The Trevor case

Buzz—buzz—sounded the alarm. Dick stirred, shivered slightly, and sat up.

“May the devil fly away with you!” he muttered, addressing the clock. “I wish to thunder I could go to bed as sleepy as I wake up,” stretching himself, and vividly recollecting how many hours he had lain awake thinking of Peggy. His thoughts turned quickly to her challenge; with a bound he was out of bed; no time for loitering now—too much was at stake.

Some hours later Dick was staring moodily at the snow and slush in front of the District building on Pennsylvania Avenue. So far, he had been unsuccessful. Gordon had refused to be interviewed by him, now he was in search of Detective Hardy. Muttering uncomplimentary remarks about the offenders who allowed the streets in Washington to get in such a fearful condition, he waded ankle deep through the melting snow to the sidewalk, and almost into the arms of the very man he was looking for.

“Hello, Mr. Tillinghast, how are you?” exclaimed Hardy, recovering his balance as he slipped on the icy pavement. “What brings you down to these diggings?”

“You,” answered Dick, briefly. “I’m assigned to cover the Trevor murder, as you know, and I’m looking for more material.”

“Gwan,” chuckled Hardy. “Your paper has already spread itself some on that line. In fact, it’s said just a leetle too much,” remembering the furore Gordon’s arrest had made, and the attendant abuse heaped on the detective force for not making more headway with the case.

“Pshaw! Hardy, you know the paper has to cater to the public, and Washington has gone wild over the murder. I’ve had to write columns and give ’em all sorts of theories, but none hold water.”

“’Course not. We’ve got the guilty man under lock and key.”

“Hum! Found the weapon yet?”

A look of chagrin crossed Hardy’s face. “Naw, damn it!” he growled. “Mr. Gordon sure hid it safely; threw it down an open street sewer most likely.”

“How about Nelson?”

“Nelson? Oh! he’s doing time for house-breaking; so we’ve got him dead to rights if we find he’s wanted for the murder. Sorry, sir,” glancing as he spoke at the clock over the City Post Office, “but I’ve got to beat it quick.” Then, lowering his voice, “I’ve a bit of news which may surprise some folks. Come round in a day or two and I’ll let you in on it.”

“Here, wait,” shouted Dick, making a futile dive for Hardy’s coat as he swung himself aboard a south-bound car.

“What are you wasting so much energy for, Dick?” asked a hearty voice at his elbow. Dick swung around with a jump.

“Why, where in —— did you drop from?” he gasped, hardly able to credit his senses as the newcomer seized his hand and wrung it vigorously.

“Just arrived via Panama,” explained General Long. “Let’s get on the sidewalk, Dick. I didn’t come to Washington to be knocked down by a dray horse,” and he dragged his still bewildered friend to the curb. “Come into the Willard and lunch with me. I’m half dead with hunger.”

“Now,” said Dick, after they had done justice to the Martinis, “give an account of yourself, past, present and future.”

“Past—Philippines; present—here; future—God knows!” General Long sighed as he helped Dick and himself to the tempting dish in front of him. “It’s good to taste Christian cooking once again. Don’t insult good food by hurrying too much, Dick; take your time. At present I’ve come here on waiting orders.”

Dick inwardly wondered what necessity had induced the War Department to send for Chester Long. A man of exceptional executive ability and personal bravery, he had been rapidly advanced over the heads of older officers, to their unspeakable rage, until finally he had been appointed second in command in the Philippines. He had made a record for himself out there, and Dick was astounded that his recall should have been kept so profound a secret.

“How did you slip away without the papers getting on?” he asked.

“Orders from the Department hushed things up pretty well, and then I traveled incog. The why and the wherefore, I may—guess—” he smiled quietly. “Now, Dick, give an account of yourself.”

It did not take long in the telling, as the two friends had never completely lost sight of each other, and mutual friends had kept them in touch with their doings. General Long was Dick’s senior by some fifteen years, but since the days of the Spanish war in Cuba, where Dick was sent as war correspondent, they had been sworn allies.

“I’m dreadfully shocked about the Trevor murder,” said Long, after Dick had finished speaking of himself. “The papers are filled with it. Gordon is the last person I’d think capable of so dastardly a crime. While at Annapolis, where he was a three-striper, he was voted the most popular man, and the one most likely to succeed. He never lied, and he never went back on a friend. Since his graduation his record in the Service has been fine, fine. And now, to have such a charge against him! How have the mighty fallen! Poor Gordon—poor devil!”

“Things look pretty black for him,” admitted Dick. “But still the evidence is not absolutely conclusive, simply circumstantial.”

“In what way?”

“In the first place no weapon has been found in his possession. Secondly, the absolute lack of motive.”

Long twirled his wine glass about in his fingers.

“Is there none?” he asked, finally.

“Apparently none. After years of absence Gordon came to Washington on receiving his appointment as aide to the President one month ago. He never went to the Trevors much. In fact, he and Mrs. Trevor were total strangers. They met first at a theater party I gave, which Mrs. Trevor chaperoned, on the night of Gordon’s arrival in town. You know he and I went to Lawrenceville together.”

Long glanced around the half empty café; their table was in the farther corner, and their waiter had departed after removing the dessert and putting the liqueur and coffee before them. There was no chance of their conversation being overheard, but Long motioned to Dick to pull his chair closer, as he said in a low voice:

“I’ve always had great respect for your discretion, Dick; therefore, I’m going to confide in you. You can use your judgment about speaking of what I tell you now.

“Some four years ago or more, I was military attaché at the Court of St. James. One day I ran across Don Gordon in Hyde Park. He told me he was there on leave visiting his sister, Lady Dorchester. I didn’t see much of him because his entire time was taken up with paying desperate attention to—Hélène de Beaupré.”

“What!” shouted Dick, starting up in his intense surprise.

“Hush, man,” said Long, sternly. “You are attracting attention.” Dick, much abashed, subsided into his chair. “I can swear to what I am saying, because at that time Hélène de Beaupré was the rage in London. Men and women raved about her, and she was received everywhere. Gordon lost his head over her, he was madly infatuated with her beauty; whether his affection was returned, I know not.” Long shrugged his shoulders.

“Just about that time I was relieved from duty in London, and in the rush of departure forgot all about Gordon and his affairs. But one day on shipboard Alfred Clark told me that he had seen Gordon and Hélène de Beaupré applying at the Home Office for a special license to marry at once.”

Dick looked at his friend too dazed to speak. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he muttered.

For a few minutes they sat regarding each other in puzzled silence. Then Dick roused himself to ask: “Is the Alfred Clark of whom you speak the man who is now secretary to the Attorney General?”

“Is he tall, well-built, handsome, with a peculiar scar on his temple?”

“You have described the man to a dot. Looks like a Gypsy?” Long nodded in acquiescence. “He goes out here a great deal; sort of insinuates himself into people’s good graces. I never liked him—too much of a beauty man to suit me. What was he doing in England?”

“He stopped there from Italy on his way to the States. At that time his father had plenty of money, and Alfred did nothing but travel about at his own sweet will. The crash came just afterwards, and then he had to get to work.”

“It must have been a bitter pill for him to swallow, poor devil. I’ve gone through a somewhat similar experience,” and Dick sighed sympathetically. “Strange that Mrs. Trevor, Gordon and Clark should all be here at the same time!”

“Fate plays strange tricks,” agreed Long. “I heard nothing further about these three people until I read of the Trevor tragedy. How did Gordon and Mrs. Trevor look, Dick, when you introduced them?”

“I don’t know,” confessed Dick. “Gordon didn’t appear until about the middle of the first act; the box was in semi-darkness. I introduced him to all my friends as he was the stranger, and I remember hearing Mrs. Trevor say she was ‘delighted to meet him.’ I took it for granted she didn’t know him.”

Long shook his head. “It’s a black business, Dick, whichever way you look at it. If she jilted Gordon and married Trevor, it might be a reason for the crime; or if Gordon really married her first, then there is a still greater motive for the murder.”

“Bigamy?” ejaculated Dick.

“Perhaps. Gordon is poor—Trevor rich; apparently the balance dipped in the latter’s favor. It is not the first time souls have been bought and honor lost by the desire for filthy lucre. Mind you, Dick, this last is all surmise. I may be entirely wrong. You can use the information I have given you if you think best; and I’ll be here if you want to consult me about it.”

“Which way are you going?” asked Dick.

“To the War Department, and you—?”

“To the office. I’ll drop in and see you sometime to-morrow. It’s bully having you back again, old man. So long,” and with a parting hand shake the two friends parted.

Dick was very tired when he reached his home in Georgetown that night. His landlady heard his key turn in the lock and came out in the hall to meet him.

Mrs. Brisbane, “befo’ de wah,” had not known what it was to put on her own silk stockings; now, she took “paying guests.” Her husband and brothers had died for “The Cause”; her property near Charleston, South Carolina, had been totally destroyed during the horrors of the Reconstruction period. She had come to Washington, that Mecca for unemployed gentlewomen, in hopes of adding to her slender income. For years she had been employed in the Post Office Department, as a handwriting expert. Then suddenly her eyesight failed her; and broken in health and hopes, she and her young granddaughter kept the wolf from the door and a roof over their heads as best they could.

Dick was devoted to Mrs. Brisbane. Her gentle dignity and indomitable pluck in the face of every misfortune had won his admiration and respect. He had lived with them for over three years, and was looked upon as one of the family.

“You are late, Dick,” she said. “Have you had a busy day?”

“Yes, Mrs. Brisbane,” he answered, “and I’m dog tired, having been on the dead jump ever since I left here this morning.”

“Not too tired to come into the dining-room and help us celebrate my seventieth birthday, I hope?”

Dick looked reproachfully at her. “And you never told me! I don’t think that’s fair. Am I not one of the family? Yes— Then I claim a relative’s privilege.”

Mrs. Brisbane beamed upon him. “You extravagant boy! That’s just why I did not tell you. I hope you are not too exhausted to enjoy a glass of eggnog?”

“What a question! You know I would walk miles to get a taste of your eggnog. There’s nothing like it, this side of Heaven.”

“Heaven is not usually associated with eggnog,” laughed Nancy Pelham, a pretty young girl of sixteen. “And Granny’s brew is apt to lead one in the opposite direction.”

“Tut! Child. As Pa once said, eggnog was invented especially for God’s po’ creatures in their moments of tribulation. It puts new heart in most everyone, even a po’ Yankee.”

Dick laughed. “You are a pretty good hater, Mrs. Brisbane,” he said, helping himself to the frothy beverage.

“I reckon I’ve got cause.” Mrs. Brisbane’s drawl was delicious. “An’ I’m from Charleston, Dick, don’t forget that. Why, one of my nieces never knew until she got to New York that ‘damn Yankee’ was two words.”

“Granny, Granny,” remonstrated Nancy. “Dick’s a good Northerner by birth, and we mustn’t wave the bloody shirt.”

“Nonsense,” said Dick, hastily. “I love to fight our battles over with Mrs. Brisbane. What a beautiful punch bowl that is?” he added, enthusiastically.

“Isn’t it? It was given to Granny’s father, General Pinckney, by Mr. Calhoun.”

“It is the only piece of silver saved from the wreck,” said Mrs. Brisbane, sadly. “I could not part with it for old associations’ sake. Everything else of value, silver and jewelry, was sold long ago. How many distinguished men have drunk out of that bowl!” she sighed involuntarily. “Heigh oh! It is not good to reminisce. But I’ll never forget, Dick, one dinner I attended here.

“It was before I secured my place in the Post Office, and I was visiting some Washington friends. They took me to a dinner given by Mr. and Mrs. John Thompson, who were new-comers. They had struck ‘ile’ and were entertaining lavishly that winter. Imagine my feelings when I saw them using my entire silver service, even to the small silver!

“I recognized our coat-of-arms, as well as the pattern of the silver. They passed it off as family heirlooms! I found out later that they had spent months collecting the pieces from different second-hand dealers in antiques. I would not have minded so much if they had not been so palpably nouveaux riches. It seemed a sacrilege! Why, they hardly knew the uses of some of the pieces.”

Dick leaned over and patted her hand sympathetically.

“‘Heaven sends almonds to those who have no teeth,’” he quoted. “Now, I wonder if you can tell me anything about Texas?” he added, suddenly.

“Texas!” exclaimed Mrs. Brisbane. “Not much; I’ve never been there myself, but I have been told that only men and mules can live in that State. The climate usually kills all the women.”

“It isn’t Texas in general I am interested in,” chuckled Dick, “but the Gordons.”

“The Gordons are Georgians, Dick.”

“Not Donald Gordon, he was born in Texas.”

“Now, I do recollect that Major Gordon moved to Texas just after the wah. I believe he married a Galveston woman; and then went into politics.”

“Whatever the cause,” said Dick, his eyes twinkling, “he represented Texas in the Senate for years; finally died in Washington, and is interred in the Congressional Burying Ground here. Now, Mrs. Brisbane, can you tell me anything about them?”

“Not a thing, Dick, except that Senator Gordon was a man of very high temper; he nearly killed a soldier once for disobeying orders. Why do you ask?”

“I know,” broke in Nancy. She had been an interested listener, and had also seen that Dick’s glass was never empty. “It has something to do with the Trevor murder.”

“Yes,” acknowledged Dick, gravely. “I am doing my best to prove Gordon’s innocence; and, hang it all! every shred of evidence I turn up, is against him.”

“It was a shocking murder of a defenseless woman. I do not believe a Gordon could have done it,” declared Mrs. Brisbane.

“And yet—”

“Listen to me a moment, Dick,” Nancy tapped the table in her earnestness. “Perhaps I can help you. That Wednesday was my night shift at the North Exchange.” Nancy was temporarily working as a central in the Chesapeake and Potomac Telephone Company until she had taken her Civil Service examination for a Government position. “Well, about fifteen minutes after two that morning a call came for the Trevors’ house.”

“What? Really?”

“Yes. I don’t mean the regular house telephone, but for the Attorney General’s private wire in his private office.”

“What!” Dick’s voice grew in volume as his astonishment increased. “Are you sure, Nancy?”

“Absolutely positive. You know the number of the telephone in the Attorney General’s private office at his home is not listed in the regular book, as is his house wire. His private telephone is ‘North—123’; I remember it because it is so easy; and the other is ‘North—6795.’”

“But as to the time, Nancy?”

“I am certain about that, too. It was very quiet in the Exchange, and when the call came I nearly jumped out of my skin. I looked at the big wall clock directly opposite, and I saw it was fifteen minutes past two.”

“Nancy, you are a wonder—a brick. But why didn’t you come forward and give your evidence at the inquest?”

“Oh, I couldn’t, Dick,” the young girl colored painfully. “I went to work at the Exchange because we are so frightfully poor; but I—I—just couldn’t face the notoriety which I feared I would be dragged into. Then again, it might not have anything to do with the terrible affair.”

“Do?” echoed Dick; his tone was eloquent. “Was the telephone answered?”

“Yes, at once.”

“Now, do you happen to know where the call came from?”

“Yes. It was—‘Main 6.’”

Dick gazed at her too spellbound for words.

Main 6—The White House!