The Classic Mystery Novel

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

  “We don’t know how it happened,” said the chief. “We wanted to know if you could tell us anything.”

  “I didn’t see Mrs. Withers late last night,” Morley replied, a nervous tremor in his voice.

  “Nobody said you did,” commented Bristow.

  “No; I know that,” Morley agreed in a queer, high voice.

  “But you were in the house, Number Five, last evening, weren’t you?” Bristow inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, tell us about it.”

  “I came down here from Washington Saturday,” the young man began. “I didn’t come to see Mrs. Withers. I came to see Miss Fulton, her sister. Of course, I’ve seen Mrs. Withers since I’ve been here; I saw her early last night. You see, last night she went up to the Maplewood Inn for the dinner dance, and, when I called, she was just leaving with a Mr. Campbell. Miss Fulton and I sat on the front porch and in the parlour talking until a little after eleven.”

  “We understood,” put in Bristow, “that Miss Fulton was confined to her bed.”

  “She was, that is—er—she was supposed to be; but she got up last evening and dressed to receive me.”

  “I beg your pardon,” again interrupted his questioner, “but everything is important here now, and we need information. We have so little of it as yet. I really apologize, but may I ask what your relations with Miss Fulton are?”

  Morley hesitated a full minute before he answered.

  “If it is to go no further than you gentlemen,” he began.

  “Of course,” the other two agreed.

  “Well, then, Miss Fulton and I are engaged to be married.”

  “Ah! Go ahead.” This from the lame man.

  “As I said, we talked until a little after eleven. Then I had to leave to catch the midnight train back to Washington.”

  “But you didn’t catch it.”

  “No. You see, I was stopping at the Maplewood. That’s more than a mile from Manniston Road, and it’s fully two miles from the railroad station. Somehow, I didn’t allow myself enough time, and I missed the train by a bare two minutes.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “What did I do then?”

  “Yes—what then?”

  “I didn’t go back to Maplewood Inn. I took a room for the night at the Brevord Hotel. It’s near the station, you know, and I intended to catch the midday train today. Besides, it was late, and I didn’t want to take the trouble of walking back or getting a machine to take me back to Maplewood.”

  He drew out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead, which, as a matter of fact, was perfectly dry. He was tremendously unstrung. Bristow realized this and saw that now, more than at any subsequent time, he would be able to make the young man talk.

  “That,” he said easily, “accounts for you, doesn’t it? Now, I’ll tell you. Chief Greenleaf and I are anxious to get some information about the Fulton family. As you know, we people here, being invalids, live pretty much to ourselves. We don’t have the strength for much social life, and we don’t know much about each other. What can you tell us?”

  “Miss Fulton and Mrs. Withers are—were sisters,” Morley responded. “Their father, William T. Fulton, is a real estate man in Washington. By the way, Mar—Miss Fulton expects him here this afternoon. She told me so yesterday. Last fall, just before Miss Fulton was taken sick with tuberculosis, he failed, failed for a very large amount of money.”

  “He was wealthy then?”

  “Yes; quite. Mrs. Withers was twenty-five. She married Withers, George S. Withers, of Atlanta, Georgia, when she was twenty-one. But, when Miss Fulton had to come here for her health, Mrs. Withers agreed to come, too, and look after her. Withers isn’t wealthy. He’s a lawyer in Atlanta, but he hasn’t a big income.”

  “How old is Miss Fulton?” asked Bristow.

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Do you know whether Mrs. Withers had any valuable jewelry—rings, stuff of that kind?”

  Morley was for a moment visibly disturbed.

  “Why, yes,” he answered after a little pause. “When Mr. Fulton failed, Miss Fulton gave up all her jewels, everything, to help meet his debts. Mrs. Withers refused to do this—at least, she didn’t do it.”

  Both Bristow and Greenleaf caught the note of criticism in his voice.

  “Just what was the feeling between the two sisters?” pursued Bristow.

  Again Morley paused.

  “Oh, all right, if you don’t feel like discussing that,” his interrogator said smoothly. “It’s of no consequence. We’ll find out about it elsewhere.”

  “I suppose I might as well,” said Morley. “It really doesn’t amount to anything much. There has been considerable coolness between the two women.”

  “Even when Mrs. Withers was here nursing Miss Fulton?”

  “Yes. You see, Mrs. Withers was and always has been Mr. Fulton’s favourite. Miss Maria Fulton felt this, and she knew that Mrs. Withers came here only because Mr. Fulton asked her to do it. Also, Miss Fulton never forgave Mrs. Withers for not coming forward with her jewels, jewels which her father had given her—for not coming forward with them when he failed.”

  “Did they ever quarrel?”

  “Well, yes. Sometimes, I think, they did. You know how it is with two women, particularly sisters, who are on what might be called bad terms. Then, as I was about to say, Mrs. Withers wasn’t making any sacrifice by being here with her sister. Mr. Fulton, in spite of his reduced means, paid her expenses, all of them. Besides, Mrs. Withers had quite a good time here, going to the dances, and so on.”

  “Do you know, Mr. Morley, whether they had a quarrel yesterday?”

  “They didn’t so far as I know.”

  “Miss Fulton said nothing to you about a quarrel?”

  “No.”

  Bristow was silent a few seconds.

  “I think that’s all, Mr. Morley. We’re much obliged to you. Isn’t that all, chief?”

  “Yes, for the present,” Greenleaf answered with a long breath, thankful the other had been there to do the questioning. “That seems to cover everything.”

  “I wonder if I could see Miss Fulton,” Morley said, rising.

  “If the doctor will allow it,” Greenleaf told him. “You might go down there and see.”

  Morley put his hand on the doorknob.

  “By the way,” interjected Bristow once more, and this time his voice was cold, steely; “Mr. Morley, did you wear rubbers last night?”

  “Rubbers?” parroted Morley.

  “Yes—rubbers.”

  Morley stared a moment, as if calculating something.

  “Why, yes; I believe I did,” he said finally.

  Greenleaf, glancing down at Morley’s feet, noticed what Bristow had seen three seconds after Morley had entered the room—his feet were large, abnormally large for a man of his build. He must have worn a number ten or, perhaps, a number eleven shoe.

  “I thought so,” Bristow observed carelessly. “I sleep out on my sleeping porch at the back of the house here, and I knew it rained hard from early in the night until seven this morning.”

  Morley, without commenting on this, looked at the two men.

  “Is there anything more?” he inquired.

  “No, nothing more; thanks,” said Bristow.

  The young man went out quickly, slamming the door in his haste.

  Bristow answered Greenleaf’s questioning look:

  “There was no use in our looking round the outside of the house for possible footprints this morning. If there had been any, the rain would have cleared them away. But, when I first ran up on the porch—it’s roofed, like mine here—I noticed the dried marks made by a wet shoe hours before, a large shoe, by a large shoe with a rubber sole, or by a rubber shoe.”

  “The devil you did!�
�

  “I did.—But it may turn out that Perry, or somebody else, or several other people, wore rubber shoes, or rubber-soled shoes last night. Negroes always have large feet.”

  “Well, I hope my man’s found this Perry,” said the chief. “He’s the fellow we want.”

  “And yet,” ruminated Bristow, “what young Morley said is interesting enough—two quarreling sisters living together—one decked in jewels, the other deprived of them—the jewels gone this morning.” He smiled and waved his hands comprehensively. “As long as it is a mystery, let’s have it a real mystery. Let’s look at all sides of it. There’s Perry. There’s Morley. And—there’s Miss Maria Fulton.”

  “Miss Fulton!”

  “Yes—a possibility.”

  “Oh, I don’t connect her up with it any.” The chief’s voice was tinged with ridicule.

  Bristow answered a knock on the door and opened to admit a uniformed policeman.

  “Beg your pardon, chief,” said the officer, “but I had something for a Mr. Morley. The men on guard down there at Number Five wouldn’t let me in to see him—said I’d better see you.”

  “What have you got, Avery?” asked Greenleaf.

  “It’s a little package. You know, I’m on that beat down there. Takes in the Brevord Hotel. The clerk said this Mr. Morley had sent his grips to the station, but had said he was coming up to Number Five, Manniston Road. He said there had been a murder up here. The clerk said he didn’t know what to do with this property but turn it over to the police. As soon as I saw what it was, I hurried up here.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a ring, sir.”

  “A ring!” exclaimed Bristow. “Let’s see it.”

  Policeman Avery handed Bristow a tissue paper package.

  The lame man unwound the paper and discovered a woman’s ring, the setting a tremendous pigeon’s-blood ruby flanked on each side by a diamond. It was an exceedingly handsome and very valuable piece of jewelry.

  “Where did the clerk get this?” Bristow asked swiftly.

  For the first time, he was visibly excited.

  “A maid found it under the bed on the floor of Mr. Morley’s room at the Brevord,” answered Avery.

  Greenleaf needed no hint from Bristow this time.

  “Avery,” he said, “your beat takes in the railroad station. Go down to Number Five and get a good look at this man Morley. After that, if he attempts to leave Furmville, arrest him.”

  CHAPTER IV

  TWO TRAILS

  “I’m afraid,” said Bristow, after the policeman had hurried out, “we made a mistake in permitting Morley to talk to Miss Fulton just at present.”

  “I can go down there and interrupt them,” Greenleaf volunteered.

  The lame man reflected, a forefinger against the right side of his nose, the attitude emphasizing the fact that this feature was perceptibly crooked, bent toward the left.

  “No,” he concluded. “We’d probably be too late.” Then he added, “And we didn’t find out Morley’s employment or profession in Washington—but we can do that later.”

  The chief of police prepared to leave, saying he was going to call at Douglas Campbell’s office and from there go to headquarters in the hope that Perry had been found.

  “Can’t you come with me?” he invited.

  “It’s against the doctor’s orders,” Bristow replied. “He tells me not to leave this house or its porches. If I started to run around with you, I’d be exhausted in an hour. But I’ll tell you what: this afternoon, after you’ve talked to Campbell and the darky, suppose you come back here, and we’ll drop down to interview Miss Fulton ourselves.”

  This surprised Greenleaf.

  “You mean you suspect—”

  Bristow laughed.

  “Oh,” he countered lightly, “we’ve enough suspecting to do already. There’s Perry—and there’s Morley. Don’t let’s complicate it too much. But what Miss Fulton has to say may be valuable. By the way, if I should need to do so, how can I persuade anybody that I have authority to ask questions, or to do anything else in this matter?”

  The captain thought a moment.

  “I’ll appoint you to the plain-clothes squad. I appoint you now, and the city commissioners will confirm it. They meet tonight. You’re on the force—at a nominal salary—say ten dollars a week. That suit you?”

  “Perfectly,” consented Bristow. “What I want is the power to help in case I have the opportunity.”

  Greenleaf went out to the porch, followed by Bristow, and started down the steps.

  “By the way,” his new employee said in a cautious tone, “don’t forget to stop at Number Five and look for those scratches, on the fingers and the neck.”

  “By cracky!” exclaimed the chief. “I’d forgotten all about it. I’ll do that right away.”

  Looking toward No. 5, Bristow saw a hearse-like wagon drawing up in front of the door. The coroner had already made arrangements for the removal of the body of Mrs. Withers to an undertaking establishment.

  The lame man went slowly into the house and stood at the window, staring at the mountains. In the clear, newly washed air, they looked like the soft, tumbling waves of some magically blue sea.

  Like most retiring, secluded men, he had his vanity in pronounced degree. He saw himself now, the dominant figure in this city of thirty thousand people, the man who had been selected by the chief of police as the one able to unravel the web of mystery surrounding this startling murder. The thought pleased him, and he smiled. He began to think about himself and about life as a general proposition.

  Everything was always so mixed up, so involved. People talked of a divine providence, of the law that virtue is rewarded, of the rule that to do good is to have good done to one. He smiled again. If all that was true, what explanation was there for the murder of this woman, this beauty whose good nature, kindness, and cleverness had endeared her to all with whom she came in contact?

  He had heard the women on the porch of No. 5 say that everybody had loved her. Why, then, had some ignorant negro or some white man bent on robbery been permitted to steal up on her in the dead of night and crush out her life? Was there any reason, any logic, any mercy in that?

  He drummed on the window-pane with his fingertips and whistled, scarcely audibly, a fragment of tune. His pursed up mouth made it clear that he was not a handsome man—the lower lip was heavy, somewhat protuberant.

  Pshaw! There was only one rule of life that held good, so far as he had been able to see. Strength and persistence accomplished things and brought success and security. Weakness and foolish prating about righteousness and virtue were never worth a dollar.

  That was it! If you were mighty and clever, you stayed on top. If you were sentimental and looking after other people’s interests, you went down. You had no time to bother about the safety and happiness of others. Look out for yourself. Never relent in the fierce battle against the odds of life. That was the only way to conquer and avoid catastrophe.

  He was sure of it when he thought about himself. He had a brilliant brain. It was not particularly egotistic for him to think that. It was merely a fact. But he had not used it relentlessly and incessantly. He had relaxed his hold too often when seeking pleasure. Although he had done things which had been applauded by his friends, he had nothing much to show in the way of lasting results.

  That was why he was here now, with scarcely enough resources to pay the rent of his bungalow and the expenses of living. A little dabbling in real estate, some third-rate work for the magazines, a passing notoriety as a guesser of crime riddles—it was not a record that promised a bright future.

  He sighed. Well, that was the way of life. He might yet accomplish big things although he was under a terrific handicap—and he might not. He would try, and see.

  His future was much like the prob
able outcome of this murder. How would the circumstances shape themselves? What would be the result of circumstantial evidence?

  It was all a gamble. Some murderers were lucky and got away. And some innocent men were not lucky. These were like the blundering, illiterate negro Perry. There was an even chance that the guilty man would be caught—and there was an even chance that an innocent man would hang. Life was like that!

  He caressed with his forefinger his protruding lip. He wouldn’t say the negro was guilty. In spite of the evidence of the buttons, he would advance no such theory yet. And as to Morley—nobody could think that a man with such a weak face would have the nerve to do murder. He knew this. There must be somebody else. It might be that the sister, Maria Fulton, in an excess of rage—But why reason about that before he had talked to her?

  It was up to him to fasten the guilt on the guilty man—or woman. That was what was expected of him. And it was a task which—

  He turned toward the table and began methodically to paste into their proper places the clippings he had cut from the newspapers concerning other “big” murder cases. He would study them later.

  He looked up and saw a very fat man standing just outside the door.

  “Hello, Overton,” he said, without cordiality, and joined him on the porch.

  “I picked out an interesting time to visit you,” observed the fat man, still puffing from the exertion of climbing the Manniston Road hill; “what with murder and—”

  “And I’m going to be frank with you,” Bristow put in. “I’m helping the police a little, and I haven’t the time to gossip now. I know you’ll understand—”

  “Surely, surely!” said Overton. “I’ll come some other time. This sort of stuff’s right in your line. You used to be an authority on it in Cincinnati, I remember.”

  He said good-bye and lumbered awkwardly down the steps. He and Bristow had been good friends in Cincinnati, and he seemed now not at all offended by the summary dismissal.

  The door leading from the kitchen to the dining room opened. Mattie had returned. Bristow reentered the house.

  “Well?” he said in the low, kindly tone he used in speaking to her.