CHAPTER X
THE DEATH WATCH
Doctor Warren, the county physician, stopping in at police headquarters, as he often did on returning from his round of private visits, to see if there were any official calls for him, encountered Detective Carroll.
"Hello, Doc!" was the genial greeting, for Doctor Warren was more than a physician. He was a politician, and politics and the police were no more divorced in Colchester than elsewhere. "Seen that colonel guy to-day?" asked Carroll.
"The colonel guy?" The doctor's voice showed his puzzlement.
"Yes, the chap that's working with Kenneth on the Darcy case."
"Seen him? No, I haven't."
"He was here looking for you a little while ago. Seemed quite anxious about meeting you. Here he is now. Say, if he lets out anything we can use against Darcy—you know, legitimate stuff—pass it on to me and Thong, will you? You know we've got to go on the stand, and, between you and me, our case ain't any too strong."
"That's right. I'll let you know what I hear," and the two ended their half-whispered talk as Colonel Ashley entered police headquarters.
It was his third visit to headquarters that day in search of Doctor
Warren, and he would state the object of his seeking to none other.
Now he smiled at the man he had been looking for. They had met
previously.
"Ah, good afternoon, Doctor Warren. I've been looking for you," was the colonel's greeting. "If you're not busy, sir, I'd like just a few minutes of your time—officially, of course."
"Always ready for duty, Colonel. I guess you military men know that we doctors are in a sort of class with yourselves when it comes to that."
"You're right. Now I won't be much more than a minute, and what I want to ask you, I can propound right here as well as anywhere. You know I'm working to save Darcy?"
"So I've heard."
"Well, you examined Mrs. Darcy soon after she was found dead. You may, or you may not, have formed an opinion as to who killed her, but I judge you are positive as to how she was killed—I mean the nature of the wound."
"There were two wounds you know—a fracture of the skull just back of the right ear, and a stab wound in the left side which punctured the heart. Either would have caused death."
"Can you tell which killed her?"
"I should say the stab wound, but I can not be positive. You understand, Colonel, that I am to go on the stand for the prosecution and tell all I know about this case."
"Oh, yes, I realize that, of course. You are practically a witness against Darcy. And I don't, for one moment, wish you to think that I am trying to get advance information to use in his favor. This is simply in the matter of justice, the ends of which I know you wish to serve, as I do myself. So if I ask anything improper please stop me. But since you will testify about these wounds, and since you have already pretty well described them to the newspaper reporters, it can do no harm to repeat the details to me."
"None in the least, Colonel."
"Then you feel sure the stab wound killed her?"
"Reasonably so. Of course, as I said, either blow could have caused death, but blows on the head, even when the skull is badly fractured, as in this case, do not invariably cause death instantly. In fact the victim usually lingers for several hours in an unconscious state. Not so, however, in the case of a stab wound in or near the heart. That is almost always fatal within a short space of time—a minute or two. So, while it is possible that Mrs. Darcy was first stunned by a blow on the head, which eventually would have killed her, I think death almost at once followed the stab wound."
"Could both have been delivered by the same person?"
"Of course. First the blow on the head, followed by the stab wound."
"And there were no other injuries on the body?"
"None, except minor bruises caused by the fall to the floor. But they were superficial."
"Nothing else?"
"No—um let me see—no, I think not."
"Are you sure, Dr. Warren?"
The colonel's voice had a strange ring in it.
"Why, yes, I am sure. I was about to say that there was a slight abrasion in the palm of the left hand, a sort of scratch or puncture, as though from a pin, but as she was in the jewelry business and, as I understand it, often made slight repairs herself to brooches and pins brought in, this could easily be accounted for."
"A slight abrasion in the left hand you say?"
"Yes. But I don't attach any importance to that. It was so slight that I and my assistant only gave it a passing glance. It hardly penetrated the skin."
"I see. In the left hand. This is the hand in which the ticking watch was found, was it not?"
"I believe so. The watch belonging to an Indian named Singa Phut. By the way what became of him?" the doctor asked of Detective Carroll, who had strolled out of the detectives' private room and was listening to the conversation.
"Oh, that gink? He made a big howl about getting back his watch, and as he had a perfectly good alibi, and we could fasten nothing on him, we give it back to him and told him to beat it. He did, I guess."
"No, he is still in town," said Colonel Ashley. "I passed his place a while ago. He has a pair of beautiful Benares candlesticks, in the form of hooded cobra snakes, that I want to get. Singa Phut is still in town."
"Does that answer all your questions, Colonel?" inquired Dr. Warren.
"I'll tell you all I can, in reason, but if—"
"Thank you! You've told me all I cared to know. I have some theories
I want to work on, and I'm not sure how they'll turn out."
"I s'pose you think Darcy didn't do this job," cut in Carroll, rather sneeringly.
"I'm positive he didn't, sir!" and the colonel drew himself up and looked uncompromisingly at the headquarters detective. "If I thought he had done it, I would not be associated with his case."
"You're going to have a sweet job proving he didn't do it," laughed the officer.
"Maybe," assented the colonel unruffled.
"Who else could have croaked her?" pursued Carroll. "Here he goes and has a quarrel with the old lady just before he goes to bed. He's sore at her because he thinks she's keeping back part of his coin. Then he's sore because she made some cracks about his girl—that's enough to get any man riled. I don't blame Darcy for going off his nut. But he shouldn't have croaked the old lady. He done it all right, and we got the goods on him! You'll see!"
"Well, it's your business, of course—yours and that of the prosecutor—to prove him guilty," said the colonel. "And you can't quarrel with me if I try to prove him innocent."
"Sure not, Colonel. Every man's got to earn his bread and butter somehow. Only I hate to see you kid yourself along believing this guy didn't do the job. He done it, I tell you!"
"Maybe," half assented the colonel. "Thank you, Dr. Warren. We shall meet again," and, with a military salute, the colonel went out of police headquarters. As he descended the steps he silently mused:
"I wonder what Carroll and Thong would say if they knew about the diamond cross, and heard that Spotty Morgan had it? I guess they would change some of their theories then. Which reminds me that I have more irons in the fire than I suspected. I must not lose sight of Cynthia. She will be getting anxious about her diamonds, and I would like to see what she says when she hears the truth."
Though Colonel Ashley had given up all hopes of having a use for his beloved fishing rods and flies, at least on this trip to Colchester, he did not give up his perusal of Walton's book.
It was one evening while sitting in his room at the hotel, idly turning over the pages, hardly able to concentrate his mind on what he read for much thinking of the diamond cross mystery, that his eye chanced on page 170, where he saw the passage:
"There be also three or four other little fish that I had almost forgot, that are all without scales—"
The book dropped from the detective's hand.
"Gad!" he exclaimed. "That's what I've been forgetting—the little fish. I must get after some of them. They may turn the scale in our favor. Little fish! That's it. Small fry, when you can't get big ones! I wonder—"
There was a knock at the door and Shag entered, bowing and saluting military style at the same time.
"Scuse me, Colonel, sah," he began, "but does yo' want t' heah any news?"
"Any news, Shag? What sort? Come, speak up, you rascal!"
"Well, sah, Colonel, yo' done tell me, when we come heah, not t' trouble yo' wif any detective news, but—"
"Oh, that was before I got mixed up in this Darcy case, Shag. The prohibition is off, so to speak. If you have any news—"
"No, sah, Colonel, 'tisn't 'bout po' ole Miss Darcy—leastways not much about her. But dere's been annudder murder in town."
"Another murder?"
"Yes, Colonel. Boys on de streets yellin' extry papers now, all 'bout de murder."
"Who is it? Where? When did it happen?"
"Jest 'bout a hour ago. It's a man—a Indian man whut kept a curiosity shop—de same place where yo' an' me was lookin' at dem funny snake candlesticks las' week."
"Singa Phut's place? Great Scott, Shag! You don't mean to tell me, he's killed, do you?"
"No, sah, Colonel! Dat Mr. Phut ain't killed. It's his partner. He's got a funny name, too. Heah, I done brought yo' a paper," and Shag pulled out an extra from under his vest, where he had carefully kept it concealed until he had made sure of his master's frame of mind.
The colonel scanned the front page with its black type eagerly. Surely enough, there had been a murder. Shere Ali, Singa Phut's partner, had been found lying on the floor of the little curiosity shop with his head crushed in.
"And in the dead man's hand was a ticking watch," read the colonel.
For a moment he stared at the words. Then a light seemed to come over his face. He crushed the paper in his hand, and then spread it out to read again the startling news, while he murmured:
"The watch of death!"
CHAPTER XI
NO ALIMONY
"Shag!" exclaimed the colonel.
"Yes, sah!"
"We're going fishing tomorrow!"
"Is we, Colonel? Den I s'pects yo'll want t' git—"
"Get everything ready, yes. We'll go again to that place where Miss Mason found me. There's as good fish in that stream as any I didn't catch, and I want to try my luck."
"Yes, sah, Colonel. But, scuse me, didn't yo, figger on doin' some detectin' an' give up fishin'?" and Shag, with the freedom of an old servant, stood looking at his master as if not quite understanding the new twist the affairs had taken.
"That's all right, Shag. You do as I tell you. I'm going off fishing.
I may not catch anything—I may not want to after I get there. But for
a quiet place to think, give me a fishing excursion every time! And
I've got to do some tall thinking now. Get ready, Shag!"
"Yes, sah, Colonel!"
And, having put himself in a fair way, as he hoped, to solve some of the problems connected with the Darcy case, Colonel Ashley went down to police headquarters to learn more facts in connection with the murder of the East Indian.
Carroll and Thong were there, and if they did not exactly welcome the colonel as a kindred spirit they at least accorded him the respect due a fellow craftsman in the peculiar line where talent may be found most unexpectedly. And Carroll and Thong who, with other headquarters men, now knew the colonel's identity, were not above learning a trick or two, even if they had to take them from the book of their rival. For they recognized that the colonel would be against them and the prosecutor's detectives when it came to the trial of James Darcy.
"Well, boys, what's this I hear about another murder?" asked Colonel Ashley when he had passed over some of his cigars, the flavor of which the two headquarters men had been longing to taste again.
"Some Dago had his head busted in," remarked Thong. "It isn't our case, so we don't know much about it."
"No? Who has it?"
"Pinkus and Donovan; haven't they, Carroll?"
"Yep." Carroll was too much engaged in watching the blue smoke curl lazily upward from his cigar just then to say more.
"Like to talk with 'em about it?" went on Thong, in friendlier tones.
"If they're here, yes."
"I think they just came in," said Thong, bringing his feet down with a bang from the table on which he had had them elevated. "Are you going to work on that case, Colonel?"
"Oh, no. I was just interested, as Singa Phut was one concerned in
Mrs. Darcy's murder."
"But he hadn't any more to do with it, Colonel, than that cat!" and Carroll pointed to the headquarters cat which was sleeping near a radiator, for the day had turned cold and steam was on in the place.
"Perhaps not," admitted Colonel Ashley. "But there are some peculiar coincidences and, if you don't mind, I'd like to see what I can find out about them."
"Go as far as you like, Colonel," returned Thong, needlessly generous. "We've got our man, and that's all we want. The other isn't our case. Oh, Donovan!" he called, as he saw a fellow sleuth passing through an outer room. "Here's some one to see you," and the presentation was quickly and informally made. The two men had seen each other before, but had not spoken.
"Glad to know you, Colonel Ashley," said Donovan. "I've read a lot about you. You're on the Darcy case, they tell me."
"In a way, yes. I'm working in the interests of the young man. But I hear you have another murder."
"Yes, but it's so plain there's no interest in it for you. All we want to do—Pinkus and me—is to lay our hands on the Dago that done it and got away. We'll get him, too, before many days. He's the kind of a feller that can't hide very well, unless he goes and kills himself, and he may do that."
"How did it happen? And is there any truth in the newspaper story about the same watch that was found in Mrs. Darcy's hand being found in the hand of the dead man?"
"Yes, that part's true enough, but that's all there is to it. It's just one of them coincidences like. Singa Phut got back his watch after the prosecutor decided he didn't need it for evidence. There wasn't nothing that Singa had to do with the Darcy case anyhow, and he seemed awful anxious to get back that watch. So it was turned over to him."
"But did he really kill his partner?"
"Surest thing you know. Busted his head in with a heavy candlestick—one of a pair. I've got 'em here, look," and, opening a closet where he temporarily kept his collection of evidence, Donovan took out a pair of heavy bronze candlesticks, in the form of hooded cobras.
"That's the one that did the business," said the headquarters detective, showing one candlestick with something dark and unpleasant on the heavier end.
"Gad!" exclaimed the colonel. "The very pair I was going to buy!"
"What! You buy?" cried Donovan. "Look here, Colonel! do you know anything about this?" and the detective's professional instincts got the upper hand of his friendliness.
"Not the least in the world—not as much as you do," was the cool answer. "I happened to see those candlesticks in the window of Singa Phut's shop the other day, and I made up my mind to buy them when I had a chance. Now, I'm afraid I won't. But how did it happen?"
"Oh, well, there isn't much of a story to it," and Donovan's voice showed his disappointment. "Phut—I don't know whether that's his first or his last name—anyhow, he had a partner named Shere Ali. No one knows much about Ali, for he came here just recently. Anyhow, he and Phut didn't get along very well it seems.
"Neighbors often heard 'em scrappin' a lot, and this afternoon they went at it again hot and heavy. Then things quieted down, and nobody heard anything more. Toward dark a man went in to buy a lamp. He found the place without a light in it, stumbled over something on the floor, and there was Ali's body, with the head busted in and this heavy candlestick near it.
"He raised the howl right off, and Pinkus and I got there as soon as we could. Of course Phut was gone. But we'll get him!"
"Then you think he did it?"
"Sure he did! Who else?"
"And the watch was in Ali's hand?"
"Sure! Held so tight we could hardly get it out. In fact it was so tight that he's cut his palm grabbin' hold of it. Maybe the fight was about who owned the watch, for the Dagos talked in their foreign lingo and none of the neighbors could tell what they were sayin'."
"I see. And the watch? Have you it?"
"Yes, it's here. Going yet, too. Hear it tick?" and Donovan held open the door of his closet. From the place, in which hung odd coats, caps and other garments, and from the shelf on which was a collection of gruesome weapons, came an insistent ticking.
"That's the watch," announced the headquarters detective, reaching in for it. "Going yet—see?" and he held it out to Colonel Ashley.
Somewhat to the surprise of Donovan the military detective accepted the timepiece on his open palm, and so gingerly that it caused Donovan to remark:
"You're not as squeamish as all that, are you? Just because it was in a dead man's hand—and in a woman's?"
"Oh, not at all," was the quick answer. "But, as a matter of fact these East Indians are often carriers of bubonic plague, you know, and it's very contagious. Of course neither Shere Ali nor Singa Phut may have had the germs about them, but I am a bit squeamish when it comes to contagious diseases of that nature, and I wouldn't like to scratch myself on that watch."
"Scratch yourself—on a watch?" and Donovan's voice was plainly skeptical.
"Yes. It may have some rough edges on it. And I've read enough about germs to know the danger. I'd advise you to be careful!"
"Ha!" laughed Donovan shortly. "I should worry about that! The watch don't figure in the case, except maybe they quarreled over who owned it."
Colonel Ashley said nothing. He was carefully examining the watch, which he still held in the palm of the hand—holding it as carefully as though indeed it might be laden with germs the least touch of which against a tiny scratch might produce death.
"Quite a curiosity," said the colonel at length. "If you don't mind, I should like to examine this a bit."
"You can't take it away," said Donovan. "I may need it as evidence when we get Mr. Phut, or whatever the Dago's name is."
"Oh, no, I wouldn't think of taking it away. I'll look at it here. It seems to be a very old timepiece—one of the first made smaller than the old 'Nuremberg eggs I fancy. Quite an interesting study—watches—Donovan. Ever take it up?" and as the colonel questioned he was looking at the Indian timepiece under a magnifying glass he took from his pocket.
"Who? Me study watches? I should say not! It keeps me busy enough here without that."
"Yes," went on the colonel musingly. "This is an old-timer. The first watches, you know, Donovan, were really small clocks, and some were so much like clocks that the folks who carried them had to hang them to their belts instead of carrying them in their pockets. That was away back in the fifteenth century."
"Before the Big Wind in Ireland," suggested Thong with a nod at his
Irish compatriot.
"Slightly," laughed the colonel. "But, all joking aside, this is quite a wonderful piece of work. I shouldn't be surprised but what it dated back to the time of Queen Elizabeth, though it has been repaired and remodeled since then to make it more up to date. Probably new works put in. Queen Elizabeth was very fond of watches and clocks, and her friends, knowing that, used to present her with beautiful specimens. Some of the watches of her day were made in the form of crosses, purses, little books, and even skulls."
"Pity this one wasn't made that way—like a skull," mused Carroll, "seeing it's been in on two deaths here and no one knows how many somewhere else."
"That's right," agreed the colonel, as he continued to move his magnifying glass over the surface of the still ticking watch. And a close observer might have observed that he did not touch his bare fingers to the timepiece, but poked it about, and touched it here and there, with the end of a leadpencil.
"Very interesting," observed the colonel, as he passed the watch back to Donovan, still using only the flat, open palm of his hand on which to rest it. "Very interesting. And, Donovan, take a friend's advice and don't be too free with that watch."
"Too free with it?" asked the surprised detective.
"Yes. Don't scratch yourself on it, whatever you do."
"Why not? Not that I'm likely to, for I never heard of being scratched by a watch, but why not?"
"Simply because this watch—"
But at that moment the doorman of police headquarters stuck his head in "Scotland Yard," as the patrolmen designated the inner sanctum where the detectives had their rooms, and called:
"Donovan!"
"Hello," answered the sleuth.
"Some one out here to see you."
"All right—be there in a second. Excuse me," he murmured to the colonel. "Be back in a minute."
But it was in less time than that that he came returning on the run, and his face showed excitement.
"What's up?" asked Carroll.
"Singa Phut," was the panting answer. "Friend of mine just tipped me off where I can get him! See you later!" and, making sure that his blackjack and revolver were in his pockets, Donovan hurried out, followed by the colonel, whose hand had loosely closed over the ticking watch which, unseen, went out with him.
Later that night Singa Phut, a silent, shrinking and somewhat pathetic figure, slept in a cell at police headquarters. Donovan, on the information brought in by a stool-pigeon, had made the arrest and was jubilant thereat.
Colonel Ashley, with Shag at the proper distance in the background, and with Jay Kenneth as his invited guest, was sitting on the bank of a little stream, fishing; or, at any rate, he was somewhat idly using a rod and line to aid him in his thoughts.
Following his visit to police headquarters and his return to the hotel, he had called Kenneth on the telephone and arranged to spend a quiet day with him in the fields near the stream.
"I want to talk over Darcy's case with you," the colonel had said.
And the two had talked, had thought, had talked again, and now were silent for a time.
"What are the chances of getting him off legally if we go at it from a negative standpoint?" asked the colonel. "I mean, Mr. Kenneth, if we call upon the prosecution to make out their best case, which they can do only by circumstantial evidence, and then put our man on the stand, to deny everything, to have him tell about the noise in the night, about the curious sensation he experienced, about the possibility of chloroform, call witnesses as to his good character—and so on—what are the chances?"
"Rather a hypothetical question, Colonel, but I should say it might be a fifty-fifty proposition. At best he would get off with a Scotch verdict of 'not proven,' but he doesn't want that, nor do I. And you—"
"I don't want it, either. But I want to know just where we stand. Now I know. We've got to prove James Darcy innocent by establishing the fact that some one else killed his cousin."
"Exactly. And can it be done?"
"It can, and I'm going to do it. But I need to do a little more smoking-out first. Now I want to think. If you'll excuse me I'll pretend I'm fishing, and I may catch something. In fact, I have a feeling that I'll land my fish. And perhaps you have some other problems that may be clarified by a dallying along this stream. Ah, there's nothing like the philosophy of my friend Izaak Walton. I'd recommend him to you instead of Blackstone."
"Thanks!" laughed Kenneth. "I am not altogether unfamiliar with the Complete Angler. And you are right. I have a little problem on my hands."
"What is it? Perhaps I can help you. The old adage of two heads, you know—"
"Yes. It still holds good. Well, the question I am trying to solve is why did she say: 'No alimony!'"
"'No alimony'?" repeated the colonel, puzzled.
"Yes. Just that. As you may have guessed, it's a divorce case I have just finished, and so quietly that it hasn't become public property yet. When it does it will create a sensation."
"No alimony, eh? I suppose the lady—there is a lady in it, of course?" questioned the colonel.
"Of course—as is usual in a divorce case. And there's no reason you shouldn't know. It's Mrs. Larch, wife of Langford Larch, the wealthy hotel owner. She has just been granted, on my application before the vice chancellor, a separation from her husband, but she refused to accept alimony, and for the life of me, with all Larch's wealth, I can't see why. That's my problem, Colonel!"
CHAPTER XII
THE ODD COIN
Colonel Ashley fished for a time in silence, broken only by the gentle snores of Shag, farther back in the field, and by the murmur of the water. The old colored man, wrapped in a warm coat, for it was not summer yet, seemed to be enjoying his siesta when, with a suddenness that was startling in that solitude, the military detective uttered a cry of:
"I've got it!"
"What?" called Kenneth. "The solution to my problem?"
"No! My fish!" chuckled the colonel, as he skilfully played the luckless trout, now struggling to get loose from the hook.
And when the fish was landed, panting on the grass, and Shag had been roused from his slumber to slip the now limp fish into the creel, Colonel Ashley gave a sigh of relief and remarked:
"I think I see it now."
"The reason she asked no alimony?" inquired Kenneth.
"No. I wasn't thinking of that. But I have been gathering up some loose ends, and I think I know where to tie them together. However, don't think I'm not interested in your case. I've fished enough for to-day. Not that, ordinarily, I'm satisfied with one, but I'm not working the rod now. I am, as Shag calls it, 'detectin',' and I just came out here to clarify my thoughts. Having done that, I'm at your service, if I can help."
"Well, I don't know that you can. As I said, the facts of the separation of the Larchs will soon be heralded all over the city, for the final papers were filed to-day, and the reporters will be sure to see them. So there is no harm in my telling you about it. It's a plain and sordid story enough, with the exception of her refusal of alimony, and that I can't understand. Do you care to hear about it?"
"Certainly, my dear Kenneth."
"It has no connection with the Darcy murder, and so I didn't mention it to you before."
"Go on."
"It isn't generally known," went on the lawyer, "that the hotel keeper's wife has left him. She went away a short time ago, and came to me and told me her story. It was one of what at first might be called refined cruelty on her husband's part, degenerating gradually into that of the baser sort."
"You don't mean that Larch struck her—that there was physical abuse, do you?" asked the colonel.
"That's what he did. He seems to have been decent for a while after their marriage—which marriage was a mistake from the first—I can see that now. I used to know Cynthia when she was a girl—she was the daughter of Lodan Ratchford, and her mother had peculiar and, to my mind, wrong ideas of social position and money. Well, poor Cynthia is paying the penalty now. She was really forced into this marriage which, to say the least, must have been distasteful to her. But I don't suppose more than two or three know that."
The colonel did not disclose the fact that it was no news to him. Aaron Grafton's statement was being unexpectedly confirmed. He remembered that Cynthia and Grafton had once been in love with each other.
"Well, when Cynthia came to me, in my capacity as lawyer as well as old friend, I could hardly believe what she told me about her husband," went on Kenneth. "She said he had struck her more than once, and she could stand it no longer.
"She wanted to apply for a divorce, but when I showed her that this would bring about much publicity, and necessitate taking testimony on both sides with possibly a long-dragged out case, she agreed merely to ask for a separation now, on the accusation of cruel and inhuman treatment. On those grounds I went before the vice chancellor, prepared to prove my case by competent witnesses. But they were not needed."
"Why not?"
"Because Larch made no defense. He let the case go by default, for which I was glad, as it saved Cynthia from telling her story in open court. Larch, by refusing to appear, practically admitted the charges against him and did not oppose the separation.
"Then came the matter of alimony, or, rather, I should call it separate maintenance, as it is not alimony until a divorce is granted, and that has not yet been done, though we may apply for that later.
"I was prepared to ask the vice chancellor for a pretty stiff annual sum for my client, for I know Larch is rich, when, to my surprise, she would not permit it. She said if she left him it was for good and all, and that she wanted none of his bounty. She had some means of her own, she declared, and would work rather than accept a cent from him.
"So I had to let her have her way, and we did not ask the court for money, though I had no such squeamish feelings when it came to my counsel fee. I got that out of Larch rather than his wife."
"Did he pay it?"
"No; but he will, or I'll sue him and get judgment. Oh, he'll pay all right. He'll be so tickled to get out of paying his wife a monthly sum that he'll settle with me. But I can't understand her attitude any more than I can the change that came over him. For I really think he loved Cynthia once. She was a beautiful girl, and is still a handsome woman, though trouble has left its mark on her. Well, it's a queer world anyhow!"
"Isn't it?" agreed the colonel. "And it takes all sorts of persons to make it up. I'm sorry I can't offer any explanation as to why your client wouldn't accept money when she had a perfect right to it. However, as you won your case I suppose it doesn't so much matter."
"Not a great deal. Still I would like to know. There will be a sensation when this comes out."
And there was, when Daley, of the Times, scooped the other reporters and sprang his sensational story of the separation of the Larchs, the case having been heard in camera by the vice chancellor.
The murder of Mrs. Darcy had, some time ago, been shifted off the front page, though it would get back there when the young jeweler was tried. As for the killing of Shere Ali, that occasioned only passing interest, the murdered man not being well known.
But the separation of Mr. and Mrs. Larch was different. The finely appointed hotel kept by Larch, called the "Homestead," from the name of an old inn of Colonial days which it replaced, was known for miles around. It had a double reputation, so to speak. Though it had a grill, in which, nightly, there gathered such of the "sports" of Colchester as cared for that form of entertainment, the Homestead also catered to gatherings of a more refined nature. Grave, and even reverend, conventions assembled in its ballroom, and politicians of the upper, if not better, class were frequently seen in its dining-room or cafe. Being convenient to the courthouse, nearly all the judges and lawyers took lunch there. The place was also the scene of more or less important political dinners of the state, at which matters in no slight degree affecting national policies were often whipped into shape.
Larch himself was a peculiar character. In a smaller place he would have been called a saloon keeper. Going a little higher up the scale in population he might have been designated as a hotel proprietor. But in Colchester, which was rather unique among cities, he was looked up to as one of the substantial citizens of the place, for he owned the Homestead, where Washington, when it was a wayside inn, had stopped one night—at least such was the rumor—and families socially prominent, some of whose members had very strong views on prohibition, did not hesitate to attend balls given at the hotel.
And it was this man, rich, it was said, handsome certainly, that Cynthia Ratchford had married. There had been other lovers whom she might have wedded, it was rumored, and more than one had remarked:
"Why did she take him?"
To this was the answer—whispered:
"Money!"
And, in a way, it was true. The family of Cynthia Larch—at least her mother—was socially ambitious, and she saw that if her daughter became the wife of Langford Larch his wealth, combined with her own family connections, would give her a chance not only to shine in the way she desired, but to eclipse some satellites who had outshone her in the social firmament. She also saw an opportunity of paying old debts and reaping some revenges.
All of this she had done, in a measure. After the marriage, which was a brilliant and gay one, if not happy, the Larch hotel—it could hardly be called a home—became the scene of many festive occasions. A number of entertainments were given, remarkable for the brilliant and effective dresses of the women, the multiplicity and richness of the food, and the variety of the wines.
Langford Larch could not himself be called a drinking man.
Occasionally, as almost perforce he had to, he drank a little wine.
But he was never noticeably drunk. Nor was that side of his business
ever accentuated.
Gradually there had come about little whispers that Cynthia Larch had made a mistake in her marriage. There was little that was tangible—mere gossip—a hint that she would have been happier with some one else, though he had not so much money as had Larch.
The rumors floated about a bit, seemed to sink, and then started off at full steam just before the news of the separation became public. Then it was said of Larch that, soon after the echoes of the wedding chimes had died away, he had begun to treat his wife with refined cruelty—that hidden away from the public, underneath his habitual manner, there was the rawness of the brute.
But, for a time, the entertainments were kept up, and Cynthia, lovelier than ever, presided at her husband's table, graced it with her presence, and laughed and smiled at the men and women who came to partake of their lavish hospitality.
But it was noticed that the older and more conservative families were less often represented, and, when they were, it was by some of the younger members, whose reputations were already smirched or who had not yet acquired any, and were willing to "take a chance."
And, also, old friends of Mrs. Larch observed that the smile did not long linger on her face. And that behind the laughter in her eyes was the shadow of a skeleton at the feast. Then came the legal separation and the parting. Mrs. Larch, resuming, her maiden name, it was announced, had gone to a quiet place to rest.
To her few intimates it was known that Cynthia had gone to the little village of Pompey, where her father owned a small summer home. As for Larch, he met the various questions fired at him by his friends and others at the Homestead, as well as he was able. It was all due to a misunderstanding, he said.
That was before the whole story of his cruel treatment of his wife became known. For the papers of her testimony had been sealed, and it was only by a sharp trick on the part of Daley that he got access to them. Incidentally the vice chancelor was furious when it became known that the documents had been inspected by a reporter, but then it was too late.
The story spread over half the front page of the Times, and it was noted that the evening the paper came out a dinner which was to have been given by the Lawyers' Club at the Homestead was unexpectedly postponed.
"It wouldn't do, you know, after that story came out, for me and the vice chancellor who sat in the case, as well as other judges and members of the bar, to be seen there," Kenneth explained to the colonel.
Slowly and gradually, but none the less surely, a change came over the Homestead. The gathering of congenial spirits, who knew they would be undisturbed by a roistering element, grew less frequent in the grill and Tudor rooms. And it was whispered about:
"Larch is lushing!"
Meanwhile Colonel Ashley was a very busy man, and to no one did he tell very much about his activities. He saw Darcy frequently at the jail, and to that young man's pleadings that something be done, always returned the answer:
"Don't worry! It will come out all right!"
"But Amy—and the disgrace?"
"She doesn't consider herself disgraced, and you shouldn't. The best of police headquarters or prosecutor's detectives make mistakes. I'm going to rectify them. But it will take time."
"Do you know who killed my cousin?"
"I think I do."
"Then for the love of—"
"I can't tell you yet, Darcy. All in good time. I've got to be sure of my ground before I make too many moves. Oh, I know it's hard for you to stay here, and hard to have the stigma attached to your name. It's hard for Miss Mason, too, although she's bearing up like a major. Gad, sir, that's what she's doing!
"You've got a friend in her of whom you may be proud. And her father, too—he's with you from the drop of the flag, he told me. Quite a racing man he is, a gentleman and a fine judge not only of whisky, which is good in its place, but of horses and men, too. Darcy, you've got good friends!"
"I know it, Colonel, and I count you among the best."
"Thanks. Then prove it by not asking me to play my hand before I have all the cards I want. All in good time. I'm working several ends, and they all must be fitted together, like the old jigsaw puzzle, before I can act. Besides, anything I could say now wouldn't set you free. You can't get out before a trial or before I can produce some one on whom I can actually fasten the murder. And I can't do that yet. You aren't the only suspect, though. There's Harry King, still locked up—"
"No, he isn't, Colonel."
"He isn't?" cried the old detective, and there was surprise in his voice.
"No. He was bailed out to-day. I thought you knew it."
"I didn't. I'm glad you told me, though. So King got bail! Who put it up? It was high!"
"Larch!"
"The hotel keeper?"
"So I understand. They took Harry away a while ago. I wish I had been in his shoes."
"I'm glad you're not. I don't imagine, for a moment, that fool King had a hand in this affair. In fact I know he didn't. But his are pretty uncertain shoes to be in just the same. Now cheer up! This setting him free on bail has given me a new angle to work on. So cheer up, and I'll do the best I can for you. Any message you want to send to Miss Mason?"
"Only that I—" Darcy hesitated and grew red.
"I guess I understand," said the colonel with a laugh. "I'll tell her!"
The colonel spent that evening in the grill room of the Homestead. Though it was not the same as it had been, and though patronage of the better sort had fallen off considerably, it was still a jolly enough sort of place of its character to be in. A number of "men about town," as they liked to be called, were in, and Colonel Ashley was sipping his julep when there entered Mr. Kettridge, the relative of Mrs. Darcy, whose jewelry shop he was managing pending a settlement of her estate.
"Good evening, Colonel," he called genially. "Will you join me in a
Welsh rabbit?"
"Thank you, no. I'm afraid my digestion isn't quite up to that, as I've had to cut out my fishing of late. But what do you say to a julep?"
"Delighted, I'm sure," and they sat down at one of the half-enclosed tables in the grill and ordered food and drink. They had become friends since the colonel's first visit to the store, and the friendship had grown as they found they had congenial tastes.
The evening passed pleasantly for them. They talked of much, including the murder, and the colonel was more than pleased to find that the jeweler had no very strong suspicion against young Darcy.
"I've known him from a boy," said Mr. Kettridge, "and, though he has his faults, a crime such as this would be almost impossible to him, no matter what motive, such as the dispute over money or his sweetheart. He may be guilty, but I doubt it."
"My idea, exactly," returned the colonel. "Now as to certain matters in the store on the morning of the murder. The stopped clocks, for instance. Have you any theory—"
Came, at that instant, fairly bursting into the quiet grill room, some "jolly good fellows," to take them at their own valuation. There were three of them, the center figure being that of Harry King, and he was very much intoxicated.
"Hello, Harry! Where have you been?" some one called.
King regarded his questioner gravely, as though deeply pondering over the matter. It was often characteristic of him that, though he became very much intoxicated, yet, at times, under such conditions, Harry King's language approached the cultured, rather than degenerated into the common talk of the ordinary drunk. That is not always, but sometimes. It happened to be so now.
"I beg your pardon?" he said, in the cultured tones he knew so well how to use, yet of which he made so little use of late.
"I said, where have you been?" remarked the other. "We've missed you."
"I have been spending a week end in the country," King remarked, with biting sarcasm. "Found I was getting a bit stale in my golf, don't you know—" there was a momentary pause while he regained the use of his treacherous tongue, then he went on—"I caught myself foozling a few putts, and I concluded I needed to work back up to form."
There was a laugh at this, for scarcely one in the gilded grill but knew where King had been, and whither he was going. But the laugh was instantly hushed at the look that flashed from his eyes toward those who had indulged in the mirth.
King had a nasty temper that grew worse with his indulgence in drink, and it was clear that he had been indulging and intended to continue.
"I said I was—golfing," he went on, exceedingly distinctly, though with an effort. "And now, Cat," and he nodded patronizingly to the white-aproned and respectful bartender, "will you be kind enough to see what my friends will be pleased to order that they may pour out a libation to—let us say Polonius!"
"Why Polonius?" some one asked.
"Because, dear friend," replied King softly, "he somewhat resembles a certain person here, who talks too much, but who is not so wise as he thinks. And now—" he raised his glass—"to all the gods that on Olympus dwell!"
And they drank with him.
Nodding and smiling at his friends, who thronged about him, standing under the gay lights which reflected from costly oil paintings, Harry King plunged his hand into his pocket to pay the bill, a check for which the bartender had thrust toward him.
"Gad, but he's got a wad!" somebody whispered, as King pulled forth a great roll of bills, together with a number of gold and silver coins.
There was a rattle of coins on the mahogany bar as King sought to disentangle a single bill from the wadded-up currency in his pocket.
Some coins fell to the floor and rolled in the direction of the table whereat sat the colonel and Mr. Kettridge. The latter, with a pitying smile on his face, leaned over to pick them up. As he did so, and brought a piece of money up into the light, a curious look came over his face. He stared at the coin.
"What is it?" asked Colonel Ashley, noting the unusual look.
"It's—it's an odd coin—an old Roman one—that Mrs. Darcy had in her private collection, kept in the jewelry store safe," was the whispered answer. "I went over them the other day and noticed some were missing, though I saw them all when I paid a visit to her just a short time before she was killed."
"Was this odd coin in her collection?" asked the colonel, as he looked at the piece which Kettridge handed him. It was of considerable value to a collector.
"That was hers," went on the jeweler. "It must have been taken from her safe, for she had refused many offers to sell it. And now—"
"Now Harry King has it!" exclaimed Colonel Ashley. "I think this will bear looking into!"
CHAPTER XIII
SINGA PHUT
Mr. Kettridge, his eyes big with unconcealed wonder as he looked at the odd coin, was eager to accost Harry King at once and demand to know whence the roysterer had obtained it. In, fact, the jeweler half arose from his chair, to approach the three swaggering men in the cafe section of the grill, when Colonel Ashley laid a restraining hand on the shoulder of his new friend.
"It won't do now," he said gently.
"Why not? I've got to find out how he came by that coin! It's a rare and valuable one I tell you. It's worth all of a thousand dollars to a collector. Lots of them would be glad to pay more. Its catalogue price is a thousand. And now this drunken fool has it! He must—Colonel, don't you see what this means?"
"Yes, Mr. Kettridge, I can very easily see what it might mean. But King is in no condition now to approach on such a subject. There is a saying that when the wine is in the wit is out, and it is generally held, by some detectives, that then is the proper time to approach a subject for information that would otherwise be withheld. But King is in a sarcastic mood now, and sufficiently able to take care of himself to be very suspicious if we began to question him, even under the guise of friendship."
"I suppose so," agreed the jeweler, "and yet—"
"Oh, I wish I hadn't got into this!" suddenly exclaimed Colonel Ashley, with almost a despairing gesture. "I started out for some quiet fishing, which I very much needed, for I am getting too old for this sort of thing. I ought never to have undertaken it! I'm almost resolved to give it up. I believe I will!" he said suddenly, slapping his hand on the table, at the sound of which a waiter hurried up.
"No—nothing now," went on the colonel, waving the man away. "Yes, I'll give this case up!" he went on, with a sigh. "In the morning I'll get Shag to lay out my rods and we'll go fishing. I was foolish to let myself be dragged into this. It would have been all right five years ago. But now—well, I'm through—that's all!"
Mr. Kettridge regarded his companion with amazement.
"But what can we do without you?" he asked. "Oh, I'll send you one of my best men," was the answer. "I'll wire for Kedge. You can rely on him. He's solved more cases like this than I can remember. Yes, I'll send for Kedge. This is no place for me. I'm too old."
"Too old, Colonel?"
"Yes, too old! And I've grown too fond of fishing. Yes, I'll let
Kedge finish this up. And yet—"
The detective seemed to muse for a moment. Then he went on, half murmuring to himself.
"No, hang it all! Kedge has that bank case to look after. Anyhow, I don't believe he'd figure this out right. Oh, well, I suppose there's no help for it, I've got to keep on now that I've started. But it's my last case! Positively my last case!" and once more he banged his hand down on the table.
Again the waiter glided up. He looked at the colonel expectantly, and the latter stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment.
"Oh, yes," went on the detective. "You may bring me—er—just a small glass of claret—a very small one."
Mr. Kettridge gave his order, and then looked relieved. The colonel had seemed very much in earnest.
"Do you suppose," asked the jeweler, "that Harry King could have had anything to do with this case?"
"Of course it's possible, but, even so, we can easily make sure of him and arrest him when we want him. To approach him now would only be to defeat your own plan, that is if you have one. I confess this startles me. I don't know what to make of it, and there's no use pretending that I do. After all, detective work is the outcome of common sense plus a sort of special intuition and knowledge. I have gotten to a certain point, and now some of my theories are shattered. That is they would be if I had been foolish enough to have formed arbitrary theories that could not be changed. As it is, that's just what I have not done. I am still open to argument and conviction, and this coin, which you say belonged to Mrs. Darcy a few days before her death, and which now makes its appearance in the hands of a drunken man who has been under suspicion, makes cause for question.
"But, my dear Mr. Kettridge, let us be reasonable. King will not run away, and in his present condition he is likely to pick a quarrel with you if you mention the murder to him. Consider, also, that it may be he came into possession of this coin honestly."
"How?"
"He may have received it in change—here. He's spent enough money in the place I suppose."
"But if he got it here— Great Scott! you don't suppose that Larch—"
"I don't suppose anything yet, least of all regarding Larch. But consider. This is a public place. A hundred persons—yes, two or three hundred—come in here every day, spend money and receive change. Now this coin, though to you and me it shows itself at once to be of great antiquity, might easily be passed, in a hurry, or to one who had not the full possession of his senses, as a silver half dollar, which it somewhat resembles. In fact, I think I can persuade King that it was a half dollar he dropped."
And, somewhat to the surprise of Mr. Kettridge, the colonel, who had been watching King as the latter sought on the floor for his fallen coins, walked up to the wastral and handed him a fifty-cent piece.
"You dropped that, I believe," said Colonel Ashley, genially enough.
"Thanks, old top! Perhaps I did. Have a drink?"
"No, thank you!"
With a friendly wave of his hand to the colonel, King slipped the half dollar into his pocket with other loose change and turned to the glass that awaited him.
"You see," said the colonel to Mr. Kettridge. "He doesn't know he had it—he doesn't know he lost it—he doesn't know you have it. Keep it, I beg of you. We may need it."
"But suppose King goes away?"
"He won't. I'll take care of that. I'll telegraph for one of my best men. I have a little more than I can look after personally."
"What do you intend to do?"
"Have King kept in sight. There are some others in this city I need to shadow."
"You don't mean Singa Phut?"
"No, he's in custody. Besides, I've—Well, I guess I won't say what conclusion I've come to regarding him. I might have to change it. He is an interesting study. I haven't yet found a motive for his killing of his partner—if he did it."
"Who else could?"
"There might be many. Just as there might be many ways to account for King's having possession of this coin. He may have come by it in a way that is easily explained, and if we, inferentially, accused him there would be trouble."
"I suppose so. Well, Colonel Ashley, I'll leave the case in your hands. God knows, for the sake of the family name, I'd like to see Darcy cleared. I don't believe he did it. Here, you keep this coin," for the detective had offered it to his companion. "You may need it."
"Yes. I may. And so it is worth a thousand dollars," mused the colonel. "Just about the sum Darcy claimed from his cousin. I wonder—Oh, but what's the use of wondering? I must make certain," and he put the old Roman coin safely away in his wallet.
The colonel and his friend finished their modest meal, and their more modest potations, of no very strong liquids, and went out, leaving Harry King and his companions to "make a night of it."
Larch, whose face was unusually flushed, was endeavoring to bring the young men to a less boisterous state, for he realized that his better class of patrons did not like this sort of thing.
But King was in jubilant mood. He had been released, under heavy bail, it is true, when the hotel keeper gave a pledge for the appearance of the young man when he was wanted. Harry was only held as a witness, so far, but an important one, and because of his known characteristic of suddenly disappearing at times a heavy bond had been required.
Why Larch had gone on this bond did not make itself clear to Colonel Ashley, and he set that down in his little red note book as one of the matters needing to be cleared up.
And so, wondering much, the colonel and Mr. Kettridge, the former with the rare coin, went out into the cool and star-lit night, leaving behind them the sounds of good-fellowship, of that particular brand, in the Homestead.
One of the first places the colonel visited the next day was the jewelry shop. Matters there had nearly assumed their normal aspect. Trade was about the same, under the skilful management of Mr. Kettridge, and the cut glass and silver gleamed and glistened in the showcases as though the former owner of it all had not been cruelly slain.
"Show you her collection of coins? Certainly," agreed Mr. Kettridge, when the colonel told what he wanted. "As I said, I saw them, and particularly the one we picked up last night, in her safe a week or so before she was killed. I was on for a visit. And I know that a week previous to that she had refused a thousand dollars for this particular one. These coins were one of her hobbies," and he brought from the safe the collection, which was of considerable value to a numismatist.
"There seem to be others besides the Roman coin gone," said the jeweler, "for I now miss many I used to see in her case. But, of course, she may have sold them. I do remember the one King had, though, and I'm sure she never sold that. It was taken close to the time she was killed."
Colonel Ashley, taking advantage of the time when the store was closed for the night, minutely examined the safe, but could find no evidence of its having been tampered with.
"For what started out to be a simple murder case," mused the old detective, as he went back to his hotel that night, "this one bids fair to become quite complicated."
An impulse—it was hardly more than that, and yet it had to do with the matter in hand—sent the detective to police headquarters.
"I think I'll ask Donovan what Singa Phut said when he was arrested and charged with murdering his partner," said the colonel to himself. "There's an end I haven't developed very much. And I would like to ask that East Indian something about that queer watch."
Donovan was at headquarters, it being his night "on," and he welcomed the detective as some one with whom he might hold converse.
"Have a talk with Singa Phut? Why sure, if it will do you any good," said the headquarters man when the colonel had made known his desire. "I was going to the jail on another matter, anyhow, and I might as well kill two birds as one. They'll let you see him if I'm with you. Otherwise you'd have to get an order from the prosecutor's office. Come along."
It was raining when they reached the jail, and the colonel, as he heard the patter of drops, thought of the night he had first come to Colchester.
"There ought to be good fishing after this rain," said the colonel, with a regretful sigh as he thought of his rods and flies.
"Fishin'!" exclaimed Donovan. "Say, that's something I haven't done since I was a kid! I used to like it, though. Well, here we are! Looks like a party. What d'you s'pose the warden's all lit up for?"
Certainly the gloomy jail was more brightly lighted than usual at night, for the prisoners were locked in their cells and all illumination, save the keepers' lights, put out at nine o'clock.
"We want to see that Dago, you know—Singa Phut," said Donovan, as he nodded to the deputy warden who answered their ring at the steel side door.
"Humph! Little too late," was the answer.
"Too late! What d'you mean? He's gone?"
"That's it."
"On bail? No, it couldn't be with a murder charge!" expostulated
Donovan. "He can't be out! You're kiddin'!"
"He's croaked!" answered the deputy warden. "We found him dead in his cell half an hour ago."