Ashton-Kirk sat cross-legged upon a sofa, the amber bit of his Coblentz pipe between his teeth, and the wreaths of smoke curling above his head. About him were scattered bound volumes of police papers; and upon his knees rested a huge book, canvas covered and seeming full of carefully spaced entries done in a copper plate hand.
"I knew the 'Bounder' had gone along without much friction with the police," said the investigator; "but I'll admit that I'm a bit surprised at the completeness of the thing."
A dapper young man who stood at a filing case, going over a thick inset of cards, laughed a little.
"I'll venture to say that there is not a police blotter in any large city in the country that holds the name of Tom Burton," said he. "But there are dozens of other names—poor devils, rounded up in some risky operation of which the 'Bounder' was the instigator."
Ashton-Kirk nodded.
"One might call that 'dogging it,'" said he, "or it might be viewed as exceedingly clever work. It altogether depends upon the point of view. To maintain such an attitude in the background over a long period of time calls for a rigorous self-repression. Burton was evidently a criminal of some parts."
"Well, looking at it from that side, I suppose it's so," said the dapper young man. "But I've been accustomed to seeing Burton and his kind as a sort of dregs, and I was just a little surprised when you began to look him up."
Ashton-Kirk smiled and drew a long draft of smoke from the big pipe.
"It is, very likely, time wasted," he said; "for it's a hundred to one that nothing——"
Here there came a long "blurr-r-r" from the lower part of the house, and the investigator stopped short.
"I rather think," added he, "that I'll reduce the odds. For, unless I am much mistaken, that is Bat Scanlon's touch at the door-bell."
A few moments later, Stumph, Ashton-Kirk's man servant, entered the study, gravely.
"Mr. Scanlon, sir," he said.
The big form of Scanlon filled the doorway and then advanced into the room.
"Didn't expect to see you again to-day," saidhe. "But there's a little matter came up that I thought I'd get your advice on before I went any further."
"Good," said the investigator, briskly. Then to the grave-faced servant: "Stumph, get these books away. And Fuller," to the dapper young man, "I'd like to have transcripts of those Treasury Department papers at once."
"Very well," said Fuller.
When the investigator and his caller were alone, the former offered the other some cigarettes.
"These are Porto Ricos of unusual flavor," he said. "Sent me by a planter for whom I chanced at one time to do a small service."
He put aside the Coblentz, and with Scanlon lighted one of the cigarettes. The full rich aroma of the island herb drifted through the room like a heavy incense; and under its influence the troubled look which Scanlon's face had worn lightened a trifle.
"I guess I'm a little up in the air," admitted he, finally. "It's always that way with me when things begin to break wrong in anything I'm interested in. Just when I need all my nerve and judgment, I get as anxious as an old lady who's been sold the wrong kind of tea."
"You have no monopoly on the condition," smiled Ashton-Kirk. "It comes to all of us, and in just the way you've described." His singulareyes were studying the big man's face, and in their depths was a sort of calm expectancy. "The personal equation has many queer results. But what is the cause of your present upheaval?"
Bat shook the ash from the cigarette into a pewter bowl at his elbow.
"It's this murder," he said. "You know I went to Stanwick to-day to look things over as per request."
"Have you made your report to Mrs. Burton?"
"Now, look!" exclaimed the big man. "Don't call her that! She was Burton's wife for one week, and that's the extent of her use of the name."
"Very well," nodded Ashton-Kirk. "Cavanaugh is a good old name, and is sounded just as easily."
"Yes, I called on her after I got back," said Bat. "But I had only a few minutes to talk to her; it was at the theatre, for she had a rehearsal to-day, you see."
"Was there anything new to tell her?"
Here Bat related to the investigator the details of what he had seen and heard at the Burton home; Ashton-Kirk listened attentively; now and then a pointed question came through the little clouds and rings of smoke with which he had surrounded himself, but, save for this, he made no interruption until Bat had finished.
"Dr. Shower, eh?" said he, after a little pause."I'm rather well acquainted with his method, and the fact that he's been given charge of the coroner's examination isn't a very hopeful sign. He's a sort of pedant, who has come to think that the mixture of medical learning and knowledge of police conventions which he possesses makes him a paragon of efficiency."
"I noticed that he had a confident kind of a way with him," said Bat.
"Confidence is an excellent thing," spoke Ashton-Kirk. "A man does not go far without it. But the sort kept in stock by Dr. Shower is rather a hindrance. When he has once arrived at a conclusion, he shuts his eyes and stops his ears to everything else. Osborne, now, is different; while he's a plodding kind of a fellow with very little imagination, he's shrewd enough to accept advantages wherever he finds them." The speaker added another cloud to those already hovering about him. "Miss Cavanaugh was satisfied with what you told her, I suppose?"
But Bat shook his head, and a good part of the old troubled look returned.
"She wasn't. As a matter of fact I could see that it worried her. When I left her she was fidgeting; and if Nora does that, something's wrong. But the worst didn't happen until about a half hour ago. I was back at my place, and the 'phone bell rang. When I went to it I found itwas Nora calling. And she was all excited once more."
"Ah!" said Ashton-Kirk, expectantly, "excited!"
"She started off by asking me to forgive her, and saying she must be a great bother to me. But something had happened—something that had scared her. As she came home from the theatre she heard the newsboys calling their papers on the street corners. She couldn't quite make out what they were saying, so she had the car stop and her driver get one of the papers. Then she got the facts of the matter. Young Frank Burton has been arrested for his father's murder."
"So!" said Ashton-Kirk. "I expected to hear that had happened. For, from what you've told me, the police have a fair tissue of evidence."
"That's about what I told Nora. But it bowled her over completely. Her voice began to shake and I knew she was crying."
"'But he didn't do it,' she says. 'He didn't do it. He's innocent—I know he is.'
"I tried to reason with her," proceeded Bat. "But she wouldn't listen. She kept repeating that he was innocent—that he had suffered enough at that man's hands while he was alive, and that he mustn't go on suffering now that the father was dead."
"Well?" asked Ashton-Kirk, as the other paused; "what then?"
"Then," said Scanlon, "she was on my neck to get him out of the thing. Imustdo it! Imustnot let them harm him! And all that kind of thing. She seems to think that I've got a heavy drag with the police, and all there is for me to do is to snap my fingers and they'll sit up and perform. I tried to persuade her that this was a dream; but I couldn't convince her. And the result was that I had to promise to see her right away." Bat looked dolefully at his friend. "I'm on my way there now," he said, "and I thought I'd stop in and ask what I'd better do."
Ashton-Kirk arose and took a turn up and down the room; then throwing away the cigarette end, he paused in front of his friend and asked:
"What would you say if I suggested that I go with you?"
"Fine!" Scanlon jumped up, an expression of relief upon his face. "The very thing! Get your hat. My cab is still at the door. I couldn't have asked for anything better than that."
Within five minutes the two were on the street—a street lined with fine wide houses of a bygone time, but which was now a bedlam of throaty voices, a whirling current of alien people, a miasma of stale smells. The taxi soon whirled them out of this section and into another, equallyold, but still clinging to its ancient state. The houses were square fronted and solid looking, built of black-headed brick and trimmed with white stone; there were marble carriage blocks and hitching-posts at the curb.
"I wonder how long before this will begin to go," said the investigator, as they alighted. "There is scarcely an old residential street left unmarred in the big cities of the east."
"That is Nora's house—there with the scaffolding at the side. Take care you don't step in that mortar. These fellows seem to slap their stuff around and don't give a hang."
"I had no idea Miss Cavanaugh lived in this section," said Ashton-Kirk, after Scanlon had rung the bell, and they stood waiting on the steps.
"Why, you see, she's different. Naturally, she's a housekeeper. The big hotel or the glittering apartment house doesn't appeal to her. She gets all that when she's on the road."
A trim maid admitted them and showed them into a room hung with beautiful tapestry and excellently selected paintings. In a few moments there came a light hasty step and Nora stood framed in the doorway. She wore a sort of soft, gauzy robe-like thing which clung to her magnificently strong, yet completely youthful figure, causing her more than ever to resemble a young Juno. The gleaming bronze hair was gathered ina great coil at the back of her head; her wonderfully modeled arms were bare; the right was clasped about with a heavy bracelet of what seemed raw, red gold.
"Bat!" she said, gladly, and then stopped short at sight of a stranger.
"This is Mr. Ashton-Kirk," said Scanlon, presenting his companion. "You've heard me speak of him, I think."
Nora Cavanaugh held out her hand with that frankness which is always so fascinating in a beautiful woman.
"I am very glad to see you," she said. "And I recall very well what I heard of you. It was that queer affair of the Campes, and the strange dangers which haunted the hills about their country place." Her eyes were fixed steadily upon Ashton-Kirk as she spoke; the smile of welcome was still in them; but behind this there was something else—a something which evidently interested Ashton-Kirk intensely.
"I've been telling Kirk of the thing at Stanwick," spoke Scanlon, as they all three sat down at a west window, through which the lowering sun was throwing its crimsoning touch. "He's a little interested and thought he'd like to hear what you had to say."
The smile went completely out of Nora's eyes; the sombre thing at the back of them came atonce to the surface; and Ashton-Kirk saw her hand, as she lifted it to her face, tremble.
"The police are fools!" she declared. "Frank Burton is innocent. It is shameful to attribute any crime to him—but to accuse him of the murder of his father"—here a shudder ran through her—"it's horrible!"
"He'll have to carefully explain a number of things, though, before the authorities change their minds," said Scanlon. "Not only have they certain definite facts on him; but they have the notion that he's not told them everything."
"He is innocent," protested Nora.
"Maybe so!" Bat shrugged his shoulders. "But I had a chance to look him over to-day, and while I liked his appearance, I agree with the cops that he was holding back on them."
The girl rose and stood facing them.
"It may be that he is," she said, and there was a break in the rare voice. "But why fix upon this so readily as a sign of guilt? Consider the circumstances. He is the son of a man whose life was a continuous shame; there very likely was not a day that did not bring some fresh knowledge of wrong-doing to the boy—some mean thing beneath contempt, which made him shrink and quiver. And now there comes another thing—a last and horrible one! It may be," and the beautiful arms lifted in a gesture of despair, "that inthis there was additional shame. Can you wonder, then, that he hesitated?"
Bat Scanlon did not reply, contenting himself with merely nodding his head. This side of the thing had not occurred to him; but now that she had pointed it out, it seemed quite reasonable. Ashton-Kirk fixed his singular dark eyes upon the beautiful woman who stood so appealingly before them.
"Scanlon mentioned to me a while ago," spoke the investigator, "that you were interested in doing what you could to help this young man. I make it a point never to judge the merits of a case until I have examined it at close range. However, I will say this: From a distance, this matter begins to show promise; so much, indeed, that I feel I must know more about it."
She looked at him, her hands twining together, nervously; but she did not speak, and he went on:
"What you say about the police is largely true. Theyaresuperficial, and the arrest of young Burton may not be at all warranted by the facts. As it happens, Miss Cavanaugh," easily, "there are no very pressing matters to engage me just now; and since you are so interested, suppose I look into it, and see if I can gather up any stray threads missed by the police."
Bat Scanlon brought his palms together in great satisfaction; but, to his astonishment, when helooked at Nora he saw hesitancy plainly written in her beautiful face; indeed, there was more than hesitancy; refusal of the offer trembled upon her lips. But this was only for an instant; a sudden rush of excitement seemed to possess her, and she held out her hand to Ashton-Kirk, warmly.
"This is good of you," she said, "and I thank you a thousand times. If you can, in any way, make it clear to Frank Burton's friends—to every one—that he is not guilty, you'll do the best deed of your life; and," here the great brown eyes opened widely, "you will be helping me more than I can say."
"Very well," said the investigator. Going to a window, he stood with his back to them looking at the sky, now blotched red and gold in the waning rays of the sun. He was motionless for a moment or two and then he turned, briskly.
"It's a pity there are not a few hours more of daylight," said he. "For my experience has shown me that most cases, in which there is any doubt, do not stand delay. A few hours sometimes dims what otherwise would be hopeful clues; traces which, had they been taken up in time, might have led directly to the criminal, are rendered cold and useless."
"Couldn't something be done out at Stanwick to-night?" asked Bat, anxiously.
But the criminologist shook his head.
"It would be impossible," said he. "Night always puts any sort of intelligent examination out of the question. But," and he looked at Nora with an alertness of manner which showed how his keen mind was already taking hold, "the time between now and daylight need not be altogether lost."
"What can we do?" she asked, eagerly.
"Sometimes even the smallest scrap of information is of great value," said he. "The movements—the conversation of a suspect—or a victim—immediately before the crime, has more than once provided the thing necessary to a successful solution."
"Why, yes, that would be true, of course." But the eagerness had gone out of her manner suddenly; her hands seemed to flutter at her breast. "Small, seemingly unimportant things, even in my work, add greatly to a result."
The keen eyes of Ashton-Kirk never left her face.
"About what time was it last night that your husband came here?" he asked.
"It must have been between eleven-thirty and twelve o'clock," she replied, slowly. "I had just got home from the theatre."
"He demanded money, I believe?"
"Yes; that was always the cause of his visits."
"Will you tell me, as nearly as you can remember, what passed?"
"When I came in," said Nora, "I went directly to my own rooms. My maid followed me a few moments later, but just then there was a ring at the bell. The lateness of the hour gave me a feeling of uneasiness—it were as though I subconsciously realized who was at the door. When the maid answered the ring he pushed her aside, and I heard his feet running up the stairs. The impulse arose in me to lock my door; at any other time I think I would have done so; but just then I felt aroused—I was bitterly angry; that he should force himself upon me in such a way made me desire to face him—to tell him what I thought in very plain words."
"This was not your usual state of mind when he visited you?"
"No." She bent her proud head humbly. "When I first learned his true character, I left him in just that spirit; but when I had won my way by hard work, and he began persecuting me, I thought it better to give him the money he asked and avoid his poisonous falsehoods."
"You were afraid of him?"
"Not of him—but of my public—of the world in general. He threatened me with the divorce court. Divorce, with its humiliations, its confessions of failure, its publicity, had always appalled me. The sneer 'another actress being divorced' made me a coward. He knew that; hehad found it out, somehow; his great talent was in bringing weaknesses to the surface. He detailed the charges he would bring against me; every one of them was a lie, but they were so ingenious, so plausible, so unutterably slimy that I couldn't bear up against them. It was in that way he broke my spirit."
"There was a hound for you!" said Bat Scanlon. "That is, if I'm not injuring the hound family by the comparison."
"But last night," said Nora Cavanaugh, "I had lost all this fear of him and his threats. I don't know why. It wasn't really because he had forced his way into my room, for he had done that before. It must have been that this was a sort of culmination—the breaking point. At any rate, I refused his demands! I answered his sneers in a way which I saw took him aback; he resumed his old threat of the divorce court, but I defied him. Then, after about half an hour, he went away."
"That was all?"
"Yes."
The girl stood in such a position that the waning daylight fell full upon her beautiful face. Ashton-Kirk said, quietly:
"Thank you." Then as she was about to turn toward Scanlon he added: "Pardon me; you have had a little accident, I notice."
Her hand went to her brow, and her eyes, startled and big, looked at him swiftly.
"I hadn't noticed it," he went on, quietly, "until you pushed your hair back a moment ago. It must have been very painful."
"Oh, yes—yes!" She hurriedly drew down some strands of the heavy bronze hair over an ugly, dark bruise near the temple. "I had forgotten. Yes, it was very painful, indeed, when it happened. You see," and she laughed in a breathless, nervous sort of way, "my maid left the door of a dressing cabinet open in my room at the theatre, and as I bent over I struck against it."
He murmured something sympathetically; and then looked at Scanlon, who obediently arose.
"In the morning," said Ashton-Kirk, "we'll take the first train for Stanwick; and by this time to-morrow evening we may have some news of importance for you."
"I hope so," she answered, "I sincerely hope so."
The maid entered in reply to a ring, and brought their hats and coats.
"It may be that you or your people, here in the house, can be of help to us," said Ashton-Kirk, evenly. "I should like to feel that I can count on that at any time."
"To be sure," Nora turned to the maid. "Anna, Mr. Ashton-Kirk is doing me a great service. Anything he asks must be done."
"Yes, Miss Cavanaugh," said the maid.
Then the two men bid the charming actress good-bye; when they had climbed into the cab and rolled away, the investigator lay back against the hard leather padding and closed his eyes. Scanlon looked at the keen outline of the face with interest. It was an altogether modern countenance, in perfect tune with the time; but, for all that, there was something almost mystic in it. It may have been that the mind which weighed and valued so many things, unnoticed by the crowd, had given something of the same touch to the face as the pondering of the secrets of life is said to give to the oriental anchorites.
But after a little, the investigator sat upright.
"When does Miss Cavanaugh have a matinée?" he asked.
"Not until Saturday," replied Scanlon.
A look of annoyance came into the face of Ashton-Kirk.
"Too bad," said he. "Then we shall have to arrange something." He reflected for a moment, snapping his fingers impatiently, as though for an idea. Then his countenance suddenly lighted up. "I have it! Young Burton is in the county prison awaiting action of the Grand Jury. What more natural thing than that she should visit him there to offer sympathy and encouragement—say between two and five to-morrow afternoon."
"You mean——" and Bat looked at him, only dimly grasping what was behind the words.
"That I depend upon you to suggest this to her," said the other. "It's the sort of thing she'll do, once it's in her mind."
"But," asked the astonished big man, "what's it for?"
"I want to pay another visit to her house," said Ashton-Kirk, coolly, "when she is not there."
The next morning at a trifle past nine, Bat Scanlon once more presented himself in Ashton-Kirk's study. He found the investigator attired in a well-fitting suit of rough, gray material; a light stick and a cap lay upon a table, while their owner, his hands deep in his trousers pockets, paced the floor.
"I've been through a half dozen newspapers since breakfast," said he. "The reporters and the city editors have had a great deal to say about what they call the 'Stanwick Mystery'; but they have unearthed nothing that's at all suggestive."
"Not a thing," verified Bat. "At least, nothing that I haven't seen or heard myself—except that the sick girl—Mary Burton—has taken to her bed."
"That's bad," said his friend. "But, you see, the arrest of her brother was sure to have some such effect."
"Well, it's turned a little trick for me, anyway," said Bat "The girl being suddenly taken down has got to Nora; and she called me this morningto talk about it. She's going down there this afternoon. It was her own idea. And so I won't have to do any 'under cover' stuff with her."
"Good," said the investigator. "It's always much better to have a thing come about naturally, if possible."
A big motor car waited for them at the door; it carried them swiftly out of the city proper into the suburb of Stanwick, and finally drew up in front of 620 Duncan Street.
The same policeman stood at the gate who had guarded it the day before.
"Hello, back again!" he saluted at sight of Scanlon.
"Yes; thought another look would do no harm," returned Bat. "Any one inside?"
"Osborne's there," replied the policeman. "But no one else—outside the family."
"Were you present when young Burton was arrested?" asked Ashton-Kirk.
"A little," grinned the policeman, "seeing as I was the party who brought him out to the wagon."
"Did he have anything to say when accused?"
"Not much. He didn't seem surprised, though. Osborne says to him: 'We'll have to hold you in this case till we get further evidence.' And he says: 'I didn't do it. If I had thought of it, maybe I would. But I didn't do it.'"
The investigator and Bat Scanlon walked upthe path; as they reached the door, it was opened for them, and they saw the burly form of Osborne standing in the hall.
"How are you?" greeted the headquarters man, good-humoredly. "Saw you from the window, and felt so honored that I'm letting you in myself." He shook Ashton-Kirk by the hand, warmly enough. "Kind of a surprise to see you down here."
The two men entered and the door closed behind them; then they made their way into the sitting-room, following Osborne. The body of the murdered man was no longer there; the rug stiffened with blood was gone; the room was now quiet and conventional—a peaceful calm filled it.
Ashton-Kirk's keen glance went about; he talked steadily to Osborne all the while, but Bat Scanlon observed that not a single detail of the apartment escaped him. The headquarters man wore a look of frank curiosity as he, too, watched the investigator, and saw him fixing the position of things in his mind.
"Just where did the body lie when the policeman arrived on the night of the crime?" he asked.
"Right here," and Osborne indicated the spot "The head was here. The wound was made with a candlestick—quite a heavy one; and the blow was meant to stop the victim for good."
"Any further marks on him besides the one on the head?"
"No," said Osborne. "We looked for something of that kind, but there was none."
Ashton-Kirk went to a window overlooking the stretch of green sod at the side of the house.
"I understand you found the candlestick just under this?"
"Yes. The window was a little open; and I guess, after he'd finished the job, the murderer wanted to get rid of the weapon. So he dropped it outside."
"Nothing to be had here," said Ashton-Kirk, after a few moments' study of the sitting-room. "At least not just now."
He threw up the window and stepped out, followed by Scanlon; standing upon the paved walk the investigator looked about. The Burton house, like the others on Duncan Street, sat fairly in the center of a plot of ground perhaps two hundred feet square. Along the division fence between that and the next house was a stretch of smooth sod, with grass, still green. At one place upon this was a sort of rose arbor, the browned, hardy shoots of a perennial twining thickly around it.
"There have been a half dozen policemen walking about here," said Ashton-Kirk, pointing to the soft earth under the window. "And that is fatal to any sort of close work, even had there been anything in the first place."
However, in spite of this, he went over every yard of the space about the house; at the rose arbor he paused.
"Directly in line with the sitting-room window," he said. "No doubt young Burton placed it with that in mind; the invalid sister would love to see the roses in early summer."
He walked behind the structure, and then Bat Scanlon saw him pause suddenly and bend over, rigid with eagerness.
"What is it?" asked the big man.
For answer the criminologist pointed to the ground; sharply indented in the sod were the marks of a small, high heeled shoe; and Scanlon stood staring at them perplexed.
"What do they signify?" asked he. "There are likely to be footprints all over the place—male and female. I'll venture to say that half the residents of the street have been prowling about in this space since the murder was done."
"That is a possibility always to be guarded against," said Ashton-Kirk, quietly. "But there has been a policeman on guard all the time, so, you see, the chances are greatly reduced." He studied the narrow imprints with great care; they were firmly pressed into the damp sod, the high heels making a decided puncture. "The night before last was a bright one," he added, finally, as he straightened up and looked at Scanlon. "Atabout the time the murder was committed the moon hung about there, full and unobstructed, if you remember. Now, suppose you, for some secret reason, entered the grounds at that time. The whole space on this side was flooded with light; and yet you desired to get a view of what was going on in the sitting-room; at the same time you were most anxious not to be seen. What would you be most likely to do?"
Scanlon looked around and considered.
"About the only thing to do in a case like that," said he, "would be to take cover behind this rose arbor."
"Right!" approved the investigator. "And now, consider: once behind it, the only place from which you could fully overlook the window desired would be here," indicating a certain spot; "the vine has 'made wood' too heavily at all the other points to permit of uninterrupted vision. And right here, you will notice these footprints are the most often repeated; they are also deeper, showing that the woman, whoever she was, stood here for some little time."
Scanlon was impressed; but at the same time there was a dubious look in his eye.
"A womandidstand there," he agreed; "and maybe she was looking in at the window. But what do you draw from that?"
Ashton-Kirk smiled.
"Nothing—as yet. We'll just note the fact, old chap, and pass on to the next. Later we'll put the two together, and see if any meaning is to be had from the combination."
He was silent after that, moving here and there over the ground, his head bent and his attention fixed. Scanlon chuckled as he watched him, and marveled at the similarity between the movements of his friend and those of a thoroughbred hound.
"And almost with his nose to the ground," observed Bat. "He's so fixed in what he's doing that the European war could move into the next county, and he'd never know it."
Once more the investigator came to a stop; from beneath the division fence where the grass was rather long, he picked a shining object which at once brought Bat Scanlon to his side.
"A revolver!" exclaimed the big man, amazed.
"EVERY CHAMBER LOADED""EVERY CHAMBER LOADED"
"With every chamber loaded," said the investigator. "It's a Smith and Wesson; it's of a small calibre, commonly called a 'ladies' revolver.'"
"Funny how it got there, ain't it?" said Bat. "For it couldn't have had anything to do with the killing of the 'Bounder,' seeing that he passed out through being bumped with a candlestick."
"Nevertheless," said Ashton-Kirk, as he slipped the weapon into his pocket, "the thing being here, and at this time, is rather interesting."
He proceeded with his inspection of the ground, striking off toward the front of the house as though following a trail. Bat lost sight of him for a few moments; then, as he, too, reached the front of the house, he saw the other standing, his hands in his pockets, a puzzled look on his face.
"Well," said Scanlon, "what now?"
"Suppose we have a look at the other side of the building," replied the other.
Here the police had also done some going to and fro; the broad foot of Osborne was distinctly marked everywhere.
"And here is the sergeant's," said Ashton-Kirk, pointing. "The policeman's shoe is not to be mistaken, and Sergeant Nailor always wears soles that have been pegged."
Under one of the windows the investigator came to a halt. It was a window smaller than any of the others and much higher in the wall. Beneath it was a cellar opening with an iron grating.
"Look there," said the investigator, as he pointed to this latter.
Bat Scanlon looked, and saw a little ridge of mud upon one of the bars.
"From some one's foot," declared he. "It scraped off on the grating when they climbed up on it, maybe to reach the window."
Ashton-Kirk studied the particles clinging to the bar with much interest, an eager look in his eyes.
"It may be a coincidence," said he, "but I'm inclined to think not."
"What may be a coincidence?" asked Scanlon, as the other carefully scraped the particles from the grading into a compartment of a paper fold. But Ashton-Kirk made no reply except:
"Give me a 'boost' up to that window."
The big man obediently did so; on the ledge were the marks of fingers in the dust which damp had caused to stick there.
"And newly done," said Ashton-Kirk, as he dropped to the ground, a glint in his eye. "Very little dust has attached itself since they were made."
He began searching the surface of the ground under the window; finally he took a strong lens from his pocket and with increased interest resumed the inspection.
"Very likely one of the cops did this," said Scanlon. "Wanted to see if the window was fast."
Ashton-Kirk got up from his stooping position and slipped the lens back into his pocket.
"They would have tried the window from the inside in that case," said he. "It would have been easier to get at." He stood for a moment, reflecting; then he continued: "There seems to be very little more to be hoped for. Let us speak to Osborne before we go."
The big headquarters man was in the roomacross the hall from the one in which the crime had been committed.
"Well, all through?" he asked, genially, and with the manner of one whose position is assured.
"Yes, I think so," said Ashton-Kirk.
"We covered it all pretty well outside there," nodded Osborne, complacently, "and we got nothing from it. Depend on it, this thing was an inside job. The party that did it belonged right here in the house."
"Too bad," mused Ashton-Kirk, as he looked about the comfortable, homelike room. "Too bad! That will mean that another home is wrecked; and this one seems decidedly worth keeping together—nice etching and rugs and some very good bits of old brass." He took up a candlestick from the end of a shelf. "Here is a real old Colonial candlestick which must weigh at least five pounds."
Osborne looked at the piece, grimly.
"If Tom Burton were alive," said he, "he might be able to tell you something about the weight of such things. It was with just such another he was killed."
"Oh, indeed!" Ashton-Kirk replaced the candlestick upon the shelf and dusted his fingers with a handkerchief. "Well, we'll be running along, Osborne." They shook hands with the detective. "Sorry we hadn't any better luck."
"So am I," said Osborne, still complacently. "But it breaks that way sometimes. We can't turn up new stuff where it doesn't exist."
"True," said Ashton-Kirk, as he descended from the porch to the paved walk. "That's very true. But thank you just the same. And good-bye."
And so with Scanlon at his side, he set off at a smart pace toward the railroad station.
Ashton-Kirk dismissed his car in front of a restaurant in the center of the city; he and his friend had luncheon in a quiet corner, then lighted cigars and smoked while they sipped their coffee.
"This is the second little matter I've had to put up to you," said Bat Scanlon. "I hope it won't grow into a habit."
"If it has any of the entertaining qualities of the other case," smiled the investigator, "I shall be greatly beholden to you."
Bat shook his head, and watched a cloud of white, thin smoke vanish in the air.
"That hardly seems likely," said he. "Stanwick ain't the place for mystery that Warwick Furnace was; and on the face of it, anyway, 620 Duncan Street can't touch Castle Schwartzberg for thrills. Beside that, the Campe affair[1]just sizzled with stuff, while this one, like as not, is finished already."
Ashton-Kirk smiled, and drew slowly at his cigar; this latter had a spicy tang, a flavor whichsuggested hot suns and heavy dews; the taste was rich, and the effect heady.
"Here is a cigar," said he, "which has all the flavor and shock of a richer looking and more suggestive leaf." He indicated the rather negative wrapper, and went on: "As you see, it hasn't any of that lush darkness which one usually associates with potent tobacco. And all because the wrapper was grown in Pennsylvania; for a casual inspection tells nothing of the tropical growth within."
"All of which is meant to mean——?" and Bat Scanlon looked at his friend inquiringly.
"That one must not be too hasty in judging a thing by its externals. The Campe case was surrounded by a sort of natural melodrama; the gloomy hills, which appear to have impressed Miss Cavanaugh, the huge bulk of Schwartzberg Castle, the unaccountable messages, and unknown agencies all led one to expect something unusual. In this present affair, however, the stage settings are not nearly so sensational; and yet," here the singular eyes of the investigator were fixed upon Scanlon intently, "who knows? Unlooked-for results may not be lacking."
"Why—do you mean to say——?" Scanlon began the question in a voice pitched in the key of sudden surprise; but the other stopped him before he could finish.
"As I said a while ago, at Stanwick," remarked Ashton-Kirk, "it is not yet time to declare anything. Just now we are picking up what facts and suggestions we can; later we'll try fitting them together." He drew out his watch and looked at it. "Two-thirty," he said. "Miss Cavanaugh must have started for Stanwick before this; so suppose we go now for our call."
Scanlon made a wry face as he arose.
"I don't like calling," spoke he, "and I especially don't like this one. When I was deputy marshall out in the Gunnison country I once made a call at the house of a gentleman who had locked himself up with a barrel of ammunition and a half dozen Winchesters, and bid defiance to the law. It was no soft job, but I'd rather do it again, than this."
"I think you are a little thin-skinned in the matter," spoke Ashton-Kirk. "Miss Cavanaugh is extremely anxious to go further into this case, and has asked our help. As I see it we can greatly increase our chances of success by this visit; and we'll also save her the anxiety of seeing us prowling around."
It was about a half hour's walk to Nora Cavanaugh's house; and when they rang the bell the same trim maid opened the door.
"Is Miss Cavanaugh at home?" inquired Ashton-Kirk.
"No, sir," replied the maid. "She went out about a half hour ago."
"I'm sorry," said the investigator, a look of vexation upon his face. "However, I suppose, though, it makes no difference. You recall what Miss Cavanaugh said to you when we were here yesterday."
"Oh, yes, sir; very well."
"Excellent!" said Ashton-Kirk. "And, now, we'd like to ask you a few questions, if you please."
The girl admitted them to a bright old reception room; the investigator laid his hat and stick upon a table.
"It was you who admitted Mr. Burton the last time he was here, was it not?"
"I opened the door for him, yes, sir. And he pushed by me."
"I see. How long had it been since his previous visit?"
"I'm not sure; but some time."
"What sort of a temper was he in?"
"He was always disagreeable, sir; but he was real nasty that night. He pushed me aside as if I was nothing at all."
The black eyes of the maid flashed at the recollection.
"I suppose you attend Miss Cavanaugh at the theatre as well as at home?"
"Oh, yes; she has no other maid."
Ashton-Kirk smiled and shook his finger at the girl.
"Then it was you who left the door of a cabinet open in the dressing-room and so caused that little accident."
"An accident!" The girl looked at him surprisedly. "I don't think I know just what you mean."
"Oh, well, never mind," said the investigator, carelessly. "A little mistake of mine, no doubt."
There was a vague sort of trouble in the face of Bat Scanlon; he smoothed his chin with one big hand, and shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other.
"And now," said Ashton-Kirk, to the maid, "when Burton pushed past you that night, where did he go?"
"He went to Miss Cavanaugh's rooms, sir."
"And justhowdid he go? Take us to the rooms just as he went."
The girl led the way into the hall once more.
"When he passed me," she said, "he ran up those stairs," pointing. "At first I didn't know what to do, but I followed him. He went into Miss Cavanaugh's room"—they had reached the second floor by this time, and the girl pointed to a door—"without ever knocking."
"Is that all?"
"Yes, sir; except that about fifteen minutes later he left the house."
"Very well. And now, if we may, we'd like to see the inside of Miss Cavanaugh's rooms."
The trim little maid seemed surprised at this; however, she had her instructions, and so did not hesitate. She opened the door, stood aside for them to enter, and then followed them in. It was Nora's dressing-room, a place of soft colors, of cool aloofness, and as Bat Scanlon breathed the air of it, with its delicate suggestion of scent, he had a feeling that he was venturing too far; he felt that his act was almost profanation. Through an open door at one end he caught a glimpse of a white bed; but it was only a glimpse, for after that he kept his head turned resolutely in another direction.
But not so with Ashton-Kirk; only one idea held his mind; his singular eyes studied the room with the eagerness of an ancient scholar poring over his scrolls.
"Miss Cavanaugh wears some handsome diamonds in the play in which she is now appearing," said he, suddenly, to the maid.
"Oh, yes, sir; beautiful. And real ones, too."
Ashton-Kirk smiled.
"And the more real they are, the more reason why she shouldn't permit them to lie about like that," said he, pointing to a stand, upon whichrested a handsome jewel case. "And more especially when I see a scaffolding just outside the window which would make entrance for a thief rather easy."
"It's perfectly all right," she said; "there's no danger, sir." She opened the jewel case, showing it to be empty. "Miss Cavanaugh has put all her jewels in a bank vault."
"That must have been recently," said the investigator, his brows a trifle raised.
"Only yesterday. She made up her mind about it very suddenly."
A look which Bat Scanlon could not interpret shot across Ashton-Kirk's face; a tune was upon his lips as he prowled, hands deep in his trousers pockets, up and down the room, his keen eyes missing nothing. At length he paused and looked at the maid once more.
"I have always admired the manner in which Miss Cavanaugh has her hair arranged," said he. "Do you do that?"
"Usually, sir," said the maid. "But," with a little shadow upon her face, "I don't thinkshecares for my work, sir. She has refused to have me touch her hair for the last few mornings."
"Too bad," said the investigator. "Too bad!"
Once more he began walking about the room. At a window he halted and looked out; the scaffolding erected by the workmen, who had apparentlybeen engaged in "pointing" the wall, ran sheer to the roof. Scanlon went to the investigator's side, and also looked out.
"Quite a job to hang one of these things," said the big man. "As few materials as you can do with, and all the strength you can get."
Ashton-Kirk, without a word of warning, climbed out upon the foot-planks under the window and then to Scanlon's amazement, he dropped upon his knees.
"Evening prayer or something, I suppose," said the big trainer. "But why the hurry? It's some hours till sundown."
The investigator picked at some particles of mortar adhering to the planks with the blade of a knife.
"The idea of cements and mortars always fascinated me," said he; "their cold persistency, their determination to outdo nature, their ability to join things foreign to each other, is admirable. There is quite a literature on the subject, and many men have given a great deal of study to the improvement of these most necessary agents."
Beside the knife blade he also had resort to the pocket lens which Scanlon had seen him use at Stanwick; then after he had slipped a fragment of the hardened mortar into a fold of his pocketbook, he reëntered the room. And as he did so, Bat Scanlon once more saw the look in his facewhich he had seen a few moments before, and which he had failed to interpret.
"What next?" said the big man, rather helplessly, for the expression was as mystifying now as before.
"That will be all, I think," said the investigator, cheerfully. "Thank you," to the maid, as she led the way down the stairs. And as she opened the street door for them, he added: "Please say to Miss Cavanaugh that we are extremely obliged to her; and that our call has been far from wasted, even though we were unfortunate enough to come when she was out."
Ashton-Kirk filled a finely colored meerschaum from the jar of Greek tobacco on the table; the pipe was a large one; upon the stem was a charging boar, exceptionally well done; and the curving bit was hard, gray bone.
"That combination always struck me as an exciting smoke," observed Bat Scanlon, from the opposite side of the table. "The tobacco, like most things from the Balkans, is a little unsettled; and the wild porker means battle with every bristle."
"It was no ordinary carver who gave this old chap his warlike look," said Ashton-Kirk, as he tapped the boar's bristling back with one finger. "No less a person than Pasquale Guiccioli is responsible for him."
"That so?" said Scanlon. "It seems like small work for a sculptor of his displacement."
"It was merely curiosity. He wanted to test this sort of clay as a medium, I suppose. And with a man like Guiccioli, even a whim must resultin something like a masterpiece. It was just about the time of that turmoil about the Florentine bronzes; and a bad light was thrown on the old man by persons interested in spoiling his career. I had the good fortune to come at the truth of the matter; and the sculptor, in an outburst of Italian fervor, declared that I might name any of his possessions as a reward."
"And you picked the pipe, eh?" Scanlon drew at his cigar, and nodded approval. But his eyes went from the meerschaum to a sheet of white letter paper upon the table which contained some fragments of hardened mortar gathered in two little heaps. "If you are ready," added he, "I'd like to hear why you are so interested in this stuff, and what it has to do with the Stanwick murder."
The investigator paced up and down the room; the smoke from the pipe lifted about him in small eddies as he moved.
"Two places may be associated mentally," said Ashton-Kirk, "and yet, physically, they may be as far apart as the poles. At the beginning of this affair, Nora Cavanaugh's house and 620 Duncan Street were brought together in my mind only because the murdered man had visited both on the night of his death. But," and Ashton-Kirk laughed, "mortar is a most adhesive substance; and it is holding them together quite firmly."
"I don't get you," affirmed Bat, a line of doubt across his forehead. "Make it a little plainer, will you?"
"At Stanwick you did not follow me over the ground very closely, except a few times when I specially claimed your attention. Just before I found the revolver under the fence, I saw a second footprint in the sod—a cautious footprint—or perhaps 'toeprint' would be better. It was that of a man, and he had gone tiptoeing lightly around with long steps and in a most erratic manner."
"Why didn't you mention it?" asked Bat Scanlon, somewhat hurt.
"The prints were few; they were also light and dim; and I was not at all sure that they meant anything. However, at the other side of the house I saw them again, but after a few yards I lost them."
"Huh!" said Bat Scanlon.
"But just in the neighborhood of the spot in which they disappeared," continued the investigator, "I noted something else. My lens showed me the impress in the sod of something like a woven fabric. My first thought was that some one had been walking about in his stockings. But a closer inspection told me that the outline was much too rigid for that. And then I realized what had happened. The man who had been tiptoeing so quietly about had stopped at thatpoint and drawn a pair of woolen 'creepers' over his shoes."
"No!" Bat started up in sudden excitement. "That's a good point. It shows that this fellow, whatever else he was, was no amateur. The creeper thing is a regular burglar stunt."
Ashton-Kirk nodded.
"I think you are right," said he. "At any rate it was this gentleman who tried to lift himself up to the window, and in so doing left that interesting little ridge of earth on the cellar grating."
"Yes, of course," said Scanlon. "Thatwouldbe him, sure."
"To the unaided eye," proceeded Ashton-Kirk, "the scrapings seemed but fragments of soil; but the lens showed me something more. Mixed with the earth were some whitish particles—these," and he indicated one of the little heaps of crumbled lime. "Association," and the investigator looked at his friend steadily, "is one of the commonest faculties of the mind. And as soon as I realized what the particles were, an idea took shape."
"An idea," said Bat, with a feeling of uneasiness growing upon him. "What sort of an idea?"
"True coincidence," said Ashton-Kirk, "is so infrequent an occurrence that I seldom considerit. The presence of the lime upon the cellar grating had no value, of course; but, as you know, a poker player will sometimes retain cards in his hand which are worth nothing in themselves, on the chance that he may draw certain others. And, once thesearedrawn, the heretofore valueless cards become of superlative importance."
There was a pause; Bat Scanlon knew the weight of this illustration, and sat in nervous expectation of what was to follow. "I had this idea in mind when I stepped on the scaffolding outside Miss Cavanaugh's window," proceeded Ashton-Kirk. "The maid said the workmen had not been on the job for some days, and so my search was not difficult. There were a great many footprints, unquestionably of the mechanics; but on top of these, plain and undisturbed, were the impressions of the 'creepers' which I had seen in the sod at 620 Duncan Street."
"You are sure?" said Bat Scanlon, in a flat, throaty voice. "There's no mistake?"
"Not any," replied the investigator, quietly.
Scanlon dropped the end of his cigar into a pewter bowl upon the table; then he lighted another and lay back in his chair, his brows drawn together in a heavy frown.
"All right," said he. "We'll let it go at that. There was a yegg of some kind scouting around Nora's house; and the same lad also took someobservations of the place at Stanwick. We have that all settled. And now what does it mean?"
Ashton-Kirk smiled.
"I don't know," said he. "But suppose we try to find out." He took the telephone receiver from the hook and asked for police headquarters. In a few moments he had the person required.
"Hello, Devlin," said he; "this is Ashton-Kirk."
"Oh, how are you?" came the big voice of Captain Devlin, of the detective staff. "Osborne was just talking about you. Said you'd got kind of a rap across the knuckles on that Stanwick job."
"We must all expect setbacks now and then," replied the investigator, smoothly. "I get mine with more or less regularity."
The captain of detectives laughed loudly; his mirth came over the wire in booming flares of pleasure.
"That's so," said he, "we all get it." There was an instant's pause, then he added: "Anything I can do for you?"
"I wanted to ask about any cracksmen who might be in town at this time," said the investigator.
"There's a few," replied Devlin. "What's the name of the party you want?"
"I have no name. But I can give you somedetails of description. He's cautious in his habits—goes about his work carefully. He's small and has large feet."
"That won't fit any one I know," said the other. "There is no regular burglar hereabouts just now who is what you'd call small. But the other two counts—being cautious and having big feet—would fit Big Slim."
"Ah!" Scanlon saw Ashton-Kirk's eyes snap. "Big Slim! I take it that he is a tall man, lightly built."
"That's right," answered Devlin. "A regular slat."
"Have you any idea where he could be found?"
"He's often seen at Duke Sheehan's, on Claridge Street. That's a kind of hang-up for him." Then, with a note of interest in his voice, the captain of detectives added: "Got anything on him?"
"I don't know," replied Ashton-Kirk. "I'll be able to tell better in a day or two."
After a few general remarks he hung up the receiver, turned toward Scanlon and told him of what Devlin had said.
But Bat continued to look puzzled.
"You asked for a cautious crook who was small and had big feet. Where did you get all that?"
"The fact that he wore 'creepers' showed thathe wasn't a man to take unnecessary chances. The impressions on the sod at Stanwick were quite faint; that indicated a light man, and so I thought of him as being small. However, a tall man of frail build would make about the same sort of a footprint; and in his case the large size of the feet is more easily accounted for."
"I get you," said Bat. He arose to his feet, the fresh cigar held between his teeth, and walked up and down the room. Ashton-Kirk leaned against a corner of the table, and watched him with observant eyes. And, finally, as the big man continued to tramp up and down in silence, the investigator said, quietly:
"There are some things in this whole matter which make you uneasy. I've seen that from the first. You've even feared to uncover little things which might be truths because you did not know just where they would lead."
Scanlon paused and regarded his friend with troubled eyes.
"You are right," said he. "From the very first I've been as nervous as a roomful of old maids with dinner ten minutes late. It had a queer look, somehow; and as I've seen more of it, the queerness don't get any less."
"Just at this point," spoke the investigator, "we reach a sort of crisis. Certain things must be faced. What you have been fearing and whatI have been realizing with increasing clearness with every step we took must now be considered openly and freely."
Bat cleared his throat, huskily.
"You mean Nora Cavanaugh," he said.
"I mean Nora Cavanaugh," replied the other, evenly.
Scanlon resumed his pacing.
"I can't deny it," said he. "She's keeping something back. I saw that—or rather, I felt it—from the start. I don't understand why she's doing it, and I can't imagine what it is. But she ain't told all she knows; and she don't mean to tell it." At Ashton-Kirk's side the man paused and laid a hand upon his arm. "And now that we're on this subject," said he, "and talking plain, what did you get from the marks on her temple?"
"She said it was an accident, due to her maid's carelessness. The maid, when questioned, showed clearly that she knew nothing of it. That convinced me that Miss Cavanaugh desired to hide the cause of the bruise. Her refusal to permit the girl to touch her hair on the morning after the murder makes it plain that she had some reason for desiring the mark to remain unseen."
"I'm on that she didn't get the mark as she said," said Scanlon. "But howdidshe get it?"
"That is another thing which it is impossible to make sure of at this time," replied Ashton-Kirk."But, merely as a suggestion, mind you, I recall that the' Bounder' visited her on the night it happened."
"He struck her, you mean!" Bat's hands clenched and his great shoulders heaved. "The infernal cur! that would be just like him!"
"Another suggestion which I'd like to make," spoke Ashton-Kirk, "is one which may or may not be significant. The maid said Miss Cavanaugh put her jewels in a bank vault the morning after his visit."
Bat Scanlon stiffened up; an exclamation upon his lips; one fist smacked into an open palm as he cried:
"You've hit it! She just came in from the theatre, and she was wearing the diamonds. When she refused him money he grabbed them; she resisted and he struck her!"
"You may be correct," said the investigator. He was keen, calm, impersonal; it was as though the entire matter were a game, the intricate possibilities of which were just being uncovered. But Scanlon was much excited; the more the thing grew and took shape in his mind, the more agitated he became. "And if you are right," proceeded Ashton-Kirk, "we can perhaps guess as to what followed."
Something like a shudder ran through Scanlon's big frame.
"I know what you mean," he said. "That thing has been lying like a shadow across my mind from the beginning. Nora Cavanaugh is a woman of spirit; the man who struck her would risk——"
But the other interrupted him.
"We'll not think of shadows," said he, quietly. "They will land us nowhere. What we are going to do is light the lamps along the road this thing leads us; in that way only can we get a good look at the facts."
"Facts!" Bat put one strong hand on Ashton-Kirk's shoulder. "As I feel now, facts are about the last things I want to deal with. Suppose the police found this out—that the rascal of a husband had visited Nora to get money from her, that he had struck her and taken her jewels, and that she had——"
But Ashton-Kirk slapped him upon the back.
"Don't wear out your nerves conjuring up things which maybe never have, or never will, happen," said he. "You'll have use for them, and at once. For there is some snappy work to be done, and I want your help."
"Right," responded Scanlon, with an instinctive grasping at his old habit of manner and thought. "What can I do?"
"I'll be engaged in another phase of the thing for a couple of days, and in the meantime I'dlike to have you go to Duke Sheehan's place and look out for the gentleman Devlin calls Big Slim. If possible, get acquainted with him, and find out anything of value he may have."
"Good enough," said Bat. "An acquaintance with that guy is one of the things I'd framed up for the near future. I'm interested in why he was promenading around on the scaffold at Nora's window, and why he shifted his attention to Stanwick in such a hurry." Bat looked at his hat which lay upon the table, and then to Ashton-Kirk once more. "Any particular time you'd like me to take up this job?" inquired he.
"The sooner the better," was the prompt reply.
"That means now," said the big man, as he took up the hat. "First I'll go back to my shop and dress for the occasion, then I'll drift into Sheehan's just as natural as you please and see what's to be seen."