The Holladay Case (Detective Story Magazine)/Chapter 1
CHAPTER I.
A Bolt From the Blue
The atmosphere of the office that morning was a shade less genial than usual. A storm of wind, snow, slush, and sleet had made us testy as well as tardy. I was a half hour late when I entered the inner office, where I found Mr. Graham, our senior, already at his desk. He nodded good morning a little curtly.
I saw our senior's face change as he ran rapidly through the story which followed.
“Why, this is the most remarkable thing I ever read!” he burst out at last.
“Remarkable!” cried the other. “Why, it's a positive outrage, sir! The idea that a gentle, cultured girl like Frances Holladay would deliberately murder her own father—strike him down in cold blood—is too absolutely preposterous, too” and he stopped, fairly choked by his emotion.
“Plainly, the whole case hinges on the evidence of this man Rogers, Holladay's confidential clerk,” he said at last. “From what I know of Rogers, I should say that he'd be the last man in the world to make a willful misstatement. He says that Miss Holladay entered her father's office late yesterday afternoon, stayed there ten minutes, and then came out hurriedly. A few minutes later Rogers went into the office and found his employer dead. That's the whole case, but it'll be a hard one to break.”
“Well, it must be broken!” retorted the other pulling himself together with a supreme effort. “Of course, I'll take the case.”
“Of course!”
“Miss Holladay probably sent for me last night, but I was out at Babylon, looking up that witness in the Hurd affair whose evidence will give us the case. Our answer in the Brown injunction can wait till to-morrow. That's all, I think.”
The chief nodded. “I see the inquest is to begin at ten o'clock. You haven't much time.”
“I'd like to have a good man with me,” and he glanced in my direction. “Can you spare me Lester?”
My heart gave a jump. It was just the question I was hoping he would ask.
The chief readily consented. “In a case like this, certainly. Let me hear from you in the course of the day.”
Mr. Royce started for the door. “We'll find some flaw in that fellow's story, depend upon it. Come on, Lester.”
In a moment we were in the street and found a taxi.
I knew Hiram W. Holladay, the murdered man, quite well. One of the most successful operators in Wall Street, he had been a client of Graham & Royce for twenty years and more. He was at that time well on toward seventy years of age; his wife was dead, and his daughter, Frances, must be about twenty-five. Born abroad, she had spent the first years of her life there with her mother, who had lingered on among the hills of Italy in the hope of regaining a health which had been failing ever since her daughter's birth. She had come home at last, bringing the black-eyed child with her, and within the year was dead.
Holladay's affections from that moment centered about his daughter, who developed into a tall and beautiful girl—too beautiful for our junior partner's peace of mind. He had met her first in a business way, and afterward socially, and all of us saw how he was eating his heart out at the knowledge that she was far beyond his reach.
When the taxi reached the Criminal Courts building, Mr. Royce sprang out, paid the driver, and ran up the steps to the door, I after him. Down the corridor to the right, we entered the room of the medical examiner, Doctor Goldberg.
A clerk took Mr. Royce's card. In a moment he returned and ushered us into the private office.
“Ah, Mr. Royce, glad to see you,” greeted Doctor Goldberg as we entered. “We tried to find you last night, but learned that you were out of town. I was just calling up your office again.”
“Miss Holladay asked for me, then?”
“Yes, at once.”
I could see our junior's face crimson with pleasure.
“You didn't think it necessary to confine her, I trust?” he asked.
“Oh, no; she spent the night at home under surveillance.”
“That was right. Of course, it's simply absurd to suspect her.”
Goldberg looked at him curiously.
“I don't know, Mr. Royce,” he said slowly. “If the evidence turns out as I think it will, I shall have to hold her—the district attorney expects it.”
“He'll be present at the examination, then?” asked Mr. Royce.
“Yes, we're waiting for him. You see, it's rather an extraordinary case.”
“I should like to see Miss Holladay before the examination begins,” he said.
“She's in the next room. Julius, take Mr. Royce to Miss Holladay,” he added to the clerk.
As we entered she came a step toward us, holding out her hands impulsively.
“Oh, but I'm glad to see you!” she said in a voice so low I could scarcely hear it. “I've wanted you so much!”
“It was my great misfortune that I could come no sooner,” said my chief, his voice trembling a little despite himself. “I—I scarcely expected to see you here with no one.”
“I should have liked to have my maid, but”
“She's one of the witnesses, I suppose,” explained Mr. Royce. “Well, now that I'm here, I shall stay until I've proved how utterly ridiculous this charge against you is.”
She sank back into her chair and looked up at him with dark, appealing eyes.
“You think you can?” she asked.
“Can! Certainly I can! Why, it's too preposterous to stand for a moment! We've only to show that you were somewhere else, you know, at the time the crime was committed, and the whole business falls to pieces in an instant. You can do that easily, can't you?”
The color had gone from her cheeks again.
“I don't know,” she murmured indistinctly. “I must think. Oh, don't let it come to that!”
I was puzzled, confounded. With her good name, her life, perhaps, in the balance, she wanted time to think! I could see that my chief was astonished, too.