At One-Thirty by Isabel Ostrander (best book series to read .txt) đ
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âas been bad; but one must expect things when one gets on in years. Tis in my left leg, sir.â
âYes, I heard you drag your left foot a little. That was why I asked. I hope it will be better. ⊠Goodday, Mrs. Crabtree.â
In the car, as he rolled swiftly cityward, the amazing revelations of the afternoon pounded unceasingly in Gauntâs brain. Rupert Hitchcock! The man who had wrecked the powerful Wall Street firm of Smith, Hitchcock V. Gregory, of which he was junior partner, and who had been sentenced to seven years in prison for the misappropriation of funds!
What connection had there been between him and the murdered man? What secret had they shared, what mystery guarded? By some strange stroke of fate, could it be from his hand that the bullet had sped to the heart of Garret Appleton?
THE nightâs reflections served to alter Gauntâs plans for the next day, and, at as early an hour as he conventionally could, he stepped from his motor at the door of the Blenheim, and was guided to Mrs. Finlay Appletonâs apartments. That lady, mindful that his affliction prevented a betrayal of her early-morning appearance, received him without delay, and all but inundated him under a storm of anxious queries. When the eager flow of questioning had abated somewhat, the detective ventured to speak:
âPlease, please, my dear Mrs. Appletonl You must believe that I appreciate, in part at least, your feeling as a mother, in so heartrending an affair as this, and I am doing my utmost to shorten the suspense and horror of the situation for you; but you really must have patience. Remember that the picked men of the detective squad of the police force are working night and day, also, on this case, and, although many clues have been unearthed, it is too soon to expect anything definite. Such an affair as this cannot be brought to a conclusion in a day.â
âI most heartily wish it were not necessary for the police to be concernedâat least, until the man who killed my poor boy is caught!â returned the elderly lady, asperity struggling with grief in her tones. âThat Inspector personâHanrahan, I beheve his name isâcalled upon me yesterday afternoon, and asked me the most preposterous and unbelievably impertinent questions about Garret â quite as if he suspected him of having some disgraceful secret in his past! As if my son could have any secret from his mother! The manâs impudence was astounding, and I told him so, and soon sent him about his business!â
The detectiveâs face relaxed ever so slightly. He could imagine the result of Inspector Hanrahanâs impoUte visit.
âIt was a terrible experience, Mr. Gaunt; absolute torture, coming, as it did, immediately after my poor sonâs burial!â
âI read of the funeral in the papers, this morning,â the detective remarked.
âIt was terribleâterrible!â she cried. âMy husband would have turned in his grave, had he known! The horrible crowds, Mr. Gauntâthe horrible, gaping, staring crowds! In spite of the cordons of police, they pressed in upon us on all sides, turning our grief into a sort of hideous public holiday! The last service which could be rendered my poor boy was robbed of all solenmity, all sacredness, by that mob of morbid, heartlessly curious people.â
âIndeed, you have my sympathy, Mrs. Appleton. I wish with all my heart that you and yours could have been spared that; but it is inevitably a part of such a tragedy as this. I am sure the police did all in their power to protect youââ
âPerhaps they did. But, as to discovering the murderer of my son, I have no faith in them. Yates and I rely entirely upon you.â
âI trust that I shall not disappoint you. But, Mrs. Appleton, I did not come here to distress or annoy you, I assure you. A little matter has turned up, which I should like some information about. Mr. Garret Appletonâs fortune was not entirely in real estate, was it.â
âNo,â she replied, in evident surspise. âHe held stocks and bonds, and traded quite a little in them, I believe.â
âCan you tell me who his brokers were?â
âPalmer and Leach, on Broad Street.â
âHave they been his brokers for a long time.â
Mrs. Appleton paused, as if trying to recall to her memory that which he had asked of her; but he detected a slight quickening of her audible breathing, and the dry rustle of her hands stirring in the silken lap of her morning-robe.
âReally, I donât remember, exactly. For a year or two prior to his marriage, I think.â
âAnd, before that, who were his brokers.â The nervous, annoyed stirring became more apparent in the srillness of the room. âWas the firm, by any chance. Smith, Hitchcock V. Gregory?â he persisted.
âIâI believe it was!â came faintly from the thin, compressed lips.
âAh! A most unfortunate failure!â commented the detective. âI remember my secretary reading of it to me, at the time. There were only two members of the firm, were there notâonly the man Smith, and Rupert Hitchcock? If my memory serves me, the name Gregory was merely retained to keep the title of the firm intact. I believe Mr. Gregory died many years ago.â
âReally, I cannot say,â murmured Mrs. Appleton, somewhat coldly. âI remember something about a failure, of course; but I know very little of affairs of finance.â
âI trust your son didnât lose by it,â the detective remarked, and paused for a moment before continuing. âIt was one of the worst failures the Street has ever known, and hundreds went down in the crash.â
âMy son was a very astute business man, Mr. Gaunt, and a very reticent one. If he lost very much in the failure of the firm with whom he traded, he said nothing of it, to me at least. He seldom discussed business matters at home.â Her tone was flatly uninterested, and there was a note of finality in it, which Gaunt recognized.
He rose.
âPalmer and Leach, I think you said, were the names of the latest brokers with whom Mr. Appleton traded? Thank you very much. I will remember itâŠ. Good-morning. I will report to you as soon as anything definite is discovered.â
Mrs. Appleton gave him a limp handshake^ and he departed, returning at once to his rooms, where he found Miss Barnes awaiting him. As Jenkins relieved him of his coat and hat, he asked his secretary to get him a number on the telephone. It was that of a man, although not a financier himself, who was probably the most cordially detested and feared of any man connected with Wall Street. Purporting to be the editor of a so-called financial news-sheet, Jerome Wetmore was in reality a spy, who managed in some seemingly inexplicable manner to become possessed of the secret plans and operations of the biggest men on the Exchange, and who used them for his own private ends, in a subtle way, which succeeded in keeping Jiim out of the hands of the police, or shared them with others, at a price. No one knew the extent of his resources, or the number or identity of his hirelings in the offices of different magnates; but that they existed was undoubted. On whatever questionable enterprise he was engaged, however, one thing was certain. The man was a walking chronology of events in the financial world, and as such he had not infrequently been of use to Gaunt.
âHello, Mr. Wetmore! This is GauntâDamon Gaunt,â the detective announced. âHave you a few minutes to spare for me? I want some information.â
âSurest thing you know!â came in short, quick accents over the âphone. âAlways time for you, Gaunt. What is it?â
âCan you reply freely, without fear of being overheardâmention names if necessary?â Gaunt asked, cautiously.
There was a chuckle at the other end of the wire.
âI shouldâhope sol This office is a padded cell. If it werenât, I might have been a fit subject for you, long ago!â Mr. Wetmore returned, frankly. Then he added: âWhat can I do for you?â
âTell me all you can of theâ Smith, Hitchcock V. Gregory failure, four years ago.â
A low whistle sounded in the detectiveâs ear.
âNow youâre talkinâ! Whatever started you on that? Wait a minuteâhold the wire.â
There was a faint resounding jar, as of the receiver being hastily thumped down upon the desk, and then silence, while the detective waited patiently.â At length, when several minutes hadj>assed, he heard the voice of his informant again:
âYou there. Gaunt?â
âYes.â
âI looked it up, to be sure of the facts. There wasnât any Gregory in the firm; only Smith and Hitchcock. Gregoryâd been dead fifteen years. They failed four years ago next January, on the twenty-seventh, for seventeen hundred thousand dollars, in round figures. Only four hundred thousand wasâ recovered, or could be accounted for. Smith showed a clean sheet. Heâd been a very sick man, and had traveled in Europe for eight months prior to the failure, leaving everything in his partnerâs hands, and the books of the firm were straight as a string up to his departure. Of course, he was technically guilty with his partner, Hitchcock, of the misappropriation of funds, and all that; but he came home at once when the failure was announced, and made what restitution he could. He and his wife put every dollar they had in the world into the hands of the receiversâcountry place, town house, automobiles, his wifeâs jewels, even her heirlooms, wedding-presents, and her own little private fortune, which sheâd had before they were married. In view of that, and the fact that the doctor and nurses, whoâd traveled with him, testified that heâd been permitted, because of the state of his health, to receive no business letters or cables while in Europe, not even to glance at a newspaper, his lawyers got him off in some wayâreleased on his own recognizance, or something like that. Clever lawyers he had, Reilly and Fitzhugh. I guess his physical condition had something to do with it, tooâhe wouldnât have lasted two months behind bars. A lot of sympathy was expressed for him. A man canât start life over again at his age, with death staring him in the face, and not a cent to fall back on.
He paused and a faint rustle of papers sounded in the detectiveâs ears, as if Mr. Wetmore was looking up fresh data.
âDo you know what became of him?â Gaunt asked.
âCanât say positively. He dropped out of sight; but I heard somewhere that his friends helped him temporarily. JThe police must have kept track of him, to see if by any chance he unearthed any of that million, or more, that disappeared at the time of the failure. But I guess he was straight enough; for, the last I heard, he and his wife were living in sheer poverty, somewhere in Jersey. So much for him. You know, yourself, about the other one, Hitchcock, donât you?â
âConvicted and sent to prison, wasnât he?â The detectiveâs voice was a triumph of studied carelessness.
âYes, for seven years. But I read in the paper the other day that heâd been pardoned, because of his health. Havenât heard anything of him, though. Tisnât likely heâd show up down here, any way. Iâve got a list here of their biggest customers: Bender, Matthews, Samuelson, Houck â Iâll send it up to you.â
âThanks, I wish you would.â Gaunt prepared to add a phrase in pursuance of his line of thought, when a yell of amazement over the wire cut him short.
âSay! Look here! That chap who was murderedâ the other day, Garret Appleton, was one of their heaviest traders! What do you know about that?â And then, before
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