CHAPTER XII — LARCHER PUTS THIS AND THAT TOGETHER
Two or three days after this, Turl dropped in to see Larcher, incidentally to leave some sketches, mainly for the pleasanter passing of an hour in a gray afternoon. Upon the announcement of another visitor, whose name was not given, Turl took his departure. At the foot of the stairs, he met the other visitor, a man, whom the servant had just directed to Larcher's room. The hallway was rather dark as the incomer and outgoer passed each other; but, the servant at that instant lighting the gas, Turl glanced around for a better look, and encountered the other's glance at the same time turned after himself. Each halted, Turl for a scarce perceptible instant, the other for a moment longer. Then Turl passed out, the servant having run to open the door; and the new visitor went on up the stairs.
The new visitor found Larcher waiting in expectation of being either bored or startled, as a man usually is by callers who come anonymously. But when a tall, somewhat bent, white-bearded old man with baggy black clothes appeared in the doorway, Larcher jumped up smiling.
“Why, Mr. Bud! This is a pleasant surprise!”
Mr. Bud, from a somewhat timid and embarrassed state, was warmed into heartiness by Larcher's welcome, and easily induced to doff his overcoat and be comfortable before the fire. “I thought, as you'd gev me your address, you wouldn't object—” Mr. Bud began with a beaming countenance; but suddenly stopped short and looked thoughtful. “Say—I met a young man down-stairs, goin' out.”
“Mr. Turl probably. He just left me. A neat-looking, smooth-faced young man, smartly dressed.”
“That's him. What name did you say?”
“Turl.”
“Never heard the name. But I've seen that young fellow somewhere. It's funny: as I looked round at 'im just now, it seemed to me all at wunst as if I'd met that same young man in that same place a long time ago. But I've never been in this house before, so it couldn't 'a' been in that same place.”
“We often have that feeling—of precisely the same thing having happened a long time ago. Dickens mentions it in 'David Copperfield.' There's a scientific theory—”
“Yes, I know, but this wasn't exactly that. It was, an' it wasn't. I'm dead sure I did reely meet that chap in some such place. An' a funny thing is, somehow or other you was concerned in the other meeting like you are in this.”
“Well, that's interesting,” said Larcher, recalling how Turl had once seemed to be haunting his footsteps.
“I've got it!” cried Mr. Bud, triumphantly. “D'yuh mind that night you came and told me about Davenport's disappearance?—and we went up an' searched my room fur a trace?”
“And found the note-book cover that showed he had been there? Yes.”
“Well, you remember, as we went into the hallway we met a man comin' out, an' I turned round an' looked at 'im? That was the man I met just now down-stairs.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure's I'm settin' here. I see his face that first time by the light o' the street-lamp, an' just now by the gaslight in the hall. An' both times him and me turned round to look at each other. I noticed then what a good-humored face he had, an' how he walked with his shoulders back. Oh, that's the same man all right enough. What yuh say his name was?”
“Turl—T-u-r-l. Have you ever seen him at any other time?”
“Never. I kep' my eye peeled fur 'im too, after I found there was no new lodger in the house. An' the funny part was, none o' the other roomers knew anything about 'im. No such man had visited any o' them that evening. So what the dickens was he doin' there?”
“It's curious. I haven't known Mr. Turl very long, but there have been some strange things in my observation of him, too. And it's always seemed to me that I'd heard his name before. He's a clever fellow—here are some comic sketches he brought me this afternoon.” Larcher got the drawings from his table, and handed them to Mr. Bud. “I don't know how good these are; I haven't examined them yet.”
The farmer grinned at the fun of the first picture, then read aloud the name, “F. Turl.”
“Oh, has he signed this lot?” asked Larcher. “I told him he ought to. Let's see what his signature looks like.” He glanced at the corner of the sketch; suddenly he exclaimed: “By George, I've seen that name!—and written just like that!”
“Like as not you've had letters from him, or somethin'.”
“Never. I'm positive this is the first of his writing I've seen since I've known him. Where the deuce?” He shut his eyes, and made a strong effort of memory. Suddenly he opened his eyes again, and stared hard at the signature. “Yes, sir! Francis Turl—that was the name. And who do you think showed me a note signed by that name in this very handwriting?”
“Give it up.”
“Murray Davenport.”
“Yuh don't say.”
“Yes, I do. Murray Davenport, the last night I ever saw him. He asked me to judge the writer's character from the penmanship. It was a note about a meeting between the two. Now I wonder—was that an old note, and had the meeting occurred already? or was the meeting yet to come? You see, the next day Davenport disappeared.”
“H'm! An' subsequently this young man is seen comin' out o' the hallway Davenport was seen goin' into.”
“But it was several weeks subsequently. Still, it's odd enough. If there was a meeting after Davenport's disappearance, why mightn't it have been in your room? Why mightn't Davenport have appointed it to occur there? Perhaps, when we first met Turl that night, he had gone back there in search of Davenport—or for some other purpose connected with him.”
“H'm! What has this Mr. Turl to say about Davenport's disappearance?”
“Nothing. And that's odd, too. He must have been acquainted with Davenport, or he wouldn't have written to him about a meeting. And yet he's left us under the impression that he didn't know him.—And then his following me about!—Before I made his acquaintance, I noticed him several times apparently on my track. And when I did make his acquaintance, it was in the rooms of the lady Davenport had been in love with. Turl had recently come to the same house to live, and her father had taken him up. His going there to live looks like another queer thing.”
“There seems to be a hull bunch o' queer things about this Mr. Turl. I guess he's wuth studyin'.”
“I should think so. Let's put these queer things together in chronological order. He writes a note to Murray Davenport about a meeting to occur between them; some weeks later he is seen coming from the place Murray Davenport was last seen going into; within a few days of that, he shadows the movements of Murray Davenport's friend Larcher; within a few more days he takes a room in the house where Murray Davenport's sweetheart lives, and makes her acquaintance; and finally, when Davenport is mentioned, lets it be assumed that he didn't know the man.”
“And incidentally, whenever he meets Murray Davenport's other friend, Mr. Bud, he turns around for a better look at him. H'm! Well, what yuh make out o' all that?”
“To begin with, that there was certainly something between Turl and Davenport which Turl doesn't want Davenport's friends to know. What do you make out of it?”
“That's all, so fur. Whatever there was between 'em, as it brought Turl to the place where Davenport disappeared from knowledge, we ain't takin' too big chances to suppose it had somethin' to do with the disappearance. This Turl ought to be studied; an' it's up to you to do the studyin', as you c'n do it quiet an' unsuspected. There ain't no necessity o' draggin' in the police ur anybody, at this stage o' the game.”
“You're quite right, all through. I'll sound him as well as I can. It'll be an unpleasant job, for he's a gentleman and I like him. But of course, where there's so much about a man that calls for explanation, he's a fair object of suspicion. And Murray Davenport's case has first claim on me.”
“If I were you, I'd compare notes with the young lady. Maybe, for all you know, she's observed a thing or two since she's met this man. Her interest in Davenport must 'a' been as great as yours. She'd have sharp eyes fur anything bearin' on his case. This Turl went to her house to live, you say. I should guess that her house would be a good place to study him in. She might find out considerable.”
“That's true,” said Larcher, somewhat slowly, for he wondered what Edna would say about placing Turl in a suspicious light in Florence's view. But his fear of Edna's displeasure, though it might overcloud, could not prohibit his performance of a task he thought ought to be done. He resolved, therefore, to consult with Florence as soon as possible after first taking care, for his own future peace, to confide in Edna.
“Between you an' the young lady,” Mr. Bud went on, “you may discover enough to make Mr. Turl see his way clear to tellin' what he knows about Davenport. Him an' Davenport may 'a' been in some scheme together. They may 'a' been friends, or they may 'a' been foes. He may be in Davenport's confidence at the present moment; or he may 'a' had a hand in gettin' rid o' Davenport. Or then again, whatever was between 'em mayn't 'a' had anything to do with the disappearance; an' Turl mayn't want to own up to knowin' Davenport, for fear o' bein' connected with the disappearance. The thing is, to get 'im with his back to the wall an' make 'im deliver up what he knows.”
Mr. Bud's call turned out to have been merely social in its motive. Larcher took him to dinner at a smart restaurant, which the old man declared he would never have had the nerve to enter by himself; and finally set him on his way smoking a cigar, which he said made him feel like a Fi'th Avenoo millionaire. Larcher instantly boarded an up-town car, with the better hope of finding Edna at home because the weather had turned blowy and snowy to a degree which threatened a howling blizzard. His hope was justified. With an adroitness that somewhat surprised himself, he put his facts before the young lady in such a non-committal way as to make her think herself the first to point the finger of suspicion at Turl. Important with her discovery, she promptly ignored her former partisanship of that gentleman, and was for taking Florence straightway into confidence. Larcher for once did not deplore the instantaneous completeness with which the feminine mind can shift about. Edna despatched a note bidding Florence come to luncheon the next day; she would send a cab for her, to make sure.
The next day, in the midst of a whirl of snow that made it nearly impossible to see across the street, Florence appeared.
“What is it, dear?” were almost her first words. “Why do you look so serious?”
“I've found out something. I mus'n't tell you till after luncheon. Tom will be here, and I'll have him speak for himself. It's a very delicate matter.”
Florence had sufficient self-control to bide in patience, holding her wonder in check. Edna's portentous manner throughout luncheon was enough to keep expectation at the highest. Even Aunt Clara noticed it, and had to be put off with evasive reasons. Subsequently Edna set the elderly lady to writing letters in a cubicle that went by the name of library, so the young people should have the drawing-room to themselves. Readers who have lived in New York flats need not be reminded, of the skill the inmates must sometimes employ to get rid of one another for awhile.
Larcher arrived in a wind-worn, snow-beaten condition, and had to stand before the fire a minute before he got the shivers out of his body or the blizzard out of his talk. Then he yielded to the offered embrace of an armchair facing the grate, between the two young ladies.
Edna at once assumed the role of examining counsel. “Now tell Florence all about it, from the beginning.”
“Have you told her whom it concerns?” he asked Edna.
“I haven't told her a word.”
“Well, then, I think she'd better know first”—he turned to Florence—“that it concerns somebody we met through her—through you, Miss Kenby. But we think the importance of the matter justifies—”
“Oh, that's all right,” broke in Edna. “He's nothing to Florence. We're perfectly free to speak of him as we like.—It's about Mr. Turl, dear.”
“Mr. Turl?” There was something eager in Florence's surprise, a more than expected readiness to hear.
“Why,” said Larcher, struck by her expression, “have you noticed anything about his conduct—anything odd?”
“I'm not sure. I'll hear you first. One or two things have made me think.”
“Things in connection with somebody we know?” queried Larcher.
“Yes.”
“With—Murray Davenport?”
“Yes—tell me what you know.” Florence's eyes were poignantly intent.
Larcher made rapid work of his story, in impatience for hers. His relation deeply impressed her. As soon as he had done, she began, in suppressed excitement:
“With all those circumstances—there can be no doubt he knows something. And two things I can add. He spoke once as if he had seen me in the past;—I mean before the disappearance. What makes that strange is, I don't remember having ever met him before. And stranger still, the other thing I noticed: he seemed so sure Murray would never come back”—her voice quivered, but she resumed in a moment: “He must know something about the disappearance. What could he have had to do with Murray?”
Larcher gave his own conjectures, or those of Mr. Bud—without credit to that gentleman, however. As a last possibility, he suggested that Turl might still be in Davenport's confidence. “For all we know,” said Larcher, “it may be their plan for Davenport to communicate with us through Turl. Or he may have undertaken to keep Davenport informed about our welfare. In some way or other he may be acting for Davenport, secretly, of course.”
Florence slowly shook her head. “I don't think so,” she said.
“Why not?” asked Edna, quickly, with a searching look. “Has he been making love to you?”
Florence blushed. “I can hardly put it as positively as that,” she answered, reluctantly.
“He might have undertaken to act for Davenport, and still have fallen in love,” suggested Larcher.
“Yes, I daresay, Tom, you know the treachery men are capable of,” put in Edna. “But if he did that—if he was in Davenport's confidence, and yet spoke of love, or showed it—he was false to Davenport. And so in any case he's got to give an account of himself.”
“How are we to make him do it?” asked Larcher.
Edna, by a glance, passed the question on to Florence.
“We must go cautiously,” Florence said, gazing into the fire. “We don't know what occurred between him and Murray. He may have been for Murray; or he may have been against him. They may have acted together in bringing about his—departure from New York. Or Turl may have caused it for his own purposes. We must draw the truth from him—we must have him where he can't elude us.”
Larcher was surprised at her intensity of resolution, her implacability toward Turl on the supposition of his having borne an adverse part toward Davenport. It was plain she would allow consideration for no one to stand in her way, where light on Davenport's fate was promised.
“You mean that we should force matters?—not wait and watch for other circumstances to come out?” queried Larcher.
“I mean that we'll force matters. We'll take him by surprise with what we already know, and demand the full truth. We'll use every advantage against him—first make sure to have him alone with us three, and then suddenly exhibit our knowledge and follow it up with questions. We'll startle the secret from him. I'll threaten, if necessary—I'll put the worst possible construction on the facts we possess, and drive him to tell all in self-defence.” Florence was scarlet with suppressed energy of purpose.
“The thing, then, is to arrange for having him alone with us,” said Larcher, yielding at once to her initiative.
“As soon as possible,” replied Florence, falling into thought.
“We might send for him to call here,” suggested Edna, who found the situation as exciting as a play. “But then Aunt Clara would be in the way. I couldn't send her out in such weather. Tom, we'd better come to your rooms, and you invite him there.”
Larcher was not enamored of that idea. A man does not like to invite another to the particular kind of surprise-party intended on this occasion. His share in the entertainment would be disagreeable enough at best, without any questionable use of the forms of hospitality. Before he could be pressed for an answer, Florence came to his relief.
“Listen! Father is to play whist this evening with some people up-stairs who always keep him late. So we three shall have my rooms to ourselves—and Mr. Turl. I'll see to it that he comes. I'll go home now, and give orders requesting him to call. But you two must be there when he arrives. Come to dinner—or come back with me now. You will stay all night, Edna.”
After some discussion, it was settled that Edna should accompany Florence home at once, and Larcher join them immediately after dinner. This arranged, Larcher left the girls to make their excuses to Aunt Clara and go down-town in a cab. He had some work of his own for the afternoon. As Edna pressed his hand at parting, she whispered, nervously: “It's quite thrilling, isn't it?” He faced the blizzard again with a feeling that the anticipatory thrill of the coming evening's business was anything but pleasant.