Heart to heart

When Frank Barton departed, it was plainly evident to any one that Jack Hull was not in a cheerful mood. He smoked three strong cigars in rapid succession, excitedly chewing the ends as he smoked, and still a scowl clouded his face.

“Never made such a fool of myself in my life,” he muttered several times. “Never! I had better go into the backwoods and turn farmer, but even then I wouldn’t know enough to go in when it rains.”

At last he got up and began walking about the room. This was an indication that he had settled down to hard thinking. His coat came off, and during the next hour he must have covered at least three miles. Finally he stopped short, as if a new idea had entered his brain.

“I’ll work it up and see what’s in it,” he said.

He was as good as his word. On the following morning Frank Barton was sent back to New York, and from that hour Hull began to cultivate the acquaintance of several of the young men who occasionally patronized the bar and billiard rooms of the hotel.

He became firm friends with one in particular, Ned Degroot. Ned could handle a billiard cue with considerable dexterity, and as Jack Hull was also a skillful player, the two spent much time together over the tables.

It was during the progress of these games that Jack Hull questioned Degroot about Henry Cross. He had seen Cross out with Maud Willowby, and he mentioned the fact.

“Oh, Henry Cross was always sweet on her,” said Ned. “He would have married her before she took up with Chesterfield, if he had had the chance.”

“They seem to be very friendly now,” returned Jack Hull.

“Are they? There! that ends the run for me; go ahead. Well, I suppose, behind it all, Cross is not sorry that poor Allen is out of the way.”

“He was an admirer of Miss Willowby, eh?”

“I think so, but, of course, he was rather shy in displaying his admiration. But his quarrel with poor Ches showed pretty much how the wind blew.”

“Yes, I heard they had a quarrel. Here, take this fresh bit of chalk. What was the cause of the quarrel?”

“It was over a dance at the Charity Ball. Cross had put his name on Maud Willowby’s card for a waltz, and in some way it was obliterated, or crowded out of place, by Allen’s writing. Your play again. Well, after the dance was over they both went down to the gentlemen’s room and had it out.”

“Were there any blows struck?”

“I believe Cross tried to strike Allen in the face with the flat of his hand. Allen wanted to laugh it off, and said Cross had had too much champagne. Hot words followed freely, and just as I came on the scene Cross caught Allen by the throat, ran him up against the wall, and swore he’d kill him. They were both intensely enraged, and for fear the quarrel would end seriously a dozen men jumped in and separated them.”

“Humph! And after that?”

“Oh, after that both cooled down, and refused even to notice each other. I believe Maud brought about some kind of reconciliation later on, but I never heard the particulars.”

The game went on for a few minutes in silence.

“How long ago was this?”

“Only last January.”

“Cross is pretty well fixed, isn’t he?”

“I believe he is. But he is such a close-mouthed fellow no one knows much about his affairs.”

“Yes, I met him a couple of times,” returned Jack Hull. He was posing just then as a young society man from Philadelphia. “I thought he was peculiar.”

“He is—deucedly peculiar,” rejoined Degroot. “He is good enough, but he never makes friends, nor has a jolly crowd up in his rooms, like the other fellows. Now try your best, for you only have one more chance.”

Jack Hull made a weak attempt to run up and failed. Degroot finished the game in half a dozen strokes; and then the two adjourned to the bar, where drinks and more conversation followed.

The detective had work before him requiring great caution, and he went about it deliberately. He knew where Henry Cross’ office was, and knew there was a boy of sixteen in charge while Cross himself was not there. The boy’s name was Mark Jepson, and Hull soon made friends with him.

From Jepson he learned, in a roundabout way, that Henry Cross had come down to the office on the morning of the murder at eight o’clock, and remained there probably half an hour. Then he had returned to his rooms to dress for the occasion.

“It doesn’t matter much,” said Hull. “I was looking for him that morning, that was all, and I couldn’t find him,” and he went away, leaving the boy perplexed, but not suspicious.

“By his own confession he was in the house from nine o’clock until the body was found, at least three quarters of an hour later. Let me see if I can’t find out whether or not he spent all of that time in dressing for the wedding.”

Hull’s next move was to see Jackson, the janitor. He knew Chesterbrook’s rooms were empty, and, after changing his clothes and putting on a false beard, he called on the man.

“You have a few spare rooms in the building for rent?” he asked.

Jackson was all attention at once. Yes, he had two separate rooms and two suites. Would the gentleman be pleased to look at them?

“I want a couple of rooms, not too high up,” said Hull. “I hate to climb stairs, and I see there is no elevator.” Jackson’s face fell a trifle.

“The suite I was going to show you is on the top floor,” he said. “There is another pair, but the lease has not yet run out, and, besides——”

“Besides what?”

“Well, if you must know, sir, a man was murdered in them. But that doesn’t hurt ’em, sir. They have been well cleaned and aired.”

“A murder! Then I presume the rooms are full of ghosts and strange noises?”

“Nary a ghost or a noise, sir.”

“Too bad! If there were ghosts, I would insist on having the rooms on the spot—if I could obtain them.” Jackson stared as if he were confronted by a madman. “I see you are surprised. Let me explain that I am something of a theosophist and spiritualist, and I desire an opportunity to study phenomena of this sort. I am skeptical, and will not believe altogether until I behold some practical demonstration.”

“Well, there are no ghosts around here,” returned Jackson, who hardly understood the explanation advanced. “So you can’t study ’em. But if you are not timid, I guess you will be pleased with the rooms.”

“Very well; let me see them.”

The janitor lost no time in showing the way to the apartment Allen Chesterbrook had occupied. As he had said, they had been thoroughly cleaned and aired, and they looked bright and cheerful.

“I am particular about my neighbors,” said Hull. “Who occupies the room next to this?”

“A very nice young lawyer, sir, who just moved in last week.”

“And overhead?”

“A gentleman named Henry Cross, sir; another nice, quiet person.”

“He has lived here quite a while?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And you are sure he is quiet? I don’t like a crowd overhead, cutting up during the hours I devote to my studies.”

“He is very quiet, sir—never has company at all, and you will hardly hear him coming in and going out.”

“That suits me, and I think I will take the rooms.”

The price was talked over, and Hull asked if a little more furniture might not be put in.

“Oh, yes, sir,” replied Jackson. “We merely took it out because Mr. Chesterbrook had so many things of his own. It’s stored away in the attic.”

“Then get it in readiness, and I will be around this afternoon. Here is my card, and here are a couple of Boston references.”

A few more pleasant words followed, and then the detective left. Late in the afternoon he returned accompanied by an expressman, with a couple of trunks, and took possession.

Jack Hull smiled grimly when left alone in the apartment. Here he was domiciled in the rooms of the murdered man, on a quest for the murderer.

A more sensitive fellow might have shuddered at the thought of sleeping in the bed once occupied by Chesterbrook and walking on the bit of carpet over which Jackson had tacked a large rug to hide the spots of blood; but Jack Hull did not shudder. He would have slept with a corpse if, by so doing, he could unravel a mystery and add to his laurels.

“Now I’ll have a splendid chance of watching this Henry Cross,” he mused, “and of watching him, too, when he least suspects that he is being observed.”

Hull had already conceived an idea for gaining access to Cross’ rooms. He remembered that at the coroner’s inquest it had been said that the rooms above were exactly like these he was occupying. If that were so, what would be easier than to cut a hole in the top of the closet below, to communicate with the one above?

“I’ll do it, and visit his rooms when he’s out. I may find more important evidence than Frank Barton discovered in that Harding girl’s room.”

But he could do nothing that evening, for shortly afterward Henry Cross came in and remained for the night. Hull heard him walk around for probably half an hour before all became quiet.

On the following morning Henry Cross left for his office at half past eight o’clock. Then the detective slipped out for a hasty breakfast, and soon returned and locked himself in. He had brought with him several tools in a tight bag. The tools were to be used in cutting through the ceiling, and the bag utilized for carrying away the litter.

Hull placed a chair in the closet, and on this put a stool. With a flash lamp in one hand and a hammer in the other, he clambered up to begin proceedings.

Instead of being plastered like the rooms, the closet was boarded with narrow, oiled cedar boards, half an inch in thickness. The work had been poorly done, and at the top half a dozen of the boards were loose. He removed them with scarcely an effort.

“Humph!” he muttered, and the expression meant a good deal. “Contract work, or else——”

He did not finish, but, taking hold of the head of the hammer, he pushed the end of the handle up between the beams upon which the flooring above rested. The boards were nailed down tightly and refused to budge.

“Humph!” muttered Hull again.

Then he stopped, reflected for a few moments, and descended to the floor. He put the hammer down and switched off the lamp.

A few minutes later he was sneaking up the stairs. A half dozen keys and a bent wire were clutched in the hand that was thrust in the pocket of his coat.

He reached one of the doors of Henry Cross’ rooms without being perceived. He tried one key after another. None fitted the lock, and he had recourse to the wire. That worked after some manipulation, and he let himself in, and again locked the door from the inside.

His first movement was toward the closet, which, true enough, occupied the same position as the one below. It was filled with clothing, and on the floor rested half a dozen pairs of shoes, boots, and slippers, a fishing outfit, a shotgun, and a pair of spurs.

Noting how the articles on the floor were arranged, or, rather, disarranged, he hauled them out. Then he dropped on his knees, lighted his flash lamp, and began an examination of the bare boards before him.

“Ah!” the sound escaped him softly. He continued to hunt around, examining every nail and the manner in which it had been driven in.

“Ten-penny nails on the outside everywhere,” he muttered to himself. “Six-penny nails around this square between the beams, and half of them in wrong side to the grain, or else the wood wouldn’t be split in so many places. An amateur carpenter put down that patch, that’s certain. I wonder how long ago?”

He arose and placed the articles in the closet as they had been before. He looked on the shelf above, as if half expecting to find a hammer and a box of nails, but he was disappointed.

“Pshaw! he would be too shrewd to leave them here,” he went on, under his breath. “A man who is shrewd enough to admit a quarrel, smoothing it over at the same time, is a slick customer to deal with. I’ll hunt elsewhere for the nails that were left over.”

From the closet Hull passed over the bureau, the writing desk and the bookcase. They were all unlocked, and he rummaged through them to his heart’s content. The bookcase had a desk attached, and in this lay a number of letters and other documents.

At a glance he saw the documents and letters were purely of a business nature. He put them back, and was about to close the desk, when a slip of paper lying in a blank notebook caught his eye. He took up the slip, saw there was writing on one side of it, and began to read:

“Dear Miss Willowby: Even at this, the last moment, I feel it necessary to write to you, breaking off our engagement forever. You must know what pain this gives me; I would rather take my very life. Sometimes I feel as if I must—but it cannot be otherwise. I know you love me, yet the love of a woman for a man is not alone enough to make those two people happy. You cannot imagine how much I regret that our wedding day is at hand—the mockery of it! Our wedding day, which will never be!

“You will be startled to learn that I——”

He read the slip carefully—three times. His brow contracted into the fiercest of scowls.

“Now what in the devil’s name is this? A letter to Maud Willowby, breaking an engagement—a hint at suicide. Who wrote it? How did it come here?” He walked over to the light. “Cross had no occasion to write such a letter, unless it was written years ago, when Chesterbrook cut him out. That handwriting looks familiar, yet I don’t remember having seen Cross’ handwriting. Humph! Did Chesterbrook write this himself? If he did, what is it doing here? I’ll take it with me and study it out.”

With the all-important document in his possession, he was soon back in his own rooms. He had specimens of the dead man’s handwriting in one of his trunks—specimens he had picked up at the inquest. He brought them out and laid them beside the slip of paper.

“His handwriting, sure enough. Then Chesterbrook wrote that. Why did he want to break off the engagement?” He paused, and then gave a start. “Can it be possible that that is a forgery, a clever forgery? There are some differences between the writing on that slip and that on those other specimens—the penmanship on the slip is more cramped and heavy. It may be a forgery, and, if it is, what then?”

Again he paused, and now began to walk up and down. Suddenly he came to a halt.

“If he did that, he’s a master in crime—a master without an equal. Only the brain of an expert could evolve such a scheme: to kill off his rival, play the part of the generous-hearted, and thereby win the hand of the dead man’s sweetheart!”

Jack Hull grew enthusiastic.

“Ah, Henry Cross, no wonder you come and go in silence, and have few friends. A man like you needs no friends; he can rely upon himself. I wonder whom he told first? Probably her father, for didn’t the coroner tell me that Colonel Willowby seemed to take no interest in the hunt for the murderer? Jack Hull, you are on the right track at last.”