Chapter II: Bits of Evidence

“Sit down, won’t you, Mr. Carter?”

James Mallory, who had been so interested in gazing at the great detective as to forget the ordinary amenities, offered this invitation. Getting up from his own chair behind the flat-topped desk, he placed one for the visitor, with a propitiatory smile.

“Now, what is the first move, Mr. Carter?” asked Paul Savage, as they settled down.

“Let me go over the particulars, as they have come to me,” replied Nick. “We will see if they agree with the information you have.”

“Good idea!” commended Mallory.

“To begin with, Mrs. van Dietrich was put to bed by her maid, Mary Cook, about eleven o’clock last night. The maid sleeps on the sixth floor, at the top of the house. Mrs. van Dietrich’s three rooms and bath are on the fourth.”

“That’s correct,” nodded Savage.

“At eight o’clock this morning, Mary Cook went to awaken her employer, according to her custom. She could not make the lady hear, and she got scared. So she went to the housekeeper, Mrs. Joyce, and told her she was afraid Mrs. van Dietrich was sick. Mrs. Joyce went with her, and, with her master key, unlocked the door, and, also, with another key, shot back the bolt.”

“That’s the way I got it,” breathed Paul Savage. “Though how you managed to get it so exact----”

“When the two women went into the room, they found the bed had been slept in, and Mrs. van Dietrich’s nightgown had been thrown carelessly across it. The windows were closed, except for a few inches at the top, for ventilation. This was the case in all three rooms, and the ventilator in the bathroom was open, as usual.”

“There were no signs of a struggle,” remarked Savage.

“So I understand,” assented Nick. “Another thing is that the clothes which Mrs. van Dietrich wore the day before went with her. She must have dressed herself--or been dressed by somebody else--before going away.”

“That is all true, as I got it,” observed Paul Savage. “But there is another point, which you have not mentioned.”

“And that is----”

“All the jewelry in her trunks was taken out, although the trunks were locked when the maid examined them this morning. The girl had the keys.”

“Oh, she had?”

The intonation with which the detective made this remark caused Savage to shake his head decidedly.

“I understand,” went on Nick. “You mean there is no suspicion attaching to the maid? Well, I am of the same opinion. You have not been able to find the slightest clew, have you?”

“None.”

“Have any of the guests left the hotel this morning? I mean, left altogether?”

“No. All of them will stay with us for several days, at least, so I expect. They are here to enjoy the quietude and beauty of the place. They are not transients, such as you find in city hotels.”

“None of them have given notice to leave, have they?” continued Nick, disregarding the encomium on the hotel and its surroundings.

“I don’t think so. Are there any, Mallory?” asked Savage, turning to his partner.

“I haven’t heard of any. I’ll ask the clerk, if you like. The phone is right here,” replied Mallory, laying a hand upon his desk telephone.

“That is not necessary,” declared the detective. “I have already asked him. I came through the office to this room, and I picked up what information I could on the way.”

“You’re a pretty good picker, too, I should say,” remarked Mallory, with a grin. “You seem to know about all we have found out.”

“If any of the guests say they are going to leave, I wish you’d let me know at once,” requested Nick, as he got up from his chair. “I’ll go and send a telegram to New York. Then I should like to look at Mrs. van Dietrich’s rooms. They haven’t been disturbed, I hope.”

“No. I gave orders that no one should go into them after the maid had looked at the trunks. Mrs. Joyce has her own keys, and she has fastened all the doors as they were before, except that she had to knock out one of the keys that had been left in the bedroom door, so that she could put in her own.”

“That’s good. I’ll send a message by telephone to the telegraph office at Dorset, from one of the booths in the lobby. I’ll be right back.”

The detective telephoned the message, as he had said, directed to his assistant Chick, in Madison Avenue, New York. He told Chick to come down to the Hotel Amsterdam at once, and to bring the bloodhound, Captain--which had done so much effective police work for them at various times--with him.

Nick Carter knew perfectly well that Mallory, or Savage, had taken the receiver off the hook in their office, and were listening to him over the wire.

That did not disturb him. He had rather expected it, and his object in telegraphing from the booth, instead of from their office, as he might have done, was to satisfy himself that they would descend to the meanness of “listening in” to a private message.

He strolled back to their office when he had dispatched his telegram, and when the door was opened, stood on the threshold with a smile as he told them he was ready to go to the room of the vanished Mrs. van Dietrich.

“One moment,” he added, as they were about to come forth. “I should like to say something to you with the door closed.”

He stepped into the office, closing the door behind him, and said, in an earnest whisper:

“Let me impress one thing upon you, gentlemen. I understand that you are anxious to keep any knowledge of this strange disappearance from your patrons, and also that you would not like it in the newspapers?”

“The newspapers?” fairly shrieked James Mallory. “That would settle us. I believe if I saw a reporter around this hotel, I would fling him out of the window into the sea. And, of course, we must not let our guests know. It would give the hotel a fearful black eye--although it is no fault of ours.”

“Very well,” observed Nick. “Then be careful that no one suspects my identity. I am Colonel Pearson, remember. If any one outside of yourselves were to know who I am, there would be no use my going on with the case.”

“You can depend on us keeping it a secret,” asserted Savage promptly. “We are too anxious for you to solve the mystery to throw any obstacles in your way.”

“That’s what!” added Mallory. “What do you think of it all?”

“We have seen the effect,” returned Nick, “and we know that it must have a cause.”

“That’s all right. But what is the cause?” growled Savage.

“The cause is never less than the effect,” continued the detective. “Therefore, arguing by the importance of the effect, we must look for a fairly powerful cause. Now, let’s go up to the fourth floor.”

The elevator man evidently had not heard of anything unusual in the hotel, for he merely glanced at the two partners and the gentleman he had come to know as Colonel Pearson, and when he was told to let them off at the fourth floor, he did so without emotion.

“That’s good,” remarked Nick, as they walked along the thickly carpeted corridor. “I can see that the incident concerning Mrs. van D. has not become common property. Is this the door?”

Savage nodded and opened a door with his master key, ushered them into a sitting room, and closed the door behind them.

Nick Carter walked on to the bedroom, and after a cursory glance at the bed, went to the window.

Drawing from his pocket a powerful magnifying glass, he proceeded to examine every inch of the window sill, working in a series of imaginary squares.

The two partners watched him curiously, but he took no notice of them. When he had finished his minute inspection of the sill and frame, he threw up the window and leaned out.

“You have made careful examination of the rocks under this window, I presume?” he asked.

“Yes. We have gone over them thoroughly,” replied Savage. “There is nothing there.”

“Ah! Whose rooms are those that overlook the water on this same floor? I see there is no shore or rocks at all there. The house seems to have been built straight out of the sea.”

James Mallory walked to the window and looked out. He shook his head.

“Come over here, Savage,” he said. “I don’t know what rooms they are. You know, don’t you?”

“Yes,” answered his partner, putting out his head and looking along the rows of windows. “That window, where the curtain is blowing out, and the next one, are number forty-eight. A lady occupies the suite. Let me see! Oh, yes! the Baroness Latour.”

“Indeed?” remarked Nick Carter carelessly. “She’s a very charming young lady. We were playing golf together this morning, as I told you. Now, let me have a look at this room door.”

Turning the key, he swung the door open a few inches.

“You’d better stand outside, Mr. Mallory,” he suggested. “If anybody comes along and seems curious, you can say that I am repairing the lock. Tell them that Colonel Pearson makes a hobby of this sort of thing. I’ll keep out of sight as much as possible, however.”

Nick pushed the door nearly shut, and kneeling inside the room, he drew out the key and inspected it closely through his magnifying glass. Then he examined the bolt and keyhole, and kept at it for ten minutes.

“Come in, Mr. Mallory,” he requested, through the narrow opening between the door and the jamb. “I’m through with the door for the present.”

To the surprise of both partners, he dropped to his knees, and, with the aid of his glass, began to go over the carpet in a series of imaginary squares, just as he had done at the window.

It was half an hour before he had finished this task. By that time he was under an electric light which hung near the bed, for the convenience of guests who might like to read after retiring.

A gas jet protruded from the wall near it. Here Nick picked up the burned end of a wax match.

He seemed to attach some importance to this trifle, for he arose to his feet with the fragment of match in his hand and asked the partners:

“What kind of matches do you provide in this hotel?”

“Why--er--just the ordinary wood safety matches, with the name of the hotel on the box. They are put in every room, for the use of smokers, and also to light the gas when a guest does not want to use the electric light. Some people like a lowered gas jet in the room all night, you know.”

“Do you use wax matches at all?”

Mallory shook his head and turned to Savage, who, as already remarked, was the detail man of the concern.

“Have we any of those matches, Savage?”

“None in the house, that I know of,” was the short reply. “Have you found out anything, Mr. Carter?”

“Nothing that I can report, Mr. Savage,” Nick answered. “It is too early to say one thing or another yet. I will say, however, that, in my opinion, the person responsible for the vanishing of Mrs. van Dietrich is living in the hotel.”

“A servant?” asked Mallory anxiously.

“That remains to be seen,” returned the detective, with a shrug. “It is also certain that there are accomplices on the outside. I will go to my room and think things over. After luncheon I will go into the case further. If anything comes to your knowledge that seems likely to be useful, you will find me in my room. Keep up your nerve, gentlemen, and, above all things, keep your own counsel. Strict secrecy, remember.”

Once in his own room, Nick Carter lighted one of his favorite perfectos, of which he had brought a box with him, and settled down to think over the mystery that had so unexpectedly faced him in a place where he might have supposed he could rest and enjoy a vacation in peace.

He smoked in silence for an hour, with the key of Mrs. van Dietrich’s bedroom and the half-burned wax match in his fingers. He examined them alternately through the magnifying glass and tried to build a hypothesis on either one or the other, or both.

Suddenly there was a sharp rap at his door. As he opened it, James Mallory stepped inside and stared at him with blinking eyes, while his heavy cheeks, usually beet red, were a yellowish white.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Nick Carter sharply.

“More trouble!” blurted out Mallory. “It seems as if the foul fiend himself is taking a hand in running this hotel.”

“Never mind about that!” interrupted the detective impatiently. “What is the specific trouble now?”

“Another of our guests has mysteriously disappeared,” wailed Mallory. “Mr. Harvey L. Drago, the big Wall Street banker.”

“Disappeared?” cried Nick Carter. “How? From his bedroom?”

“No. From the golf links!”

“That so? This is getting interesting,” observed Nick. “Sit down and tell me all about it, Mr. Mallory.”