The mystery of Central Park

Richard Treadwell was in despair.

Days had passed since the burial of the unknown girl, and he was no nearer the solution of the mystery than he was on the morning of the discovery. He had not learned one new thing in the case, and what was infinitely worse, he had not the least idea how to set about the task.

He had taken to wandering restlessly about the city racked with the wildest despondency.

“Great Lord, if I only had an idea,” he thought, desperately, as he walked up Fifth Avenue. “If I only knew how to begin—if I only knew where to begin—if I only knew what to do—if I only—Confound the girl, anyhow. Why couldn’t she have died somewhere else, or why didn’t some one else find her instead of us. Confound it, I’ll be hanged if I hadn’t enough to worry about before. Women will take the most infernal whims. Good Lord! If I wasn’t suspected of being connected with her death, and if Penelope——But I’ll be d—— if I can give it the go-by. It’s solve the mystery or lose Penelope! If I only knew how to go to work. But, by Jove, I know I could preach a sermon, or set a broken leg, or—or cook a dinner easier than find out why, where, when, how, that yellow-haired girl died. Curse my luck, anyhow.”

“I have read stories where fellows who don’t know much start out to solve murder mysteries, but they always find something which all the detectives and police authorities overlooked, which gives them the right clue to work on. It’s very good for tales, but I find nothing. The rest are just as smart and smarter at finding clues than I am. They got nothing. I got nothing, and what to do would puzzle a Solomon.”

Dick stopped and looked up to the windows of Penelope’s home, where his wandering feet had brought him. He had not seen her for two days; so busy on the case, he wrote her with a groan, and then he had sent her a bunch of roses, and gone forth to kill another day in aimless wanderings.

But here, before her door—how could a lover resist the temptation to enter and be happy in the presence of his divinity for a few moments at least? Richard was not one of the resisting kind any way, so, after a moment’s thought, he ran up the broad stone steps and was ushered into Penelope’s room off the library—half sitting-room, half study—to wait for her.

Nothing was wanting in Penelope’s special den, that luxury could suggest, to make it an exquisite retreat for a young woman with a taste for the beautiful. There were heavy portieres, soft, rich carpet, handsome rugs here and there on the floor and thrown carelessly over low divans. Chairs and lounges of different shapes, all made for comfort, little tables strewed with rich bric-a-brac, unique spirit lamps, and on easels and hanging around were paintings and etchings, all of which, as Penelope said, had a story in them.

There were some fine statues, among which were several the work of Penelope. A little low organ, with a piano lamp near it, stood open and there were music and books in profusion.

Near where the daylight came strongest was a sensible flat-top desk littered with paper, cards, books and the thousand little trinkets—useless, if you please—which a refined woman gathers about to please her eye.

The most unusual things that would have impressed a stranger, if by some unknown chance he could gain admittance here, was a mixed collection of odd canes and weapons, and a skull in the centre of the desk, which was utilized as an inkstand and a penholder.

“Why, Dick,” said Penelope, as she tripped lightly in, clad in an artistic gray carriage gown. “I am glad to see you. I wish you had been earlier so you could have enjoyed a drive with aunt and me.”

“I have been busy,” Richard said bravely, releasing the hand she had given him on entering.

They sat down together on a sofa.

“I have been so occupied that I haven’t had time for a drive these last few days.”

“And have you discovered anything yet?” Penelope asked, eagerly.

“Well, not exactly,” hesitatingly, “it will take time to clear it all up, you know.”

“Tell me, do you know her name yet, and where she came from, and was she really murdered?”

“Slowly, slowly; would you have me spoil my luck by telling what I have done?” asked Richard evasively, his eyes twinkling.

“Oh, you superstitious boy,” laughed Penelope, lightly tapping him with her hand, which he immediately caught and held captive in his own.

“Don’t be unkind,” he pleaded, as she tried to draw her hand away.

“Not for worlds,” she replied gravely, ceasing to struggle. “Mr. John Stetson Maxwell called here last night, and he told me of an experience he had when he was an editor, that made me resolve never to speak or act unkindly if I can help it.”

“I am deeply obliged to Mr. Maxwell,” Richard responded lightly.

“But it was very sad, Dick. I felt unhappy all the evening over it.”

“I wish my miseries and wretchedness could have the same influence on you,” he broke in with a laugh.

“Don’t you want to hear the story? I had intended to tell it to you,” she said, half provoked at his lack of seriousness.

“Why, certainly. By all means,” he replied, grave enough now. He never joked when she assumed that tone and look.

“When he was an editor,” she began softly, “he one day received a very bright poem from a man in Buffalo. He did not know the man as a writer, still the poem was so meritorious that he straightway accepted it, and sent a note to the author enclosing a check for the work. A few days afterwards, the man’s card was sent in, with a request for an interview. Mr. Maxwell was very busy at the time, but he thought he would give the man a moment, so he told the boy to bring the visitor up. When he came in, Mr. Maxwell was surprised to see a young man of some twenty-five years. He was not well clad, and was much abashed when he found himself in the presence of such a great personage as the editor, Mr. Maxwell.”

“Rightly, rightly,” Richard said, good naturedly, patting her hands encouragingly.

“Mr. Maxwell recalled afterwards that the young man looked in wretched spirits,” Penelope continued, with a slow smile. “At the time he was too hurried to notice anything, and then editors are used to seeing people who are in ill-luck. He brusquely asked the young man his business, seeing that he made no effort to tell it, and then the young man said he had come to the city and thought he would like to look around the office. Mr. Maxwell rang for a boy, and telling him to show the young man about, shortly dismissed him. In a few days after he received a batch of poetry from the young man, but though of remarkable merit, Mr. Maxwell thought it too sombre in tone for his publication, so he enclosed it with one of the printed slips used for rejected manuscripts. In a day or so Mr. Maxwell was shocked to read of the young man’s death. He had gone out to the park, and sitting down on a bench, beside the lake, put a revolver to his ear and so killed himself. He fell off the bench and into the lake, and his body was not found until the next day. He had a letter in his pocket requesting that his body be cremated. He left enough money to pay the expenses, and word for one of his friends that he could do as he wished with his ashes.”

“Well, many people do the same thing,” Richard said, rather unfeelingly.

“Yes, but this case was particularly sad,” Penelope asserted. “The young man was all alone. He hadn’t a relative in the world. He had fought his way up and had just completed his law studies, but had not, as yet, succeeded in obtaining any practice. He was in distress and Mr. Maxwell thinks, as I do, that he was so encouraged when his poem was accepted that he came to the city with the purpose of asking employment of the editor, but being greeted so coldly and roughly, I think he could not tell the object of his visit. On his return to Buffalo, as a last hope, he wrote some poetry which was colored with his own despondent feelings, and when they were all returned to him it was the last straw—he went out and shot himself.”

“But what else could Mr. Maxwell have done, Penelope,” Richard asked, in a business way. “He could not accept work, and pay for it, that was not suitable for his periodical. I don’t see how he could reproach himself in that case.”

“I do and so does he,” she replied stoutly. “It wouldn’t have taken any more time to be kind to that man than it took to be unkind to him, and when he rejected the poetry, instead of sending back that brutal printed notice he could have had his stenographer write a line, saying the poetry, though meritorious, was not suitable for his journal. That would, at least, have eased the disappointment.”

“But editors haven’t time for such things, Penelope.”

“Then let them take time. I tell you it takes less time to be kind than to be unkind,” she maintained, nodding her head positively.

“If they were not short, bores would occupy all their time,” he persisted.

“Richard, we will not argue the case,” she said loftily, as a woman always does when she feels she is being worsted. “You can’t make me think anything will excuse a man for being brutal and unkind.”

Richard had his own opinion on the subject, but he was wise enough to refrain from trying to make Penelope have a similar one.

“I am going away,” she said, presently, finding that Dick was not averse to dropping the discussion. “Auntie has accepted an invitation to go to Washington for a few days to visit Mrs. Senator ——, and I am to go along. I rather dread it, but auntie says they won’t know as much about the Park mystery there, and I won’t be worried with reporters.”

“I hope not,” replied Dick, beginning already to feel the ghastly emptiness which pervaded the city for him when Penelope was not in it. As long as he knew Penelope was in the city, even if he did not see her, he had a certain happiness of nearness, but when she was away he felt as desolate as Adam must have done before Eve came.

“Penelope, girlie,” he said, with a sudden hope, “could we not be engaged while I am working on this case? It would not embarrass you in any way, for we only need tell your aunt, and it would be such help, such encouragement, such happiness, sweet to me. You see it may take months to solve this mystery.” Poor Richard thought it would take years. “And if I only knew, darling, that I had your promise, I could do so much. It would help me to conquer the world. Don’t be hard-hearted, dear; don’t be cruel to the one who loves you more than anything on earth or in heaven.”

“No, no, Dick, you must wait,” said Penelope. “Wait until the mystery is solved, it shouldn’t take you a great while”—(Richard sighed)—“and then, and then—”

“Then?” repeated Dick, questioningly. She looked down with sudden embarrassment; he put his arms around her slender waist and drew her close to him. “Then? my love, my soul!”—

“Dearest, come here!” called Penelope’s aunt, in that well-bred voice of hers which charmed all hearers, but at this particular moment was very exasperating to Dick. “Richard, come, I want you to see the man standing on the other side of the Avenue. I have been watching him and I think it is quite probable that he is watching the house. Are we never to have done with that Park mystery business?”

They all looked cautiously through the curtains, and they all agreed that the man was watching the house for some purpose.

“They are after you, Dick,” exclaimed Penelope. “Oh, I am so afraid this will result seriously to you.”

Richard thought so too, only where she was concerned, though; but he did not give voice to his fears.

“My dear child,” laughed the aunt, with that pleasant ring. “Do not talk such nonsense! Richard is able to take care of himself, and especially now that he knows some one is following him.”

Shortly afterwards Dick took his leave of Penelope. She maintained an air of cheerfulness as he said farewell, but though the mouth was merry, the sad eyes which met his seemed to whisper the nearness of tears.

Catching up his walking-stick, Richard hastily left the house. He was feeling so blue that he was almost savage. He thought of the man who had been watching the house, and he looked to see if he was still there, half tempted to hunt the fellow out and pull his nose.

Sure enough, the man was there and, as Richard started down the Avenue, he sneaked along on the other side, much after the manner of a disobedient dog who had been told to stay at home. Dick hailed a passing stage, after walking a little way, and almost as soon as he was seated the man also got in. Richard was not in a mood to bear watching, so he jumped out when he saw an empty hansom cab, and, engaging it, told the driver to cross town. He did not drive far until he had made sure that he had eluded his would-be follower, and having no appetite yet for dinner he ordered the driver to go to Central Park, where he paid and dismissed him.

Now that he was alone, he became conscious of a desire to visit the scene of the mystery which promised to be so fatal to his happiness.

“I’ll go there and think it over,” he mused; “it may give me some idea how to work it out.” And on he walked over the course he and Penelope had taken that direful morning.

Night was coming on and the Park was deserted, except for an occasional workman taking a hurried cut across the Park home. How dreary and quiet everything was, and then he thought about the officer who had made himself so obnoxious. This led him to wonder if there were no policemen on duty at night in the Park. He could not remember of ever having noticed any the few times he had visited the Park after nightfall, and there were none visible now anywhere.

He stopped to look for a few moments at the bench where they had found the dead girl, and then he walked on until he came to a bench near the reservoir, where he sat down, and lighting a cigarette gave himself up to unhappy thoughts on his unhappy position.

“If only the Fates would throw something in my way to help me solve that mystery,” he thought. “Unless the most extraordinary things occur I shall never be able to tell anything about it. Penelope firmly believes it was a murder, but I can’t see what grounds she has for it. She thinks it was a deliberate and well-planned murder, because no one has claimed the girl, and I sometimes think so myself, but how to prove it?—that’s the question.”

And Dick gazed seriously at the space of light made by the opening for the reservoir, and on to the dense thickness of trees where night seemed to be lurking, ready to pounce down on all late comers.

As he looked he became aware of something moving between him and the spot of light. He was a brave young man, yet his heart beat a little quicker as he strained his eyes to see what the moving object was.

Again it passed in view, and this time it looked to be something climbing; another moment and it was on the edge of the reservoir.

Now, plainly outlined between him and the strip of light sky, he saw the figure of a woman, a slender girl with flowing hair.

Quick as a flash came the horrible thought that she had come there to die—that she intended to commit suicide.

With a choking cry of horror he ran swiftly towards her.