The Man Who Fell Through The Earth. Carolyn Wells

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       Carolyn Wells

      The Man Who Fell Through The Earth

       A Detective Pennington Wise Murder Mystery

       Published by

      

Books

      Advanced Digital Solutions & High-Quality eBook Formatting

       [email protected] 2017 OK Publishing ISBN 978-80-272-2320-6

      Table of Contents

       I. Moving Shadow-Shapes

       II. Jenny’s Version

       III. The Elevator

       IV. The Black Squall

       V. Olive Raynor

       VI. Clews

       VII. Hudson’s Errand

       VIII. The Man Who Fell Through the Earth

       IX. The Man in Boston

       X. Penny Wise and Zizi

       XI. Case Rivers

       XII. The Link

       XIII. Olive’s Adventure

       XIV. Where Is Manning?

       XV. Wise’s Pipe Dream

       XVI. The Snowflake

       XVII. Zizi’s Hunch

       XVIII. Clear as Crystal

      This book is dedicated to

       B L A N C H E C L A R K Apostle of the Fine Art of Friendship

      Chapter I.

       Moving Shadow-Shapes

       Table of Contents

      One of the occasions when I experienced “that grand and glorious feeling” was when my law business had achieved proportions that justified my removal from my old office to new and more commodious quarters. I selected a somewhat pretentious building on Madison Avenue between Thirtieth and Fortieth Streets, and it was a red-letter day for me when I moved into my pleasant rooms on its top floor.

      The Puritan Trust Company occupied all of the ground floor and there were also some of the private offices of that institution on the top floor, as well as a few offices to be let.

      My rooms were well located and delightfully light, and I furnished them with care, selecting chairs and desks of a dignified type, and rugs of appropriately quiet coloring. I also selected my stenographer with care, and Norah MacCormack was a red-haired piece of perfection. If she had a weakness, it was for reading detective stories, but I condoned that, for in my hammocky moods I, too, dipped into the tangled-web school of fiction.

      And, without undue conceit, I felt that I could give most specimens of the genus Sherlock cards and spades and beat them at their own game of deduction. I practiced it on Norah sometimes. She would bring me a veil or glove of some friend of hers, and I would try to deduce the friend’s traits of character. My successes and failures were about fifty-fifty, but Norah thought I improved with practice, and, anyway, it exercised my intelligence.

      I had failed to pass examination for the army, because of a defect, negligible, it seemed to me, in my eyesight. I was deeply disappointed, but as the law of compensation is usually in force, I unexpectedly proved to be of some use to my Government after all.

      Across the hall from me was the private office of Amos Gately, the President of the Puritan Trust Company, and a man of city-wide reputation. I didn’t know the great financier personally, but everyone knew of him, and his name was a synonym for all that is sound, honorable, and philanthropic in the money mart. He was of that frequently seen type, with the silver gray hair that so becomingly accompanies deep-set dark eyes.

      And yet, I had never seen Mr. Gately himself. My knowledge of him was gained from his frequent portraiture in the papers or in an occasional magazine. And I had gathered, in a vague way, that he was a connoisseur of the fine arts, and that his offices, as well as his home, were palatial in their appointments.

      I may as well admit, therefore, that going in and out of my own rooms I often looked toward his door, in hopes that I might get a glimpse, at least, of the treasures within. But so far I had not done so.

      To be sure, I had only occupied my own suite about a week and then again Mr. Gately was not always in his private offices during business hours. Doubtless, much of the time he was down in the banking rooms.

      There was a yellow-haired stenographer, who wore her hair in ear-muffs, and who was, I should say, addicted to the vanity-case. This young person, Norah had informed me, was Jenny Boyd.

      And that sums up the whole of my intimate knowledge of Amos Gately—until the day of the black snow squall!

      I daresay my prehistoric ancestors were sun-worshipers. At any rate, I am perfectly happy when the sun shines, and utterly miserable on a gloomy day. Of course, after sunset, I don’t care, but days when artificial light must be used, I get fidgety and am positively unable to concentrate on any important line of thought.

      And so, when Norah snapped on her green-shaded desk light in mid-afternoon, I impulsively jumped up to go home. I could stand electrically lighted rooms better in my diggings than in the work-compelling atmosphere of my office.

      “Finish that bit of work,” I told my competent assistant, “and then go home yourself. I’m going now.”

      “But it’s only three o’clock, Mr. Brice,” and Norah’s gray eyes looked up from the clicking keys.

      “I know it, but a snow storm is brewing,—and Lord knows there’s snow enough in town now!”

      “There is so! I’m thinking they won’t get the black mountains out of the side streets before Fourth of July,—and the poor White Wings working themselves to death!”

      “Statistics haven’t yet proved that cause of death prevalent among snow-shovelers,” I returned, “but I’m pretty sure