into the papers. It was his reply that struck me.

“That the guilty party might be driven by remorse to own himself the true culprit.”

A curious remark to come from a person who had no knowledge or suspicion of the criminal and his character; and I would have pushed the conversation further, but the secretary, who was a man of few words, drew off at this, and could be induced to say no more. Evidently it was my business to cultivate Mr. Clavering, or any one else who could throw any light upon the secret history of these girls.

That evening I received notice that Mr. Veeley had arrived home, but was in no condition to consult with me upon so painful a subject as the murder of Mr. Leavenworth. Also a line from Eleanore, giving me her address, but requesting me at the same time not to call unless I had something of importance to communicate, as she was too ill to receive visitors. The little note affected me. Ill, alone, and in a strange home,—’twas pitiful!

The next day, pursuant to the wishes of Mr. Gryce, in I stepped into the Hoffman House, and took a seat in the reading room. I had been there but a few moments when a gentleman entered whom I immediately recognized as the same I had spoken to on the corner of Thirty-seventh Street and Sixth Avenue. He must have remembered me also, for he seemed to be slightly embarrassed at seeing me; but, recovering himself, took up a paper and soon became to all appearance lost in its contents, though I could feel his handsome black eye upon me, studying my features, figure, apparel, and movements with a degree of interest which equally astonished and disconcerted me. I felt that it would be injudicious on my part to return his scrutiny, anxious as I was to meet his eye and learn what emotion had so fired his curiosity in regard to a perfect stranger; so I rose, and, crossing to an old friend of mine who sat at a table opposite, commenced a desultory conversation, in the course of which I took occasion to ask if he knew who the handsome stranger was. Dick Furbish was a society man, and knew everybody.

“His name is Clavering, and he comes from London. I don’t know anything more about him, though he is to be seen everywhere except in private houses. He has not been received into society yet; waiting for letters of introduction, perhaps.”

“A gentleman?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“One you speak to?”

“Oh, yes; I talk to him, but the conversation is very one-sided.”

I could not help smiling at the grimace with which Dick accompanied this remark. “Which same goes to prove,” he went on, “that he is the real thing.”

Laughing outright this time, I left him, and in a few minutes sauntered from the room.

As I mingled again with the crowd on Broadway, I found myself wondering immensely over this slight experience. That this unknown gentleman from London, who went everywhere except into private houses, could be in any way connected with the affair I had so at heart, seemed not only improbable but absurd; and for the first time I felt tempted to doubt the sagacity of Mr. Gryce in recommending him to my attention.

The next day I repeated the experiment, but with no greater success than before. Mr. Clavering came into the room, but, seeing me, did not remain. I began to realize it was no easy matter to make his acquaintance. To atone for my disappointment, I called on Mary Leavenworth in the evening. She received me with almost a sister-like familiarity.

“Ah,” she cried, after introducing me to an elderly lady at her side,—some connection of the family, I believe, who had come to remain with her for a while,—“you are here to tell me Hannah is found; is it not so?”

I shook my head, sorry to disappoint her. “No,” said I; “not yet.”

“But Mr. Gryce was here to-day, and he told me he hoped she would be heard from within twenty-four hours.”

“Mr. Gryce here!”

“Yes; came to report how matters were progressing,—not that they seemed to have advanced very far.”

“You could hardly have expected that yet. You must not be so easily discouraged.”

“But I cannot help it; every day, every hour that passes in this uncertainty, is like a mountain weight here”; and she laid one trembling hand upon her bosom. “I would have the whole world at work. I would leave no stone unturned; I—”

“What would you do?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she cried, her whole manner suddenly changing; “nothing, perhaps.” Then, before I could reply to this: “Have you seen Eleanore to-day?”