by Marion Bryce
“Both.”
“Well, as a man, I think he’s about the average, ordinary young American, of the secretary type. He has little real ambition, but he has had a good berth with Joseph, and he has worked fairly hard to keep it. As a suspect, the notion is absurd. He wasn’t even in West Sedgwick.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he went away at six that evening, and was in New York until nearly noon the next day.”
“How do you know?”
Philip Crawford stared at me.
“He says so,” I went on; “but no one can prove his statement. He refuses to say where he was in New York, or what he did. Now, merely as a supposition, why couldn’t he have come out here—say on the midnight train—called on Mr. Joseph Crawford, and returned to New York before daylight?”
“Absurd! Why, he had no motive for killing Joseph.”
“He had the same motive Florence would have. He knew of Mr. Crawford’s objection to their union, and he knew of his threat to change his will. Mr. Hall is not blind to the advantages of a fortune.”
“Right you are, there! In fact, I always felt he was marrying Florence for her money. I had no real reason to think this, but somehow he gave me that impression.”
“Me, too. Moreover, I found a late extra of a New York paper in Mr. Crawford’s office. This wasn’t on sale until about half past eleven that night, so whoever left it there must have come out from the city on that midnight train, or later.”
A change came over Philip Crawford’s face. Apparently he was brought to see the whole matter in a new light.
“What? What’s that?” he cried excitedly, grasping his chair-arms and half rising. “A late newspaper! An extra!”
“Yes; the liner accident, you know.”
“But—but—Gregory Hall! Why man, you’re crazy! Hall is a good fellow. Not remarkably clever, perhaps, and a fortune-hunter, maybe, but not—surely not a murderer!”
“Don’t take it so hard, Mr. Crawford,” I broke in. “Probably. Mr. Hall is innocent. But the late paper must have been left there by some one, after, say, one o’clock.”
“This is awful! This is terrible!” groaned the poor man, and I couldn’t help wondering if he had some other evidence against Hall that this seemed to corroborate.
Then, by an effort, he recovered himself, and began to talk in more normal tones.
“Now, don’t let this new idea run away with you, Mr. Burroughs,” he said. “If Hall had an interview with my brother that night, he would have learned from him that he intended to make a new will, but hadn’t yet done so.”
“Exactly; and that would constitute a motive for putting Mr. Crawford out of the way before he could accomplish his purpose.”
“But Joseph had already destroyed the will that favored Florence.”
“We don’t know that,” I responded gravely. “And, anyway, if he had done so, Mr. Hall didn’t know it. This leaves his motive unchanged.”
“But the gold bag,” said Mr. Crawford, apparently to get away—from the subject of Gregory Hall.
“If, as you say,” I began, “that is Florence ’s bag—”
I couldn’t go on. A strange sense of duty had forced those words from me, but I could say no more.
Fleming Stone might take the case if they wanted him to; or they might get some one else. But I could not go on, when the only clues discoverable pointed in a way I dared not look.
Philip Crawford was ghastly now. His face was working and he breathed quickly.
“Nonsense, Dad!” cried a strong, young voice, and his son, Philip, Jr., bounded into the room and grasped his father’s hands. “I overheard a few of your last words, and you two are on the wrong track. Florrie’s no more mixed up in that horrible business than I am. Neither is Hall. He’s a fool chap, but no villain. I heard what you said about the late newspaper, but lots of people come out on that midnight train. You may as well suspect some peaceable citizen coming home from the theatre, as to pick out poor Hall, without a scrap of evidence to point to him.”
I was relieved beyond all words at the hearty assurance of the boy, and I plucked up new courage. Apprehension had made me faint-hearted, but if he could show such flawless confidence in Florence and her betrothed, surely I could do as much.
“Good for you, young man!” I cried, shaking his hand. “You’ve cheered me up a lot. I’ll take a fresh start, and surely we’ll find out something. But I’d like to send for Stone.”
“Wait a bit, wait a bit,” said Mr. Crawford. “Phil’s right; there’s no possibility of Florrie or Hall in the matter. Leave the gold bag, the newspapers, and the yellow posies out of consideration, and go to work in some sensible way.”
“How about Mr. Joseph’s finances?” I asked. “Are they in satisfactory shape?”
“Never finer,” said Philip Crawford. “Joseph was a very rich man, and all due to his own clever and careful investments. A bit of a speculator, but always on the right side of the market. Why, he fairly had a corner in X.Y. stock. Just that deal—and it will go through in a few days—means a fortune in itself. I shall settle that on Florence.”
“Then you think the will will never be found?” I said.
Mr. Crawford looked a little ashamed, as well he might, but he only said,
“If it is, no one will be more glad than I to see Florrie reinstated in her own right. If no will turns up, Joe’s estate is legally mine, but I shall see that Florence is amply provided for.”
He spoke with a proud dignity, and I was rather sorry I had caught him up so sharply.
I went back to the inn, and, after vainly racking my brain over it all for a time, I turned in, but to a miserably broken night’s rest.
XVI. A CALL ON MRS. PURVIS
The next morning I received information from headquarters. It was a long-code telegram, and I eagerly deciphered it, to learn that Mrs. Egerton Purvis was an English lady who was spending a few months in New York City. She was staying at the Albion Hotel, and seemed to be in every way above suspicion of any sort.
Of course I started off at once to see Mrs. Purvis.
Parmalee came just as I was leaving the inn, and was of course anxious and inquisitive to know where I was going, and what I was going to do.
At first I thought I would take him into my confidence, and I even thought of taking him with me. But I felt sure I could do better work alone. It might be that Mrs. Egerton Purvis should turn out to be an important factor in the case, and I suppose it was really an instinct of vanity that made me prefer to look her up without Parmalee by my side.
So I told him that I was going to New York on a matter in connection with the case, but that I preferred to go alone, but I would tell him the entire result of my mission as soon as I returned. I think he was a little disappointed, but he was a good-natured chap, and bade me a cheerful goodby, saying he would meet me on my return.
I went to New York and went straight to the Albion Hotel.
Learning at the desk that the lady was really there, I sent my card up to her with a request for an immediate audience, and very soon I was summoned to her apartment.
She greeted me with that air of frigid reserve typical of an English woman. Though not unattractive to look at, she possessed the high cheekbones and prominent teeth which are almost universal in the women of her nation. She was perhaps between thirty and forty years old, and had the air of a grande dame.
“Mr. Burroughs?” she said, looking through her lorgnon at my card, which she held in her hand.
“Yes,” I assented, and judging from her appearance that she was a woman of a decided and straightforward nature I came at once to the point.
“I’m a detective, madam,” I began, and the remark startled her out of her calm.
“A detective!” she cried out, with much the same tone as if I had said a rattlesnake.
“Do not be alarmed, I merely state my profession to explain my errand.”
“Not be alarmed! when a detective comes
to see me! How can I help it? Why, I’ve never had such an experience before. It is shocking! I’ve met many queer people in the States, but not a detective! Reporters are bad enough!”
“Don’t let it disturb you so, Mrs. Purvis. I assure you there is nothing to trouble you in the fact of my presence here, unless it is trouble of your own making.”
“Trouble of my own making!” she almost shrieked. “Tell me at once what you mean, or I shall ring the bell and have you dismissed.”
Her fear and excitement made me think that perhaps I was on the track of new developments, and lest she should carry out her threat of ringing the bell, I plunged at once into the subject.
“Mrs. Purvis, have you lost a gold-mesh bag?” I said bluntly.
“No, I haven’t,” she snapped, “and if I had, I should take means to recover it, and not wait for a detective to come and ask me about it.”
I was terribly disappointed. To be sure she might be telling a falsehood about the bag, but I didn’t think so. She was angry, annoyed, and a little frightened at my intrusion, but she was not at all embarrassed at my question.
“Are you quite sure you have not lost a gold-link bag?” I insisted, as if in idiotic endeavor to persuade her to have done so.
“Of course I’m sure,” she replied, half laughing now; “I suppose I should know it if I had done so.”
“It’s a rather valuable bag,” I went on, “with a gold frame-work and gold chain.”
“Well, if it’s worth a whole fortune, it isn’t my bag,” she declared; “for I never owned such a one.”
“Well,” I said, in desperation, “your visiting card is in it.”
“My visiting card!” she said, with an expression of blank wonderment. “Well, even if that is true, it doesn’t make it my bag. I frequently give my cards to other people.”
This seemed to promise light at last. Somehow I couldn’t doubt her assertion that it was not her bag, and yet the thought suddenly occurred to me if she were clever enough to be implicated in the Crawford tragedy, and if she had left her bag there, she would be expecting this inquiry, and would probably be clever enough to have a story prepared.
“Mrs. Purvis, since you say it is not your bag, I’m going to ask you, in the interests of justice, to help me all you can.”
“I’m quite willing to do so, sir. What is it you wish to know?”
“A crime has been committed in a small town in New Jersey. A gold-link bag was afterward discovered at the scene of the crime, and though none of its other contents betokened its owner, a visiting card with your name on it was in the bag.”
Becoming interested in the story, Mrs. Purvis seemed to get over her fright, and was exceedingly sensible for a woman.
“It certainly is not my bag, Mr. Burroughs, and if my card is in it, I can only say that I must have given that card to the lady who owns the bag.”
This seemed distinctly plausible, and also promised further information.
“Do you remember giving your card to any lady with such a bag?”
Mrs. Purvis smiled. “So many of your American women carry those bags,” she said; “they seem to be almost universal this year. I have probably given my card to a score of ladies, who immediately put it into just such a bag.”
“Could you tell me who they are?”
“No, indeed;” and Mrs. Purvis almost laughed outright, at what was doubtless a foolish question.
“But can’t you help me in any way?” I pleaded.
“I don’t really see how I can,” she replied. “You see I have so many friends in New York, and they make little parties for me, or afternoon teas. Then I meet a great many American ladies, and we often exchange cards. But we do it so often that of course I can’t remember every particular instance. Have you the card you speak of?”
I thanked my stars that I had been thoughtful enough to obtain the card before leaving West Sedgwick, and taking it from my pocket-book, I gave it to her.
“Oh, that one!” she said; “perhaps I can help you a little, Mr. Burroughs. That is an old-fashioned card, one of a few left over from an old lot. I have been using them only lately, because my others gave out. I have really gone much more into society in New York than I had anticipated, and my cards seemed fairly to melt away. I ordered some new ones here, but before they were sent to me I was obliged to use a few of these old-fashioned ones. I don’t know that this would help you, but I think I can tell pretty nearly to whom I gave those cards.”
It seemed a precarious sort of a chance, but as I talked with Mrs. Purvis, I felt more and more positive that she herself was not implicated in the Crawford case. However, it was just as well to make certain. She had gone to her writing-desk, and seemed to be looking over a diary or engagement book.
“Mrs. Purvis,” I said, “will you tell me where you were on Tuesday evening of last week?”
“Certainly;” and she turned back the leaves of the book. “I went to a theatre party with my friends, the Hepworths; and afterward, we went to a little supper at a restaurant. I returned here about midnight. Must I prove this?” she added, smiling; “for I can probably do so, by the hotel clerk and by my maid. And, of course, by my friends who gave the party.”
“No, you needn’t prove it,” I answered, certain now that she knew nothing of the Crawford matter; “but I hope you can give me more information about your card.”
“Why, I remember that very night, I gave my cards to two ladies who were at the theatre with us; and I remember now that at that time I had only these old-fashioned cards. I was rather ashamed of them, for Americans are punctilious in such matters; and now that I think of it, one of the ladies was carrying a gold-mesh bag.”
“Who was she?” I asked, hardly daring to hope that I had really struck the trail.
“I can’t seem to remember her name, but perhaps it will come to me. It was rather an English type of name, something like Coningsby.”
“Where did she live?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. You see I meet these ladies so casually, and I really never expect to see any of them again. Our exchange of cards is a mere bit of formal courtesy. No, I can’t remember her name, or where she was from. But I don’t think she was a New Yorker.”
Truly it was hard to come so near getting what might be vital information, and yet have it beyond my grasp! It was quite evident that Mrs. Purvis was honestly trying to remember the lady’s name, but could not do so.
And then I had what seemed to me an inspiration. “Didn’t she give you her card?” I asked.
A light broke over Mrs. Purvis’s face. “Why, yes, of course she did! And I’m sure I can find it.”
She turned to a card-tray, and rapidly running over the bits of pasteboard, she selected three or four.
“Here they are,” she exclaimed, “all here together. I mean all the cards that were given me on that particular evening. And here is the name I couldn’t think of. It is Mrs. Cunningham. I remember distinctly that she carried a gold bag, and no one else in the party did, for we were admiring it. And here is her address on the card; Marathon Park, New Jersey.”
I almost fainted, myself, with the suddenness of the discovery. Had I really found the name and address of the owner of the gold bag? Of course there might be a slip yet, but the evidence seemed clear that Mrs. Cunningham, of Marathon Park, owned the bag that had been the subject of so much speculation.
I had no idea where Marathon Park might be, but that was a mere detail. I thanked Mrs. Purvis sincerely for the help she had given me, and I was glad I had not told her that her casual acquaintance was perhaps implicated in a murder mystery.
I made my adieux and returned at once to West Sedgwick.
As he had promised, Parmalee met me at the station, and I told him the whole story, for I thought him entitled to the information at once.
“Why, man alive!” he exclaimed, “ Marathon Park is the very next station to West Sedgwick!”
“So it is!” I said; “I knew I had a
hazy idea of having seen the name, but the trains I have taken to and from New York have been expresses, which didn’t stop there, and I paid no attention to it.”
“It’s a small park,” went on Parmalee, “of swagger residences; very exclusive and reserved, you know. You’ve certainly unearthed startling news, but I can’t help thinking that it will be a wild goose chase that leads us to look for our criminal in Marathon Park!”
“What do you think we’d better do?” said I. “Go to see Mrs. Cunningham?”
“No, I wouldn’t do that,” said Parmalee, who had a sort of plebeian hesitancy at the thought of intruding upon aristocratic strangers. “Suppose you write her a letter and just ask her if she has lost her bag.”
“All right,” I conceded, for truth to tell, I greatly preferred to stay in West Sedgwick than to go out of it, for I had always the undefined hope of seeing Florence Lloyd.
So I wrote a letter, not exactly curt, but strictly formal, asking Mrs. Cunningham if she had recently lost a gold-mesh bag, containing her gloves and handkerchief.
Then Parmalee and I agreed to keep the matter a secret until we should get a reply to this, for we concluded there was no use in stirring up public curiosity on the matter until we knew ourselves that we were on the right trail.
XVII. THE OWNER OF THE GOLD BAG
The next day I received a letter addressed in modish, angular penmanship, which, before I opened it, I felt sure had come from Mrs. Cunningham. It ran as follows,
Mr. Herbert Burroughs,
DEAR SIR: Yes, I have lost a gold bag, and I have known all along that it is the one the newspapers are talking so much about in connection with the Crawford case. I know, too, that you are the detective on the case, and though I can’t imagine how you did it, I think it was awfully clever of you to trace the bag to me, for I’m sure my name wasn’t in it anywhere. As I say, the bag is mine, but I didn’t kill Mr. Crawford, and I don’t know who did. I would go straight to you, and tell you all about it, but I am afraid of detectives and lawyers, and I don’t want to be mixed up in the affair anyway. But I am going to see Miss Lloyd, and explain it all to her, and then she can tell you. Please don’t let my name get in the papers, as I hate that sort of prominence.