The Detective Megapack®

THE TAGGART ASSIGNMENT, by Vincent Starrett-1

THE TAGGART ASSIGNMENT, by Vincent StarrettCHAPTER I

I had not seen my friend Lavender for some days, and through no fault of my own. He was out of town. But faithfully every morning I strolled around to his rooms, collected his mail, and tried to imagine that in the absence of the great Lavender I was myself a person of importance. I even opened letters that appeared to be significant and, when necessary, replied with tidings of my friend’s absence; but throughout the week of silence that followed his departure there had been nothing warranting a wire to him in Wisconsin, where I knew he was engaged upon a will case of national prominence.

On the eighth day of my voluntary factotumship, I sauntered toward the dingy edifice whose upper story concealed the curious activities of my remarkable friend.

I suppose there were not a dozen men in the community who knew Lavender to be a detective, but the regular postman was one of these, and this friendly individual I met as I entered Portland Street.

“Well, I see he’s home,” he cheerfully greeted me.

“The deuce he is!” I exclaimed.

“Yep, saw him this morning on my first trip. I’ve got a letter for him. You going up?”

“Yes;” I said indignantly, “and he’s going to be called down! He might have let a fellow know when he was coming.”

The man in gray laughed. “Now you see him and now you don’t,” he chanted, and fished in his sack until he had found the single letter intended for James Eliot Lavender.

But I withheld the bitterly affectionate greeting that lay upon my lips as I burst into the library, for I quickly saw that Lavender was not alone. He was deep in consultation with one of the most striking young women I had ever seen. Both looked up at my noisy entrance.

“Hello, Gilly,” said my friend casually. “I was about to telephone you. Glad to see you! Let me make you acquainted with Miss Dale Valentine. My friend Mr. Gilruth, Miss Valentine.”

I bowed and stared. We had had young lady visitors before, but seldom such arresting specimens as this one. And her name and face were curiously familiar, although at the moment I could not place her.

“You are wondering where you have seen Miss Valentine before, no doubt Probably you have noticed her portrait in the newspapers. Her engagement recently was announced by the press. Draw up a chair, Gilly, and listen to what Miss Valentine will tell you. Do you mind repeating the story?” he asked his client, with a friendly smile. “Mr. Gilruth is my assistant and will work with me in this matter.”

Of course, I knew her as soon as he spoke about the newspapers. She was the season’s bright and particular “bud,” and her approaching marriage to a young man of her own set had filled the society columns. What in the world, I wondered, could this darkly beautiful girl, with a woman’s greatest happiness less than a week away as I remembered it, want with my friend Lavender?

“Something very strange has happened, Mr. Gilruth,” she said frankly. “Perhaps something very terrible.” Her lips trembled, and she paused as if to control an emotion that threatened to destroy her calm. “My fiancé, Mr. Parris, is missing. That is everything, in a word. He—”

Noting her distress, Lavender hastily threw himself into the breach.

“Yes,” he said, “that is the whole story. In a word, Mr. Rupert Parris has disappeared, practically on the eve of his wedding. Miss Valentine cannot explain so remarkable an action by any ordinary reason, and quite naturally she suspects that something may have happened to Mr. Parris; that he may have been injured, or abducted, or even—possibly—killed; although, as I tell her, that seems, unlikely in the circumstances. There is no one else to ask that a search be made—Mr. Parris is alone in the world—and Miss Valentine has determined to risk the unpleasantness of possible gossip and ask for investigation. The case is to be kept from the newspapers if humanly possible, but one way or another Mr. Parris is to be found. Miss Valentine has honored us by asking us to conduct the search.”

The young woman nodded her head gratefully in acknowledgment of his understanding and his delicate statement of the facts.

“Today is Tuesday,” continued my friend, “and Mr. Parris has been missing only since Sunday evening, so it is possible that he may appear at any moment with a quite reasonable explanation of his absence. Something of the highest importance to him may have occurred which called him away without giving him opportunity to notify Miss Valentine. We dare not assume that, however, for it is also possible that Mr. Parris is at this moment in need of our assistance. Now, Miss Valentine, your fiancé called you on the telephone on Sunday evening—?”

“Shortly after six o’clock,” she took up the story as he paused. “He said that he had just dined, and that he would be over within an hour. I waited, and—he did not come. I supposed that something unexpected had detained him, but when he had not arrived at nine o’clock I became anxious and called his rooms. He was not there and had not been in all evening. Nor had he been seen at his club. There was no further word from him that evening, and there has been none since. I am at my wit’s end, and—”

“Quite so,” interrupted Lavender, smiling, “but we are not, Miss Valentine. So far as it is possible, you will please let us do the worrying from now on.” His engaging smile conjured a feeble response. “You had not planned to go out on Sunday evening?”

“No, we were to spend the evening at home—at my home, of course. Dad was there, and he was very fond of Rupert. They always played a game of chess when Rupert came.”

“Your mother, I think, is dead?”

“Yes.”

“And how long had you known Mr. Parris, Miss Valentine?”

“For about a year. We have been engaged for about three months. The engagement was to have been short. Mr. Parris and my father were both opposed to long engagements.” She paused, then continued: “Perhaps I should tell you that it was largely on my father’s account—for his sake, rather—that Mr. Parris and I became engaged. Dad liked him very much, and when I had come to know him I liked him, too. My father naturally wanted me to marry happily, and he had a high opinion of Mr. Parris, who is somewhat older than I. Do not misunderstand me, please! Of course, I was very much distressed by his disappearance, and I shall do everything in my power to find him. I think I have proved that.”

“I see. Will you describe Mr. Parris for us?”

“He is of middle height, and quite slim; dark hair worn rather longer than usual. Complexion somewhat pale. He was forty-one on his last birthday. I suppose he would be called good-looking.”

“You can give us a photograph, of course?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. Rupert was averse to having his photograph taken, and I haven’t one in the house.”

Lavender frowned and nodded. He drummed his fingers on his chair-arm for a moment.

“Gilly,” he suddenly said to me, “you must trace that telephone call. Miss Valentine will—”

“You mean Rupert’s—Mr. Parris’s call to me?” asked Miss Valentine quickly. Then she blushed. “I did that, Mr. Lavender!”

“Good for you!” cried Lavender. “I ought to have asked you.”

“Yes,” she continued, “when he didn’t come, I didn’t know what to think, and when I had called his rooms and his club, and no one knew anything about him, I was afraid, and I—I was ashamed to do it—but I traced his call.”

“Admirable!” my friend exclaimed. “The most sensible thing you could have done. Where did it come from?”

“That is strange, too, and I can’t quite believe it. Perhaps the operator made a mistake and traced the wrong call; but I was told that it had come from the office of the Morning Beacon!”

“A newspaper office,” I said quickly. “Then we have another clue.”

“No,” she said, with a shake of her head, “for when I called the Beacon, as I did, nobody ever had heard of Mr. Parris. I had to be very careful, you see, for if I hinted at his disappearance there would have been a dreadful story about it the next morning. I didn’t identify him for them; I just asked for a Mr. Parris who had telephoned from there; but there was no such man in the office, they said, and had not been. When they became curious I thanked them and rang off.”

“Odd,” muttered Lavender, “very odd!” He sat with creased brow for a moment, then leaped to his feet. “No matter, Miss Valentine! We’ll begin at once. I hope before long we shall have a happy report for you.”

The dark young woman stood up and extended her hand. There was embarrassment in her eyes.

“You know,” she faltered, “the wedding date is—set? It is to be—”

“I know,” said Lavender, understanding her hesitation. “It is set for a week from tomorrow. You mean that if there is to be a wedding, and no gossip, I must work quickly. Believe me, Miss Valentine, I shall!”

“Thank you,” she said simply, “I know you will.”

Then with a quick grip of my hand, and a bright, brave look at us both, she was gone. Lavender looked after her thoughtfully.

“A fine girl,” said my friend at length. “If this Parris has jilted her and run away for any reason, I’ll—well, I’ll make him regret it, Gilly, if he’s living!”

“You think that is the case?” I asked.

“It is the obvious answer to the riddle,” he replied. “But certainly I have no right to think it. In fact, I don’t think it as vigorously as I may have suggested it—but it must be considered. After all, the poor devil may be dead, or even—as she suggested—a prisoner somewhere, although it doesn’t look much like abduction. Full grown men are abducted on, their wedding eves only in books.”

I plunged my hand into my pocket. “By George, Lavender,” I exclaimed, handing him the letter the postman had given me, “this was handed me outside the house, and I clean forgot it! And talk about the long arm of coincidence! Look at that return address!”

He received the envelope from my hand and read the printed card in its corner. As plain as print could make it, the inscription invited a return in five days to the Morning Beacon!

“Coincidence?” he asked, looking up with a quizzical smile. “I wonder! The Beacon was suspicious when Miss Valentine called up, remember.”

He tore open the envelope and a card dropped out. There was nothing else. Lavender picked the card from the floor.

“As usual, the plot begins to thicken,” he continued, chuckling. “If this is coincidence, it’s a striking case of it.”

The card bore the engraved name “Mr. Gorman B. Taggart,” and underneath in pencil script, “2:30 P.M.”

“Taggart!” I cried.

“Yes,” said Lavender, “Taggart! Owner and publisher of the Morning Beacon. And he will be here, if I do not misread his laconic message, at 2:30 by his expensive gold watch.” He produced his own, and frowned.

“It’s after 2:30 now,” I contributed uselessly.

“Yes, confound it!” agreed my friend. “I hope he didn’t see Miss Valentine leaving this house! I have a feeling, Gilly, that a curious muddle is developing. There’s the bell now, and in a moment you will see my feeling verified, when Gorman B. Taggart stands upon my rug and tells us the meaning of his visit.”

He walked across to the door and flung it open, and through the aperture there shortly entered the mountainous and well-known figure of the famous newspaper proprietor; thereafter for twenty minutes it occupied a creaking arm-chair by the window.

“Your secretary?” queried Taggart, in a bass rumble. His glance was upon me.

“My assistant,” corrected Lavender politely. “What can we do for you, Mr. Taggart?”

“Damn it!” said Gorman B. Taggart, “I hope you can do a great deal.” He frowned at us both for an instant, then continued: “Mr. Lavender, my circulation manager, Moss Lennard, has been with me for forty years without missing a day, and now I’m afraid something has happened to the old man. He’s been missing since Sunday evening!”