The Man Who Fell Through the Earth Page 8
CHAPTER VIII The Man Who Fell Through the Earth
"And it is for me," Olive went on, with a solemn look in her brown eyes,"to avenge the death of my guardian. I am not worried about thissurveillance, or whatever they call it, of myself,--it is too absurd totake very seriously. Of course, I shall not leave the city, and I willanswer any questions the police may put to me. For, you see, Mr. Brice,the only reason I had for telling falsehoods is a reason no longer. I didresort to 'white lies' because Uncle Amos was so unreasonably strict withme, but I've no further need for that sort of thing, and I assure you youwill find me absolutely truthful from now on."
A sad little smile accompanied the words, and an earnest expression onthe delicate, high-bred face gave me implicit confidence in hersincerity.
"Then," I hastened to advise her, "do not antagonize the police. If theyhave you under their eye, rest assured they think there is some reason towatch you. Be friendly, or, at least patient with them, and they will allthe sooner be aware of their mistake. Moreover, you want their help inrunning down the real murderer of your guardian. It is a mysteriousaffair, Miss Raynor."
"Oh, it is, Mr. Brice, and it may be that in penetrating the mystery wemay unearth something--you know,--something detrimental to Mr. Gately'scharacter."
"Have you any such fear--definitely, I mean?"
"Not definitely, no. If I had I should tell you. But in a vague,apprehensive way, I feel there must be something in his life that broughtthis about, and that I as yet know nothing of. But you think, don't you,that we must go ahead and learn all we can?"
"You are not afraid, then, of investigation, for yourself--or, for anyoneelse?"
I put this query after a moment's hesitation, yet I had to know.
"No, sir," her voice rang out clearly. "I know what you mean, you arethinking of Mr. Manning. And there is another task for you. We must findAmory Manning. That man never went away, voluntarily, without sending mesome word. He said he would come up here that night,--the night ofUncle's death. He didn't come, nor did he communicate with me in any way.That means he was unable to do so."
"But what could have happened that would make it impossible for him tosend you some word?"
"I don't know--I can't think, I'm sure. But he was attacked or overcomeby someone who wanted him put out of the way. Mr. Manning hadenemies,--that much I may tell you----"
"Do you know more? That you can _not_ tell me?"
"No; that is, I don't _know_ anything,--but I have some foreboding,--oh,nothing definite, Mr. Brice, but I can't help fearing we shall never seeAmory Manning alive again!"
"I don't want to force your confidence, but can't you tell me a few morefacts? Why has he enemies? Are they political?"
"Yes; in a way. Don't ask me now anyway. Let us try to find Amory and ifwe fail, I may decide it my duty to tell you what I now withhold."
And with this I was forced to be content. For Olive Raynor did not talklike a young, inexperienced girl, as I had thought her; she gave me nowthe impression of a young woman involved in weighty matters, and thetrusted holder of important secrets.
"To begin with, then," I said, "suppose we try first to find Mr.Manning,--or to learn what became of him."
"Yes," she agreed; "but how shall we set about it? I've alreadytelephoned to several of his friends, whom I know, and none of them hasseen him since that day,--the day of Uncle's death. Thank Heaven nobodyis foolish enough to blame that on him!"
"They couldn't very well, as he was with you when the discovery wasmade."
"I know it. And for the police to say he ran away to hide to protect mefrom suspicion is just about the most absurd theory possible!"
"I think so, too. Now, to get down to dates. Have you heard anything ofMr. Manning later than the time when I saw him get off the Third Avenuecar on his way home that night?"
"No, I haven't. And we know he never reached his home. His rooms are in ahouse on Gramercy Park----"
"That's why he got off at Twenty-second Street----"
"Yes, of course. He left you there, didn't he?"
"We both got off the car there. My own rooms are in the same locality.But the snow squall was a whirlwind at the corner, and my glasses were socovered with flakes that I couldn't see a thing for a moment, and when Icould, Manning had got out of sight. I didn't know then in just whatdirection he lived, so I looked all four ways but I didn't see him.However, in the black squall, one couldn't see half a dozen stepsanyway."
"Of course, he started toward his home,--perhaps, he almost reachedit,--when whoever was lying in wait for him attacked him."
"Why are you so sure he was attacked? He may have had an errand in someother direction."
"I sort of see the thing as a picture. And as he got out at that corner Inaturally see him going straight home. It is not likely that he would begoing on some other errand, and yet get off at that corner."
"No; I suppose not."
"Well, then, as he never did go home,--hasn't been there yet,--whattheory is there except that he was prevented from going there? He mayhave been kidnaped,--don't smile, it is among the possibilities,--or, hemay have met with a serious accident,--slipped and broken his leg orsomething of that sort. But in such a case, he would have been taken to ahospital, and I should have heard of it. No, Mr. Brice, he was carriedoff by some powerful enemy. I say powerful, meaning rather, clever ordiplomatic, for as I see it, trickery would have been used, not force, toabduct Amory Manning."
"But why abduct him?" I cried in amazement "What is he? Why is he amenace?"
"I can't tell you, Mr. Brice, unless it becomes gravely necessary. But ithas to do with--with men higher up,--and it has nothing to do with myguardian's death,--of that I'm certain."
"Very well, Miss Raynor; I trust you, of course, that goes withoutsaying, but I also trust your judgment in reserving your full confidencein this matter."
"You may. I assure you I will tell you all, if it becomes imperative thatI do so. Meantime, let us try to find some trace of him."
"You have tried the hospitals?"
"Yes; I have telephoned to some of them, and I asked our family doctor toinquire of others. He did so, but with only negative results. Now----"
"Now, it's time to call in a detective," I said, positively. "And I don'tmean a mere police detective, but a special investigator. Have you anyobjection to such a course?"
"No; not if we get a good one. I don't know much about such things, butdon't some of those all-wise detectives have more theories and deductionsthan results?"
"You have put your finger on a vital flaw in the usual Smarty-Catdetective," I laughed. "But I know of a splendid man. He is eccentric, Iadmit, but beyond that he has none of the earmarks of the TranscendentalDetective of the story-books. He is intelligent rather than cocksure andefficient rather than spectacular. He _is_ expensive, but no more so thanhis success warrants."
"That sounds well. But first, Mr. Brice, can't we do a littleinvestigating by ourselves? I had hoped so. To engage a detective is tomake the whole affair so public, and I shrink from that."
"Not necessarily, Miss Raynor. If the man I speak of should take thecase, he would make no fuss or stir about it. And if you say so, he canalso try to find the man who killed Amos Gately."
"Oh, that is what I want! Yes, let us retain--or whatever the procedureis, your detective. What is his name?"
"Don't laugh, but it is Penny Wise!"
"What? How ridiculous!"
"Yes, but true. Pennington Wise is on his visiting cards, but no humannature could refrain from the inevitable nickname."
"He ought to change that name! It's enough to belittle any good work hemight do!"
"Well, he doesn't think so. In fact, he has become so used to havingpeople joke about it that he only smiles perfunctorily and goes on abouthis business."
"Will you ask him to help us?"
"Of course I will, and if not too busy on some other matter he willdoubtless begin at
once."
"I feel so young and inexperienced," Olive shuddered, "to be decidingthese big things. It seems as if someone older and wiser ought to directme. Oh, I know I have your help and counsel, but I wish I had somerelative or near friend on whose judgment I could rely. I am singularlyalone in the world, Mr. Brice."
"You have Mrs. Vail?"
"My companion? She is delightful as a chaperon and promises to be mostpleasant and congenial in my home life, but she is not capable of givingme any advice of value in these important affairs."
"You are indeed alone, Miss Raynor, but you are amazingly capable for ayoung woman and you continually surprise me by your grasp of thesituation and your ability to rise to its demands."
"If I only had Amory Manning to help me."
Poor child, I knew that was at the bottom of her loneliness, and though Ididn't presume to sympathize, I felt privileged to assure her of mypersonal help as well as my interested performance of my legal duties.
"Well, then, Mr. Brice," she responded, "there is one thing I want you todo for me. I want you to go to the morgue. I can't bring myself to dothat, nor do I want to ask anyone else I know to do so."
"Certainly," I replied, instinctively treating the matter casually, for Isaw she was deeply moved. "It will be merely a form, but it is better tofeel we have made every possible inquiry and left no stone unturned. Iwill go there at once,--now, if you say so."
She seemed gratified at my prompt compliance, and urged my goingimmediately.
"Come back this evening and report," she said, and then, with one ofthose sudden changes of demeanor which I was beginning to learn werecharacteristic of her, she bade me good afternoon with a quick, curtmanner, and practically dismissed me.
I started on my grewsome errand with enough food for thought to set mybrain in a whirl. I was deeply in the matter now, and quite satisfiedthat it should be so. I was the lawyer and adviser of Miss Raynor, and Idetermined to do my best to deserve and justify her choice. Hithertoobscure, I should now be looked up to by members of my profession withenvy--and, doubtless, with criticism. The latter, I meant to take goodcare, should be favorable.
As I looked at it I had three distinct missions. First, to arrange andattend to all of Miss Raynor's financial matters. Second, to assist herto track down the murderer of Amos Gately. Third, to help her to find, orto learn the fate of Amory Manning.
The first was my only personal charge. The other two must be accomplishedby Wise, and for my part I felt sure he would succeed.
My visit to the morgue, as I had surmised, brought no result. The poorunfortunates whose mortal remains had been brought there during or sinceWednesday, the day of Manning's disappearance, could by no stretch of theimagination be thought to look like Amory Manning.
Though I had never seen him until that day, I had a vivid picture of theman, large-framed, well set up, and with a general air of forcefulnessand power. I had watched his face, as we stood in the crowded street-car,too far apart for conversation, yet in full view of each other.
His face was strong and scholarly, the latter effect enhanced by hishuge, shell-rimmed glasses, and he had thick, rather coarse dark hair.Also a dark Vandyke beard and small mustache, both carefully trimmed.
"No," I said to the morgue-keeper, "the man I'm looking for isn't here."
I went on to tell him of Manning, in case he knew anything to tell me.But he only said, briefly:
"You're not the first, sir. The police have looked here for Mr. Manningand some others have done so beside."
So the police were ahead of me! Well, that only made it the more certainthat what we sought was not here.
"There was another chap, but he wasn't Mr. Manning either," vouchsafed myinformant. "Howsomever, the police went to see him. Wanta go?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why, that same afternoon, there was a corpse picked outa the East River,froze stiff. Leastways, we thought he was a corpse, but blamed if thechap didn't come to life!"
I wasn't greatly interested, for if the corpse was taken from the riverthat afternoon, it couldn't have been Manning. But the morgue-keeper wenton: "You might take a look, sir, to see if you know him. For the poorfellow's lost his mind,--no, not that,--but he's lost his memory, and hedunno who he is!"
"Amnesia?" I asked.
"That's what they call it, and the other thing, too. Aspasia,--orwhatever it is."
"Aphasia," I corrected him, without smiling, for how should he knowanything about what was a mystery to most skilled physicians. "Where ishe?"
"They carted him over to Bellevue soon's they seen he was alive. It was atouch job to _keep_ him alive, I heard, and his memory is completelybusted. It would be a godsend to him if you could identify him. I askeverybody to take a look on the chance. Somehow, I'm sorry for him."
I wasn't especially interested, but being thus appealed to in theinterests of humanity, I went over to the hospital, and had no difficultyin gaining a sight of the patient in question. Indeed, the doctors weremost anxious for visitors to see him, hoping that someone might identifythe man.
My first glance convinced me it was not Amory Manning, though I had notthought that it was.
This man had thin, light hair and vacant-looking, weak eyes. He wassmooth-shaven and his voice was peculiar,--a voice sufficient to identifyanyone, I felt sure, but it was not a voice I had heard before.
No; I didn't know him, and a careful scrutiny made me positive I did not.
But it was a sorry case. Apparently the man was of good education andaccustomed to cultured surroundings. Moreover, he had a sense of humorwhich had not deserted him, along with his memory.
I sat by his bedside, and I remained rather longer than I had intended,for I became interested in his story, and the time slipped by.
"You see," he said, fixing me with his queer-looking eyes, "I fellthrough the earth."
"You what?"
"I did. I fell through the earth, and it was a long, long fall."
"Well, yes, eight thousand miles, I'm told."
"Oh, no," and he was almost pettish, "I didn't fall through the middle ofit."
"Oh," and I paused for further enlightenment.
"It was this way. I remember it perfectly, you know. I wassomewhere,--somewhere up North----"
"Canada?"
"I don't know--I don't know." He shook his head uncertainly. "But I knowit was up North where it's always cold."
Perhaps the man had been an Arctic explorer.
"Iceland?" I said, "Greenland?"
"Maybe," and he looked uninterested. "But," here he brightened a little,"anyway, I fell through the earth. I fell in _there_, wherever it was,and came on down, down through the earth till I came out at the otherend."
"You mean, you fell through a section or segment of the globe? As if,say, you fell in at London and came out at the Cape of Good Hope!"
"That's the idea! Only I fell _out_ here in New York."
"And you fell in?"
"That's what I can't remember, only it was 'way up North,--somewhere."
"If you had a map, now, and looked at all the Northern countries, itmight recall itself to you,--the place where you entered,--where youbegan your journey."
"I thought so, but the nurse brought me an atlas and I couldn't find theplace. I wish I had a globe."
Poor chap. I wondered what had given him this strange hallucination. Butas he talked on, I became interested in his own personality.
He was as sane as I was in all respects, save his insistence that he hadfallen through the earth.
As a child, an ambition of mine had been to dig down to China, and manytimes I had started the task. Perhaps his childhood had known a similarambition, and now, his memory gone, his distorted mind harked back tothat idea. I changed the subject, and found him remarkably well informed,fairly well educated, and of a curiously analytical temperament, but ofhis identity or his personality he had no knowledge.
He appreciated this, and it made the thing more pathetic.
"You can reason and understand everything said to you?"
"Oh, yes; I'm my own man in every respect except in a knowledge of who orwhat I was before that journey through the earth."
"Then," I tried plain common sense, "then, if you can reason, you mustknow that you didn't fall through the earth. It would be impossible."
"I know that. My reason tells me it's impossible. But all I know about itis, that I did do it."
"Through a long hole,--miles long?"
"Yes."
"Who bored the hole?"
"It was there all the time. I suppose Nature made it."
"Oh, a sort of rock fissure----"
"No; more like a mine,--a----"
"That's it, old chap! You were a miner, and there was a cave-in, and itspoiled your thinker--temporarily."
"But a mine doesn't have an exit at the bottom of it. I tell you I wasfar away from where I fell in, and I came miles straight down through thesolid earth----"
"Could you see plainly?"
"Oh, no, it was dark,--how could it be otherwise, inside the earth?"
It was hopeless to dissuade him. We talked for some time, and outside hishallucination he was keen and quick-witted. But whatever gave him hisidea of his strange adventure he thoroughly believed in it and nothingwould shake that belief.
"What are you going to do when you get out of here?" I asked him.
"I don't know, I'm sure. But I can't help feeling that the world owes mea living--especially after I've fallen through it!"
I laughed, for his humor was infectious, and I felt pretty sure he wouldmake good somehow. He was about thirty, I judged, and though not a brawnyman, he seemed possessed of a wiry strength.
The doctors, he told me, assured him of speedily returning health butwould give no definite promise regarding the return of his memory.
"So," he said, cheerfully, "I'll get along without it, and start outfresh. Why, I haven't even a name!"
"You can acquire one at small expense," I advised him.
"Yes; I've part of it now. I shall take Rivers as a surname, because theypulled me out of the East River, they say."
"How were you dressed?"
"In Adam's costume, I'm told. I regret the loss of a full suit ofapparel, more especially as it might have proved my identity."
"You mean you were entirely divested of clothing?"
"Except for a few rags of underwear, entirely worthless as clews to whatwas doubtless an illustrious personality! However, I'm lucky to havebreath left in my body, and when I get back my memory, I'll prove that Ireally did fall through the earth, and I'll find out where I fell in."
"I sincerely hope you will, old chap," and I shook hands as I rose to go."As the play says, 'You interest me strangely!' May I come to see youagain?"
"I wish you would, Mr. Brice, and by that time I shall have chosen me afirst name."