Part 1

MISSING MEN

By VINCENT STARRETT

Author of “The Perfect Crime,” “The Fugitive Statue,” etc.

WHEN AN IMPORTANT BROKER AND AN EMINENT ACTOR MYSTERIOUSLY AND SIMULTANEOUSLY VANISHED, IT HAD THE POLICE WORRIED. WHEN ON TOP OF THAT THE BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER OF A RETIRED BUSINESS MAN HYSTERICALLY REPORTED HER FATHER GONE WITHOUT A TRACE, IT BECAME A MATTER FOR THE FAMOUS DETECTIVE LAVENDER HIMSELF.

My friend Lavender dwelt up four flights of steps, a wearisome climb unless one were in training. Only the little landings at the end of every flight kept me from perishing of thirst and fatigue on more than one ascent. So at least I told Lavender. The journey offered no difficulties to that agile young man himself. The trouble with me was that I inclined toward—well, stoutness.

“The rooms are comfortable,” he would reply to my protests, “the windows afford an excellent view of an interesting corner of town, and the stairs are at once a protection and a blessing. The exercise I get in going up and down is distinctly beneficial, while four flights are sufficiently formidable to daunt bores and any but very determined clients and friends. Thus my practice is kept within reasonable bounds, my bank account is not the envy of the criminal class, and my circle of intimates does not overflow the social space at my disposal. Besides, the rooms are cheap.”

The really important thing about Lavender’s rooms was their convenience to transportation. Overlooking a minor business section, not too far from the Chicago Loop to be remote, the windows fronted north and west and beneath them to the north actually lay an elevated railroad station.

And Morley of the Central Detail, who patronized the “L,” never found the place too far nor the steps too numerous. He was a clever young detective sergeant of the regular force, who occasionally visited Lavender—clever chiefly in that he had sense enough to come to Lavender when he was in difficulties. One morning he came up the steps in an unusually bad humor, and that is part of the story I have to tell.

I had spent the night with Lavender and we had just finished breakfast, sent up by the restaurateur on the corner, when we heard Morley’s footsteps and shortly beheld his morose countenance. He gave me a patronizing nod and shook hands warmly with Lavender.

We listened to his tale of woe. It seemed this time that one Peter Vanderdonck, a picture broker of some importance, had disappeared and that Morley was at his wit’s end.

“Usually,” said he, “there’s some sort of a clue, but in this case there isn’t any thing that resembles one. I can’t get started without a clue of some kind,” he grumbled with pathetic profanity.

“Who reported him missing?” asked Lavender.

“His damn landlord,” said Morley. “This Vanderdonck didn’t send a check for his rent or something like that, so the guy—name’s Giles—sends for the police. Thinks we’re bill collectors, I guess. Damn silly in my opinion. Vanderdonck’s probably just gone out of town and forgotten his rent.”

Lavender grinned. “Is the usual ‘foul play’ suspected?”

“By the landlord and the newspapers, sure!” replied Morley with heavy irony. “There’s nothing to indicate it. I’ve been through his office. No signs of a struggle. Nothing! Just as he must have left it. Not a thing moved. He might never even have used it, for all the evidence.”

“Well,” smiled Lavender, “murder doesn’t always occur in a man’s office. It’s conceivable that a man may be killed in the street or in his home.”

“Sure,” agreed the detective. “I ain’t a fool. But where do I start when there ain’t a clue? Nobody seems to know Vanderdonck but this Giles person, and nobody seems to know where he lives or whether he’s got relatives or when he was last seen. It’s just a blank wall,” he ended, with more profanity.

“A blankety-blank wall, evidently,” observed Lavender. “Well, Morley, I don’t know what you expect me to do. I can’t reach into my vest pocket and pull out the missing man. Wish I could! I’m going down town this afternoon though, and I’ll look over this fellow’s rooms with you if that’s what you want. Give me the address, and let’s say two o’clock.”

He smiled and picked up a morning newspaper.

“By the way, Morley,” he continued, “I hope an epidemic of disappearances is not about to begin. There are two others recorded in this morning’s paper, and your case makes three.”

Morley looked suspicious, as though he thought his leg was being pulled.

“I didn’t notice ’em,” he admitted.

“Charles Merritt is one of them. Know him? Rather well known and popular comedian. He was playing in the ‘Tinfoil Revue.’ He didn’t show up at the theatre a few nights ago, or at least, nobody seems to have seen him. And nobody missed him until his first cue, which seems strange. When he didn’t respond, of course everybody missed him. He wasn’t to be found and there was some excitement before the difficulty could be straightened out. Eventually they went ahead without him. The case is several days old but the press has just got hold of it. The theatre tried to keep it quiet. A queer case, don’t you think?”

“Drunk!” declared Morley without hesitation. “Who’s the other fellow?”

“It’s not a fellow, it’s a woman,” replied Lavender. “A Mrs.—Mrs.—” he referred to the paper—“Mrs. Jameson of Rogers Park. Nice little suburban widow. She went shopping yesterday morning and didn’t come home.”

“In a hospital somewhere,” asserted Morley promptly. “Run down, unconscious, and can’t tell who she is. She’ll be found before night.”

Lavender sighed whimsically.

“It’s uncanny the way you solve these mysteries, Morley,” he said. “I wish I could do it in twice the time! Well, well, I’m not trying to suggest that there is any connection between your case and these others. I’ll see you at two.”

He cocked an eye at me when our visitor had departed.

“The worst of it is, Lavender,” I said, “he’s probably right about one or both of those cases. One case does resemble another very closely, for the most part, and the obvious solution is often enough the correct one as you yourself told me.”

“True,” agreed my friend. “He may even be right about his own case. This Vanderdonck may have gone out of town very innocently, as Morley suggests. It’s because it is so nearly always the expected that happens, in spite of the old maxim, that the police are on the whole a successful body of men. But, hello! Who’s this?”

There had interrupted him a long ring at the doorbell.

“I hope, speaking of epidemics, that an epidemic of visitors is not about to begin,” he continued. “No heavy steps this time, Gilruth, nor do they come two at a time. Light—rapid, but light. Chuck the dishes out of sight like a good fellow, Gilly. We are about to receive a woman.”

“I have a feeling,” said I, “that we are going to hear about another mysterious disappearance.”

Lavender looked interested.

“The deuce you have! Do you know, Gilly, I also had one for a moment. But it is really too much to expect, right on the heels of Sergeant Morley.”

The lady’s knock fell upon the door panel.

“Nevertheless,” whispered Lavender, “I am sure you are right.”

He opened the door, and there entered Miss Shirley Minor.

Of course, we did not know her by sight or by instinct. We learned her name from her own lips some seconds after her appearance. We knew only in that first glance that an extraordinarily lovely young woman stood on the doorsill. Small, dark, alert. Her eyes, blue and anxious, looked from one to the other of us and settled upon Lavender. A little smile at once eager and wistful played about her lips.

Then she said, “I am Shirley Minor. May I come in?”

The name meant nothing in the world to either of us but we smiled in unison, like a vaudeville duo.

“Of course,” said Lavender, and I think I added, “Please do!”

“You had a visitor,” she said, “so I waited until he had gone.”

We seated her near the window where she at once exploded her bombshell. It was not quite unexpected.

“Mr. Lavender,” she said piteously, “my father has disappeared!”

I looked at Lavender. He was looking at Shirley Minor. He was not in the least surprised nor excited. He merely smiled encouragingly at the girl.

“Yes?” he said. “And of course you want me to assist you to find him. I shall be happy to aid, of course. Just take a fresh grip on your nerves, Miss Minor, and tell us all about it. It is our business to help.”

His calm interest and his cheerful smile had the desired effect. The anxiety faded from her eyes, and in a moment she smiled back at him.

“I’m afraid you will think me foolish, for after all father may have disappeared in a very usual manner. I mean, he may have gone away for a little while without bothering to leave word. Just the same I am anxious. You see, I have been away for some time myself. Only yesterday I returned from New York where I have been for some months. Father is hardly a notable correspondent, but I did hear from him once in a while, just a note to say that he was well. He always hated to write letters. I wrote reams to him, of course. Yesterday when I returned I found my three last letters to him in the mailbox. Apparently he hadn’t been home to receive them. And I hadn’t heard from him before I left New York for nearly two weeks.”

“Was he expecting you to return?” asked Lavender, still cheerful.

“No, he wasn’t,” admitted Miss Minor with an air of guilt. “You see, I was somewhat anxious about not hearing from father, but not actively alarmed. I supposed that he didn’t feel like writing. But in the background of my thought there was a slight fear that perhaps he was ill. I knew that if I wired that I was coming home and he was ill, he would wire back to stop me. That’s his way, he doesn’t like to be fussed over. So as I was tired of New York anyway I just thought I’d come home and surprise him.”

“When did he expect you to return?”

“Well, not for another month at least, I’m afraid.”

“And your mother——?”

“My mother is dead,” said Miss Minor.

“I see! Your father, I fancy, is Cyril Minor? I thought so. Well, Miss Minor, you are probably alarming yourself about nothing in particular. Inasmuch as he did not expect you to return there was no reason why he should not leave town for a while, if it occurred to him. Still you probably did well to come to me. If anything has happened it is well to know about it early, isn’t it? You have no idea where he might have gone, supposing him to have left town for a visit?”

“None in the world. His interests were all in Chicago, in recent years anyway; in his home and his club. Except for an old aunt up in Canada I don’t believe he has a relative in the world, other than I.”

“Most men have friends,” said Lavender, “and if I remember your father’s reputation, he had no enemies. You haven’t been to the police, I suppose?”

Miss Minor had not.

“Good,” nodded Lavender. “Don’t bother them just now. Leave the matter in my hands for a time. Probably you’ll hear from your father when your mail is forwarded from New York, but in any case don’t worry. Now tell me something of your father’s habits.”

After considerable questioning it developed that Cyril Minor was quite a creature of habit, with a trail that ordinarily a blind man could follow. He arose late as a rule, breakfasted at home, and went for a walk. His walk led him usually to his club, the Waldron, where he lunched and read the papers. Presumably he remained at the club during most of the afternoon, and dined there. He had no office of his own, for although only forty-four years of age he had retired from business. A man of considerable wealth obviously, with wide interests that brought him a constant and comfortable flow of money without the necessity of desk labor. In the evening he often went to the theatre, usually alone, since he was a widower, and he reached his home about eleven o’clock or between eleven and twelve. Very seldom was he later than midnight.

It was a commendable and consequently prosy record.

“There were three of your letters, I understand, that he did not receive,” continued Lavender, probing for a gleam of light. “About when would the first of them have been written?”

“About a week ago. I wrote pretty often.”

“So that he may have been away for a week, possibly a little less. All right, Miss Minor, I’ll make the proper inquiries and report as soon as I have anything to report. And be sure to let me know if you hear of anything.”

I looked at Lavender when she had gone. “Well?” I said.

“Well what?”

“The fourth disappearance!” said I. “It does look like an epidemic, doesn’t it?”

He smiled. “Well, yes, superficially. Of course it’s nothing of the sort. People disappear every day, I’m sure, and most of them don’t get a line in the papers. This looks significant to us because of Morley’s visit and because of my remarks about the two cases mentioned by the press. Miss Minor’s visit so immediately followed Morley’s that the temptation to find a connection is natural. Natural, but romantic,” he added dryly. “Which is not to say that both cases are not serious. They may be very serious indeed, and again they may be very trifling and unimportant. At the moment I prefer not to reach conclusions.”

He lighted a cigarette and lost himself in thought for a few minutes. Then, looking at the clock, he got quickly to his feet.

“Just the same, since I’ve undertaken this case and have promised Morley to have a look at his case, I must not waste time. But I’m bound to say, Gilly, that on the face of things I never knew two cases that promised less.”

Even Lavender, however, was no prophet.

—— II ——

We drew a stiff though courteous blank at the Waldron. Without being outstandingly eager to aid us, the club staff was polite and answered what questions Lavender had to put. This was natural, for we had said nothing about Miss Minor’s visit to us and the club attendants naturally wondered what our call portended. Lavender is a plausible person, however, and merely let it be known that he was anxious to get into touch with Cyril Minor, who was not to be found at his home.

Mr. Minor, it seemed, had not been seen about the club for a week. Yes, it was a bit unusual but not perhaps extraordinary. There was no mail waiting for him. He received very little mail at the club, however. None of his particular friends were in, at the moment. Perhaps Mr. Minor himself would be back before long. Who was he to be told had called?

As this latter suggestion was something more than a possibility Lavender penned a brief note, sealed it, and left it to await the return of the missing man. In it he advised Mr. Minor to get into immediate communication with his daughter who was at home and anxious about him.

“Whether the fellow is a good citizen or a scoundrel, I suppose he’s fond of his daughter,” remarked Lavender as we left the building. “I would be,” he added. “And now, Gilly, we are exactly where we began. I shall have to visit Miss Minor in her home apparently, and look over her father’s papers if she will permit it. Meanwhile we are in the general neighborhood of Morley’s difficulties, suppose we have a look at Vanderdonck’s office.”

“It’s a long way to two o’clock,” I reminded him.

“So it is,” agreed Lavender, stepping out briskly. “The absence of Sergeant Morley at the scene of his failure will greatly expedite our own investigation, I am sure.”

A few blocks lay between us and the building in part occupied by the picture broker’s establishment. We covered them rapidly. A dingy building it was, too, when we had found it. A building occupied for the most part by second-rate lawyers and booking agents, with one creaking elevator and four flights of toilsome, reminiscent stairs. We took the elevator for choice and ascended to the third story, where in time we came upon the dismal office of Peter Vanderdonck. The name was on the door. On the door also was a fly-specked card with the legend in black. “Back in an hour.” No doubt it had been used for years; it looked as if it were never taken down. No doubt also it had been put up on the occasion of Peter Vanderdonck’s last farewell to his office. Had he expected to be back in an hour, I wondered? Or had his going been voluntary and final? Or for the matter of that, had it been involuntary and final?

It was an old key-lock, typical of the building, and Lavender had hardly touched it with a little steel instrument that he carried when the door opened. Used to my friend and his ways, I was not at all shocked. I had watched him pick many a lock in my time, although I had never seen him pick one with greater ease.

There were two rooms within, an anteroom and an inner sanctum. The anteroom, into which we first penetrated, was soberly, even dingily, furnished with a table, a couch, three chairs, and a telephone. Some framed prints were on the walls, some books and magazines were on the table beside the telephone. It was all old but in good enough taste, and it reminded me of a small doctor’s anteroom more than anything else. I wondered why a picture broker should inhabit such a dull hole.

With a comprehensive glance Lavender pushed through into the inner chamber. To our surprise it was no more handsomely furnished than the outer room had been. A great safe stood alongside one wall, with the name “Peter Vanderdonck” upon it in letters of red and gold. There was a small rolltop desk standing open, a swivel chair, a small table, and a telephone extension. In a corner, quite unscreened, was a porcelain washstand, and in the closet we found towels—three of them, one of which was dirty. There were no pictures whatever on the walls, although there were marks to show where pictures once had hung, and there were screw holes in the floor near the window where evidently something once had been clamped to the floor. All in all it was an amazing office to be occupied by a “well known picture broker.” Lavender thought so, too.

Besides the closet door there was one other. It was paneled with ground glass and was obviously another entrance, or exit, giving onto the other corridor of the building. No lettering appeared on it and the door was locked. There was no key.

I looked my distaste.

“Queer place, isn’t it?” Lavender answered my glance. “I don’t wonder that Morley was stumped. I begin to think better of this case than I do of my own, Gilly.”

He picked the lock of the door leading to the second corridor and looked out. He tried the door on its hinges.

“Works well,” said he. “I suppose Vanderdonck has the key, wherever Mr. Vanderdonck is! A place with two entrances and exits is always useful.”

He examined the dirty towel hanging in the closet, carrying it to the light for a better scrutiny. Then he cocked an eye at the big safe. I knew that he was seriously considering a more serious pick-lock job than the earlier ones. Finally he walked over to the washstand and examined the bowl. He touched the porcelain with his sensitive fingers, looked at his forefinger, sniffed it, and turned on the water.

“Doesn’t run out very readily,” he remarked at length. “A bit clogged, I fancy. And notice how the drops at the last cling to the sides of the bowl.”

“Very interesting,” I smiled, “but what do you gather from that?”

“I’d like to see the contents of that safe,” he answered thoughtfully.

Once more putting temptation away from him, however, he turned his attention to the holes in the floor, then to the small desk. The latter yielded little. There was a quantity of stationery, letterheads and envelopes, all bearing the name of Peter Vanderdonck, and the top sheet and envelope of each pile was dusty save where a thumb had smeared the dust into a smudge.

“Morley’s thumb,” grunted Lavender, staccato.

In the meantime I devoted myself to an investigation of the anteroom. But the table drawer was empty and nothing offered but the books and magazines. In the heap of the latter was one newspaper a month old, which I resurrected and idly glanced over. Then I noticed that a paragraph had been ringed with a blue pencil mark and I read the notice. After which I carried it to Lavender.

“Do you suppose this is important?” I asked and handed him the paper.

He carefully read the marked paragraph and a quaint wrinkle appeared above the bridge of his nose.

“An interesting coincidence, at any rate,” he said half to himself.

“A dramatic criticism—” I began.

“In which he happened to be interested? Just that, Gilly. But why was he interested, supposing Vanderdonck to have marked the paper? For that matter, why was he interested, supposing someone else to have marked the paper and sent it to him? Did you note the cast of characters?”

“Yes,” I replied, “I did.” Then an idea struck me, and I added with a smile, “But Charles Merritt’s name is not in the cast, Jimmie. You can’t connect up that case.”

“So you thought of the Merritt mystery, did you? Well, it’s true that his name isn’t here, but someone else’s name is. The part of ‘Mabel Greensleeve’ is played, if you please, by Miss Sidney Kane. And who is Miss Sidney Kane, Gilly?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“She is, although somewhat elderly, one of the bright and shining stars, I believe, of the ‘Tinfoil Revue,’ in which Charles Merritt played a character sketch until his disappearance.”

I considered this in silence.

“It’s pretty thin, Lavender,” I said at length.

“Of course it’s thin! But she’s there, and it’s an interesting coincidence, as I remarked. In connection with the disappearance of Mr. Vanderdonck and the condition of his washstand, it’s doubly interesting.”

“His washstand?” I echoed feebly.

“And his towel,” said Lavender.

A moment later his eye was again on the great safe against the wall.

“I’d give a cookie to see the contents of that thing,” he observed thoughtfully. “But it’s Morley’s job after all, and if it’s to be opened it must be his responsibility. I suspect the police are waiting for relatives to turn up.”

Saying which, he strolled over to the safe and began to play with the knob. What would have happened had he continued, I have no idea, but he had barely begun when a key was inserted in the outer door, and Lavender desisted and rose to his feet.

“Morley. Ahead of time,” I ventured.