The Bartlett Mystery - free ebook by Louis Tracy

THE BARTLETT MYSTERY

Author of “The Wings of the Morning,” “Number Seventeen,” etc., etc....

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EDWARD J. CLODE

Copyright, 1919, by EDWARD J. CLODE All rights reserved PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA THE WINGS OF THE MORNING THE CAPTAIN OF THE KANSAS THE WHEEL O’ FORTUNE A SON OF THE IMMORTALS CYNTHIA’S CHAUFFEUR THE MESSAGE THE STOWAWAY THE PILLAR OF LIGHT THE SILENT BARRIER THE “MIND THE PAINT” GIRL ONE WONDERFUL NIGHT THE TERMS OF SURRENDER FLOWER OF THE GORSE THE RED YEAR THE GREAT MOGUL MIRABEL’S ISLAND THE DAY OF WRATH HIS UNKNOWN WIFE THE POSTMASTER’S DAUGHTER THE REVELLERS DIANA OF THE M

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A GATHERING AT A CLUB

T hat story of love and crime which figures in the records of the New York Detective Bureau as “The Yacht Mystery” has little to do with yachts and is no longer a mystery. It is concerned far more intimately with the troubles and trials of pretty Winifred Bartlett than with the vagaries of the restless sea; the alert, well-groomed figure of Winifred’s true lover, Rex Carshaw, fills its pages to the almost total exclusion of the portly millionaire who owned the Sans Souci . Yet, such is the singu

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A DARING CRIME

I t was no part of Detective Clancy’s business to pry into the private affairs of Senator Meiklejohn. Senators are awkward fish to handle, being somewhat similar to whales caught in nets designed to capture mackerel. But the Bureau is no respecter of persons. Men much higher up in politics and finance than William Meiklejohn would be disagreeably surprised if they could read certain details entered opposite their names in the dossiers kept by the police department. Still, it behooved Clancy to t

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WINIFRED BARTLETT HEARS SOMETHING

E arly next morning a girl attired in a neat but inexpensive costume entered Central Park by the One Hundred and Second Street gate, and walked swiftly by a winding path to the exit on the west side at One Hundredth Street. She moved with the easy swing of one to whom walking was a pleasure. Without hurry or apparent effort her even, rapid strides brought her along at a pace of fully four miles an hour. And an hour was exactly the time Winifred Bartlett needed if she would carry out her daily pr

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FURTHER SURPRISES

A clerk, one of the would-be swains who had met with chilling discouragement after working-hours, was evidently on the lookout for her. An ignoble soul prompted a smirk of triumph now. “Go straight in,” he said, jerking a thumb. “A cop’s waitin’ for you.” Winifred did not vouchsafe him even an indignant glance. Holding her head high, she passed through the main office, and made for a door marked “Manager.” She knocked, and was admitted by Mr. Fowle. Grouped around a table she saw one of the memb

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PERSECUTORS

D uring the brief run up-town Winifred managed to dry her tears, yet the mystery and terror of the circumstances into which she was so suddenly plunged seemed to become more distressful the longer she puzzled over them. She could not find any outlet from a labyrinth of doubt and uncertainty. She strove again to read the printed accounts of the crime, in order to wrest from them some explanation of the extraordinary charge brought against her aunt, but the words danced before her eyes. At last, w

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BROTHER RALPH.

C lancy forced Senator Meiklejohn’s hand early in the fray. He was at the Senator’s flat within an hour of the time Ronald Tower was dragged into the Hudson, but a smooth-spoken English man-servant assured the detective that his master was out, and not expected home until two or three in the morning. This arrangement obviously referred to the Van Hofen festivity, so Clancy contented himself with asking the valet to give the Senator a card on which he scribbled a telephone number and the words, “

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STILL MERE MYSTERY

M eiklejohn pushed his chair back so quickly that it caught the fender and brought down some fire-irons with a crash. “More nerves!” croaked his grim-visaged relative, but the revolver disappeared. “Tell me,” said the tortured Meiklejohn; “why have you returned to New York? Above all, why did you straightway commit a crime that cannot fail to stir the whole country?” “That’s better. You are showing some sort of brotherly interest. I came back because I was sick of mining camps and boundless sier

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THE DREAM FACE

T hat evening of her dismissal from Brown’s, and her meeting with Rex Carshaw, Winifred opened the door of the dun house in One Hundred and Twelfth Street the most downhearted girl in New York. Suddenly, mystery had gathered round her. Something threatened, she knew not what. When the door slammed behind her her heart sank—she was alone not only in the house, but in the world. This thought possessed her utterly when the excitement caused by Carshaw and Fowle, and their speedy arrest, had passed.

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THE FLIGHT

C arshaw and Fowle enjoyed, let us say, a short but almost triumphal march to the nearest police-station. Their escort of loafers and small boys grew quickly in numbers and enthusiasm. It became known that the arrest was made in East One Hundred and Twelfth Street, and that street had suddenly become famous. The lively inhabitants of the East Side do not bother their heads about grammatical niceties, so the gulf between “the yacht murder” and “the yacht murderers” was easily bridged. The connect

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CARSHAW TAKES UP THE CHASE

“ B usy, Mr. Carshaw?” inquired some one when an impatient young man got in touch with Mulberry Street after an exasperating delay. “Not too busy to try and defeat the scoundrels who are plotting against a defenseless girl,” he cried. “Well, come down-town. We’ll expect you in half an hour.” “But, Mr. Clancy asked me—” “Better come,” said the voice, and Carshaw, though fuming, bowed to authority. It is good for the idle rich that they should be brought occasionally into sharp contact with life’s

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THE TWO CARS

“ I t is highly improper on my part to come here and meet you,” said Winifred. “What can it be that you have to say to me of such ‘high importance’?” The two were in the lane behind the church, at seven that same evening. Winifred, on some pretext, had escaped the watchful eyes of Rachel Craik, or fancied that she had, and came hurriedly to the waiting Carshaw. She was all aflutter with expectancy not untinged by fear, she knew not of what. The nights were beginning to darken early, and it was g

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THE PURSUIT

T he two automobiles rushed along the Boston Post Road, heading for Bridgeport. The loud rivalry of their straining engines awoke many a wayside dweller, and brought down maledictions on the heads of all midnight joy-riders. Carshaw knew the road well, and his car was slightly superior to the other in speed. His hastily evolved plan was to hold the kidnappers until they were in the main street of Bridgeport. There he could dash ahead, block further progress, risking a partial collision if necess

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THE NEW LINK

S teingall and Clancy were highly amused by Carshaw’s account of the “second burning of Fairfield,” as the little man described the struggle between Winifred’s abductors and her rescuer. The latter, not so well versed in his country’s history as every young American ought to be, had to consult a history of the Revolution to learn that Fairfield was burned by the British in 1777. The later burning, by the way, created a pretty quarrel between two insurance companies, the proprietors of two garage

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A SUBTLE ATTACK

V oles was brought from Boston. Though Meiklejohn dreaded the man, conditions might arise which would call for a bold and ruthless rascality not quite practicable for a Senator. The lapse of time, too, had lulled the politician’s suspicions of the police. They seemed to have ceased prying. He ascertained, almost by chance, that Clancy was hot on the trail of a gang of counterfeiters. “The yacht mystery” had apparently become a mere memory in the Bureau. So Voles came, with him Mick the Wolf, car

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THE VISITOR

“ A re you Miss Winifred Bartlett?” asked Mrs. Carshaw the next afternoon in that remote part of East Twenty-seventh Street which for the first time bore the rubber tires of her limousine. “Yes, madam,” said Winifred, who stood rather pale before that large and elegant presence. It was in the front room of the two which Winifred occupied. “But—where have I seen you before?” asked Mrs. Carshaw suddenly, making play with a pair of mounted eye-glasses. “I cannot say, madam. Will you be seated?” “Wh

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WINIFRED DRIFTS

W inifred, pale as death, rose to receive her lover, with that letter in her hand which made an appointment with her at a house in East Orange; a letter which she believed to have been written by a dramatic agent, but which was actually inspired by Senator Meiklejohn. It was the bait of the trap which should put her once more in the power of Meiklejohn and his accomplices. During a few tense seconds the girl prayed for power to play the bitter part which had been thrust upon her—to play it well

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ALL ROADS LEAD TO EAST ORANGE

T he next day Winifred set about her new purpose of finding some other occupation than that connected with the stage, though she rose from bed that morning feeling ill, having hardly slept throughout the night. First, she read over once more the “agent’s” letter, and was again conscious of an extremely vague feeling of something queer in it when she reflected on the lateness of the hour of the rendezvous—eight in the evening. She decided to write, explaining her change of purpose, and declining

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THE CRASH

W hen Carshaw came, with lightsome step and heart freed from care—for in some respects he was irresponsible as any sane man could be—to visit his beloved Winifred next day, he was met by a frightened and somewhat incoherent Miss Goodman. “Not been home all night! Surely you can offer some explanation further than that maddening statement?” cried he, when the shock of her news had sent the color from his face and the joy from his eyes. “Oh, sir, I don’t know what to say. Indeed, I am not to blame

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CLANCY EXPLAINS

C arshaw phoned the Bureau, asking for Clancy or the chief. Both were out. “Mr. Steingall will be here to-morrow,” said the official in charge. “Mr. Clancy asked me to tell you, if you rang up, that he would be away till Monday next.” This was Wednesday evening. Carshaw felt that fate was using him ill, for Clancy was the one man with whom he wanted to commune in that hour of agony. He dined with his mother. She, deeming him crazy after a severe attack of calf-love, humored his mood. She was cal

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IN THE TOILS

E ast Orange seemed to be a long way from New York when Winifred hastened to the appointment at “Gateway House,” traveling thither by way of the Tube and the Lackawanna Railway. More and more did it seem strange that a theatrical agent should fix on such a rendezvous, until a plausible reason suggested itself: possibly, some noted impresario had chosen this secluded retreat, and the agent had arranged a meeting there between his client and the great man whose Olympian nod gave success or failure

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MOTHER AND SON

A telegram reached Carshaw before he left Burlington with Clancy. He hoped it contained news of Winifred, but it was of a nature that imposed one more difficulty in his path. “Not later than the twentieth,” wired the manager of the Carshaw Mills in Massachusetts. Carshaw himself had inquired the latest date on which he would be expected to start work. The offer was his own, and he could not in honor begin the new era by breaking his pledge. The day was Saturday, November 11. On the following Mon

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THE HUNT

S teingall, not Clancy, presented his bulk at Carshaw’s apartment next morning. He contrived to have a few minutes’ private talk with Mrs. Carshaw while her son was dressing. Early as it was, he lighted a second cigar as he stepped into the automobile, for Carshaw thought it an economy to retain a car. “Surprised to see me?” he began. “Well, it’s this way. We may drop in for a rough-house to-day. Between them, Voles and ‘Mick the Wolf,’ own three sound legs and three strong arms. I can’t risk Cl

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“HE WHO FIGHTS AND RUNS AWAY—”

“ I don’t like the proposition, an’ that’s a fact,” muttered Fowle, lifting a glass of whisky and glancing furtively at Voles, when the domineering eyes of the superior scoundrel were averted for a moment. “Whether you like it or not, you’ve got to lump it,” was the ready answer. “I don’t see that. I agreed to help you up to a certain point——” Voles swung around at him furiously, as a mastiff might turn on a wretched mongrel. “Say, listen! If I’m up to the neck in this business, you’re in it ove

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IN FULL CRY

P olly, the maid from the inn, waiting breathlessly intent in the car outside the gate, listened for sounds which should guide her as to the progress of events within. Steingall left her standing on the upholstered back of the car, with her hands clutching the top of the gate. She did not descend immediately. In that position she could best hear approaching footsteps, as she could follow the running of the detective nearly all the way to the house. Great was her surprise, therefore, to find some

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FLANK ATTACKS

S omewhat tired, having ridden that day to Poughkeepsie and back, Petch, nevertheless, put up a great race after the fleeing motor-car. His muscles were rejuvenated by Polly Barnard’s exciting news and no less by admiration for the girl herself. Little thinking that Jim, the plumber, was performing deeds of derring-do in the hall of Gateway House, he congratulated himself on the lucky chance which enabled him to oblige the fair Polly. He dashed into the road to Hoboken, and found, to his joy, th

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THE BITER BIT

M rs. Carshaw focused him again through her gold-rimmed eye-glasses. “Crazy?” she questioned calmly. “Not a bit of it—merely an old woman bargaining for her son. Rex would not have done it. After thrashing you he would have left you to the law, and, were the law to step in, you would surely be ruined. I, on the other hand, do not scruple to compound a felony—that is what my lawyers call it. My extravagance and carelessness have contributed to encumber Rex’s estates with a heavy mortgage. If I pr

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THE SETTLEMENT

T he chief disliked melodrama in official affairs. Any man, even a crook, ought to know when he is beaten, and take his punishment with a stiff upper lip. But Voles’s face was white, and in one of his temperament, that was as ominous a sign as the bloodshot eyes of a wild boar. Steingall had hoped that Voles would walk quietly into the chart-room, and, seeing the folly of resistance, yield to the law without a struggle. Perhaps, under other conditions, he might have done so. It was the coming of

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THE END

Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters’ errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author’s words and intent....

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