The two young men walked slowly up the street in the direction of the Bon-Bon Theatre, passing into Swanston Street just as the Town Hall clock struck eleven. It was a beautiful moonlight night, but no breeze was blowing, and the heat which the earth had drawn to her bosom during the day was now exhaled from the warm ground in a faint humid vapour. Crowds of people were in the streets sauntering idly along, evidently unwilling to go to bed. The great buildings stood up white and spectral-like on the one side of the street, while on the other they loomed out black against the clear sky. The garish flare of the innumerable street lamps seemed out of place under the serene splendour of the heavens, and the frequent cries of the street boys, and noisy rattling of passing cabs, jarred on the ear. At least Keith thought so, for, after walking in silence for some time, he turned with a gesture of irritation to his companion.
"Isn't this noise disagreeable?" he said impatiently; "under such a perfect sky the city ought to lie dead like a fantastic dream of the Arabian Nights, but the gas lamps and incessant restlessness of Melbourne vulgarises the whole thing."
"Poetical, certainly," replied Ezra, rousing himself from his abstraction; "but I should not care to inhabit an enchanted city. To me there is something grand in this restless crowd of people, all instinct with life and ambition--the gas lamps jar on your dream, but they are evidences of civilisation, and the hoarse murmur of the mob is like the mutterings of a distant storm, or white waves breaking on a lonely coast. No, my friend, leave the enchanted cities to dreamland, and live the busy life of the nineteenth century."
"Your ideas and wishes are singularly at variance," said Keith smiling. "The city suggests poetical thoughts to you, but you reject them and lower yourself to the narrow things of everyday."
"I am a man, and must live as one," replied the Jew, with a sigh; "it's hard enough to do so--Heaven knows!--without creating Paradises at whose doors we must ever stand like lost Peris."
"What's the matter with you to-night?" asked Keith abruptly.
"Nothing particular; only I've had a quarrel with my father."
"Is that all? My dear Lazarus, your father lives in an atmosphere of quarrelling--it's bread and meat to him--so you needn't fret over a few words. What was the quarrel about?"
"Money."
"Humph!--generally a fruitful cause of dissension. Tell me all about it."
"You know how I love Rachel?" said Lazarus quietly. "Well, I am anxious to marry her and have a home of my own. It's weary work living in tents like a Bedouin. I get a good salary, it's true; but I asked my father to give me a sufficient sum of ready money to buy a piece of land and a house. I might have saved myself the trouble--he refused, and we had angry words, so parted in anger."
"I wouldn't bother about it, if I were you," said Keith consolingly. "Words break no bones--besides, this burlesque may bring us a lot of money, and then you can marry Rachel when you please."
"I don't expect much money out of it," replied the Jew, with a frown. "It's our first piece, and Mortimer will drive a hard bargain with us--but you seem very hopeful to-night."
"I have cause to. Eugénie has written me a letter, in which she says she is coming to Melbourne."
"That's good news, indeed. Is she going to stay?"
"I think so," said Keith gaily. "I told you she was a governess, so she has replied to an advertisement in theArgus. and hopes to get the situation."
"I trust she will," observed Ezra, smiling at Keith's delight. "She will do you a lot of good by her presence, and guard you from the spells of Armida."
"AliasCaprice. Thanks for the warning, but I've not been ensnared by the fair enchantress yet, and never mean to; but here we are at the theatre. I hope we get good terms from Mortimer."
"So do I, for Rachel's sake."
"We are bothpreux chevaliers. anxious to gain for our lady-loves not fame, but money. Oh, base desire!"
"It may be base, but it's very necessary," replied the prudent Jew, and they both entered the stage-door of the theatre.
Mortimer's sanctum was a very well-furnished room, displaying considerable taste on the part of the occupant, for the manager of the "Bon-Bon" was sybaritic in his ideas. The floor was covered with a heavy velvet carpet, and the walls adorned with excellent pictures, while the furniture was all chosen for comfort as well as for ornament. Mortimer was seated at his desk with a confused mass of papers before him, and leaning back in a chair near him was Caprice, who looked rather pale and worn.
There was a lamp on the table with a heavy shade, which concentrated all the light into a circle, and Kitty's pale face, with its aureole of fair hair seen in the powerful radiance, appeared strange and unreal. Dark circles under her heavy eyes, faint lines round the small mouth, and the weary look now habitual to her, all combined to give her face a wan and spiritual look which made even Mortimer shiver as he looked at her.
"Hang it, Kitty," he said roughly, "don't look so dismal. You ought to see a doctor."
"What for?" she asked listlessly. "I'm quite well."
"Humph! I don't think so. You've been going down the hill steadily the last few months. Look how thin you are--a bag of bones."
"So was Rachel," replied Caprice, with a faint smile.
"Well, she didn't live very long. Besides, you ain't Rachel," growled Mortimer, "and I don't want you to get ill just now."
"No, you could hardly supply my place," said Caprice, with a sneer. "Don't you bother yourself, Mortimer, I'm not going to die yet. When I do I sha'n't be sorry; life hasn't been so pleasant to me that I should wish to live."
"I don't know what you want," grumbled the manager; "you've got all Melbourne at your feet."
"I can't say much for Melbourne's morality, then," retorted Caprice bitterly; "circumstances have made me what I am, but I'm getting tired of the cakes and ale business. If I could only secure the future of my child, I'd turn religious."
"Mary Magdalen!"
"Yes, a case of history repeating itself, isn't it?" she replied, with a harsh laugh.
"Strange!" said Mortimer, scrutinising her narrowly; "the worse a woman is in her youth, the more devout she becomes in her old age."
"On the authority of M. de la Rochefoucauld, I suppose," answered Caprice; "old age gives good advice when it no longer can give bad example."
"Who told you that?"
"A man you never knew--Vandeloup."
"I don't know that my not being acquainted with him was much to be regretted."
"No, I don't think it was," replied Caprice coolly; "he had twice your brains--to know him was a liberal education."
"In cheap cynicism, gad, you've been an apt pupil."
Kitty laughed, and, rising from her seat, began to walk to and fro.
"I wish those boys would come," she said restlessly; "I want to go home."
"Then go," said Mortimer; "you needn't stay."
"Oh, yes, I need," she replied; "I want to see that they get good terms for their play."
"I'll give them a fair price," said Mortimer; "but I'm not going to be so liberal as you expect."
"I've no doubt of that."
"I believe you're sweet on that Stewart."
"Perhaps I am!"
"Meddlechip won't like that,"
"Pish! I don't care two straws for Meddlechip."
"No; but you do for his money."
"Of course; that goes without saying."
"You're a hardened little devil, Caprice."
"God knows I've had enough to make me hard," she replied bitterly, throwing herself down in her chair, with a frown.
There was a knock at the door at this moment, and, in reply to Mortimer's invitation to "come in," Ezra and Keith appeared.
"Well, you two are late," said Mortimer, glancing at his watch; "a quarter-past eleven."
"I'm very sorry," said Ezra quietly; "but it was my fault. I was telling Stewart about some business."
"Well, we won't take long to settle this affair," remarked Mortimer, looking over his papers. "Be seated, gentlemen."
Keith took off his overcoat and threw it over the back of a chair, on which Kitty's fur-lined mantle was already resting.
Caprice, who had flushed up on the advance of Stewart, leaned back in her chair, while Keith sat down near her, and Ezra took a position opposite, close to Mortimer.
"Now then, gentlemen," said Mortimer, playing with a paper-cutter, "about this burlesque--what is your opinion?"
"That's rather a curious question to ask an author," replied Keith gaily. "We naturally think it excellent."
"I hope the public will think the same," observed Mortimer drily; "but I don't mean that. I want to know your terms."
"Of course," said Ezra, smoothly; "but just tell us what you are prepared to give."
"I'm buyer, gentlemen, you are sellers," replied the manager shrewdly; "I can't take up your position."
Kitty leaned back in her chair and bent over close to Keith's ear.
"Ask five pounds a night," she whispered.
Stewart glanced at Ezra, and seeing he was in doubt as to what to say, spoke out loudly.
"Speaking for myself and partner, I think we'll take five pounds a night."
"Yes, I'll agree to that," observed Ezra eagerly
"I've no doubt you will," rejoined Mortimer, raising his eyebrows; "that's thirty pounds a week, fifteen pounds apiece--a very nice sum, gentlemen--if you get it."
"Then what do you propose to give?" asked Keith.
"One pound for every performance."
Stewart laughed.
"Do you take us for born fools?" he asked angrily.
"No, I do not," replied Mortimer, catching his chin between finger and thumb, and looking critically at the two young men; "I take you for very clever boys who are just making a start, and I'm willing to help you--at my own price--which is one pound a night."
"The game's not worth the candle," said Ezra, in a disappointed tone.
"Oh, yes, it is," retorted Mortimer; "it gives you a chance. Now, look here, I've no desire to take advantage of my position, which, as you see, is a very strong one."
"In what way?" asked Caprice, elevating her eyebrows.
Mortimer explained in his slow voice as follows,--"I can write home to London and get successful plays with big reputations already made."
"Yes, and pay big prices for them."
"That may be," replied the manager imperturbably; "but if I give a good price I get a good article that is sure to recoup me for my outlay. I don't say that 'Faust Upset' isn't good, but at the same time it's an experiment. Australians don't like their own raw material."
"They never get the chance of seeing it," said Keith bitterly; "you of course look at it from a business point of view, as is only proper, but seeing that you draw all your money from Colonial pockets, why not give Colonial brains a chance?"
"Because Colonial brains don't pay, Colonial pockets do," said Mortimer coolly; "besides, I am giving you a chance, and that at considerable risk to myself. I will put on this burlesque in good style because Caprice is dead set on it; but business is business, and I can't afford to lose money on an untried production."
"Suppose it turns out a great success," said Ezra, "we, the authors, only make six pounds a week, while you take all the profits."
"Certainly," retorted Mortimer; "I've taken the risk."
"Then if we make a great success of this burlesque," said Keith, "you will give us better terms for the next thing we write?"
"Well, yes," said the manager, in a hesitating manner; "but, of course, though your position is improved, mine is still the same."
"I understand; as long as you have the run of the London market, you can treat Colonial playwrights as you choose?"
"You've stated the case exactly."
"It's an unfair advantage."
"No doubt, but business is business. I hold the trump card."
"It's a bad lookout for the literary and musical future of Australia when such men as you hold the cards," said Ezra gloomily; "but it's no use arguing the case. I've heard all this sort of thing before. The Australians are too busy making money to trouble about such a contemptible thing as literary work."
"I'll tell you what, Mortimer," broke in Caprice, "give them two pounds a night for the piece."
"Not I."
"Yes you will, or I don't show at the Bon-Bon."
"You forget your engagement, my dear," said Mortimer complacently.
"No, I don't," retorted Kitty, snapping her fingers; "that for my engagement. I don't care if I broke it to-morrow. You've got your remedy, no doubt; try it, and see what you'll make of it."
Mortimer looked uneasily at her. He knew he had the law on his side, but Caprice was so reckless that she cared for nothing, and would do what she pleased in spite of both him and the law. Besides, he could not afford to lose her, so he met her half way.
"Tell you what," he said genially, "I've no wish to be hard on you, boys--I'll give you one pound a night for a week, and if the burlesque is a success, two pounds--there, that's fair."
"I suppose it's the best terms we can get," said Keith recklessly; "anything for the chance of having a play put on the stage. What do you say, Lazarus?"
"I accept," replied the Jew briefly.
"In that case," said Kitty, rising, "I needn't stay any longer. Mr. Lazarus, will you take me to my carriage?"
"Allow me," said Keith advancing.
Kitty recoiled, and an angry light flashed in her eyes.
"No, thank you," she said coldly, snatching up her cloak, "Mr. Lazarus will see me down," and without another word she swept out of the room, followed by Ezra, who was much astonished at the rebuff Keith had received.
"What's that for?" asked Mortimer looking up. "I thought you were the white boy there."
"I'm sure I don't know," said Keith, in a puzzled tone. "She has been rather cold to me for the last three months, but she never snubbed me till now."
"Oh, she's never the same two minutes together," said Mortimer, turning once more to his desk. "Have a drink?"
Keith nodded, whereupon Mortimer, who was the most hospitable of men, brought forth whisky and seltzer. As he was filling the glasses, Ezra re-entered with Keith's coat.
"Caprice carried this downstairs with her by mistake," he said, giving it to Keith, "and called me back to return it."
"Gad! she went off in such a whirlwind of passion I don't wonder she took it. I'm glad she left the chair," said Mortimer coolly. "Will you join us?"
"No, thanks," replied Ezra, putting on his hat. "I've got to go back to the office. Good-night. See you to-morrow, Keith; you can settle with Mortimer about the agreement," and thereupon he vanished.
Keith and Mortimer sat down, and the latter drafted out an agreement about the play which he promised to send to his lawyer, and then, if the young men approved of it, the whole affair could be settled right off.
This took a considerable time, and it was about half-past twelve when Keith, having said good-night to Mortimer, left the theatre. He walked down Collins Street, smoking his cigarette, and thinking about his good luck and Eugénie. How delighted she would be at his success. He would make lots of money, and then he could marry her. After wandering about for some considerable time, he turned homeward. Walking up Bourke Street, he entered Russell Street, and went on towards East Melbourne. Passing along in front of Lazarus' shop, he saw a man leaning against the door.
"What are you doing there?" asked Keith sharply, going up to him.
The man struck out feebly with his fists, and giving an indistinct growl, lurched heavily against Keith, who promptly knocked him down, and had a tussle with him. The moon was shining brightly, and, as the light fell on his face, Keith recognised him instantly--it was Randolph Villiers.
"You'd better go home, Villiers," he said quickly, raising him to his feet, "you'll be getting into trouble."
"Go to devil," said Mr. Villiers, in a husky voice, lurching into the centre of the street. "I'm out on business. I know what I know, and if you knew what I knew, you'd know a lot--eh! wouldn't you?" and he leered at Stewart.
"Pah, you're drunk," said Stewart in disgust, turning on his heel; "you'd better get home, or you'll get into some mischief."
"No, I won't," growled Villiers, "but I know some 'un as will."
"Who?"
"Oh, I know--I know," retorted Villiers, and went lurching down the street, setting the words to a popular tune,--
"I know a thing or two,Yes I do--just a few."
"I know a thing or two,Yes I do--just a few."
Keith looked at the drunken man rolling heavily down the street--a black, misshapen figure in the moonlight--and then, turning away with a laugh, walked thence to East Melbourne thinking of Eugénie.
The next morning a rumour crept through the city that a murder had been committed in a house in Russell Street, and many people proceeded to the spot indicated to find out if it were true. They discovered that for once rumour had not lied, and Lazarus, the pawnbroker, one of the best known characters in the city, had been found dead in his bed with his throat cut. The house being guarded by the police, who were very reticent, no distinct information could be gained, and it was not untilThe Penny Whistlecame out at four o'clock that the true facts of the crime were ascertained. A general rush was made by the public for copies of the paper, and by nightfall nothing was talked of throughout Melbourne but the Russell Street crime. The version given byThe Penny Whistle. which was written by a highly imaginative reporter, was as follows, and headed by attractive titles:--
Lazarus has passed in his Checks.
It is often said that truth is stranger than fiction, and we have now an excellent illustration of this proverb. A crime has been committed before which the marvellous romances of Gaboriau sink into insignificance, and the guilty wretch who has stained his soul with murder is still at large. The bare facts of the case are as follows:--
Early this morning it was noticed by a policeman that the shop of Lazarus, a well-known pawnbroker, was not opened, and knowing the methodical habits of the old man, the policeman was much surprised. However, thinking that Lazarus might have overslept himself, he passed on, and had gone but a few yards when a boy called Isaiah Jacobs rushed into the street from an alley which led to the back of the house. The lad was much terrified, and it was with considerable difficulty that the policeman elicited from him the following story:--
He had come to his work as usual at eight o'clock, and went round to the back door in order to get into the house. This door was generally open, and Lazarus waiting for him, but on this morning it was closed, and although the boy knocked several times, no response was made. He then noticed that the window which is on the left-hand side of the door going in, was wide open, and becoming impatient, he climbed up to it, and looked in to see if the old man was asleep. To his consternation he saw Lazarus lying on the floor in a pool of blood, and, seized with a sudden terror, he dropped from the window and rushed into the street.
On hearing this, the policeman sent him for Sergeant Mansard, who soon arrived on the scene, with several other members of the force. They went round to the back and found the door closed and the window open as the boy had described. Having tried the door and found it locked, the police burst it open, and entered the house to view a scene which baffles description.
The murdered man was lying nearly nude in the middle of the room in a pool of blood. His throat was cut from ear to ear, and, judging from the bruises and cuts on his hands and arms, there must have been a terrible struggle before the murderer accomplished his act. The bed-clothes, all stained with blood, were lying half on the bed and half on the floor, so that it is surmised that the deceased must have been attacked while asleep, and woke suddenly to fight for his life.
A large iron safe which stood near the head of the bed was wide open, the keys being in the lock, and all the drawers pulled out. A lot of papers which had evidently been in the safe were lying on the floor, but in spite of a rigid examination, no money could be found, so it is presumed that the murder was effected for the sake of robbery. On one sheet of the bed were several stains of blood, as if the assassin had wiped his hands thereon, but the weapon with which the crime was committed cannot be found. A door looking into the shop was closed and bolted, so the murderer must have made his entry through the window, and, departing the same way, forgot to close it.
The body of the deceased has been removed to the Morgue, and an inquest will be held to-day. The case has been placed in the hands of Detective Naball, who is now on the spot taking such notes as he deems necessary for the elucidation of this terrible mystery.
Hereunder will be found a plan of the room in which the murder was committed, and also the alley leading to the street. We wish our readers to take particular note of this, as we wish to give our theory as to the way in which the murderer went about his diabolical work.
Pawn Shop
A. Door leading into shop--found bolted.
B. Bed with clothes in disorder.
C. Safe found open, with all valuables abstracted.
D. Window found open by which assassin probably entered.
E. Door leading to alley--found locked.
F. Alley leading to street, by which entrance was gained to back of house.
G. Place where body of murdered man was discovered.
In the first place, there is no doubt that the motive of the crime was robbery, as is proved by the open safe rifled of its contents. The murderer evidently knew that Lazarus slept in the back room and had the keys of the safe--as we have since ascertained--under his pillow. He must also have known the position of the safe and bed, for had he groped about for them, he would have awakened the old man, who would have instantly have given the alarm.
The window D is about five feet from the ground, and was fastened with an ordinary catch, as it never seemed to have entered the old man's head that an attempt would be made to rob him.
Our theory is that the murderer is a man who knew the deceased, and had been frequently in the back room, so as to assure himself of the position of things. Last night he must have entered the alley--at what hour we are not prepared to say, as the time of the murder can only be determined by medical evidence--and opened the window by slipping the blade of his knife between the upper and lower parts, and pushing back the latch.
He then climbed softly into the room, and going straight to the bed, found the deceased asleep. Very likely he did not intend to kill him had he slept on, but in trying to abstract the keys from under the pillow, Lazarus must have sprung up and tried to give the alarm. Instantly the murderer's clutch was on his throat; but the old man, struggling off the bed, fought with terrible strength for his life. The struggle took them into the centre of the room, and there Lazarus, becoming exhausted, must have fallen, and the murderer, with diabolical coolness, must have cut his throat, so as to effectually silence him.
Then, taking the keys from under the pillow, he must have opened the safe, taken what he wished, and made his escape through the window, and from thence into the street. Probably no one was about, and he could slink away unperceived, for, had he met any one, his clothes, spotted with the blood of his victim, would have attracted attention.
We conclude he must have had a dark lantern in order to see the contents of the safe, but, as none has been found, he must have taken it with him, together with the knife with which the crime was committed.
This is all we can learn at the present time, but whether any sounds of a struggle were heard, can only be discovered from the witnesses at the inquest to-morrow.
Of one thing we are certain, the murderer cannot escape, as his blood-stained clothes must necessarily have been noticed by even the most casual observer.
We will issue a special edition ofThe Penny Whistleto-morrow, with a full account of the inquest and the witnesses examined thereat.
There was naturally a great deal of excitement over the murder, as, apart from the magnitude of the crime, Lazarus was a well-known character in Melbourne. He knew more secrets than any priest, and many a person of apparently spotless character felt a sensation of relief when they heard that the old Jew was dead. Lazarus was not the sort of man to keep a diary, so to many people it was fortunate that he had died unexpectedly, and carried a number of disagreeable secrets with him to the grave.
The report of the inquest was followed with great interest, for though it was generally thought that robbing was the motive for the crime, yet some hinted that, considering the character of the old man, there might be more cogent reasons for the committal of the murder. One of these sceptics was Naball, in whose hands the case had been placed for elucidation.
"I don't believe it was robbery," he said to a brother detective. "Old Lazarus knew a good many dangerous secrets, and I wouldn't be a bit surprised to find that the murderer was some poor devil whom he had in his power."
"But the open safe?" said the detective.
"Pish! that can easily be accounted for; there may have been papers implicating the murderer, or the robbery might have been a blind, or--oh, there's dozens of reasons--however, we'll find it all out at the inquest."
In opening the proceedings, the Coroner mentioned all the circumstances in connection with the murder which had come to the knowledge of the police, and said that as yet no clue had been found likely to lead to the detection of the assassin, but without doubt the evidence of the witnesses about to be examined would afford some starting point.
The first witness called was the policeman who had found the body, and he deposed to the circumstances which led to the discovery. He was succeeded by Dr. Chisholm, who had examined the body of the deceased, and, having been sworn in the usual manner, deposed as follows:--
"I am a duly qualified medical practitioner. I have examined the body of the deceased. It is that of an old man--I should say about seventy years of age--very badly nourished; I found hardly any food in the stomach. There were many bruises and excoriations on the body, which, I have no doubt, are due to the struggle between the murderer and his victim. I examined the neck, back, and limbs, but could find no fractures. The throat was cut evidently by some very sharp instrument, as the windpipe was completely severed. I examined the body about nine o'clock in the morning,--it was then warm, and, according to my belief, the deceased must have been dead eight or nine hours."
Coroner.--"Are you certain of that?"
Dr. Chisholm.--"Not absolutely. It is a very difficult thing to tell exactly, by the temperature of the body, what length of time has elapsed since death. After a sudden and violent death, the body often parts with its heat slowly, as I think it has done in this case. Besides, the night was very hot, which would be an additional reason for the body cooling slowly."
Coroner.--"Was the body rigid when you examined it?"
Dr. Chisholm.--"Yes;rigor mortishad set in. It generally occurs within six hours of death, but it might occur earlier if there had been violent muscular exertion, as there was in this case. I think that the deceased was awakened from his sleep, and struggled with his murderer till he became exhausted; then the murderer cut his throat with a remarkably sharp knife."
Coroner.--"And, according to your theory, death took place about midnight?"
Dr. Chisholm.--"Yes--I think so; but, as I said, before, it is very difficult to tell."
The next witness called was Isaiah Jacobs, who gave his evidence in an aggressively shrill voice, but the Coroner was unable to elicit more from him than had already been published inThe Penny Whistle. After the echo of the young Israelite's shrill voice had died away, Keith Stewart was sworn, and deposed as follows:--
"I was clerk to the deceased, and had occupied the position for some months. On the day previous to the murder, I had received a hundred pounds, in twenty bank notes of five pounds each, which I gave to the deceased, and saw him place them in his safe. He always slept on the premises, and kept his keys under his pillow. He told me that he always had a loaded revolver on the table beside his bed. On the night, or rather morning, of the murder I was passing along Russell Street on my way home. I saw a man standing near the shop. I knew him as Randolph Villiers. I asked him what he was doing, but could get no very decided answer--he was quite intoxicated, and went off down the street."
Coroner.--"About what time was this?"
Stewart.--"Two o'clock."
Coroner.--"You are certain?"
Stewart.--"Quite--I heard it striking from the Town Hall tower."
Coroner.--"Was Villiers' intoxication real or feigned?"
Stewart.--"Real, as far as I could see."
Coroner.--"It was a moonlight night, I believe?"
Stewart.--"Yes; the moon was very bright."
Coroner.--"Did you notice anything peculiar about Villiers? Was he confused? Were his clothes in disorder? Any marks of blood?"
Stewart.--"No; I saw nothing extraordinary about him. He is generally more or less drunk, so I did not notice him particularly."
Coroner.--"I believe, Mr. Stewart, you belong to the Skylarks' Club?"
Stewart.--"I do."
Coroner.--"And yet you are a clerk in a pawnbroker's office--aren't the two things rather incongruous?"
Stewart.--"No doubt; but I am in a position to be a member of the Skylarks' Club, and as to being a clerk to Lazarus, it's merely a matter of honour. When he engaged me he stipulated that I should stay for six months, and though I unexpectedly came in for some money, I felt myself bound in honour to keep my agreement."
Coroner.--"Thank you, that will do, Mr. Stewart. Call Mrs. Tibsey."
That lady, large, red-faced, and energetic, was sworn and gave her evidence in a voluble manner. She had evidently been drinking, as there was a strong odour of gin in the air, and kept curtseying to the Coroner every time she answered.
"My name's Tibsey, my lord--Maria Tibsey. I've bin married twice, my first being called Bliggings, and died of gunpowder--blowed up in a quarry explosion. My second, also dead, sir, 'ad no lungs, and a corf which tored him to bits. Only one child, sir, 'Tilda Bliggings, out in service, my lord."
Coroner.--"Yes, yes, Mrs. Tibsey, we don't want to learn all these domestic affairs. Come to the point."
Mrs. Tibsey.--"About Sating, sir?--I called 'im Sating, sir, 'cause he were a robber of the widder and orfin--me, sir, and my darter. I was a-talking to my darter on that night, your worships, she 'aving visited me. I lives near old Sating, as it was 'andy to drop in to pop anything, and about twelve I 'eard a scream--a 'orrid 'owl, as made my back h'open and shut, so I ses, ''Tilda,' ses I,' old Sating is 'avin' a time of it, e's boozin',' and that's all, sir."
Coroner.--"You never went to see what it was?"
Mrs. Tibsey.--"Me, my lord? no, your worship, it weren't my bisiniss. I didn't think it were murder."
Coroner.--"You are quite sure it was twelve o'clock?"
Mrs. Tibsey.--"I swears h'it." Miss Matilda Bliggings was then called, and deposed she also heard the scream, and that her mother had said it must be old Lazarus. It was twelve o'clock.
Ezra Lazarus was then called, but could give no material evidence. He said he had quarrelled with his father on the day preceding the murder, and had not seen him since.
The next witness called caused a sensation, as it was none other than Mr. Randolph Villiers, who stated:--
"My name is Villiers. I do nothing. I know old Lazarus. I was passing through Russell Street, and leaned up against the shop door--I was drunk--on my way to Little Bourke Street. I remember meeting Mr. Stewart--think it was two, but ain't sure."
Coroner.--"Where were you before you met Mr. Stewart?"
Villiers.--"About the town somewhere."
Coroner.--"Alone?"
Villiers.--"Sometimes I was, sometimes I wasn't."
This ended all the evidence procurable, and the Coroner summed up.
The crime had evidently been committed for the purpose of robbery, as the hundred pounds which Mr. Stewart swore had been placed in the safe by the deceased were gone; the knife with which the deed had been committed had not yet been found; in fact, all the evidence was of the barest character. According to Dr. Chisholm's evidence, the deceased had been murdered about midnight, and as Mrs. Tibsey and her daughter heard a scream also at that time, all the evidence seemed to point to that hour as having been the time of death. Mr. Stewart met Villiers at two o'clock, and Villiers stated that he had only been in Russell Street a few minutes before he met Mr. Stewart. The jury would be kind enough to bring in a verdict in accordance with the facts before them.
The jury had a long argument; some wanted to bring in a charge of murder against Villiers, as he certainly had not accounted for his presence in Russell Street; but the evidence altogether was so vague that they at length came to the conclusion it would be best to leave the matter to the police, and brought in a verdict that the deceased had met his death at the hands of some person or persons unknown.
Great dissatisfaction was expressed by the public at this verdict, as, in the opinion of most people, Villiers was the guilty man. A regular battle was fought in the newspapers over the whole affair; but one man said nothing.
That man was Naball!
When the inquest was over, Naball went straight home, and carefully read all the notes he had taken of the evidence given. After doing so, he came to the conclusion that the person on whom most suspicion rested was Keith Stewart.
"In the first place," said Naball, thoughtfully eyeing his papers, "Stewart was the clerk of old Lazarus, and knew what was in the safe, and where the keys were kept; he is a member of an expensive club, which he can't possibly afford to pay for out of his salary as a clerk; as to his coming in for money, that's bosh!--if he had, agreement or no agreement, he wouldn't have remained with old Lazarus. He states that he left the theatre at half-past twelve, and the doctor says the death took place at midnight; but then he wasn't sure, and it might have taken place at half-past one, which would give Stewart time to commit the crime. He could not account for his time between leaving the theatre and seeing Villiers except by saying he had been walking, which is a very weak explanation. Humph! I think I'll see Mr. Stewart and ask him a few questions."
Mr. Naball glanced at himself in the mirror, arranged the set of his tie, dusted his varnished boots, and then sallied forth in search of Keith. Passing along Swanston Street, he went into a florist's, and purchased himself a smart buttonhole of white flowers, then held a short council of war with himself as to where to find Stewart.
"Wonder where he lives?" muttered the detective, in perplexity; "let me see, what's the time," glancing at his watch--"nearly five; he's a great friend of Mr. Lazarus, and I know Lazarus is sub-editor ofThe Penny Whistle; I'll go along and ask him--he's sure to be in just now."
He walked rapidly along to the newspaper office, and, being admitted to Ezra's room, found that young man just putting on his coat preparatory to going away, his labours for the day now being concluded.
"Well, Mr. Naball," asked Ezra, in his soft voice, "what can I do for you--anything about this unfortunate affair?"
"Yes," said Naball bluntly; "I want to see Mr. Stewart."
"Oh, you do!" broke in a new voice, and Stewart stepped out of an adjoining room, where he had been waiting for his friend; "what is the matter?"
"Nothing much," observed Naball, in a frank voice; "but as this case has been put into my hands, I want to ask you a few questions.'
"Am I in the way?" asked Lazarus, taking up his hat.
"By no means," replied Naball politely; "in fact, you may be of assistance."
"Well, fire away," said Keith, coolly lighting a cigarette. "I'm ready to answer anything."
Naball glanced keenly at both the young men before he began to talk, and noted their appearance. Keith had a rather haggard look, as though he had been leading a dissipated life; while Ezra's face looked careworn and pale.
"Cut up over his father's death, I guess," said Naball to himself; "poor chap!--but as for the other, it looks like late hours and drink. I must find out all about your private life, Mr. Stewart."
"I'm waiting," said Keith impatiently; "I wish you wouldn't keep me very long; I've got to meet a train from the country to-night."
Naball closed both doors of the room, and, resuming his seat, looked steadily at Keith, who, seated astride a chair, leaned his elbows on the back, and smoked nonchalantly.
"Are you aware," asked Naball deliberately, "if the late Mr. Lazarus had any enemies?"
"I can answer that question best," said Ezra quickly, before Keith could speak. "Yes, he had plenty; my father, as you know, was a moneylender as well as a pawnbroker, and, as he took advantage of his possession of money to extort high interest, I know it made a lot of people feel bitter against him."
"Considering that you are his son, sir," said Naball, in a tone of rebuke, "you do not speak very well of the dead."
"I have not much cause to," rejoined Ezra bitterly; "he was father to me in name only. But you need not make any comments--my duty to my father's memory is between myself and my conscience. I have answered your question--he had many enemies."
"So I believe also," said Keith slowly; "but I don't think any one was so hostile as to desire his death."
"As you don't think so," observed Naball sharply, "I myself believe that the murder was committed for the sake of robbery."
"That's easily seen," said Ezra calmly, "from the fact of the safe being open and the money gone."
"That might have been a blind," retorted Naball quickly, "but you talk of money being stolen; I think, Mr. Stewart, in your evidence to-day you said they were bank notes?"
"Yes; twenty ten-pound notes," replied Keith.
"Do you know the numbers of them?"
"No; I never thought of taking the numbers."
"And you handed them to Mr. Lazarus?"
"I did; at half-past five--he put them in his safe."
"Were there any other valuables in the safe?"
"I don't know," retorted Keith coldly; "I was not in the confidence of my employer."
"Do you know?" said Naball, turning to Ezra.
The young Jew smiled bitterly.
"I also was not in my father's confidence," he said, "so know nothing."
"There was some gold and silver money also in the safe," said Keith to Naball, knocking the ashes off his cigarette.
"Humph! that's not much guide," replied the detective; "it's the notes I want--if I could only find the numbers of those notes--where did they come from?"
"A man at Ballarat, called Forbes."
"Oh! I'll write to Mr. Forbes of Ballarat," said Naball, making a note, "but if those notes are put in circulation, do you know of any means by which I can identify them?"
Keith shook his head, then suddenly gave a cry.
"Yes; I can tell you how to identify one of the notes."
"That will be quite sufficient," said the detective eagerly. "How?"
"That boy, Isaiah," said Stewart, "he's great on backing horses, and frequently tells me about racing. When I was making up my cash on that night, the notes were lying on the desk, and as the door of Mr. Lazarus' room was open, Isaiah was afraid to speak aloud about his tip, so he wrote it down."
"But how can that identify the bank-note?" asked the perplexed detective.
"Because the young scamp wrote his tip, 'Back Flat-Iron,' on the back of a ten-pound note."
"In pencil?" asked Naball.
"No; in ink!"
"So one of the notes that were stolen has the inscription 'Back Flat-Iron' on the back of it?"
"Exactly!"
Naball scribbled a line or two in his pocket-book, and shut it with a snap.
"If that note goes into circulation," he said, in a satisfied tone, "I'll soon trace it to its original holder."
"And then?" asked Ezra.
"And then," reiterated Naball quietly, "I'll lay my hands on the man who killed your father. And now, Mr. Stewart, I want to ask you a few questions about yourself."
"Go on!" said Keith imperturbably; "I hope you don't think I killed Lazarus?"
"I think--nothing," replied Naball quietly; "I only want to find out as much as I can. You were at the Bon-Bon Theatre on that night?"
"Yes; talking to Mr. Mortimer."
"Any one else with you?"
"Yes," replied Ezra, "I was, and Caprice; we left about half-past eleven."
"And you, Mr. Stewart?"
"I left at half-past twelve."
"Where did you go then?"
"I was excited over some business I had done, and strolled about the city."
"Anywhere in particular?"
"No. I went along Collins Street, up William Street, round about the Law Courts, and then came down Bourke Street, on my way home."
"How long were you thus wandering about?"
"I think about an hour and a half, because as I turned into Russell Street the clock struck two."
"Why did you turn into Russell Street?"
"Why!" echoed Keith, in surprise, "because I wanted to go home. I went through Russell Street, down Flinders Street, and then walked to East Melbourne, past the Fitzroy Gardens."
"Oh! and you saw Villiers standing about the shop?"
"Yes; he was leaning against the door."
"Drunk?"
"Very!"
"What did you do?"
"I ordered him off."
"Did he go?"
"Yes; rolled down the street towards Bourke Street, singing some song."
"You noticed nothing peculiar about him?"
"No."
"Was the door of the alley leading to the back open or shut?"
"I don't know--I never noticed."
"After Villiers disappeared, you went home?"
"I did--straight home."
Naball pondered for a few moments. Stewart certainly told all he knew with perfect frankness, but then was he telling the truth?
"Do you want to ask me any more questions?" asked Keith, rising.
Naball made up his mind, and spoke out roughly,--
"I want to know how you, with a small salary, can afford to belong to an expensive club like the 'Skylarks?'"
Keith's face grew as black as thunder.
"Who the devil gave you permission to pry into my private affairs?"
"No one except myself," retorted Naball boldly, for, though inferior to Stewart in size, he by no means wanted pluck; "but I'm engaged in a serious case, and it will be best for you to speak out frankly.
"You surely don't suspect Stewart of the murder?" interposed Ezra warmly.
"I suspect nobody," retorted Naball. "I'm only asking him a question, and, if he's wise, he'll answer it."
Keith thought for a moment. He saw that, for some extraordinary reason or another, Naball suspected him, so, in order to be on the safe side, resolved to take the detective's advice and answer the question.
"It is, as you say, a serious matter," he observed quietly, "and I am the last person in the world not to give any assistance to the finding out of the criminal; ask what you please, and I will answer."
This reply somewhat staggered Naball, but, as he had strong suspicions about Stewart's innocence, he put down the apparent frankness of the answer to crafty diplomacy.
"I only want to know," he said mildly, "how a gentleman in your position can afford to belong to an expensive club."
"Because I can afford to do so," replied Keith calmly. "When I first came to Melbourne, I had no money, and was engaged by Mr. Lazarus as his clerk, with the understanding I should stay with him six months. To this I agreed, but shortly afterwards a sum of five hundred pounds was placed to my credit, and afforded me a chance of living in good style. I wished to leave the pawnshop, but Mr. Lazarus reminded me of my position, and I had to stay. That is all."
"Who placed this five hundred to your credit?" asked Naball.
"I don't know."
"You don't know?" echoed Naball, in surprise. "Do you mean to say that a large sum like that was placed to your credit by a person whom you don't know?"
"I do."
"And I can substantiate that statement," said Ezra quietly.
Naball looked from one to the other in perplexity, puzzled what to ask next. Then he felt the only thing to be done was to go away and think the matter over. But he did not intend to lose sight of Keith, and this absurd statement about the five hundred only seemed to strengthen his suspicions, so he determined to have him shadowed.
"Thank you, Mr. Stewart," he said quietly. "I have nothing more to ask. What time did you say you were going to meet a country train?"
"I mentioned no time," replied Keith sharply.
Baffled by this answer, Naball tried another way.
"Will you kindly give me your address?" he asked, pulling out his pocket-book. "I may want to communicate with you."
"Vance's boarding-house, Powlett Street, East Melbourne."
Mr. Naball noted this in his book, and then, with a slight nod, took his leave.
"Damn him," cried Keith fiercely, "he suspects me of this crime."
"Pooh! that's nonsense," replied Ezra, as they went out, "you can easily prove an alibi."
"No, I can't," replied Keith, in a hard tone. "From half-past twelve o'clock till two I was by myself, and no one saw me. I say I was wandering about the streets, he thinks I was in Russell Street committing a murder."
"I don't think you need be a bit afraid of anyone suspecting you," said Ezra bitterly. "Why, they might as well think I killed my father."
"You!"
"Yes. I had a quarrel with him, and then he was murdered. Oh, I assure you they could get up an excellent case against me."
"But you could prove an alibi."
"That's just where it is," said Ezra coolly; "I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because, after leaving Kitty Marchurst, I went down the street toThe Penny Whistleoffice, and found it closed. I then walked home along Collins Street, through the Fitzroy Gardens. It was a beautiful night, and, as I was thinking over my quarrel with my father, I sat down on one of the seats for a time, so I did not get home till two o'clock in the morning. No one saw me, and I've got quite as much difficulty in proving an alibi as you have."
"Do you think Naball suspects you?"
"No; nor do I think he suspects you, but I've got a suspicion that he suspects some one."
"And that some one--"
"Is called Randolph Villiers."