The scandal theory bothered him. He saw no way of getting at it.
In less than an hour he and Braceway were shaking hands on the porch of No. 9. Bristow, studying him rapidly, motioned him to a chair.
Here was no ordinary police-detective type. This man had neither square-toed shoes, nor a bull neck, nor coarseness of feature. About thirty-six years old, he was unusually slender, and straight as a dart, a peculiar and restless gracefulness characterizing all his movements. He seemed fairly to exude energy. He was keyed up to lightning-like motion. He gave the impression of having a brain that worked with the precision and force of some great machine, a machine that never missed fire.
From the toes of his highly polished tan shoes to the sheen of his blond hair and the crown of his nobby straw hat, he looked like a well dressed and prosperous professional man. His dark gray suit with a thin thread of pale green in it, his silver-gray necktie, the gloves he carried in his left hand, every detail of his appearance marked him, first as a “snappy dresser,” and second as a highly efficient man.
While they exchanged casual greetings, Braceway lit a cigarette and spun the match, with a droning sound, far out from the porch. He did this, as he did everything else, with a “flaire,” with that indefinable something which marks every man who has a strong personality. There was in all his bearing a dash, an electric emphasis.
“What do you think, Mr. Bristow?” He got down to business at once. “Did this negro Perry kill Mrs. Withers?”
Braceway blew out a big cloud of smoke and looked intently at his new acquaintance.
“I’ve talked to Greenleaf,” he supplemented. “I suppose he gave me all the facts you’ve collected. But Greenleaf—you know what I mean,” he waved his cigarette hand expressively; “I wouldn’t say he had extraordinary powers of divination. He’s a good fellow, and all that, but—what do you think?”
“On the evidence alone, so far,” Bristow answered with an appreciative, warming smile, “I’d say Perry committed the crime.”
“Oh; yes, sure.” He moved quickly in his chair. “On the evidence, but there are other things, other factors. What do you think?”
“I’m afraid that’s my trouble,” Bristow told him. “I’ve been thinking so much that I’m somewhat muddled. But I believe there may be something more than a negro’s greed back of this thing.”
“Now you’re speaking mouthfuls,” Braceway said, smiling brightly. “Tell me about it.”
Bristow told him—about Withers’ peculiar behaviour; the whole case against Perry; the illusive personage with the chestnut beard and gold tooth; Morley’s suspicious story and actions; and, lastly, Maria Fulton’s highly puzzling narrative of what she had seen and not seen in connection with the murder.
Braceway listened with complete absorption, in a way that showed he was photographing each incident and statement on his brain.
“Now,” he began with almost explosive suddenness, “let’s get this straight. I want to work with you, if you’ll let me.” He paused long enough for Bristow to nod a pleased assent. “And I believe there’s something back of this crime that nobody has yet put his finger on. Mr. Withers believes it. Don’t make any mistake about that. Withers is as anxious to get the real criminal as you and I are.”
“Let me understand,” Bristow said in his turn. “Do you propose that we work on the case with the supposition that Withers is in no way responsible for any part of the tragedy?”
“Absolutely!” snapped out Braceway, thoroughly good natured despite his abruptness. “At least, that’s my plan. I’m certain Withers had nothing to do with it.”
For the first time, something far back in Bristow’s brain stirred uneasily, as if, miles away, somebody had sounded an alarm. Should he trust this man? Would Braceway try to pick up a false scent, try to throw the whole thing out of gear?
Although he, Bristow, had expressed to Greenleaf only last night his confidence in Withers’ innocence, would it be wise to hold to such a belief? The future was too uncertain, too apt to produce entirely unexpected things. At any rate, it would be silly to call himself anything of a criminologist; and yet go ahead with a blind, spoken conviction of the innocence of a man who unquestionably had acted in a way to bring suspicion upon himself.
He would wait and see. He purposed to throw away no card that might later take a trick.
“Very good,” he said. “That suits me if you’re satisfied. You can answer for him, I don’t doubt.”
“Thoroughly so. In the first place, he and I are close personal friends; went to college together; were fraternity mates; had an office together until I quit practising law and went in for this sort of work. Then, too, I’ve turned him inside out this morning. He doesn’t know a thing.
“And, I might as well tell you now, he didn’t hang around Manniston Road night before last after his wife got in. As soon as he saw this Douglas Campbell go home he returned to the Brevord and went to bed.
“No, sirree! Here’s what I work on: either Morley killed her, or the negro killed her, or it was done by the mysterious fellow with the gold tooth. How does that strike you?”
“Correctly; I’m with you,” agreed Bristow, still with the mental reservation that he would deal with Withers as he saw fit.
“One thing more,” added Braceway, and Bristow was surprised to see that he looked a trifle embarrassed; “I want you to handle all the talk that has to be had with Miss Maria Fulton. I’ll be frank with you; I have to be. It’s this way: I was once in love with her; in fact, engaged to marry her. Do you see?”
“Fully.”
He was glad to know at the outset that Braceway was a friend of the family. It might be valuable later.
Braceway threw away his cigarette and sighed with relief.
“I’m glad you understand,” he said. “Now, about Withers: things have begun to happen to him already—this morning. Since this has hit him, he doesn’t know where he’ll get off eventually. I’ll tell you.”
CHAPTER XI
THE $1,000 CHECK.
A few minutes after eight o’clock that morning Mr. Illington, president of the Furmville National Bank, had called at the Brevord to see Mr. Withers, who, still holding his room there, was waiting for the delayed morning train.
Mr. Illington was of the true banker type, fifty years old, immaculately dressed, thin of lip, hard of eye, slow and precise in his enunciation. He had, apparently, estranged himself from any deep, human feeling. The long handling of money had hardened him. His fingers were long and grasping, and his voice was quite as metallic as the clink of gold coins one upon the other.
At Mr. Withers’ invitation he took a chair in Mr. Withers’ room. He rubbed his dry, slender hands together and cleared his throat, after which he spoke his little set speech of condolence.
Mr. Withers, haggard from grief and lack of sleep, waved aside these preliminary remarks.
The banker put his hand into his breast pocket and drew forth a bulky envelope, from which he produced a long, rectangular piece of paper.
“I knew you would prefer to learn of this at first hand from the bank; indeed, from me, its president. Yesterday, Mr. Withers, a promissory note, a sixty-day note, for a thousand dollars fell due in the Furmville National Bank. You might like to see it. Here it is.”
He handed the piece of paper to Withers, who saw that the note had been signed by Maria Fulton and endorsed by Enid Fulton Withers. The husband of the dead woman was too astonished to comment.
“We acted as—as leniently in the matter as we could, perhaps more leniently than was strictly proper in banking circles,” Mr. Illington was pleased to explain. “I myself called up Miss Fulton on the telephone yesterday, but naturally she was so agitated that she seemed unable to give me any information as to what she intended to do regarding the—er—liquidation of this indebtedness.”
“And,” con
cluded Withers, passing the note back to him, “since my wife was the endorser, it’s up to me to make the note good, to pay the bank the thousand dollars.”
Mr. Illington was glad to see how thoroughly the bereaved husband appreciated the situation.
“Quite right, entirely so,” he said. “And will you?”
“Of course.”
“Ahem—When?” inquired the banker, assuming an expression of casual interest.
“I haven’t that much money on deposit in Atlanta, but I can get it. I return to Atlanta this afternoon. I can send the money to you tomorrow. Will that answer?”
“Oh, perfectly, perfectly,” assented Mr. Illington, much reassured. “We are always glad, at the Furmville National, to do the reasonable and accommodating thing. Yes; that will be thoroughly satisfactory.—Ahem! I have a new note here. You might sign it? To keep things regular, in order.”
Withers signed the new note. It was for five days.
Illington got to his feet with stiff dignity.
“Glad to accommodate you, Mr. Withers; very glad. I wish you good morning,” he concluded, going toward the door.
“Good-bye,” replied Withers absently, but looked up suddenly. “By the way, I might like to know something about the disposition of that thousand dollars. Could you tell me anything concerning it?”
Mr. Illington came back to his chair and reseated himself, again producing the bulky envelope.
“I was prepared for just such a request, a perfectly natural request,” he answered Withers question, plainly approving of his own forehandedness.
He took from the envelope and passed to Withers a canceled check.
“This,” he said, “gives you the information you desire. You see, I gathered from the newspaper reports this morning and from the gossip of the street yesterday afternoon that there might be more or less of—er—a mystery in this—ah—distressing situation. Consequently, I brought along this check which, curiously enough, had not been called for by the maker of it.”
Withers, disregarding the banker’s remarks, was studying the check. It had been signed by Enid Fulton Withers, to whom the $1,000 loan had evidently been credited at the Furmville National. It was for $1,000, and it was made payable to Maria Fulton. Maria Fulton had indorsed it, and, below her endorsement, appeared that of Henry Morley, showing that the money had passed directly into the hands of Morley.
“That’s all I wanted to know,” Withers said quietly, giving the check back to Illington. “I’m much obliged.”
This time Illington departed, taking himself off with a feeling of having done his duty with promptitude and according to the best business ethics.
His visit had prevented Withers’ meeting the train, and Fulton had gone directly to Manniston Road.
Braceway, going to the hotel on the banker’s heels, was admitted by Withers, who broke into a storm of futile, highly coloured profanity.
“Brace,” he said, “you’ll get the devil who’s caused all this, won’t you? You know what my life has been! You’ll get him if you have to tear up heaven and earth.”
“Sure! Sure!” Braceway declared. “Keep yourself together. Let me do the worrying. I’ll get him if he’s above the sod.”
* * * *
“So, you see,” Braceway said, in reciting the incident to Bristow, “we’re getting a little warm on the scent. This Morley, this wooer of Maria, seems to have his head within stinging range of the hornets, doesn’t he?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“What do you make of it?” pressed Braceway.
Bristow thought a little while.
“It might be this,” he advanced: “Morley is in trouble with his bank, short in his accounts—probably has been for several months. Two months ago, sixty-one days ago, he confided to Miss Fulton that he stood in great danger of arrest, pointed out that he had made a mistake, asked assistance from her, told her a thousand dollars would arrange things.
“But, instead of paying the thousand into the bank, he went to gambling with it in the hope of trebling or quadrupling it and—lost it. In other words, he’s been afraid to tell his financée how much he really owed the bank and then played the thousand to win enough to enable him to square himself.”
“Once more,” observed the Atlanta man, “you speak in mouthfuls.”
“Again and further—of course, all this is on the theory that Morley is a pusillanimous kind of man; but he would have to be just that to be taking money from a woman, any woman, much less the one to whom he is engaged to be married—again and further, when he had lost the thousand and saw ruin just ahead of him again, he ran down here and asked for more money.
“Perhaps, Mrs. Withers, at her sister’s tearful request, had previously raised more than a thousand for him, had added to that thousand other money obtained from pawning some of her jewelry; and he now insisted that Maria make Mrs. Withers go the limit and pawn all her jewelry.
“By George!” Bristow concluded. “That may explain the quarrel which Miss Rutgers, the trained nurse in Number Seven, heard the two sisters engaged in the day before the murder. Yes; it might. Evidently, Mrs. Withers refused to be bled further. After that, what? What would you say?”
“It’s plain enough,” Braceway answered. “There was Morley, crazed by the fear of arrest and conviction for embezzlement. There was Mrs. Withers, still possessing and holding enough jewelry to get him out of trouble, if he had time to convert the jewels into cash and to get back to his bank with the money.
“What was the result of that situation? Evidently, he never intended to catch that midnight train. He did what he had planned to do, came back to Number Five, confronted Mrs. Withers soon after her escort had left her at the door, demanded the jewels, was refused; and then, in a blind rage or a panic, killed her and stole the jewels.”
“There’s no use blinking the fact,” said Bristow in a quiet, calculating way, trying to keep in his mind all the other peculiar circumstances surrounding this crime. “From the way we’ve put it, the thing reads as plainly as a primer. Now, what are we to do? Even now, we haven’t the proof on him—any real proof.”
“Suppose,” said Braceway, “we let him leave Furmville, let him go back to Washington, with the hope that he does pawn the stuff he’s stolen?”
“And suppose,” Bristow added, “we get a detailed description of all the jewelry Mrs. Withers owned, and wire that description to the police of the principal towns between here and Washington and between here and Atlanta. We’ll make the request, of course, that they watch the pawnshops and nab anybody who shows up with any of the Withers stuff?”
“That’s it! That’s it as sure as you’re born!” Braceway struck the arm of his chair and catapulted himself into a standing position. “That will get him—provided, of course, he’s desperate enough to take the chance of pawning any of it.”
“One other thing,” Bristow supplemented. “You said Withers said something to you this morning about your knowing what his life had been. Just what did he mean?”
Braceway reflected a moment.
“There’s no reason for your not knowing it,” he confided. “Withers had rather a trying life with his wife. It was a baffling sort of a situation. She was in love with him. I haven’t a doubt of that. And he was in love with her.
“She was one of the most fascinating women I ever saw. They used to say in Atlanta that all the women liked her, and that any man who had once shaken hands with her and looked her in the eye was, forever after, her obedient servant.
“But she was never entirely frank with Withers. Naturally, that at first made him regretful, and later it made him jealous. You know his type. I’m not sure that I have the whole story, but that’s the foundation of it, and it led to bitter disagreements and fierce quarrels.
“Some of their acquaintances got on to it, and couldn’t understand why a woman like her
and a good fellow like Withers couldn’t hit it off. Things got worse and worse. I don’t believe Withers minded her being up here with her sister. The temporary separation came, probably, as a great relief to both of them.”
“I see,” Bristow said. “Naturally, when, on top of all that, the money began to fly and the jewels went into pawn, he came to the end of his rope—determined to put a stop to the thing.”
“Probably,” said Braceway, looking at his watch. “But how about our little job—getting the description of the jewelry and having Greenleaf wire it out? I’ll go down to Number Five and get it from Withers and his father-in-law.”
“You don’t mind seeing Miss Fulton?” Bristow asked interestedly.
“Oh, no,” he answered, embarrassment again in his manner. “But I don’t feel like cross-questioning her. You can understand that. You’ll have to take on that end, really.”
Bristow thought: “He’s still in love with her. I was right about her. There’s a lot to her if she can hold a live wire like this.” Aloud he said:
“All right. You get the list. In the meantime, I’ll telephone Greenleaf to tell Morley he can go to Washington tomorrow if he wants to—but not today.”
“Why not today?”
“Because there are some things here you and I had better go over, and I think we’d do well to follow Morley, don’t you? That is, if we want to get the goods on him without fail.”
“Now that I think of it, yes. Perhaps, both of us needn’t go, but one will have to.”
He went down the steps, saying Withers had by this time arrived at No. 5 and would be waiting there with Mr. Fulton. Both the father and the husband would accompany the body of Mrs. Withers to Atlanta on the four o’clock train that afternoon.
Bristow, having caught Greenleaf by telephone at the inquest, gave him their decision about Morley’s departure the next day, and announced that he and Braceway would like him to send out by wire the description of the Withers jewels. To both of these propositions Greenleaf agreed. Bristow returned to his porch.
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