search of the janitor or the superintendent of the building.
Left by myself I stared at the silent door. It was an ordinary-looking door, at the end of a small side passage which communicated with the main hall or lobby of the building. It was inconspicuous, and as the passage had an angle in it, Amos Gately could easily have gone in and out of that door without exciting comment.
Of course, the janitor would know all about it; and he did.
He returned with Mr. Talcott, muttering as he came.
“I always said Mr. Gately’d get caught in that thing yet! I don’t hold with them automaticky things, so I don’t. They may go all right for years and then cut up some trick on you. If that man’s caught in there, he must be pretty sick by this time!”
“Does Mr. Gately use the thing much?” I asked.
“Not so very often, sir. Irregular like. Now, quite frequent, and then, again, sort of seldom. Well, we can’t open it, Mr. Talcott. These things won’t work, only just so. After anybody gets in, and shuts the door, it can’t be opened except by pressing a button on the inside. Can’t you get in upstairs?”
“No,” said Talcott, shortly. “Get help, then, and break the door down.”
This was done, the splintered door fell away, and there, in a crumpled heap on the floor of the car, was Amos Gately,—dead.
Chapter IV.
The Black Squall
If I had thought Mr. Talcott somewhat indifferent before, I changed my opinion suddenly. His face turned a ghastly white and his eyes stared with horror. There was more than his grief for a friend, though that was evident enough, but his thoughts ran ahead to the larger issues involved by this murder of a bank president and otherwise influential financier.
For murder it was, beyond all doubt. The briefest examination showed Mr. Gately had been shot through the heart, and the absence of any weapon precluded the idea of suicide.
The janitor, overcome at the sight, was in a state bordering on collapse, and Mr. Talcott was not much more composed.
“Mr. Brice,” he said, his face working convulsively, “this is a fearful calamity! What can it mean? Who could have done it? What shall we do?”
Answering his last question first, I endeavored to take hold of the situation.
“First of all, Mr. Talcott, we must keep this thing quiet for the moment. I mean, we must not let a crowd gather here, before the necessary matters are attended to. This passage must be guarded from intrusion, and the bank people must be notified at once. Suppose you and the janitor stay here, while I go back next door and tell—tell whom?”
“Let me think,” groaned Mr. Talcott, passing his hand across his forehead. “Yes, please, Mr. Brice, do that—go to the bank and tell Mr. Mason, the vice-president—ask him to come here to me,—then, there is Miss Raynor—oh, how horrible it all is!”
“Also, we must call a doctor,” I suggested, “and, eventually, the police.”
“Must they be brought in? Yes, I suppose so. Well, Mr. Brice, if you will attend to those errands, I will stay here. But we must shut up that janitor!”
The man, on the verge of collapse, was groaning and mumbling prayers, or something, as he rocked his big body back and forth.
“See here, my man,” I said, “this is a great emergency and you must meet it and do your duty. That, at present, is to stay here with Mr. Talcott, and make sure that no one else comes into this small hall until some of Mr. Gately’s bank officers arrive. Also, cease that noise you’re making, and see what you can do in the way of being a real help to us.”
This appeal to his sense of duty was not without effect, and he straightened up and seemed equal to the occasion.
I ran off, then, and out of one big building back into the other. The storm, still brewing, had not yet broken, but the sky was black, and a feeling of more snow was in the atmosphere. I shivered as I felt the bitterly cold outside air, and hurried into the bank building.
I had no trouble in reaching Mr. Mason, for the bank itself was closed and many of the employees had gone home. My manner of grave importance sufficed to let me pass any inquisitive attendants and I found Mr. Mason in his office.
I told him the bare facts in a few words, for this was no time to tarry,—I wanted to get up and tell Miss Raynor before any less considerate messenger might reach her.
Mr. Mason was aghast at the terrible tidings, and closing his desk at once, he quickly reached for his hat and coat and started on his fearsome errand.
“I will call Mr. Gately’s physician,” he said, his mind working quickly, as he paused a moment, “and you will break the news to Miss Raynor, you say? I can’t seem to comprehend it all! But my place is by Mr. Gately and I will go there at once.”
So I hastened up to the twelfth floor again, trying, on the way, to think how I should best tell the awful story.
The elevator ride had never seemed so short,—the floors fairly flew past me, and in a few moments I was in the beautiful third room of Mr. Gately’s, and found Miss Raynor and Mr. Manning eagerly awaiting my news.
“Have you found Mr. Gately?” Amory Manning asked, but at the same instant, Olive Raynor cried out, “You have something dreadful to tell us, Mr. Brice! I know you have!”
This seemed to help me, and I answered, “Yes, Miss Raynor,—the worst.”
For I felt that this imperious, self-possessed girl would rather be told abruptly, like that, than to have me mince matters.
And I was right, for she said, quickly, “Tell it all,—any knowledge is better than suspense.”
So I told her, as gently as I could, of our discovery of the body of Amos Gately in his private elevator, at the bottom of the shaft.
“But I don’t understand,” said Manning. “Shot through the heart and alone in the elevator?”
“That’s the way it is. I’ve no idea of the details of the matter. We didn’t move the body, or examine it thoroughly, but the first glance showed the truth. However, a doctor has been sent for, and the vice-president and secretary of the Trust Company have things in charge, so I came right up here to tell you people about it.”
“And I thank you, Mr. Brice,” Olive’s lovely dark eyes gave me a grateful glance. “What shall I do, Amory? Shall we go down there?”
Manning hesitated. “I will,” he said, looking at her tenderly, “but—do you want to? It will be hard for you——”
“I know,—but I must go. If Uncle Amos has been killed—surely I ought to be there to—to—oh, I don’t know what!”
Olive Raynor turned a piteous face to Manning, and he took her hand in his as he responded: “Come, if you think best, dear. Shall we go together?”
“Yes,” she said; “I dread it, but I must go. And if you are with me I can stand it. What are you going to do, Mr. Brice?”
“I was about to go home,” I replied, “but I think I will go back to the Matteawan Building, for I may be able to give assistance in some way.”
I went across to my office and found that Norah had gone home. Snapping on some lights, I sat down for a few minutes to straighten out my bewildered, galloping thoughts.
Here was I, Tom Brice, a quiet, inconspicuous lawyer, thrown suddenly into the very thick of a most mysterious murder case. I well knew that my evidence concerning the shadows I had seen would be eagerly listened