the underwood mystery

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE I Aw INTERRUPTED GAME j i

III Cuvurs roar Are ASHES 16 IV A Poor Puace To Hive «4 Gun 25

V <A Ficut in tHE DeatH CHAMBER 34.

Chapter I

AN INTERRUPTED GAME drive, was trying out the swing of his various golf clubs when a man, whom I had previously noted hurrying across the links, came up and interrupted him.

‘Are you John Bartley of New York’’ asked the stranger jerkily, between his rapid breaths.

‘“‘T am,’’ said Bartley. ‘‘What can I do for you?’’

‘‘My name is Sullivan,’’ said the man. ‘‘I am the prosecuting attorney of this district. I just came from the telegraph office where I went to send a telegram to you in New York. The operator told me that you were actually right at hand,—spending your vacation I presume,—it is most fortunate.’’

““What’s up?’’ asked Bartley, a little impatient at the interruption of his favourite pastime.

The district attorney jerked his head in the direction of the caddy, who was obviously listening.

‘“T see,’’ said Bartley, handing his stick to the lad and turning in the direction of the club house. ‘‘This is my assistant, Mr. Pelt,’’ he now said to the attorney, introducing me; ‘‘do you want him to come along?”’

‘‘T presume so,’’ replied Mr. Sullivan, ‘‘if he is to assist you in the case.”’

‘¢And what is the case?’’ asked Bartley as we walked toward the club house.

J BARTLEY, in preparation for a difficult

‘““There is trouble up at the Underwoods, an affair that seems to need the services of a man of your ability.”’

‘John Underwood, the great bear of Wall Street,’’ remarked Bartley to me, ‘‘that’s the mansion with the high sea wall we passed this morning when we came up the beach. Jewel robbery, I suppose; they have been pretty thick around here of late.’’

‘‘More serious than that,’’ said Sullivan; ‘‘this is really a most important case.’’

‘¢And, whatever it is, am I to understand that Underwood himself has called me into the matter?’’

‘“T was sending for you because Mrs. Underwood asked me to secure the best detective I could get hold of—John Underwood himself is dead !’’

‘‘Suicide, apparently ; he shot himself last night in the library. The room was locked, both doors and windows from the inside. There is really no other possible explanation, but Underwood carried three hundred thousand of insurance, with a clause in the policy which makes it void in case of suicide, and that is why you are wanted in the matter.’’

By this time we had reached the porch of the club house and found chairs in a secluded corner.

‘“Has the news been given out yet?’’ asked Bartley as he eyed Sullivan closely.

“No, they’re keeping it quiet as long as they can; one reason, I presume, is to protect Underwood’s interest in the stock market.’’

‘Well, give us the details,’’ Bartley broke in.

“‘It seems this morning,’’ began the attorney, ‘‘that Underwood did not show up at breakfast. He always breakfasts at eight o’clock. They waited a half hour,

AN INTERRUPTED GAME 3 and then his secretary, Vance, went to his rooms and knocked at the door. Getting no reply, he tried the door, and finding it unbolted, entered. The room was empty, and the bed had not been slept in. Mrs. Underwood’s maid reported that he was not in his wife’s rooms, so Vance went to the library, the place where Underwood spent his evenings, and trying the door, found that locked. He became alarmed then, and he called the butler. They went out to the front of the house, and getting a ladder placed it at the library windows. Vance climbed up, and looking in saw Underwood seated at his desk. By that time he was sure something was wrong, and he went back to the house and ealled Mrs. Underwood.’’

‘‘Did they try the windows?’’ asked Bartley.

*“Yes, but they were locked.’’

“‘TIn other words,’’ said Bartley, ‘‘both the door and windows were locked ?’’

“‘That’s it. When I looked the room over the windows were still locked. They called Mrs. Underwood, and when she came down she ordered them to break down the door. It’s a rather massive thing, and so they knocked a hole in it, and reaching in, unlocked it. The key was in the door, on the inside. They found Mr. Underwood dead. He was in a chair by his desk, shot through the brain.

‘<They first sent for a doctor, who came promptly and announced that Underwood had been dead some hours. The doctor did not disturb the body. They left everything as it was and sent for the chief of the police, and shortly afterwards for me.

‘<The coroner was out of town for the day, and the chief and I, after looking things over, decided to wait until this evening when the coroner would return. I was away during part of the day, but Jenkins, one of our local patrolman, a very reliable fellow, was left to guard the place. I went back about an hour ago, as I wanted to be there woen the coroner came. It was only then that Mrs. Unde: wood spoke to me of the insurance, with the result that I hurried to the telegraph office, and from there here. It is exceedingly fortunate that you happened to be in the locality.’’

Bartley had risen to his feet, a little smile playing around his lips. ‘‘In other words, you are not just certain that Underwood killed himself?’’

Sullivan was silent a moment. ‘‘ Well, they said it was suicide, and it looks like it, and yet I can’t for the life of me see why a man like Underwood should kill himself. He had more money than a dozen men could use; there were no family troubles; he has only been married a year to his young wife. But the strangest thing to me is this: If he shot himself, the revolver should have been in the room, on the desk, in his hand, or on the floor. Well, I have searched the room a dozen times, and not a trace of that revolver can I find.’’

He sank back into his chair, and watched Bartley intently. It was some moments before the latter spoke, and then he said slowly:

‘‘That’s strange. Do you think any one moved it when they went in the room—the family or the servants?’’

““No,’’ was the reply. ‘‘I questioned them all, and every one was sure that they had not seen a revolver. Of course it looks like suicide, but—’’

Bartley continued the sentence: ‘‘—But then again it

AN INTERRUPTED GAME 5 doesn’t. I think we had better look at things. It seems to be an interesting case.”’

Sullivan looked relieved. ‘‘All right, my car is here.’’

Chapter II

EANING back in the car, I thought of the story I had just heard. I had not been wath Bartley so long, but that I felt a thrill of excitement with every new case that came to us. Without a doubt there were some novel features in the story that the district attorney had just told us. So for a while I puzzled over them, but could reach no conclusion.

‘“Who is at the house now?’’ Bartley asked.

‘‘Just the family,’’ replied Sullivan, ‘‘and the servants. Mrs. Underwood was away yesterday, but got back some time last night.’’

““ Let me see,’’ said Bartley. ‘‘If I remember, she is Underwood’s second wife. His first wife died some years ago. His present wife he married a year or so ago, and she was an actress playing on Broadway. I remember the marriage made some little stir, because she was a good many years younger than Underwood.’’

‘“That’s right,’? answered Sullivan. ‘‘Moreover she is one of the most beautiful women that I have ever seen. She is only twenty-two; a bit older than his son. But the impression here is that it was a very happy marriage. Speaking of the son, his name is Robert. ‘He was expelled from Yale, was a bit wild, but the only thing I can find that he did was to be mixed up in some automobile scrape, nothing very bad. So I judge his wildness is more talk than anything else.”’

At this point the car swung up the long drive leading 6 to the house. We alighted upon the great stone platform, that formed the top of the sea wall, which dropped forty feet to the beach below.

““That’s the room where they found Underwood,’’ said Sullivan, pointing to three large windows which faced the sea.

Climbing the great stone steps, we pushed the button, and waited before the heavy door. It was opened by the butler, an old man with a rather intelligent face, his grey hairs showing years of service. He was listless and tired, walking with a weary step, and it was easy to see that he had received a great shock. He bowed us into a huge hall, and speaking in a tired voice, said:

‘‘Mr. Sullivan, Mr. Vance wished me to say that the coroner came a while ago; he is in the room now with the chief of police. The coroner wished me to notify ~ him when you came, and if you will step into the musicroom, I will tell him you are here.’’

We entered the room he pointed out, and waited his return. It seemed only a moment before he was back, bringing with him two men. One wearing a blue uniform I judged was the head of the local police force. The other was a little fat man, who was in great need of a shave. His collar, which was several days old, had crumbled, while his baggy brown suit might have been cleaner. In fact he looked the part of the broken down politician. It was easy to see that he was a little excited, but that did not cause him to forget the importance of his position. He bowed to Sullivan, gave Bartley and me a glance as if to ask who we were. When Sullivan introduced us he said in a rather formal tone, ‘‘I am very glad to have the honour of meeting you, Mr. Bartley. But I will not take much of your time. The case is very simple.’’

Bartley spoke softly, ‘‘So you have decided on your finding ?’’

The coroner glanced at him with an air of surprise, as if he was startled. ‘‘Why it’s a plain case of suicide. Room all locked up, and no one able to get in or out, and then the note on the table.”’

Both Sullivan and Bartley broke in on him:

‘What note?”’

‘“‘Not a complete note. But under some papers I found a note written to some lawyer; it was on the desk. Just a line; it was unsigned, but the secretary tells me it was in Mr. Underwood’s handwriting. It was, ‘After thinking it all over I have decided to end it, that will bring h—’ There was nothing more. But I think without a doubt that it proves suicide all right, and the chief agrees with me.’’

And to this the man in blue solemnly nodded his assent.

For a moment Bartley looked at the men; there was an air of perplexity on his face. After a silence he said, ‘“We had better have a look at the room.”’

We filed out of the room into the hall. It stretched half across the house, till it met the large stairway leading to the other floor. Upon one side was the high parlour and the music room that we had just left. An open door enabled me to see a great dining-room, its contents veiled by the growing dusk. On the other side, the side facing the sea, were several other rooms, but they were not open, and I could not tell what they were. And near the stairs, the light streaming through the broken panel of a door, was the library.

Sullivan knocked softly, and the door was opened by a young patrolman.

In this room the lights were on and even under their glare the room appeared to be immense. Around its walls on nearly every side the bookcases towered to the ceiling, their shelves burdened with books. Upon the walls were a number of oil paintings, mostly marine views, evidently part of Underwood’s wonderful collec- _ tion. In the centre of the room was the largest desk that I have ever seen, heavy and massive—its surface, save for a few papers, clean. By the great fireplace at the end of the room was seen a built-in safe, and near it several tall, green, steel filing cases. The entire setting marked the room as the place where a man of wealth would retire, when he wished to be alone with his books. But my eyes did not linger long on these things, for, try as I could, they kept coming back to the one thing, whose presence filled the room. That still figure by the huge desk, the dead man sitting silent in his chair.

We walked to the front of the desk and stood looking down at him. The figure of the dead man was clad in a grey suit. He was leaning back in his chair, as if he wished to rest himself for a moment. The left hand was grasping the arm of the chair, while the other hand rested upon his knee. The head had fallen upon his right shoulder. Though his face was grey in death, yet it was calm, but I noticed that his open eyes had a startled look in them. But for the small hole in the forehead, flecked by a tiny drop of blood, one would not know that he had died a violent death.

For a while we stood looking at him, each busy with his thoughts. Bartley at last turned to Sullivan.

‘‘Can you get me the private secretary Vance?’’

Going to the door, Sullivan spoke to Jenkins, the young patrolman, who had been on duty guarding the room.

Bartley walked around the desk, and, lifting Underwood’s right hand, glanced at it a moment, then looked at the other. For a moment he studied the chair that was pushed a little back from the desk, near where I was standing. He then went to the three windows, in the centre of the room, which were hidden by long curtains. These windows were tall, all about the same size, though maybe the one in the centre was the largest. The top and bottom sash were each fitted with a single pane of glass. Bartley tried to lift them, trying one after another, but they were locked, the catches being the ordinary kind. For a moment he stood looking at the windows, a little frown upon his face. Through the glass one could look down upon the sea, the surface glimmering faintly in the fast-fading twilight. Then leaving the windows, he went around the room, stopping once in a while before some object, then passing on to something else.

There came a little knock at the door, and turning we saw Jenkins had returned. With him was a young man, about twenty-four, whom I took to be Vance. His every air marked him as a student. He had an intelligent face, surmounted by a mass of brown hair, and he wore the largest pair of tortoiseshell glasses that I have ever seen. Though his eyes wore a little excited look, otherwise he seemed to be calm.

“‘T take it you are the private secretary,’’ said Bartley.

Vance nodded his head.

‘‘Now, Mr. Vanee, is everything in this room just as you found it when you broke in and found Mr. Underwood dead? I mean, I want to know if a thing has been changed, even the merest trifle.’’

The secretary replied at once. ‘‘Nothing was touched in the room, sir. We left it just as we found it, and sent for the chief of police. When he came, he left the officer who has since been in charge.

Bartley turned to the coroner. ‘‘If you don’t mind I will take another glance around the room.”’

He worked quickly, his tall figure moving from one object to the other. But I, who knew him, understocd that not a single feature was escaping his notice. He glanced at the bookcases, the books standing in orderly rows on the shelves, pausing a moment before the closed door of the built-in safe. Going to the door, he took the key which was still in the lock and examined it very carefully, also the lock, both in the room and on the side in the hall. Coming back into the room, he went again to the windows, where he again tried the locks and spent some little time before he returned to the desk.

Then he came back to the centre of the room, and silently studied the dead man. Going to the desk, he commenced to look over the few things on it, for its great surface was almost clean. In the centre stood a gold inkstand, shaped like a lion’s head, and near it several pens. At one end, near the figure of the dead man, was a pile of correspondence, evidently the daily mail. In the centre were several typewritten sheets of paper, a leaf with some figures on it and a pad of telegraph blanks. The Wall Street Journal of the day before, its pages open at the stock quotations, lay near the sheets of paper. In almost the centre of the desk, near the inkwell, stood a ash tray, and near it, but on the other side of the desk, was a squatty black cigar.

Taking things as they stood, I decided that little of interest had been found. But Bartley worked on, glancing through the letters, looking over the typewritten sheets, and at last going through the drawers of the desk, which he had opened. When he came to the ash tray, he spent more time, lifting it carefully, while he peered at the contents. Apparently satisfied, he went back to the side of Underwood, and, bending to the floor, came up With a cigar in his hand. He had not spoken, but turning to the coroner he now said, ‘‘ You have the note you found?”’

The latter plunged his hand into his pocket, and produced a battered and faded bill case, out of which he took a piece of paper which he handed to Bartley. Spreading it on the desk, we crowded around to see. It was a single piece of paper, part of the general business stock, for at the top was engraved ‘‘John Underwood.’’ It was undated, and contained only these words: ‘‘ After thinking it all over, I have decided to end it. That will bring h—’’ The last word was unfinished, only the letter h, started and uncompleted. Bartley looked up at me, and silently placed his finger upon the address that was over the note,

M. 8S. PHELPs, 180 Broadway New York.

“You know who it is?”’

I nodded, for the initials were those of Underwood’s lawyer well known as one of the leaders of the New York bar.

He turned to the coroner.

“Where did you find it?’’

‘“‘Under the pile of letters,’’ was the answer. ‘‘It was near the end of the pile, and folded up.”’

No one made any answer, but while I was wondering what the letter could mean, Bartley asked,

‘‘Mr. Vance, how about that chair? Does it always stand there?”’

He pointed to the chair, which stood on the other side of the desk from Underwood. It stood, squarely facing the desk, but about three feet away from it.

Vance looked at it, puzzled. ‘‘No—’’ he hesitated. **As a rule there is nothing there.’’

Back came the next question. ‘‘Did you sit in it last night? I take it, of course, that you did‘some work here last evening.”’

‘“*Yes,’? came the reply, ‘‘I always have to open the evening mail about seven. But if I sit here it is always by Mr. Underwood’s side. I don’t think I used that chair, nor do I remember seeing a chair there last night. In fact, I am sure there was none, for I stood there a moment before I left the room.”’

‘¢And what time was that?”’

‘‘Around eight. I .answered some letters, then went to my room. As a rule I work much later than that, but last evening Mr. Underwood dismissed me rather early. So I said good-night and left him. He generally spent the evening reading, when the letters had been dictated.”’ x

“‘T see,’’ said Bartley, ‘‘and I take it he smoked.”’

‘“Cigarettes?’’

‘‘Never,’? was Vance’s reply. ‘‘In fact he had a rather intense dislike to them.”’ |

Bartley picked up the cigar from the desk. ‘‘Is this one of his cigars?’’

Vance took the cigar, studying it for a moment. “Yes, that is one of his. I know because he always smoked the same kind. They were made for his special order, and he would smoke no other kind.”’

“‘Do you ever smoke in his room?”’

‘“Never,’’ said Vance.

Placing the cigar back on the desk, Bartley again turned to the secretary. ‘‘By the way, you went through his clothes. Did you find anything missing, either from his clothes or the room ?’’

‘‘No,’’ was the answer. ‘‘Everything is as you see it; even his money was untouched.”’

Bartley took a turn round the table, and paused as if in thought, then he said, ‘‘ Well that’s all I wish to know now.”’

The coroner looked at him, as if wishing he would tell what he had discovered. But Bartley’s face gave no sign that he knew they were waiting for him to speak. After a while the coroner said,

“It’s time the chief and I returned to town. The doctor will have his autopsy this evening, and I will hold the hearing tomorrow at nine. You ean move the body, and I presume you will leave the room undisturbed.”’

‘‘Do you care to give any hint of what your finding will be?’’ I asked.

He looked about in an important way, and taking a soiled handkerchief from his pocket slowly polished his glasses.

““Of course I cannot say what my jury may decide at the hearing, but I can give you my own opinion. It’s suicide, everything here points that way. Here’s the man dead in a locked room, nothing disturbed, money not taken, and then a note that says he was going to end it.”’

I glanced at Bartley; there was a little smile playing over his lips, as if he was amused at something.

‘‘T am afraid,’’ he said, ‘‘that you cannot build too much on that note. First of all, we are not sure that it was written last night, the ink was not very fresh on it, and then it’s undated. Then one cannot conceive that a man about to kill himself would write a note to that effect and leave it unfinished, and then tuck it away out of sight. In all suicide cases that I have seen, where the man wrote a note, he left it in plain sight.’’

This seemed to disturb the coroner, for he sneered.

‘Then, maybe, you don’t agree with me?’’

The reply came quick as a flash. ‘‘I don’t, not for a moment. It’s murder, everything in this room points to that.’’