The Golf Course Mystery. Chester K. Steele
I suppose.”
“It will lead to nothing—it will prove nothing,” insisted Viola. “I am sure my father's affairs were not involved. Wait, I'll call Aunt Mary. She was in close touch with all the money matters of our household. Father trusted her with many business matters. Call Aunt Mary!”
Her eyes red with weeping, but bearing up bravely withal, Miss Mary Carwell joined the conference. She, it seemed, had guessed something when Dr. Lambert and Dr. Baird were closeted so long with Captain Poland.
“We must face the facts, however unpleasant they are,” said Dr. Lambert, in a low voice. “We must recognize that this will be public talk in a little while. A man—so well-known a character as was my old friend Horace Carwell—can not die suddenly in the midst of a championship golf game, and let the matter rest there.”
“The papers will take it up,” said Dr. Baird.
“The papers!” broke in Viola.
“Yes, even now I have been besieged by reporters demanding to know the cause of death. It will have to come out. The report of the county physician, on which only a burial certificate can be obtained, is public property. The bureau of vital statistics is open to the public and the reporters. There is bound to be an inquiry, and, as I have said, Dr. Rowland has already announced it as a suicide. We must face the issue bravely.”
“But even if it should prove true, that he took the poison, I am sure it will turn out to be a mistake!” declared Viola. “As for my father's affairs being in danger financially—Aunt Mary, did you ever hear of such a thing?”
“Well, my dear, your father kept his affairs pretty much to himself,” was the answer of her aunt. “He did tell me some things, and only to-day something came up that makes me think—Oh, I don't know what to think—now!”
“What is it?” asked Dr. Lambert, quietly but firmly. “It is best to know the worst at once.”
“I can't say that it is the 'worst,'” replied Miss Carwell; “but there was something about a loan to the bank, and not enough collateral to cover—Mr. Blossom should have attended to it, but he did not, it seems, and—Won't you tell them?” she appealed to Captain Poland.
“Certainly,” he responded. “It is a simple matter,” he went on. “Mr. Carwell, as all of us do at times, borrowed money from his bank, giving certain securities as collateral for the loan.
“The bank, as all banks do, kept watch on this security, and when it fell in market value below a certain point, where there was no longer sufficient margin to cover the loan safely, demanded more collateral.
“This, for some reason, Mr. Carwell did not put up, nor did his clerk, Mr. Blossom. I know nothing more in this respect than Miss Carwell told me,” and he bowed to indicate the dead man's sister. “I offered to see to the matter for her, putting up some collateral of my own until Mr. Carwell's affairs could be straightened out. It is a mere technicality, I imagine, and can have nothing to do with—with the present matter, even though Miss Webb seems to think so.”
“Oh, I am so sorry if I have made a mistake!” exclaimed Minnie, now very penitent. “But I only thought it would be helping—”
“It will be—to know the truth,” said Dr. Lambert. “Is this all that you heard, Miss Webb?”
“No, it was nothing like that. It had nothing to do with a bank loan. Oh, please don't ask me. I promised not to tell.”
“Very well, we won't force you to speak,” said the family physician. “But this matter must be gone into. What one person knows others are sure to find out. We must see Blossom. He is the one who would have the most complete knowledge of your father's affairs, Viola. Did I hear something about his going into partnership with your father?”
“Yes, there was some such plan. Father decided that he needed help, and he spoke of taking in Mr. Blossom. I know no more than that,” Viola answered.
“Then LeGrand Blossom is the person to throw more light on that subject,” said Dr. Lambert.
To himself he added a mental reservation that he did not count much on what information might come from the head clerk. Blossom, in the mind of Dr. Lambert, was a person of not much strength of character. There had been certain episodes in his life, information as to which had come to the physician in a roundabout way, that did not reflect on him very well; though, in truth, he felt that the man was weak rather than bad.
“Then is it to be believed that my father was a suicide?” asked Viola, as though seeking to know the worst, that she might fight to make it better.
“On the bare facts in the case—yes,” answered Dr. Lambert. “But that is only a starting point. We will make no hard and fast decision.”
“Indeed we will not,” declared Viola. “There must be a most rigid investigation.”
And when the others had gone, Dr. Lambert to make funeral arrangements for his old friend, Captain Poland to see the bank officials, Dr. Baird to his office, taking Minnie Webb home in his car, and Miss Garwell to her room to lie down, Viola, left alone, gave herself up to grief. She felt utterly downcast and very much in need of a friend.
And perhaps this feeling made her welcome, more cordially than when she had last seen him, Harry Bartlett, who was announced soon after the others left.
“Oh, Harry, have you heard the terrible news?” faltered Viola.
“You mean about your father? Yes,” he said gently. “But I do not believe it. I may as well speak plainly, Viola. Your father, for some reason best known to himself, did not care for me. But I respected him, and in spite of a feeling between us I admired him. I feel sure he did not commit suicide.”
“But they say it looks very suspicious, Harry! Oh, tell me what to do!” and, impulsively, Viola held out her hands to him. Bartlett pressed them warmly.
“I'll serve you in any way I can,” he said, gazing fondly into her eyes. “But I confess I am puzzled. I don't know what to do. Perhaps it would be better, as Dr. Lambert says, to look into your father's affairs.”
“Yes. But I want more than that!” declared Viola. “I want his name cleared from any suspicion of suicide. And I want you to undertake it, Harry!”
“You want me?” he exclaimed, drawing back. “Me?”
“Yes. I feel that you will do better than any one else. Oh, you will help me, won't you?” she pleaded.
“Of course, Viola. But I don't know how.”
“Then let me tell you,” and she seemed to be in better control of herself than at any time that day. “This must be gone into systematically, and we can best do it through a detective.”
“A detective!” cried Harry Bartlett, and he started from his chair. “Why, my dear Viola, a detective would be the worst possible person to call in on a case like this! Let me investigate, if you think it wise, but a detective—”
“I am not speaking of an ordinary detective, Harry. I have in mind an elderly man who was a friend of my father. He has an extraordinary reputation for solving mysteries.”
“Well, of course, if you know the man it makes a difference.” Bartlett eyed the girl curiously. “I didn't know you knew any detectives.”
“The man I have in mind was in some business deal with my father once, and they became very well acquainted. I met him several times, and liked him immensely. He is well along in years, but I think sharper than many younger men. But there is one difficulty.”
“What is that?”
“More than likely he will shy at having anything to do with the case. He told my father he was going to retire and devote his leisure time to fishing—that being his great pastime.”
“Humph! he can't be much