polite voice assured me that they knew nothing of Mr. Gately’s whereabouts at that moment, but if I would leave a message he would ultimately receive it.
So, then, I told them, in part, what had happened, or, rather, what I believed had happened, and still a little unconcerned, the polite man agreed to send somebody up.
“Stuffy people!” I said to Norah, as I returned to the room she was in. “They seemed to think me officious.”
“I feared they would, Mr. Brice, but you had to do it. There’s no doubt Mr. Gately left this room in mad haste. See, here’s his personal checkbook on his desk, and he drew a check today.”
“Nothing remarkable in his drawing a check,” I observed, “but decidedly peculiar to leave his checkbook around so carelessly. As you say, Norah, he left in a hurry.”
“But how did he leave?”
“That’s the mystery; and I, for one, give it up. I’m quite willing to wait until some greater brain than mine works out the problem.”
“But it’s incomprehensible,” Norah went on; “where’s Jenny?”
“For that matter,” I countered, “where’s Mr. Gately? Where’s his angry visitor, male or female? and, finally, where’s the pistol that made the sound and smoke of which I had positive evidence?”
“We may find that,” suggested Norah, hopefully.
But careful search failed to discover any firearms, as it had failed to reveal the actors of the drama.
Nor did the representative from the bank come up at once. This seemed queer, I thought, and with a sudden impulse to find out something, I declared I was going down to the bank myself.
“Go on,” said Norah, “I’ll stay here, for I must know what they find out when they do come.”
I went out into the hall and pushed the “Down” button of the elevator.
“Be careful,” Norah warned me, as the car was heard ascending, “say very little, Mr. Brice, except to the proper authorities. This may be a terrible thing, and you mustn’t get mixed up in it until you know more about it. You were not only the first to discover the disappearance,—but you and I are apparently the only ones in this corridor who know of it yet, we may be——”
“Suspected of the abduction of Amos Gately! Hardly! Don’t let your detective instinct run away with you Norah!”
And then the elevator door slid open and I got into the car.
Chapter II.
Jenny’s Version
The elevators in the building were run by girls, and the one I entered was in charge of Minny Boyd, a sister of Jenny, who was in Mr. Gately’s office.
As soon as I stepped into the car I saw that Minny was in a state of excitement.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, sympathetically.
“Oh, Mr. Brice,” and the girl burst into tears, “Jenny said——”
“Well,” I urged, as she hesitated, “what did Jenny say?”
“Don’t you know anything about it?”
“About what?” I asked, trying to be casual.
“Why, about Mr. Gately.”
“And what about him?”
“He’s gone! Disappeared!”
“Amos Gately? The president of the Puritan Trust Company! Minny, what do you mean?”
“Why, Mr. Brice, only a little while ago, I took Jenny down. She was crying like everything and she said that Mr. Gately had been shot!”
“Shot?”
“Yes, that’s what she said——”
“Who shot him?”
“I don’t know, but Jenny was nearly crazy! I told her to go to the lunchroom,—that’s where the girls go when off duty,—and I said I’d come to her as soon as I could. I can’t leave my car, you know.”
“Of course not, Minny,” I agreed; “but what did Jenny mean? Did she see Mr. Gately shot?”
“No, I don’t think so,—but she heard a pistol fired off, and she—she——”
“What did she do?”
“She ran into Mr. Gately’s private office,—and, he wasn’t there! And then she—oh, I suppose she hadn’t any right to do it,—but she ran on to his own personal room,—the one where she is never allowed to go,—and there wasn’t anybody there! So Jenny was scared out of her senses, and she ran out here,—to the hall, I mean,—and I took her downstairs,—and oh, Mr. Brice, I’ve got to stop at this floor,—there’s a call,—and please don’t say anything about it,—I mean don’t tell I said anything—for Jenny told me not to——”
I saw Minny was in great perturbation, and I forebore to question her further, for just then we stopped at the seventh floor and a man entered the elevator.
I knew him,—that is, I knew he was George Rodman,—but I wasn’t sufficiently acquainted to speak to him.
So the three of us went on down in silence, past the other floors, and reached the ground floor, where Rodman and I got out.
Waiting to go up, I found Mr. Pitt, a discount clerk of the Puritan Trust Company.
“This is Mr. Brice?” he said, in a superior way.
I resented the superiority, but I admitted his soft impeachment.
“And you say there is something to be investigated in Mr. Gately’s offices?” he went on, as if I were a Food Administrator, or something.
“Well,” I returned, a little curtly, “I chanced to see and hear and smell a pistol shot,—and further looking into the matter failed to show anybody killed or wounded or—in fact, failed to disclose anybody whatever on the job, and I confess it all looks to me mighty queer!”
“And may I ask why it appeals to you as queer?”
I looked Friend Pitt square in the eye, and I said, “It seems to me queer that a bank president should drop out of existence and even out of his business affiliations in one minute without any recognition of the fact.”
“Perhaps you overestimate an outside interest,” said Pitt. “You must know it is really none of the business of the Puritan Trust Company what Mr. Gately does in his leisure hours.”
“Very well, Mr. Pitt,”
