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The Floating Press - Carolyn Wells

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169 pages

English

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Description

In this edge-of-your-seat thriller, renowned mystery writer Carolyn Wells strays from the enclaves of the well-to-do that usually serve as the settings for her novels and introduces elements of gritty street life. When an affluent nature lover is found dead in the woods, his family, friends and staff attempt to crack the case. Chief among them is an unlikely amateur detective, Fibsy McGuire, a young man who hails from an Irish immigrant family.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 juillet 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776539819
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

THE MARK OF CAIN
* * *
CAROLYN WELLS

*
The Mark of Cain First published in 1917 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-981-9 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-982-6 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - Through the Green Cord Chapter II - Who Could Have Done It? Chapter III - Pinckney, the Reporter Chapter IV - The Inquest Begins Chapter V - The Swede Chapter VI - Out of the West Chapter VII - Stephanotis Chapter VIII - The Milk Bottle Chapter IX - A Clause in the Will Chapter X - Stryker's Handkerchief Chapter XI - Duane the Detective Chapter XII - A New Theory Chapter XIII - Fibsy Fibs Chapter XIV - Two Suitors Chapter XV - The Trap that was Set Chapter XVI - A Promise Chapter XVII - Madame Isis Chapter XVIII - All for Love Chapter XIX - Two at Luncheon Chapter XX - Fleming Stone Chapter XXI - Stone's Questions Chapter XXII - Judge Hoyt's Plan Chapter XXIII - In Kito's Care Chapter XXIV - Escape Chapter XXV - The Whole Truth
Chapter I - Through the Green Cord
*
Judge Hoyt's strong, keen face took on a kindlier aspect and his curt"Hello!" was followed by gentler tones, as he heard the voice of the girlhe loved, over the telephone.
"What is it, Avice?" he said, for her speech showed anxiety.
"Uncle Rowly,—he hasn't come home yet."
"He hasn't? Well, I hope he'll turn up soon. I want to see him. I wascoming up this evening."
"Come now," said Avice; "come now, and dine here. I am so anxious aboutuncle."
"Why, Avice, don't worry. He is all right, of course."
"No he isn't. I feel a presentiment something has happened to him. Henever was so late as this before, unless we knew where he was. Do comeright up, won't you, Judge?"
"Certainly I will; I'm very glad to. But I'm sure your fears aregroundless. What about Mrs. Black? Is she alarmed?"
"No, Eleanor laughs at me."
"Then I think you needn't disturb yourself. Surely she—"
"Yes, I know what you're going to say, but she isn't a bit fonder ofUncle Rowly than I am. Good-by."
Avice hung up the receiver with a little snap. She was willing that Mrs.Black should marry her uncle, but she did hate to be relegated to secondplace in the household. Already the handsome widow was asserting hersupremacy, and while Avice acknowledged the justice of it, it hurt herpride a little.
"I've asked Judge Hoyt to dinner," she said, as she returned to her postat the window.
Mrs. Black glanced up from the evening paper she was reading and murmuredan indistinct acquiescence.
It was late June, yet the city home of the Trowbridges was still occupiedby the family. As Avice often said, the big town house was cooler thanmost summer resorts, with their small rooms and lack of shade. Here, thelinen-swathed furniture, the white-draped chandeliers and pictures, therugless floors, all contributed to an effect of coolness and comfort.
Avice, herself, in her pretty white gown, fluttered from one window toanother, looking out for her uncle.
"Mrs. Black, why do you suppose Uncle Rowly doesn't come? He said hewould be home early, and it's after six o'clock now!"
"I don't know Avice, I'm sure. Do be quiet! You fluster around so, youmake me nervous."
"I'm nervous myself, Eleanor. I'm afraid something has happened to uncle.Do you suppose he has had a stroke, or anything?"
"Nonsense, child, of course, not. He has been detained at the office forsomething."
"No he hasn't; I telephoned there and the office is closed."
"Then he has gone somewhere else."
"But he said he would be home by five."
"Well, he isn't. Now, don't worry; that can do no good."
But Avice did worry. She continued to flit about, dividing her attentionbetween the clock and the window.
The girl had been an orphan from childhood, and Rowland Trowbridge hadbeen almost as a father to her. Avice loved him and watched over him as adaughter; at least, that had been the case until lately. A few weekssince, Mr. Trowbridge had succumbed to the rather florid charms of Mrs.Black, his housekeeper, and told Avice he would marry her in a month.
Though greatly surprised and not greatly pleased, Avice had accepted thesituation and treated the housekeeper with the same pleasant courtesy shehad always shown her. The two "got along" as the phrase is, though theirnatures were not in many ways congenial.
Avice remained at the window till she saw at last Leslie Hoyt's tall formapproaching. She ran to open the door herself.
"Oh, Judge Hoyt," she cried, "Uncle hasn't come yet! There must besomething wrong! What can we do?"
"I don't know, Avice, dear. Tell me all about it."
"There's nothing to tell, only that uncle said he would be home at five,and it's almost seven and he isn't here! Such a thing never happenedbefore."
"Good evening, Judge Hoyt," said Mrs. Black's cool, measured voice asthey entered the drawing-room. "I think our Avice is unnecessarilyalarmed. I'm sure Mr. Trowbridge can take care of himself."
"That is doubtless true," and for the first time a note of anxiety creptinto Hoyt's tone; "but as Avice says, it is most unusual."
Mrs. Black smiled indifferently and returned to her paper.
Leslie Hoyt was so frequent a visitor at the house, that he was nevertreated formally. He seated himself in an easy chair, and took acigarette case from his pocket, while Avice continued her nervousjourneys between the clock and the window.
"We won't wait dinner after seven," said Mrs. Black, in a voice thatmight mean either command or suggestion, as her hearers preferred.
"You may have it served now, if you like," returned Avice, "but I shan'tgo to the table until uncle comes."
Now, it had been nearly two hours before this that a telephone call hadbeen received at police headquarters.
"Is dees polizia stazione?" Inspector Collins had heard, as he held thereceiver to his ear.
Through the green cord the broken voice spoke in a halting way, as ifuncertain how to word the message.
"Yes; who is speaking?" Collins replied.
"Meester Rowlan' Trowbridga,—he is dead-a."
"I can't hear you! What's all that racket where you are?"
"My bambini—my childaren. They have-a da whoopa-cough."
"It's more than children making all that noise! Who are you?"
"Not matter. I say, Meester Trowbridga—he dead-a."
"Rowland Trowbridge dead! Where—who are you?"
"You find-a heem. Bringa da bod' home."
"Where is he?"
"Van Cortaland' Park. By da gollif play. You go finda da man—Bringa dabod' home."
"See here, you tell me who you are!"
But a sudden click told that the message was finished, and after a fewimpatient hellos, Collins hung up the receiver.
"Rubbish!" he said to himself; "some Dago woman trying to be funny. But aqueer thing,—Rowland Trowbridge! Phew, if it should be! I'll just callup his house."
Collins called up the Trowbridge house on Fifth Avenue. Not to alarm anyone he merely inquired if Mr. Trowbridge was at home. The answer was no,and, glancing at the clock, Collins called up Mr. Trowbridge's office inthe Equitable Building. There was no response, and as it was fiveo'clock, he assumed the office was already closed.
"I've got a hunch there's something in it," he mused, and acting on hisconviction, he called up the Van Cortlandt Park Precinct Station, andtold the story.
Captain Pearson, who took the message, shrugged his shoulders at itsdubious authority, but he assembled several detectives and policemen, andset off with them in a patrol car for the golf links.
Up to Van Cortlandt Park they went, past the gay-coated, gay-voiced golfplayers, on along the broad road to the woods beyond.
"By golly! There he is!" cried one of the detectives, whose expectanteyes noted a dark heap on the ground, well back among the trees.
Jumping from the car and running across the uneven, root-roughenedground, they found the dead body of Rowland Trowbridge.
Dressed in his business clothes, his hat on the ground near by, the bodywas contorted, the hands clenched, and the face showed an expression ofrage, that betokened a violent death.
"He put up a fight," observed Pearson. "Poor man, he had no chance.Somebody stabbed him."
A gash in the blood-stained waistcoat proved that the aim at the victim'sheart had been all too sure, and his frantic, convulsive struggles of noavail.
Eagerly the men looked for clues. But they found nothing save the deadman and his own belongings. The scene of the tragedy was not very farfrom the road, but it was well screened by the thick summer foliage, andthe rocks and high tree roots hid the body on the ground from the sightof passers-by.
"Footprints?" said Lieutenant Pearson, musingly.
"Nothing doing," returned Detective Groot. "Some few depressions here andthere—of course, made by human feet—but none clear enough to be calleda footprint."
"And the ground is too stony and grassy to show them. Look well, though,boys. No broken cuff-links, or dropped gloves? It's a canny murderer whodoesn't leave a shred of incriminating evidence."
"It's a fool murderer who does," returned Groot. "And this affair is notthe work of a fool. Probably they've been spotting Mr. Trowbridge formonths. These millionaires are fair game for the Dago slayers."
"Why Dago?"
"Didn't an Italian woman turn in the call? How could she know of itunless some of her own people did it?"
"But there seems to be no robbery. Here's his watch and scarfpin allright."
"And his roll?"
"Yes," said Pearson, after an investigation of the dead man's pockets."Bills and change. Nothing taken, apparently."
"Valu