The Man Who Fell Through the Earth

“Now you’re guying me again. Guess I’ll shut up on that subject. But I’ll stick you for one more helping-hand act. Where can I get a room to live in for a short time?”

“Why a short time?”

“Because I must take a dinky little cheap place at first, then soon, I’ll be on my feet, financially speaking, and I can move to decenter quarters. You see, I’m going to ask you after all to trust me with a few shekels, right now, and I’ll return the loan, with interest, at no far distant date.”

His calm assumption of success in a business way impressed me favorably. Undoubtedly, he had been one accustomed to making and spending money in his previous life, and he took it as a matter of course. But his common sense, which had by no means deserted him, made him aware that he could get no satisfactory position without some sort of credentials.

As he talked he was idly, it seemed, unconsciously, drawing on the paper pad that lay on the table at his elbow – delicate penciled marks that resolved themselves into six-sided figures, whose radii blossomed out into beautiful tendrils or spikes until they formed a perfect, harmonious whole; each section alike, just as in a snow crystal.

They were so exquisitely done that I marveled at his peculiar gift.

“You ought to design lace,” I observed; “those designs are too fine for papers or carpets.”

“Perhaps so,” he returned, seriously gazing at his drawings. “Anyway, I’ll design something, – and it’ll be something worthwhile!”

“Maybe you were an engraver,” I hazarded, “before you – ”

“Before I fell through the earth? Maybe I was. Well, then, suppose tomorrow I so far encroach on your good offices as to go with you to see the firm you mentioned. Or, if you’ll give me a letter of introduction – ”

“Do you know your way around New York?”

“I’m not sure. I have a feeling I was in New York once, – a long time ago, but I can’t say for certain.”

“I’ll go with you then. I’ll call for you tomorrow, and escort you to the office I have in mind, and also, look up a home and fireside that appeals to you.”

“The sort that appeals to me is out of the question at present,” he said, firmly determined to put himself under no greater obligation to me than need be. “I’ll choose a room like the old gentleman in the Bible had with a bed and a table and a stool and a candlestick.”

“You remember your literature all right.”

“I do, mostly; though I’ll confess I read of that ascetic individual since I’ve been here. The hospital is long on Bibles and detective stories, and short on belles-lettres. Well, so long, old man!”

I went away, pondering. It was a strange case, this of Case Rivers. I smiled at the name he had chosen.

He was positively a well-educated and well-read man. His speech gave me a slight impression of an Englishman, and I wondered if he might be Canadian. Of course, I didn’t believe an atom of his yarn about coming from Canada to our fair city via the interior of the globe, – but he may have had a lapse of memory that included his railroad journey, and dreamed that he came in some fantastic way.

And then, as is usual, when leaving one scene for another, my thoughts flew ahead to my next errand, which was a visit to Police Headquarters.

Here Chief Martin gave me a lot of new information. It seemed they had unearthed damaging evidence in the case of George Rodman, and he was, without a doubt, a malefactor, – but in what particular branch of evil the Chief omitted to state. Nor could any rather broad hints produce any result. At last I said:

“Why don’t you arrest Rodman, then?”

“Not enough definite evidence. I’m just about sure that he killed Gately, and I think I know why, but I can’t prove it, – yet. Your statement that his head shadowed on that glass door was the same head you saw the day of the murder, is our strongest point – ”

“Oh, I didn’t say that!” I cried, aghast; “I do say it looked like the same head, but I wouldn’t swear that it was!”

“Well, I think it was, and though we can’t connect up the pistol with Rodman – ”

“Did you get the pistol from the Boston man?”

“Yes; Scanlon brought home that bacon. But careful grilling failed to get any more information from Lusk, the man who found the pistol. He tells a straight tale of his visit to the Puritan Building, and his business there, all corroborated by the people he called on. He found that pistol, just as he says he did. And, of course, I knew he told the truth in his letter. If he were involved, or had any guilty knowledge of the crime, he surely wouldn’t write to tell us of it! So now we have the pistol, and we know it was picked up in the tenth floor hall near Rodman’s door, – but that proves nothing, since we can’t claim it is Rodman’s weapon. It may be, of course, but there’s nothing to show it.”

“What does Rodman say for himself?”

“Denies everything. Says he had the merest nodding acquaintance with Gately, – this we know is a lie! – says he knew there was an elevator door in his room, but he had never used it, nor even opened it. Said he hung a big war map over it because it was a good place for a map. We’ve no living witness to give a shred of evidence against Rodman, except your statement about his shadow, – and that is uncertain at best.”

“Yes, it is. I do say it looked like Rodman’s head, – that is, I mean, Rodman’s head looked like the one I saw that day. But other heads might look as much like it.”

“That’s the trouble. George Rodman is a slick chap, and what he does that he doesn’t want known, doesn’t get known! But I’m onto him! And I’ll bet I’ll get him yet. He’s so comfoundedly cool that all I say to him rolls off like water off a duck’s back. He knows I’ve got no proof, and he’s banking on that to get through.”

“What about Jenny? Can’t she tell you anything?”

“She knows nothing about Rodman. And that very point proves that if he visited Gately often, as I think he did, he came and went by that private elevator which connected their two offices, as well as made a street exit for either or both of them.”

“Did old man Boyd ever see Rodman leave the Matteawan by way of that elevator?”

“He says he never did, but sometimes I think Rodman has fixed him.”

“And Jenny, too, maybe.”

“Maybe. And here’s another thing. There’s somebody called ‘The Link,’ who figures largely in the whole affair, but figures secretly. I won’t say how I found this little joker, but if I can dig up who ‘The Link’ is, I’ve made a great stride toward success.”

Naturally, I said nothing about Pennington Wise to the Chief of Police, but I made a mental note of “The Link” to report to the detective.

“Reward’s offered,” we were suddenly informed, as Foxy Jim Hudson burst into the room.

“For what?” asked the Chief, a little absent-mindedly.

“For information leading to the whereabouts of Amory Manning.”

Martin wheeled round in his chair to look at his subordinate. “Who offered it? How much?”

“That’s the queer part, Chief. Not the amount, – that’s five thousand dollars, but it’s a person or persons unknown who will put up the kale. It’s done through the firm of Kellogg and Kellogg, – about the whitest bunch of lawyers in town. I mean whoever offers that reward is somebody worthwhile. No shyster business. I’m for it, – the money, I mean. Do you know, Chief, the disappearance of that Manning chap is in some way connected with the Gately murder? I’ve got a hunch on that. And here’s how I dope it out. Manning saw Rodman, – well, perhaps he didn’t see him shoot, but he saw something that incriminated Rodman, and so he, – Rodman, had to get Manning out of the way. And did! You see, Friend Rodman is not only a deep-dyed scoundrel, – but the dye was ‘made in Germany’!”

“Well, I’m glad the reward is offered,” commented the Chief. “Now some rank outsider’ll pipe up and speak his little piece.”

“Meaning anybody in particular?” I asked.

With that peculiarly irritating trick of his, Chief Martin not only made no reply but gave no evidence of having heard my question. He went on:

“That makes two rewards. The Puritan Trust Company has offered five thousand for the apprehension of Gately’s murderer. This other five thousand adds to the excitement and ought to produce a good result.”

“I’m out for both,” announced Hudson. “Can’t say I expect to get ’em, but I’ll make a fierce stab at it. Rodman has an awful big income, and no visible means of support. That fact ought to help.”

“How?” I asked.

“Oh, it proves to my mind that he was mixed up in lucrative business that he didn’t – well – advertise. ‘The Link’ was mixed in, too. That is, – I suppose, – ‘The Link’ was a sort of go-between, who enabled Rodman to transact his nefarious deals secretly.”

“Well, Foxy, you know a lot,” and the Chief laughed good-humoredly.