The Man in Lower Ten
Page 30
CHAPTER XXX. FINER DETAILS
At ten minutes before two the following day, Monday, I arrived at myoffice. I had spent the morning putting my affairs in shape, and in atrip to the stable. The afternoon would see me either a free man or aprisoner for an indefinite length of time, and, in spite of Johnson'spromise to produce Sullivan, I was more prepared for the latter than theformer.
Blobs was watching for me outside the door, and it was clear that he wasin a state of excitement bordering on delirium. He did nothing, however,save to tip me a wink that meant "As man to man, I'm for you." I was toomuch engrossed either to reprove him or return the courtesy, but I heardhim follow me down the hall to the small room where we keep outgrownlawbooks, typewriter supplies and, incidentally, our wraps. I waswondering vaguely if I would ever hang my hat on its nail again, whenthe door closed behind me. It shut firmly, without any particular amountof sound, and I was left in the dark. I groped my way to it, irritably,to find it locked on the outside. I shook it frantically, and wasrewarded by a sibilant whisper through the keyhole.
"Keep quiet," Blobs was saying huskily. "You're in deadly peril. Thepolice are waiting in your office, three of 'em. I'm goin' to lock thewhole bunch in and throw the key out of the window."
"Come back here, you imp of Satan!" I called furiously, but I could hearhim speeding down the corridor, and the slam of the outer office doorby which he always announced his presence. And so I stood there in thatridiculous cupboard, hot with the heat of a steaming September day,musty with the smell of old leather bindings, littered with brokenovershoes and handleless umbrellas. I was apoplectic with rage oneminute, and choked with laughter the next. It seemed an hour beforeBlobs came back.
He came without haste, strutting with new dignity, and paused outside myprison door.
"Well, I guess that will hold them for a while," he remarkedcomfortably, and proceeded to turn the key. "I've got 'em fastened uplike sardines in a can!" he explained, working with the lock. "Gee whiz!you'd ought to hear 'em!" When he got his breath after the shaking Igave him, he began to splutter. "How'd I know?" he demanded sulkily."You nearly broke your neck gettin' away the other time. And I haven'tgot the old key. It's lost."
"Where's it lost?" I demanded, with another gesture toward his coatcollar.
"Down the elevator shaft." There was a gleam of indignant satisfactionthrough his tears of rage and humiliation.
And so, while he hunted the key in the debris at the bottom of theshaft, I quieted his prisoners with the assurance that the lock hadslipped, and that they would be free as lords as soon as we could findthe janitor with a pass-key. Stuart went down finally and discoveredBlobs, with the key in his pocket, telling the engineer how he had triedto save me from arrest and failed. When Stuart came up he was almostcheerful, but Blobs did not appear again that day.
Simultaneous with the finding of the key came Hotchkiss, and we wentin together. I shook hands with two men who, with Hotchkiss, made anot very animated group. The taller one, an oldish man, lean and hard,announced his errand at once.
"A Pittsburg warrant?" I inquired, unlocking my cigar drawer.
"Yes. Allegheny County has assumed jurisdiction, the exact localitywhere the crime was committed being in doubt." He seemed to be thespokesman. The other, shorter and rotund, kept an amiable silence. "Wehope you will see the wisdom of waiving extradition," he went on. "Itwill save time."
"I'll come, of course," I agreed. "The sooner the better. But I want youto give me an hour here, gentlemen. I think we can interest you. Have acigar?"
The lean man took a cigar; the rotund man took three, putting two in hispocket.
"How about the catch of that door?" he inquired jovially. "Any dangerof it going off again?" Really, considering the circumstances, they wereremarkably cheerful. Hotchkiss, however, was not. He paced the flooruneasily, his hands under his coat-tails. The arrival of McKnightcreated a diversion; he carried a long package and a corkscrew, andshook hands with the police and opened the bottle with a single gesture.
"I always want something to cheer on these occasions," he said. "Where'sthe water, Blakeley? Everybody ready?" Then in French he toasted the twodetectives.
"To your eternal discomfiture," he said, bowing ceremoniously. "May yougo home and never come back! If you take Monsieur Blakeley with you, Ihope you choke."
The lean man nodded gravely. "Prosit," he said. But the fat one leanedback and laughed consumedly.
Hotchkiss finished a mental synopsis of his position, and put down hisglass. "Gentlemen," he said pompously, "within five minutes the man youwant will be here, a murderer caught in a net of evidence so fine that amosquito could not get through."
The detectives glanced at each other solemnly. Had they not in theirpossession a sealskin bag containing a wallet and a bit of gold chain,which, by putting the crime on me, would leave a gap big enough forSullivan himself to crawl through?
"Why don't you say your little speech before Johnson brings the otherman, Lawrence?" McKnight inquired. "They won't believe you, but it willhelp them to understand what is coming."
"You understand, of course," the lean man put in gravely, "that what yousay may be used against you."
"I'll take the risk," I answered impatiently.
It took some time to tell the story of my worse than useless trip toPittsburg, and its sequel. They listened gravely, without interruption.
"Mr. Hotchkiss here," I finished, "believes that the man Sullivan,whom we are momentarily expecting, committed the crime. Mr. McKnight isinclined to implicate Mrs. Conway, who stabbed Bronson and then herselflast night. As for myself, I am open to conviction."
"I hope not," said the stout detective quizzically. And then Alisonwas announced. My impulse to go out and meet her was forestalled by thedetectives, who rose when I did. McKnight, therefore, brought her in,and I met her at the door.
"I have put you to a great deal of trouble," I said contritely, when Isaw her glance around the room. "I wish I had not--"
"It is only right that I should come," she replied, looking up at me."I am the unconscious cause of most of it, I am afraid. Mrs. Dallas isgoing to wait in the outer office."
I presented Hotchkiss and the two detectives, who eyed her withinterest. In her poise, her beauty, even in her gown, I fancy sherepresented a new type to them. They remained standing until she satdown.
"I have brought the necklace," she began, holding out a white-wrappedbox, "as you asked me to."
I passed it, unopened, to the detectives. "The necklace from which wasbroken the fragment you found in the sealskin bag," I explained. "MissWest found it on the floor of the car, near lower ten."
"When did you find it?" asked the lean detective, bending forward.
"In the morning, not long before the wreck."
"Did you ever see it before?"
"I am not certain," she replied. "I have seen one very much like it."Her tone was troubled. She glanced at me as if for help, but I waspowerless.
"Where?" The detective was watching her closely. At that moment therecame an interruption. The door opened without ceremony, and Johnsonushered in a tall, blond man, a stranger to all of us: I glanced atAlison; she was pale, but composed and scornful. She met the new-comer'seyes full, and, caught unawares, he took a hasty backward step.
"Sit down, Mr. Sullivan," McKnight beamed cordially. "Have a cigar? Ibeg your pardon, Alison, do you mind this smoke?"
"Not at all," she said composedly. Sullivan had had a second to soundhis bearings.
"No--no, thanks," he mumbled. "If you will be good enough to explain--"
"But that's what you're to do," McKnight said cheerfully, pulling up achair. "You've got the most attentive audience you could ask. These twogentlemen are detectives from Pittsburg, and we are all curious to knowthe finer details of what happened on the car Ontario two weeks ago, thenight your father-in-law was murdered." Sullivan gripped the arms of hischair. "We are not prejudiced, either. The gentlemen from Pittsburg arebetting on Mr. Bl
akeley, over there. Mr. Hotchkiss, the gentleman by theradiator, is ready to place ten to one odds on you. And some of us havestill other theories."
"Gentlemen," Sullivan said slowly, "I give you my word of honor that Idid not kill Simon Harrington, and that I do not know who did."
"Fiddlededee!" cried Hotchkiss, bustling forward. "Why, I can tellyou--" But McKnight pushed him firmly into a chair and held him there.
"I am ready to plead guilty to the larceny," Sullivan went on. "I tookMr. Blakeley's clothes, I admit. If I can reimburse him in any way forthe inconvenience-"
The stout detective was listening with his mouth open. "Do you meanto say," he demanded, "that you got into Mr. Blakeley's berth, as hecontends, took his clothes and forged notes, and left the train beforethe wreck?"
"Yes."
"The notes, then?"
"I gave them to Bronson yesterday. Much good they did him!" bitterly.We were all silent for a moment. The two detectives were adjustingthemselves with difficulty to a new point of view; Sullivan was lookingdejectedly at the floor, his hands hanging loose between his knees.I was watching Alison; from where I stood, behind her, I could almosttouch the soft hair behind her ear.
"I have no intention of pressing any charge against you," I said withforced civility, for my hands were itching to get at him, "if you willgive us a clear account of what happened on the Ontario that night."
Sullivan raised his handsome, haggard head and looked around at me."I've seen you before, haven't I?" he asked. "Weren't you an uninvitedguest at the Laurels a few days--or nights--ago? The cat, you remember,and the rug that slipped?"
"I remember," I said shortly. He glanced from me to Alison and quicklyaway.
"The truth can't hurt me," he said, "but it's devilish unpleasant.Alison, you know all this. You would better go out."
His use of her name crazed me. I stepped in front of her and stood overhim. "You will not bring Miss West into the conversation," I threatened,"and she will stay if she wishes."
"Oh, very well," he said with assumed indifference. Hotchkiss just thenescaped from Richey's grasp and crossed the room.
"Did you ever wear glasses?" he asked eagerly.
"Never." Sullivan glanced with some contempt at mine.
"I'd better begin by going back a little," he went on sullenly. "Isuppose you know I was married to Ida Harrington about five years ago.She was a good girl, and I thought a lot of her. But her father opposedthe marriage--he'd never liked me, and he refused to make any sort ofsettlement.
"I had thought, of course, that there would be money, and it was abad day when I found out I'd made a mistake. My sister was wild withdisappointment. We were pretty hard up, my sister and I."
I was watching Alison. Her hands were tightly clasped in her lap, andshe was staring out of the window at the cheerless roof below. She hadset her lips a little, but that was all.
"You understand, of course, that I'm not defending myself," went on thesullen voice. "The day came when old Harrington put us both out of thehouse at the point of a revolver, and I threatened--I suppose you knowthat, too--I threatened to kill him.
"My sister and I had hard times after that. We lived on the continentfor a while. I was at Monte Carlo and she was in Italy. She met a younglady there, the granddaughter of a steel manufacturer and an heiress,and she sent for me. When I got to Rome the girl was gone. Last winter Iwas all in--social secretary to an Englishman, a wholesale grocer witha new title, but we had a row, and I came home. I went out to the Heatonboys' ranch in Wyoming, and met Bronson there. He lent me money, andI've been doing his dirty work ever since."
Sullivan got up then and walked slowly forward and back as he talked,his eyes on the faded pattern of the office rug.
"If you want to live in hell," he said savagely, "put yourself inanother man's power. Bronson got into trouble, forging John Gilmore'sname to those notes, and in some way he learned that a man was bringingthe papers back to Washington on the Flier. He even learned the numberof his berth, and the night before the wreck, just as I was boarding thetrain, I got a telegram."
Hotchkiss stepped forward once more importantly. "Which read, I think:'Man with papers in lower ten, car seven. Get them.'"
Sullivan looked at the little man with sulky blue eyes.
"It was something like that, anyhow. But it was a nasty business, and itmade matters worse that he didn't care that a telegram which must passthrough a half dozen hands was more or less incriminating to me.
"Then, to add to the unpleasantness of my position, just after weboarded the train--I was accompanying my sister and this young lady,Miss West--a woman touched me on the sleeve, and I turned to face--mywife!
"That took away my last bit of nerve. I told my sister, and you canunderstand she was in a bad way, too. We knew what it meant. Ida hadheard that I was going--"
He stopped and glanced uneasily at Alison.
"Go on," she said coldly. "It is too late to shield me. The time to havedone that was when I was your guest."
"Well," he went on, his eyes turned carefully away from my face, whichmust have presented certainly anything but a pleasant sight. "Miss Westwas going to do me the honor to marry me, and--"
"You scoundrel!" I burst forth, thrusting past Alison West's chair."You--you infernal cur!"
One of the detectives got up and stood between us. "You must remember,Mr. Blakeley, that you are forcing this story from this man. Thesedetails are unpleasant, but important. You were going to marry thisyoung lady," he said, turning to Sullivan, "although you already had awife living?"
"It was my sister's plan, and I was in a bad way for money. If I couldmarry, secretly, a wealthy girl and go to Europe, it was unlikely thatIda--that is, Mrs. Sullivan--would hear of it.
"So it was more than a shock to see my wife on the train, and to realizefrom her face that she knew what was going on. I don't know yet, unlesssome of the servants--well, never mind that.
"It meant that the whole thing had gone up. Old Harrington had carrieda gun for me for years, and the same train wouldn't hold both of us. Ofcourse, I thought that he was in the coach just behind ours."
Hotchkiss was leaning forward now, his eyes narrowed, his thin lipsdrawn to a line.
"Are you left-handed, Mr. Sullivan?" he asked.
Sullivan stopped in surprise.
"No," he said gruffly. "Can't do anything with my left hand." Hotchkisssubsided, crestfallen but alert. "I tore up that cursed telegram, but Iwas afraid to throw the scraps away. Then I looked around for lower ten.It was almost exactly across--my berth was lower seven, and it was, ofcourse, a bit of exceptional luck for me that the car was number seven."
"Did you tell your sister of the telegram from Bronson?" I asked.
"No. It would do no good, and she was in a bad way without that to makeher worse."
"Your sister was killed, think." The shorter detective took a smallpackage from his pocket and held it in his hand, snapping the rubberband which held it.
"Yes, she was killed," Sullivan said soberly. "What I say now can do herno harm."
He stopped to push back the heavy hair which dropped over his forehead,and went on more connectedly.
"It was late, after midnight, and we went at once to our berths. Iundressed, and then I lay there for an hour, wondering how I was goingto get the notes. Some one in lower nine was restless and wide awake,but finally became quiet.
"The man in ten was sleeping heavily. I could hear his breathing, and itseemed to be only a question of getting across and behind the curtainsof his berth without being seen. After that, it was a mere matter ofquiet searching.
"The car became very still. I was about to try for the other berth, whensome one brushed softly past, and I lay back again.
"Finally, however, when things had been quiet for a time, I got up, andafter looking along the aisle, I slipped behind the curtains of lowerten. You understand, Mr. Blakeley, that I thought you were in lower ten,with the notes."
I nodded curtly.
He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
"Well, I slipped across and behind the curtains. It was very still. Theman in ten didn't move, although my heart was thumping until I thoughthe would hear it.
"I felt around cautiously. It was perfectly dark, and I came across abit of chain, about as long as my finger. It seemed a queer thing tofind there, and it was sticky, too."
He shuddered, and I could see Alison's hands clenching and unclenchingwith the strain.
"All at once it struck me that the man was strangely silent, and I thinkI lost my nerve. Anyhow, I drew the curtains open a little, and let thelight fall on my hands. They were red, blood-red."
He leaned one hand on the back of the chair, and was silent for amoment, as though he lived over again the awful events of that more thanawful night.
The stout detective had let his cigar go out; he was still drawing at itnervously. Richey had picked up a paper-weight and was tossing it fromhand to hand; when it slipped and fell to the floor, a startled shudderpassed through the room.
"There was something glittering in there," Sullivan resumed, "and onimpulse I picked it up. Then I dropped the curtains and stumbled back tomy own berth."
"Where you wiped your hands on the bed-clothing and stuck the dirkinto the pillow." Hotchkiss was seeing his carefully built structurecrumbling to pieces, and he looked chagrined.
"I suppose I did--I'm not very clear about what happened then. But whenI rallied a little I saw a Russia leather wallet lying in the aislealmost at my feet, and, like a fool, I stuck it, with the bit of chain,into my bag.
"I sat there, shivering, for what seemed hours. It was still perfectlyquiet, except for some one snoring. I thought that would drive me crazy.
"The more I thought of it the worse things looked. The telegram was thefirst thing against me--it would put the police on my track at once,when it was discovered that the man in lower ten had been killed.
"Then I remembered the notes, and I took out the wallet and opened it."
He stopped for a minute, as if the recalling of the next occurrence wasalmost beyond him.
"I took out the wallet," he said simply, "and opening it, held it to thelight. In gilt letters was the name, Simon Harrington."
The detectives were leaning forward now, their eyes on his face.
"Things seemed to whirl around for a while. I sat there almostparalyzed, wondering what this new development meant for me.
"My wife, I knew, would swear I had killed her father; nobody would belikely to believe the truth.
"Do you believe me now?" He rooked around at us defiantly. "I am tellingthe absolute truth, and not one of you believes me!
"After a bit the man in lower nine got up and walked along the aisletoward the smoking compartment. I heard him go, and, leaning from myberth, watched him out of sight.
"It was then I got the idea of changing berths with him, getting intohis clothes, and leaving the train. I give you my word I had no idea ofthrowing suspicion on him."
Alison looked scornfully incredulous, but I felt that the man wastelling the truth.
"I changed the numbers of the berths, and it worked well. I got intothe other man's berth, and he came back to mine. The rest was easy. Idressed in his clothes--luckily, they fitted--and jumped the train notfar from Baltimore, just before the wreck."
"There is something else you must clear up," I said. "Why did you tryto telephone me from M-, and why did you change your mind about themessage?"
He looked astounded.
"You knew I was at M-?" he stammered.
"Yes, we traced you. What about the message?"
"Well, it was this way: of course, I did not know your name, Mr.Blakeley. The telegram said, 'Man with papers in lower ten, car seven,"and after I had made what I considered my escape, I began to think I hadleft the man in my berth in a bad way.
"He would probably be accused of the crime. So, although when the wreckoccurred I supposed every one connected with the affair had been killed,there was a chance that you had survived. I've not been of much account,but I didn't want a man to swing because I'd left him in my place.Besides, I began to have a theory of my own.
"As we entered the car a tall, dark woman passed us, with a glass ofwater in her hand, and I vaguely remembered her. She was amazingly likeBlanche Conway.
"If she, too, thought the man with the notes was in lower ten, itexplained a lot, including that piece of a woman's necklace. She was afury, Blanche Conway, capable of anything."
"Then why did you countermand that message?" I asked curiously.
"When I got to the Carter house, and got to bed--I had sprained my anklein the jump--I went through the alligator bag I had taken from lowernine. When I found your name, I sent the first message. Then, soonafter, I came across the notes. It seemed too good to be true, and I wascrazy for fear the message had gone.
"At first I was going to send them to Bronson; then I began to see whatthe possession of the notes meant to me. It meant power over Bronson,money, influence, everything. He was a devil, that man."
"Well, he's at home now," said McKnight, and we were glad to laugh andrelieve the tension.
Alison put her hand over her eyes, as if to shut out the sight of theman she had so nearly married, and I furtively touched one of the softlittle curls that nestled at the back of her neck.
"When I was able to walk," went on the sullen voice, "I came at once toWashington. I tried to sell the notes to Bronson, but he was almost atthe end of his rope. Not even my threat to send them back to you, Mr.Blakeley, could make him meet my figure. He didn't have the money."
McKnight was triumphant.
"I think you gentlemen will see reason in my theory now," he said. "Mrs.Conway wanted the notes to force a legal marriage, I suppose?"
"Yes."
The detective with the small package carefully rolled off the rubberband, and unwrapped it. I held my breath as he took out, first, theRussia leather wallet.
"These things, Mr. Blakeley, we found in the seal-skin bag Mr. Sullivansays he left you. This wallet, Mr. Sullivan--is this the one you foundon the floor of the car?"
Sullivan opened it, and, glancing at the name inside, "SimonHarrington," nodded affirmatively.
"And this," went on the detective--"this is a piece of gold chain?"
"It seems to be," said Sullivan, recoiling at the blood-stained end.
"This, I believe, is the dagger." He held it up, and Alison gave a faintcry of astonishment and dismay. Sullivan's face grew ghastly, and he satdown weakly on the nearest chair.
The detective looked at him shrewdly, then at Alison's agitated face.
"Where have you seen this dagger before, young lady?" he asked, kindlyenough.
"Oh, don't ask me!" she gasped breathlessly, her eyes turned onSullivan. "It's--it's too terrible!"
"Tell him," I advised, leaning over to her. "It will be found out later,anyhow."
"Ask him," she said, nodding toward Sullivan. The detective unwrappedthe small box Alison had brought, disclosing the trampled necklace andbroken chain. With clumsy fingers he spread it on the table and fittedinto place the bit of chain. There could be no doubt that it belongedthere.
"Where did you find that chain?" Sullivan asked hoarsely, looking forthe first time at Alison.
"On the floor, near the murdered man's berth."
"Now, Mr. Sullivan," said the detective civilly, "I believe you cantell us, in the light of these two exhibits, who really did murder SimonHarrington."
Sullivan looked again at the dagger, a sharp little bit of steel witha Florentine handle. Then he picked up the locket and pressed a hiddenspring under one of the cameos. Inside, very neatly engraved, was thename and a date.
"Gentlemen," he said, his face ghastly, "it is of no use for me toattempt a denial. The dagger and necklace belonged to my sister, AliceCurtis!"