The Hammondsville local was taking on its passengers. It was a sooty train, made up of three coaches and a combination baggage and smoking car. The gateman pointed out its conductor, inside, and the two approached him.
He was a spare, elderly man with a wrinkled, shrewd face, and a short, pointed manner of speech.
"Oh, the General Passenger Agent sent you?" said he, examining them. "All right. What's wanted?"
"Your train stops at a station called Cordova, does it not?"
"It stops at every station on the run. Cordova's one of them."
"There is an institution at Cordova, I believe?"
"For deaf and dumb kids—yes."
"Of course some of the people from there ride in and out with you at times."
"I don't get many of the youngsters. But the folks that run the place often come to the city."
"You are acquainted with them, of course. I mean in the way that local conductors come to be acquainted with their regular riders."
Purvis grinned.
"Say," said he. "It's hard to get acquainted with some of them asylum people. There's only a couple of them that can talk!"
"I see." Pendleton noted Ashton-Kirk's dark eyes fixed steadfastly upon the man's face as though he desired to read the remainder from his expression. "There is one of them," continued the investigator, "whom perhaps you have noticed. He's rather a small man, and wears thick glasses. He also dresses very carefully, and he wears a silk hat."
"Oh, yes," said the conductor, "I know him. He goes in and out quite often. Very polite too. Always says good day with his fingers; if the train is crowded, he's a great little fellow for getting up and giving his seat to the ladies."
"Have you ever heard his name?"
"Yes. It's Locke. He's some kind of a teacher."
Ashton-Kirk thanked the man, and with Pendleton walked through the gate. As they were descending the stairs to the street, Pendleton said:
"And now he wears a silk hat, does he? But you have not made sure of the man. You forgot to inquire if Mr. Locke favored the German dramatists."
For a moment Ashton-Kirk looked puzzled, then he burst into a laugh.
"Ah," said he, "you remember that."
"Of course I remember it. How can I forget it? You go prancing about so like a conjurer that there's not a moment that I don't expect something. If you finish by dragging the murderer from your sleeve, I'll not be at all astonished. Your methods lead me to expect some such a finale."
"To explain each step as I take it," said the investigator, "would be much more difficult than the work itself. However the time has now arrived for me to enlighten you somewhat upon this point, at least. I am quite convinced that this man Locke played a leading part in the murder of Hume. He is in a manner definitely placed, and I can speak of him without fracturing any of my prejudices."
They got into the car, and Ashton-Kirk continued to the chauffeur:
"Christie Place." Then to Pendleton, he added as the machine started, "I want to make some inquiries at the house where Spatola lived; and in order to make the matter clearer, we'll just drop in at 478."
As they proceeded along at a bounding pace, the investigator related to Pendleton what had passed between Edyth Vale and himself a few hours before. Pendleton drew a great breath of relief.
"Of course I knew that her part in the matter was something like that," he said, "but I'm glad to hear it, just the same." He looked at his friend for a moment and then continued: "But how did you know that Edyth heard a door close immediately after the pistol shot?"
They had just drawn up in front of Hume's, and as Ashton-Kirk got out, he said:
"If you had only used your eyes as we were going over the place," said he, "you'd have no occasion to ask that question."
There was a different policeman at the door; but fortunately he knew the investigator and they were allowed to enter at once. When about half way up the stairs, Ashton-Kirk said:
"This, I think, is about the place where Miss Vale stopped when she saw the light-rays moving across the ceiling and wall of the hall. You get the first glimpse of those from this point. Remain here a moment and I'll try and reproduce what she heard—with the exception of the cry."
Pendleton obediently paused upon the stairs; Ashton-Kirk went on up and disappeared. In a few moments there came a sharp, ringing report, and Pendleton, dashing up the stairs, saw his friend standing holding open the showroom door—the one with Hume's name painted upon it.
"It's the bell," said Ashton-Kirk, pointing to the gong at the top of the door frame. "When I examined it this morning I saw that it was screwed up too tight, and knew that it would make a sound much like a pistol shot to ears not accustomed to it."
Pendleton stared in amazement at the simplicity of the thing.
"I see," said he. "While Edyth stood listening on the stairs someone opened this door!"
"Yes; someone unacquainted with the place. Otherwise he would have known of the bell."
"But how did you know that Edyth heard a door close?"
"Whoever rang the bell closed the door after him. It has a spring lock like the street door; and was locked when Miss Vale tried it a few moments later."
"You say that the ringing of the bell shows the person who rang the bell to have been unacquainted with the place. I think you must be wrong here. Spatola is acquainted with the place; he was here at the time. This is proven by the scream of the frightened cockatoo which followed the ringing of the bell."
"It was not a cockatoo that made the sound," said Ashton-Kirk. "Give me a moment and I think I can convince you of that."
The gas in the hall was lighted; the investigator stopped at the foot of the stairs leading to the fourth floor.
"Persons," he continued, "who secretly enter buildings, as a rule never trust to the lighting apparatus of the buildings. One reason for this is that it is not under their control—another that they cannot carry their light about with them."
He pointed to the lowermost step of the flight; there, as before, were the stump of candle, the burnt matches, the traces of tallow upon the wood.
"There were two or more men concerned in this crime," proceeded Ashton-Kirk, "and that is the method of lighting that they chose—a candle."
"Two men! How do you know that?" asked Pendleton.
"You shall see in a moment," replied the investigator. Then he continued: "And the candle was used not only for illumination—it served another purpose, and so supplied me with the first definite information that my searching had given me up to that time."
Pendleton looked at the discouraged little candle end, with its long black wick, the two charred splinters of pine wood and the eccentric trail of tallow droppings. Then he shook his head.
"How you could get enlightenment from those things is beyond me," he said. "But tell me what they indicated."
"The candle and the match-sticks count for little," said Ashton-Kirk. "It is the tracings of melted tallow that possess the secret. Look closely at them. At first glance they may seem the random drippings of a carelessly held light. But a little study will show you a clearly defined system contained in them."
"Well, you might say there were three lines of it," said Pendleton, after a moment's inspection.
"Right," said Ashton-Kirk. "Three lines there are, and each follows a row of tack heads. These latter were, apparently, once driven in to hold down a step-protector of some sort which has since become worn out and been removed."
The speaker took a pad of paper and a pencil from his pocket. Across the pad he drew three lines one under the other. Then with another glance at the candle droppings upon the step, he made a copy of them that looked like this:
drawing of clue
drawing of clue
Pendleton bent over the result under the flare of the gas light; and as he looked his eyes widened.
"Why," cried he, "they look like a stenographer's word-signs."
"Good!" said Ashton-Kirk. "And that, my dear fellow, is exactly what they are. There, scrawled erratically in dripping tallow, is a three word sentence in Benn Pitman's phonetic characters. It is roughly done, and may have occupied some minutes; but it is well done, and in excellent German. I'll write it out for you."
Then he wrote on the pad in big, plain Roman letters:
HINTERWAYNE'SBILDNISSE
"There it is," said the investigator, "done into the German language, line for line. Brush up your knowledge now; let me see you turn it into English."
Pendleton, whose German was rusty from long disuse, pondered over the three words. Suddenly a light shot across his face; then his eyes were in a blaze.
"Behind Wayne's Portrait!"
He fairly shouted the words. Astonishment filled him; he was trembling with excitement.
"By Heaven," he gasped, "you have it, Kirk. Now I understand the smashing of the portraits of General Wayne. There was something of value hidden behind one of them—between the picture and the back! But what?"
"It was nothing of any great bulk; the hiding place indicated points that out, surely," said Ashton-Kirk, composedly. "A document of some sort, perhaps."
Pendleton stood for a moment, lost in the wonder of the revelation; then his mind began to work once more.
"But I can't understand the writing of the thing upon the step," said he.
"It was the fact that it was written that proved to me that there were at least two men concerned. One knew the hiding place of the coveted object; and this is how he conveyed the information to his companion," pointing to the step.
"But," protested Pendleton, "why did he not put it into words? Surely it would have been much easier?"
"Not for this particular person. As it happens, he was a mute."
Again Pendleton's eyes opened widely; then recollection came to him and he said:
"It was Locke—the man concerning whom you were making inquiries of the railroad conductor!"
Ashton-Kirk nodded, and replied.
"And it was he who shrieked when the door of the showroom opened. The out-cry of a deaf-mute, if you have ever heard one, has the same squawking, senseless sound as that of a psittaceous bird like the parrot or cockatoo."
"But," said Pendleton, "the fact that the man who scrawled these signs upon the stepwasa deaf-mute, scarcely justifies the eccentricity of the thing. Why did he not use a pencil, as you have done?"
"I can't say exactly, of course. But did it never happen that you were without a pencil at a time when you needed one rather urgently?"
"This thing has sort of knocked me off my balance, I suppose," said Pendleton, rather bewildered. "Don't expect too much of me, Kirk." He stuffed his hands in his pockets dejectedly and continued: "You now tell me that this man was a mute. Yesterday you said he was small, that he was near-sighted, that he was well dressed and knew something of the modern German dramatists. You also told the conductor that he wore thick glasses and a silk hat. Now, I suppose I'm all kinds of an idiot for not understanding how you know these things about a man you never saw. But I confess it candidly; Idon'tunderstand."
"It all belongs to my method of work," said Ashton-Kirk. "It's simple enough when you go about it the right way. I have already given you my reasons for thinking the man who did this," pointing to the step, "to be a mute. I judged that he was of small stature because he chose the bottom step upon which to trace his word signs. Even an ordinary sized man would have selected one higher up."
"All right," said Pendleton. "That looks good to me, so far."
"The deductions that he was well dressed and also near-sighted were from the one source. His hat fell off while he was tracing the signs; that showed me that he was forced to stoop very close to his work in order to see what he was about. You see that, don't you?"
"How did you know his hat fell off?" asked Pendleton, incredulously.
"Mrs. Dwyer is evidently paid to clean only the hall and lower stairway," replied Ashton-Kirk, composedly. "And that she sticks closely to that arrangement is shown by the condition of this upper flight. The dust upon the step is rather thick. If you will notice," and he indicated a place on the second step, "here is a spot where a round, flat object rested. That this object was a silk hat is positive. You can see the sharp impress of the nap in the dust; here is the curl in the exact center of the crown as seen in silk hats only. And men who wear silk hats are usually well-dressed men."
"But how can you be at all sure that the hat fell off? Isn't it possible that he took it off and laid it there?"
"Possible—yes—but scarcely probable. A well-dressed man is so from instinct. And his instinctive neatness would hardly permit him to put his well-kept hat down in the dust."
"Go on," said Pendleton.
"The stairs have been used since the hat fell there; but the dust has not been disturbed. There is a hand-rail on the other side of the flight, and consequently, all went up and down on that side."
"I can understand the thick glasses," said Pendleton, "his being near-sighted suggested those. But what made you think he cared for the modern German dramatists?"
"That was a hazard, merely," and the investigator laughed.
"He knew German and was apparently a man of intelligence. No man who combines these two things can fail of admiration of Hauptmann, Sudermann and their brothers of the pen. And then a mute who knew shorthand well enough to have such ready recourse to it, struck me as being unusual. They all know the digital sign language; but German and phonography classed him as one above the ordinary. This knowledge brought the suggestion of an institution. Then came the suggestion that he might be an instructor in such an institution. The fragment from the railroad ticket hinted that the institution might be out of town. Fuller's research placed two such institutions. The ticket counter at the railroad office narrowed it down to one. The conductor of the train all but put his hand on the man."
There was a short silence. Then Pendleton drew a long breath.
"Well, Kirk," said he. "I don't mind admitting that you have me winging. I'll tell you now it's clever; but if I can think of a stronger word later, I'll work it in instead."
"We have a pretty positive line on one of the criminals, and we will now turn to the other," said the investigator, briskly. "It was this other who committed the murder. The infirmities of Locke, the mute, made it impossible for him to venture into the rooms. The risks for a deaf and short-sighted man would be too great. Danger might creep upon him and he neither hear nor see it. For some reason which I have not yet discovered, but it may have been distrust, he had not informed his confederate as to the whereabouts of the object of their entrance. When they got as far as this hall, he concluded to do so; but as neither man had a pencil, he conveyed the information as shown; then the confederate entered Hume's apartments by the door which Mrs. Dwyer found open. This, by an oversight, may have been left unlocked, or the criminals may have had a key. However, that does not affect the case one way or another.
"It is my opinion that Hume was seated at his desk at this time and heard the intruder enter the storage room; then pushing back his chair as we saw it, he arose. The criminal, however, sprang upon and struck him so expertly that he collapsed without a sound. Then the bayonet came into play.
"A search followed for the thing desired—a search, short, sharp and savage. The murderer either found what he sought, or the footsteps of Miss Vale upon the stairs frightened him. At any rate he pulled open the showroom door—the one with the gong; Locke, still in the hall, screamed and both fled up these stairs to the roof and away."
Pendleton had waited patiently until his friend finished. Then he said, with a twinkle in his eye:
"You say the murderer opened the show room door, the gong rang and then Locke screamed. Now, old chap, that's not possible. If Locke is deaf, he couldn't hear the gong; and so there would be no occasion for him to cry out."
"I think if you'll go back over what I've really said," spoke Ashton-Kirk, "you will find that I have made no mention of Locke crying out because of the gong. I said the murderer opened the door that has the gong. Then Locke screamed, not because he heard anything, but because of the sight he saw."
"Ah!"
"He caught a glimpse of Hume upon the floor—as we saw him."
"You think, then, that Locke's intentions were not murder?"
"At the present time I am led to think so. The confederate either was forced to kill to save himself, or he had nursed a private scheme of revenge. And the ferocity of the blow with the bayonet inclines me to prefer the latter as a theory."
"That brings us back to both Morris and Spatola," said Pendleton, gravely. "By all accounts both bore Hume a bitter grudge. But the fact that both criminals escaped by the roof shows familiarity with the neighborhood, as Miss Vale pointed out to you. This seems to point to Spatola."
"So does the purchase of the bayonet, and in the same indefinite fashion," said Ashton-Kirk. "But come, we motored to Christie Place more to inquire about this same Italian than anything else. So let's set about it."
They thanked the policeman in charge and left the building. As they proceeded down the street toward the house in which the newspapers had informed them Spatola lived, the investigator paused suddenly.
"I think," said he, "it would be best for us to first see Spatola himself, and ask a few questions. This might give us the proper point of view for the remainder."
And so they once more got into the car; and away they sped toward the place where the violinist was confined.
Ashton-Kirk and Pendleton were admitted to the cell room at the City Hall without question; but a distinct surprise awaited them there. Through a private door leading from the detectives' quarters they saw the bulky form of Osborne emerge; and at his heels were Bernstine and his sandy-haired clerk.
When Osborne caught sight of Ashton-Kirk he expanded into a wide smile of satisfaction.
"Hello!" greeted he. "Glad to see you. You're just in time to see me turn a new trick. Here's the people that Spatola bought the bayonet from. How does that strike you?"
But Bernstine leaned over and said something in a low tone; and the smile instantly departed.
"Oh," said Osborne, ruefully, "thisis the party who called to see you, is it?" Then turning to Ashton-Kirk he asked: "How did you get onto this bayonet business?"
"Just through thinking it over a little, that's all," answered the investigator.
Mr. Bernstine now approached the speaker, a hurt look upon his face.
"Mr. Ashton-Kirk," said he, "why did you not tell us about this piece of business? Why did you not enlighten us? Howcouldyou go away and leave us in the dark? We are very much occupied, and have little time to look at the newspapers. It was only by accident that Sime happened to see one." Lowering his voice, he added: "There's a smart fellow for you; he saw the whole thing in an instant. And so we came right here to do what we can to help justice." He squared his shoulders importantly.
"He's seen the bayonet and is prepared to swear to it," stated Osborne, elated.
"What of the picture of Spatola in the paper?" asked the investigator. "Does he recognize that?"
Osborne's face fell once more.
"These half-tones done through coarse screens are never any good," said he. "They'd make Gladstone look like Pontius Pilate. He's going to have a look at the man himself, and that'll settle it."
With that a turnkey was dispatched; and in a few moments he returned, accompanied by a half dozen prisoners; one was a slim, dark young man with a nervous, expressive look, and a great tangle of curling black hair. The face was haggard and drawn; the eyes were frightened; the whole manner of the man had a piteous appeal.
Osborne turned to Sime.
"Look them over carefully," directed he. "Take your time."
"I don't need to," answered the freckled shipping clerk. He pointed to the dark young man. "That's the man of the picture; but I never seen him before, anywhere."
Osborne put his fingers under his collar and pulled as though to breathe more freely; then he motioned another attendant to take the remaining prisoners away.
"I see," said he. "He was too foxy to buy the thing himself. He sent someone else." Then he fixed his eye on the prisoner and continued: "We've got the bayonet on you; so you might as well tell us all about it."
"I don't understand," said Spatola, anxiously.
"The easier you make it for us, the easier it will be for you," Osborne told him. "If you make us sweat, fitting this thing to you, we'll give you the limit. Don't forget that."
"I have done nothing," said Spatola, earnestly. "I have done nothing. And yet you keep me here. Is there not a law?"
"There is," said Osborne, grimly. "That's what I'm trying to tell you about. Now, who bought the bayonet?"
"The bayonet?" Spatola stared.
"The bayonet that Hume was killed with."
With a truly Latin gesture of despair, the Italian put his hands to his forehead.
"Always Hume," he said. "Always Hume! I can not be free of him. He was evil!" in a sort of shrill whisper. "Even when he is dead, I am mocked by him. He was all evil! I believe he was a devil!"
"That was no reason why you should kill him," said Osborne in the positive manner of the third degree.
"I did not kill him," protested Spatola. "There were many times when it was in my heart to do so. But I did not do it!"
"I've heard you say all that before," stated Osborne, wearily. Then to the turnkey: "Take him away, Curtis."
"Just a moment," interposed Ashton-Kirk. "I came here to have a few words with this prisoner, and by your leave, I'll speak to him now."
"All right," replied Osborne. "Help yourself."
He led Bernstine and Sime out of the cell room; the turnkey, with professional courtesy, moved away to a safe distance, and Ashton-Kirk turned to the Italian.
"You were once first violin with Karlson," said he. "I remember you well. I always admired your art."
An eager look came into the prisoner's face.
"I thank you," he said. "It is not many who will remember in me a man who once did worthy things. I am young," with despair, "yet how I have sunken."
"It is something of a drop," admitted Ashton-Kirk. "From a position of first violin with Karlson to that of a street musician. How did it happen?"
Sadly the young Italian tapped his forehead with one long finger.
"The fault," he declared, "is here. I have not the—what do you call it—sense? What happened with Karlson happened a dozen times before—in Italy, in France, in Spain. I have not the good sense!"
But justification came into his eyes, and his hands began to gesticulate eloquently.
"Karlson is a Swede," with contempt. "The Swedes know the science of music; but they are hard; they are seldom artists; they cannot express. And when one of this nation—a man with the ice of his country in his soul—tried to instruct me how to play the warm music of my own Italy, I called him a fool!"
"I see," said the investigator.
"I am to blame," said Spatola, contritely. "But I could not help it. Hewasa fool, and fools seldom like to hear the truth."
"The Germans, now," said Ashton-Kirk, insinuatingly, "are somewhat different from the Swedes. Were you ever employed under a German conductor?"
"Twice," replied the violinist, with a shrug. "Nobody can deny the art of the Germans. But they have their faults. They say they know the violin. And they do; but the Italian has taught them. The violin belongs to Italy. It was the glory of Cremona, was it not? The tender hands of the Amatis, of Josef Guarnerius, of old Antonio Stradivari, placed a soul within the wooden box; and that soul is the soul of Italy!"
"Haupt, a German, wrote a treatise on the violin," said Ashton-Kirk. "If you would read that—"
"I have read it," cried Spatola. "I have read it! It is like that," and he snapped his fingers impatiently.
"But you've probably read a translation in the English or Italian," insisted the investigator, smoothly. "And all translations lose something of their vitality, you know."
"I have read it in the German," declared the Italian; "in his own language, just as he wrote it. It is nothing."
Pendleton looked at Ashton-Kirk admiringly; the manner in which his friend had established the fact that Spatola knew the German language seemed to him very clever. But Ashton-Kirk made no sign other than that of interest in the subject upon which they talked.
"A race that has given the world such musicians as Wagner, Beethoven and Mozart," said he, "must possess in a tremendous degree the musical sense. The German knowledge of tone and its combinations is extraordinary; and their music in turn is as complex as their psychology and as simple as the improvisation of a child."
Spatola seemed surprised at this apparent warmth; he looked at Ashton-Kirk questioningly.
"And, with all their scholarship, the Germans are so practical," went on the latter. "Only the other day I came upon a booklet published in Leipzig that dealt with the difficulty a composer sometimes encounters in getting the notes on paper when a melody sweeps through his brain. The writer claimed that the world had lost thousands of inspirations because of this, and to prevent further loss, he proffered an invention—a system of—so to speak—musical shorthand."
A sullen look of suspicion came into Spatola's face; he regarded the speaker from under lowered brows.
"Perhaps you don't quite understand the value of such an invention," proceeded Ashton-Kirk. "But if you had a knowledge of stenography, and the short cuts it—"
But the Italian interrupted him brusquely.
"I know nothing of such things," said he, "and what is more I don't want to know anything of them." Then in a sharp, angry tone, he added: "What do you want of me? I am not acquainted with you. Why am I annoyed like this? Is it always to be so—first one and then another?"
At this sudden display of resentment, the turnkey approached.
"I will go back to my cell," Spatola told him, "and please do not bring me out again. My nerves are bad. I have been worried much of late and I can't stand it."
The turnkey looked at Ashton-Kirk, who nodded his head. And, as Spatola was led gesticulating away, Pendleton said in a low tone of conviction:
"I tell you, Kirk, there's your man. Besides the other things against him, he knows German."
"But what of the phonographic signs?"
"He knows them also. His manner proved it. As soon as you mentioned shorthand he became suspicious and showed uneasiness and anger. I tell you again," with an air, of finality, "he's your man."
From the City Hall the car headed for Christie Place once more; it halted some half dozen doors from Hume's and the occupants got out.
The first floor was used by a dealer in second-hand machinery, but at one side was a long, dingy entry with a rickety, twisting flight of stairs at the end. Ashton-Kirk rang the bell here, and while they waited a man who had been seated in the open door of the machine shop got up and approached them.
He wore blue overalls and a jumper liberally discolored by plumbago and other lubricants; a short wooden pipe was held between his teeth, and a cloth cap sat upon the back of his head.
"Looking up the Dago?" asked he with a grin. He jerked a dirty thumb toward the stairs.
Ashton-Kirk nodded; the man took the wooden pipe from his mouth, blew out a jet of strong-smelling smoke and said:
"I knowed he'd put a knife or something into somebody, some day. These people with bad tempers ought to be chained up short."
"Do you know him well?" inquired the investigator.
"Been acquainted with him ever since he's been living here—and that's going on three years."
"Did he have many visitors, do you know?"
The man in the cloth cap pulled at his pipe reflectively.
"I can't just say," he replied. "But I've been thinking—" he paused here and examined both young men questioningly. Then he asked: "You're detectives, ain't you?"
"Something of that sort," replied Ashton-Kirk.
The man grinned at this.
"Oh, all right," said he. "You don't have to come out flat with it if you don't want to. I ain't one of the kind that you've got to hit with a mallet to make them catch on to a thing." Here the wooden pipe seemed to clog; he took a straw from behind his ear and began clearing the stem carefully. At the same time he added: "As I was saying, I've been thinking."
"That," said Ashton-Kirk, giving another tug at the unanswered bell, "is very commendable."
"And queer enough, it's been about visitors—here," and the man pointed with the straw toward the doorway. "Funny kind of people too, for a house like this."
"Take a cigar," said Ashton-Kirk. "That pipe seems out of commission." Then, as the man put the pipe away in the pocket of his jumper and lighted the proffered cigar, he added: "What do you mean by 'funny kind of people?'"
The cigar well lighted, the man in the overalls drew at it with gentle relish.
"There's a good many kinds of funny people," said he. "Some of them you laugh at, and others you don't. These that I mean are the kind you don't. Now, Mrs. Marx, the woman that keeps this place, is all right in her way, but it ain't no swell place at that. Her lodgers are mostly fellows that canvass for different kinds of things; they wear shiny coats and their shoes are mostly run down at the heels. So when I see swell business looking guys coming here I got to wondering who they were. That's only natural, ain't it?"
Ashton-Kirk nodded, but before he could reply in words there came a clatter upon the rickety stairs at the far end of the entry. A thin, slipshod woman with untidy hair and a sharp face paused on the lower step and looked out at them.
"What do you want?" she demanded, shrilly.
Ashton-Kirk, followed by Pendleton, stepped inside and advanced down the entry.
"Are you Mrs. Marx?" he inquired.
"Yes," snapped the woman. "What do you want?"
"A little information."
"You're a reporter!" accused the sharp-faced woman. "And let me tell you that I don't want nothing more to say to no reporters."
But Ashton-Kirk soothingly denied the accusation.
"I dare say you've been bothered to death by newspaper men," spoke he. "But we assure you that—"
"It don't make no difference," stated the woman, rearing her head until her long chin pointed straight at them. "I ain't got nothing to say to nobody. I don't want to get into no trouble."
"The only way you can possibly get into trouble in this matter," said the investigator, "is to conceal what you know. An attempt to hide facts is always considered by the police as a sort of admission of complicity."
The woman at this lifted a corner of a soiled apron and applied it to her eyes.
"Things is come to a nice pass," she said, vainly endeavoring to squeeze a tear from eyes to which such things had long been strangers, "when a respectable woman can't mind her own business in her own house."
At this point, Pendleton, who looked discreetly away, caught the rustle of a crisp bill; and when Mrs. Marx spoke again, her tone had undergone a decided change.
"But of course," she said, "if the law asks me anything, I must do the best I can. I've kept a rooming house for a good many years now, gentlemen, and this is the first time I have had any notoriety. It is, I assure you."
As Ashton-Kirk had seen at a second glance, Mrs. Marx was a lady fully competent to confront any situation that might arise; so he wasted no time in soothing her injured feelings.
"We desire any information that you can give us regarding your lodger, Antonio Spatola," said he. "Tell us all you know about him."
"He wasn't a bad-hearted young man," said the landlady, "but for all that I wish I'd never seen him. If I hadn't then I'd never had this disgrace come on me."
Here she made another effort with the corner of her apron; but it was even more unsuccessful than the first. She gave it up and went on acidly.
"Mr. Spatola came here almost three years ago. He was engaged in one of the vaudeville theaters near here—in the orchestra—and he rented my second story front at six dollars a week. Except for the fact that hewouldplay awfully shivery music at all hours of the night, I was glad to have him. He was quiet and polite; he paid regularly and," smoothing back the untidy hair, "he gave a kind of tone to the house.
"But then he lost his position. Had a fight, I understand, with somebody. For a long time he had no work; he moved from the second story-front at six dollars a week into the attic at two. When he could get no place, he went on the street and played; afterwards he got the trained birds. I didn't like this much. It didn't do the house no good to have a street fiddler living in it; and then the birds were a regular nuisance with their noise. But he paid regular, and after a while he took to keeping the birds in a box in the loft, so I put up with it."
"We'll look at his room, if you please," said the investigator.
Complainingly, the woman led the way up the infirm staircase. At the fourth floor she pushed open a door and showed them into a long loft-like room with high ceiling and mansard windows. There came a squawking and fluttering from somewhere above as they entered.
"Them's the cockatoos," said the landlady. "They miss Mr. Spatola very much. When I go to feed them with the stale bread and seed he has here for them, would you believe it, they'll hardly eat a thing."
The room was without a floor covering. Upon some rough shelves, nailed to the wall, were heaps of music. A violin case also lay there. There were a few chairs, a cot-bed, and a neat pile of books upon a table. Ashton-Kirk ran over these quickly; they were mostly upon musical subjects, and in Italian. But some were Spanish, English, German and French.
"He was the greatest hand for talking and reading languages," said Mrs. Marx, wonderingly. "I don't think there was any kind of a nationality that he couldn't converse with. Mr. Sagon that lives on the floor below says that his French was elegant, and Mr. Hertz, my parlor lodger, used to just love to talk German with him. He said his German was sohigh."
Ashton-Kirk opened the violin case and looked at the instrument within.
"Spatola always carried his violin in this when he went out, I suppose?" he said, inquiringly.
"Oh, yes;thatone he did. But the one on the wall there," pointing to a second instrument hanging from a peg, "he never took much care of that. It's the one he played on the street, you see."
Her visitors followed the gesture with interest.
"That was just to clinch a point I made with Fuller this morning," said the investigator to Pendleton, in explanation. Then to Mrs. Marx he continued: "Mr. Spatola had visitors from time to time, had he not?"
But the woman shook her head.
"Sometimes he had a pupil who came in the evening. But they never came more than once or twice; he generally called them thick-heads after a little, and told them they'd better go back to the grocery or butcher's shop where they belonged."
"Are you quite sure that no one else ever called upon him?"
The woman nodded positively.
"I'm certain sure of it," she said. "I remember saying more than once to my gentlemen on the different floors, that Mr. Spatola must be awfully lonely sometimes. Mr. Crawford would often come up here and smoke with him and play a game or two of Pedro. Mr. Hertz tried it a couple of times; but him and Mr. Spatola couldn't hit it very well."
"How many lodgers have you?"
"I have rooms for nine. Just now there are seven. But only four are steadies—Mr. Hertz, Mr. Crawford, Mr. Sagon and Mr. Spatola. Mr. Hertz is an inspector of the people who canvass for the city directory; he took the parlor after Mr. Spatola gave it up. He drinks a little, but he's a perfect gentleman for all that. Mr. Crawford is a traveling man, and is seldom home; but he pays in advance, so I don't never worry about him. Mr. Sagon is what they call an expert. He can't speak much English yet, but sometimes even the government," in an awed tone, "sends for him to come to the customs house to tell them how much diamonds are worth, that people bring in. He works for Baum Brothers and Wright. The others," bulking them as being of no consequence, "are all gentlemen who are employed on the directory under Mr. Hertz."
"Have you any Italian lodgers other than Mr. Spatola?"
The woman shook her head.
"No," she said, "and I don't want none, if this is the way they carry on."
"Are there any other rooming houses in the street?"
"No, sir. It's only a block long, and I know every house in it. I'm the only one as takes lodgers."
"Are there any Italians in business in the block, or employed in any of the business places?"
Mrs. Marx again shook her head positively.
"Not any."
"You speak of a Mr. Sagon. Of what nationality is he?"
"Oh, he's French, but he's lived a long time in Antwerp. That's where he learned the diamond business. And he must have lived in other places in Europe; Mr. Spatola says he has spoken of them often."
Just then there came from below the sound of a heavy voice, singing. The words were French and the intonation here and there was strange to Ashton-Kirk.
"Who is that?" he asked.
"It's Mr. Sagon," replied the woman. "He's the greatest one for singing them little French songs."
"Ah, I have it," said Ashton-Kirk, after a moment. "He's a Basque, of course. I couldn't place that accent at first."
A narrow, ladder-like flight of stairs was upon one side. Ashton-Kirk mounted these and found himself in a smaller loft; a number of well-kept cockatoos, in cages, set up a harsh screaming at sight of him. Opening a low door he stepped out upon a tin roof. Mrs. Marx and Pendleton had followed him, and the former said:
"The police was up here looking. They said Mr. Spatola came through the trap-door at Hume's place that night and walked along the roofs and so down to his own room."
"That would he very easily done," answered Ashton-Kirk, as his eye took in the level stretch of roofs.
After a little more questioning to make sure that the landlady had missed nothing, they thanked her and left the house. At his door they saw the man in the cloth cap and overalls. A second and very unwieldy man, with a flushed, unhealthy looking face, had just stopped to speak to him.
He supported himself with one hand on the wall.
"Hello!" called the machinist to Ashton-Kirk; and as the two approached him, he said to the unwieldy man: "I stopped you to tell you these gents had gone in. They're detectives."
"Oh," said the man, with interest in his wavering eye. "That so." He regarded the two young men uncertainly for a moment; and then asked: "Did Mrs. Marx tell you anything?"
"She didn't seem to know much," answered the investigator.
The unwieldy man swayed to and fro, an expression of cunning gathering in his face. The machinist winked and whispered to Pendleton:
"I don't know his name, but he's one of the lodgers."
"Marx," declared the unwieldy man, "is a fine lady. But," with an elaborate wink, "she knows more'n she tells sometimes." The wavering eye tried to fix the investigator, but failed signally. "It don't do," he added wisely, "to tell everything you know."
Ashton-Kirk agreed to this.
"Marx could tell you something, maybe," said the man. "And then maybe she couldn't. But, I knowIcould give you a few hints if I had the mind—and maybe they'd be valuable hints, too." Here he drew himself up with much dignity and attempted to throw out his chest. "I'm a gentleman," he declared. "My name's Hertz. And being a gentleman, I always try and conduct myself like one. But that's more'n some other people in Marx's household does."
"Yes?"
"Yes, sir. When a gentleman tries to be friendly, I meets him half-way. But that fellow," and he shook a remonstrating finger at the door of the lodging-house, "thinks himself better'n other people. And mind you," with a leer, "maybe he's not as good."
"Who do you mean—the Dago?" asked the machinist.
"No; I mean Crawford. A salesman, eh?" The speaker made a gesture as though pushing something from him with contempt. "Fudge! Travels, does he? Rot! He can't fool me. And then," with energy, "what did he used to do so much in Spatola's garret, eh? What did they talk about so much on the quiet? I ain't saying nothing about nobody, mind you. I'm a gentleman. My name's Hertz. I don't want to get nobody into trouble. But if Crawford was such a swell as not to want to speak to a gentleman in public, why did he hold so many pow-wows in private with Spatola? That's what I want to know."
Seeing that the man's befogged intellect would be likely to carry him on in this strain for an indefinite time, Ashton-Kirk and Pendleton were about to move on. But they had not gone more than a few yards when the investigator paused as though struck with an idea. He stepped back once more and drew a photograph from his pocket.
"Do you know who this is?" he asked, abruptly, holding it up.
The unwieldy man swayed gently and waveringly regarded the portrait.
"Sure!" said he surprisedly, "it's Crawford."
Ashton-Kirk rejoined his friend; and as they made their way to the waiting automobile, the latter said;
"That is a step ahead of me, Kirk, I think. Where did you get a portrait of this man Crawford?"
By way of an answer the investigator held up the photograph once more. Pendleton gave a gasp of amazement.
"Allan Morris," said he. "Allan Morris, by George!"