Heart to heart

Jack Hull had gone back to cigars that were far from strong, and that meant a good deal. He smoked strong cigars only when perplexed, or when doing what he called “some tall thinking.” When his mind was clear and tranquil, he preferred mild cigars.

He was convinced that he was making good progress—that at last he was on the right track; and this time there would be no mistake, he was positive of that. He had had a long and very frank talk with Colonel Willowby. He had not denied that he was a detective; he had acknowledged it at once, and he had come right to the point about the suicide theory.

At first the colonel had been startled and dismayed. He had tried to shift about, to avoid the subject. But Jack Hull had pinned him down in such a fashion that there was no escape, and he had told the whole truth, as he knew it.

“It was a suicide, so you may as well drop the matter,” had been his words. “But for my sake, and the sake of my daughter, say nothing of it. If you have lost time over the case, send your bill to me, and I will pay it.”

“I want no pay. I was not regularly engaged upon the case,” Hull had made answer. “And if poor Chesterbrook was a suicide, I shall be the last man in the world to do that which will injure your daughter’s feelings,” and then, after thanking the colonel, he had gone off, laughing in his sleeve over the way he was tightening the cords about Henry Cross.

Hull found the hammer, too, that had been used in nailing down that bit of boarding in the center of the closet floor in Cross’ apartment. The discovery was the result of shrewd conjecture.

One day, when Cross was away from home, he had reasoned it all out. The hammer had been taken away, not thrown away. Then where to? Why, to his office, of course. Jack Hull had gone to the office.

“I would like to borrow a hammer and a couple of nails. My wagon has broken down around the corner.”

The boy in charge had lent him a hammer, and handed over a box containing six-penny nails—nails of the same size as those used in that bit of flooring. He had, in a roundabout way, asked the boy about the hammer, and learned that Henry Cross had brought it to the office, along with the nails, two days after the murder.

So matters were progressing admirably, and Jack Hull changed from dark cigars to those of lighter shades. He felt on very good terms with himself, and when a minstrel company opened up for three nights at the Lakeview Opera House, he attended one of the performances and laughed loud and long at the fun.

But that night something happened which gave him a shock, and caused him intense wonderment.

It was a little after midnight. After coming home from the opera house, he had thrown himself down in an easy-chair, and lighted a cigar.

For a long while he had watched Henry Cross day and night, but had discovered nothing out of the ordinary. The young man was evidently interested in the new railroad, and when he went off on what Hull ascertained were purely business trips, he did not follow his man.

He listened, but not a sound came from the rooms overhead. He rightly guessed that Henry Cross was in bed and asleep.

“Humph! He little thinks that some one is on his track,” muttered Jack Hull. “A few more bits of evidence, and my chain about his neck will be complete. What a fool I was not to think of him before—but the dagger and the hairpin led me astray, and Frank Barton’s discoveries only confused me. Confound it! a woman never did do much in the detective line. I achieve better results when I work alone, as I’m doing now.”

Jack Hull continued to ruminate until the cigar was all but consumed. Then he threw the end away and prepared to go to bed.

He had just removed his coat when a noise overhead caught his ear. He paused to listen, and heard a bed creak. Then there came to his ears the sounds of some one walking across the floor.

“Henry Cross has arisen,” he murmured. “Why, I wonder?”

He heard the steps move about slowly. Then he heard a door open and close.

“It was his door—I’m certain of that,” went on Jack Hull. “He must be—he’s coming downstairs,” he added, as he peeped out of his own door. “Hello! he’s in his pajamas.”

Hull was right. Henry Cross wore the pajamas in which he had retired. In his right hand he carried a bit of brown wrapping paper. His eyes were almost closed, and he moved with an uncertain step.

“He must be sick,” mused the detective. Then he gave a start. “No, by Jove! he’s walking in his sleep.”

Hardly had Jack Hull made the discovery than he heard a step coming from another direction. Jackson, the janitor, had heard the door open and shut, and had arisen to see what was the matter.

The janitor was about to call to Cross, but Jack Hull glided up to him and clapped a heavy hand over his mouth.

“Hush!” he whispered. “Don’t you see he is asleep? Do not disturb him. I want to study the phases of somnambulism; they relate to theosophy and spiritualism.”

“Walking in his sleep!” muttered Jackson, in astonishment.

Then he remembered what his new tenant had previously said about his studies, and retreated a few steps.

In the meantime, like one in a dream, Henry Cross had glided forward to the door leading to the detective’s front room. It was still open, yet he put out his hand and turned an imaginary handle before entering.

“He has entered your room!” gasped Jackson.

“Exactly. Come softly; we will follow him,” whispered Jack Hull.

He was trembling himself, not from fear, but with expectation. He had heard before of criminals doing strange things in their sleep.

Silently they glided like two shadows after Cross. They found him standing in the center of the front room, holding the piece of paper before him. He hesitated for some time; then, with a firm step, walked to the side of the room where Chesterbrook’s desk had stood, and placed the paper down—on the top of one of Jack Hull’s trunks.

“Humph!” muttered the detective. Jackson looked frightened, but held his tongue. Both wondered what Henry Cross would do next. “It will tell the tale,” thought Hull.

Slower than ever before, Henry Cross moved toward the back room, where stood the bed precisely as it had stood during Chesterbrook’s occupancy. Henry Cross passed the bed, and approached the closet in the corner.

He opened the closet door and came to a halt.

He did not move for several minutes—minutes that to Jack Hull and the janitor seemed an age.

Suddenly his whole manner changed. His face grew set and determined, his hands were tightly clenched, and he bent forward as if about to spring at something or some one. Leaving the closet door open, he stole forward until the foot of the bed was reached.

In one corner of the room, within arm’s length, stood a bureau, upon the top of which rested a pair of gloves and a comb and brush. Stretching out his hand, Henry Cross felt over the top of the bureau until his fingers came in contact with the brush. He clutched the brush by the handle, as one might clutch a dagger. Whirling around rapidly, he brought the end of the brush down through the air, as if striking hatefully at something. The movement was made but once, then his hand relaxed, and the brush fell with a dull sound on the heavy carpet.

“Merciful heavens——” began Jackson, but he got no further.

Again Jack Hull’s hand was pressed over his mouth, and one look at the detective’s eager, excited face was enough to make him dumb once more.

Henry Cross was again moving, once more toward the closet in the corner. But ere he reached it a visible tremor agitated his frame, and turning about he appeared to be excitedly contending with several imaginary assailants. At last he acted as if he had overpowered them, or escaped from them, and on a run he dashed toward the door through which he had entered.

Jack Hull and Jackson followed, but he was too swift for them. Before they could get outside, Henry Cross had disappeared up the stairs. They heard his door open and close, heard the key turn in the lock, and heard the bed creak—and then all became silent.

“Gone to bed again!” whispered Jackson, in a voice trembling with emotion.

“Yes, he has gone to bed,” returned Jack Hull dryly. “His nightmare is finished.”

“But did you see it—how he grabbed up the brush and viciously struck at some imaginary victim?” went on the janitor. “Merciful heavens, man, if you only knew the whole story!”

“I do know the whole story, Jackson. Come into my rooms; want to talk to you,” and clutching the janitor by the arm, Jack Hull pushed him into the front room once again, and closed the door. “Sit down.”

“He may come back.”

“I think not. I’ll see that both doors are locked. There, now we are safe enough! What do you think of the whole business?”

Jackson was silent, hardly daring to utter aloud the thought that was in his mind. At last he looked at Jack Hull in a shamefaced way.

“Do you know the whole story?”

“I do.”

“That poor Mr. Chesterbrook was killed right there—stabbed to the heart with a dagger?”

“Exactly.”

Again Jackson paused.

“Mr. Cross has the rooms directly overhead—had ’em when poor Chesterbrook’s life was taken.”

“I know that, too. Go on! What do you think? Out with it!”

“I’d rather not say, sir; Mr. Cross always looked such a nice man,” stammered Jackson.

“Humph! I thought so,” and Jack Hull’s eyes lighted up. “It looks as if he had committed the murder, and was having bad dreams over it. Isn’t that it?” he added sharply.

“Yes, sir. But, Lord love you, sir, Mr. Cross is a gentleman——”

“Of course, of course. But gentlemen can do violent things when they are worked up to it.”

“And you really believe he did it, sir?”

The janitor’s eye expressed the intense fear and agitation under which he was laboring.

“Never mind what I think, Jackson, I am very glad that you were present to witness this—this—nightmare with me. Now I want you to make me a promise.”

“What, sir?”

“That you will not tell a soul of this for one week.”

“Why, sir?”

“As I said before, I want to make sure of all the links in this extraordinary case. It is the best chance I ever had, and I wish to present a chain of incontrovertible evidence. Keep your mouth tightly closed, and watch with me, and I can give you my word that before the week is out you will see and hear of things you never even suspected.”

“Do you think he’ll git ’em again?”

“Never mind—you’ll be astonished, mark my words. Just keep quiet.”

“All right, sir; I’ll not say one word. But, it can’t be possible that Mr. Cross did that—no, sir, never! He’s dreaming, that’s all.”

Shivering at the very thought, Jackson walked from the room, and in the semidarkness of the large hall hastened to his apartments as if pursued by the ghost of the murdered man. It is, perhaps, needless to say that he passed a sleepless night.

So also did Jack Hull, but for a different reason. The detective’s ears were on the alert to catch the faintest sound from upstairs. But his watch until daylight was without reward, for Henry Cross did not again leave his bed.

After that Jack Hull rarely retired until the gray streaks of dawn were beginning to show in the east. Then he slept until noon, after which he dined, and continued his secret work of forging the chain of evidence about the unsuspecting lodger overhead.