As Ashton-Kirk and Pendleton sat in the former's library that evening after dinner, there came a knock upon the door and Fuller entered briskly. In his hand he carried a paper parcel which he laid upon a stand at the investigator's elbow.
"This is the bayonet, sir," said he. "Mr. Stillman, the coroner, objected to letting me have it at first, but changed his mind after I had talked to him for a while."
"Did you take the photograph to Berg in Christie Place?"
"Yes, sir. He recognized it at once as that of the person in question."
"And you made inquiries upon the other point?"
"I did. Neither Mr. Stillman nor any of the men who removed the body of Hume have been out of town within a week. I also questioned Mr. Osborne; his answer was the same. Brolatsky's reply was similar; and he also said that Hume had not ridden on a railroad in years."
"That will be all, Fuller; thank you."
The brisk young man had reached the door when the investigator added:
"One moment."
He scribbled something upon a pad, tore off the leaf and handed it to his aid.
"Look these things up at once."
Fuller took the paper, glanced at it and then replied:
"Very well, sir."
Seated in his big chair with the jar of Greek tobacco and sheaf of brown paper wrappers before him, Ashton-Kirk did not display any haste in removing the covering from the bayonet that had let the life out of the art dealer. Rather he sank deeper into the arms of the chair; the cigarette end became gray and dead between his fingers; the strangely brilliant eyes closed as though he had fallen asleep.
But Pendleton, who understood his friend's ways, knew better; the keen, swift-moving mind was but arranging the developments of the day, weighing them, giving to each its proper value. A little later and the eyes would unclose, more than likely alight with some new idea, some fresh purpose drawn from his reflections.
And as Pendleton waited he, too, fell into a musing state and also began marshaling the facts ashesaw them. Ashton-Kirk, during dinner, had told him those regarding the visit of Edyth Vale the day before.
"Pen, you know I don't usually do this," the investigator had informed him. "But as you know so much already, and your feelings in the matter being what they are, I think it best that you should know more."
And now Pendleton, as he rolled and consumed cigarette after cigarette, went over the facts as they had been laid before him.
"And Morris," said he to himself, as he reached the end of his friend's recital; "now what sort of a mess has Allan Morris got himself into? And after he had got into it, why in heaven's name didn't he keep quiet about it? What good could come from Edyth's knowing it?"
Then the fact that Morris had apparently tried to keep his secret from Miss Vale presented itself. But Pendleton dismissed it with contempt.
"Tried!" he said to himself. "Of course; but how? By marching up and down the floor. By a great parade of tragic despair; by sighs and the wringing of his hands. I've always suspected Morris of being a bit theatrical—and now I am sure of it."
He roused himself for a moment, lighted a fresh cigarette and settled back once more.
"I'm not Kirk by any means," he reflected, "and this sort of thing is altogether out of my line. But it seems clear that Edyth—after leaving here yesterday—received some unexpected news. When she was here, consulting Kirk, she was, to all appearances, in a quandary—helpless. She did not know how to proceed; she understood nothing. But her darting off alone that way after midnight proves that some sort of a crisis had come up. She had heard something—more than likely through Morris. He probably," with great contempt, "became hysterical again, couldn't contain himself and blabbed everything—whatever it was."
Then he burst out aloud, angrily.
"She went to Hume's last night because she had reason to think Morris would be there. And if the truth were known, Morriswasthere."
"My dear fellow," said the voice of Ashton-Kirk, "the truth, upon that particular point, at least, is known. Allan Morris was at Hume's last night. He was the man whom Berg saw enter after the musician."
"How do you know?" asked Pendleton, astonished.
"Fuller, with a report which he recently made upon Morris, handed me a photograph of that gentleman. While we were at dinner, Berg identified the portrait as being that of Hume's secret visitor."
"I was right, then. Edythdidgo there expecting to meet him—to protect him, perhaps. If you knew her as well as I do, Kirk, you'd realize that it's just the sort of thing she'd do. But," positively, "she did not find him there."
"What makes you think that? There was still one of Hume's visitors left, when she got there. It may have been Morris."
"It was Spatola," answered Pendleton, with conviction. "The scream of the cockatoo which came from Hume's rooms when the pistol was discharged proves it. When Spatola went in, Berg said he was carrying something under his coat. Brolatsky told the coroner this morning that the Italian sometimes brought his trained birds with him when he called at Hume's. That's what he had last night."
But Ashton-Kirk shook his head.
"At this time," he said, "it will scarcely do to be positive on some things. Indications are plenty, but they must be worked out. I have some theories of my own upon the very point that you have just covered, but I will not venture a decided statement until I have proven them to the limit. It's the only safe way."
Pendleton discontentedly hitched forward in his chair.
"I thought," said he, "that you worked entirely by putting this and that together."
"That is precisely what I do," returned Ashton-Kirk. "But I have found, through experience, that there must be no loose ends left to hang. Such things are treacherous; you never know when they'll trip you up and upset all your calculations." He paused a moment and regarded his friend steadfastly. Then he continued. "But, just now, I think we had better not trouble ourselves about Edyth Vale and Allan Morris. To be sure, the latter's connection with the affair is peculiar; Miss Vale's visit to Hume's last night, the sounds which Sams heard immediately after she had gone in—her turning out of the gas and hurried flight, are also strange and significant enough. But they are perhaps the very end of the story; and it is best never to begin at the end."
"Is there any way by which you can begin at what you think is the beginning?" asked the other.
Ashton-Kirk took up the parcel which Fuller had laid at his elbow.
"Here is one way," he answered. "Let us see where it leads us."
He stripped off the wrapper, and the bayonet which had killed the numismatist was revealed, blood-clotted and ugly. Carefully the investigator examined the broad, powerful blade and heavy bronze hilt.
"A Schwartz-Michael, just as I thought," he said.
"The maker's name is upon it then?" said Pendleton.
But the other shook his head.
"No," said he. "But it happens that I have given some attention to arms, and the bayonet, though a weapon that is passing, came in for its share."
He balanced the murderous-looking thing in his hand and proceeded.
"There are not many types of bayonets. The first was what they called a 'Plug,' because it was made to fit into the muzzle of a flint, or match-lock. Then there was the socket bayonet, the ring bayonet and an improved weapon invented by an English officer named Chillingworth which met with much favor in the armies of Europe. But the latest development is the sword bayonet, of which this is an example. Its form is a great improvement over the older makes; it is an almost perfect side arm as well, having a cutting edge, a point, and a grip exactly like that of a sword. There are a number of makes of this type; the Schwartz-Michael is one of the least known of these. Upon its being placed on the market it was adopted by three governments—Bolivia, Servia, and Turkey—and there it stopped."
He laid the weapon upon the table and settled himself back in his chair.
"It struck me when I first saw the thing," he went on, "that it was a little singular that a Schwartz-Michael should even find its way into the United States. Now, it would not surprise me to find an English revolver in Patagonia, or an American rifle in Thibet, because they are universally known and used. Any one might carry them. But a bayonet is different, of course; it is a strictly military arm, and its utility is limited. That a criminal should select one with which to commit a murder is unusual; and, further; the fact that the make is one never introduced into the United States is rather remarkable."
"It is—a little," agreed Pendleton.
"It is a small thing, but all clews are small things. Now there are many ways in which such a weapon might find its way into the country; but I took the most likely of these as a beginning. Before I dressed for dinner, I ran over a rather complete card-index system which I maintain; and within a few minutes learned that the republic of Bolivia had, within the past year, changed both the rifle and bayonet used by its army."
"Well?" asked Pendleton, with interest.
"When a nation makes such a change, the discarded arms are usually bought up by some large speculator or dealer in such things. And in the course of time they find their way to the military goods dealers who exist all over the world."
Here Fuller entered the room, and Ashton-Kirk turned to him inquiringly.
"Well?"
"In the morningStandardof April 9th," announced the young man, "I find an advertisement of Bernstine Brothers relative to a sale of condemned army equipment."
"Is anything specified?"
"They considered it important that high-power modern rifles were to be sold at a very small price. And they also lay some stress upon the fact that the stuff had been in use by the Bolivian army."
Pendleton saw a look of satisfaction come into his friend's eyes. But there was no other evidence of anything unusual.
"And now," said the investigator, quietly, "with regard to this other matter."
"I find that there are two schools for mutes in this section," answered Fuller. "But both are some distance out of town."
The satisfaction in Ashton-Kirk's singular eyes deepened.
"Excellent," said he.
"One is on the main line—Kittridge Station; the other is on the Hammondsville Branch at a place called Cordova."
"Thank you," said Ashton-Kirk.
And when the door had once more closed behind his aid, the investigator continued to Pendleton:
"I figured upon some of the equipment reaching here. Military goods houses, such as Bernstine's, usually advertise each lot they receive; and I considered it possible that the murderer might have been attracted by this notice and procured the weapon from them. If he did, we may get some trace of him by inquiring at Bernstine's. But," flinging his arms wide and yawning as though weary of the subject, "that is work for to-morrow. To-night we will rest and prepare for what is to come. But in the meantime," arising with enthusiasm, "let me show you a first edition of the 'Knickerbocker's History of New York' which I picked up recently."
He went to his book-shelves and took down two faded volumes. With eager hands Pendleton took them from him.
"Original covers!" cried he. "Binding unbroken; in perfect condition inside; not a spot or a stain anywhere." Then he regarded his friend with undisguised envy. "Kirk," said he, "you're a lucky dog. You can dig up more good things than anybody else that I know."
Next morning Ashton-Kirk lounged in a comfortable window-seat, almost knee-deep in newspapers. The published accounts of the assassination were, in some instances, very sensational. Drawings, by special artists of persons concerned, were much in evidence, also half-tones of the exterior of 478 Christie Place. The names of Osborne and Stillman figured largely in the types; but what interested the investigator most was a portrait of the musician—the violinist, Antonio Spatola, and the story of his arrest.
The pictured face was that of a young man with a great head of curling hair. The features were regular, the expression eager and appealing.
"I would have pronounced him a musician, even if I had not heard that he was one," said Ashton-Kirk. "The head and face formations have all the qualities." Then he ran over the story of Spatola's arrest and the causes that led up to it. At the finish he smiled. "They have tried and convicted him on the first page. If there was any way for them to do it, they'd execute him in the evening editions and print his dying words in the sporting extra. But," and he nodded his head appreciatively, "Osborne has a good case against him, at that."
Both the clerk, Isidore Brolatsky, and Berg seemed to have talked freely to the newspapermen. The character of Hume was treated in a highly colored manner. The visits of the Italian musician to the numismatist, his ambition to shine as another Kubelik, his ungovernable temper, the high words that followed Hume's frequent sneers at his ambition and the fact that he once drew a knife upon his tormentor, were presented in full. But what appealed to the space-writers most was Brolatsky's story of how Hume had once called Spatola "Mad Anthony," and afterward showed him the portrait of General Wayne.
"This apparently drove him frantic," wrote one reporter, "and, noting this, Hume frequently applied the name to him, and more than likely displayed the portrait as well. The last time that Spatola visited Hume was upon the night of the murder. He evidently went to regale the numismatist with music; for the delicatessen dealer, Berg, saw under his coat what was evidently his violin. During the course of the concert, Hume probably resumed his sneers; unable any longer to bear it, the Italian apparently struck him down, and then in blind rage of resentment, smashed and otherwise destroyed every one of the Wayne portraits he could find."
Fuller came in with another newspaper just about this time and Ashton-Kirk showed him the story.
"TheStandard, then, seems to ignore the theory held by Osborne and Stillman that the murder was done in an attempt to steal the portrait found partly cut from the frame," said the assistant after studying the account. Then, inquiringly, he added: "What do you think of it, sir?"
"As a piece of sensational writing, I have no fault to find with it," said the investigator. "But theStandard'syoung man is no deep thinker. The single fact that Hume was a lover of real music should have shown him that his theory was wrong."
Fuller considered a moment.
"I don't think I quite get that," said he.
"It is simple enough. Hume being sensitive to harmony, asked Spatola very frequently to play for him; and, according to Brolatsky, paid him rather well for each performance. To furnish good music, Spatola must have not only talent, but also a violin that was at least fairly good."
"Yes, sir, I see that."
"Having a violin that was at least fairly good, Spatola, being a poor man, would take care of it. He would carry it in a case—he would especially do so in wet or damp weather. And it rained on the night of the murder. If he carried his violin in a case, there was no need of his putting it under his coat. And, another thing, a violin case is of such size as to prevent its being so carried, isn't it?"
Fuller nodded.
"I think that's very good," said he.
"It would have been a very easy thing for theStandard'sman to have made a few inquiries as to whether Spatola used a violin case or no. If he had done so, I am inclined to think that the answers would have been in the affirmative. But there is another and more vital point upon which I would base an objection to the reporter's theory. He says that, goaded into a rage, Spatola struck his tormentor down. But he forgets that If the murderer did not visit Hume's with the intention of doing murder, it was rather a freakish thing for him to provide himself with a bayonet. However, that is a point that I discussed with Mr. Stillman yesterday; at first he was inclined to assume a somewhat similar position."
"But the broken and cut portraits?" questioned Fuller.
Ashton-Kirk smiled a little.
"Probably I shall be able to properly account for them when I return from a little trip that I am about to take to-day," said he. "That is," as a sort of afterthought, "if some things turn out as I think they will."
Fuller unfolded the newspaper that he had brought in.
"It is a late edition of theStar," he said. "The paper seems to have scored a beat, for it has some developments that may put a different face upon everything."
Ashton-Kirk took the sheet, and as he glanced at the flaring headlines, he whistled softly. The lines read:
"MYSTERIOUS WOMAN IN A MOTOR CAR!
"She Visits 478 Christie Place on the Night of Murder!"DID A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN'S HAND DEAL THE DEADLY BLOW?"A New Element Added to the Hume Sensation!"
"TheStarman seems to have struck up an acquaintance with Sams," said Ashton-Kirk, with interest. He thought for a moment, and then added to Fuller:
"Tell Stumph when Miss Edyth Vale arrives to show her here at once."
"Oh, you have been expecting her then?"
"No: I have not. But I am now."
After Fuller left the room, the investigator turned eagerly to theStar'sleaded narrative. This laid great stress upon the evident wealth and dazzling beauty of the mysterious midnight visitor in Christie Place; and second only to her did they feature the well-dressed stranger whom Berg had seen enter at Hume's door before he had closed his own place for the night. The revolver shot that had followed the woman's entrance and the parrot-like scream which had, in turn, followed that, lost nothing in the telling.
"Who was the woman? That is the mystery," the newspaper said in conclusion. "The hack driver caught but a glimpse of her, and in the excitement of the moment failed to take the number of the car. But that the latter was a Maillard he is positive. There are several headquarter's men following up the clew as this goes to press; and startling developments are expected at any moment.
"As to the second man whom the fancy grocer, Berg, saw go into Hume's, there is a well-founded belief that he is very well known in select circles and had called at Hume's frequently upon a matter concerning which both he and Hume were always very secretive. TheStarcalled up both his apartments and his office, but he had not been seen at either place on the day after the murder. The clubs of which he is a member were resorted to, but with no more success. As this gentleman is known to be engaged to the beautiful heiress of a huge fortune, theStar'swell-known special writer, Nancy Prindeville, was detailed to get her statement. But a man servant stated that his mistress had given positive orders that she could not be seen."
The investigator threw down the paper.
"Well," said he to himself with a shrug, "that makes it a little annoying for the young lady. The fact that they refer to Morris when they speak of a young man 'well known in select circles' will be plain to everyone, for the facts of Morris' visits have been rather well exploited in all the other papers. And as newspaper men are not without daring in their conjectures, I wonder how long it will be before one of them openly associates the 'beautiful unknown' with Allan Morris' betrothed. I would, I think, offer even money that the thing is hinted at before night."
He sat for some time in the midst of the scattered sheets thinking deeply; then he pressed the bell call, and Fuller presented himself.
"I want you to take up the investigation of Hume and Allan Morris where you left off the other day. Put Burgess, O'Neill and any others that you desire on the matter. I wantcompleteinformation, and I want itquickly."
"Yes, sir," answered Fuller.
"Follow up anything that promises results concerning Morris' father. Especially find out if he ever knew Hume. Get every fact that can be gathered about the latter. You, or rather Burgess, hinted in the preliminary report that it was thought that he had at one time lived abroad. If it is possible, establish that fact. In any event, go into his history as deeply as you can."
"Very well," said Fuller, with the easy manner of a person accustomed to carrying out difficult orders.
As the young man went out at one door, Stumph knocked upon another; then Miss Edyth Vale, very pale, but entirely composed, was shown into the room.
Ashton-Kirk arose, kicked aside the litter of newspapers, and placed a chair for his visitor.
"Your man told me that I was expected," she said. "How did you know that I would come this morning?"
"I knew that you'd be sure to read the newspapers," said he. "And I was pretty confident as to the effect theStar'saccount would have."
She sat down quietly and for a few moments did not speak. A slight trembling of the lower lip was the only indication of the strain under which she was laboring. Finally she said:
"I am very sorry that I deceived you yesterday morning."
He waved his hand lightly.
"I was not deceived; so there was no harm done," he explained.
She began tugging nervously at her gloves, much as she had done a few mornings before. Her face was still composed; but deep in her beautiful eyes was an expression of fear.
"I might have known that I could not do it," she said. "But the impulse came to me to deny everything as the easiest and safest way out of it all; and I obeyed it. I was not calm enough to consider the possible harm that it might do. However," and her firm voice broke a little, "I suppose the newspapers would have ferreted out the facts in any event."
"They are very keen in the pursuit of anything that promises a good story," agreed the investigator. "But if you had given me the facts as you intended doing when you called me on the 'phone yesterday morning, I'd have had twenty-four hours start of them, at least."
She leaned toward him earnestly.
"I am going to be frank with you now," she said. "And perhaps it is not yet too late. Ididintend telling you everything when I telephoned you, but, as I have said, the impulse came to hide it, instead!"
"It was fear," said Ashton-Kirk, "and was, perhaps, perfectly natural under the circumstances."
"When I left you two mornings ago," said Miss Vale, "I felt easier in my mind than I had in months before. From what I had heard of you, I felt sure that the little problem which I had set you would prove absurdly simple. This feeling clung to me all day; I was light and happy, and astonished my aunt, Mrs. Page, by consenting to go with her to Mrs. Barron's that night, a thing that I had been refusing to do for a long time.
"Late in the afternoon, Allan—Mr. Morris—came. As soon as I saw him I knew that something had happened or was about to happen. There was no color in his face; his eyes had a feverish glitter, his voice was high pitched and excited. But I did not let him see that I noticed this. I talked to him quietly about a score of things; and by a most circuitous route approached the matter that interested me most—our marriage.
"To my surprise he plunged into the subject with the greatest eagerness. Before that, as I have told you, he always did his best to avoid it; the least mention of it seemed to sadden him, to cause him pain. But now he discussed it excitedly; apparently it was no longer a dim, far-off thing, but one which he saw very clearly. As you may imagine, I was both astonished and delighted. But this was only at first. In a little while I noticed something in his tone, in his manner, in his feverish eyes that I did not like."
She paused for a moment; Ashton-Kirk clasped his knee with both hands and regarded her with interest.
"It was a sort of subdued fierceness," continued Miss Vale—"as though he were setting his face against some invisible force and defying it. When he mentioned our happiness that was to be, I could see his hands close tightly, I could read menace in the set of his jaw. As he was going, he said to me:
"'There has been something—a something that you've never been able to understand—keeping us apart. But it is about at an end. Human nature endures a great deal, sometimes, but it's endurance does not last forever. To-night, my dear, puts an end to my endurance. I am going to show what I should have shown long ago—that I'm a man.'
"Then he went away, and I was frightened. All sorts of possibilities presented themselves to me—vague, indefinite, formless terrors. I tried to shake them off, but could not. It became firmly fixed in my mind that something was going to happen—that Allan was about to—to—" here the steady voice faltered once more, "to take a step that would bring danger upon him.
"And that night I went to Mrs. Barron's as I had promised. I talked to people—I laughed—I even danced. But never for a moment did the fear cease gripping at my heart. At last I could stand it no longer. I felt that I must go to where this danger was confronting Allan; and as the house in Christie Place was the first that arose in my mind, I went there.
"I saw the cab upon the opposite side of the street; and the driver of it looked at me so hard that I drove on without stopping, as the newspaper states. But my courage came back in a few moments; I returned and went in."
"You halted on the stairs," said Ashton-Kirk. "Why?"
"Because I saw a light moving about in the hallway above," answered Miss Vale. Then she added: "But how did you know that I stopped upon the stairs?"
"I did not know it," replied Ashton-Kirk. "In his story the cab driver says you entered at Hume's door and went upstairs. I have found that the position which his cab occupied at the time was fully fifteen feet west of Hume's doorway, making it impossible for him to see whether you went up at once, or not. In the face of what immediately followed your entrance, or rather, what is said to have followed it, I thought it reasonable to suppose that you had stopped!"
"Thank you," said Miss Vale.
"You say there was a light moving about; but what else did you see?"
"Nothing."
"But you heard something?"
"Yes; the revolver shot, and then the dreadful cry that followed it."
Ashton-Kirk unclasped his hands from about his knee, placed them upon the arms of his chair and leaned forward.
"But between the two—after the shot, and before the cry, you heard a door close," he said.
She gave a little gasp of surprise.
"I did," she said. "I remember it distinctly now that you mention it. It closed sharply, but not very loudly."
The investigator leaned back and began drumming upon the arm of his chair with his long supple fingers.
"Experience never quite takes away that comfortable feeling of satisfaction that the proving of a theory gives one," said he. "I suppose it is a sort of reward that Nature reserves for effort."
And he smiled at his beautiful visitor's puzzled look, and went on:
"The cab driver says that the cry resembled that of a parrot or cockatoo. What do you think?"
"It was not unlike their scream," said Miss Vale. "But I was too much startled to think of comparing it to anything at the time!"
"What happened after you heard this cry?"
"I waited for some little time, part way up the stairs. Then the light which I had seen glancing over the walls and across the ceiling, seemed to halt and die down. After this there was a pause, a stoppage of everything, and fear took possession of me. Suppose Allan had really intended visiting the place—suppose he had preceded me—suppose something dreadful had just happened—something in which he had had a part!
"Filled with thoughts like these, I ascended the remaining stairs. There was a light shining through the lettered glass of the door at the front; but the hall was deserted; the far end was thick with shadows. I tried the door where the light was, but it was fast; the door nearest the stairs was open; I entered by that, and passed into the front room through a communicating doorway. Then I saw the—the body, turned out the light, ran stumbling through the rooms and down the stairs."
"Why did you turn out the light?" asked the investigator.
"I don't know. Partly, I suppose, to shut the awful thing upon the floor from my sight—and partly—"
She stopped, but Ashton-Kirk completed the sentence for her.
"And partly with the confused idea that you might hide the deed from public gaze and in that way save Allan Morris from the consequences of his crime," said he.
At this she sprang up, her hands outstretched appealingly; the fear now plain in her face.
"No, no!" she cried. "He is not guilty! He did not do it!"
"My dear young lady," said Ashton-Kirk, soothingly, "control yourself. Don't forget that before this thing is ended you will probably need all the self-command you can summon." Then as she resumed her seat, he added: "I did not say that he was guilty. I was merely telling you of the formless thought that you had in mind when you turned out the light."
She sat staring at him, the horror of it all still in her eyes. Then she nodded her head slowly, and said in a husky voice.
"Yes; that is what I thought, and that is why I called you on the telephone. I thought you would pity me and show me some way of covering it all up. But after I had your promise to come, I was seized with the fear that you might—that you might betray him. That is, I suppose, the real reason why I tried to deceive you. In my terror I myself thought Allan guilty. But, of course, now that I have had time to calmly think it over, I know he was not—that hecouldn'tbe! No one who knows him will believe he did it."
"What reason had you for thinking that he might be guilty?"
"His manner during the afternoon before the murder. He seemed so fiercely resolved, so different from his usual self."
"I understand. And what makes you think now that he is innocent?"
"I believe it because I understand his nature," said Miss Vale, earnestly. "He might be finally aroused—under provocation he might even be violent. But he could never do a thing like this—it is too utterly horrible."
"You have judged that it was probably he who was seen to go into Hume's before the murder?"
"Yes."
"Hume was alive when Berg closed up his shop; he was dead when you entered his showroom a half hour or so later. Therefore he must have met his death while the cab driver Sams sat on his box across the street. Now, while Morris was seen to go in, it is not at all positive that he was the man who came out. We are notsurethat he was not present when the crime was committed."
Miss Vale reared her head proudly.
"Is it possible," she said, "that you are trying to fix this deed upon Allan Morris?"
"I am trying to find the real truth," answered Ashton-Kirk, gravely.
"The police," said Miss Vale, "according to the newspapers, thought that the criminal gained admission by way of the roof. This may or may not be so; but I think it is pretty evident that he made his way out in that manner. I was on the stairs while he was in the hall. He fled, but as he did not pass me, he must have gone upwards. If Allan Morris had done this murder he would not have thought of this; not knowing the section, he would have been ignorant as to where the roof would lead. But if Spatola were the man who remained, it would have been different. Do the papers not say that he lives in a garret, or loft, in the same block? How easy it would have been for him to pass out upon the roof of 478 after the crime and then over the housetops of the block until he came to a scuttle which perhaps led into his very attic?"
"That," said Ashton-Kirk, "is very well conceived. But it has one weakness. You are not sure that the murdererdidascend to the roof after the crime. He may have been lurking in the shadows which you say were lying so thickly at the end of the hall. He may have been watching you as you discovered the body, while you ran down the hall once more and down the stairs. To be sure, you slammed the door behind you; and so locked it. But like all spring or latch locks, it could be readily opened from the inside. No one else came out while the cab driver waited; but that was only for another fifteen minutes, according to his own statement. The murderer could easily have waited until he had gone and then slipped out, also locking the door after him."
Miss Vale sat staring at the speaker dumbly for a space; then she asked in a dry, expressionless way:
"And do you really think this is what happened?"
Ashton-Kirk shook his head.
"No," said he. "I merely mentioned it to show you that it is difficult to be sure of anything in a matter like this until," with a smile, "youaresure. It is one of the things that may have happened; but it is also open to question. A criminal whose crime has been discovered does not ordinarily linger upon the scene. You had just fled with the terror of the thing fresh upon you. How did he know but that you might scream it out to everyone you met."
Again she looked at him mutely. Then she said:
"What, then, is your theory of the crime?"
"I have a number of possibilities at this moment," he said. "Of course, there is one to which I give the preference; but until a thing is proven beyond question, it is my rule never to outline my theories."
Before Miss Vale left she had implored him to do all he could to clear the matter up, for her sake and for Morris's. "Of course," she said in conclusion, "I now understand that the entire matter will get into the papers. It is too late to prevent that. But it is not too late for you to fix the guilt where it belongs. And I have every confidence that you will do it. If I had not," and her voice quavered pitifully, "I don't know what I should do."
"I will do what I can. Success sometimes comes easily—sometimes one is forced to fight hard for it. But rest assured that I will do what I can."
She was going; he held the library door open for her while the grave-faced Stumph waited in the hall.
"It will, perhaps, be necessary for me to see Mr. Morris sometime during the course of the day," said Ashton-Kirk, as an afterthought. "Would it be convenient for you to let him know that I can be seen at six?"
The fear that his soothing words had driven from her eyes, swept back into them; he saw her tremble and steady herself against the door-frame.
"I cannot let him know," she said. "I have not seen him since—since the time I have mentioned. I have waited, telephoned, sent messages, even gone in person. But I could not find him. No one seems to know anything of his whereabouts."
For some time after Miss Vale had gone, Ashton-Kirk stood at one of the windows and looked down at the sordid, surging, dirty crowd in the street. The worn horses went dispiritedly up and down; the throaty-voiced men clamored strangely through their beards; children played in the black ooze of the gutters; women bundled in immense knitted garments and with their heads wrapped in shawls, haggled over scatterings of faded, weak looking vegetables. The vendors grew frantic and eloquent in their combats with these experienced purchasers; their gestures were high, sharp and loaded with protest.
Then Pendleton came. He was burdened with newspapers and wore an excited look.
"I brought these, thinking that perhaps you had not seen them," he exclaimed, throwing the dailies among the others upon the floor. "But I note that your morning's reading has been very complete. Now tell me, Kirk, what the mischief do you think of all this?"
"I suppose, you refer to the published reports of the Hume case?"
"Of course! As far as I am concerned, there is not, just now, any other thing of consequence on earth." Then he struck the table with his fist. "And it's all the fault of that cur—Allan Morris! Every bit of it! There is not a space writer or amateur detective on a single paper in the city that hasn't his nose to the ground at this minute, hunting the trail. They are all at it. I stopped at the Vale's on my way here, but they told me she was not at home. From the top step to the curb, on my way out, I was stopped four times by stony-faced young men all anxious to make good with their city editors. 'Was I a friend of the family? Did Miss Vale seem at all upset by the matter? Where was Allan Morris? What brought him so frequently, as Brolatsky said, to see Hume?' I believe they'd have come over the back of my car even after I started, if I had given but an encouraging look."
"The evening papers will be a trial to Miss Vale for the next few days."
"Well, don't neglect the morning issues, if you are going to mention any. In to-morrow'sStarthere will be a portrait of Edyth four columns wide and eight inches high. I'll expect such expressions as 'beautiful society girl,' 'a recent debutante,' 'heiress to the vast fortune of the late structural steel king,' 'charming manner and brilliant mind.' And at those odd times when they are not praising her gowns, her wealth or her good looks, they'll be rather worse than insinuating that she knows all about the crime—if she didn't commit it herself!"
He paced up and down the floor, his huge motoring coat flapping distressfully about his legs. His face was flushed.
"If I had Morris here," he threatened, "I'd show him a few things, the pup!" Then suddenly he stopped his tramping and faced his friend. "But now that it is as it is," he demanded, "what are we going to do about it?"
"There are quite a number of very sensible things for us to do," replied Ashton-Kirk, good-humoredly. "And the first of them is to keep our tempers—the second to keep cool."
"All right," sulked Pendleton. "I know well enough that I need to do both. But what next?"
"Is your car still outside?"
"Yes."
"Good. We'll have a little use for it to-day, if you're not otherwise engaged."
"Kirk," said Pendleton, earnestly, "until this matter is settled, don't hesitate to command me. I know that I'm not generally credited with much serious purpose; but even the lightweight feels things—sometimes."
Within half an hour, Ashton-Kirk, in a perfectly fitting, carefully pressed suit of gray, tan shoes and a light colored knock-about cap, led the way down to the car. As they got in, he said:
"We'd better go to Bernstine's first. It's the nearest and on our way to the station."
A twenty minute's run through a baffling maze of vehicles brought them to the curb before a store with a very conspicuous modern front of plate glass and metal. Inside they inquired for one of the Messrs. Bernstine; and upon one of the gentlemen presenting himself, Ashton-Kirk handed him his card. Mr. Bernstine was stout, bald and affable.
"I have heard of you, sir," said he, "and I am delighted to be of service!"
"Within the last few weeks," said Ashton-Kirk, "you have had a sale of rifles and other things condemned by the military authorities of Bolivia."
Mr. Bernstine wrinkled his smooth forehead in reflection.
"Bolivia?" said he. "Now let me see." He pondered heavily for a few moments and then sighed. "You see," he explained, "we sell so many lots, from so many different places, that we can hardly keep the run of them. But our books will show," proudly; "everything we do is in our books."
He looked down the long, table-crowded store and called loudly:
"Sime!"
Sime instantly put in an appearance. He was small, sandy-haired and freckled; he wore an alert expression and carried a marking pencil behind his ear.
"This is our shipping and receiving clerk," said Mr. Bernstine. "He's up to everything around the place." Then he lowered his voice and jerked his fat thumb toward the newcomer secretly, addressing Pendleton: "Clever! Just full of it."
Sime listened to Ashton-Kirk's question attentively.
"Yes," he said, in answer, "we had some of that stuff lately. Sold well, too, considering the time of the year." He pulled open a drawer and took out a fat, canvas-covered book. "Two gross rifles; one hundred gross cartridges." He closed the book, tossed it into the drawer and then slid the drawer shut. "There were a few bayonets, too. About half a dozen."
With his round, fat countenance shining with admiration, Mr. Bernstine once more caught Pendleton's eye.
"Just full of it," he murmured, sotto voce. "As full as he can be."
"The bayonets," said Ashton-Kirk, "are what we are after. They were all sold, I suppose?"
"Yes," replied Sime. "I remember, when the last one went, saying to one of our men that we were lucky. You see, bayonets don't sell very well except to military companies; andtheyare not organizing every day."
"Do you know who bought them?"
Sime took the marking pencil from behind his ear and proceeded to scratch his head with its point. Mr. Bernstine watched him anxiously. But when the shipping clerk pulled open the drawer once more, the employer's face lighted up.
"Ah!" said he to Pendleton. "The books! Now we'll have it."
"They were all taken away by the people who bought them," announced Sime, after a great flipping of ink spattered pages, "All except one."
"And that one—"
"It went by our boy. It was sold to Mr. Cartwright the artist, and was sent to his studio up here in Fifth St. But there was another—the last one that we had," suddenly, "and now that I get thinking of it, I remember we had some trouble about it. The man that bought it was a Dago."
Pendleton darted a swift look at Ashton-Kirk, but the investigator's expression never changed. He looked steadily at the clock.
"When he asked for the bayonet," proceeded Sime, "I knew we had one left, but I could not just lay my hands on it. He paid for it and I said we'd send it to him. He started to give me his address, and then changed his mind and said he'd come back again."
"And he did?"
"Yes; the same afternoon. I had found the thing by that time and he took it with him."
"You don't recall the address?"
To his employer's evident mortification, Sime shook his head.
"Look in the books," suggested Mr. Bernstine with confidence. "Look in the books."
"It ain't there," answered Sime. "He said he'd come back, so I didn't put it down."
"Was it Christie Place?"
Sime pointed at Ashton-Kirk with his pencil.
"You've got it," said he. "That was it, sure enough."
"And you think the man was an Italian?"
"Well, he talked and looked like one. Rather well educated too, I think."
Ashton-Kirk thanked the clerk, and the now beaming Mr. Bernstine, and with Pendleton left the place.
"Well," said Pendleton, as they climbed into the car, "this about fixes the thing, doesn't it? The musician, Antonio Spatola, is the guilty man, beyond a doubt."
The investigator settled back after giving the chauffeur his next stop.
"Beyond a doubt," said he, "is rather an extreme expression. The fact that the bayonet was purchased by an Italian who gave his address as Christie Place is not enough to convict Spatola. All sorts of people live in that street, and there are perhaps other Italians among them."
Pendleton called out to the chauffeur to stop.
"We'll settle that at once," said he. "Spatola's picture is in the papers. We'll ask the clerk if it is that of the man to whom he sold the weapon."
But Ashton-Kirk restrained him.
"I thought of the published portraits while Sime was speaking," said he. "And I also thought that it was very fortunate that neither he nor his employer were readers of the newspapers."
"How do you know that they are not?"
"If they had read to-day's issues they would have at once connected the Italian who purchased the bayonet with the one who is said to have used it—wouldn't they; especially as both Italians lived on the same street? Bernstine and Sime said nothing because they suspect nothing. And, as I have said, this is fortunate, because, suspecting nothing, they will continue," with a smile, "to say nothing. If the police or reporters got this, they'd swoop down on the trail and perhaps spoil everything!"
"But Bernstine or his clerk will hear of the matter sooner or later," complained Pendleton. "And the police and reporters will then get in on the thing anyhow."
"But there will be a delay," said his friend. "And that may be what we need just now. Perhaps a few hours will mean success. You can never tell. The best that we could get by explaining matters to Sime would be a positive identification of Spatola, or the reverse. And we can get that from him at any time. So you see, we lose nothing by waiting."
"I guess that's so," Pendleton acknowledged, and again the car started forward. At the huge entrance to a railroad station they drew up once more.
Within, Ashton-Kirk inquired for the General Passenger Agent and was directed to the ninth floor. The agent was a slim little man with huge whiskers of snowy whiteness, and a most dignified manner.
"Oh, yes," he said, after glancing at the investigator's card. "I have heard of you, of course. Who," with a little bow, "has not? Indeed, if I remember aright, this road had the honor to employ you a few years ago in a matter necessitating some little delicacy of handling. Am I not right?"
"And I think it was you," said Ashton-Kirk, smoothly, "who provided me with some very clearly cut facts which were of considerable service."
The little General Passenger Agent looked pleased and smoothed his beautiful whiskers softly.
"I was most happy," said he.
"Just now," said Ashton-Kirk, "I am engaged in a matter of some consequence, and once more you can be of assistance to me."
"Sit down," invited the other, readily. "Sit down, and command me."
Both Pendleton and the investigator sat down. The latter said to the passenger agent:
"I understand that every railroad has a system by which it can tell which conductor has punched a ticket."
"Oh, yes. A very simple one. You see the hole left by each punch is different. One will cut a perfectly round hole, another will be square, still another will be a triangle, and so on, indefinitely."
From his card case, Ashton-Kirk produced the small red particle which he had found upon the desk of the murdered man.
"Here is a fragment cut from a ticket," he said. "It is shaped like a keystone. I should like to know, if you can tell me, what train is taken out by the conductor who uses the keystone punch."
The agent touched a signal and picked up the end of a tube.
"The head ticket counter," said he. "At once." Then he laid down the tube and continued to his visitors. "He is the man who can supply that sort of information instantly."
The ticket counter was a heavy-set young man, in spectacles and with his hair much rumpled. He peered curiously at the strangers.
"Does any conductor on our lines use a punch which cuts out a keystone?" inquired the General Passenger Agent.
"Yes, Purvis," replied the heavy young man. "Runs the Hammondsville local."
"I am obliged to you both," said Ashton-Kirk. "This little hint may be immensely valuable to me. And now," to the agent, "if I could have a moment with Conductor Purvis, I would be more grateful to you than ever."
"His train is out in the shed now," said the ticket counter, looking at his watch. "Leaves in eight minutes."
"I'm sorry that I can't have him up here for you," said the passenger agent. "Just now that is impossible. But," inquiringly, "couldn't you speak to him down on the platform?"
"Of course," replied Ashton-Kirk.
He and Pendleton arose; the little man with the large white whiskers was thanked once more, as was the heavy young man with the rumpled hair.
"You'll find the Hammondsville train at Gate E," the latter informed them.
Then the two shot down to the platform level and made their way toward Gate E.