Читать книгу Under Three Flags - Bert Leston Taylor - Страница 10

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The usual congress of village gossips is in session to-night at the Exchange hotel. It is the fourth day since the Raymond Bank affair, and the details of the tragedy are discussed with an animation and a wealth of clew that brings a smile to the face of John Barker, the New York detective, who retreats to a quiet corner of the hotel veranda to finish his cigar and muse upon the affair with the calm contemplation characteristic of men in his calling.

The detective’s face expresses a shade of annoyance as Jack Ashley ascends the steps to the veranda, draws a chair opposite his, lights a cigar and tilts his seat back at a comfortable angle.

“You are John Barker, the detective,” began Ashley. Barker assents with a nod.

“I haven’t a card with me, but my name is Jack Ashley, and I am attached to the staff of the New York Hemisphere.” Barker looks duly impressed.

“You are an ordinary detective, I presume?” Barker stares. “What I mean is, if you will pardon my frankness, you are not a Sherlock Holmes or a M. Lecocq?” It is apparent from his face that the detective is in doubt whether to laugh or express his displeasure. He compromises with a faint smile and accepts the proffered cigar.

“My reason for asking,” goes on Ashley, “is that I have a proposition to offer you.”

Barker strikes a match to touch off his weed. “That proposition is—”

“That we work this bank case together.” Barker drops the lighted match and gazes at his new acquaintance in astonishment.

“Have another match,” remarks the other, passing it over.

The detective lights his cigar and puffs away on it for some moments in silence. “I am not in the habit of taking in partners,” he observes finally.

“I always take a deep interest in an affair like the Hathaway case,” resumes Ashley, without reference to the other’s remark. “In fact, my special line on the Hemisphere has been the running down of mysterious crimes. I have trailed quite a number of them, and you will pardon my egotism when I say I have been quite successful in my dual capacity of sleuth and newspaper man.” Barker looks a trifle bored.

“To be candid, however, this case is a bit too big for me to handle alone. It spreads out too much. It is too much of a job for one man to look after.”

“Indeed?” The irony in the detective’s voice is thinly veiled. He says:

“Then on the strength of your intimation that you are a devilish clever fellow—you will pardon my frankness this time—I am asked to take in an assistant who will gladly share with me the $5,000 reward in the event of the murderer being apprehended.”

“No; I sha’n’t bother about the reward. I am simply looking for glory.”

“You are young in the newspaper business?”

“About twelve years.”

“And looking for glory?”

Ashley laughs. “For my paper; not for myself.” He passes over a telegram received that day. It read as follows:

“Jack Ashley, Raymond, Vt.: Work up case at any expense, and discover murderer if possible.Chambers.”

“Now,” says Ashley, as he replaces the dispatch in his pocket, “I will tell you why I think it would be to your advantage to join forces with me.” Barker evinces some interest.

“I am in possession of some facts which you not only do not know, but are not likely to get hold of unless I enlighten you.”

“Ah!” The detective draws his chair nearer his companion and glances about to make sure there are no outside listeners.

“When I finish, if you consider my information as valuable as I appraise it, you can do as you please about the partnership idea. At any rate you will be so much ahead. Come up to my room. We will not be disturbed there.” When they are comfortably seated and fresh cigars lighted Ashley begins his story.

“I have run onto two clews. One of them I consider important; the other less so. By the way, how long have you been in town? Come in on the after-dinner train?”

“Yes, I have acquainted myself with the known facts in the case and the result of the coroner’s inquest. Deceased came to his death at the hands of some person unknown.”

“But who will be known ere long. But to resume. As you know, a man called at the house of Cyrus Felton shortly before 8 o’clock of the night of the killing. To the inquiry of the housemaid as to which Mr. Felton was wanted the man replied that he ‘did not know there were two.’ Not long after 8 o’clock that same evening a man appeared at the ticket office of the railroad station and inquired when the next train left. These incidents, while not startling in themselves, seem to prove that in each case the questioner was a stranger to Raymond. Every one around these parts knows that there are two Feltons, father and son, and the natives are also presumed to know that there is no night train through the town before 11:50.”

“Very well reasoned,” remarks Barker.

“As you also know, on the afternoon of Memorial Day a chap named Ernest Stanley was liberated from the State prison at Windsor, after serving two of a three years’ sentence for forgery. Despite the fact that Raymond was not his home and that he had not, so far as known, a friend or acquaintance in the place, and contrary to the advice of the warden, who took an interest in the fellow, he bought a ticket to this town and started north on the afternoon train. That latter fact was proved by the ticket agent at Windsor, who sold him the ticket and saw him board the train. I went to Windsor this forenoon, after the inquest, saw a photograph of this Stanley, and secured a pretty accurate description of him.”

“But there is no evidence that he left the train at this station. Or if he did—”

“He could have been, as I believe he was, the visitor at Felton’s house.”

“I am not so sure of that,” contends the detective. “On the evening of Memorial Day the agent of a granite manufacturers’ journal, published at Chicago, stopped at this hotel. He arrived on the afternoon train from the north, and after supper, the clerk told me when I quizzed him, he inquired where Cyrus Felton lived. Felton, you know, is the principal owner in the Wild River Granite Quarries. It is more than likely, is it not, that he was the visitor at the Felton residence?”

“Still he may not have called that night.”

“True. Admitting the caller to have been Stanley, what then? A motive must be assigned.”

“We will discuss that later. For the present suffice it to be known that Stanley was sentenced to State prison for forging the name of Cyrus Felton two years ago.”

“Well, what of it? If Stanley’s thoughts were of revenge they were apparently directed against Felton, not the man who was murdered.”

“That is precisely the point that is not clear to me,” confesses Ashley.

“Now, listen. Here’s a proposition for you: If Stanley was not concerned in the bank affair, what was he doing at 6 o’clock next morning asleep in the bushes in a lonely gorge near South Ashfield village?”

“The devil!”

“With a package of papers clutched fast in his hands, about the size that a bundle of treasury notes and securities would make.”

“You know he was there?”

“I met him.”

Barker is thoughtful. “You said nothing to the authorities or in your dispatches about the incident?”

“No. I didn’t consider it worth while. The authorities were already scouring the country round about, and I did not exploit it in my dispatches because I concluded to save it for a longer and better story when we run down the criminal—beg pardon, when the criminal is run down. But,” continues Ashley, as Barker remains silent, “that is the clew to which I attach the less importance.

“I had heard from some source that Ralph Felton had been seen at this hotel a good share of Memorial Day, and I started in on a pumping expedition, beginning with John Thayer, the clerk. Thayer was noticeably uncommunicative; I thought I’d bluff him a bit, so I remarked: ‘Well, you’ve concluded to tell me what you know, eh?’ The bluff appeared to work, for he flushed a little and replied: ‘I’ll tell you all about it if you will agree to keep it out of the paper.’ As I had suspended all dispatches to the Hemisphere pending the discovery of a story worth filing, I readily enough agreed to refrain from publishing his secret to the world. Then he extracted a promise that I should not divulge a word to any one in the village.

“‘Ralph Felton is as innocent of that crime as you or I,’ asserted Thayer when all the conditions for secrecy had been satisfactorily arranged.

“‘That is possible, but why did he refuse to answer the coroner and why did he cut the town?’ said I.

“‘He had a good reason for wanting to keep dark, and I suppose he ran away to prevent being compelled to testify where he was Memorial Day afternoon and evening.’

“‘You know where he was, then?’

“‘Yes; he was here at the hotel. I tell you this because I want you to know that he is innocent. Felton is a good friend of mine, and I thought perhaps if you knew how the facts were you might see your way clear to letting him down as easy as possible in the paper.’ I assured him that my specialty was setting folks right and then Thayer told off the following story:

“About 2 o’clock on the afternoon of Memorial Day a woman arrived at Raymond on the afternoon train from the south, came to this hotel and registered as ‘Isabel Winthrop.’ She was superbly dressed and displayed an abundance of jewels. According to Thayer, whose head was completely turned by her appearance, she was magnificently, phenomenally beautiful. You can take that for what it is worth. Thayer assigned her a room and showed her to it. As she passed in she requested him to send a messenger to acquaint Ralph Felton that a lady desired to see him. Finding him was an easy task, as he was at that moment playing poker in a room in the hotel. Felton appeared somewhat surprised when called out, but threw up the game and went to the woman’s room. That was the last Thayer saw of him for an hour, when Felton left the hotel. His face was flushed and he seemed to be laboring under strong excitement. Before he left he called Thayer to one side. ‘John,’ said he, ‘if you are a friend of mine say nothing about my caller to-day. You understand?’

“I remarked casually: ‘Then he returned to the hotel that afternoon?’

“‘Oh, yes,’ said he.

“‘And was there during the evening?’

“‘Yes, I noticed him in the office at the time the alarm over the bank affair was sounded. He left the hotel then and I did not see him again that night.’

“‘Well,’ I asked pointedly, ‘can you swear that Felton was in the hotel between 7:45 and 8:30 the evening of Memorial Day?’ I never saw a chap so taken back as was Thayer. He could not locate Felton at any particular time during the evening; moreover, he could not say positively that the Winthrop woman spent the evening in her room. He supposed she did. The only point that Thayer was sure of was that the woman left for the south on the first train the next morning.

“‘Thayer,’ said I, consolingly, ‘the only way I see to clear your absent friend is to find this Winthrop woman. Describe her to me as accurately as you can.’ He did so and I have a pretty good pen portrait of the unknown in my memorandum-book, marked ‘Exhibit A.’

“‘Oh, by the way,’ said Thayer, ‘she left a handkerchief in the room.’

“‘The deuce she did! I must have that,’ said I. And here it is,” said Ashley, passing over a dainty lace creation for Barker’s inspection. In one corner is the letter “I” curiously embroidered in silk.

“There are thousands of such handkerchiefs,” comments the detective.

“Yes, but not scented with that variety of perfume.” The detective sniffs it. “Did you ever smell anything just like that?” queries Ashley. Barker allows that he never did and his acquaintance with scents is an extended one.

“If Isabel Winthrop is found,” declares Ashley, “that handkerchief, and especially that perfume, may play an important part in her discovery.” Barker smiles.

“Truth is stranger than fiction, my boy,” retorts Ashley. “Well, what do you think of my clews?”

The detective wraps himself in cigar smoke and thought for several minutes. Then he extends his hand.

“I believe I’ll accept your proposition.” Ashley returns the pressure warmly.

“I think we’ll make a strong pair to draw to,” he says.

“But,” adds Barker, “you will see that I am more or less disinterested when I tell you that I incline to the belief that neither of your clews, good as they are, is the correct one.”

“No? Whom do you suspect?”

Barker rises. “Ashley,” says he, “you are young, enthusiastic and clever. How are you fixed for patience?”

“Job was a chronic kicker in comparison,” is the prompt reply.

“Well, then, about to-morrow evening I shall be ready to talk with you and lay out the campaign. Satisfactory?”

“Perfectly. Let’s go down to the billiard room and knock the balls around for an hour.”