He paused, on the verge of tears.
“Buck up!” Braceway prodded him. “You confessed to her, did you?”
“Yes. At the last, somehow, I couldn’t stand the idea of her giving up the last thing she had, but—but she would have done it.”
“Could she have mortgaged her home in Baltimore?”
“Yes. Mr. Taliaferro, A. G. Taliaferro, the lawyer, would have fixed it for her. He’s a friend of the family—used to be of father’s.”
“Now, about the emeralds and diamonds?” Braceway began another attack.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“They belonged to Mrs. Withers.”
Morley shook his head impatiently.
“I don’t know anything about them.”
Bristow took a hand in the questioning, flicking him and provoking him by tone and word. But neither he nor Braceway could get an admission, or any appearance of admission, that he knew anything about the Withers jewelry.
Furthermore, he declared that his presence in the hotel, from the time Delaney had “lost” him until his second appearance at Eidstein’s at four o’clock, could be established by the room clerk, two bellboys, and a maid at the Emerson, and by the lawyer, Taliaferro, with whom he had talked on the telephone while there with his mother.
According to him, he had unwittingly evaded Delaney by the simple act of stepping into the elevator and going to the room where his mother, having reached Baltimore an hour later than he, was waiting to hear how he had fared in his interview with Eidstein.
He had hoped, he said, to cover up the $700 shortage at the bank with the money obtained from the dealer in antiques, but, thinking of the risk of his mother’s being impoverished, he had renounced at the last moment the plan of getting more money through the mortgage or sale of the home.
“Do you happen to know that a man, clumsily disguised and answering to your description, pawned some of the Withers jewelry in Baltimore today?” Braceway asked.
“Did he?” He looked blank.
“Yes. What do you know about it?”
“I’ve already told you: not a thing.”
Braceway, recognizing the futility for the present of prolonging this line of inquiry, paused, looking at him thoughtfully.
“If I pawned them,” Morley added, without raising his eyes, “why wasn’t the money found on me?”
“Don’t get too smart!” Bristow put in so roughly and suddenly that the prisoner started violently. “What we want is facts, not arguments!”
The lame man leaned forward in his chair and made his voice sharp, provocative.
“You’re not as clever as you think you are. You lied when you made your statement about the night Mrs. Withers was murdered. Now, come through with that—the truth about it!”
Morley, utterly bewildered, stared and said nothing.
“What did you do that night? Where were you?”
Bristow left his chair and, going round the table, stood in front of Morley.
“I told you that once. I wasn’t anywhere near Manniston Road.”
“Yes, you were! We’ve got proof of it. You were there!”
“What proof?”
“You’re curious about that, are you? I thought you would be! For one thing, the imprint of your rubber shoe on the porch floor of Number Five—”
“No! No! I wasn’t on the porch. I—” He checked the words, realizing that he had betrayed himself.
“Not on the porch?” Bristow caught him up. “Where, then? Where?” He limped a step nearer to the prisoner. “Out with it now! You were there! You were there!”
He stood over Morley, conquering him by the sheer weight of his personality.
“I wasn’t on the porch.”
“All right—not on the porch. But where?”
Morley looked up at him and, mechanically, pushed his chair back, as if he felt the need of more space. Bristow, in his shirt-sleeves, his right arm held up, continued to crowd against him, threatening him, commanding him to speak.
Braceway was amazed by the intensity of Bristow’s glance, the tautness of his body, the harsh authority in his voice. This man who had been ill a few hours before exhibited now a strength and a vitality that would have been remarkable in anybody. In him, under the circumstances, it was nothing short of marvellous.
Morley could not withstand him.
“I don’t know anything—anything worth while,” he said weakly, trembling from head to foot. “I would have told it at the very—at the very first; only I thought it might keep me in Furmville too long. I wanted to get back here and—”
“Never mind about what you wanted!” Bristow’s hand fell and gripped his shoulder painfully, shook him, brought him back to the main issue. “What did you see? That’s what we want to know, every bit of it, all of it!”
Morley flinched, trying to throw off Bristow’s hand. The lame man stepped back.
“All right,” he said, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Morley, having yielded, told his story hurriedly, with little pauses here and there, struggling for breath.
“I did miss my train, the midnight,” he began. “I really tried to catch it. But, when I found it was gone, I couldn’t sleep. I was worried and frightened. This bank business was on my mind. I wanted to think.” He forced a mirthless smile at that. “I couldn’t think very straight, but I tried to. I couldn’t do anything but see myself in jail, in the penitentiary, because of the bank.
“I wandered around without paying any attention to where I was. I’d left my bags in the station. The first thing I knew, I was on Manniston Road, in front of Number Nine—your house. I felt tired, and I sat down on the bottom step. I had on a raincoat. It—it was pitch-dark there.
“The two electric lights, the street lights, on that block were out—had burnt out, or something. The only light I could see was down at the corner, where Manniston Road goes into Freeman Avenue—and that didn’t give any light where I was.”
“That’s true,” Bristow said sharply, “but, from where you sat, anybody going up or down the steps of Number Five would have been directly between you and the avenue light. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes.”
“All right—go ahead. What did you see?”
Morley hitched back his chair still further. He had begun to perspire, and he kept running his fingers round his neck between flesh and collar.
“It was raining,” he went on, his voice strained and metallic, “a fine drizzle at that time, and this made a circle of light, a kind of bright screen around the avenue light. Things that happened on, or near, the steps of Number Five were silhouetted against that screen of light.
“I’d been there just a little while when I noticed some kind of movement on the steps of Number Five. It was a man coming down the steps. He was very careful about it, and very slow; looked like a man on his tiptoes.”
Bristow maintained his attitude of hanging over him, urging him on, forcing him to talk. Braceway and Major Ross, their faces wearing strained expressions, bent forward in their chairs, catching every syllable that came from the prisoner.
“He went down the steps and turned down Manniston Road, toward the avenue.”
“All right!” Bristow prompted. “What then?”
“That was all there was to that. I just sat there. It looked funny to me, but I didn’t follow him. I wondered what he’d been doing. I never thought about murder or—or anything like that. I swear I didn’t!”
He licked his lips and gulped.
“I sat there, I don’t know how much longer it was—pretty long, I suppose. I didn’t keep my glance always toward Number Five.
“When I did look that way again, I saw another man come down the steps quietly, very cautiously. He turned toward me, but he came only far enough up to cut in between Number Five
and Number Seven. He disappeared that way, between the two houses.”
“Did you see the struggle?” Braceway asked sharply.
Bristow scowled at the interruption.
“What struggle?” Morley retorted, vacant eyes turned toward Braceway.
“You know! The struggle between two men at the foot of the steps of Number Five.”
“I didn’t see a struggle,” said Morley. “There wasn’t any.”
“You might as well tell it straight now as later. Give me the truth about that struggle. Were you in it?”
“No.”
“Now, see here! We know such a struggle occurred. If you were there, as you say you were, you must have seen it. You couldn’t have helped seeing it!”
Morley denied it again, and his denial stood against all of Braceway’s skill. There had been no struggle, no encounter of any two persons. He clung to that without qualification.
Bristow knew how great Braceway’s disappointment was. He was convinced that Braceway, in coming to Washington, had looked forward to securing a confirmation of Withers’ story. Now, instead of corroboration, he got only a flat and unshaken contradiction.
CHAPTER XXIII
ON THE RACK
Braceway waved his hand carelessly, relinquishing the post of questioner. Bristow took command again.
“What did you do after you saw the second man?”
“At first, I sat still. After a while, not very long, it occurred to me that the two women in Number Five might be in danger. I say it occurred to me, but I didn’t really think so.
“I walked down to the bungalow, but I couldn’t hear any noise, couldn’t see any light. Finally, I went up to the head of the steps and listened, but there wasn’t a sound. Then I went back to the hotel—no; I went first to the station, got my grips, and then went to the hotel.”
“Didn’t murder or robbery occur to you when you saw those two men on the steps?”
“Well—no; I can’t say either occurred to me.”
“What did, then?”
“I knew Withers had visited his wife unexpectedly once or twice before, late at night.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I thought he was jealous, suspicious.”
“And you also thought these two men you saw were Withers?”
“They might have been one man, the same man,” Morley advanced the supposition wearily. The tremor of his hands had gone into his arms; they jerked every few moments. “I saw them at different times.
“I couldn’t see that clearly. But—but I think the first one wore a long raincoat, or else he was heavily built. Hearing about the negro the next day, I thought the first figure I’d seen must have been the negro’s. The second didn’t look very different. He might have had a beard; perhaps, he was a little slenderer. Those are the only differences I remember.”
“Did the second wear a raincoat?”
“I thought so.”
“And the first had no beard?”
“He might have, but I don’t think so.”
Bristow paused long enough to let the silence become impressive. Then he broke the stillness with a voice that cracked sharp as a revolver shot.
“Well! What about the struggle at the foot of the steps?”
Morley, startled by the unexpected abruptness, answered shakily.
“I tell you I—I didn’t see any struggle. That man, or those men, tried not to make any noise at all. He thought nobody saw him.”
Braceway took a hand again in the examination, but their combined efforts got nothing further from the tired prisoner.
They tried to shake him with the accusation that he had entered the bungalow Monday night; they told him also they might take him back to Furmville at once, charged with the murder.
“It wouldn’t make any difference to me,” he said, making a weak attempt to laugh. “It wouldn’t matter now. I’m not anxious to live anyhow.”
Without warning, utter collapse struck him. He flung himself half-around on his chair so that his arms rested on its back, cradling his face. His body was contorted by gasping sobs, and his feet tapped the floor with the rapidity of those of a man running at top speed.
They left him with Major Ross. On the way back to the hotel, Bristow asked:
“What about Withers’ story of his struggle—the ‘big, strong man’ who flung him down the walk?”
“There must have been another, a third man who came down the steps,” Braceway answered quietly.
“An assumption,” observed Bristow, “which rather strains my credulity.”
Braceway said nothing.
“I believe,” Bristow spoke up again, “what the fellow said tonight was true—substantially true.”
“Do you?” retorted Braceway, thoroughly non-committal.
“Anyway there remains the problem of who pawned the Withers emeralds and diamonds this afternoon.”
“It may not be a problem,” said Braceway. “It may be that they weren’t the Withers stuff at all.”
“Ah! I hadn’t thought of that.”
They entered the hotel and sat down in the lobby, now almost deserted.
“I think,” Bristow announced, careful to keep any note of triumph out of his voice, “I’ll go back to Furmville in the morning.” He yawned and stretched himself. “I’m about all in, weak as a kitten. What are you planning?”
Braceway’s chin was thrust forward. He looked belligerent, angry.
“I’m going to Baltimore tomorrow. I intend to run down every clue I have or can find. I’m going to take up every statement he made tonight and dissect it—every point. I want all the facts—all of them.”
Bristow turned so as to face him squarely.
“Why don’t you go back with me? Why keep on fighting what I’ve proved? I think I know why you came to Washington. It wasn’t your belief in Morley’s guilt. It was your desire to clear Withers. But you know as well as I do that Withers isn’t guilty. So, why worry?”
Braceway sprang to his feet.
“Morley isn’t out of the woods yet,” he said grimly. “This case isn’t settled yet, by a long shot. I’m going to stick right here.”
He made no reference to Withers.
Bristow went to his room, paid and dismissed Miss Martin, and began to undress. He was more than satisfied with everything that had happened. He had bested Braceway again, this time finally; his reputation as a “consulting detective” was more than safe; and, knowing now why Braceway had pursued Morley, he would return to Furmville in the morning, his mind thoroughly at ease.
CHAPTER XXIV
MISS FULTON WRITES A LETTER
As long as the public’s morbid curiosity clamoured for details of the case, the newspapers provided them lavishly. This curiosity was intensified by two things: first, the search for a murderer after so much almost convincing evidence had been found against the negro, and, second, the duel between Bristow, the amateur, and Braceway, the professional, each bent on making his theory “stand up.” The amateur had achieved far more celebrity than he had expected.
It would have been hard to find two men less alike than he and Braceway. Bristow was capable now and then of manifesting the strength and impressive authority he had exhibited in his questioning of Morley. Braceway, on the other hand, was always keyed up, dashing, imperious. And he had a kindness of heart, a very live tenderness, such as the lame man never displayed.
Braceway was of the tribe of dreamers.
He had learned that no man may hope to be a great detective unless he has imagination, unless he can throw into the dark places which always surround a mysterious crime the luminous and golden glow of fancy. He had found also that, if a man’s vocabulary is without a “perhaps” or a “but why couldn’t it be the other way?” he will never be able to judge human nature or to conside
r fairly every side of any question.
He discussed these views at breakfast with Bristow, who was interested only in his own decision of the night before to return at once to Furmville.
“My health demands it,” he said; “and I can’t convince myself that either you or I can dig up anything here to affect the final outcome of the case.”
“You’re right about the health part of it; I’m not sure about the other,” said Braceway.
“What are you after, though?” Bristow pressed him.
“Facts. That bearded man with the gold tooth, the fellow who always started from nowhere and invariably vanished into thin air—I don’t propose to assume that he had nothing to do with the murder of Enid Withers. I don’t intend to be recorded as not having combed the country for him if necessary.
“That disguised man is no myth. And Morley knows all about beard ‘make-up.’ His note to me in Furmville proved that. The negro boy, Roddy, swears Morley and the mysterious stranger are the same.
“There isn’t a crook living who can put it over on me this way with a cheap disguise. And this case isn’t cleared up until, in some way, I find out who he is or get my hands on him.” His voice was vibrant with the intensity of his feeling. “I’m going to find him! I intend to answer, to my own satisfaction, two questions.”
“What are they?”
“The first is: was the bearded man Morley? The second: if Morley wasn’t the bearded man, who was?”
“But, if you do find this hirsute individual, what then? What becomes of the unassailable evidence against the negro?”
“That will come later. Today I’m going to Baltimore. I’ve a report already, this morning, from Platt. He went over there last night. Morley, I find, deceived us again last night. He said nothing of leaving the hotel to call on the lawyer, Taliaferro.
“As a matter of fact, he did visit Taliaferro.
“He called the lawyer on the telephone at twenty minutes past two and said he would go at once to his office. If he had done so, he would have arrived there at twenty-four minutes past two. He reached there, in fact, at two-fifty, ten minutes of three. A half-hour of his time isn’t accounted for. He left the hotel at two-twenty-one. Where did he spend that last half-hour? It’s an interesting point.”
The Classic Mystery Novel Page 89