CHAPTER VI
THE MYSTERY DEEPENS
From the Langmore mansion Adam Adams went to town, and at the morgue made a careful inspection of the pair who had been the victims of the tragedy. This critical examination brought nothing new to light, and he turned away from the place with something of disappointment.
"I'll take a look around that brook again, and see if that strange man is anywhere in sight," he told himself, and got back to the vicinity without delay.
Fortune favored him for once, for scarcely had he reached the back of the Langmore mansion when he saw the stranger leap the brook again and come up towards the house.
"Just in time," murmured the detective. "He shall not slip me again in a hurry."
The stranger was very much on his guard, and Adam Adams had all he could do to keep out of his sight. It was now growing dark, especially under the trees which surrounded the mansion.
At length the fellow gained a point almost under one of the library windows. He gazed around sharply, and then appeared to be searching for something on the ground. The detective saw him start to pick something up, but at that moment the side door of the mansion opened and the policeman came out.
"Hullo! What are you doing here?" demanded the officer.
"Oh, that's all right," was the low answer. "Don't mind me."
"But what are you doing here?"
"Just looking around, that's all."
"You haven't any right in this yard."
"I think I have."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Watkins—Jack Watkins," and then some words followed which
Adam Adams did not catch.
"Oh, then I suppose that makes a difference," came from the policeman in a more humble tone. "Do you want to come in the house and see Miss Langmore?"
"No, I don't want to see the girl. But I'll come into the house," answered the strange man, and walked up the piazza steps and into the mansion, with the policeman by his side.
As soon as the fellow was ought of sight, Adam Adams drew closer and looked under the bushes where the other had been searching.
At first he saw nothing, but then his keen eye detected a bit of paper, caught at the foot of some shrubbery.
"More documentary evidence, perhaps," he murmured, as he shoved the paper into his pocket. "I wonder if this connects with the piece I found under the safe?"
He approached the window, the blinds of which were closed, and peered through the slats. A light had been lit, and the policeman and the stranger had just entered the room.
"I don't think you'll find much to interest you," said the officer.
"All of the others have hunted around, and they didn't find much."
The stranger walked around the apartment slowly, and then sank into an armchair.
"Sit down and have a smoke with me," he said, pulling out his cigar case. "You've got a long night before you."
"I am not going to stay up all night. The women folks and me are going to take turns. They should have sent another man here, but the Chief couldn't spare him, two of the men being sick."
Cigars were lit, and the pair smoked away for several minutes, talking of the case in all of its details. Evidently the stranger agreed with the general public regarding Margaret Langmore's guilt.
"Of course she'll put on a good front," said he, blowing a ring of smoke into the air. "She's that sort—so I've heard. What does her stepbrother say about it?"
"Not much, now. At first he didn't think her guilty, but after he talked with me and the women folks, he changed his mind, I reckon. It's a blow to him, for he thought a good deal of the old lady."
"Mr. Sudley!" came a call from the hallway. "Mr. Sudley, where are you?"
It was one of the women who was calling, and, laying down his cigar, the policeman left the library to see what she wanted.
The door had scarcely closed on the officer when the demeanor of the other man changed. He arose, looked into the dining room, and listened at the hall doorway for a second. Then he recrossed the apartment and knelt before the safe. Adam Adams heard him mutter something to himself as he twirled around the knob of the combination. Twice he tried the door and failed to open it, but the third effort was successful. But before he could do more than glance into the strong box, there was a noise in the hallway. Instantly he shut the door again, dropped into his chair, and resumed his smoking.
"Women folks are a regular nuisance," was the policeman's comment, on coming back. "Want you to do this and then that—keep you on the go all the time. I'm tired of it."
"Take my advice, and don't marry," was the rejoinder, with a laugh.
"Too late—I've got a wife and five children already. But I've got to go to the barn. Will you come along?"
"Why—er—I suppose so." The stranger hesitated. "I'll have to be going pretty soon. Going to stay in this room all night?"
"No; I'm going to lock up and go upstairs."
"That's right; nothing like resting on a good bed. I don't think the girl will try to run away,"
"She can't—we're watching her too closely."
The pair left the library. Scarcely had they gone when Adam Adams opened one of the blinds, made a quick leap, and came inside.
"That fellow will bear watching, no matter who he claims to be," the detective told himself. "But there is no use of following him now, for he will be back sooner or later. He did not open this safe for nothing."
With the policeman and the stranger gone, the lower portion of the mansion appeared deserted. Adam Adams looked to make sure that he was not observed, and then went to the safe. As he had anticipated, the door now came open with ease.
The detective felt that he was in a ticklish position. Had he a right to examine the contents of this strong box? If discovered by any one, what would be the outcome? Even the fact that he was in a way connected with the law might not clear him.
But he felt he must take some risks. He knew the sentiment against Margaret Langmore, and knew that sentiment in a country place is almost equal to a conviction. The coroner had convinced himself that the girl was guilty, and would go to any extremity to prove the correctness of his theory.
The safe was divided into several compartments, and on one side was a set of three metallic drawers. The open side contained several account books and legal and patent papers. The top drawer contained some old jewelry and a gold watch, the middle drawer some bank bills, not over a hundred dollars, all told.
The bottom drawer was locked, but the key for it lay in the middle drawer, so Adam Adams opened the receptacle with ease. As he did so, a cry of astonishment came to his lips, and he repressed it with difficulty,
The drawer was packed with new and crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, all on the same bank, the Excelsior National, of New York City. There were thirty of the bills, and evidently not one of them had been in circulation. The detective started as he took them up, held them to the somewhat dim light, and started again. He paused for a moment, as if deciding a weighty question. Then he placed the package of bank bills in the inner pocket of his coat.
"These have no right to be here," he muttered. "The only place for them is in the hands of the federal authorities."
Under the bills lay several legal documents. One was labeled:
"Mortgage of Matlock Styles to Barry S. Langmore, $8,000."
There were likewise two other mortgages between the same parties, one for $3,000 and the other for $5,000.
"Whoever Matlock Styles is, he evidently owes the Langmore estate sixteen thousand dollars," the detective told himself; "that is, if the obligations have not been cancelled. I wonder what the mortgages were doing in with those bills?"
"Mr. Adams!"
A soft call from the window made the detective turn swiftly. To his surprise, he saw Raymond Case peering at him through the blinds. The young man's face showed his perplexity.
"What brought you?" asked the detective. He did not relish being caught off his guard.
"I couldn't think of going to bed at the hotel, I was so upset. I thought, if I came over here, I might discover something of value, or help you in some way. I see you've managed to get that safe open. It was certainly a clever piece of work."
"As it happens opening the safe was not my work," was the answer. "Another man opened it and I took the liberty of looking inside. But I can't talk about that here. Wait a minute and I'll join you outside."
Adam Adams swung the door of the safe open once more. As he surmised, the combination could be set to a new series of numbers with ease. He fixed it to correspond with the numbers of his own office safe, then closed the door, gave the knob a twirl, and hurried from the room by the same opening by which he had entered.
"When I first came up I thought somebody was robbing the safe," said
Raymond Case, when the pair were at a distance from the house.
"What did you see me do?"
"Take out a package of bankbills and put them into your pocket. Oh, I know it must be all right, Mr. Adams. But it looked queer."
"I took them for safe keeping. Look at them for a moment. I'll strike a match behind this clump of trees. Count them over, too. It may be as well to have a witness for this."
Raymond Case took the crisp bills and did as requested.
"Three thousand dollars," he said. "All brand new bills and each for a hundred dollars."
"Exactly, and each on the same bank."
"So they are. That's rather odd; isn't it?"
"And all of the same serial number."
"Gracious! Mr. Adams—"
"Wait. Mr. Case, I am going to trust you even as you have trusted me.
I want you to keep this a secret."
"Certainly, but—"
"The bills are counterfeit."
CHAPTER VII
ONE OF THE PROFESSION
"Counterfeit bank bills!" gasped the young man. "And in Mr. Langmore's possession! Taken from his safe! What does it mean?"
"That remains to be found out."
"This is—is astounding! You don't suspect that he was in the habit—I mean that he—" Raymond Case did not know how to go on.
"It's too early to form a conclusion. But one thing is certain, the counterfeits were in his private safe, and from all accounts that safe had not been opened since his death. Consequently he must have placed them there."
"I don't believe he dealt in counterfeits," returned the young man bluntly.
"Facts are stubborn things to overcome. Down in the town I learned that Mr. Langmore used to be a comparatively poor man. All his wealth has come to him in the past six years."
"He made his money out of his patents and out of various other schemes."
"All of his wealth has come to him in the past six years," pursued the detective. "I happen to know something about these counterfeits, which the federal authorities have been trying to trace to their source. The first of these bogus one hundred dollar bills appeared about six years ago, at a bank in Brooklyn."
The heart of the young man sank within him, and as he spoke his lips began to quiver.
"Mr. Adams, are you going to give this news to the world at large—to the United States authorities—are you going to brand Margaret's father as a counterfeiter, or a passer of queer money? If you do that, even if you clear Margaret, you'll break her heart."
"I am going to do nothing at present but keep on investigating. We have not yet reached the end of this string by any means. Did I not tell you that another opened the safe?—a fellow who has been acting queerly ever since I caught sight of him? He is connected with this complicated affair, although how still remains to be seen."
"Who was the man?"
"He gave his name to the policeman as Jack Watkins."
"I never heard that name before. How does he look?"
Adam Adams described the fellow minutely, but Raymond Case shook his head.
"I can't place him. But that is not strange," he added. "I know very few folks in this neighborhood."
"Do you know a man named Matlock Styles."
"Not very well—I met him once, when he was calling on Mr. Langmore on business. He is an Englishman, fairly well to do, who lives in an old colonial house on the Harper road, a mile and a half, I should say, from here."
"Do you know what business this Styles had with Mr. Langmore?"
"I don't remember very well—but hold up, yes, I do. He owed Mr. Langmore some money. The two put through some sort of real estate deal."
"How much did Styles owe Mr. Langmore?"
"I don't know exactly, but it was a large amount, fifteen or twenty thousand dollars."
"What sort of a man would you take this Styles to he?"
"Oh, he is a big, overbearing Englishman, one of the kind with mutton-chop whiskers and a red nose. He is a great chap for fast horses, and I've heard he has quite a stable of them over to his place. He is also a dog fancier."
"Has he been here lately?"
"I don't know. Perhaps Margaret could tell you. But what has this to do—"
"Nothing at all, perhaps. In the safe with the bankbills were some mortgage papers given to Mr. Langmore by this Matlock Styles. But the two may not have the least connection with each other."
The two had been walking away from the house and now the detective turned back. As he did so he thought of the bit of paper he had picked up in the shrubbery. He struck a match with one hand and held up the slip with the other. It was a memorandum, running as follows:
$8,000
5,000
3,000
$16,000
———-
.03%
———-
$480.00
Adam Adams studied the memorandum with interest. The amounts at the top were those of the mortgages given by Matlock Styles to Barry Langmore. Evidently somebody had figured out what the interest would be at three per cent.
"What is that?" asked Raymond Case.
"A bit of paper I picked up around here. It doesn't seem to amount to anything. But I think we had better part now, Mr. Case. If I have anything to report I'll see you to-morrow at the Beechwood Hotel."
The pair separated, and Adam Adams watched the young man disappear down the road, the latter feeling that he ought not to interfere with the work of the man he had engaged to unravel the mystery. In deep thought the detective went back to the neighborhood of the mansion and stationed himself where he could get a look at the library windows.
Adam Adams felt that the case was growing deeper and deeper. The finding of the counterfeit banknotes in Barry Langmore's safe was astonishing. Where this thread of the skein would lead to he could not imagine.
"I seem to be uncovering more than I bargained for," he mused. "If the man was innocent of all wrong-doing why didn't he turn those bills over to the authorities? Were he alive we should certainly say he was caught with the goods. If this comes out it will create as much of a sensation as the murder itself."
Two hours went by and still the detective kept to his post. He was used to waiting—had he not waited in the bitter cold six hours to clear that poor Jew?—and he knew that sooner or later the man calling himself Jack Watkins would reappear.
A light flared up in the library and then was turned lower. He crept to the window and looked in as before. The strange man was at the safe, working the combination knob backward and forward.
In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Adam Adams was forced to smile. The man worked hurriedly and tried the combination a score of times. He muttered something under his breath which may well be omitted from these printed pages. He even got into a heavy perspiration and had to pause to wipe his forehead with his handkerchief.
"Hang the luck!" he went on. "I had it open before. What's got into the confounded combination?"
Again he tried to work the figures. But it was all of no avail, and at last he arose, fists clenched, and with a face full of baffled anger. He stalked around the library, gazed at the strong box several times, and then quit the apartment.
Waiting once more, the detective presently saw the man come from the house and walk toward the road. Following, he saw the fellow hurry past the Bardon home and then into a patch of timber. Here he had a horse, and in a moment more would have been in the saddle had not Adam Adams caught him by the arm.
"Hi! what's this, a hold-up?" cried the man, evidently frightened. "Let go of me!" And he tried to pull away and then attempted to draw a revolver from a hip pocket.
"Stop! I am not going to hurt you," was the calm reply from the detective. "I want to talk to you, that's all."
"Really?" came with a sneer. "A fine time of night to hold a man up.
Be quick, for I am in a hurry."
"I want you to explain several things to me," went on Adam Adams calmly.
"Explain? To you?"
"That is what I said. You can take your choice. Either explain or consider yourself under arrest."
"Eh? Say, are you crazy?"
"Not at all."
"An officer of the law, I suppose."
"I am—in a way."
"Working on this Langmore affair?"
"Yes."
"Have you been following me?"
"I've done more than that—I've been watching you."
"What! How long?"
"Quite a long while. I saw you in the library, twice, and down to the brook."
The man started and was evidently much put out. Then he forced a smile to his face.
"Much obliged for playing the spy," he murmured.
"Down at the brook you had a pair of Miss Langmore's shoes. What were you doing with them?"
"Did you see me with the shoes?"
"I did, and I saw you with the silk shirtwaist."
"Ah! Anything else?"
"I saw you at the safe in the library of the mansion."
"When, now?"
"Now and some hours ago. You may as well make a clean breast of it."
"I will, If you will tell me who you are."
"I am Adam Adams, of New York City."
The strange man let out a hissing sound between his teeth. Then of a sudden he gave a wild, unnatural laugh.
"Shake hands, Mr. Adams," he said, putting out his hand. "I know you by reputation even if not personally. You see, your reputation is so much larger than my own." He laughed again, a sound which grated on the detective's nerves. "I am John S. Watkins, of Bryport. I am connected with the United States secret service."
CHAPTER VIII
WHAT CEPHAS CARBOY SAW
There was a brief pause after the man from Bryport made his announcement. Adam Adams tried hard to see his face clearly, but in the gloom this was impossible.
"Perhaps you do not believe me," said John Watkins. "I can easily prove what I say."
"Why shouldn't I believe you?"
"Because you were on the point of arresting me, which proves that you took me to be—something else."
"How long have you been connected with the secret service?"
"About three years. That is why I know you so well."
"Did your work as a secret service man bring you to this place?"
"Excuse me, but that is my business. If you are working on this case, well and good. But it is not fair to try to steal any of my thunder."
"So far as I am concerned you shall get full credit for what you may do on this case, Mr. Watkins," said Adam Adams stiffly. "But I should like to understand several points."
"About the shoes and the shirtwaist, I suppose. I got the shoes from the house to make certain that some footprints on the bank of the brook had been made by Miss Langmore."
"What about the shirtwaist?"
"It was there when I came, and I left it there, as it did not seem to have much of a connection with the affair."
"Do you think you had a right to tamper with the safe in the library?"
"Considering certain circumstances, which I do not intend just now to disclose to you, I think I had a right."
"Did you take anything from the safe?"
"Not a thing. In fact, I couldn't get the safe open. You must know this, if you saw me a while ago."
"You opened the door the first time."
"I do not deny it. The policeman interrupted me and I shut the box up.
When I came back the combination had gotten away from me."
There was a pause.
"Where are you stopping, Mr. Watkins, in case I wish to communicate with you again?"
"At Hager's Hotel, in Sidham. But I am on the jump nearly all the time," and the secret service man laughed again. "Anything else?"
"No."
"Then I'll be going. I've got to send a long secret message before I go to bed and it takes time to follow the code, you know that. Good-night," and in a moment more John Watkins was on his horse and riding away at a good rate of speed.
Adam Adams watched his departure with a variety of thoughts chasing each other through his mind. The man must be what he claimed, he had shown his badge on the inside of his coat, and been perfectly willing to prove his words.
"If he is honest, he must be on the trail of those counterfeits, and perhaps it was my duty to tell him of my discovery," mused the detective. "It is curious how these two cases have wound around each other, or is it all one case?"
Concluding that there was nothing more to be done that night, Adam Adams took himself to the Beechwood Hotel, secured a room, and was soon in the land of dreams. He arose early, obtained his breakfast, and without waiting to meet Raymond Case, started off to interview Doctor Bird, one of the two persons Margaret Langmore had seen go past the mansion about the time the tragedy was occurring.
He found the doctor an individual with an exaggerated idea of his own importance. It was hard to bind him down to tell what he actually knew and it took the detective the best part of an hour to learn that the physician knew nothing of real importance.
A short while later Adam Adams learned that the farmer who had been seen going past the mansion was named Cephas Carboy. He was a strange individual, of no education, who lived on a hillside road, running some distance to the rear of the Langmore house. When the detective arrived there he found Carboy sitting under a tree smoking a short clay pipe. The farm was a neglected one, the house about ready to tumble down, and in the dooryard were half a dozen dirty and ragged children, who scampered out of sight on the approach of a stranger.
"Good morning," said Adam Adams cheerfully. He saw at a glance that the fellow before him was a thoroughly shiftless character.
"Mornin' to you," was the short response.
"This is Mr. Cephas Carboy?"
"Cephas Carboy's my name—ain't much of a mister to it," and the man grinned feebly.
"You're the man I want to see, Carboy," and the detective took a seat on a log close by.
"Want to see me? What fer? I don't know you."
"I want to see you about that Langmore murder."
The shiftless man stared and withdrew his pipe from his mouth with trembling fingers.
"I didn't have nuthin' to do with that. They can't pitch it onto me nohow! I came past the house, that's all I did. I didn't go inside the gate, I didn't. It was Miss Langmore did that murder—or else Mary Billings."
"Did you see anybody round the place when you went past?"
"Not a soul."
"What were you doing around there?"
"Are you an—an officer?"
"Perhaps I am. Anyway, you had best answer my questions."
"I went down to Hopgood's place, to sell some fish I had caught—Mr.
Hopgood can prove it. Then I came straight home."
"Which way did you go to get to Hopgood's?"
"Took the road yonder, around the hill, and crossed the brook at Peabody's bridge—Peabody can prove that, too. He was out in the hayfield and saw me."
Adam Adams took a look at the road mentioned. At a turn there was a cleared spot through the woods and a fair sight could be caught of the rear of the Langmore mansion and of the automobile shed.
"Come here," he called to Cephas Carboy, and when the shiftless man had shuffled up, he continued: "You say you walked this way. When you got to this spot did you happen to look over to the Langmore house?"
"I—er—I did."
"What did you see? Come now, tell me the exact truth," and Adam Adams put as much of sternness as possible in his tone.
"I saw—See here, I don't want to get in no trouble, I don't. I'm a peaceful man, an' I tend to my own business, I do. You ain't a-goin' to drag me into court."
"I don't want to get you into trouble, Carboy—but I must know the truth of this. I take it that you are poor. Am I right?"
"Humph! Do I look like I was rollin' in wealth?"
"Then a five dollar bill means something to you, eh?"
The shiftless man opened his eyes widely.
"Does it? Say, I ain't had a fiver in my fist fer a month, two months! Farmin' don't pay, an' it ain't easy to git work outside, the season's been that poor. If you—"
"Tell me all you know, and perhaps I'll give you five dollars."
"Ain't foolin'?"
"No. There's a dollar on account," and the detective passed over the bill. The shiftless man clutched it eagerly, looked at it to make certain that it was real money, and rammed it into the pocket of his greasy vest.
"Thanks, sir," he murmured. Then he ran his hand through his somewhat matted hair. "Mind now, I can't give you this fer dead certain," he commenced.
"What do you mean by that?"
"I think it happened, but I can't swear to it. That house is putty far off, remember."
"What do you think you saw?"
"I saw a man run across the garden. He had a satchel in his hand and he was in a hurry. He slipped and fell and his hat rolled off. Then he got up, put on his hat, and I lost sight of him behind the bushes."
"How did the man look?"
"Wait up, that ain't all. I'm certain of that part of it, but I ain't so sure of the rest. I waited here a minit, because my wife was calling to me to git some groceries when I came back. I just started to fill my pipe when I looked over there again and I saw a man run from the automobile shed to the house. The bushes was in the way, but hang me if I don't think he went in by a winder instead of a door."
"You are sure you saw him go toward the house?"
"Yes, that was plain enough, although he seemed to be sneakin' along the bushes."
"Was it the same man?"
"It must have been, but I couldn't see his valise, because he was behind the bushes."
"How did the man look?"
"He was a putty heavy fellow and he was dressed in a light gray suit and wore a soft hat to match."
"Was the valise a light or a dark one?"
"Light."
"Could you see anything else?"
"No."
"Did the man have anything besides the valise?"
"Not that I could see. When he fell and his hat flew off I saw that he had a head of heavy dark hair."
"And you are certain about the suit being a light gray one and the soft hat matched it?"
"Yes, I'm dead sure of that."
"What time was this?"
"About half an hour before I passed the house. I stopped at Peabody's to chat a while before I crossed his bridge."
"Did you ever see the man before?"
"Not that I remember."
"You didn't see him after that?"
"No."
Adam Adams drew out a roll of bills and counted out four dollars, which amount he passed over to the fellow he had been interviewing.
"That makes the five I promised you, Carboy. Now then, will you do me a favor?"
"Certainly, sir, anything you want."
"I merely want you to keep what you have told me to yourself for the present."
"Oh, that's easy—unless somebuddy tries to git me into trouble."
"I don't think that will happen—if you keep your mouth shut."
"Then I'll be as mum as an oyster," answered Cephas Carboy decidedly.
"I may be along to see you again soon," continued Adam Adams, and then he drove away in the buggy that had brought him to the vicinity.
He allowed his horse to walk, for he was in a more thoughtful mood than ever. He was thinking of a man he had met the day before, in a suit of gray and with a soft hat of the same color. The man had been Tom Ostrello.
CHAPTER IX
ON THE TRAIN
"This is clearing itself by growing more complicated."
Such was the deduction of the detective after he had reviewed the situation carefully. Was it possible that the son of the woman who had been murdered was guilty of the double tragedy? He remembered what he had been told about Tom Ostrello and his wayward brother Dick, and how mother and son had had an exciting meeting on the day previous to the tragedy.
"I rather think it will pay to investigate a little further along this line," thought Adam Adams. "More than likely he came here for money, either for himself or his brother Dick. If his mother did not have it and wanted it she would have to go to Mr. Langmore for it. That might cause a bitterness all around. Or again, he might have thought that if his step-father were dead his mother would inherit his money and so plotted one murder, which, when he was discovered, ended in a second. It will do no harm to have a talk with this young man."
He reached the Langmore mansion once more to find that Tom Ostrello had departed for the city on necessary business but was coming back before night. Then at the hotel he found a message from his own office calling him to New York.
"You are going away, Mr. Adams?" said Raymond Case, who chanced to see him departing.
"Not for long. I'll be back to-night or to-morrow."
"Anything new?"
"Nothing worth talking about, yet. I must hurry to catch the train.
What are you going to do?"
"I am waiting for the inquest. It will be a terrible trial for
Margaret." And the young man's face showed his concern.
"Tell her for me to make the best of it," answered Adam Adams and hurried to the depot. The train was just coming in and he saw Tom Ostrello get on board, and he entered the car directly behind the commercial traveler. The young man passed through to the smoker and the detective did the same. Two seats were vacant, directly across the aisle from each other and each took one. Presently Ostrello looked at Adam Adams and started slightly and then bowed.
"Excuse me, but I think I saw you up to the Langmore house," he began.
"Yes, I called on Miss Langmore. I believe you are Mrs. Langmore's son."
"Yes. Come over, won't you?" Ostrello moved towards the window of the car. "I've got to have a smoke to quiet my nerves, I'm so upset. Will you have one?" And he presented a case full of choice Havana cigars.
"It must have upset you—it's enough to upset anybody," answered Adam
Adams, as they lit up. "It's a fearful happening, fearful."
"You are acting for Margaret, I heard."
"Yes—if there is a chance to do anything. Do you know anything of the tragedy?"
"Not a thing, outside of what I have heard. When I got the telegram I was fairly stunned. But let me tell you one thing."
"Well?"
"I don't think Margaret is guilty. A girl like her couldn't do such a cold-blooded deed. Why, it's enough to make a man shiver to think of it. It would take a hardened criminal to do such a thing. It's absurd to even suspect her."
"What is your theory of the murders?"
"I hardly know what to think. If the house had been robbed I would say tramps did it."
"But how?"
"I don't know, excepting the—er—both were smothered. But let us change the subject. It breaks me all up to think about it. I thought a whole lot of my mother."
"Where is your brother?"
"I don't know exactly. He was in Los Angeles the last I heard of him. I have sent messages to half a dozen places, but so far have received no reply."
"He is a commercial traveler like yourself?"
"He was, up to two weeks ago. Traveled for a paint house, but he and the firm had a row and Dick quit. He's a rolling stone, and that is why I can't just locate him."
"Do you represent a paint house, too?" questioned Adam Adams, after a pause, during which he appeared to enjoy the really fragrant Havana Tom Ostrello had tended him.
"No, I'm with a drug house and have been for four years, one of the best in the country, Alexander & Company, of Rochester, New York. I am their salesman for New York and the Eastern States. We make some of the most noted preparations in the trade."
"Alexander & Company, of Rochester," mused Adam Adams, thinking of the bit of paper he had picked up from under the safe. "I believe I have seen their place. Let me see, what street is it on?"
"Wadley street and runs through to Hill—a fine six-story concern, with a laboratory that is second to none."
"Yes, I remember it now. I suppose you must have a pretty good position with them."
"Fair. I think they ought to raise my salary," answered Tom Ostrello.
He stretched himself. "I feel sleepy—didn't get a wink last night.
When this affair is over I am going to ask for a week's vacation."
"I don't blame you," answered Adam Adams, with a quiet smile.
He settled back to smoke and his companion did the same, and thus the remainder of the trip to the city passed. As he smoked the detective revolved the new revelation in his mind. Tom Ostrello represented the very drug firm whose advertisement had appeared, in part, on the bit of paper picked up from under the library safe.
"And he was there hunting for something," thought the detective. "Was it for that bit of paper or for the something that he secured in his mother's room?"
At the depot the pair separated. Adam Adams lost no time in visiting his office, where his assistant awaited him anxiously. "Well, Letty, how are you this morning?" he said pleasantly, as he dropped into his chair.
He gave the girl a bright smile and she smiled in return. Letty Bernard was an orphan, the daughter of one of his former friends, and he took a fatherly interest in her. She lived with a second cousin, but wished to be independent and so the detective had given her the position, in his office, a place she filled with credit. She was short and plump and had a wealth of curly hair that strayed over her forehead.
"The Chief asked me to give you these papers," said the assistant.
"You are to sign all three."
"Um! Then that's the end of the Soper case. Anything else?"
"Glackey was in. He told me he had tracked the German and would report in full by to-morrow. He thinks you were right and the German is the man."
"What else?"
"A Mrs. Caven-Demuth was here. Wished to know if you ever found lost dogs."
"Great Scott! Dogs!"
"She said her pet cocker-spaniel had disappeared and she was willing to spend five hundred dollars on finding him."
"I am no dog detective. Send her to McMommie." McMommie was, as it is easy to guess, a rival.
"I sent her to police headquarters."
"And is that all?"
"Mr. Folett telegraphed that he would be here at ten."
"It's after that now—it's nearly noon. You can go to lunch if you wish. There's the door— Hullo, it's Mr. Folett now. Be back in an hour."
"Yes, Uncle Adam," answered the girl. She always called him uncle, since he had taken such an interest in her. She went out as the caller entered, and left the two men talking over a business matter which has nothing to do with our story.
It was two o'clock before Adam Adams found himself free once more. He procured a lunch and then took a subway train halfway uptown. He walked two blocks westward and ascended the steps of a fine brown-stone residence. He asked for Doctor Calkey and was ushered into a private den, where the doctor, a tall, spare man of sixty, soon joined him.
"My good friend Adams!" cried the doctor, shaking hands warmly. "Where have you kept yourself? Surely you have not been to see me for a year, or is it longer? I have missed you so much—and the comforting smokes we had together? Why did you desert me? You knew I could not come to you—that I never go out. And you do not bring any business to me—"
"I had none to bring, and I have been very busy. But I have missed our meetings, I must confess."
"Ah, I am glad to learn I was not entirely forgotten. And you have been busy, and still nothing for Rudolph Calkey to do, nothing to analyze, nothing to dissect—"
"I've got a knot now for you."
"Good! good! I trust it is a good complication—I love them so—there is such a satisfaction when the end is reached. But not yet—no, not yet. A glass of wine first—something prime—I imported it myself, so that I would know what I am getting."
The wine was soon forthcoming and then a cigar for the detective and a pipe for the doctor. At last the latter threw himself into an old easy chair and gazed at his caller expectantly.
"I am ready to untie the knot," he said. "What is it?"
CHAPTER X
AN AFFAIR OF THE HEART
There was a moment of silence.
"Briefly put, doctor, the case is this," said Adam Adams. "I want to know if there is anything known to the medical world, a powder or something of that sort, strong enough to kill a person if he should breathe of it."
"A powder strong enough to kill a person?" The brow of the old physician contracted. "It would have to be very powerful to do that. You mean if a person was boxed up with it—like one killed by gas?"
"No, not at all. I mean a powder that could be held to a person's nose and mouth in the open, when it would make that person sick and give him cramps perhaps."
"And kill him?"
"Yes."
The old doctor rubbed his hands in thought. "That is a subject for speculation. Certain cyanide compounds might be powerful enough to do so under certain conditions. Any real dry powder would choke a person if he got a big dose of it. I heard of a boy who came near dying as the result of breathing in a quantity of extra dry licorice powder. But he was smothered and did not have cramps."
"Nothing in the shape of any foreign compound? You once showed me a Turkish liquid that burnt when water was poured on it, and dyed everything blood red."
"Ah, yes, the fozeska, something truly dangerous. But I know of nothing— But hold!" The doctor clapped his hands together. "Yes! yes! That would do it, that and that only."
"What?"
"I had a sample of it given to me some six months ago. It was called yamlang-peholo, and was made in China, from the roots of the yamlang bush—a rare growth found only in the western part of the country. By many Chinamen the yamlang bush is supposed to be accursed, and whenever they come near one they utter a prayer for deliverance from its evils. If you sleep near the yamlang bush it will make you very sick."
"And that powder, what did it look like?"
"It was blue at first but on contact with the air quickly changed to brownish-white and lost itself, it was so fine."
"Evaporated?"
"You can call it that if you wish. It was intense. I held it at arms' length, yet it made me sick and I had cramps for over an hour afterwards."
"It would have killed you if you had placed it to your mouth or nose?"
"Not the slightest doubt of it."
"May I ask where you got the stuff?"
"It was imported into this country by a drug firm merely as a curiosity. They put it up in tiny vials which I suppose were sent around to different persons like myself. It was a dangerous piece of business and I gave them no credit for doing it."
"What was the name of the firm?"
"I would not tell everybody, but I know I can trust you to keep a secret. The firm was Alexander & Company, of Rochester, who stand very high in the trade. I buy many things from them, from time to time, and their traveling man, a Mr. Ostrello, gave me the powder when he called. He told me how the firm had experimented on a dog and an ox. Both died in less than two minutes, and each with cramps. But after death neither animal showed the least trace of the poison."
"Wasn't this Ostrello afraid to handle the stuff?"
"Not as much as I was. He said he was a bit used to it. I told him I didn't want to get used to it. Have another glass of wine?"
"No, I prefer to smoke, thanks just the same. I am interested in this yamlang, as you call it. Where can I get the stuff?"
"No more of it can be had. I rather think they got afraid of it. Wait, I'll get the vial it was in. Perhaps there is a whiff left in it."
"Thanks, but do you think I want to die?" queried the detective, and gave a laugh.
When the empty vial was produced he opened it and took a short sniff.
Then he drew his breath in sharply. A faint odor was perceptible, the
same odor he had detected in the carpet on the upper hallway of the
Langmore mansion.
"Do you smell it?" questioned the physician.
"Yes, but not very well. I don't think it will affect me much."
"I trust not, my dear Adams. We cannot afford to lose you. Now, what is it all about?"
"Another case, that's all. I don't feel like talking about it just yet. I'll give you the particulars some other time."
"And have I helped you?"
"I think you have."
"Of course there are other powders—and there is chloroform—"
"I think we have struck a clue in this. But I must be going."
"What, so soon!" Rudolph Calkey looked hurt. "I was thinking you'd stay the day out. We could chat over old times—I'll order an extra supper—"
"No, not to-day. When this case is settled, I'll come over and we'll make an evening of it." And then the detective had to fairly tear himself from the doctor and the house. They were old friends and had worked on many a case together.
Once back in his office Adam Adams smiled grimly to himself.
"Now, Mr. Tom Ostrello, it looks as if we had you good and hard," he murmured. "You were seen around the place at the time of the murder by Cephas Carboy, you left the bit of paper in the library, you quarrelled at one time with Mr. Langmore and also quarrelled with your mother. The murder was committed by means of that deadly Chinese powder, and you are one of the few persons in this country who knew of the heathenish compound. If you are innocent I rather reckon you have a heap of explanations to make."
There were two callers who took an hour of the detective's time, and then he prepared to return to Sidham, to learn if possible more concerning Tom Ostrello, and if anybody besides Cephas Carboy had seen him around that vicinity on the morning of the tragedy.
"Letty, I may not be back to-night," he remarked, as he came out into the general office. "And it may be that I'll not be back to-morrow."
"All right, Uncle Adam. What shall I tell Mr. Capes?"
"Tell him that that bond matter must wait. He'll have to get those numbers if he possibly can. The other record was destroyed."
As Adam Adams spoke he drew closer to the desk at which his assistant was sitting. He glanced down at an envelope lying there, and started slightly.
"Where did this come from, Letty?" he questioned. The envelope was postmarked New York and the upper left-hand corner bore the notice:
Return in 10 days to
Alexander & Company,
Wholesale Druggists,
22-32 Wadley Street,
Rochester, N. Y.
The girl glanced at the envelope and then at her employer and blushed deeply.
"Oh, why that—that is a note from a friend of mine."
"A gentleman friend, I suppose."
"Yes, Uncle Adam. I met him last winter, at Mrs. Dally's reception. He is a traveling salesman for this house," she pointed to the notice on the envelope. "He wants me to go to the theatre with him, and I expect to go. Mrs. Dally says he is a very nice young man. We—we have been out a number of times." And the girl blushed again.
"I know some parties connected with that firm. What's the young man's name, Letty?"
"Mr. Tom Ostrello."
"Indeed! And he has invited you to go to the theatre with him?"
"Yes. Then you know him, Uncle Adam? I didn't dream of that. Don't you think he is—is rather nice?"
"Evidently you think so." For some reason the detective could scarcely steady his voice. He was a bachelor, with only some distant relatives, and he thought a good deal of his protegée and her welfare.
"I—I do, Uncle Adam. He treats me so nicely. I—I—don't you approve of him?" she went on hastily, searching his face for the smile that usually rested there when he spoke to her.
"Why, I—er—I don't know him so well as all that, Letty." For the first time in his life he was visibly confused. "You say he has called on you a number of times?"
"Yes, and he has taken me out, let me see, I guess it must be a dozen times all told. I—I wanted to speak of this before, but I—well, I couldn't bring it around. I hope you'll approve, Uncle Adam."
"Approve? Of your going out with him?"
"Yes, and—and—" The girl hesitated again. Then she arose and buried her face on his shoulder. "Oh! don't you understand, Uncle Adam?"
"Letty!"
"He is very nice—I know you'll like him when you get to really know him. Of course he hasn't much money, but I don't care for that. You always said money didn't count for so much anyway—that it was character—and he's got that."
"Hum!" For the life of him Adam Adams could not speak. He felt himself growing hot and cold by turns. He caught the girl closer. Never had he loved his friend's daughter so much as now.
"I hoped you would approve," she went on, shyly. "I—of course I didn't want to leave you—you've been so very good to me since papa and mamma died. But—but Tom doesn't seem to want to wait. He has asked me twice now and—and—I don't know how I am going to put him off. He seems so miserable when I say wait."
"Asked you to marry him?"
"Yes."
"And he wants you to go to the theatre with him—now?"
"The invitation is for to-night—he sent it last week. He has been traveling out of town, but he said he would be back some time to-day. I want you to meet him." She paused. "Isn't it all right, Uncle Adam?"
He did not answer, and she gazed at him curiously. Then the look in his face made her draw back, slowly and uncertainly. At that moment he felt that the occupation of a detective was the most detestable in the world.
"You—you know something?" she gasped. "Oh, Uncle Adam, what is it?"
CHAPTER XI
AT THE CORONER'S INQUEST
Sidham was in a state of keen excitement. No such mystery as the double tragedy had occurred in that neighborhood before, and all of the inhabitants were anxious to hear the latest news and learn what the coroner and the police were going to do. A hundred theories were afloat, all centering on the one object—to find the murderer.
"Find him or her, and swing him or her to the nearest tree," was the verdict of many. "The law is all well enough, but this dastardly crime demands an object lesson."
Coroner Jack Busby, who was a dealer in horses, had never had a murder case before, and was uncertain as to the method of procedure. But with the eyes of the whole community on him he realized his importance, as he ran hither and thither, to arrange for the inquest. He felt that his own little office was altogether too small for the occasion and so arranged to bring off the affair in the general courtroom.
The place was soon crowded with people, and another crowd gathered outside. The hour for opening the inquest was at hand and the majority of the witnesses were present. The coroner, short, fat and bald-headed, looked around anxiously and then turned to the chief of police, who was near at hand.
"I don't see Miss Langmore."
"Neither do I," answered the guardian of the law, with a shrug of his shoulders, as if it was none of his especial business,
"Yes, but—ahem! you are—ahem! responsible—"
"She'll be here, coroner, don't worry."
"You have had her properly guarded?"
"Yes. I reckon she's coming now," and the chief of police nodded towards a side door of the courtroom.
There was a slight commotion, and Margaret entered, escorted by Raymond Case, and followed by one of the women and the policeman who had been on guard at the Langmore mansion. The crowd arose to gaze at the girl and to pass various comments.
"Mighty pale, ain't she?"
"Wouldn't think a girl like that could do such an awful thing!"
"Humph! you can't tell about these high-toned folks. They'd do anything. Didn't one of them millionaires run over two of my hens with his automobile an' never stop to settle the damage? Don't tell me!"
"Yes, and she detested her step-mother—the hired girl told Mrs. Brown so, an' she told me."
"Well, Coroner Busby will git to the bottom of it putty quick. He told
Lem Hansom he knew what he was doin'."
"He must know, if he's as slick at tryin' folks as he is in a hoss dicker," returned an old farmer who had made a trade of steeds which had proved unprofitable for him.
Margaret was shown to a chair and sat down, with Raymond beside her. The young man was plainly nervous, yet he did what he could to comfort his companion.
"Courage, Margaret," he whispered. "It is bound to come out right in the end."
"I can scarcely see a friendly face," she faltered, taking a shy look around. "They all think I am—" She could not finish, but had to bite her lip to keep the tears from flowing.
The coroner mounted the platform and rapped on a desk with his knuckles.
"The—ahem! courtroom will come to order!" he called out, gazing around on all sides.
There was a final buzz and then the place became quiet, broken only by the ticking of a big round clock on the wall.
"We are gathered here—ahem! to inquire into the mysterious deaths of
Mr. and Mrs. Barry Langmore," went on the coroner.
"That's so—an' we want plain facts," put in an old farmer, sitting well up front.
"Silence!" cried the coroner. "We must have silence!"
"All right, Jack," replied the farmer. "I won't say another word."
"Silence. We cannot go on if there is not silence. Ahem! ahem! Miss
Langmore!"
Margaret arose and bowed slightly. Then the coroner swore her in as a witness and told her to relate her story. She could scarcely stand and Raymond brought her chair forward.
"You wish me to tell all I know?" she asked, in a faint but clear voice.
"Everything," was Coroner Busby's answer.
Pausing for a moment to collect her thoughts, she plunged into the recital, her tale being merely a repetition of that given to Adam Adams. When she came to tell how her father had been found her voice broke and it was fully a minute before she could go on. When she had finished the courtroom was as still as a tomb, save for the ticking of the clock, now sounding louder than ever.
"Is that all?" asked the coroner, after a painful pause.
"Yes, sir."
"They say, Miss Langmore, that you were not on good terms with your stepmother."
"Who says so?"
"It is an—ahem! a common rumor. What have you to say on that point?"
"It is true, sir," answered Margaret, after another pause, during which the eyes of all in the courtroom were fixed upon the girl.
"It is said that you had violent quarrels," pursued the coroner.
"No very violent quarrels. Sometimes we did not speak to each other for days."
"Then you admit that you did quarrel?"
"I do."
"And you also quarreled with your father?"
"No, sir."
"What, not at all?" queried Coroner Busby, elevating his eyes in surprise, either real or affected.
"We held different opinions upon certain questions, but we did not quarrel."
"Hum!" The coroner mused for a moment.
"That is all for the present," he added, and Margaret moved back to where she had been first sitting.
"I am glad that is over," whispered Raymond. "Can I do anything? Get you some water?"
"No, nothing," she answered, and dropped a veil over her face.
The next witness called was Mary Billings, the domestic employed at the Langmore mansion, and who had been about the place at the time of the tragedy. She proved to be a round-faced Irish girl, not particularly bright, and now all but terror-stricken. As soon as she was sworn in she burst into tears.
"Sure as there is a heavin above me, Oi didn't do that murder, so Oi didn't!" she moaned.
"Nobody said you did," answered the coroner dryly, while a general smile went around the courtroom.
"Then why did yez bring me here, I dunno? Sure an' Mr. Langmore was afther bein' me bist frind, an' Oi wouldn't harm him fer a million dollars, so Oi wouldn't!" It was with difficulty that she was quieted and made to tell what she knew.
"Where were you from ten o'clock to twelve of the morning of the tragedy?" was the first question put to her.
"Oi was in the kitchen, an' down to the barn, yer honor."
"Were you in the kitchen first."
"Sure an' Oi was that."
"What were you doing?"
"Phat was Oi doin'? Sure Oi was washin' the dishes, cl'anin' the silverware, peelin' the praties, shellin' the beans, cleanin' the lamps, fixin' the—"
"Ahem! You mean you were doing the housework, eh?"
"Yis, sur."
"While you were in the house, did you leave the kitchen?"
"Only to go to the ciller fer a scuttle o' coal."
"Did you see or hear anything unusual going on while you were in the kitchen?"
The Irish girl scratched her head and shrugged her shoulders.
"Oi heard a lot av things, yer honor."
"What were they?"
"Oi heard Mrs. Langmore walkin' around upstairs, an' Oi heard Miss
Margaret walkin' around, too. Then Oi heard Mrs. Langmore call to Miss
Margaret."
"Did Miss Margaret answer?"
"Oi dunno—if she did, Oi didn't hear her."
"What else?"
"Thin Oi heard the front dure slam."
"Did you see anybody come in or go out?"
"Sure, an' Oi did not."
"What time was this, as near as you can remember?"
"Atwixt tin an' eliven o'clock."
"Did you hear anything after the slamming of the front door?"
"Oi did not, fer Oi wint down to the barn directly afterwards."
"How long did you remain down at the barn?"
"Till Miss Margaret came scr'amin' from the house. She cries, 'Mary, oh Mary! Me father! Me father!' an' staggers around loike she was goin' to fall, an' Oi run up to her an' hild her up, poor dear." And the servant girl shot a sympathetic glance in Margaret's direction.
"Ahem! Now—er—you remained in the barn until you heard her cry out.
Did you hear or see anything from the barn while you were down there?"
"Well, to tell the truth, sur, Oi didn't notice anythin' at the toime, bein' that interested in me pet chickens, sur. Ye see, Pat Callahan gave me three foine Leghorns, an'—"
"Never mind the Leghorns. If you saw or heard anything, what was it?"
"'Twas something Oi was afther hearin', sur. Oi think somebody ran past the barn, aisy loike."
"You didn't see anybody?"
"No, sur. As Oi said before, thim Leghorns that Pat Callahan gave me—"
"We'll—ahem! drop the Leghorns. After you heard the strange noise how long was it before you heard Miss Langmore scream?"
"Perhaps quarter av an hour, sur. Oi didn't look to the clock."
"And she fainted in your arms?"
"Not exactly that, sur. She scr'ams, 'Me father! me father! Mary, he is murdered! Go to the library!' An' thin she wint over in me arms loike a stone, poor dear, poor dear!" And the domestic began to weep afresh.
"What did you do then?"
"Sure, phat could Oi do? Oi scr'amed fer hilp as loud as Oi could, an' thin Mrs. Bardon an' her son, Alfred, the docthor, came over."