“And were they?” inquired the Sergeant with the air of one whose time, after all, is limited.
“I would judge by the symptoms which my patients exhibited that the gentleman’s diagnosis was probably quite correct.”
“What kind of poison had they taken?” snapped Lyttle hastily.
The doctor blinked his eyes in surprise. “I didn’t say they had taken poison. Oh, dear me, no indeed. I said they were suffering from the effects of a narcotic poison. You see—and the worthy practitioner cleared his throat as a preliminary to what was going to be a hairsplitting exercise unless I totally mistook the signs.
But Lyttle knew how to handle the medico and interrupted him before he could get fairly started. “I just want your opinion as to what drug was used,” he said, managing to invest his tone with an air of courtesy. In the slightly long-winded reply that followed, I learned I had been the victim of some opium derivative, exact drug unknown. I could have told as much myself, using half the words. I thought Lyttle was disappointed by the doctor’s refusing to commit himself to a definite narcotic, for it seemed to me, if we knew what had been given us we could trace the purchaser, or at least surmise how he had gotten it into his possession. Let me say right here that I was wrong, and John Patrick was already aware how futile any attempt to trace the purchaser would be. The drug used on us proved to be a simple household remedy found on most medicine shelves.
After the doctor had gone, Lyttle turned to John Patrick, whom he apparently accepted as being in charge of affairs, and said, “I have already taken your suggestion of sending the remains of the whiskey to the chemist’s for analysis. Our own police doctor may want to come over and look at the patients, but I wanted to get the opinion of the man you called in, since he was the first on the ground.”
As Mr. Vaile agreed, I exclaimed in surprise, “Was there whiskey left in the decanter? I should have thought our man would have poured it out and destroyed the evidence against him.”
No one replied to my question. I remembered Charles’ insinuation that he was responsible for the liquor. I glanced at him curiously. He was eying my chief with a cold, malevolent look.
As soon as I could, I stepped over to John Patrick’s side and in a low tone, not wishing to be overheard, I asked, “Could the drug have been formed by some chemical action of the whiskey itself; a poison such as bad liquor would be?”
He shook his head. “No, I know enough about chemistry to be sure that something was put in the drinks with deliberate intent of causing deep sleep. It could be no chemical action of the liquor itself.”
At this moment the policeman returned with the information that nothing was missing from Tom’s room. He also informed us that two newspaper reporters were clamoring for entrance. Thus quickly had the Fourth Estate gathered on the scene of action. Sergeant Lyttle looked over the assemblage before him ere he gave any reply; a group of casuals we were, Vaile, Edwin, Charles and myself, all looking white and shaky. We sat in the most comfortable chairs we could find, sunk into easy postures, practically immobile, like a group of old men sunning themselves in wheel-chairs.
The Sergeant’s face expressed nought but polite concern as he regarded us, but he must have been thinking that we were none of us likely to be of much help in tracking down the criminal. Finally he looked at John Patrick directly. “Since Mr. Thomas Evans is unable to leave his bed,” he began, “am I right in assuming you to be temporarily in charge of the household?”
Both Edwin and Charles stared hostilely at the man thus addressed. He, on his part, waved his hand wearily. “I should say that the police were in charge in the absence of the owner. I do not feel that there is much I can do, so I would prefer the whole matter rested in your hands.”
“Very well, sir,” Lyttle spoke briskly, as if he had expected no other answer. “I shall get the report from my men very soon and then give the details to the papers myself. This is clearly an outside case, the work of a professional house-breaker. We shall not have much trouble in picking up the culprit, I trust. In as complicated a venture as this, he is bound to leave some clue that will sign his name definitely to his work. You know every criminal, who makes a profession or a specialty of a certain type of law-breaking over a period of years, gets to working along pretty characteristic lines. Therefore, every place he goes, he cannot help leaving certain marks which serve to identify him. For instance, we have several professional house-breakers who attempt to drug the occupants of the house before they enter; not many of this type, it is true, but a few. Other burglars work only when the families are away. But the point I am making is, each has his own particular method of working.”
The Sergeant stopped to take breath. He was talking along for all the world like a professor instructing his class. I marveled at his garrulousness until it struck me he was talking against time. He wished to keep us all here in the library until he got his reports all in, fearing, quite probably, that if we were allowed to roam we might handicap the police.
“We will hear very soon some more definite news of how this house-breaker got in,” he continued. “As I drove up, I could see certain signs of entry myself. My men ought to be along any moment to tell us exactly how it was done, and such information will go a long way toward the capture of the criminal. In the meanwhile, since I have ascertained from each of you gentlemen that none of your belongings is missing, can you give me any idea as to what it was that the would-be burglar was seeking?”
I held my breath after Lyttle asked the question. I was morally sure that one person in the room, and I did not know which one, knew the answer to the query Lyttle propounded. If he had affected the long-winded pedantic manner with the hope of luring alertness into somnolence, would he be successful and catch an answer to the thing we all most wanted to know?
But if this was his object, he failed signally. His hearers murmured half-hearted and disinterested “noes,” and before he could pursue the subject any farther, a trooper came into the room to give us the story of last night’s adventure as it appeared to the police from the signs they had found on the grounds. At first, the newcomer was loath to speak before so many of us, but upon the Sergeant’s reassurance he told us what he had discovered, holding the limelight while his superior sat quietly back observing our faces.
The tale amounted briefly to this; a broken line of footprints had been traced from the rocky ledge on the southern edge of Bayside, immediately above the bayou, through the grounds to the gun-room window, which had been smashed and the catch undone. At this news, I sat up and took notice; the burglar, then, had come from the spot where Charles and his friends had cached their liquor. Evidently the cases had been removed since I was there, for the police made no mention of them, though they could scarcely have failed to see them. I glanced at Charles, noting the look of careless bravado on his face which betrayed to me, who was in the secret, that he was fully aware of what part of the estate the police were discussing. I looked at the Sergeant; his gaze was following mine, but I received the unpleasant impression that he had just that second shifted his eyes from my face.
Traces of mud had been found in several rooms, presumably those searched first. Now, several footprints, clear and well-defined, had been found outside, and a cast had been made of them. These were unusually large—about eleven and a half—and this news set me thinking. All the Evans’ men were tall and rangy, but the largest foot among them did not measure more than a ten. A veritable giant must have made those tracks. In a flash of memory, I recalled the “John Smith” of the inquest. While not a tall man, he was built like a gorilla, with huge hands and feet.
This gave me a new idea, which I determined to talk over with my chief at the earliest opportunity. But John Patrick now spoke up and said, “If you will pardon me, Sergeant, I think all this information should be laid before Mr. Thomas at once, and a consultation held to determine what measures he thinks should be taken.”
The worthy Sergeant looked a trifle taken back, nor did I se
e myself what John Patrick found in the foregoing report to necessitate taking it to Tom at once. But he rose in a manner which forbade dissension and I, not wishing to be left out, followed with Lyttle at my heels. Our departure was in the nature of a rout, the remaining policeman not at all certain what he was supposed to do, while both Charles and Edwin sat up to regard us curiously.
We climbed the stairs in silence and then John Patrick smiled. “After you have seen Mr. Thomas, Sergeant, I should take it as a favor if you came to my study. I wish to talk to you, but I am still feeling weak and think it would be a good idea if I lay down for a while.”
The Sergeant nodded his comprehension, holding John Patrick’s eye with a long level look. These two understood something about which I was completely in the dark. At present, I was not thinking of that; I was worried about my chief. He was not using his weakness as a subterfuge at all; he looked very bad and, no doubt, felt a great deal worse than he looked. As the Sergeant went to Tom’s door, I made my chief as comfortable as I could in our disordered rooms. He looked around his bedroom with a slight smile and said, “I don’t feel much like cleaning up this mess. Let’s wait until tonight and see what a good tip will accomplish when James and Cornelia have more time.”
I assented willingly. I did not feel bad at all, but I had no desire to undertake a task like straightening up this disorder. Besides, there was much I wanted to say while I still had the chance.
“Mr. Vaile,” I began, “has it occurred to you that you have narrowly escaped a horrible accident? You, of all of us, might have succumbed entirely to the drugged whiskey. You drank scarcely half of it, yet you have been desperately ill. Had you finished it—.” I left the thought hanging in mid-air.
It was characteristic of John Patrick not to shirk the dark implication of my train of thought.
“You mean that I, being thirty years older than the rest of you, might have died, had I taken the whole dose intended for me. Yes, it is true that my older system finds it hard to recuperate as easily as you younger men, but I don’t believe such was the intention; although I will admit that if such had been the result, it would not have greatly grieved the perpetrator of the act. It would have been entirely accidental, or, perhaps I should say, incidental. We are dealing with a criminal who would not hesitate to kill again, but I don’t think I am close enough on his trail to disturb him. The thing worrying me though—,” he broke off, but after a moment he continued bravely, “I am not safe, nor are you, nor is any other innocent person. I’ve told you, I know how the murder was done, but I can’t prove the identity of the person who did it. I am sure, after last night, that some interested party is tracking down a piece of evidence. Either it has gone astray, or it is still in the possession of the guilty one, but some one knows it exists. That leaves me on the horns of a dilemma. If I were sure that the piece of evidence means nothing to the person in whose possession it is, I could go to him and get the proof I need against the actual criminal. If I play it that way, and the man I question is guilty or has guilty knowledge of his own, I shall succeed in warning him, placing my own existence in jeopardy and accomplishing nothing at all.”
“Don’t do it,” I cried abruptly. “There must be another way.”
“Oh, there is,” John Patrick sighed, “but it means watchful waiting until I get some better evidence to go on. In the meantime, anything can happen and the real fault is mine for being so slow-witted.” He paused a moment. “Bob, there must be some link we are too stupid to see. No one is clever enough to commit the perfect crime without making a slip somewhere. It need not necessarily be a slip, just some tiny action that perhaps cannot be hidden and must be made to appear other than it really is.”
Just then the Sergeant came in and threw himself down in an easy chair. He looked worried and perturbed, but he managed to give my chief a rueful smile.
“I guess you knew what story I was going to hear when you sent me up to see Mr. Thomas?”
My chief returned the smile in kind, but denied the implication. “No, I did not know, but I wanted to find out.”
Sergeant Lyttle became serious at once. “Mr. Thomas Evans feels that last night an attempt was made on his life. He suspects that between the time when you all drank out of the decanter and the time when he poured himself a drink, a further amount of the drug was added, with the definite object of killing him. Only his remarkable constitution and the prompt medical attention he received by reason of Mr. Vaile’s recovery saved his life.”
I was aghast. “There was no one in the room between the time we left and the time Tom had his drink, save Charles.”
“It is Mr. Charles whom he accuses,” replied the Sergeant, and for a long minute all the room was silent while we each pondered this piece of news. Then Lyttle continued, “He believes that Charles is desirous of obtaining control of the entire Evans’ fortune and intends to get it, first by eliminating Mr. Thomas, and then Mr. Edwin, unless he decides to content himself with the half-share. “Of course,” the Sergeant interrupted himself to say, “Mr. Thomas has not a scrap of proof to offer and perhaps he would not say these things at all, if he were not in such a sick condition.”
I was entirely out of my depth. “But Charles,” I exclaimed, “he was in the house the whole time and was drugged like the rest of us. What about the footprints and all the things you said, pointing to a professional job?”
I caught sight of a smile on John Patrick’s face, but Lyttle remained flatteringly grave. “I felt it best to tell a connected story to the family and the newspapers. All I said is true, only I don’t think it exactly applies in this case.”
“In other words,” interposed John Patrick, “the Sergeant felt with me that the outside evidence was a bit too carefully done to be accepted without suspicion.”
I objected at once, triumphantly launching the theory which had come to me when I heard about the footprints. “There is one person who fits in exactly; I don’t deny that Charles was the moving spirit behind this murderous attack, but I believe I know the identity of the man who came in the house. Do you remember John Smith, Charles’ partner, who testified at the inquest? I think it was he who made the search last night.”
John Patrick shook his head and turned to Lyttle. “Williams and I heard sounds indicating that some one was at this business as early as dinner-time last night. Our would-be burglar got on the scene somewhat before he staged the entire show. But I doubt if a person, who could move as quietly and search as expeditiously, would have left the tracks outside, unless it was done deliberately.”
“The prints were clumsy,” agreed the trooper. “There was plenty of dry ground where he could have walked. Remember, the second time you had an intruder, the one who broke into Mr. Charles’ room, there were no footprints, although the ground was softer and he had to walk with a great deal more care.”
I noted the use of the expression “second time” and questioned Lyttle.
“You are forgetting the tramp whom Mr. Thomas saw the afternoon his father was killed. Until Mr. Vaile told me this morning that you have been visited four times, the police had only the one visit to work on.” So John Patrick had, as I suspected, already had a private interview with the troopers.
Lyttle continued in a frank manner. “The situation now is this. Mr. Vaile is positive that some one in the house is directly and personally responsible for all these mysteries. Mr. Thomas is more definite, he names the person but advances no proof, and Mr. Williams inclines to the half-way position. He feels, the actual entry and search was made by an outsider at the instigation of one of the inmates, the same one whom Mr. Thomas accuses. I would consider this the most probable theory, had I not been convinced in my previous investigation that the man whom he names had nothing to do with it.”
“Why are you so sure?” I asked.
“I am not so sure, now you have told me the later developments. But I do happen to know the gentleman in question. He is just a cheap crook, once a highway stick-up man. He
is incapable of a brilliantly planned game like this business here seems to be. His right name, by the way, is Al Herz, and you can take it from me, he could not be hired to come near Bayside after a murder had been committed here. It surprised me he even came to the inquest; Mr. Charles must have a terrific hold on him to make him do that.”
“Mr. Williams and I,” began my chief slowly, “are already positive that Charles is working with a rather cheap band of crooks.”
There was a question in John Patrick’s voice, as if he wanted Lyttle to give him any information he might be withholding about Charles or the previous activity of the police in regard to the stranger whom they had been trying to trace. His smooth inflections expressed this so subtly that Lyttle, although he had not bargained on showing his hand yet, cleared his throat and replied, “I was watching Mr. Williams rather closely when my man was telling his story, and I saw he was familiar with several points of it already. Now, the farthest we have gotten in the mystery, is to investigate Charles’ friends in hopes of finding the tramp among them. We have reached the place in our work where we need the help of some one inside the household; and I judge you two have been carrying on under your own responsibility only to come to a standstill. Let us pool our knowledge then and work along together.”
“I am convinced,” John Patrick’s voice began sonorously, “I have been convinced from the very beginning, that my duty, as executor of the estate, included a certain responsibility in clearing up the mystery which surrounds Cyrus’ death, before I made any attempt to distribute the legacies themselves. It seemed to me that my client’s wish in this respect was as plain as if, foreseeing his end, he had written it into the will itself.”
It was an idiosyncrasy of my chief thus to defend his actions when he thought there was a hint of possible criticism for meddling directed towards him.
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