Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Holladay Case: A Tale by Burton Egbert Stevenson (thriller books to read .txt) 📖
- Author: Burton Egbert Stevenson
Book online «The Holladay Case: A Tale by Burton Egbert Stevenson (thriller books to read .txt) 📖». Author Burton Egbert Stevenson
"Mr. Royce is ill, sir!" I cried. "Look at him!"
He was leaning forward heavily, his face drawn and livid, his eyes set, his hands plucking at the arms of his chair. We sprang to him and led him to a couch. I bathed his hands and face in cold water, while Mr. Graham hurriedly summoned a physician. The doctor soon arrived, and diagnosed the case at a glance.[Pg 159]
"Nervous breakdown," he said tersely. "You lawyers drive yourselves too hard. It's a wonder to me you don't all drop over. We'll have to look out, or this will end in brain fever."
He poured out a stimulant, which the sick man swallowed without protest. He seemed stronger in a few moments, and began talking incoherently to himself. We got him down to the doctor's carriage, and drove rapidly to his lodgings, where we put him to bed without delay.
"I think he'll pull through," observed the doctor, after watching him for a while. "I'll get a couple of nurses, and we'll give him every chance. Has he any relatives here in New York?"
"No; his relatives are all in Ohio. Had they better be notified?"
"Oh, I think not—not unless he gets worse. He seems to be naturally strong. I suppose he's been worrying about something?"[Pg 160]
"Yes," I said. "He has been greatly worried by one of his cases."
"Of course," he nodded. "If the human race had sense enough to stop worrying, there'd be mighty little work for us doctors."
"I'd like to call Doctor Jenkinson into the case," I said. "He knows Mr. Royce, and may be of help."
"Certainly; I'll be glad to consult with Doctor Jenkinson."
So Jenkinson was called, and confirmed the diagnosis. He understood, of course, the cause of Mr. Royce's breakdown, and turned to me when the consultation was ended, and his colleague had taken his departure.
"Mr. Lester," he said, "I advise you to go home and get some rest. Put this case out of your mind, or you'll be right where Mr. Royce is. He had some more bad news, I suppose?"
I told him of Miss Holladay's disappearance;[Pg 161] he pondered over it a moment with grave face.
"This strengthens my belief that she is suffering with dementia," he said. "Sudden aversion to relatives and friends is one of its most common symptoms. Of course, she must be found."
"I'm going to find her," I assured him, with perhaps a little more confidence than I really felt.
"Well, remember to call on me if I can help you. But first of all, go home and sleep for ten hours—twelve, if you can. Mind, no work before that—no building of theories. You'll be so much the fresher to-morrow."
I recognized the wisdom of this advice, but I had one thing to do first. I took a cab and drove to the nearest telegraph office. There I sent an imperative message to Brooks, the Holladay coachman, telling him to return to New York by the first train, and report to me at the office. That done,[Pg 162] I gave the driver my address and settled back in the seat.
No building of theories, Jenkinson had said; yet it was difficult to keep the brain idle. Where was Frances Holladay? Why had she fled? Was she really mentally deranged? Had the weight of the secret proved too great for her? Or had she merely fallen under the influence of the woman who was guilty? Supposing she was insane, what should we do with her when we found her? How could we control her? And, supposing she were not insane, what legal right had we to interfere with her? These and a hundred other questions crowded upon me, till thought failed, and I lay back confused, indifferent——
"Here we are, sir," said the driver, jumping down from his seat and jerking open the door.
I paid him, and went stumblingly up the steps. I have no doubt he was grinning behind me. As I fumbled with my key,[Pg 163] someone opened the door from the inside.
"Why, Mistair Lester!" exclaimed Martigny's voice. "What is it? You have no illness, I hope!"
"No," I murmured, "I'm just dead tired," and I started blindly for the stair.
"Let me assist you," and he took my arm and helped me up; then went on ahead, opened my door, and lighted the gas.
"Thanks," I said, as I dropped into a chair.
He sat quietly down opposite me, and, weary as I was, I was conscious of his keen eyes upon me.
"We heard from Miss Holladay this morning," I remarked, unconsciously answering their question.
He did not reply for a moment, but I had closed my eyes again, and I was too tired to open them and look at him.
"Ah," he said, in a voice a little hoarse; "and she is well?"[Pg 164]
"No; she's disappeared."
"You mean——"
"I mean she's run away," I said, waking up a little.
"And she has informed you——"
"Oh, no; we've just found it out. She's been gone ten days."
"And you are going to search for her?" he questioned carelessly, after another pause.
"Yes—I'll begin in the morning."
Again there was a moment's silence.
"Ah!" he said, with a curious intensity. "Ah."
Then he arose and left me to tumble incontinently into bed.
[Pg 165]
CHAPTER XI I Unmask My EnemyTired Nature asserted herself and took the full twelve hours. But I felt like another man when I left the house next morning, and I was eager to grapple anew with the mystery. I found two reports awaiting me at the office: Mr. Royce had passed a good night and was better; the clerks who had spent the afternoon before in visiting the stables had as yet discovered nothing, and were continuing their search.
I looked up a time-card of the Long Island Railroad, and found that Miss Holladay's coachman could not reach the city until 9.30. So I put on my hat again, sought a secluded table at Wallack's, and over a cigar and stein of bock, drew up a résumé of the case—to clear the atmosphere, as it were. It ran something like this:[Pg 166]
March 13, Thursday—Holladay found murdered; daughter drives to Washington Square.
March 14, Friday—Coroner's inquest; Miss Holladay released; mysterious note received.
March 16, Sunday—Holladay buried.
March 18, Tuesday—Will opened and probated.
March 28, Friday—Miss Holladay returns from drive, bringing new maid with her and discharges old one.
March 29, Saturday—Gives orders to open summer house.
April 1, Tuesday—Asks for $100,000.
April 2, Wednesday—Gets it.
April 3, Thursday—Leaves home, ostensibly for Belair, in company with new maid.
April 14, Monday—Butler reports her disappearance; Royce taken ill; I begin my search.
There I stopped. The last entry brought me up to date—there was nothing more to[Pg 167] add. But it seemed impossible that all the developments of this mystery should have taken only a month. For years, as it seemed to me, I had thought of nothing else.
I looked over the schedule again carefully. There was only one opening that I could see where it was possible to begin work with the hope of accomplishing anything. That was in the very first entry. Miss Holladay had driven to Washington Square; she had, I felt certain, visited her sister; I must discover the lodging of this woman. Perhaps I should also discover Frances Holladay there. In any event, I should have a new point to work from.
The police had been over the ground, I knew; they had exhausted every resource in the effort to locate Mr. Holladay's mysterious visitor, and had found not a trace of her. But that fact did not discourage me; for I hoped to start my search with information which the police had not possessed.[Pg 168] Brooks, the coachman, should be able to tell me——
Recalled suddenly to remembrance of him, I looked at my watch and saw that it was past his hour. I was pleased to find him awaiting me when I opened the office door three minutes later. I had only a few questions to ask him.
"When your mistress left the carriage the day you drove her to Washington Square, did you notice which street she took after she left the square?"
"Yes, sir; she went on down West Broadway."
"On which side?"
"Th' left-hand side, sir; th' east side."
"She must have crossed the street to get to that side."
"Yes, sir; she did. I noticed pertic'lar, for I thought it funny she shouldn't 've let me drive her on down th' street to wherever she was goin'. It's a dirty place along there, sir."[Pg 169]
"Yes, I know. When you drove her out on the 28th—the day she brought back the maid—where did she go?"
"To Washington Square again, sir."
"And left you waiting for her?"
"Yes, sir; just th' same."
"And went down the same street?"
"Yes, sir; crossed to th' east side just th' same as th' time before."
"How long was she gone?"
"Over an hour, sir; an hour an' a half, I should say."
"Did you notice anything unusual in her appearance when she came back?"
"No, sir; she was wearin' a heavy veil. She had th' other woman with her, an' she just said 'Home!' in a kind o' hoarse voice, as I helped them into th' carriage."
That was all that he could tell me, and yet I felt that it would help me greatly. In the first place, it narrowed my investigations to the district lying to the east of West Broadway, and I knew that the French quarter[Pg 170] extended only a block or two in that direction. And again, it gave me a point to insist on in my inquiries—I knew the date upon which the mysterious woman had left her lodging. Or, at least, I knew that it must be one of two dates. The lodging had been vacated, then, either on the twenty-eighth of March or the third of April. As a last resource, I had the photograph. I was ready to begin my search, and dismissed Brooks, warning him to say nothing to anyone about the mystery.
As I passed out the door to the pavement, I happened to glance across the way, and there, in the crowd of brokers which always lines the street, I perceived Martigny. He was listening intently to one of the brokers, who was talking earnestly in his ear—telling him how to make his fortune, I suppose—and did not see me. For an instant, I was tempted to cross to him, and get him out of danger. Then I smiled at the absurdity of the thought. It would take a clever man to[Pg 171] fleece Martigny, and I recalled his strong face, his masterful air—he was no fool, no lamb ready for the shears. He was perfectly able to look out for himself—to wield the shears with power and effect, if need be.
I turned west toward Broadway, still, I suppose, thinking of him subconsciously: for a few moments later, some irresistible impulse caused me to glance around. And there he was, walking after me, on the opposite side of the street! Then, in a flash, I understood. He was following me!
It is difficult to describe the shock that ran through me, that left me numbed and helpless. For an instant, I stumbled on, half-dazed; then, gradually, my self-control came back, and with it a certain fierce joy, a hot exultation. Here, at last, was something definite, tangible, a clew ready to my hand, if only I were clever enough to follow it up; a ray of light in the darkness! I could feel my cheeks burning, and my heart leaping at the thought![Pg 172]
But what had been his part in the affair? For a moment, I groped blindly in the dark, but only for a moment. Whatever his share in the tragedy, he had plainly been left behind to watch us; to make sure that we did not follow the fugitives; to warn them in case of danger. I understood, now, his solicitude for Miss Holladay—"in her I take such an interest!" It was important that he should know the moment we discovered her absence. And he had known; he knew that I was even at this moment commencing the search for her. My cheeks reddened at the thought of my indiscreetness; yet he was a man to command confidence. Who would have suspected him? And an old proverb which he had repeated one evening, flashed
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