The Classic Mystery Novel

by Dorothy Cameron Disney

  He would wait until morning and go to the public library where he could look up the references with no questions asked. He was annoyed by the necessity of delay, angry with Braceway. He studied the numbers again, and allowed himself the rare luxury of an outburst of vari-coloured profanity.

  The idea uppermost in his mind was that the telegram had to do with Withers—or could it be something about Morley?

  In his bed on the sleeping porch, he looked out at the black plumes of the trees. The silence seemed now neither sinister nor oppressive. All that was sinister was in the past; had ended the night of the murder; and Carpenter would go to the chair for it—sure.

  And yet, if he were Withers, he would not come back to Manniston Road. Nobody could foresee what Braceway might imagine and exaggerate, even if it indicted and condemned his closest friend.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  WANTED: VENGEANCE

  But the next morning was the crowded beginning of the biggest day in Bristow’s life, and the trip to the library was delayed. The hired automobile was waiting in front of No. 9 when a second telegram came, a bulky dispatch, scrawled with a pen across several pages. Dated from New Orleans, it read:

  “Reward of five thousand dollars for discovery of my seven-year-old son within next six days. Kidnapped last Friday night. No clue so far. Am most anxious for your help. Will pay you two thousand dollars and expenses and in addition to that will pay you the reward money if you are successful. Will pay the two thousand whether you succeed or not. City and state authorities will give you all the help needed. Come at once if possible. Wire answer.

  (Signed) “Emile Loutois.”

  It was characteristic of Bristow that he was not particularly surprised or elated by the request for his services. It was the kind of thing he had foreseen as a result of the advertising he had received.

  He made his decision at once. For the past two days the Loutois kidnapping had commanded big space in the newspapers, and he was familiar with the story. Emile Loutois, Jr., young son of the wealthiest sugar planter in Louisiana, had been spirited away from the pavement in front of his home. It had been done at twilight with striking boldness, and no dependable trace of the kidnappers had been found.

  The delivery boy was waiting on the porch. Bristow typewrote his reply on a sheet of note paper:

  “Terms accepted. Starting for New Orleans at once.”

  On his way to the door, he stopped and reflected. He went back to the typewriter and sat down. He had not yet found out the real meaning of the Braceway message; and he did not propose to leave Furmville until he was assured that nothing could be done to blur the brightness of his work on the Withers case.

  He realized, and at the same time resented, the tribute he paid Braceway through his hesitancy. The man was a clever detective and, if left to dominate Greenleaf unopposed, might easily focus attention on a new theory of the crime. Not that this could result in the acquittal of the negro; but it might deprive him, Bristow, of the credit he was now given.

  Wouldn’t it be well for him to stay in Furmville another twenty-four hours? There was Fulton; he wanted to learn how fully he approved of Braceway’s refusal to accept the case against Perry Carpenter. Moreover, it seemed essential now that he discover the whereabouts of Withers. And twenty-four hours could hardly change anything in the kidnapping case.

  He tore up what he had written, and rattled off:

  “Held here twenty-four hours longer by Withers case. Start to New Orleans tomorrow morning. Terms accepted.”

  As he handed it to the boy, he saw Mr. Fulton coming up the steps. He greeted the old gentleman with easy, smiling cordiality and pushed forward a chair for him, giving no sign of impatience at being delayed in his trip to the library.

  The simple dignity and strength of Fulton’s bearing was even more impressive than it had been during their first talk. The lines were still deep in his face, but his eyes glowed splendidly, and this time, when he rested his hands on the chair-arms, they were steady.

  “I’ve come to beg news,” he announced, his apologetic smile very winning.

  “Just what news?” returned Bristow. “I’ll be glad to give you anything I can.”

  “The real results of your trip; that’s what I’d like to know about. I got no letter or telegram from Sam Braceway this morning; no report at all.”

  Bristow told him the story in generous detail, concluding with his conviction that Morley, although a thorough scoundrel, was innocent of any hand in the murder.

  “I wish I could agree with you,” said the old man. “I wish we all could satisfy our minds and take the evidence against the negro as final. But we can’t. At least, I can’t. I can’t believe anything but that the disguised man, the one with the beard, is the one we’ve got to find.”

  “You still think that man is Morley?”

  “I do—which reminds me. I came up here to tell you something I got from Maria, my daughter. She told me she had talked with you quite frankly. Well, she recalls that once she and this Morley were discussing the wearing of beards and moustaches; and he made this remark: ‘One thing about a beard, it’s the best disguise possible.’”

  “That is interesting, Mr. Fulton. Anything else?”

  “Yes. He had a good deal to say to that general effect. He said even a moustache, cleverly worn, changed a man’s whole expression. That struck me at once, remembering that the jewels were pawned in Baltimore by a man who wore a moustache. Then, too, Morley said something about the value of eyebrows in a disguise, substituting bushy ones for thin ones, or vice versa. He had the whole business at his tongue’s end.”

  “He said all that, in what connection—crime?”

  “She can’t recall that. She merely remembers he said it. I thought you’d like to know of it.”

  “Of course. We can’t have too many facts. By the way, sir, can you tell me where Mr. Withers is?”

  “In Atlanta.”

  Seeing that he knew nothing of his son-in-law’s disappearance, Bristow dropped the subject, and asked:

  “What is Miss Fulton’s belief now? She still thinks Morley is the man?”

  The old man hitched his chair closer to Bristow’s and lowered his voice.

  “She says a curious thing, Mr. Bristow. She declares that, if Morley isn’t guilty, George Withers is.”

  “And you?”

  “Oh, the talk about George is absurd.”

  “But,” urged Bristow, his smile persuasive, “for the sake of argument, if circumstances pointed to him as—”

  “I’d spend every dollar I have, use the last atom of my strength, to send him to the chair! No suffering, no torture, would be too much for him—if that’s what you mean to ask me. If I even suspected him, I’d subject him to an inquiry more relentless, more searching, more merciless than I’d use with anybody else!”

  His nostrils expanded curiously. His eyes flamed.

  “Mr. Bristow,” he continued, menace in his low tone, “no punishment ever devised by man could be sufficient to pay for, to atone for, the horror, the enormity, of the destruction of such a woman as my daughter was. Mercy? I’d show him no mercy if he lived a thousand years!”

  “I understand your feeling,” Bristow said. “You’re perfectly right, of course. And what I was leading up to is this: although we know that the idea of Withers’ guilt is absurd, he’s being made to suffer. You’ve seen intimations, almost direct statements, in the newspapers. People are talking disagreeably.

  “They’re saying that Braceway, employed by you and Withers, is persecuting this bank thief in the hope of building up the murder charge, so that, if the case against Carpenter falls down, Morley will be the logical man to be put on trial. You see?”

  “No,” Fulton said; “I don’t. What do you mean?”

  “That you, Withers, and Braceway are afraid Withers may be accused of th
e murder.”

  “Ah! They’re saying that, are they? And you were going to say—what?”

  “Simply this: the negro’s the guilty man. The facts speak for themselves, and facts are incontrovertible. As surely as the sun shines, Carpenter killed your daughter. Why, then, continue this gossip, slander which besmirches Withers and is bound to attack your daughter’s name?”

  “What do you mean? Be a little more specific, please.”

  “I mean: what do you and Withers gain by letting Braceway keep this thing before the public?”

  Fulton leaned far forward in his chair, his lower lip thrust out, his eyes blazing.

  “No, sir!” he exploded. “I’ll never call Braceway off! They’re gossiping, are they? They can gossip until they’re blue in the face. What do I care for public opinion, for gossip, for their leers and whispers? Nothing—not a snap of the finger! To hell with what they say! What I want is vengeance. I’ll have it! Call Braceway off? Not while there’s breath in me!”

  He paused and bit on his lip.

  “Understand me, Mr. Bristow,” he continued, his tone more moderate. “I meant no criticism of you; I know how faithfully you’ve worked. I realize even that you have proved your case. But I can’t accept it, that’s all. You’ll forgive an old man’s temper.”

  Bristow carried the argument no further. He saw that Fulton, and Withers too, would follow Braceway’s lead. Consequently, he was confronted with the necessity of keeping up the idiotic duel with the Atlanta detective.

  Moreover, he sensed the viewpoint of the dead woman’s family. They were averse to believing she had been the victim of an ordinary negro burglar. Remembering her beauty and charm, her cleverness and lovable qualities, they preferred to think that some one under great emotion, or with a terrific gift for crime, had cut short her brilliant existence.

  People, he meditated, find foolish and bizarre means of comforting themselves when overwhelmed by great tragedy. Very well, then; let it go at that. After all, it was not his funeral.

  Accompanying Fulton to the sidewalk, he climbed into the automobile and, in a few minutes, was in the library asking for the first volume of the last edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. His limp proclaimed his identity, and the young woman at the desk, recognizing him, got the book for him with surprising promptness.

  His habits of thought were such that he had not wasted energy during the morning in idle speculation as to what he would find. In fact, he attached but little importance to Braceway’s message. He had dismissed it the night before as a queer dodge on the other’s part to bolster up his view of the case.

  He went to a desk in a remote part of the reading room. Under any circumstances, he would not have cared for the intense and interested scrutiny with which the girl at the desk favoured him. The attitude he took gave her ample opportunity for a study of the back of his head.

  Opening the volume, he turned to the first reference, page 506, column 2, line 15 to line 17. At the first word he drew a quick breath; it was sharp enough to sound like a low whistle. He read:

  “ALBINO, a biological term (Lat. albus, white), in the usual acceptation, for a pigmentless individual of a normally pigmented race.”

  Putting his finger on the top of the second column, page 507, he counted down to line 17, and read:

  “Albinism occurs in all races of mankind, among mountainous as well as lowland dwellers. And, with man, as with other animals, it may be complete or partial. Instances of the latter condition are very common among the negroes of the United States and of South America, and in them assumes a piebald character, irregular white patches being scattered over the general black surface of the body.”

  Before he began to think, he read the passages carefully a second time. Then he continued to hold the book open, staring at it as if he still read.

  The importance of the words struck him immediately. He grasped their meaning as quickly and as fully as he would have done if Braceway had stood beside him and explained. The skin of a white person and that of an albino show up the same under a microscope: white. If a man had under his finger nails particles of white skin, he could have collected them there by scratching an albino as well as by scratching a Caucasian, a white woman.

  And Lucy Thomas was an albino. He was certain of that; did not question it for a moment. Braceway had assured himself of that before sending the telegram.

  Perry Carpenter had had a fight or a tussle with her in securing the key to No. 5 the night of the murder, and in the scoffling he had scratched her. That, at least, would be Perry’s story and Lucy’s. Braceway had been certain of that also before wiring to him.

  As a matter of fact, Braceway had known all this before they had started for Washington and had kept it back, playing with him, laughing up his sleeve. The thought nettled him, finally made him thoroughly angry. He compelled himself to weigh the new situation carefully.

  Well, what of it, even if Lucy were an albino and Perry had scratched her? Did that affect materially the case against Perry? There was still evidence to prove that he had been to the Withers’ bungalow. He had confessed it himself. And the lavalliere incidents and the blouse buttons substantiated it still further.

  The albino argument was by no means final, could not be made definite. The fact remained that there had been scratches on the murdered woman’s hand and that particles of a white person’s skin had been found under Perry’s finger nails. That was not to be denied. Of course, the negro’s attorney could argue that these particles had come from Lucy Thomas, not from Mrs. Withers.

  But it would be only an argument. The jury would pass judgment on it—and he was willing to leave it to the jury.

  He closed the book, took it back to the desk and thanked the young woman. There was nothing in his appearance to indicate disappointment. In fact, he felt none. By the time he reached home he had gone over the whole thing once more and dismissed it as of no real consequence. Braceway’s discovery, or his making the discovery known, had come too late.

  If it had been brought out ahead of Perry’s confession—yes; it would have made quite a difference then.

  “Let the heathen rage!” he thought, remembering the bitter stubbornness with which Braceway and Fulton denied the negro’s guilt.

  Braceway’s withholding the albino information, playing him for a fool, recurred to him, and the accustomed flush on his cheeks grew deeper. He would not forget that; he would pay it back—with interest.

  He turned to the Loutois case. Going to his typewriter, he made a list of New Orleans, Atlanta, and New York newspapers.

  “Mattie,” he called, “I want you to go down to a news-stand, the big one; I think it’s at the corner of Haywood and Patton.”

  He handed her money.

  “And here’s a list of the papers you’re to get. Ask for all of them published since last Friday. Be as quick as you can. I’m in a hurry.”

  When she came back, she brought also the early edition of the Furmville afternoon paper. He glanced at it, looking for Washington or Baltimore news of Braceway’s activities. He found it on the front page. The headlines read:

  FINDS NEW EVIDENCEON WITHERS MURDER

  MORLEY GUILTY, OR—WHO?

  Whereabouts of Murdered Woman’s Husband Not Known—Braceway Predicts New and Amazing Disclosure.

  The dispatch itself was:

  “Washington, D.C., May 14.—That an entirely new light will soon be thrown on the brutal murder of Mrs. Enid Fulton Withers, beauty and society favourite of Atlanta and Washington, became known here today.

  “Samuel S. Braceway, probably the ablest private detective in this country, left this city yesterday afternoon for Furmville, N. C., the scene of the crime, after he had completed an exhaustive investigation here and in Baltimore of more or less obscure matters related to the murder. Police officials here state that the negro, Perry Carpenter, now hel
d in the Furmville jail for the crime, will never go to trial.

  “This, they claim, will be but one result of the work Braceway did here and in Baltimore. The detective himself was reticent when interviewed just before he caught his train, but, as he stood on the platform, nobbily dressed and twirling his walking stick, he was the picture of confidence.

  “‘I think you’re safe in saying,’ he admitted ‘that the Withers case hasn’t yet been settled. We’re due for some surprising disclosures unless I miss my guess.’

  “‘Can you tell us anything about the suspicions directed against Henry Morley?’ he was asked.

  “‘It’s Morley or—somebody else,’ Braceway said smilingly. ‘Anybody can study the facts and satisfy himself on that point.’

  “‘Who’s the somebody else?’

  “‘We’ll know pretty soon. In fact, things should develop in less than a week, considerably less than a week.’

  “One of the interesting sidelights on this mysterious murder case, it was learned this morning, is that the whereabouts of the murdered woman’s husband, George S. Withers of Atlanta, is at present unknown. Dispatches from Atlanta say he disappeared from there the morning his wife’s funeral took place. Advices from Furmville are that he is not there with his father-in-law and sister-in-law. Braceway said yesterday he knew nothing of Withers’ whereabouts.”

  Beneath the Washington dispatch was one from Atlanta:

  “Inquiry made here today failed to disclose where George S. Withers, husband of the victim of the brutal crime at Furmville, N. C., is now. He left this city the morning Mrs. Withers was buried, according to his friends, but said nothing as to his destination or the probable length of time he would be away.

  “The Atlanta authorities were asked by the Washington police to locate him if possible. No reason for the request was given.”

  There was a smile on Bristow’s lips when he tossed the paper to one side. Braceway, he deduced from the article, was having his troubles making the Morley theory hang together. And why should he hurry back to Furmville? There was nothing new here.