CHAPTER XIV
THE HIDDEN WIRES
Donovan looked at the deputy as if about to dispute the statement. The detective even opened his lips to speak, but no sound came through them. Donovan sat down in a chair.
"Do you mean—" he asked, passing his hand over his face, as though to brush away unseen cobwebs. "Do you mean that he's dead?"
"Sure," was the answer. "Croaked, I told you. Deader 'n a burned out cigarette."
"Well," observed Donovan dispassionately, "that's the limit!"
"I agree with you," said the colonel, and there was a curious look on his face. "Though if you mean it's the end I beg to differ. It's only the beginning."
"How'd it happen?" asked Donovan sharply.
"We don't know," was the answer. "The Dago was all right to-day, except he seemed a little glummer than usual. He didn't eat any supper though but that's nothing. Lots of times the birds in here get off their feed," and the deputy warden made a comprehensive gesture.
"He was locked up with the rest to-night and we got sort of quiet and comfortable here and I was having a game of pinochle with Tom Doyle when one of our boarders in murderers' row lets out a howl. Course I went to see what it was, and there was the Dago—croaked!"
"What did it?" asked Donovan.
"We don't know. Doc Warren's in now giving him the once-over."
"Did he have any visitors to-day?" asked the colonel.
"Yes, a fellow like himself—Indian I reckon. But we didn't let him further than the corridor. It wasn't visiting day for the fellows in his row, so the Dago left a package and went away."
"What was in the package?" the colonel questioned further.
"Oh, just some cigarettes. Singa Phut didn't like the kind we keep, and he had to have his own fancy kind. He's had 'em before, so we knew they was all right."
"Was that all?"
"Every blessed thing that was in the package. So we let him have the cigarettes. That was about four o'clock. He was dead at eight. Here comes the doctor now. Maybe he can tell you something."
Doctor Warren, rubbing his hands to get rid of the lint from the warden's towel, came along settling himself into his coat which he had removed the better to examine the body of the East Indian.
"Well, Donovan," said the county physician, "your friend saved you the trouble of convicting him."
"Yep. But I'd a had him all right. I'd a sent him to the chair without any trouble. But what ailed him, Doc?"
"I can't say yet. Looks like a case of heart disease. I'll hold an autopsy in the morning. He's dead all right."
"I thought maybe some of the other prisoners might have got in and croaked him," commented the headquarters detective. "Riley was saying some one let out a yell."
"That was Schmidt—fellow that killed his wife," interposed the deputy warden. "He's in the cell next to where the Dago was. Schmidt said he heard the foreigner breathing awful funny. It was his last breath all right. He was dead when I got in, Doc."
"Yes, they go quick that way."
"Are you sure it was heart disease, Dr. Warren?" asked the colonel.
"No, not at all. I just mentioned that as most probable. He didn't look strong. I can't tell for a certainty until to-morrow."
"Pardon me, Dr. Warren, for presuming on what is particularly your own ground, but did you look to see if any of the cigarettes were left in his cell?"
"I didn't notice. If you want to take a look come on back. And I don't in the least mind any suggestions from you, Colonel. I'm too much interested in your work. In fact, I'd be glad to have you help in this investigation if you think there's anything crooked."
"Oh, not at all. Suicide is, of course, the most natural suspicion in a case like this, and it isn't hard to conceal enough opium in a cigarette to kill a dozen men."
"Blazes! I never thought of that!" ejaculated the deputy. "Come on!" and he led the way back to the cell.
Singa Phut's body had been removed to another part of the jail. But the cell was as it had been when the final summons came to the East Indian.
There were the few poor possessions he had been allowed to have with him—simple and apparently safe enough. And, scattered on the floor, were some of the cigarettes, made from strong Latakia tobacco, the peculiar odor of which was, even yet, noticeable in the corners of the cell.
"He smoked some of 'em all right," observed the deputy.
"Let's have a look," suggested the colonel. "If we had a better light in here it might help."
"I'll bring one of the two-hundred watt bulbs we use down in the office," said the warden, who had joined the little group. There was an electric light socket in each cell—recently installed as the result of the agitation of a prison reform committee. The low-powered bulb was taken out and the glaring nitrogen gas one substituted. It made the cell very bright, and by the glare the colonel gathered up a number of the cigarettes. Some had been smoked down to a mere stub; others had not been lighted, and two or three were broken in half, neither end showing signs of either having been scorched by a match or wet by the lips of Singa Phut.
"Queer he'd waste 'em that way," observed Donovan. "Usually they can't get enough to smoke."
"He didn't exactly waste them," said the colonel grimly, as he looked at the divided but otherwise perfect cigarettes in his hand.
"What do you call it then?" demanded the headquarters detective.
"Well, I think he was looking for something in the cigarettes—and—he found it."
"What do you mean?" asked Dr. Warren.
"Wait. Maybe I can show you."
Colonel Ashley carefully gathered up all the cigarettes in the cell, a number of them being perfect. With them, and the black butts, as well as the broken paper tubes, he moved over to the small table in the cell, and spread them out.
Donovan reached under the colonel's arm and broke open one of the whole cigarettes. "I don't see—" he began. "For the love of Mike look at this!" he suddenly exclaimed. "There's a needle in this dope stick!"
"And, if you value your life don't touch it!" cried the colonel. "That's what I was looking for! Don't so much as scratch yourself the hundredth part of an inch or— Well, you saw Singa Phut," he ended grimly.
"Poisoned needle, Colonel?" asked Dr. Warren, as he shoved the cigarette Donovan had broken toward the middle of the table.
"That's what I suspect. If we had a cat now or a rat—"
"Easy enough to get a rat," interposed the warden. "There's always some of the beasts in the traps we set about. We catch 'em alive. I don't like poison. Here, Riley, go and see if you can find a rat in one of the traps. What you going to do, Colonel? Try it on him?"
"If you have one, yes. You get my idea, I guess. Some one of Singa Phut's Indian friends, knowing he would rather go out this way than pay the penalty of his crime, brought in a package of his favorite cigarettes.
"In two, three, or in perhaps more of the 'dope sticks,' as my friend Donovan calls them, he shoved a fine needle, the tip of which was dipped in some swift, subtle Indian poison, the secret of which these two alone, perhaps, knew.
"With the cigarettes in his possession it was easy enough for Singa Phut to smoke some and extract a needle from another. It was probably marked in some secret way. More than one needle was sent to guard against failure. But the first one must have worked. I'd like to find it."
"I'll have the cell swept for you," promised the warden as his deputy went off to look for a rat. A keeper was summoned with a broom, and brushed out the cell. It did not take long, for it was very clean. Most of the debris was cigarette ash and scraps of paper and tobacco. And it was in this debris, carefully poked over with a lead pencil, that a needle was found.
Colonel Ashley, using extreme care, laid the two together, after an examination of the other unbroken cigarettes had disclosed the fact that none of them concealed anything.
"I got one, Warden! A beaut!" came Riley's voice from down the corridor, and he came in with a wire cage containing a large rat which cowered in one corner of his cell, even as Singa Phut had shrunk into his when the end came.
"How you going to get at him, Colonel?" asked the warden. "They're nasty to handle. One of 'em nipped my dog fierce when I gave him a chance at killing it a day or so ago."
"I'm not going to let it out. If I had a stick, or something that I could fasten the needle on, I could work a sort of javelin," remarked the colonel.
"I'll get you one," offered Riley, much interested in the coming experiment. Donovan, too, looked on in startled wonder.
A long, slender stick was brought and, using great care, with his rubber gloves on that he used in autopsies, Doctor Warren fastened the needle to the wand. Then Colonel Ashley thrust the improvised spear through the wires of the cage and lightly punctured the rat, which gave a protesting squeak.
"It didn't hurt him much," observed the colonel, "and, if I have guessed right, his death will be painless."
"How soon?" asked Donovan.
"I can't say, but it ought not be very long. The kind of poison they use is calculated to work swiftly."
In the glaring light from the nitrogen bulb they stood in the cell of the dead man, gathered about the cage of the rat—a prison within a prison. After the first start caused by the needle prick, the rodent again shrank back into its corner. For perhaps ten minutes it remained thus, and then it began to exhibit signs of uneasiness. It stood up on its haunches and began to bite at the wires of the cage. It squeaked, more as though uneasy than in pain,
In another minute it began to run around the tin floor of its prison, and then it suddenly stopped in its tracks, fell over in a lump and was still.
"Well, I'll be—" began Donovan, and then, with a look at the colonel, he substituted: "This gets me! It sure does!"
"It evidently went right to the heart, just as in Singa Phut's case," observed the colonel grimly.
"You were right," said Doctor Warren, "it was poison. He probably jabbed himself with the point of the needle, and whatever was smeared on it did the rest. I shall be interested in making the autopsy."
"You will probably find very little trace of the poison," said the colonel. "The kind they use is designed to disappear almost as soon as it becomes effective. Still you may discover something."
But Doctor Warren did not. Aside from a little scratch near the prisoner's heart, where he had evidently dug the needle deep into his skin, there was no sign that death was other than by natural causes. The poison had gone directly into the blood, as does the venom of a snake, and had brought death in the same way. In fact, it was the opinion of Colonel Ashley that some form of snake poison was used, though what it was, no one could say.
And so passed out and beyond Singa Phut, and the charge of murder, having been quashed by a higher tribunal than that of the county court, the matter was soon forgotten.
The colonel's theory, that some fellow countryman had supplied the East Indian means of escaping the electric chair, was generally accepted. And that Singa Phut was guilty of having killed his partner in a sudden fit of passion following one of their frequent quarrels was also believed by those who cared to exercise any thought in the matter.
"But what gets me, though," said the colonel, "is where does Singa Phut fit in with the watch in Mrs. Darcy's hand. That watch! Ah, there's a link I haven't had time to examine as I'd like to. I must see to it."
The colonel fell into a reverie. His eyes went to the closet where he had put away his fishing rods.
"Oh, friend Izaak!" he murmured, "How basely I have deserted you! But
I'm coming back. Yes, I'll stop this detective work. I'll wire for
Kedge to-night to come on and take up the case. He can do it as well
as I. I'll get Kedge!"
He started for the telephone to dictate a telegram. And then, as he chanced to look out of the window, a different expression came into his face.
Down on the sidewalk he saw Amy Mason walking slowly along. The girl's pretty face was drawn and careworn. Evidently the anxiety over Darcy was beginning to tell on her.
The old detective shook his head slowly.
"Oh, I suppose I can't back out now," he sighed. "I've gone too far.
It would look like quitting, and I never was a quitter!"
He straightened up to his soldierly height.
"Besides," he went on, "Kedge would only mix matters up now. He wouldn't know what to do, even if I told him. Kedge is all right for some things, but— Oh, well, I'll keep on with the case!"
This was the day following the discovery of the suicide of the East Indian in his cell, and any intentions Colonel Ashley may have had of subjecting to a close examination the queer watch had to be postponed.
He had ventured to keep it after Donovan had shown it to him, ready to make some plausible excuse if it was called for, but the arrest of the East Indian, and the preparation of the case for trial, in connection with the prosecutor's office, evidently made Donovan forget, for the time being, that the watch was not among other criminal relics in his closet.
As a matter of fact, Colonel Ashley had had it in his possession since that night Donovan went out with his friend, the stool pigeon. And now, carrying out a plan he had made, the colonel, one bright May morning, put the odd timepiece in his pocket and started for the Darcy jewelry store, intending to have Kettridge look at the mechanism and other parts of the watch.
But when the detective reached the establishment he saw, to his surprise, a great crowd gathered out in front—a crowd that needed the services of several policemen to keep it from stopping traffic in the roadway.
"Hello! More trouble at the place," mused the colonel, quickening his steps. "I wonder what's up this time?"
He inquired casually from those on the outskirts of the throng, and received enough information to justify the getting out of several extra newspapers.
"Burglar tried to blow up the safe and got blowed up himself."
"Hold-up man shot three of the girls behind the diamond counter and then killed himself."
"Naw! Somebody tried to set fire to the place!"
"Aw, only one of the girls fainted; that's all."
These opinions came mostly from boys or young men. No one seemed to know exactly what had happened. The colonel spied Mulligan, the officer who had been the first official on the scene at the murder of Mrs. Darcy, and nodded in friendly fashion. The bluecoat escorted the colonel through the crowd into the store.
"I guess you'll be interested," said Mulligan.
"Yes, thank you. What is it?"
"I didn't hear all the particulars. But Miss Brill, the young lady clerk, received an electrical shock from some wires hidden under the metal edge of one of the showcases, so Mr. Kettridge says, and she was knocked down."
"Killed?"
"No, but her head struck on the edge of a case and she's badly cut. I sent for the ambulance. It happened when the store was crowded and made a bit of excitement."
"I should think it would! Hidden electric wires!" and the colonel thought of a certain discovery he had made.
CHAPTER XV
A DOG
With the help of the police, and when the stricken, though not dangerously injured, girl had been taken away in the ambulance, the crowd was dispersed. It was then Colonel Ashley had a chance to speak to Mr. Kettridge.
"What's all this I hear?" asked the detective.
"I don't know," and the manager smiled wearily. "If you heard all of the rumors I did they would include everything from an I.W.W. plot to a combined attack by New York gunmen."
"But what was it?"
"Well, one of our clerks, Miss Brill, was waiting on a customer at one of the silver showcases. They are arranged with electric lights inside that may be switched on when needed.
"She turned on the current to illuminate the inside of the case, so that her customer might make a selection to have spread out on top, when, in some manner, Miss Brill received a severe electrical shock. She was thrown backward to the floor, and her head struck a projecting corner of one of the rear showcases. She was badly cut, but the hospital doctor said there was no fracture."
"Did she get shocked from the wires that run into the interior of the case?" asked the detective.
"No, and that's the queer part of it," said the manager. "She was shocked while leaning against the silvered, metal edge of the glass case, and, on examination, I find some hidden electrical wires there—wires that must, in some way, have become crossed on the lighting circuit. I didn't know the wires were there."
"I did," said the colonel, quietly.
"You did?"
"Yes, when I tested them with an instrument I secured from an electrician here in town the wires were dead. There was not the slightest current in them. Either they have been changed lately, or some sudden jar or misplacement brought them in contact with a live circuit."
"What were the wires for?" asked Mr. Kettridge.
"That's what I've been wanting to find out. Originally I think they were for some system of burglar alarm installed by Mrs. Darcy. But now those wires run to the work bench that was used by James Darcy."
"To his work bench?" The manager was obviously startled.
"Yes. But don't jump at conclusions. You know he was working on an electric lathe he hoped to patent. Those wires may be merely part of his equipment,"
"Yes, and they may—wait a minute!" suddenly exclaimed the manager. "I wonder—"
From his private office, into which he had ushered the colonel, he looked down the store. It was almost deserted now, save for a few customers and the clerks.
"It's the same place!" murmured the manager,
"What is?" asked the detective.
"Miss Brill was shocked, and fell at the very spot where the dead body of Mrs. Darcy was found!" said Mr. Kettridge in a low, intense voice. "Except for the fact that she fell behind the showcase and Mrs. Darcy in front of it, the place is the same!"
With a muttered exclamation the colonel got to his feet and also looked out from the private office.
"You're right," he admitted. "I wonder if that is a coincidence or—something else. I must go to see Darcy."
The prisoner was measurably startled when the detective told him the latest development at the jewelry store.
"Those were never my wires in the showcase!" cried the young man. "I knew some were there, for we did have an antiquated burglar alarm system when I first came to work for my cousin. I had another one put in, and I supposed they had ripped out the old wires. But the wires I used for my lathe experiments had no connection with those, I'm sure. What is your theory?"
"I have so many I don't know at which one to begin," admitted Colonel Ashley. "But I was wondering if it was possible that the showcase wires, which when I tested them were dead, could have, in some manner, become charged, and have given Mrs. Darcy a shock that might have sent her reeling to the floor, toppling the heavy statue over on her head, and so killing her."
"By accident do you mean?" asked Darcy, his face lighting up with hope.
"Yes. This young lady received a severe blow on her head by her fall, and your cousin—"
"You forget the stab wound, Colonel."
"No, I didn't exactly forget it. I was wondering how we could
account for that if we accepted the shock theory. I guess we can't.
I'm still up against it. I've struck a snag—maybe a stone wall,
Darcy!"
"Do you—do you think you can get over it, Colonel?"
"By gad, sir! I will! That's all there is to it! I will!"
The silence of the colonel's room was broken by a peculiar scratching at the door, interrupting his perusal of this passage:
"I told you angling is an art, either by practice or long observation or both. But take this for a rule—"
"Come in!" invited the colonel, thinking it might be Shag, who sometimes, for the lesser disturbance of his master's thoughts or reading, thus announced himself.
But there entered no black and smiling Shag, nor one of the hotel employees, but a little dog which wagged its tail both in greeting to the colonel, seated before a gas log in his room, and also as a sort of applause for the dog itself, because it had succeeded in pushing open the door which was left ajar, but which, nevertheless, was rather stiff on the hinges. And Chet, the dog in question, was rather proud of his achievement. Thus his wagged tail had a double meaning, so to speak.
"Ah, Chet, you've come in for another talk, have you?" asked the colonel as he leaned over to pat the dog's head.
More wagging of the tail to indicate pleasure, satisfaction, and whatever else dogs thus express.
"Glad to see you," went on the colonel, as though talking to a human, and, with more gyrations of the tail, which constituted Chet's side of the talk with the colonel, the little creature sought a warm spot near the gas log, stretched out and sighed long in contentment.
Chet was the pet of a man—a permanent resident of the hotel—who had the suite next Colonel Ashley's, and, early in his stay at the hostelry, the detective had made friends with the little animal, which, when Mr. Bland, its own master, was out, often came in to visit the fisherman, just as he had done now.
The colonel was thoroughly enjoying himself, for he had put aside, in the perusal of Walton, all thoughts of the murder and its many complications, when there came another interruption. This time it was a ring of his room telephone.
"There's a gentleman downstairs asking for you," came the word in response to his answer to the summons.
"Who is it?
"Says I'm to tell you he's Mr. Young."
"Oh, yes, Jack Young—send him up." The colonel closed the book with a sigh of regret.
"No use trying to read Izaak now," he murmured. "It would be a sacrilege. I'll have to wait a bit. Wonder what Jack wants. Ah, come in!" he called, as a discreet knock sounded on the half-opened door. "Trouble?"
"Not yet, Colonel, though there may be. Do you want me to follow King out of town?"
"Of course. Wherever he goes. Stick to him like a leech," and the detective indicated a chair to his visitor. Jack Young was one of the Ashley Agency's most trusted lieutenants.
"I sent for you to have you shadow King," said the detective in a low voice, seeing to it that the door was closed, "because I think we can get something out of him."
"Not a confession, surely!" exclaimed Young.
"Well, if he gets drunk enough, yes. But not the kind of confession that would be any use to us. What a man babbles when the wine is in and the wit is out, wouldn't be much use in a court of law. But if you can get him to tell anything about where he got that queer coin—the one that used to be in Mrs. Darcy's collection—so much to the good. But be foxy about it, Jack."
"I will! What I came to see about is whether you want me to follow him out of town. He's been cutting a pretty wide swath since he got out on bail, and he's been having some pretty sporty times."
"And you've been with him; is that it?"
"To the best of my ability, yes," admitted Jack, as he patted Chet, when the dog, that evidently had met him before, slid over to have his ears pulled.
"I have great faith in your ability, Jack. The point is to stick to
King. You managed to make friends with him?"
"That wasn't hard. But I'll need a little money if I'm to keep up his pace. That's why I came to you."
"Perfectly right, Jack. Mason so thoroughly believes in the innocence of Darcy, and he sticks by his daughter's engagement so well, that he'd supply twice as much cash as was necessary to sift this to the bottom. So here's some to enable you to keep up to King's pace."
"Of course it's none of my business, Colonel, but I'd like to know a little bit about how the wind blows. Do you really suspect him of the murder?"
"Jack, I don't know!" was the frank answer, as Chet went back to his place by the gas log. "His having that odd coin was what put me on his trail again, and I sent for you to shadow him, as I had too many other irons in the fire. And you've done well. I guess there isn't much that Harry has done since that night about a week ago, when I saw him in the Homestead, that you don't know about."
"I guess not, Colonel."
"But, with it all, I'm not much nearer than I was at first."
"How about Spotty?"
"He won't say a word."
"You tried the third degree on him, of course?"
"I—er—I did and I didn't," the colonel answered, lamely. "You see, you can't go too far with a man when he has saved your life."
"But he may know all about it."
"Possibly."
"How about young Darcy?"
The colonel did not answer at once. It was not until he had gone to a closet and taken from it a package which he placed on a tabarette, on which, near him, rested a box of cigars, that he spoke. Then he said:
"If I could find out why Singa Phut used this watch I'd be in a better position to answer," and from the package the detective took the timepiece which he had kept after Donovan had given it to him to examine.
"You mean you're not sure about Darcy?"
"Well, I thought I was. At first I had my doubts. Then, when I had looked over the ground and talked with Miss Mason and him, I was willing to take up his case just because I believed he had nothing to do with the murder."
The colonel, who had taken the watch from some tissue paper in which it was wrapped, laid it down on the low stool, and turned his attention to his visitor. Chet with a whine and stretch, indicating that he was warmed and rested, and would not object to a little play, walked slowly over toward the colonel.
"But," went on the detective, "since the finding of the electric wires running to Darcy's desk—Jack, I tell you what it is. You helped me out wonderfully on that robbery of the Chatham bank, when the cashier ran some wires to the time lock and had it open five hours ahead of time, I wish you'd come and have a look at those wires with me. Maybe you could give me a hint that would clear up some of the doubt I have regarding Darcy."
"All right, Colonel, I'll come. But I think I'd better follow King now. He's got a date with Larch, the hotel keeper, and there may be something in it."
"Oh, go by all means! The wires will keep. Here, I'll give you an idea about how they run," and the colonel drew a sort of diagram of the jewelry store, indicating the showcase where the hidden wires had been found, explaining to his man the effect on the young woman clerk who had been shocked.
Jack Young studied the diagram carefully and shook his head. The colonel, meanwhile, sat back and waited. Chet was worrying the tissue paper in which the Indian's watch was wrapped.
"Well, Colonel, I'll tell you what it is," said Jack, after a series of questions, "I'd have to see the place to get at any right idea of it. Not to cast any aspersions on your ability as an artist, I can't just make out how the wires run, from this sketch," and he smiled, after having studied the drawings for perhaps ten minutes.
"Don't blame you a bit!" laughed the colonel. "I never was much on pencil work. But now you follow Harry King. If you need more money, come to me," he added as he handed over a roll of bills. "And then we'll have to go at those wires. I'm not so sure—"
The colonel's remarks were interrupted by peculiar actions on the part of Chet. The little animal appeared to have gotten something into his mouth which bothered him. He was whining and pawing at his jaws.
"Look at the dog, Colonel!" exclaimed Jack. "Look!"
"Gad! he's got hold of the Indian's watch!" cried the detective. "He's been worrying it as he would a bone, and he's got it in his mouth and can't get it out! Easy there! don't touch it!" came the sharp command, as Jack Young took a step forward, evidently with the intention of helping the distressed animal.
"What's the matter, Colonel?" asked Jack. "You don't want to see the dog suffer, do you?"
"No, but—there, he's got it out himself!"
With an effort the dog had pawed from his mouth the watch, which, being rather large and of peculiar shape, had for some time, been stuck in his jaws. It rolled out on the floor, and the colonel stooped to pick it up. But Jack noticed that his chief used a wad of the tissue paper with which to handle the timepiece, which was no longer ticking.
"What's the matter—'fraid of soiling your hands?" asked Jack with a laugh.
"Well, yes, in a way—"
"Look at the dog's mouth! It's bleeding!" cried Jack, pointing.
"I was afraid it would be," said the colonel, quietly. "Don't go near him, Jack, for, unless I'm much mistaken—"
The two men gazed at the dog. The little animal suddenly looked up at them in a peculiar manner. It whined and its body was shaken as with a cold shiver. A little blood was running down the lips which were now foam-flecked.
"The dog's going mad!" cried Jack. "Look out, Colonel, or—"
"You needn't be afraid," was the calm answer, as the other turned toward the door. "He'll never hurt any one. Ah, I thought so!"
And, as the colonel spoke, Chet gave a shudder, fell over on his side and, with a long sigh, lay very still.
CHAPTER XVI
THE COLONEL WONDERS
"What did that, Colonel? What devilish thing did that?" and with a trembling finger Jack Young pointed to the body of the dead dog on the floor of the detective's room. "What killed the poor brute?"
"Unless I'm very much mistaken this did," was the answer in a low voice, and the colonel, with the watch still wrapped carefully in the wad of tissue paper, placed it on the table.
"That ticker killed the dog? Nonsense! He didn't swallow it! He had it in his mouth, but he got it out! That couldn't have killed him!"
"I think it did though, Jack, just as it killed Shere Ali and just as—"
"Do you mean—that's what killed Mrs. Darcy—that watch?"
"I don't know yet, Jack."
"But how could it? How could—"
The visitor ceased his questions to watch the colonel, who had gone to a closet and taken out a pair of rubber gloves. Putting them on, he took the watch from its tissue paper wrappings, and then, holding it under the gleaming light on his table, he gave a twist to the case, pressed on a certain point in the rim with the end of his lead pencil and a tiny needle shot out into view.
"Look!" said the colonel to Jack Young.
"Good Lord! An infernal machine in a watch!"
"Not exactly an infernal machine, but a poisoned needle which only required pressure on the rim of the case to shoot it out into the hand, or whatever part of a person or animal was near it. Poor Chet, gnawing the watch which he was playing with—worrying it as he would a bone—must have bitten on the right place. The needle shot out, pierced his tongue or lips and—the deadly poison did the rest!"
"But, Colonel—this—this is the watch Mrs. Darcy had in her hand when she was found dead!"
"Yes," was the cool response.
"And its the same one Shere Ali had in his hand when he was found dead!"
"Yes."
"But both of them had their heads smashed in!"
"Yes, Jack."
"But, Great Scott, Colonel! the watch can't do that as well as poison to death! It's out of the question!"
"Of course it is. I didn't claim the watch did anything like that. I don't even claim the poison-needle watch killed Mrs. Darcy or Shere Ali. But that it did kill Chet I'm certain."
"I believe you're right there, Colonel Ashley. Poor little dog!" and
Jack, who loved animals, looked at the limp body.
"I know I'm right, Jack. If I had seen, in time, that he had the watch I'd have tried to get it away from him. But maybe it will turn out for the best. In the interests of justice—"
"Do you think this will help in solving the mystery?"
"It may."
"But I thought you said the poison-needle watch might not have killed
Mrs. Darcy?"
"I'm not saying anything, Jack. It might, and might not."
"But the blow on her head—the stab wound in her side—?"
"Both could have been inflicted after the poison watch killed her—if it did. Mind you, Jack, I'm making no statements. I am only suggesting possibilities."
"But— Great Scott, Colonel—Shere Ali was killed in the same way!
He had the ticking watch in his hand, and his head was smashed in!"
"Yes."
"And of course he may have been struck on his head after he died from the poisoned watch?"
"Exactly."
"And this watch Darcy had in his possession to repair just before Mrs. Darcy was found dead, and she had it in her hand and—say, Colonel, where are we at?" and Jack Young looked hopelessly at his chief.
"I don't know," was the measured answer. "I wish I did. There is only one thing we can be sure of, and that is, no matter what part Darcy had in the murder—if he had any—by means of this watch in the case of Mrs. Darcy, he had none in Shere Ali's case, for Darcy was locked up when that tragedy occurred."
"That's so, Colonel. And yet— Oh, well, what's the use of speculating? What are you going to do next?"
"I don't know. I wish—"
There came another knock on the door and a voice asked:
"Is Chet in here, Colonel? I generally find him with you when he isn't in my room and—"
Mr. Bland entered through the opened door, and from the figures of the detective and his helper the eyes of Chet's owner went to that of the motionless dog. Chet's master sensed something wrong, for with a cry of his pet's name he hurried toward the stretched-out animal.
"Don't!" exclaimed the colonel, reaching out a restraining hand. "The dog has been poisoned, and with a poison so deadly that even some of the foam from his lips, in a tiny scratch, might cause your death. Don't touch him with bare hands."
"Poisoned, Colonel! Chet poisoned?"
Sorrowfully enough Colonel Ashley told how it had happened, showing the poisoned watch, but not disclosing the fact that it was the one which had figured in the deaths of Mrs. Darcy and Shere Ali. And as nothing had yet been made public to the effect that the watch, which had had a part in both cases, was more than an ordinary timepiece Mr. Bland did not connect it with these two deaths. Colonel Ashley let it be understood that the watch was a curiosity having to do with some case he was investigating.
"And if I had even dreamed that your dog would take it off the stool to worry it, as he might a bone, I'd never have let him in here," said the detective. "I can't tell you how sorry I am, Mr. Bland, for I loved Chet almost as much as you did."
"I know—I know! And he liked you. Poor little dog! Poor little dog!"
Tenderly they bore him out, the colonel insisting that no one touch him with ungloved hands, and a little later Chet was quietly buried.
"But what are you going to do about that watch—and all that it means?" asked Jack Young, later, when he was about to depart to take up the shadowing of Harry King.
"I'm going to see how it's made and try to learn whether or not Darcy was aware of its deadly nature. If he was—"
The colonel did not finish.
"Well, I'll get on my way," said Jack, after a pause. "I'll keep in touch with you, in case you need me."
"And don't lose sight of Harry King," was the parting admonition. "Something just as unexpected as this may turn up in his case," and the colonel motioned to the watch.
Left to himself, the detective looked at the timepiece on his table, now silent in its tissue wrapping. The needle, which under the magnifying glass was shown to be hollow, probably drawing the poison from some receptacle inside the case, had slipped back out of sight when the pressure was removed from the rim.
"The watch of death!" mused the colonel. "I must see how you are made inside, and I think I'd better have a professional perform an autopsy on you. I'll send for Kettridge. He knows all about watches, though I question if he ever saw one like this."
The colonel was about to use his telephone when it rang and, answering it, he was told that another visitor wished to see him.
"Who is it?" he asked the clerk downstairs.
"Mr. Aaron Grafton."
"Send him up."
Grafton was plainly nervous as he entered the room; and the colonel, had he not been a man of experience, might have allowed this nervousness to influence his judgment, and bring into too much prominence the first suspicions the detective had felt regarding this man.
"Ah, Mr. Grafton, you wish to see me?"
"Only for a moment, Colonel Ashley. I don't like to call on you thus openly, for it might give rise to all sorts of questions, but—"
"Oh, don't let that worry you. I'm a detective, and known as such now. And you, as the owner of a large department store, where shop-lifting and other crimes may be committed any day, are often in need of the services of detectives, I should say."
"I am, but—"
"Well, don't worry. If any one knows of your coming to me they will imagine you wish to consult me about something connected with your store. So don't let that influence you. But has anything else happened?"
"Yes," answered Mr. Grafton, "there has."
"What?" asked the colonel.
"Well, I've come to say that I don't think I'll need your services any more."
"Not need them?"
"No. And I wish to pay you and thank you. I'm ever so much obliged to you for what you have done—"
"But I haven't done anything yet. I haven't—Oh, I see. You are not satisfied with my work on your behalf. Well, I can't say I blame you, for really I haven't had time to give it as much consideration as I'd like. Still that couldn't be helped and—"
"Oh, don't misunderstand me, Colonel Ashley. I am not at all dissatisfied," and Mr. Grafton held up a protesting hand. "The truth is, I'll not need your services in helping me to recover the diamond cross for Mrs. Larch—or Miss Ratchford, as she calls herself since the separation. You can drop that case, Colonel."
"Drop it?"
"Yes, the diamond cross has been recovered. I just had a letter from
Cyn—from Miss Ratchford, saying she has the cross."
"She has the missing diamond cross?" fairly cried the detective.
"Yes."
"Where did she get it. Could Spotty—" The colonel whispered the last name to himself and then stopped short.
"I don't know. I just had a telegram from her, and I am going to see her now to learn the particulars," went on Aaron Grafton. "She is in Pompey, you know—where she used to live as a girl, and where I— Well, I'm going to see her. I came to tell you the diamond cross mystery is solved and if you will let me know what I owe you I'll send you a check."
"Oh, that part will be all right, Mr. Grafton. But I don't understand."
"Nor do I," flung back Aaron Grafton over his shoulder, as he left the colonel's room, rather hastily. "I'll tell you as soon as I've seen Miss Ratchford. Good-bye!" and he was gone.
For a moment the colonel remained motionless in the middle of the room.
Then a queer look came over his face as he murmured:
"Now I wonder whether he's telling the truth—or lying! Is the diamond cross in her possession, or did Grafton say that so I'd drop the case and—leave him out of it? I wonder. And, by the same token of wondering I think I'd better not let you get too far away from me, Mr. Grafton. You will bear a little closer watching."
CHAPTER XVII
"A JOLLY GOOD FELLOW"
"Well," remarked Colonel Ashley briskly to himself, "there are two or three things I've got to do, and do them right away. Which shall I tackle first? I wonder if it won't be best to have Kettridge come here and perform the autopsy on that watch," and he looked toward the closet where he had placed the one that had belonged to Singa Phut. "If I can look inside that, and see whether or not the mechanism is so obvious that Darcy must have stumbled on it when he started to repair it—if he did—then, well, that complicates matters. Yes, I think I must see Kettridge."
Once more the colonel started toward his room telephone, intending to summon the jeweler, who was living over the store in Mrs. Darcy's rooms.
The colonel paused at the instrument, recalling that, as he had been about to use it before there had come in a call for him—the call announcing the department-store keeper.
But this time the instrument was mute, and the colonel had soon asked central for the telephone in the apartments now occupied by Mr. Kettridge. There was a period of waiting.
"I am ringing Marcy 5426," announced the pleasant voice of the girl in the central office.
"Thank you," responded the detective.
Another period of waiting, and again the announcement of the girl, though the colonel had not manifested any impatience.
"Very well," he responded. "There may be no one at home."
It was evident, a little later, that at least no one intended to answer the telephone, and the colonel hung up he receiver.
"Well, Kettridge can wait," he murmured, as he carefully put away the watch, thinking, with a sigh of regret, of poor little Chet. The dog was a friendly animal and had made many friends in the hotel.
"And so Miss Ratchford—to use her maiden name—has the diamond cross back again," mused the colonel. "But how in the world could she get it, when Spotty had it, and the police that are holding him have that, and he's resisting extradition? Say, I wish I could go fishing!" and the colonel shook his head in dogged impatience at the tangle into which the affair had snarled itself.
"Spotty must have robbed the jewelry store in spite of what he says about it," mused the Colonel. "But if he did, and got the cross, even if he didn't kill Mrs. Darcy, how in the world could he get the cross back to her when the police took it away from him and when the last I saw of it it was in the police headquarters safe?
"This certainly gets me! Oh Shag! is that you?" called the colonel as he heard some one moving out in the hall near his door.
"Yes, sah, Colonel!"
"You stay here until I come back. I'm going out, and I don't know what time I'll be in. Be careful to get straight any messages that come in over the wire, and if Jack Young calls up get the 'phone number of the place where he is so I can call him."
"Yes, sah, Colonel."
"And, Shag!"
"Yes, sah, Colonel!"
"Hand me that little green book. I may have to be up all night, and I want something to read that will keep me awake," and the colonel slipped into his coat pocket the green volume. He was taking his fishing by a sort of "correspondence school method" it will be observed.
The detective busied himself about his apartment getting ready to go out, and from a suitcase which was closed with a complicated lock he took a number of articles which he stowed away in various pockets of his garments.
"Is yo' gwine be out all night, Colonel?" asked Shag.
"I can't say. I'm going to do a bit of shadow work and it may take me until sunrise. But you stay right here."
"Yes, sah, Colonel. I will."
"And now we'll see, Mr. Aaron Grafton," said the detective to himself, as he prepared to leave, "whether you're telling the truth or not. I think my one best bet is to follow you when you go to see Miss Cynthia!"
But before the colonel could leave the room there sounded the insistent ringing of his telephone bell.
"I wonder if that can be Kettridge," he mused. "And yet he wouldn't know that I had called him. Answer it, Shag," he directed. "It may be some one I don't care to talk to now. Don't say I'm here until you find out who it is."
"Yes, sah, Colonel!"
The colored servant unhooked the receiver and listened a moment. Then, carefully covering the mouthpiece with his hand, he announced:
"It's Mr. Young, Colonel!"
"Is it! Good! Hold him! I'll talk with him!"
Quickly crossing the room the detective spoke rapidly into the instrument.
"Hello, Jack! This is the colonel. Yes—what is it? He is? That's unusual—for him. Guess he's going down and out by the wrong route! Yes, I'll come right away! You follow King and I'll take the trail after Larch. So he's boasting that— Well, all sorts of things may happen now. Yes, I'm on my way now. You follow King!"
The detective remained motionless for a few seconds after he had slipped the receiver into its hook. Then he said to Shag:
"Do you know where I ought to be now?"
The colored man paused a moment before replying. Then he played a safety shot by answering:
"No, sah, Colonel, I jest doesn't—zactly."
"Well, I ought to be getting ready to go fishing. I'm sick of this whole business. I'm going to quit! I never ought to have gone into it. I'm too old. I told 'em that, but they wouldn't believe me."
"Too old to go fishin', sah, Colonel? No sah! You'll never be dat!
Never!"
"Oh, I don't mean fishing, Shag! I mean I never ought to have been mixed up with this affair—this detective business. I'm going to quit now, Shag!"
"Yes, sah, Colonel!"
"Get me Kedge on the long distance."
"Mr. Kedge, in N' York, sah?"
"Yes. I'm going to turn this over to him. It's getting on my nerves.
I want to go fishing. I'll let him work out the rest of the problems.
Get Kedge on the wire."
"Yes, sah, Colonel."
The colored man went to the instrument, but before he had engaged the attention of central his master called:
"Oh, Shag!"
"Yes, sah, Colonel."
"Wait a minute. I suppose Kedge is very busy now?"
"Well, yes, sah, I s'pects so. He had dat ar' animal case."
"Oh, you mean Mr. Campbell's?"
"Yes, sah! Dat's it. I knowed it was a camel or a elephant."
"Yes, I suppose he's busy on that. So don't bother him. Anyhow, it would take him as long to get here, pick up the loose ends, and start out right, as it would take me to finish."
"Mo' so, Colonel," voiced Shag. "A whole lot mo'."
"Oh, well, hang it all! That's the way it is. I never can get a little vacation. But now I'm in this game I suppose I might as well stick! Never mind that call, Shag! I'll finish this."
"Yes, sah, Colonel."
A fact which the wise Shag had known all along.
"For it's always good weather,
When good fellows get together!"
Over and over again the not unmusical strains welled out from one of the private rooms, opening off the grill of the Homestead. At times Larch stopped at the entrance, smiling good-naturedly, but with rather a cynical look on his clean-chiseled but cruel face. More than once his eyes sought those of Harry King, and the latter nodded and smiled. He was spending money freely, but was keeping himself well in hand, though a waiter was at his side more often than at the side of any of the others.
"How long has this been going on, Jack?" asked the colonel, who reached the hotel soon after his talk with Shag.
"All the afternoon, I guess, and it looks as if it would be all night."
"So it does! I wish I'd never gotten into this mess, but I can't get out now. Kedge would be sure to spoil it after I've started things moving. What especially did you want to tell me?"
"Well, King is in there, in his usual state—dignified, of course, but how long he'll stay that way I can't tell. It's Larch that puzzles me."
"Yes, it isn't usual for him to make such a congenial companion of himself with his customers. But he's very different since his wife separated from him. He doesn't hold himself so highly."
"And it's telling on his business."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that a number of his best friends are leaving him. The way it used to be was that the Homestead was patronized by a good class of people and organizations, some that even were opposed to the liquor trade. They knew they could have it or not have it as they pleased. But now Larch is catering more and more to parties that wouldn't come here if there wasn't something strong to drink, and that's driving the other sort away."
"Yes, I've noticed that of late."
"And that isn't all," went on Young. "Larch is going to come a cropper, if I'm any judge."
"What do you mean?" Again the Colonel seemed puzzled.
"I mean he's going to smash financially. He's been making some poor investments of late, as well as gambling heavily, and his money can't last forever. He had a lot, but most of it is gone."
"I hadn't heard that."
"Well, it's true. He was well off when he married. That's the reason he got such a pretty wife, I hear. Her folks were ambitious for her. Well, she did shine for a while, for the Homestead was not an ordinary hotel. It was more of a Colchester institution. But it's fast becoming something else now.
"Larch is being pressed for cash, and that may be one reason why he's so thick with Harry King. King's got cash, if it can only be gotten at. I overheard Larch sounding him as to the chances of raising a big sum."
"And what did King say?"
"He agreed to try to get it for Larch. That's all I gathered then.
But I heard them talking of something else."
"What?"
"Larch dropped a hint that he and his wife might be reconciled."
"The deuce you say!"
"That's right, Colonel. I heard him telling King about it. Larch is going to pay his wife a visit—going to call on her at her father's place in Pompey. And he's going to take her out a present. I believe that's the usual thing after a quarrel."
"Possibly," admitted the colonel. "Oh, I wish I'd never mixed up in this! I'm sorry for young Darcy, and I believe— Oh, well, what's the use of talking now! I'm in it and I must see it through. So Larch is going to visit his wife?"
"Yes. He's either sent her a present or is going to. I couldn't quite catch which."
"What sort of present, Jack?"
"A diamond cross."
"What?" and the colonel had suddenly to modulate his voice or he would have attracted more attention that he cared to. "A diamond cross? Are you sure about that, Young?"
"Sure! Why not? I don't see anything queer there. He might buy her a diamond cross as a sort of forgiveness gift. Same idea Harry King had you know, but a little higher class, that's all.
"You know, Colonel, these things are about alike. The man on Water Street gets drunk and brings his wife home a quart of oysters as a peace offering. The man on the boulevard does the same thing and patches up the break with a pearl pendant. It's all the same, only different."
"Yes, I suppose so. I didn't know you were a philosopher, Jack."
"I'm not. It's just common sense."
"But a diamond cross! And if Larch is losing money—"
"Oh, well, he may have held out some, or maybe the diamond cross isn't so elaborate. You know they take a lot of little diamonds now, set 'em in a cluster and make 'em look as good as a solitaire. Anyhow Larch has been boasting to King that there's to be a diamond cross present. And there's another angle to it."
"What's that, Jack?"
"Well, there's been some talk between Larch and King about some big diamonds that have been sold of late. I couldn't catch whether King had sold them or Larch. Anyhow they brought quite a sum of money. Maybe they were stolen from the jewelry stock."
"Not unless Mrs. Darcy had some of which James Darcy knew nothing."
"Well, I saw Larch at one time, and Harry King at another, have one of those white tissue paper packages that jewelers keep diamonds in. I didn't get a glimpse at the stones themselves. I had to be a bit cautious you know, and, even now, I think they're suspicious of me here. If it wasn't that King drinks so much, though he manages to walk and talk straight. I believe he'd try to pump me. Anyhow, I thought I'd better let you know what I'd heard."
"Jack, I'm glad you did. So Larch has sent, or is going to send, his wife a diamond cross! Well, then, Grafton might be right about that after all. Gad! this thing is getting mixed up! Now, Jack—"
A waiter who knew the colonel, from the fact that the latter was a striking figure and had been in the Homestead more than once, approached the private room occupied by the detective and Jack Young and announced:
"Excuse me, Colonel, but you are wanted at the telephone."
"All right. Where is it?"
"You can come right in here and have the call transferred from our central," and the man opened the door of a small booth. The Homestead was honeycombed with private rooms, booths and telephones.
"Yes, this is Colonel Ashley," announced the detective into the instrument, when his identity had been questioned. "Who are you? Oh, Shag! Yes, Shag, what is it? What's that—at the jewelry store you say? Well, will this never end? Yes, I'll go there at once!"
"What is it?" asked Jack, as the colonel hung up the receiver.
"Why, Kettridge telephoned to my room, and Shag took the message and repeated it to me. Sallie Page, the old servant of Mrs. Darcy has just been killed by an electric shock in the jewelry store!"