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Mansion of Mystery

<h2 id="id01261" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XVI</h2> <h5 id="id01262">SOMETHING ABOUT A SECRET SERVICE MAN</h5> On the following morning the newspapers brought to Adam Adams the full particulars of the Langmore inquest, with the finding of the coroner's jury. The papers also described how Margaret Langmore had fainted and been placed at a nurse's residence, under the care of a physician and guarded by the police. By a few it was supposed that the girl's illness was genuine, but the general opinion was that it was assumed, in order to draw public sympathy. Raymond Case was pictured as a loyal, but misguided young man, and it was hinted that his relatives were much chagrined to see him remaining at the accused girl's side, in view of the evidence which had been brought to light. The detective read the accounts with interest and then leaned back in his office chair in a thoughtful mood. Letty had absented herself and in the outer office was another girl, who had done substitute work before. Suddenly the detective arose with decision, went to the telephone, and rang up Central. "Hullo!" "Give me 45678 Park." There was a buzz and then a heavy voice came over the 'phone. "Hullo!" "Is that you, Vapp?" "Yes. Is this Mr. Adams?" "Yes. Are you particularly busy?" "Not if there is any money afloat," and a chuckle came over the wire. "I want you to do some shadowing for me, I don't know how long it will take. It's a man—a commercial traveler. You can pick out your own make-up." "When am I on?" "Right away." "Want me up there first?" "I think it will be best. I want to give you some details." "I'll be there in half an hour and all ready for the job." Adam Adams busied himself in various ways, and at the end of half an hour, a well-dressed, middle-aged man came in, carrying a small sample case in one hand. "Hullo, going to be a commercial traveler yourself, eh?" commented the detective. "It will give me an easy way to get around," answered Charles Vapp. "I'm Andy Weber, representing the Boxton Seed Company. A seed man can go anywhere, in the city and the country. I got the outfit from old Boxton himself. He thinks it a good joke and he will keep mum. Now, what's the game?" "I want you to do some shadowing for me." "All right—that's my line." "This is a bit out of the ordinary, Vapp." "Well, that makes it more interesting. Who is the party?" "The fellow's name is Tom Ostrello." "Foreigner, eh?" "No, he is American-born—the son of Mrs. Langmore." "You don't mean the woman who was murdered with her husband?" "Yes. He is a commercial traveler for a drug concern." "Good! I'm glad I elected to be a traveler myself." "As I said, Vapp, this is no ordinary case. I want you to keep track of this man day and night." "I'll do it—if it can be done." "I want you to note every person he communicates with." "I'll do that, too." "And here is another thing of great importance. If he spends money, try to find out if it is good money." "Eh?" The shadower looked surprised for an instant. "You want me to look out for counterfeits?" "Exactly." "That is not so easy, but I'll do my best," went on Charley Vapp, and then he asked a number of questions regarding Tom Ostrello, all of which Adam Adams answered as well as he was able. "You are to stay on this case until I tell you to drop it," said the detective. "And remember, if anything unusual occurs, let me know as soon as you can reach me." "I understand. Anything more?" Adam Adams mused for a moment. "Yes. You know Miss Bernard, who works for me here?" "Sure." "Well, take care that she doesn't see you shadowing Ostrello." "I'm wise," answered the shadower, smiling, and the next moment he was gone. He was not flustered by what was before him, for he had been shadowing people for eleven years, and as long as there was five dollars per day and his expenses in the work, he was willing to continue indefinitely. With the shadower gone, Adam Adams meditated for a moment and then donned his walking coat and his hat. In his pockets he placed several large but rather flat packages. "I am going out, Miss Harringford," he said to the clerk. "If I am not back by five o'clock, you may lock up and go home. Be on hand as usual in the morning." Down in the street he hopped aboard a passing car and rode eight blocks. He entered an office building, went up in an elevator to the third floor, and took himself to a suite of offices occupied by certain United States secret service officers. "I want to see Mr. Breslow," he said, and was shown to a private apartment, where an elderly man sat, studying several reports. "How are you, Adams!" was the greeting. "Rather busy to-day, but what can I do for you?" "I want to sell you some bank bills," was the reply, and Adam Adams dumped the package on the desk. Mr. Breslow opened it and examined the contents. "By the jumping Judas! Where did you get those? Say, this is worth while." "I guess you haven't rounded up quite as many as I have, have you?" said the detective, with a grim smile. "As many? Why, man, we've only run across sixteen so far, and you've got thirty. They are such a clever counterfeit that even the banks get nipped. This is wonderful! I didn't know you were following this trail. Why didn't you say something before? Or maybe you wanted to spring a surprise, and make some of the boys, down here feel cheap." "No, it was nothing but blind luck. I wasn't on the trail at all. I simply stumbled over the bills." "Did you get your man?" "There was no man to get." "Do you mean to say you found the bills?" "I did and I didn't. They were in the safe of a man who was murdered. I guess I'll have to tell you the best part of the story," and Adam Adams did so. "This is, of course, confidential," he went on. "Trust me for that, Adams. Strange complication, as you just remarked. I suppose you are going to follow up the murder mystery. Will you follow this up, too?" "I think so. I can't get it out of my head that the two are related to each other." "More than likely. Now, you just said you wanted to know something." "I want to know about this John S. Watkins, of Bryport." "Um! If I give you his record, you'll of course keep it to yourself. You know how the department is about such things?" "You are safe with me." "I'll have the record brought in." There was a wait of several minutes, and then a big book was produced from one of the safes. "Here you are, Adams: John S. Watkins, Bryport. Born at New Haven, October 4, 1862. Former occupation, model maker and cabinet maker. Private detective for four years, and one year with the Cassell agency. Entered the United States service three years ago. Never been advanced. Cases 45,254; 47,732; 46,829. Wait till I see what those cases are." Then three other records were brought forth and examined. "Humph! all small affairs. No wonder he hasn't been promoted. The first is that of a young woman who used washed postage stamps. They found four dollars worth of washed stamps in her possession. The next is the arrest of a cigar dealer, who used stamped boxes more than once. He was a fellow sixty-eight years old and got two years. The last case is a mail-order swindle, a ten-cent puzzle, a small affair, run by a nineteen-year-old boy, and sentence was suspended." "Not a very brilliant record," was Adams's comment. "It's a wonder he can hold his job." "It is a wonder. But he may have political influence, or something else, or, it is barely possible that he may be doing some work that is not on record here. That is all I can tell you." "What is his salary?" "A thousand or twelve hundred a year." "Not a very elaborate income. No wonder he would like to run down those counterfeiters. It would be a feather in his cap, eh?" "Most assuredly. Do you expect to double up with him? Of course, it's none of my business and you needn't answer if you don't care to." "I don't know what I'll do yet. This is a complication I want to study first." "I see. Well, if we can help you—" "I'll send word, don't fear. And if I do send word, I want you to act on the jump." "Don't worry about that. I know if you send word it means business," answered the secret service officer, with a laugh. An hour later found Adam Adams on a train bound for Bryport. He reached that city in the evening, and from a directory he learned where the secret service man resided. A street car brought him to within two blocks of the dwelling. It was a building of no mean pretentions and on a corner which looked to be valuable. Walking along the side street he saw that two domestics were at work in the kitchen and dining room. "He certainly lives in style," mused Adam Adams. "Wonder if he manages it on twelve hundred a year?" As it was a warm night the windows were open and by going close to the house he could hear the conversation being carried on by the servants as they moved back and forth between the two rooms. From their talk, he learned that Mrs. Watkins and her two daughters were at Saratoga, and that it was expected that the husband would join his family there soon. "And we'll have good times when he's gone, ain't that so, Caddie?" said one of the domestics. "That we will," was the answer. "Better times than now, anyway, when you can't tell when he is coming in and when he is going out. It is a queer way he has with him lately." "I guess he is worried over his money." "Why, what do you know about that, Caddie Dix?" "What do I know, Nellie Casey? Tim Corey told me Mrs. Watkins didn't git a cent of the old grandfather's money, although she said she did, and so did the master say so. It all went to the other part of the family." "Then where did Mr. Watkins git his money, I'd like to know." "Don't ask me. Tim says he is flush enough at the club and other places. The government must pay him more than most folks imagine." "Is Tim goin' to the Rosebud's picnic?" "Yes, and Dan's goin' too, and Dan wants me to bring you," went on one of the domestics, and then the talk drifted into a channel which was of no further interest to Adam Adams. He rightfully surmised that John Watkins was not home and was somewhat puzzled to decide what he should do next. It was a long journey from Bryport to Sidham, and it was a question if he could accomplish anything at the scene of the tragedy during the night. "Perhaps it will pay just as well to go to a hotel and go to bed," he told himself. He had just come out to the corner of the street and was halting at the curb, when he saw two men approaching. One of the pair was John Watkins, and the other was a heavy-set stranger, with bushy hair and a round, red nose and mutton-chop whiskers. "Here we are, Styles," said John Watkins. "It's a little late, but I reckon the girls can fix us up something to eat. It's better than going to a restaurant." "Anything will do me, if you've got a glass of ale to go with it," was the reply. "Got to have a real Englishman's drink, eh?" said the secret service man, with a short laugh. "Well, I've remembered you and I can fix you up to the queen's taste. Come on inside." And then the pair entered the house. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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