by Marion Bryce
“What do you mean? Are you accusing Mason of—”
“I make no accusations. But—who did kill Sanford? I know you didn’t do it—and Elliott has engaged Stone to prove that you didn’t. It is absurd, we all know, to suspect Aunt Abby—I was out of town—who is left but Mason?”
“Hush! I won’t listen to, such a suggestion! Mason was at his home that night.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure! And I don’t have to have it proved by a detective either! And now, Alvord Hendricks, you may go! I don’t care to talk to anyone who can make such a contemptible accusation against a lifelong friend!”
But before Hendricks left, Elliott himself came in.
He was grave and preoccupied. He bowed a little curtly to Hendricks, and, as he took Eunice’s hand, he said, “May I see you alone? I want to talk over some business matters—and I’m pressed for time.”
“Oh, all right,” Hendricks said, “I can take a hint. I’m going. How’s your sleuth progressing, Elliott? Has Mr. Stone unearthed the murderer yet?”
“Not yet—but soon,” and Elliott essayed to pass the subject off lightly.
“Very soon?” Hendricks looked at him in a curious manner.
“Very soon, I think.”
“That’s interesting. Would it be indiscreet to ask in what direction one must look for the criminal?”
“It would very.” Elliott smiled a little. “Now run along, Hendricks, that’s a good chap. I’ve important business matters to talk over with Eunice.”
Hendricks went, and Elliott turned to Eunice, with a grave face,
“I’ve been going over Sanford’s private papers,” he said, “and, Eunice, there’s a lot that we want to keep quiet.”
“Was Sanford a bad man?” she asked, her quiet, white face imploring a negative answer.
“Not so very, but, as you know, he had a love of money—a sort of acquisitiveness, that led him into questionable dealings. He loaned money to any one who would give him security—”
“That isn’t wrong!”
“Not in itself—but, oh, Eunice, I can’t explain it to you—or, at least, I don’t want to—but Sanford lent money to men—to his friends—who were in great exigency—who gave their choicest belongings, their treasures as security—and then—he had no leniency—no compassion for them—”
“Why should he have?”
“Because—well, there is a justice, that is almost criminal. Sanford was a—a Shylock! There, can you understand now?”
“Who were his debtors? Alvord?”
“Yes; Hendricks was one who owed him enormous sums—and he was going to make lots of trouble—I mean Sanford was—why, Eunice, in Sanford’s private safe are practically all of Hendricks’ stocks and bonds, put up as collateral. Sanford holds mortgages on all Hendricks’ belongings—real estate, furniture—everything. Now, just at the time Sanford died these notes were due—this indebtedness of Hendricks to Sanford had to be paid, and merely the fact of San’s death occurring just when it did saved Alvord from financial ruin.”
“Do you mean Sanford would have insisted on the payment?”
“Yes.”
“Then—oh, Mason I can’t say it—I wouldn’t breathe it to any one but you but could Alvord have killed Sanford?”
“Of course not, Eunice. He was in Boston, you know.”
“Yes, I know. But—Mason, he hinted to me just now, that that maybe you killed San.”
“Did he, dear? Then he was angry or—or crazy! He doesn’t think so. Perhaps he was—very jealous.”
“Yes, he was! How did you know?”
“I have eyes. You don’t care for him—particularly—do you—Eunice?”
Their eyes met and in one long look, the truth was told. A great love existed between these two, and both had been honest and honorable so long as Eunice was Sanford’s wife. And even now, though Embury was gone, Elliott made no protestation of love to his widow—said no word that might not have been heard by the whole world, but they both knew—no word was necessary.
A beautiful expression came over Eunice’s face—she smiled a little and the love-light in her eyes was unmistakable.
“I shall never lose my temper again,” she said, softly, and Mason Elliott believed her.
“Another big debtor to Sanford is Mr. Patterson,” he went on, forcing himself to calm his riotous pulses, and continue his business talk.
“How is that man mixed into our affars?”
“He’s very much mixed up in San’s affairs. But, Eunice, I don’t want to burden you with all these details. Only, you see, Alvord is your lawyer, and—it’s confoundedly awkward—”
“Look here, Mason, do this—can’t you? Forgive Alvord all Sanford’s claims on him. I mean, wipe the slate clean, as far as he is concerned. I don’t want his money—I mean I don’t want to keep his stocks and things. Give them all back to him, and hush the matter up. You know, we four, Sanford and Alvord and you and I, are the old quartet—the ‘three boys and a girl’ who used to play together. Now one of us is gone—don’t let’s make any trouble for another of the group. I’ve enough money without realizing on Alvord’s securities. Give them all back to him—and forget it. Can’t we?”
“Why, yes, I suppose so—if you so decree. What about Patterson?”
“Oh, those things you and Alvord must look after. I’ve no head for business. And anyway—must it be attended to at once?”
“Not immediately. Sanford’s estate is so large, and his debtors so numerous, it will take months to get it adjusted.”
“Very well, let anything unpleasant wait for a while, then.”
Now, on this very day, and at this very hour, Fibsy was in Philadelphia, watching the initial performance of a new “human fly.”
A crowd was gathered about the tall skyscraper, where the event was to take place, and when Hanlon appeared he was greeted by a roar, of cheering that warmed his applause-loving heart.
Bowing and smiling at his audience, he started on his perilous climb up the side of the building.
The sight was thrilling—nerve-racking. Breathlessly the people watched as he climbed up the straight, sheer facade, catching now at a window ledge—now at a bit of stone ornamentation—and again, seeming to hold on by nothing at all—almost as a real fly does.
When he negotiated a particularly difficult place, the crowd forebore to cheer, instinctively feeling it might disturb him.
He went on—higher and higher—now pausing to look down and smile at the sea of upturned faces below—and, in a moment of bravado, even daring to pause, and hanging on by one hand and one foot, “scissor out” his other limbs and wave a tiny flag which he carried.
On he went, and on, at last reaching the very top. Over the coping he climbed, and gaily waved his flag as he bowed to the applauding crowds below.
Then, for Hanlon was a daring soul, the return journey was begun.
Even more fascinating than the ascent was this hazardous task.
Fibsy watched him, noted every step, every motion, and was fairly beside himself with the excitement of the moment.
And, then, when half a dozen stories from the ground—when success was almost within his grasp—something happened. Nobody knew what—a misstep—a miscalculation of distance—a slipping stone—whatever the cause, Hanlon fell. Fell from the sixth story to the ground.
Those nearest the catastrophe stepped back—others pushed forward—and an ambulance, ready for such a possible occasion, hurried the wounded man to the hospital.
For Hanlon was not killed, but so crushed and broken that his life was but a matter of hours—perhaps moments.
“Let me in—I must see him!” Fibsy fought the doormen, the attendants, the nurses.
“I tell you I must! In the name of the law, let me in!”
And then a more coherent insistence brought him permission, and he was immediately admitted to Hanlon’s presence.
A priest was there, administering extre
me unction, and saying such words of comfort as he could command, but at sight of Fibsy, Hanlon’s dull eyes brightened and he partially revived.
“Yes—him!” he cried out, with a sudden flicker of energy, “I must talk to him!”
The doctor fell back, and made way for the boy. “Let him talk, if he likes,” he said; “nothing matters now. Poor chap, he can’t live ten minutes.”
Awed, but very determined, Fibsy approached the bedside.
He looked at Hanlon—strangely still and white, yet his eyes burning with a desperate desire to communicate something.
“Come here,” he whispered, and Fibsy drew nearer to him.
“You know?” he said.
“Yes,” and Fibsy glanced around as if f to be sure of his witnesses to this strange confession, “you killed Sanford Embury.”
“I did. I—I—oh, I can’t—talk. You talk—”
“This is his confession,” Fibsy turned to the priest and the doctor; “listen to it.” Then addressing himself again to Hanlon, he resumed: “You climbed up the side of the apartment house—on the cross street—not on Park Avenue—and you got in at Miss Ames’ window.”
“Yes,” said Hanlon, his white lips barely moving, but his eyes showing acquiescence.
“You went straight through those two rooms—softly, not awakening either of the ladies—and you killed Mr. Embury, and then—you returned through the bedrooms—”
Again the eyes said yes.
“And, passing through Miss Ames’ room, she stirred, and thinking she might be awake, you stopped and leaned over her to see. There you accidentally let fall—perhaps from your breast pocket—the little glass dropper you had used—and as you bent over the old lady, she grabbed at you, and felt your jersey sleeve—even bit at it—and tasted raspberry jam. That jam got on that sleeve as you climbed up past the Patterson’s window, where a jar of it was on the window-sill—”
“Yes—that’s right,” Hanlon breathed, and on his face was a distinct look of admiration for the boy’s perception.
“You wore a faintly-ticking wrist-watch—the same one you’re wearing now—and the odor of gasoline about you was from your motor-cycle. You, then, were the ‘vision’ Miss Ames has so often described, and you glided silently away from her bedside, and out at the window by which you entered. Gee! it was some stunt!”
This tribute of praise was wrung from Fibsy by the sudden realization that what he had for some time surmised was really true!
“I guess it was that jam that did for you,” he went on, “but, say, we ain’t got no time for talkin’.”
Hanlon’s eyes were already glazing, his breath; came shorter and it was plain to be seen the end was very near.
“Who hired you?” Fibsy flung the question at him with such force that it seemed to rouse a last effort of the ebbing life in the dying man and he answered, faintly but clearly:
“Alvord Hendricks—ten thousand dollars—” and then Hanlon was gone.
Reminding the priest and the doctor that they were witnesses to this dying confession, Fibsy rushed from the room and back to New York as fast as he could get there.
He learned by telephone that Fleming Stone was at Mrs. Embury’s, and, pausing only to telephone for Shane to go at once to the same house, Fibsy jumped into a taxicab and hurried up there himself.
“It’s all over,” he burst forth, as he dashed into the room where Stone sat, talking to Eunice. Mason Elliott was there, too—indeed, he was a frequent visitor—and Aunt Abby sat by with her knitting.
“What is?” asked Stone, looking at the boy in concern. For Fibsy was greatly excited, his fingers worked nervously and his voice shook.
“The whole thing, Mr. Stone! Hanlon’s dead—and he killed Mr. Embury.”
“Yes—I know—” Fleming Stone showed no surprise. “Did he fall?”
“Yessir. Got up the climb all right, and ’most down again, and fell from the sixth floor. Killed him—but not instantly. I went to the hospital, and he confessed.”
“Who did?” said Shane, coming in at the door as the last words were spoken.
“Willy Hanlon—a human fly.”
And then Fleming Stone told the whole story—Fibsy adding here and there his bits of information.
“But I don’t understand,” said Shane, at last, “why would that chap kill Mr. Embury?”
“Hired,” said Fibsy, as Stone hesitated to speak; “hired by a man who paid him ten thousand dollars.”
“Hanlon a gunman!” said Shane, amazed.
“Not a professional one,” Fibsy said, “but he acted as one in this case. The man who hired him knew he was privately learning to be a ‘human fly,’ and he had the diabolical thought of hiring him to climb up this house, and get in at the only available window, and kill Mr. Embury with that henbane stuff.”
“And the man’s name?” shouted Shane, “the name of the real criminal?”
Fibsy sat silent, looking at Stone.
“His name is Alvord E. Hendricks,” was Stone’s quiet reply.
An instant commotion arose. Eunice, her great eyes full of horror, ran to Aunt Abby, who seemed about to collapse from sheer dismay.
Mason Elliott started up with a sudden “Where is he?” and Shane echoed, with a roar: “Yes, where is he? Can he get away?”
“No,” said Stone; “he can’t. I have him covered day and night by my men. At present, Mr. Shane, he is—I am quite sure—in his office—if you want to go there—”
“If I want to go there! I should say I do! He’ll get his!”
And in less than half an hour, Shane had taken Alvord Hendricks into custody, and in due time that arch criminal received the retribution of justice.
Shane gone, Fibsy went over the whole story once again.
“You see, it was Mr. Stone’s keeping at it what did it. He connected up Hanlon and the jam—he connected up Mr. Hendricks and the Hamlet business—we connected up Hanlon and the gasoline—and Hanlon and the jersey and the motor-cycle and all!” Fibsy grew excited; “then we connected up Hendricks and his ‘perfect alibi.’ Always distrust the perfect alibi—that’s one of Mr. Stone’s first maxims. Well, this Hendricks—he had a pluperfect alibi—couldn’t be shaken—so Mr. Stone, he says, the more perfect the alibi, the more we must distrust it. So he went for that alibi—and he found that Mr. Hendricks was sure in Boston that night, but he didn’t have any real reason, not any imperative reason for going—it was a sorta trumped up trip. Well—that’s the way it was. He had to get Mr. Embury out of the way just then, or be shown up—a ruined man—and, too, he was afraid Mr. Embury’d be president of the club—and, too—he wanted to—”
Fibsy gave one eloquent glance at Eunice, and paused abruptly in his speech. Every one knew—every one realized that love of Sanford Embury’s wife was one reason, at least, for the fatal deed. Everybody realized that Alvord Hendricks was a villain through and through—that he had killed his friend—though not by his own hand.
Eunice never saw Hendricks again. She and Aunt Abby went away for a year’s stay. They traveled in lovely lands, where the scenery and climate brought rest and peace to Eunice’s troubled heart, and where she learned, by honest effort, to control her quick temper.
And then, after two of the one-time friendly quartet had become only a past memory, the remaining two, Eunice and Mason Elliott, found happiness and joy.
“One of our biggest cases, F. Stone,” said Fibsy, one day, reminiscently.
“It was, indeed, Fibs; and you did yourself proud.”
“Great old scheme! Perfect alibi—unknown human fly—bolted doors—all the elements of a successful crime—if he hadn’t slipped up on that Raspberry jam!”
THE END
Carolyn Wells
The Gold Bag
Carolyn Wells
[1862–1942]
The Gold Bag
1911
Table of Contents
I. THE CRIME IN WEST SEDGWICK
II. THE CRAWFORD HOUSE
III. THE CORONER’S JURY
IV. THE INQUEST
V. FLORENCE LLOYD
VI. THE GOLD BAG
VII. YELLOW ROSES
VIII. FURTHER INQUIRY
IX. THE TWELFTH ROSE
X. THE WILL
XI. LOUIS’S STORY
XII. LOUIS’S CONFESSION
XIII. MISS LLOYD’S CONFIDENCE
XIV. MR. PORTER’S VIEWS
XV. THE PHOTOGRAPH EXPLAINED
XVI. A CALL ON MRS. PURVIS
XVII. THE OWNER OF THE GOLD BAG
XVIII. IN Mr. GOODRICH’S OFFICE
XIX. THE MIDNIGHT TRAIN
XX. FLEMING STONE
XXI. THE DISCLOSURE
I. THE CRIME IN WEST SEDGWICK
Though a young detective, I am not entirely an inexperienced one, and I have several fairly successful investigations to my credit on the records of the Central Office.
The Chief said to me one day: “Burroughs, if there’s a mystery to be unravelled; I’d rather put it in your hands than to trust it to any other man on the force.
“Because,” he went on, “you go about it scientifically, and you never jump at conclusions, or accept them, until they’re indubitably warranted.”
I declared myself duly grateful for the Chief’s kind words, but I was secretly a bit chagrined. A detective’s ambition is to be, considered capable of jumping at conclusions, only the conclusions must always prove to be correct ones.
But though I am an earnest and painstaking worker, though my habits are methodical and systematic, and though I am indefatigably patient and persevering, I can never make those brilliant deductions from seemingly unimportant clues that Fleming Stone can. He holds that it is nothing but observation and logical inference, but to me it is little short of clairvoyance.
The smallest detail in the way of evidence immediately connotes in his mind some important fact that is indisputable, but which would never have occurred to me. I suppose this is largely a natural bent of his brain, for I have not yet been able to achieve it, either by study or experience.
Of course I can deduce some facts, and my colleagues often say I am rather clever at it, but they don’t know Fleming Stone as well as I do, and don’t realize that by comparison with his talent mine is insignificant.