Kastle Krags: A Story of Mystery

by Absalom Martin

  CHAPTER XVII

  As soon as daylight came the coroner held another inquest. Again theoccupants of the great manor house, black and white, were gathered inthe living-room, and the coroner called on each person in turn. Possiblesuspects had been numerous in the case of Florey's death: in regard tothis second mystery they seemingly included almost every one in thehouse.

  I was able to state positively that Major Dell and Van Hope were intheir own rooms at the time, or such a short time afterward as topreclude them from any possible connection with the crime. I had seenthe latter on his threshold: both of us had encountered Major Dell as heemerged from his room, his trousers slipped on over his pajamas. Thecourt had to take each man's word in every other instance.

  The coroner questioned Fargo particularly closely. I had testified thatwe had met him, at the lower hallway, fully dressed, and evidently theofficial attributed sinister importance to the fact. Fargo stood tightlyby his guns, however, testifying that he sat in the same chair in thelibrary from shortly after the dinner hour until he had heard thescream.

  "What was the nature of the scream, Mr. Fargo?" the coroner asked.

  "It was very high and loud--I would say a very frantic scream."

  "You would say it was a cry of agony? Like some one mortally wounded?"

  "I wouldn't hardly think so."

  "And why not?"

  "I don't think a wounded man could have uttered that scream. It was tooloud and strong--given by a man whose strength was still largelyunimpaired."

  The coroner leaned nearer. "How further would you describe it?"

  "It was a distinct cry for help," Fargo answered. "The word he said was'Help'--I heard it distinctly. But it wasn't a cry of any one mortallyinjured. If anything, it was a cry of--fear."

  "Where did it come from?"

  "From the lagoon."

  The coroner's eyes snapped. "If you knew it was from the lagoon why didyou ask Mr. Killdare, when he encountered you last night, where it wasfrom."

  Fargo stiffened, meeting his gaze. "I wasn't sure last night, Mr.Weldon," he answered. "I knew it was somewhere in that direction. WhenMr. Killdare said it was from the lagoon I instantly knew he was right.I can't say just how I knew. All the testimony I've heard to-day provesthe same thing."

  "No one wants you to tell what other people have testified, Mr. Fargo,"the coroner reproved him. "We want to know what you saw with your owneyes and heard with your own ears and what you thought at the time, notnow. To go further. You think that the cry was uttered by a man whosestrength was unimpaired. A strong, full-lunged cry. Moreover, it wasgiven in deadly fear. Does that suggest anything in your mind?"

  "I don't see what you are getting at."

  "You say it was a long, full-voiced cry. Or did you say it was long?"

  "I don't think I said so. It was rather long-drawn, though. It'simpossible to give a full-lunged cry without having it give the effectof being long-drawn."

  "You would say it lasted--how long?"

  "A second, I should say. Certainly not more. Just about a second."

  "A second is a long time, isn't it, Mr. Fargo, when a man stands at thebrink of death. Often the tables can be turned in as long a time as asecond. Many times a second has given a man time to save his life--toprepare a defense--even to flee. Does it seem to you unusual that a manwould give that much energy and time to cry for help when he was stilluninjured, and still had a second of life."

  "Not at all--under certain circumstances."

  "What circumstances?"

  "It would depend on the nature of the force. A man might see--that whilehe still had strength left to fight, he wouldn't have the least chanceto win."

  "Exactly. Yet if a man had time to call out that way, he'd at least havetime to run. A man can take a big jump in a second, Fargo."

  Fargo's voice fell. "Perhaps he couldn't run."

  "Ah!" The coroner paused. "Because he was in the grasp of hisassailant?"

  "Yes."

  "Yet he still had his strength left. Nealman was a man among men, wasn'the, Fargo?"

  "Indeed he was!" Fargo's eyes snapped. "I'd like to see any one denyit."

  "He wasn't a coward then. He'd fight as long as he had a chance, insteadof giving all his energies to yelling for help--help that could notreach him short of many seconds. In other words, Nealman knew that hedidn't have the least kind of a fighting chance. He was in the grasp ofhis assailant so he couldn't run. And his assailant was strong--andpowerful enough--that there was no use to fight him."

  It was curious how his voice rang in that silent room. Fargo had leanedback in his chair, as if the words struck him like physical blows. Anegro janitor at one side inhaled with a sharp, distinct sound.

  "It might have been more than one man," Fargo suggested uneasily.

  "Do you believe it was?"

  "I don't know. It's wholly a blank to me."

  "Have you any theory where the body is?"

  "I suppose--in the lagoon."

  "Would you say that cry was given while he was in the water?"

  "I hardly think so. I'm slightly known as a swimmer, Mr. Weldon--wasonce, anyway, and I know something about the water. A drowning man can'tcall that loud. Mr. Nealman was a corking good swimmer himself--nothingfancy at all, but fairly well able to take care of himself. When hedisappeared the tide was running out--the lagoon on this side of therock wall was still as glass. If Mr. Nealman, through some accident orother, fell in that lagoon he'd swim out--unless he was held in. Atleast he'd try to swim out. And by the time he found out he couldn'tmake the shore, he'd be so tired he couldn't cry out like he did lastnight."

  "I see your point. I don't know that it would always work out.Occasionally a man--simply loses his nerve."

  "Not Nealman--in still water, most of which isn't over five feet deep."

  "'Unless he was held in,' you say. What do you think held him in?"

  Fargo's hands gripped his chair-arms. "Mr. Weldon, I don't know what youwant me to say," he answered clearly. "I feel the same way about thismystery that I felt about the other--that human enemies did him todeath. I don't think anything held him in. I think he was dead beforeever he was thrown into the water. I think two or three men--perhapsonly one--surrounded him--probably pointed a gun at him. He yelled forhelp, and they killed him--probably with a knife or black-jack. That'sthe whole story."

  The coroner dismissed him, then slowly gazed about the circle. For thefirst time I began to realize that these mysteries of Kastle Krags werepricking under his skin. He looked baffled, irritated, his temper waslost, as gone as the missing men themselves.

  Ever his attitude was more belligerent, pugnacious. His lips were set ina fighting line, his eyes scowled, and evidently he intended to wringthe testimony from his witnesses by third degree methods. Suddenly hewhirled to Pescini.

  "How did you happen to be fully dressed at the time of Nealman'sdisappearance last night?" he demanded.

  Pescini met his gaze coolly and easily. Perhaps little points of lightglittered in his eyes, but his pale face was singularly impassive. "Ihadn't gone to bed," he answered simply.

  "How did that happen? Do you usually wait till long after midnight to goto bed?"

  "Not always. I have no set hour. Last night I was reading."

  "Some book that was in your room?"

  "A book I had carried with me. 'The diary of a Peruvian Princess' wasthe title. An old book--but exceedingly interesting."

  He spoke gravely, yet it was good to hear him. "I'll make a note of it,"the coroner said, falling into his mood. But at once he got back tobusiness. "You didn't remove your coat?"

  "No. I got so interested that I forgot to make any move towards bed."

  The coroner paused, then took another tack. "You've known Nealman for along time, have you not, Pescini?"

  "Something over four years, I should judge."

  "You knew him in a business way?"

  "More in a social way. We had few business dealings."

&nbs
p; "Ah!" The coroner seemed to be studying the pattern of the rugs. "Theinquiry of the other day showed you and he from the same city. I supposeyou moved largely in the same circle. Belonged to the same clubs, andall that? Mr. Pescini, was Nealman a frequent visitor to your house?"

  The witness seemed to stiffen. The coroner leaned forward in his chair.

  "He came quite often," the former replied quietly. "He was a ratherfrequent dinner guest. He and I liked to talk over various subjects."

  "You will pardon me, Mr. Pescini, if I have to venture into personalsubjects--subjects that will be unpleasant for you to discuss. Thisinquiry, however, takes the place of a formal inquest. Two men havedisappeared. It is the duty of the state, whose representative I am, tospare no man's sensibilities in finding out the truth. We've got to getdown to cases. You understand that, I suppose."

  "Perfectly." Pescini leaned back, folding his hands. "Perfectly," hesaid again.

  "I believe you recently filed and won a suit for divorce against yourwife, Marie Pescini. Isn't this true?"

  The witness nodded. None of us heard him speak.

  "May I ask what was your grounds, stated in your complaint?"

  "I don't see that it makes any difference. The grounds were the onlyones by which divorce can be granted in the State of New York."

  "Infidelity, I believe?"

  "Yes. Infidelity."

  "You named certain co-respondents?"

  "Yes."

  "I ask you this. Was there any man whom you regarded as one of thosethat had helped to break up your home that, for any reason in the world,you did not name in your complaint?"

  "There was not. You are absolutely off on the wrong track."

  The coroner dismissed him pre-emptorily, then turned to Edith Nealman.He asked her the usual questions, with considerable care and in rathersurprising detail--how long she had worked as Nealman's secretary,whether he had any enemies; he sounded her as to the missing man'shabits, his finances, his most intimate life.

  "When did you last see Mr. Nealman?" he asked quickly.

  "Just before yesterday's inquest--when he went to his room."

  "He didn't call you for any work?"

  "No."

  "You didn't see him in the corridor--in his room--in the study adjoininghis room--or anywhere else?"

  "No." Edith's face was stark white, and her voice was very low. Not oneof us could ever forget how she looked--that slim, girlish figure in thebig chair, the frightened eyes, the pale, sober face. The coronersmiled, a little, grim smile that touched some unpleasant part of me,then abruptly turned to Mrs. Gentry, the housekeeper.

  "I'll have to ask you to give publicly, Mrs. Gentry, the testimony yougave me before this inquest."

  "I didn't tell you that to speak out in court," the woman replied,angrily. "There wasn't nothin' to it, anyway. I'm sorry I told you----"

  "That's for me to decide--whether there was anything to it. It won'tinjure any one who is innocent, Mrs. Gentry. What happened, aboutten-thirty or eleven o'clock."

  The woman answered as if under compulsion--in the helpless voice of onewho, in a long life's bitter struggle, has learned the existence of manymasters. Mrs. Gentry had learned to yield. To her this trivial court wasa resistless power, many of which existed in her world.

  "I was at the end of the corridor on the second floor--tendin' to alittle work. Then I saw Miss Edith come stealin' out of her room."

  "You say she was 'stealing.' Describe how she came. Did she give theimpression of trying to go--unseen?"

  "Yes. I don't think she wanted any one to see her. She went on tip-toe."

  "Did she carry anything in her hands?"

  "Yes. She had a black book, not big and not little either. She had itunder her arm. She crept along the hall, and a door opened to let herin."

  "What door was it?"

  "The door of Mr. Nealman's suite--a little hall, with one door leadinginto his chamber--the other to his study."

  "Nealman opened the door for her, then?"

  "Yes. I saw his sleeve as he closed it behind her."

  The coroner's face grew stern, and he turned once more to Edith. To alloutward appearance she hadn't heard the testimony. She leaned easily inher big chair, and her palm rested under her chin. Her eyes were shadowyand far-away.

  "How can you account for that, Miss Nealman?" Weldon asked.

  "There's nothing I can say about it," was her quiet answer.

  "You admit it's true, then?"

  "I can't make Mrs. Gentry out a liar." It seemed to me that a dim smileplayed at her lips; but it was a thing even closely watching eyes mighteasily mistake. "It's perfectly true."

  "Then why, Miss Nealman, did you tell us a few minutes ago you hadn'tseen Mr. Nealman since afternoon? That was a lie, was it not? I didn'task you to take formal oath when you gave me your testimony. I presumedyou'd stay by the truth. Why did you tell us what you did?"

  "I didn't see any use in trying to explain. I didn't tell you--becauseMr. Nealman asked me not to."

  A little shiver of expectancy passed over the court. "What do you mean?"

  "Just that--he asked me to tell no one about my visit to the littlestudy adjoining his room. The whole thing was simply this--there'scertainly no good in withholding it any more. About eleven he rang forme. There is a bell, you know, that connects that study with my room. Ianswered it as I've always done. He asked me if I had a Bible--and Itold him I did. He asked me to get it for him, as quietly as possible.

  "I got it--quietly as possible--just as he said. There was nothing verypeculiar about it--he often wants some book out of the library. I gavehim the book and he dismissed me, first asking me to tell no one, underany conditions, that he had asked for it. I didn't know why he asked it,but he is my employer, and I complied with his request. Mrs. Gentry sawme as I was coming down the hall with the Bible under my arm. I didn'ttell you about it because he asked me not to."

  "It was your Bible, then, that we found in his room?"

  "Of course."

  "Mr. Nealman was given to reading the Bible at various times?"

  "On the contrary I don't think he ever read it. He didn't have a copy.He was not, outwardly, according to the usual manifestations, a highlyreligious man."

  "Yet you say he was intrinsically religious? At least, that he hadreligious instincts?"

  "He had very fine instincts. He had a great deal of natural religion."

  "You often brought him books, you say. Yet you must have thought itpeculiar--that he would ask for the Bible--in the dead of night."

  "Yes." Her voice dropped a tone. "Of course it was peculiar."

  "Then why didn't you notify some one about it?"

  "Because he told me not to."

  The coroner seemed baffled--but only for an instant. "Did it occur toyou that he was perhaps trying to get some religious consolation--justbefore he took some important or tragic step? Did the thoughtof--suicide ever occur to you?"

  "No. It didn't occur to me. My uncle didn't commit suicide."

  "You have only your beliefs as to that?"

  "Yes, but they are enough. I know him too well. I'm sure he didn'tcommit suicide."

  "How did he appear when you talked to him--excited, frenzied? Did heseem changed at all?"

  "I think he was somewhat excited. His eyes were very bright. I wouldn'tcall him desperate, however. He was dressed in the flannels he had wornwhen he went to his room. Of course he looked dreadfully worn andtired--he had been through a great deal that day. As you know he hadjust heard about his frightful losses on the stock exchange, wiping outhis entire fortune and even leaving some few debts."

  "You went away quietly--at once? Leaving him to read the Bible?"

  "Very soon. We talked a few minutes, perhaps."

  Then the coroner began upon a series of questions that were abhorrent toevery man in the room. There was nothing to do, however, but to listento them in silence. The man was within his rights.

  "You say that Nealman was your un
cle?" he asked.

  The girl's eyes fastened on his, and narrowed as we watched her. "Ofcourse. My father's brother."

  "A blood relative, eh?" The coroner spoke more slowly, carefully. "Isuppose you could prove that point to the satisfaction of a court."

  "With a little time. I'd have to go back to the records of my own oldhome. What are you getting at?"

  "What was your father's name, may I ask?"

  "Henry H. Nealman."

  "Older or younger than Grover Nealman?"

  "Nearly ten years older, or thereabouts."

  "Where was Mr. Nealman born?"

  "In Rensselaer, New York. His father was named Henry H. Nealman, also.He was a rug manufacturer. There was also one sister that died manyyears ago--Grace Nealman. Are you satisfied that I am really his niece,Mr. Weldon?"

  "Perfectly." The coroner nodded, slowly. "Perfectly satisfied."

  He dismissed her, but it came about that I failed to hear the testimonygiven immediately thereafter. One of Slatterly's men that had been sentfor to help him drag the lake brought me in a telegram.

  It was the belated answer to the wire I had sent to Mrs. Noyes, of NewHampshire the previous day, and signed by the woman's husband. It readas follows:

  MY WIFE DIED LAST MONTH LEAVING ME TO MOURN. THE LETTERS WERE UNQUESTIONABLY FROM GEORGE FLOREY DAVID'S BROTHER. THEY HAVE BEEN BITTER ENEMIES SINCE YOUTH OVER SOME SECRET BUSINESS. FIND GEORGE FLOREY AND YOU WILL FIND THE MURDERER. I HAVEN'T EVER SEEN HIM AND SO FAR HAVE BEEN UNABLE TO FIND PHOTO. IF ONE TURNS UP I WILL SEND IT ON.

  WILLIAM NOYES.