The Film Mystery by Arthur B. Reeve


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Page 56

I knew very well that Werner would not return, but I thought that
the bluff might pave the way for getting upstairs and into the
apartment a little later. Meanwhile I had another errand. The boy
nodded a good-by as I passed out through the grilled iron doors
to the street. Less than five minutes afterward I was at the
booth of the Maroon Taxi Company, at the side of the main
entrance of the Central Park Hotel.

Here the starter proved to be a loquacious individual, and I
caught him, fortunately, in the slowest part of the afternoon.
Removing a pipe and pushing a battered cap to the back of a bald
head, he pulled out the sheets of the previous day. Before me
were recorded all the calls for taxicab service, with the names
of drivers, addresses of calls, and destinations. Although the
quarters in the booth were cramped and close and made villainous
by the reek of the man's pipe, I began to scan the lists eagerly.

It had been a busy night even down to the small hours of the
morning and I had quite a job. As I came nearer and nearer to the
end my hopes ebbed, however. When I was through I had failed to
identify a single call that might have been Werner's. Several
fares had been driven to and from the Grand Central Station,
probably the means by which he made the trip to Tarrytown. In
each case the record had shown the Central Park Hotel in the
other column, not the Whistler Studios. I was forced to give up
this clue, and it hurt. I was not built for a detective, I guess,
for I almost quit then and there, prepared to return to the
laboratory and Kennedy.

But I remembered my first intention and made my way back to the
Whistler Studios. Anyhow, I reflected, Werner would hardly have
summoned a car from a place so near his home had he wished to
keep his trip a secret. It was more important for me to gain
access to his quarters. There it was quite possible I might find
something valuable. I wondered if I would be justified in
breaking in, or if I would succeed if I attempted it.

Things proved easier than I expected. My first visit
unquestionably had prepared the way. The hallboy took me up in
the elevator himself without telephoning, took me to Werner's
door, rang the bell, and spoke to the colored valet who opened
it. As I grasped the presence of the servant in the little suite
I was glad I had not tried my hand at forcing an entrance. I had
quite anticipated an empty apartment.

The darky, pleasant voiced, polite, and well trained, bowed me
into a little den and proceeded to lay out a large box of
cigarettes on the table beside me, as well as a humidor well
filled with cigars of good quality. I took one of the latter,
accepting a light and glancing about.

Certainly this was in contrast with Manton's apartment. There was
nothing garish, ornate, or spectacular here. Richly, lavishly
furnished, everything was in perfect taste, revealing the hand of
an artist. It might have been a bit bizarre, reflecting the
nervous temperament of its owner. Even the servant showed the
touch of his master, hovering about to make sure I was
comfortable, even to bringing a stack of the latest magazines. I
hope he didn't sense my thoughts, for I cursed him inwardly. I
wanted to be alone. Ordinarily I would have enjoyed this, but now
I had become a detective, and it was necessary to rummage about,
and quickly.

The sudden ringing of the telephone took the valet out into the
tiny hall of the suite and gave me the opportunity I wished.

Phelps apparently was calling up to leave some message for
Werner, which I could not get, as the valet took it. What, I
wondered, was Phelps telephoning here for? Why not at the studio?
It looked strange.

I lost no time in speculation over that, however. The moment I
was left to myself I jumped up and rushed to a writing desk, a
carved antique which had caught my eye upon my entrance, which I
had studied from my place in the easy chair. It was unlocked, and
I opened it without compunction. With an alert ear, to warn me
the moment the colored boy hung up, I first gazed rather
helplessly at a huge pile of literary litter. Clearly there was
no time to go through all of that.

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Thu 13th Nov 2025, 18:43