CHAPTER XV. POOR FISHING
"Have a drink, Colonel?"
"Eh?"
"I said--Here, boy! A Scotch high and a mint julep."
Colonel Ashley, roused from his reverie as he sat in his club, gazingout on the busy, fashionable, hurrying, jostling, worried, happy, sad,and otherwise throngs that swept past the big Fifth avenue windows,shifted himself in the comfortable leather chair, and looked at hiscigar. It had gone out, and he decided that it was not worth relighting.
"Cigars, too!" ordered Bruce Garrigan.
"Oh, were you speaking to me?" and the colonel seemed wholly awake now.
"Not only to you, but in your interests," went on Garrigan, with asmile. "Hope I didn't disturb your nap, but--"
"Oh, no," the colonel hastened to assure his companion with his usualaffability. "I had finished sleeping."
"So I inferred. Do you know how many hours, minutes and seconds theaverage human being has passed in sleep when he reaches the age offorty-five years?" and Garrigan smiled quizzically.
"No, sir," answered Colonel Ashley, "I do not."
"Neither do I," confessed Mr. Garrigan as he sank down in a chair besidethe colonel and accepted the glass from a tray which the much-buttonedclub attendant held out to him. "I don't know, and I don't much care."
Then, when cigars were glowing and the smoke arose in graceful clouds,an aroma as of incense shrouding the two as they gazed out on theafternoon throngs, Garrigan remarked:
"I didn't know you were here. In fact, I didn't know you were a memberof this club."
"You wouldn't know it if my attendance here were needed to prove it,"said the colonel with a smile. "I don't get here very often, but Ihad to run up on some business, and I found this the most convenientstopping place."
"Are you going back to Lakeside?"
"Oh, yes!" There was prompt decision in the answer.
"Then you haven't finished that unfortunate affair? You haven't foundout what caused the death of Mr. Carwell?"
"Oh, yes, I know what killed him."
"But not who?"
"Not yet."
"Do you hold to the suicide theory?"
"I don't hold to anything, my dear Mr. Garrigan," answered the colonel,who was in a sufficiently mellow mood to be amused by the rather vapidtalk of his host--for such he had constituted himself on the ordering ofthe drinks and cigars. "That is I haven't such a hold on any theory thatI can't let go and take a new one if occasion warrants it."
"I see. And so you came up to get away from the rather gruesomeatmosphere down there?"
"Not exactly. I came up on business--I have a business in New York youknow, in spite of the fact that I am here," and the colonel smiled as helooked about the room where were gathered men of wealth and leisure, whodid not seem to have a care or worry in the world.
"Oh, yes, I know that," agreed Garrigan. "Well, has your trip beensatisfactory?"
"I can't say that it has. In fact it's pretty poor fishing around here,and I'm thinking of going back. I want to hear the click of the reel andthe music of the brook. I wasn't cut out for a city man, and the longerI stay here the worse I hate the place, even if I do have a businesshere."
"Then you don't care for--this," and Garrigan waved his hand at thecongestion of automobiles and stages which had come to a halt oppositethe big windows of the exclusive and fashionable club.
It was four in the afternoon, just when traffic both of automobiles andpedestrians is at its height on the avenue. Of horse-drawn equipagesthey were so few as to be a novelty.
"I care so little for it that I am going back to-night," the detectiveresponded.
"Then you have found what you came looking for?"
"I told you the fishing was very poor," said the colonel with a smile."My friend Mr. Walton, were he alive now, would never forgive me fordeserting the place I left to come here. When did you come up?"
"Last night. They insisted I had to put in an appearance at the officemerely to take away the salary that's been accumulating for me--said itcluttered up the place. So I obliged. Do you know how many automobilespass this window every twenty-four hours?" Garrigan asked suddenly.
"I do not."
"Neither do I. It would be interesting to know, however. I think I shallcount them, when I have nothing else to do. I understand there is achecking or tabulating machine made for such purposes. But perhaps I amkeeping you from--"
"You are merely keeping me from ordering another portion of liquidrefreshment," interrupted the colonel with a smile. "Boy!"
And once again there was diffused the aroma of mint and the morepronounced odor of the Scotch.
"Yes, it's pretty poor fishing," mused the colonel, when Garrigan hadgone off to engage in a game of billiards with some insistent friends,whose advent the detective was thankful for, as he wanted to be alone.He was gregarious by nature, but there were times when he had to bealone, and it was because of this trait in his nature that he had takenup with the rod and reel, becoming a disciple of Izaak Walton.
Until dusk began to fall, changing the character of the throngs on theavenue, the colonel lingered in his easy chair before the broad, platewindows. And then, as the electric lights began to sparkle, as had thediamonds on some of the over-dressed women in the afternoon, he aroseand started out.
"Will you be dining here, sir?" asked one of the stewards.
"Mr. Garrigan asked me to inquire, sir, and, if you were, to say that hewould appreciate it if you would be his guest."
"Thank him for me, and tell him I can't stay." And the colonel, tossingaside the cigar which had gone out and been frequently relighted, soonfound himself making a part of the avenue's night throng.
It was a warm summer evening-altogether too warm to be in New York whenone had the inclination and means to be elsewhere, but the colonel, inspite of the fact that he had been in a hurry to leave the club, seemedto find no occasion for haste now.
He sauntered along, seemingly without an object, though the ratherfrequent consultations he made of his watch appeared to indicateotherwise. Finally, he seemed either to have come to a sudden decisionor to have noted the demise of the time he was trying to kill, for witha last quick glance at his timepiece he put it back into his pocket,and, turning a corner where there was a taxicab stand, he entered one ofthe vehicles and gave an order to the chauffeur.
"Columbia College-yes, sir!" and the driver looked rather oddly at thefigure of the colonel.
"Wonder what he teaches, and what he's going up there this time of nightfor?" was the mental comment of the chauffeur. "Maybe they have eveningclasses, but this guy looks as though he could give em a post-graduatecourse in poker."
Colonel Ashley sat back in the corner of the cab, glad of the ratherlong ride before him. He scarcely moved, save when the sway or jolt ofthe vehicle tossed him about, and he sat with an unlighted cigar betweenhis teeth.
"Yes," he murmured once, "pretty poor fishing. I might better havestayed where I was. Well, I'll go back to-morrow."
Leaving the taxicab, the colonel made his way along the raised plaza onwhich some of the college buildings front, and turned into the facultyclub, where he stayed for some time. When he came out, having told hisman to wait, he bore under his arm a package which, even to the casualobserver, contained books.
"Pennsylvania station," was the order he gave, and again he sat back inthe corner of the cab, scarcely glancing out of the window to note thebusy scenes all about him.
It was not until he had purchased his ticket and was about to board thelast Jersey Shore train, to take him back to the scene of the death ofHorace Carwell, that Colonel Ashley, as he caught sight of a figure inthe crowd ahead of him, seemed galvanized into new life.
For a moment he gazed at a certain man, taking care to keep some womenwith large hats between the object of his attention and himself. Andthen, as he made sure of the identity, the colonel murmured:
"Poor fishing did I say? Well, it seems to me it's getting better."
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nbsp; He looked at his watch, made a rapid calculation that showed him he hadabout five minutes before the train's departure, and then he hurried offto his right and down the stairs that led to the lavatories.
It was Colonel Robert Lee Ashley, as Bruce Garrigan had seen him at theFifth Avenue club, who entered one of the pay compartments where so manyin-coming and out-going travelers may, for the modest sum of ten cents,enjoy in the railroad station a freshening up by means of soap, towelsand plenty of hot water.
But it was a typical Southern politician, with slouch hat, longfrock coat, a moustache and goatee, who emerged from the same privatewash-room a little later, carrying a small, black valise.
"I don't like to do this," said Colonel Ashley, making sure the spiritgum had set, so his moustache and goatee would not come off prematurely,"but I have to. This fishing is getting better, and I don't want any ofthe fish to see me."
Then he went down the steps to the train that soon would be whirling himunder the Hudson river, along the Jersey meadows, and down to the coolshore. He passed through the string of coaches until he came to onewhere he found a seat behind a certain man. Into this vantage point thecolonel, looking more the part than ever, slumped himself and opened hispaper.
"Yes, the fishing is getting better--decidedly better," he mused. "Ishouldn't wonder but what I got a bite soon."