The Classic Mystery Novel

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

  “Perhaps she was waiting—knew demands for money might come at any time—and was afraid to be caught without them.”

  “Exactly. That’s the way I figured it.”

  They were silent again.

  Braceway was the first to speak. He narrated all the facts he had learned from Abrahamson and Roddy, and concluded with the story Withers had told him on the station platform. He held back none of the details. Evidently, his irritation toward Withers had subsided. When Bristow handed him the watch Maria Fulton had found, he said laughingly:

  “It’s a good thing George told me about it, isn’t it? Otherwise, we might have had to devote a lot of time to showing that he had nothing to do with the crime itself.”

  “And yet,” qualified Bristow, “he said nothing to explain why the watch should have been so far back in the grass and to the side of the steps in this direction. According to his story, he must have dropped it on the other side, the down side.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t see how it could have fallen where Miss Fulton found it unless somebody had actually picked it up and thrown it there. He told you he was all the time down on the sidewalk, and, when the other man flung him off, he reeled down-hill, not up.”

  “That’s hair-splitting,” Braceway objected good-humouredly. “Nothing could make me think George responsible for the murder.”

  Bristow repeated then everything Maria Fulton had said that afternoon, and gave a fair, clear idea of her strong suspicion that the murder had actually been done by either Withers or Morley. It had no effect on Braceway.

  “Miss Fulton,” he said, “told you, of course, what she had seen and heard and, in addition, what she had guessed. But I don’t see that it changes anything. I can’t let it make me suspect Withers any more than I can accept as valuable Abrahamson’s quite positive opinion that the man wearing the disguise was Withers. Things don’t fit in. That’s all. They don’t fit into such a theory.”

  “Have you ever thought,” persisted Bristow, “why Withers told Greenleaf and me yesterday morning that he was in the pawnshop when the man with the gold tooth was in there? Why should he say that when Abrahamson contradicts it at once by telling you they were at no time in the shop simultaneously?”

  “Did Withers say to you outright, flat and unmistakably, that he saw the fellow inside the shop?” Braceway’s voice had in it the ring of combativeness.

  Bristow tried to remember the exact words Withers had used. Also, his harping on Withers’ possible guilt struck him as absurd when he considered the strength of the case against Perry.

  “I can’t swear he did,” he admitted at last; “but there’s no doubt about the impression he gave us. Why, Abrahamson himself told you Greenleaf was positive Withers and the other man were there at the same time.”

  “Oh,” Braceway said, obviously a little bored, “That’s one of the things we have to watch for in these cases—wild impressions, the construing of words in a different way by everybody who heard them. It’s a minor detail anyway.”

  “I don’t get you at all,” Bristow said, eyeing him intently.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your conviction that Morley’s the guilty man, your refusal to accept the case against Perry Carpenter, and your impatience in discussing Withers.”

  “Think over Miss Fulton’s story,” Braceway retorted. “If it does anything at all, it strengthens the suspicion that Morley’s the man we want. And Roddy’s story—on its face, it damns Morley! Withers had no motive except, a remote possibility, that of jealousy. Morley’s motive was as old as time; the desperate need of money.”

  “Well, let’s grant that, for the moment. What do you do with the evidence against the negro? He was after money.”

  Braceway laughed.

  “To tell the truth,” he admitted, “I don’t do anything with it. I’ll go further: it seems flawless, and yet—”

  His face settled into serious lines.

  “The report from the laboratory is unanswerable,” Bristow went on. “It’s as good as a statement from an eyewitness.”

  “Yes; it is. Still, in some way, I don’t feel sure—But I’ll say this: if my trip to Washington, our trip, isn’t successful, I’ll quit guessing and theorizing. I’ll agree, without reservation, that Perry’s the man.”

  Bristow hesitated before making his next remark:

  “Of course, I’m not employed by Withers. My only connection with the case is a volunteer one. Yours is entirely different—and I realize that there may be—well—things you know and don’t want me to know. But I can’t help wondering whether Morley is the only consideration that takes you to Washington, whether there mightn’t be something else relating, in a way, to the case—relating to it and yet not necessarily tied to it directly.”

  “What kind of something?” Braceway retorted.

  “Say, for instance, something ugly, something painful to Fulton and Withers—terrific scandal, perhaps.”

  Braceway thought a moment.

  “You’ve a keen mind, Mr. Bristow,” he said finally. “I can’t discuss that phase of it now, but you’re partially right; although I’ll say frankly, if Morley wasn’t going to Washington, I wouldn’t go either.”

  “Thanks; I appreciate your telling me that much. Now, let me ask one more question: why, exactly are you following Morley?”

  “I’ll tell you,” Braceway replied with spirit. “It’s a fair question, and I’ll answer it. I’m going there on a hunch. I can’t persuade myself that Perry’s guilty, and I’ve a hunch that I’m now on the trail of the right man. And, as long as I’m in the business as a professional detective, I don’t propose to disregard one scintilla of evidence, one smallest clue. I’ll run down every tip and any hunch before I’ll quit a case, saying virtually: ‘Well, that man, or this man, seems guilty; go ahead and string him up.’

  “No innocent man’s going to his death as long as I feel there’s a chance of the guilty fellow being around and laughing up his sleeve. That’s the whole thing in a nutshell. That’s why I’m after Morley! That’s why I’m going to Washington.”

  Bristow, responding warmly to the other’s voice and mood, leaned forward and grasped his hand.

  “Good!” he said. “That’s fine—and I’m with you.”

  “It’s the only way to look at this work. Without the proper ideals, it’s a rotten business. But, with the right viewpoint, it’s great, at times far more valuable than the work of lawyers and judges.”

  “I’m glad you said that,” Bristow declared; “very glad, because I’m thinking of going into it myself.”

  “You are?” Braceway appeared surprised; or his emotion might have been sympathy for a man driven to the choice of a new profession in life.

  “Yes. I was talking about it to Greenleaf this afternoon. I realize—I’d be foolish if I didn’t—that this case has given me a lot of publicity. It has put me where I can say I know something about crime and criminals, although, up until this murder, the knowledge has been mostly on paper.”

  “Yes; I know.”

  “But now, since I’m stuck down here for this long convalescence, it’s the best thing I can do; in fact, it’s the only thing. I’ve drifted through life fooling with real estate and writing now and then a little, a very little, poor fiction. Neither occupation would support me in Furmville; and I think I could make good as a sort of consulting detective and criminologist. There’s money in it, isn’t there?”

  “Yes; good money,” Braceway replied without much enthusiasm. “But there are times when it’s heart-breaking work, this thing of running down the guilty, the scum of the earth, the failures, the rotters, and the rats. It isn’t all a Fourth of July celebration with the bands playing and your name in the papers.”

  “Oh, I understand that. Any profession has its drawbacks.”

  �
��But you have the analytical mind. And, as I just said, there’s money in it.”

  The glow had faded from the sky, and, with the darkness, there had come a noticeable chill in the air. Braceway yawned and stretched his arms. In addition to his talks with Abrahamson, Roddy, and Withers, he had also interviewed Perry and Lucy Thomas.

  “By George!” he said explosively. “I’m tired. I don’t know when I’ve been this tired. This has been a real day, something popping every minute since I got here this morning.”

  Bristow did not answer that. He was thinking of the impression he had received from Maria Fulton that she was still in love with Braceway. He had had that idea quite vividly while talking to her. He wondered now whether he had better mention it to Braceway. No, he decided; the time for that would come after the grinding work in Washington. Bristow himself was far from being a sentimental man. If he had been in Braceway’s place, he would have preferred to hear nothing about the girl and her emotions until after the completion of the work.

  “Are you packed up?” Braceway asked. “Ready to go?”

  “Almost.”

  “Well, suppose we drift on down to the Brevord. No; I forgot. You’d rather drive down, wouldn’t you? Walking would bother that leg. I’ll send the machine up for you.”

  “Thanks,” Bristow accepted appreciatively. “That will be best.”

  “All right. I’ll have it up here in an hour or so. You can pick me up, and we’ll run out to Larrimore.”

  He went down Manniston Road, his heels striking hard against the concrete. Under the light at the far corner he flashed into Bristow’s vision, twirling his cane on his thumb; his erect, alert figure giving little evidence of the weariness he had felt a few minutes before.

  The lame man lingered on the porch, considering Braceway’s confident assertion that he did not “propose to disregard one scintilla of evidence, one smallest clue.” But, he reflected, that was exactly what Braceway was doing: not only disregarding one scintilla, but keeping himself blind to a great many clues, the evidence against George Withers and that against the negro.

  “I can’t make out his game,” he concluded. “What’s his idea about scandal, I wonder? The only possible scandal lies in the fact that Mrs. Withers paid blackmail for years. And the only way to make the fact public is to keep on denying that Perry’s guilty. He seems to be trying to dig up scandal instead of hiding it.”

  Suddenly, with his characteristic quickness of thought, he realized that he disliked Braceway, definitely felt an aversion for him. When he was in Braceway’s presence, influenced by his vitality and magnetism and listening to his conversation, he lost sight of his real feeling; but, left to himself, it came to the surface strongly. He wished he had never met the man. He knew he would never get close to him. And yet, he thought, why dislike him?

  “Oh, he isn’t my kind. I don’t know. Yes, I know. He’s just an edition de luxe of the ordinary four-flusher, a lot of biff-bang talk and bluff.” He laughed, perhaps ridiculing himself. “Why waste mental energy on him? I’ve worked this case out. He hasn’t.”

  And public opinion was with him. It conceded that he had the right answer to the puzzle. At that very moment the “star” reporter of The Sentinel was hammering out on his typewriter the following paragraph for publication in the morning:

  “While it is generally recognized that Chief Greenleaf deserves great praise for the promptness with which the guilty man was discovered, the chief himself called attention this evening to the invaluable assistance he had received from Mr. Lawrence Bristow, already a well-known authority on crime. It was Bristow who, in addition to other brilliant work, forged the last and most impressive link in the chain of evidence against Carpenter. He did this by suggesting that the tests be made to determine whether or not the negro’s finger nails showed traces of a white person’s skin.”

  Later on in his story, the reporter wrote:

  “Not a clue has yet been uncovered leading to the location of the stolen jewelry.”

  If Braceway could have read that, he would have said: “Wait until we get to Washington. That’s where we’ll come across the jewels. Give us time.”

  Bristow, having a different opinion, would have refused to divulge it. The last thing he expected, was any such result in Washington.

  CHAPTER XIX

  AT THE ANDERSON NATIONAL BANK

  When the train pulled into Washington at eleven o’clock, Henry Morley, the first passenger to alight, shook off the red-cap porters who grabbed at his grips, and hurried toward the gates. Braceway, well hidden by shadows just inside the big side-door of one of the baggage coaches, observed how pale and haggard he looked under the strong glare of the arc-lights.

  “Hardly more than a kid!” thought the detective, with involuntary sympathy. “Why is it that most of the criminals are merely children? If they were all hardened and abandoned old thugs this work would be easier.”

  Nevertheless, he kept his eyes on Morley and, a moment later, moved a step forward. This made him visible to a well-dressed, sleek-looking man who up to that time had been standing on the dark side of the great steel pillar directly across the platform from the baggage car. Braceway, with a quick gesture, indicated the identity of Morley, and the sleek-looking man, suddenly coming to life, fell into the stream of street-bound passengers.

  Braceway went back to the Pullman and rejoined Bristow, who was waiting for him in the stateroom.

  In the taxicab on their way to the Willard Hotel, the lame man lay back against the cushion, apparently tired out and making no pretense of interest in anything. Braceway muttered something inaudible.

  “What’s that?” Bristow asked, opening his eyes.

  “I’d been thinking what a pity it is that most criminals are youngsters. When you nab them, you feel as if they hadn’t a fair show; it hardly seems a sporting proposition. After that, I soothed myself by considering the satisfaction one feels in landing the old birds, the ones who know better.”

  “I can appreciate that,” the other agreed. “That may be one reason why I’m glad I’ve fastened the thing on an ignorant negro rather than on a fellow like Morley.”

  “You’ve too much confidence in circumstantial evidence, Bristow. I remember what an old lawyer once told me: ’Circumstantial evidence is like a woman, too tricky—and tells a different story every day.’”

  At the Willard, finding that adjoining rooms were not to be had, they were put on different floors. Going toward the elevators, Braceway said:

  “Unless something unexpected turns up, let’s have breakfast at eight.”

  “And then, what?”

  “Go to the Anderson National Bank. A man named Beale, Joseph Beale, is its president. We’ll have to persuade him to have the records examined, to see how Morley stands. If he’s wrong, short, the rest will be easy.”

  “Very good. Did your man pick him up at the train?”

  “Oh, yes. Platt’s always on the job. He and his partner, Delaney, generally deliver.”

  “Who are they?” Bristow asked, interested. “How do they happen to be working for you?”

  “They belong to a private bureau here, Golson’s. Golson and I have worked together before.”

  In the elevator Bristow was thinking that the matter of becoming a professional detective was not as simple as it had appeared to him. The work required colleagues, assistants, “shadowers,” and reciprocal arrangements with bureaus in other cities. It was like any other profitable business, complicated, demanding constant attention.

  When they met at breakfast, Braceway had already received Platt’s report.

  “Nothing developed last night,” he told Bristow. “Platt followed Morley, who went straight to his home. He and his mother live in a little house far out on R Street northwest. Morley took the street car and was home by a little after half-past eleven. The lights were all out by a qu
arter past twelve. This morning at six-thirty, when Delaney relieved Platt, our man hadn’t left the house.”

  “What’s your guess about today?”

  “Either he’ll go to the bank on time this morning, to throw off suspicion,” said Braceway, “or, if he mailed the jewelry to himself here the night of the murder, he’ll try to pawn them in Baltimore or at a pawnshop in Virginia, just across the river. There are no pawnshops in Washington. There’s a law that interferes.”

  “Delaney won’t lose him?”

  “Not a chance.”

  During the meal he saw that Bristow was completely worn out. As a matter of fact, he looked actually sick.

  “See here,” Braceway said as they were ready to leave the table; “you look all in, done out.”

  Bristow did not deny it.

  “I didn’t sleep very well last night. It was close in my room, and this morning the humidity’s oppressive. You know what that does to us of the T. B. tribe.”

  “Suppose you get some more rest. It’s going to be a sweltering day.”

  “Oh, I can stand it. I want to go with you. I’m not going to feel any worse than I do now.”

  But the other was insistent. Bristow at last gave in. He would take the rest if Braceway would report progress to him at noon.

  Returning to his room, the sick man swore savagely.

  “Friday!” he said aloud. “Damn it all anyway!”

  Braceway lingered several minutes on the steps outside the Anderson National Bank. He felt reluctant to go inside and start the machinery that would ruin Morley. It wasn’t absolutely necessary, he argued, with something like weakness; he could, perhaps, find out all he wanted to know without—

  He thought suddenly of the bizarre performances of the thing men call Fate. Because a woman is murdered under mysterious circumstances in a little southern city, evidence is uncovered showing that a panic-stricken boy has been stealing money from a bank hundreds of miles away; a detective is employed by the dead woman’s husband; the detective is thrown again into contact with the victim’s sister and realizes more clearly than ever that he loves her.