The Mystery of Murray Davenport Part 1

The Mystery of Murray Davenport.

by Robert Neilson Stephens.

CHAPTER I.

MR. LARCHER GOES OUT IN THE RAIN

The night set in with heavy and unceasing rain, and, though the month was August, winter itself could not have made the streets less inviting than they looked to Thomas Larcher. Having dined at the caterer's in the bas.e.m.e.nt, and got the damp of the afternoon removed from his clothes and dried out of his skin, he stood at his window and gazed down at the reflections of the lights on the watery asphalt. The few people he saw were hastening laboriously under umbrellas which guided torrents down their backs and left their legs and feet open to the pour. Clean and dry in his dressing-gown and slippers, Mr. Larcher turned toward his easy chair and oaken bookcase, and thanked his stars that no engagement called him forth. On such a night there was indeed no place like home, limited though home was to a second-story "bed sitting-room" in a house of "furnished rooms to let" on a crosstown street traversing the part of New York dominated by the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.

Mr. Larcher, who was a blue-eyed young man of medium size and medium appearance every way, with a smooth shaven, clear-skinned face whereon sat good nature overlaid with self-esteem, spread himself in his chair, and made ready for content. Just then there was a knock at his door, and a negro boy servant shambled in with a telegram.

"Who the deuce--?" began Mr. Larcher, with irritation; but when he opened the message he appeared to have his breath taken away by joyous surprise.

"Can I call?" he said, aloud. "Well, rather!" He let his book drop forgotten, and bestirred himself in swift preparation to go out. The telegram read merely:

"In town over night. Can you call Savoy at once? EDNA."

The state of Mr. Larcher's feelings toward the person named Edna has already been deduced by the reader. It was a state which made the young man plunge into the weather with gladness, dash to Sixth Avenue with no sense of the rain's discomfort, mentally check off the streets with impatience as he sat in a north-bound car, and finally cover with flying feet the long block to the Savoy Hotel. Wet but radiant, he was, after due announcement, shown into the drawing-room of a suite, where he was kept waiting, alone with his thumping heart, for ten minutes. At the end of that time a young lady came in with a swish from the next room.

She was a small creature, excellently shaped, and gowned--though for indoors--like a girl in a fas.h.i.+on plate. Her head was thrown back in a poise that showed to the best effect her clear-cut features; and she marched forward in a dauntless manner. She had dark brown hair arranged in loose waves, and, though her eyes were blue, her flawless skin was of a brunette tone. A hint has been given as to Mr. Larcher's conceit--which, by the way, had suffered a marvellous change to humility in the presence of his admired--but it was a small and superficial thing compared with the self-satisfaction of Miss Edna, and yet hers sat upon her with a serenity which, taking her s.e.x also into consideration, made it much less noticeable.

"Well, this is a pleasure!" he cried, rapturously, jumping up to meet her.

"h.e.l.lo, Tom!" she said, placidly, giving him her hands for a moment. "You needn't look apprehensively at that door. Aunt Clara's with me, of course, but she's gone to see a sick friend in Fifty-eighth Street. We have at least an hour to ourselves."

"An hour. Well, it's a lot, considering I had no hope of seeing you at this time of year. When I got your telegram--"

"I suppose you _were_ surprised. To think of being in New York in August!--and to find such horrid weather, too! But it's better than a hot wave. I haven't any shopping to do--any real shopping, that is, though I invented some for an excuse to come. I can do it in five minutes, with a cab. But I came just to see you."

"How kind of you, dearest. But honestly? It seems too good to be true."

The young man spoke sincerely.

"It's true, all the same. I'll tell you why in a few minutes. Sit down and be comfortable,--at this table. I know you must feel damp. Here's some wine I saved from dinner on purpose; and these cakes. I mustn't order anything from the hotel--Auntie would see it in the bill. But if you'd prefer a cup of tea--and I could manage some toast."

"No, thanks; the wine and cakes are just the thing--with you to share them. How thoughtful of you!"

She poured a gla.s.s of Hockheimer, and sat opposite him at the small table. He took a sip, and, with a cake in his hand, looked delightedly across at his hostess.

"There's something I want you to do for me," she answered, sitting composedly back in her chair, in an att.i.tude as graceful as comfortable.

"Nothing would make me happier."

"Do you know a man in New York named Murray Davenport?" she asked.

"No," replied Larcher, wonderingly.

"I'm sorry, because if you knew him already it would be easier. But I should have thought you'd know him; he's in your profession, more or less--that is, he writes a little for magazines and newspapers. But, besides that, he's an artist, and then sometimes he has something to do with theatres."

"I never heard of him. But," said Larcher, in a somewhat melancholy tone, "there are so many who write for magazines and newspapers."

"I suppose so; but if you make it an object, you can find out about him, of course. That's a part of your profession, anyhow, isn't it?--going about hunting up facts for the articles you write. So it ought to be easy, making inquiries about this Murray Davenport, and getting to know him."

"Oh, am I to do that?" Mr. Larcher's wonder grew deeper.

"Yes; and when you know him, you must learn exactly how he is getting along; how he lives; whether he is well, and comfortable, and happy, or the reverse, and all that. In fact, I want a complete report of how he fares."

"Upon my soul, you must be deeply interested in the man," said Larcher, somewhat poutingly.

"Oh, you make a great mistake if you think I'd lose sleep over any man,"

she said, with lofty coolness. "But there are reasons why I must find out about this one. Naturally I came first to you. Of course, if you hesitate, and hem and haw--" She stopped, with the faintest shrug of the shoulders.

"You might tell me the reasons, dear," he said, humbly.

"I can't. It isn't my secret. But I've undertaken to have this information got, and, if you're willing to do me a service, you'll get it, and not ask any questions. I never imagined you'd hesitate a moment."

"Oh, I don't hesitate exactly. Only, just think what it amounts to--prying into the affairs of a stranger. It seems to me a rather intrusive, private detective sort of business."

"Oh, but you don't know the reason--the object in view. Somebody's happiness depends on it,--perhaps more than one person's; I may tell you that much."

"Whose happiness?"

"It doesn't matter. n.o.body's that you know. It isn't _my_ happiness, you may be sure of that, except as far as I sympathize. The point is, in doing this, you'll be serving _me_, and really I don't see why you should be inquisitive beyond that."

"You oughtn't to count inquisitiveness a crime, when the very thing you ask me to do is nothing if not inquisitive. Really, if you'd just stop to think how a self-respecting man can possibly bring himself to pry and question--"

"Well, you may rest a.s.sured there's nothing dishonorable in this particular case. Do you imagine I would ask you to do it if it were? Upon my word, you don't flatter me!"

"Don't be angry, dear. If you're really _sure_ it's all right--"

"_If_ I'm sure! Tommy Larcher, you're simply insulting! I wish I had asked somebody else! It isn't too late--"

Larcher turned pale at the idea. He seized her hand.

"Don't talk that way, Edna dearest. You know there's n.o.body will serve you more devotedly than I. And there isn't a man of your acquaintance can handle this matter as quickly and thoroughly. Murray Davenport, you say; writes for magazines and newspapers; is an artist, also, and has something to do with theatres. Is there any other information to start with?"

"No; except that he's about twenty-eight years old, and fairly good-looking. He usually lives in rooms--you know what I mean--and takes his meals at restaurants."

"Can you give me any other points about his appearance? There _might_ possibly be two men of the same name in the same occupation. I shouldn't like to be looking up the wrong man."

"Neither should I like that. We must have the right man, by all means.

But I don't think I can tell you any more about him. Of course _I_ never saw him."

"There wouldn't probably be more than one man of the same name who was a writer and an artist and connected with theatres," said Larcher. "And it isn't a common name, Murray Davenport. There isn't one chance in a thousand of a mistake in ident.i.ty; but the most astonis.h.i.+ng coincidences do occur."

"He's something of a musician, too, now that I remember," added the young lady.

"He must be a versatile fellow, whoever he is. And when do you want this report?"

"As soon as possible. Whenever you find out anything about his circ.u.mstances, and state of mind, and so forth, write to me at once; and when you find out anything more, write again. We're going back to Easthampton to-morrow, you know."