Читать книгу The Millbank Case: A Maine Mystery of To-day - George Dyre Eldridge - Страница 5

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AN hour after the close of the day’s session, Mrs. Parlin was in her sitting room, with the door closed and the shades lowered. On the opposite side of the small light-stand sat a rather undersized man, plainly dressed, and of somewhat insignificant aspect. Distinctly, the woman in her was disappointed.

“I have sent for you, Mr. Trafford,” she said, slowly and apparently reluctantly, “because both my husband and Theodore—Mr. Wing—had the utmost confidence in your ability. I want you to find Mr. Wing’s murderer. It’s not a matter of cost—I simply want him found.”

As she spoke, she gathered confidence, and the tone of her final words almost evidenced a belief that he could do what she asked. She stopped speaking, and the insignificance of the man’s appearance was again more real to her and sent a chill over her earnestness.

“If you entrust the case to me,” he said, in a tone singularly winning for a man in his station and of his personal appearance, “I shall do my best to sustain the confidence Judge Parlin and Mr. Wing gave me; but let me warn you, in my profession there is no royal road. I have no instinct that enables me to scent a murderer or other criminal. I reach results by hard work, close attention to details, and perseverance. I make it a condition of undertaking any case that nothing shall be concealed from me. I must start with at least the knowledge that my principal possesses.”

“I’ve told everything to the coroner. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve heard the testimony.” She spoke with dignity, almost with hostility, in her voice.

“I heard the testimony,” he said, “but are you sure you’ve told everything? There’s sometimes things that we know which aren’t facts—that is, not facts as the term is understood when one is giving testimony.”

“For instance?”

“You have impressions of what led up to this tragedy.” There was nothing of question in his tone. It was as if he stated what was indisputable.

The statement seemed to strike her and to arouse a new train of thought. She was silent for some time, and he sat watching anxiously, but without a sign of impatience. At last she looked up and answered:

“You are mistaken; I’m absolutely in the dark. There’s nothing to point in any direction.”

He accepted the disappointment, but accepted it as absolute. He evidently had striven by the assertion so positively made to surprise her into new thought, with the hope that it might hit on something that in his skilled hands would have meaning. He saw not only that he had not succeeded, but that there was no ground for success.

“That, in itself,” he said, “is significant. It shows that we must dig deeper in his life than we have yet done. The motive; we want the motive!”

“There was no motive,” she said. “It was motiveless. There are men who do murder for murder’s sake.” Under sting of her life experience, she spoke with keen bitterness.

He leaned across the table, and for the instant she saw something in the man she had not seen before; something that flashed like a gleam of new intelligence and was gone with its very birth.

“There are no motiveless crimes,” he said. “In this case, of all others, you may be sure a motive existed, and that when we put our hands on it, we shall find it a tremendous one—that is, tremendous in its imperative force.”

“But what could be the motive—against a man like him?”

“Because he was such a man, we may be the more certain of motive,” he said. “Under other conditions it might have been Judge Parlin.” He spoke at hazard—perhaps; but the effect was something startling. She grew pale as at the inquest before she answered as to the first knowledge of Wing’s death, and her companion expected for the moment that she would faint. But she was a woman equal to noteworthy sudden efforts, and even as he watched she overcame the momentary weakness. Yet it was with pale lips she stammered:

“I understand. It might have been the judge.”

Trafford waited, seemingly expecting something more, but when the pause grew awkward, he continued, “He told you he had a letter to write before he went to bed. Had he written it?”

“I don’t know. It’s a thing we never shall know.”

“It’s a thing that we will know, and that in a very short time. Who entered the room first that morning?” and there was a sense of action in his tone that caused her to look up with sudden interest.

“I did. Mary told me expressly that she hadn’t dared open the door until I came, and Jonathan was by the body, outside.”

“Was the door closed?”

“Yes.”

“Who closed it?”

“I have never asked. I supposed it hadn’t been open.”

“It was open,” he said. “He came to the door without a light when the bell rang. Naturally, he left the door open so that the light from the room would shine through. He would leave it wide open, to get the full light. Somebody shut that door!”

Mary and Jonathan were called and questioned. The latter set the matter at rest. When he discovered the body he stooped over it to make certain that Mr. Wing was dead. Then, remembering to have heard that you must not touch a murdered man until the coroner comes, he arose without touching him and as he did so saw through the outer door that the door to the library was closed.

“The outer door was wide open?” Trafford said.

“No, sir, ’twant neither. ’Twas against Mr. Wing’s head and arm. If it hadn’t been fur them, it would ’a’ shut too.”

After the two had gone, Trafford declared he would see the room, but proposed first to do so alone. He entered from the main hall, set his light on the lamp-mat on the writing-desk, and took his station in front of the door from the side hall. Here he stood for at least ten minutes studying the room. Then he walked to a medium-sized safe that stood to the right of the fire-jamb and was partially hidden by book-shelves near the door from the side hall.

Having studied this for some time, he made a minute examination of every part of the room, including the blotting paper in the writing-pad on the desk, which he finally lifted carefully and held before the mirror to examine the few ink-marks it showed. Of these he took note in a small memorandum book. They seemed to be the only things that struck his attention particularly. Then he rang and told Mary to ask Mrs. Parlin to come to the library.

“Is that the blotting-pad that was here that night?” he asked. “And you were the first one who came to this desk in the morning?” when she had answered him as to the identity of the pad. “And there was no letter on the desk?”

“None.”

“Then, evidently he had not written the letter he told you of?”

“Evidently not,” she assented.

“Then he must have been killed before he had time to write?”

“It would seem so.”

“And, therefore, probably very soon after you left him?”

“I can see no other conclusion, unless he changed his mind and didn’t write,” she assented.

“Now we come to one of the impressions which you could not testify to as a fact, but which may be of far more value. Did he say he had a letter to write in a way that makes you think he may have changed his mind?”

“No,” she said. “I understood, from the way in which he said it, that it was the important thing he had to do before going to bed. I went away satisfied that he would write the letter early and then get to bed. He certainly meant that the next day was to be a busy one.”

“Then he probably was killed, very soon, since he had not written the letter.”

“I think so.”

“Now, if you please, let me send for Jonathan again.”

When the hired man came, he glanced over his shoulder in an uneasy way, as if he did not more than half like the room. Trafford motioned him to a chair and without any preliminaries suddenly demanded:

“At what hour are you going to testify that you went to bed that night?”

Thus far Oldbeg had simply been called upon to testify to the finding of the body. The remainder of his testimony was to be given later.

“About nine o’clock; not more’n five minutes one way or ’tother.”

“What were you doing on Canaan Street at five minutes after midnight?”

Oldbeg looked frightened, and Mrs. Parlin showed considerable anxiety in the look she cast on the two men.

“Come,” said Trafford sharply. “If I can find out you were there, I can find out why you were there. I’d rather hear it from you.”

“I was comin’ from the twelve-o’clock train. My cousin, Jim Shepard, went to Portland to work an’ I saw him off.”

“Be careful,” Trafford warned him. “If you were coming from the station, you’d have come up Somerset Street, not Canaan.”

“Why, ye see,” the man explained, placed at once at his ease in having something to tell of which he had knowledge; “Jim, he was spendin’ the evenin’ with his gal, Miss Flanders, in Canaan Street, an’ I was to call fur him thar; an’ he was so late we couldn’t get round to the station, an’ so we made a short cut through Gray’s Court an’ jest catched the train, an’ that was all. We had to run, or he’d ’a’ missed it any way. So I come back that way, instead o’ through Somerset Street.”

“Then you came through Canaan Street to River Road——”

“No, I didn’t,” the other interrupted. “I cut across lots back o’ Burgess, ’cause ’twas shorter, an’ struck River Road down in front of Miller’s.”

“Yes; and then came up to the driveway and so into the house?”

“Yep!”

“You must have got in about ten minutes after twelve.”

“Jest to a dot!” he exclaimed in evident admiration of the other’s shrewdness. “Jest to a dot. I looked to my watch an’ ’twas jest ten minutes arter midnight.”

“Then you must have passed close to the side-door step?”

“Yess’r; fact, ye might say, I hit agin it, for I did knock my toe agin it as I passed.”

“Was Mr. Wing’s body there then?” The demand was quick and imperative.

“No, siree! Do you s’pose I’d ’a’ waited till mornin’ to rout ’em out ef it had ben? Mr. Wing was in this ere room.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw his shadder on the curtain. He was walkin’ up an’ down. I seed him turn as I come up the drive.”

“But why didn’t you see him? The shade was up to that window, when he was found in the morning.”

“Yep; but they was all down when I come up the drive, an’ I saw his shadder agin ’em.”

Further questioning elicited no added information from the man, excepting the statement that as his cousin Jim swung on to the rear end of the car, another man had swung on to the front end, suddenly rushing out of the darkness. Jonathan did not know who it was; indeed, had hardly given the matter a thought, so anxious had he been lest Jim should be left. When he had gone, Trafford turned to Mrs. Parlin and asked:

“When do you think Mr. Wing intended writing that letter, if he hadn’t written it at ten minutes after midnight?”

“He must have changed his mind, after all,” she answered.

“Evidently, he did,” he said.

Then he took up the matter of Judge Parlin’s confession.

“I do not wish to pain you,” he said, “but I would not be justified in letting that drop without going into it further. Have you any suspicion who Theodore’s mother was—or is, since she is still living, or was between five and six years ago?”

“I haven’t the faintest suspicion,” she said. “But surely this has been raked open enough. You can let that wound heal.”

“I can let nothing heal,” he said. “I don’t for the life of me see how that can have anything to do with this murder, but that’s no reason I may not find that it has lots to do with it. At any rate, I must find her out.”

“Can you do it on the feeble clue we have?” she asked.

He smiled.

“On such a clue, I’ll trace her in a week and not half try. Your husband intended to shield her from discovery, and but for these untoward circumstances, we would be bound to respect his wishes. As it is, I must know the identity of the woman. I hope I’ll find nothing to compel me to go farther. In the meantime, I’m going to take with me this blotting-pad, and I want you to examine it so that you can identify it beyond question, blotter and all. It’s too important for any mistake.”

Just then Mary Mullin brought word that Mr. McManus had come in response to a message sent earlier in the evening by Mr. Trafford. Mr. McManus had been with Mr. Wing for a number of years, and held the most confidential relation to his principal of any in the office. Since the murder he had naturally taken charge of his personal affairs. He was a man of thirty, tall and lithe, with a nervous force about him that was held well in control by strong will-power.

“Do you know what special engagements Mr. Wing had for the eleventh, that caused him to expect a particularly busy day?” the detective asked.

“None connected with office matters. It must have been a personal engagement.”

“Did you open this safe the day after the murder?”

“Yes.”

“Was it properly closed and locked?”

“So far as I could see.”

“I’d have given a hundred dollars if I’d been here,” Trafford said earnestly.

McManus looked at him in surprise.

“Certainly,” he said, “you don’t suspect robbery?”

“I don’t suspect anything,” Trafford replied, somewhat brusquely. “Of all things, I avoid suspicion and guesses. I’d like you to open the safe again.”

McManus knelt, drew from his pocket a paper with a series of figures written on it, and following these with the turnings of the knob, threw open the door. Within was revealed a small iron door surrounded by pigeon-holes, the divisions of wood. Trafford dropped on his knees and gave peculiar scrutiny to the door, and especially the lock. Then he turned towards McManus:

“These two empty pigeon-holes on the left; they were empty when you first opened the safe?”

“Every paper is in the exact place I found it,” McManus answered sharply. “My profession has taught me some things!”

“And this door?”

“It was closed and locked. Here is the key.”

Trafford opened the door, revealing packages of letters, filling about half the space above the small drawer which was at the lowest portion.

“You have examined these letters?”

“Only sufficiently to be able to identify them. They relate to certain logging interests of firms employing Mr. Wing.”

“And the drawer?”

“You have the key: there’s nothing there but trinkets and a little personal jewelry.” There was a personal tone of resentment over the failure to recognise the distance between a detective and an attorney.

Trafford opened the drawer mechanically, then closed it and took out indifferently one of the packages of letters. These he returned and closed and locked the door, which he examined again with care. Then he pushed to the heavy outer door, turning the knob slowly and as if he was studying the fall of the wards.

“If it had been planned to leave no trace,” he said, as if to himself, “it would be a success. Have you a suspicion of the motive for this murder, Mr. McManus?”

“So far as I can see, it was motiveless,” McManus answered. “I can only conclude that it was the work of a lunatic, or a mere murder fiend. It was, in my opinion, merely an accident that it was Mr. Wing and not some one else.”

“I hadn’t thought of that aspect of the case,” Trafford said. “Is there any unfortunate creature of that kind about here?”

“No, not that I know of; but might it not be a stranger that has wandered here?”

“Did you ever hear of one of that class that was content with mere killing? It’s mutilation that characterises all such crimes. Its absence in this case is one of the most prominent features. By the bye: was the night of the tenth windy?”

“On the contrary, it was a very still night.”

“Not wind enough to blow that door shut?” pointing to the door into the side hall.

“Certainly not.”

Trafford walked around to the different windows and finally pulled down the shades and placed the lamp on the writing-desk. Then he went outside and studied the reflection on the shades. When he returned, he said:

“I shall be absent a few days. Will you see to it, Mr. McManus, that the coroner doesn’t reconvene the inquest until I can be here? Until we find a motive for this crime, we’re going to make slow headway in finding the criminal.”

“So long as you have charge of the case,” McManus answered, “I shall follow your wishes; but you may as well understand that I’m not going to be content with failure on any one’s part. You’re after the pay; I’m after punishment for the murderer. As long as our wishes run in the same line——”

Trafford interrupted him:

“When a case is placed in your hands, you expect to manage it, I assume. This case has been placed in my hands, and as long as it remains there, I shall conduct it in my own way. That doesn’t mean I won’t take advice; it simply means, I’ll be the one to decide what I’ll do with it.”

The two men faced each other for the moment almost with hostility. Then McManus’s face lightened and he held out his hand without a word of apology:

“You’ll do, I guess. If the fellow escapes you, he’d deserve to—if he’d killed anybody but Theodore Wing. Whatever I can do to aid, call on me day or night. At the least, keep me posted.”