The Classic Mystery Novel

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

“Did you see anybody else that night—Monday night?”

  “Naw, suh.”

  “Do you remember anything else about how the bearded man looked?”

  “Naw, suh, ’cep’ he look’ jes’ like dis Mistuh Morley; dat’s all I know, boss.”

  Braceway got to his feet.

  “All right, Roddy,” he said heartily; “you’re a good boy. Here’s your dollar.”

  Roddy rolled his white eyeballs toward the ceiling and bent his black face floorward.

  “Gawd bless you, boss! You is one good—”

  “And here’s another dollar, if you can keep your mouth shut about this until I tell you to open it. Can you do that?”

  Roddy conveyed the assurance of his ability to remain dumb until a considerable time after the sounding of Gabriel’s trump.

  “See that you do. If you don’t, I might have to arrest you after all.”

  When the negro had gone, Braceway stood at the window and, with glance turned toward the street, saw nothing of what was passing there. He was reviewing the facts—or possible facts—that had just come to him. Restlessness took hold of him. He fell to pacing the length of the room with long, quick strides. It seemed that, in the labour of forcing his brain to its highest activity, he called on every fibre and muscle of his physique. His cheeks were flushed; his eyes, hard and brilliant, snapped.

  He was thinking—thinking, going over every particle of the evidence he had drawn from Roddy, trying to estimate its value when compared with everything else he had learned about the case. His stride grew more rapid; his breathing was faster.

  The murder, the men and women connected with it, the stories they had told, all these flashed on the screen of his mind and hung there until he had judged them to their smallest detail.

  What could Abrahamson have meant by indicating a belief that the man with the gold tooth looked like George Withers?

  Was the boy Roddy wide enough awake that night to have formed any real opinion as to the resemblance of the bearded man and Henry Morley?

  The trip to the post-office—did that explain the disappearance of the stolen jewelry? Had Morley mailed it at once to himself, or somebody else, in Washington?

  Withers had returned to the Brevord early Monday night. That must have been before half-past twelve. Although the night clerk and the bellboy had been asleep at the time and had not seen him, there was no room for doubt of his return as he had described it.

  And why should Morley, wearing the disguise, have waked up Roddy and assured himself, by the look flung over his shoulder, that the negro saw him on the stairs?

  Or had that been Morley, after all? What reason, what motive—

  Suddenly, with the abruptness of a horse thrown back on his haunches, he stood stock still in the middle of the room, his brilliant eyes staring at the wall, his breathing faster than ever, as he considered the idea that had flashed upon him. The idea grew into a theory. It had never occurred to him before, and yet it was right. It must be. He had it! For the first time, he felt sure of himself, was convinced that he held a safe grasp on the case.

  He strode to the window and struck the sill with his fist. The tenseness went out of his body. He breathed a long sigh of relief. He had seen through the mist of puzzling facts and contradictory clues. The rest would be comparatively plain sailing.

  Some of Braceway’s friends were in the habit of laughing at him because, when he was sure of having solved a criminal puzzle, he always could be seen carrying a cane. The appearance of the cane invariably foretold the arrest of a guilty man.

  He went now to the corner near the bureau and picked up the light walking-stick he had brought to Furmville strapped to his suitcase. He lingered, twirling the cane in his right hand. His thoughts went to the interview he and Bristow had had that morning with Fulton, whose white hair and deep-lined face were very clear before him. He recalled the old man’s words:

  “She wept bitterly. I can hear her weeping now. She had a dash, a spirit, a joyous soul. This man none of you has been able to find has been in Enid’s life for a good many years.”

  Braceway’s eyes softened.

  Well, there was no need to worry now. Things were coming his way. The old man would have his revenge. He put on his hat, deciding to go down for a late lunch. When he looked at his watch, he whistled. He had promised to be at the railroad station to see the funeral party off for Atlanta on the four o’clock train; and it was now half-past three. He hurried out.

  For the first time in his life, he had been guilty of taking a course which might lead to serious results, or to no results at all. He had permitted personal considerations to make “blind spots” in his brain.

  Because of a warm friendship for George Withers, he had rushed to conclusions which took no account of the dead woman’s husband. He had forgotten that the faces of Morley and Withers were shaped on similar lines. If any other detective had done that, Braceway would have been the first to censure him.

  As he had expected, he found Withers and Mr. Fulton far ahead of train time. They had been passed through the gates and were standing on the platform. Braceway noticed that, of the two, the father was standing the ordeal with greater fortitude and calmness. Withers was nervous, fidgety, and seemed to find it impossible to stand in any one place. He drew Braceway to one side.

  “I’ve got something to tell you, Brace,” he said in a low tone, his voice tremulous. “I didn’t want to tell you for—for her sake. I thought it might cause useless talk, scandal. But you’re working your head off for me, and you’ve a right to know about it.”

  “Don’t worry, George,” Braceway reassured him. “Things are coming out all right. Don’t talk if you don’t feel like it.”

  He said this because he was suddenly aware of the quality of suffering he saw in the man’s eyes. It was so evident, so striking, that he felt surprised. Perhaps, he thought, he might have exaggerated things when he had told Bristow that Enid had subjected her husband to incessant disappointments and regrets. Withers now was mourning; in fact, he appeared overwhelmed, crushed.

  “It’s this,” Withers hurried on: “I was up there that night in front of the house until—until after one o’clock. You know I told you I was on the porch just across the road and went back to the hotel as soon as Campbell had turned his machine and gone home. That wasn’t quite correct. I waited, because Enid didn’t turn out the lights in the living room. It struck me as strange.

  “I waited, and I fell asleep. That seems funny—a husband infuriated with his wife and trying to find out what she is doing to deceive him goes to sleep while he’s watching! But that’s exactly what I did.

  “When I awoke, the lights were still on in the living room. I looked at my watch, and, although I couldn’t see very well, I made out it was after one. I suppose I’d been asleep for half an hour at least. You see, I had had a hard night on the sleeper and a terrific day, and—”

  “Sure. I understand that,” Braceway consoled him. “Did you see anything, George?”

  “Yes; I saw something all right,” he struggled with the words. “As I looked up, a figure was silhouetted against the yellow window shade. It was a man’s figure. It was after one in the morning, and a man was there with—”

  His voice failed him altogether. Braceway, a perplexed look in his eyes, studied him uneasily.

  “The silhouette was quite plain. There was the clear-cut shadow of him from the waist up. It was so plain that I could see he was wearing a cap. I could see the visor of it, you know; a long visor. He was a well-built man, good shoulders, and so on.

  “As I got to my feet, the lights were turned off. I went across the street. I don’t think I ran. It was raining. I was going to kill him. That was all I was thinking about. I was going to kill him, and I wanted to catch him unawares. I wasn’t armed, and I was going to choke him to death.”

  The tra
in gates were opened, and passengers began to stream past them toward the train. Withers lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. Braceway noticed the unpleasant sound of it.

  “He did what I expected; came down the steps without a sound. I didn’t even hear him close the door. I can’t say I saw him. It was pitch dark, and I sensed where he was. I was conscious of all his movements. When he reached the bottom step, I closed with him. I couldn’t trust to hitting at him. It was too dark.

  “I put out my hands to get his throat, but I misjudged things. I caught him by the waist. He had on a raincoat. I could tell it by the feel of the cloth. And I couldn’t get a good hold of him. While I struggled with him, he got me by the throat. He was a powerful man, a dozen times stronger than I am.

  “We swayed around there for a few minutes, a few seconds—I don’t know which. We didn’t make any noise. I couldn’t do a thing. He choked me until I thought my head would burst open.

  “When he realized I was all in, he gave me a shove that made me reel down the walk a dozen steps. He didn’t stop to see what I did. He ran. That is, I suppose he ran. I didn’t hear him, and I didn’t see him again. He disappeared—completely.”

  Braceway looked at his watch. It was five minutes before train time.

  “What did you do then?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Where did you go, then? What did you think? Speed up, George! I want to get all this before you go.”

  “Yes,” said Withers, a little catch in his throat; “I thought you ought to know about it. I—I stood there a moment, there in the rain, dazed, trying to get my breath. I’d intended going in to have it out with Enid. But I didn’t. I suppose I knew, if I did, I’d kill her. And I guess now I would have.

  “You see, I hadn’t the faintest notion that anything had happened to her; had hurt her, I mean. I got myself in hand. I didn’t do anything. I went back to the hotel. I planned to have a last talk with her later in the day.”

  “Tell me,” Braceway asked with undisguised eagerness, “did this man wear a beard?”

  “I think so. I’ve been thinking about that all day. I think he did, but I’m not sure.”

  “But you saw the plain silhouette, the outline of his head and body!”

  “Yes. He might have had a beard, and again he might not. He was heavily built, with a short, thick neck, and, in the attitude he was in, foreshortened by the light being above him, a strong chin might have been magnified, might have cast a shadow like that of a beard.”

  “And when you were struggling with him? How about that? Didn’t you get close to his face?”

  “Yes; but he was taller than I was—I don’t know—I can’t remember. But I think he had the beard, all right.”

  “He didn’t make any noise on the steps, you say. Did he have rubber shoes?”

  “I don’t know. My guess would be that he did.”

  The conductor began to shout, “All aboard!”

  They started toward the Atlanta pullman.

  “I wouldn’t have told you—I can’t see that any of this could affect the final result—but for the fact that something might have come up to embarrass you,” Withers explained, still with the unpleasant, rattling whisper. “It might have led you to think I hadn’t been frank with you.”

  He had his foot on the first step of the car. The porter was evidently anxious to get aboard and close the vestibule door.

  “What do you mean?” Braceway caught him by the sleeve.

  “Somehow,” Withers leaned down to whisper, “in the struggle, I think, I dropped—I lost my watch. Somebody must have picked it up, you know.”

  “Damn!” exploded Braceway angrily. “Why didn’t—”

  The train began to move. The porter put his hand to Withers’ elbow and hurried him up the steps.

  CHAPTER XVI

  A MESSAGE FROM MISS FULTON

  It was a little after three o’clock when Chief Greenleaf and Lawrence Bristow finished their “celebration dinner” and took their seats on the porch of No. 9. The host, accomplishing the impossible in a prohibition state, had produced a bottle of champagne, explaining: “Just for you, chief; I never touch it;” and the chief had enjoyed it, unmistakably.

  At Bristow’s suggestion they refrained from discussing any phase of the murder during the meal.

  “All we have to do now,” he said, “is to see that the knot in Perry’s rope is artistically tied—and that’s not appetizing.”

  “I’ve got something new,” Greenleaf contributed; “but you’re right. We’ll wait until after dinner.”

  They were greatly pleased with what they had accomplished; and each one, without giving it voice, knew the other’s pleasure was increased by the thought that they had got the better of Braceway.

  They saw from the porch that an automobile was standing in front of No. 5. As they settled back in their chairs, Fulton and George Withers left the bungalow and got into the machine.

  “They’re going to take the body to Atlanta on the four o’clock,” said Greenleaf.

  For a moment they watched the receding automobile. Then Bristow inquired, “What’s the new thing you’ve dug up?”

  “The report from the Charlotte laboratories.”

  “Oh, you got that—by wire?”

  The lame man seemed indifferent about it.

  “Yes; by wire,” Greenleaf paused, as if he enjoyed whetting the other’s curiosity.

  Bristow made no comment. He gave the impression of being confident that the report could contain nothing of value.

  “You ain’t very anxious to know what it is,” the chief complained. “I nearly had a fit until it came.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter much, one way or the other,” Bristow said, conscious of Greenleaf’s petulance. “The thing’s settled anyway.”

  “That may be true; but it don’t do any harm to get everything we can. The laboratory reported what you thought they’d report. Nothing under Miss Fulton’s nails; particles of a white person’s skin, epidermis, under Perry’s.”

  Bristow laughed pleasantly, his eyes suddenly more alight.

  “I beg your pardon, chief; I was having a little fun with you—by pretending indifference. But it’s great—better than I’d really dared expect. It’s the only direct, first-hand evidence we can offer showing that the negro, beyond any dispute, did attack her.”

  He laughed again. “Let’s see the wire.”

  “I guess it settles the whole business,” Greenleaf exulted, passing him the telegram.

  He read it and handed it back.

  “After that,” he commented, “I’m almost tempted to throw away what I had to show you; its importance dwindles.”

  “What is it?”

  “A confession by Lucy Thomas that Perry went to Number Five the night, rather the morning, of the murder.”

  “You got that—from her!” exclaimed Greenleaf.

  “Yes—signed.”

  “Mr. Bristow, you’re a wonder! By cripes, you are! My men couldn’t get anything out of her. Neither could I.”

  “Here it is. I wrote out her story and read it back to her, and she signed it.”

  Greenleaf took the paper and read it:

  “I know Perry Carpenter went to Mrs. Withers’ house Monday night. He and I had been drinking together, and I was nearly drunk, but he was only about half-drunk. He told me he knew where he could get a lot of money, or ’something just as good as money,’ because he had seen ’that white woman’ with it. He and I had a fight because he wanted me to give him the key to Mrs. Withers’ house, to her kitchen door.

  “He broke the ribbon on which I used to hang the key around my neck, and he went out. That was pretty late in the night. Before daylight, he came back and flung the key on the floor, and he cursed me and hit me. I had two keys on the ribbon, one to Number Five, Mannist
on Road, and one to the house where I worked before I went to Mrs. Withers. He had taken the wrong one. When he hit me, he said: ’You think you’re damn smart, giving me the wrong key; but that didn’t stop me.’ He seemed to be drunker then than he was when he went out earlier in the night.

  (Signed) “Lucy Thomas.”

  The chief whistled. “How in thunder did you get this out of the woman?”

  “Sent for her and had a talk with her. She told so many stories and contradicted herself so much that, at last, she broke down and let me have the real facts.”

  “Will she stick to what she says in this paper?”

  “Oh, yes. There won’t be any trouble about that.”

  Greenleaf offered him the signed confession.

  “No; keep it,” he said. “It’s your property, not mine.”

  The chief folded it and put it carefully into his breast pocket.

  “I wonder,” he speculated, “what Mr. Braceway will say to this.”

  “He’ll realize that the case is settled. But I don’t think he’ll quit work.”

  “Why won’t he, if he sees we’ve got the guilty man?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. I believe—this is between you and me—I believe he’s working more for George Withers now than he is for the state. You see, as I’ve already told you, there may be some family scandal in this, something the husband wants to keep quiet. Braceway will be satisfied as soon as we show him that the only thing we want is to present the evidence against the negro; that we take no interest in private scandals. But there’s one thing, however, chief, I wish you’d do: let Morley go to Washington on the midnight train tonight instead of making him wait until tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “If Braceway won’t let matters drop as they are now, he’ll insist on following Morley to Washington. If he does, I’m going, too; and we might as well get it over.”

  “You’re not afraid our case won’t hold water, are you?”

  “No. The case stands on its own feet. There’s no power on earth that could break it down.”

  “Well, then, why—”

  “I’ll tell you why, chief. I’ve been set down here with this tuberculosis. You know what that means, at least, several years of convalescence. Why shouldn’t I make use of those years, develop a business in which I can engage while I’m here? This murder case has opened the door for me, and I’m going to take advantage of it. Lawrence Bristow, consulting detective and criminologist. How does that strike you?”