At One-Thirty by Isabel Ostrander (adult books to read .txt) 📕

IT was two years later. Again, Damon Gaunt stood at his window in the early autumn, drinking in the scents and sounds of the busy street life below, and, again, his hands strayed to the ivy vine upon the sill. He was thinking, too, of that day, two years before, which had ushered in the great event of his life, and his thoughts strayed to the far-off country, where the woman he loved had found happiness.

At a knock upon the door, he turned.

It was Miss Barnes, who entered with a large, square white envelope in her hand.

“Letter for you, Mr. Gaunt,” she said.

“Yes? Will you read it to me, please?”

She opened the envelope, and glanced at its contents, and gave a short laugh.

“It won’t be necessary, Mr. Gaunt. You can read this for yourself. It’s been written on one of those new typewriters with the raised dots and points system, and it’s post-marked Odessa.”

“Ah, give it to me!” Gaunt cried, eagerly. He took from her the large sheets of paper, covered with a peculiar arrangement of raised characters, and, spreading it out on the table before him, ran his fingers lightly over it.

“My dear Mr. Gaunt: My husband and I have often desired to write you; but we wished to have none but you know the contents of our letter. At last we have found this simple machine, and, by real good luck, at about the same time we saw in a newspaper, sent to us from America, by Harmon Witherspoon, an account of several articles on crime, which you had written for a current magazine. The account stated that you had written them, yourself, on this same make of typewriter which we have found out here. Randolph purchased one, at once, and I have been learning this system, that we may keep in touch with the best friend we have on earth.

“My sister is still with us. Her little son, born a year and a half ago, lived only a few hours; but she has become reconciled even to that loss. She is well and quietly happy. You may be interested in knowing that Harmon Witherspoon starts for Russia in two months. He began writing to Natalie six months after we left America. At first, she took no interest, and I was forced to reply to his letters; but later she took up her own correspondence, and when he offered to come out, she did not forbid it. We think that possibly there may be something left in life for her, after all.

“There is something which my husband thinks should be told you—I think you know it already. An hour before we sailed from America, a package came to me with a typewritten, unsigned communication, telling me that, if I valued my future happiness and that of all the family, I would drop the package quietly overboard in mid-ocean. It was rather large and heavy; indeed, most of the space seemed to be taken up by a weight or stone. Through the sacking which covered it, I could feel several small, hard articles and something besides—something that felt like a leather billcase. I obeyed the instructions on the typewritten card accompanying it; so the incident is closed. I ask no questions; I merely state this as a curious adventure.

“Will you let us hear from you? We will wait anxiously for your letter.

“I have left my greatest news until the last. There is another member of the family now—a very small member, and his name is Damon Gaunt Force. Some day, when he can understand, he must be told a little of what his father and mother owe to the greatest-hearted man living.

“With gratitude and sincere affection,

“Barbara Ellerslie-Force.”

Gaunt crushed the letter between his hands, and bowed his head upon it, for a moment. It seemed that he could hear her voice, with its sweet, faintly husky drawl. He could feel again, the touch of her lips upon his hand…

“Dear God!”

Steps sounded along the hall. There was a sharp rap upon the door, and Jenkins, his voice beaming, announced:

“Inspector Hanrahan, Mr. Gaunt.”

Gaunt raised his head slowly, and passed his hand across his brow, as if dazed. Then he said:

“My old friend, Hanrahan—what on earth can he want? Well, show him up, Jenkins.”

The faithful man-servant departed, chuckling. Ever since Gaunt had given up his life-work, Jenkins had been sorely worried and depressed. Could this visit of the Inspector mean a return to the activities that had made his master famous on two continents?

“How do you do, Mr. Gaunt, sir?”

“How do you do, Inspector? What brings you here, this beautiful morning?”

“Something that will make you slip into your coat, and come out on Long Island with me, as fast as the car can get us there. The greatest case in years, Mr. Gaunt—positively the greatest! Daughter of Carrol Whitney, one of those Meadowbrook Colony millionaires you know, disappears during a dance at her father’s house, last night, and is found an hour ago, under the cedars in a secluded portion of the estate, with her throat cut. Seventeen, beautiful, no love-affair, no motive, no clue. I promised to get you, if I had to kidnap you.”

Gaunt smiled, and shook his head.

“I am sorry, Inspector,” he said. “But I am out of the game, for good and all. I have not taken a case in two years, you know. I shall never take another.”

“Aw! Why do you keep harping on that? Just because you failed in that Appleton case! We can’t win out every time. I’ve lost more cases, myself, than I’d admit to anyone on earth but you; and, remember, no one else has ever solved the mystery of how Garret Appleton came to his death. You remember what I said to you, here in this very room, just a few days before you threw up the case? I said that it would be a good frameup to hand in at headquarters, if I failed to find the one who did it, to let It go as a suicide, which someone of the family had discovered, and changed the room to make it look as if robbery had been the motive, so as to save the family name. Well, upon my soul, I believe that is the true solution. Funny thing those valuables were never found, isn’t it?

“Yes, it does seem strange,” Gaunt admitted.

“Well, anyway, you should not have taken it so much to heart. There ain’t a man can touch you in the business, today, Mr. Gaunt. Come on down with me to Long Island—do!”

“Sorry, Inspector—this is final. I’ll never take another case.”

“Well, I don’t see why you feel so bad about it. I know you’re cleverer than the rest of us, and I suppose you think that, if you hadn’t been blind, you could have solved it—you would have seen something that we missed. You’re too touchy about it, that’s all. Look at the wonderful work you have done in the past! If it’s just because you can’t see that you won’t take another case—”

Gaunt turned upon him with a swift gesture for silence, and there was a harsh note of agony in his voice, as he cried:

“Oh, no, Inspector; I see—too much!”