The Man Who Fell Through the Earth

The Man Who Fell Through the Earth Summary

The Man Who Fell Through the Earth by Carolyn Wells is a 1919 mystery novel introducing detective Pennington Wise. The story follows lawyer Tom Brice, who witnesses a struggle and hears a gunshot in the office across from his. Upon investigating, he finds no trace of the victim or assailant, leading to a complex case involving amnesia, hidden identities, and murder.

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The Man Who Fell Through the Earth Excerpt

Short Summary: Attorney Tom Brice becomes entangled in a perplexing mystery after witnessing a violent altercation and hearing a gunshot in the office across from his. The subsequent disappearance of both victim and assailant leads to an investigation filled with unexpected twists, including an amnesiac who claims his earliest memory is of falling through the earth.

Excerpt:

One of the occasions when I experienced "that grand and glorious feeling" was when my law business had achieved proportions that justified my removal from my old office to new and more commodious quarters. I selected a somewhat pretentious building on Madison Avenue between Thirtieth and Fortieth Streets, and it was a red-letter day for me when I moved into my pleasant rooms on its top floor.

The Puritan Trust Company occupied all of the ground floor, and there were also some of the private offices of that institution on the top floor, as well as a few offices to be let. My rooms were well located and delightfully light, and I furnished them with care, selecting chairs and desks of a dignified type, and rugs of appropriately quiet coloring. I also selected my stenographer with care, and Norah MacCormack was a red-haired piece of perfection. If she had a weakness, it was for reading detective stories, but I condoned that, for in my hammocky moods I, too, dipped into the tangled-web school of fiction.

Across the hall from me was the private office of Amos Gately, the President of the Puritan Trust Company, and a man of city-wide reputation. I didn't know the great financier personally, but everyone knew of him, and his name was a synonym for all that is sound, honorable, and philanthropic in the money mart. He was of that frequently seen type, with the silver gray hair that so becomingly accompanies deep-set dark eyes. And yet, I had never seen Mr. Gately himself. My knowledge of him was gained from his frequent portraiture in the papers or in an occasional magazine. And I had gathered, in a vague way, that he was a connoisseur of the fine arts, and that his offices, as well as his home, were palatial in their appointments.

I may as well admit, therefore, that going in and out of my own rooms I often looked toward his door, in hopes that I might get a glimpse, at least, of the treasures within. But so far I had not done so. To be sure, I had only occupied my own suite about a week and then again Mr. Gately was not always in his private offices during business hours. Doubtless, much of the time he was down in the banking rooms. There was a yellow-haired stenographer, who wore her hair in ear-muffs, and who was, I should say, addicted to the vanity-case. This young person, Norah had informed me, was Jenny Boyd. And that sums up the whole of my intimate knowledge of Amos Gately—until the day of the black snow squall!

I daresay my prehistoric ancestors were sun-worshipers. At any rate, I am perfectly happy when the sun shines, and utterly miserable on a gloomy day. Of course, after sunset, I don't care, but days when artificial light must be used, I get fidgety and am positively unable to concentrate on any important line of thought. And so, when Norah snapped on her green-shaded desk light in mid-afternoon, I impulsively jumped up to go home. I could stand electrically lighted rooms better in my diggings than in the work-compelling atmosphere of my office.

"Finish that bit of work," I told my competent assistant, "and then go home yourself. I'm going now."

"But it's only three o'clock, Mr. Brice," and Norah's gray eyes looked up from the clicking keys.

"I know it, but this black squall has knocked me out. I can't work without daylight. I'm going home to read a novel."

Norah smiled. She knew my moods. "All right," she said; "I'll be off in half an hour or so."

I went into my private office and put away some papers. I put on my hat and overcoat, and was about to leave, when a sudden thought struck me.

I had some letters in my desk that I ought to take home. I had meant to answer them in the morning, but now I decided to look them over during the evening. I stepped back to my desk, took out the letters, and put them in my briefcase.

As I turned toward the door again, a sound arrested my attention. It was a sharp, percussive noise, unmistakably a gunshot. I stood still, listening. The noise had come from across the hall. Amos Gately’s private office!

The silence that followed was oppressive. My impulse was to rush across and open his door, but I hesitated. Had I really heard a gunshot? Or was it some trick of the mind, born from the dark and oppressive atmosphere of the day? Then, a moment later, I heard a muffled thud, as if something heavy had fallen.

I did not hesitate further. Striding across the hall, I knocked sharply on Mr. Gately’s door. There was no response. I knocked again, louder this time. Still no answer. With a growing sense of urgency, I grasped the doorknob and turned it. The door was unlocked. Slowly, cautiously, I pushed it open.

The room was dimly lit, the heavy draperies drawn against the stormy light outside. My eyes scanned the interior. Papers were scattered across the large mahogany desk, as if someone had left in a hurry. Then my gaze dropped to the floor.

There was no one there. No victim, no assailant—only the strange emptiness of a room that should have been occupied. It was as if the man had vanished into thin air.