From a booth in a drug-store on Sixteenth Street Kirby telephoned the police that James Cunningham had been murdered at his home in the Paradox Apartments. He stayed to answer no questions, but hung up at once. From a side door of the store he stepped out to Welton Street and walked to his hotel.
He passed a wretched night. The distress that flooded his mind was due less to his own danger than to his anxiety for Rose. His course of action was not at all clear to him in case he should be identified as the man who had been seen going to and coming from the apartment of the murdered man. He could not explain why he was there without implicating Rose and her sister. He would not betray them. That of course. But he had told his cousins why he was going. Would their story not start a hunt for the woman in the case?
Man is an illogical biped. Before Kirby had seen the glove on the table and associated it with the crime, his feeling had been that the gallows was the proper end of so cruel a murderer. Now he not only intended to protect Rose, but his heart was filled with pity for her. He understood her better than he did any other woman, her loyalty and love and swift, upblazing anger. Even if her hand had fired the shot, he told himself, it was not Wild Rose who had done it—not the little friend he had come to know and like so well, but a tortured woman beside herself with grief for the sister to whom she had always been a mother too.
He slept little, and that brokenly. With the dawn he was out on the street to buy a copy of the "News." The story of the murder had the two columns on the right-hand side of the front page and broke over to the third. He hurried back to his room to read it behind a locked door.
The story was of a kind in which newspapers revel. Cunningham was a well-known character, several times a millionaire. His death even by illness would have been worth a column. But the horrible and grewsome way of his taking off, the mystery surrounding it, the absence of any apparent motive unless it were revenge, all whetted the appetite of the editors. It was a big "story," one that would run for many days, and the "News" played it strong.
As Kirby had expected, he was selected as the probable assassin. A reporter had interviewed Mr. and Mrs. Cass Hull, who occupied the apartment just below that of the murdered man. They had told him that a young man, a stranger to them, powerfully built and dressed like a prosperous ranchman, had knocked on their door about 9.20 to ask the way to the apartment of Cunningham. Hull explained that he remembered the time particularly because he happened to be winding the clock at the moment.
A description of Lane was given in a two-column "box." He read it with no amusement. It was too deadly accurate for comfort.
The supposed assassin of James Cunningham is described by Mrs. Cass Hull as dressed in a pepper-and-salt suit and a white, pinched-in cattleman's hat. He is about six feet tall, between 25 and 30 years old, weighing about 200 or perhaps 210 pounds. His hair is a light brown and his face tanned from the sun.
His age and his weight were overstated, and his clothes were almost a khaki brown. Otherwise Mrs. Hull had given a very close description of him, considering her state of mind at the moment when she had seen him.
There was one sentence of the story he read over two or three times. Hull and his wife agreed that it was about 9.20 when he had knocked on their door, unless it was a printer's error or the reporter had made a mistake. Kirby knew this was wrong. He had looked at his watch just before he had entered the Paradox Apartment. He had stopped directly under a street globe, and the time was 9.55.
Had the Hulls deliberately shifted the time back thirty-five minutes? If so, why? He remembered how stark terror had stared out of both their faces. Did they know more about the murder than they pretended? When he had mentioned his uncle's name the woman had been close to collapse, though, of course, he could not be sure that had been the reason. To his mind there flashed the memory of the note he had seen on the table. The man had called on Cunningham and left word he might call again. Was it possible the Hulls had just come down from the apartment above when he had knocked on their door? If so, how did the presence of Rose fit into the schedule?
Lane pounced on the fear and the evasion of the Hulls as an out forWild Rose. It was only a morsel of hope, but he made the most of it.
The newspaper was inclined to bring up stage the mysterious man who had called up the police at 10.25 to tell them that Cunningham had been murdered in his rooms. Who was this man? Could he be the murderer? If so, why should he telephone the police and start immediately the hunt after him? If not the killer, how did he know that a crime had been committed less than an hour before?
As soon as he had eaten breakfast, Kirby walked round to the boarding-house on Cherokee Street where Wild Rose was staying with her sister. Rose was out, he learned from the landlady. He asked if he might see her sister. His anxiety was so great he could not leave without a word of her.
Presently Esther came down to the parlor where the young man waited for her. Lane introduced himself as a friend of Rose. He was worried about her, he said. She seemed to him in a highly wrought-up, nervous state. He wondered if it would not be well to get her out of Denver.
Esther swallowed a lump in her throat. She had never seen Rose so jumpy, she agreed. Last night she had gone out for an hour alone. The look in her eyes when she had come back had frightened Esther. She had gone at once to her bedroom and locked the door, but her sister had heard her moving about for hours.
Then, suddenly, Esther's throat swelled and she began to sob. She knew well enough that she was at the bottom of Wild Rose's worries.
"Where is she now?" asked Kirby gently.
"I don't know. She didn't tell me where she was going.There's—there's something queer about her. I—I'm afraid."
"What are you afraid of?"
"She's so—so kinda fierce," Esther wailed.
It was impossible to explain, even to this big brown friend of Rose who looked as though his quiet strength could move mountains. He was a man. Besides, every instinct in her drove to keep hidden the secret that some day would tell itself.
Her eyes fell. They rested on the "News" some boarder had tossed on the table beside which she stood. Her thoughts were of herself and the plight in which she had become involved. She looked at the big headlines of the paper and for the moment did not see them. What she did see was disgrace, the shipwreck of the young life she loved so much.
Her pupils dilated. The words of the headline penetrated to the brain.A hand clutched at her heart. She read again hazily—
—then collapsed fainting into a chair.
The story of the Cunningham mystery, as it was already being called, filled the early editions of the afternoon papers. The "Times" had the scoop of the day. It was a story signed by Chuck Ellis, who had seen the alleged murderer climb down by a fire escape from the window of Cunningham's bedroom and had actually talked with the man as he emerged from the alley. His description of the suspect tallied fairly closely with that of Mrs. Hull, but it corrected errors in regard to weight, age, and color of clothes.
As Kirby walked to the Equitable Building to keep his appointment with his cousins, it would not have surprised him if at any moment an officer had touched him on the shoulder and told him he was under arrest.
Entering the office of the oil broker, where the two brothers were waiting for him, Kirby had a sense of an interrupted conversation. They had been talking about him, he guessed. The atmosphere was electric.
James spoke quickly, to bridge any embarrassment. "This is a dreadful thing about Uncle James. I've never been so shocked before in my life. The crime was absolutely fiendish."
Kirby nodded. "Or else the deed of some insane person. Men in their right senses don't do such things."
"No," agreed James. "Murder's one thing. Such coldblooded deviltry is quite another. There may be insanity connected with it. But one thing is sure. I'll not rest till the villain's run to earth and punished."
His eyes met those of his cousin. They were cold and bleak.
"Do you think I did it?" asked Kirby quietly.
The directness of the question took James aback. After the fraction of a second's hesitation he spoke. "If I did I wouldn't be going to lunch with you."
Jack cut in. Excitement had banished his usual almost insolent indolence. His dark eyes burned with a consuming fire. "Let's put our cards on the table. We think you're the man the police are looking for—the one described in the papers."
"What makes you think that?"
"You told us you were going to see him as soon as he got back from the Springs. The description fits you to a T. You can't get away with an alibi so far as I'm concerned."
"All right," said the rough rider, his low, even voice unruffled by excitement. "If I can't, I can't. We'll say I'm the man who came down the fire escape. What then?"
James was watching his cousin steadily. The pupils of his eyes narrowed. He took the answer out of his brother's mouth. "Then we think you probably know something about this mystery that you'll want to tell us. You must have been on the spot very soon after the murderer escaped. Perhaps you saw him."
Kirby told the story of his night's adventure, omitting any reference whatever to Wild Rose or to anybody else in the apartment when he entered.
After he had finished, James made his comment. "You've been very frank, Kirby. I accept your story. A guilty man would have denied being in the apartment, or he would have left town and disappeared."
The range rider smiled sardonically. "I'm not so sure of that. You've got the goods on me. I can't deny I'm the man the police are lookin' for. Mrs. Hull would identify me. So would this reporter Ellis. All you would have to do would be to hand my name to the nearest officer. An' I can't run away without confessin' guilt. Even if I had killed Uncle James, I couldn't do much else except tell some story like the one I've told you."
"It wouldn't go far in a court-room," Jack said.
"Not far," admitted Kirby. "By the way, you haven't expressed an opinion, Jack. Do you think I shot Uncle James?"
Jack looked at him, almost sullenly, and looked away. He poked at the corner of the desk with the ferrule of his cane. "I don't know who shot him. You had quarreled with him, and you went to have another row with him. A cop told me that some one who knew how to tie ropes fastened the knots around his arms and throat. You beat it from the room by the fire escape. A jury would hang you high as Haman on that evidence. Damn it, there's a bad bruise on your chin wasn't there when we saw you yesterday. For all I know he may have done it before you put him out."
"I struck against a corner in the darkness," Kirby said.
"That's whatyousay. You've got to explain it somehow. I think your story's fishy, if you ask me."
"Then you'd better call up the police," suggested Lane.
"I didn't say I was going to call the cops," retorted Jack sulkily.
James looked at his cousin. Kirby Lane was strong. You could not deny his strength, audacious yet patient. He was a forty-horsepower man with the smile of a boy. Moreover, his face was a certificate of manhood. It was a recommendation more effective than words.
"I think you're wrong, Jack," the older brother said. "Kirby had no more to do with this than I had."
"Thanks," Kirby nodded.
"Let's investigate this man Hull. What Kirby says fits in with what you saw a couple of evenings ago, Jack. I'm assuming he's the same man Uncle flung downstairs. Uncle told you he was a black-mailer.There'sone lead. Let's follow it."
Reluctantly Kirby broached one angle of the subject that must be faced. "What about this girl in Uncle's office—the one in trouble? Are we goin' to bring her into this?"
There was a moment's silence. Jack's black eyes slid from Lane to his brother. It struck Kirby that he was waiting tensely for the decision of James, though the reason for his anxiety was not apparent.
James gave the matter consideration, then spoke judicially. "Better leave her out of it. No need to smirch Uncle's reputation unless it's absolutely necessary. We don't want the newspapers gloating over any more scandals than they need."
The cattleman breathed freer. He had an odd feeling that Jack, too, was relieved. Had the young man, after all, a warmer feeling for his dead uncle's reputation than he had given him credit for?
As the three cousins stepped out of the Equitable Building to StoutStreet a newsboy was calling an extra.
"A-l-l 'bout Cunn'n'ham myst'ry. Huxtry! Huxtry!"
Kirby bought a paper. A streamer headline in red flashed at him.
The lead of the story below was to the effect that Cunningham had drawn two thousand dollars in large bills from the bank the day of his death. Horikawa could not be found, and the police had a theory that he had killed and robbed his master for this money.
If Kirby had been playing his own hand only he would have gone to the police and told them he was the man who had been seen leaving the Paradox Apartments by the fire escape. But he could not do this without running the risk of implicating Wild Rose. Awkward questions would be fired at him that he could not answer. He decided not to run away from arrest, but not to surrender himself. If the police rounded him up, he could not help it; if they did not, so much the better.
He made two more attempts to see Wild Rose during the day, but he could not find her at home. When he at last did see her it was at the inquest, where he had gone to learn all that he could of the circumstances surrounding the murder.
There was a risk in attending. He recognized that. But he was moved by an imperative urge to find out all that was possible of the affair. The force that drove him was the need in his heart to exonerate his friend. Though he recognized the weight of evidence against her, he could not believe her guilty. Under tremendous provocation it might be in character for her to have shot his uncle in self-defense or while in extreme anger. But all his knowledge of her cried out that she could never have chloroformed him, tied him up, then taken his life while he was helpless. She was too fine and loyal to her code, too good a sportsman, far too tender-hearted, for such a thing.
Yet the evidence assaulted this conviction of his soul. If the Wild Rose in the dingy court-room had been his friend of the outdoor spaces, he would have rejected as absurd the possibility that she had killed his uncle. But his heart sank when he looked at this wan-faced woman who came late and slipped inconspicuously into a back seat, whose eyes avoided his, who was so plainly keyed up to a tremendously high pitch. She was dressed in a dark-blue tailored serge and a black sailor hat, beneath the rim of which the shadows on her face were dark.
The room was jammed with people. Every aisle was packed and hundreds were turned away. In the audience was a scattering of fashionably dressed women, for it was possible the inquest might develop a sensation.
The coroner was a short, fat, little man with a highly developed sense of his importance. It was his hour, and he made the most of it. His methods were his own. The young assistant district attorney lounging by the table played second fiddle.
The first witnesses developed the movements of Cunningham during the evening of the twenty-third. He had dined at the City Club, and had left there after dinner to go to his apartment. To a club member dining with him he had mentioned an appointment at his rooms with a lady.
A rustling wave of excitement swept the benches. Those who had come to seek sensations had found their first thrill. Kirby drew in his breath sharply. He leaned forward, not to miss a word.
"Did he mention the name of the lady, Mr. Blanton?" asked the coroner, washing the backs of his hands with the palms.
"No."
"Or his business with her?"
"No. But he seemed to be annoyed." Mr. Blanton also seemed to be annoyed. He had considered not mentioning this appointment, but his conscience would not let him hide it. None the less he resented the need of giving the public more scandal about a fellow club member who was dead. He added an explanation. "My feeling was that it was some business matter being forced on him. He had been at Colorado Springs during the day and probably had been unable to see the lady earlier."
"Did he say so?"
"No-o, not exactly."
"What did he say to give you that impression?"
"I don't recall his words."
"Or the substance of them?"
"No. I had the impression, very strongly."
The coroner reproved him tartly. "Please confine your testimony to facts and not to impressions, Mr. Blanton. Do you know at what time Mr. Cunningham left the City Club?"
"At 8.45."
"Precisely?"
"Precisely."
"That will do."
Exit Mr. Blanton from the chair and from the room, very promptly and very eagerly.
He was followed by a teller at the Rocky Mountain National Bank. He testified to only two facts—that he knew Cunningham and that the promoter had drawn two thousand dollars in bills on the day of his death.
A tenant at the Paradox Apartments was next called to the stand. The assistant district attorney examined him. He brought out only one fact of importance—that he had seen Cunningham enter the building at a few minutes before nine o'clock.
The medical witnesses were introduced next. The police surgeon had reached the apartment at 10.30. The deceased had come to his death, in his judgment, from the effect of a bullet out of a .38 caliber revolver fired into his brain. He had been struck a blow on the head by some heavy instrument, but this in itself would probably not have proved fatal.
"How long do you think he had been dead when you first saw him?"
"Less than an hour." Answering questions, the police surgeon gave the technical medical reasons upon which he based this opinion. He described the wound.
The coroner washed the backs of his hands with his palms. Observing reporters noticed that he did this whenever he intended taking the examination into his own hands.
"Did anything peculiar about the wound impress you?" he asked.
"Yes. The forehead of the deceased was powder-marked."
"Showing that the weapon had been fired close to him?"
"Yes."
"Anything else?"
"One thing. The bullet slanted into the head toward the right."
"Where was the chair in which the deceased was seated? I mean in what part of the room."
"Pushed close to the left-hand wall and parallel to it."
"Very close?"
"Touching it."
"Under the circumstances could the revolver have been fired so that the bullet could have taken the course it did if held in the right hand?"
"Hardly. Not unless it was held with extreme awkwardness."
"In your judgment, then, the revolver was fired by a left-handed person?"
"That is my opinion."
The coroner swelled like a turkey cock as he waved the attorney to take charge again.
Lane's heart drummed fast. He did not look across the room toward the girl in the blue tailored suit. But he saw her, just as clearly as though his eyes had been fastened on her. The detail that stood out in his imagination was the right arm set in splints and resting in a linen sling suspended from the neck.
Temporarily Rose McLean was left-handed.
"Was it possible that the deceased could have shot himself?"
"Do you mean, is it possible that somebody could have tied him to the chair after he was dead?"
"Yes."
The surgeon, taken by surprise, hesitated. "That's possible, certainly."
James Cunningham took the witness chair after the police officers who had arrived at the scene of the tragedy with the surgeon had finished their testimony. One point brought out by the officers was that in the search of the rooms the two thousand dollars was not found. The oil broker gave information as to his uncle's affairs.
"You knew your uncle well?" the lawyer asked presently.
"Intimately."
"And were on good terms with him?"
"The best."
"Had he ever suggested to you that he might commit suicide?"
"Never," answered the oil broker with emphasis. "He was the last man in the world one would have associated with such a thought."
"Did he own a revolver?"
"No, not to my knowledge. He had an automatic."
"What caliber was it?"
"I'm not quite sure—about a .38, I think."
"When did you see it last?"
"I don't recollect."
The prosecuting attorney glanced at his notes.
"You are his next of kin?"
"My brother and I are his nephews. He had no nearer relatives."
"You are his only nephews—his only near relatives?"
Cunningham hesitated, for just the blinking of an eye. He did not want to bring Kirby into his testimony if he could help it. That might ultimately lead to his arrest.
"He had one other nephew."
"Living in Denver?"
"No."
"Where?"
"Somewhere in Wyoming, I think. We do not correspond."
"Do you know if he is there now?"
The witness dodged. "He lives there, I think."
"Do you happen to know where he is at the present moment?"
"Yes." The monosyllable fell reluctantly.
"Where?"
"In Denver."
"Not in this court-room?"
"Yes."
"What is the gentleman's name, Mr. Cunningham?"
"Kirby Lane."
"Will you point him out?"
James did so.
The lawyer faced the crowded benches. "I'll ask Mr. Lane to step forward and take a seat near the front. I may want to ask him a few questions later."
Kirby rose and came forward.
"To your knowledge, Mr. Cunningham, had your uncle any enemies?" asked the attorney, continuing his examination.
"He was a man of positive opinions. Necessarily there were people who did not like him."
"Active enemies?"
"In a business sense, yes."
"But not in a personal sense?"
"I do not know of any. He may have had them. In going through his desk at the office I found a letter. Here it is."
The fat little coroner bustled forward, took the letter, and read it. He handed it to one of the jury. It was read and passed around. The letter was the one the promoter had received from the Dry Valley rancher threatening his life if he ever appeared again in that part of the country.
"I notice that the letter is postmarked Denver," Cunningham suggested."Whoever mailed it must have been in the city at the time."
"That's very important," the prosecuting attorney said. "Have you communicated the information to the police?"
"Yes."
"You do not know who wrote the letter?"
"I do not."
The coroner put the tips of his fingers and thumbs together and balanced on the balls of his feet. "Do you happen to know the name of the lady with whom your uncle had an appointment on the night of his death at his rooms?"
"No," answered the witness curtly.
"When was the last time you saw the deceased alive?"
"About three o'clock on the day before that of his death."
"Anything occur at that time throwing any light on what subsequently occurred?"
"Nothing whatever."
"Very good, Mr. Cunningham. You may be excused, if Mr. Johns is through with you, unless some member of the jury has a question he would like to ask."
One of the jury had. He was a dried-out wisp of a man wrinkled like a winter pippin. "Was your uncle engaged to be married at the time of his death?" he piped.
There was a mild sensation in the room. Curious eyes swept toward the graceful, slender form of a veiled woman sitting at the extreme left of the room.
Cunningham flushed. The question seemed to him a gratuitous probe into the private affairs of the family. "I do not care to discuss that," he answered quietly.
"The witness may refuse to answer questions if he wishes," the coroner ruled.
Jack Cunningham was called to the stand. James had made an excellent witness. He was quiet, dignified, and yet forceful. Jack, on the other hand, was nervous and irritable. The first new point he developed was that on his last visit to the rooms of his uncle he had seen him throw downstairs a fat man with whom he had been scuffling. Shown Hull, he identified him as the man.
"Had you ever had any trouble with your uncle?" Johns asked him.
"You may decline to answer if you wish," the coroner told the witness.
Young Cunningham hesitated. "No-o. What do you mean by trouble?"
"Had he ever threatened to cut you out of his will?"
"Yes," came the answer, a bit sulkily.
"Why—if you care to tell?"
"He thought I was extravagant and wild—wanted me to buckle down to business more."
"What is your business?"
"I'm with a bond house—McCabe, Foster & Clinton."
"During the past few months have you had any difference of opinion with your uncle?"
"That's my business," flared the witness. Then, just as swiftly as his irritation had come it vanished. He remembered that his uncle's passionate voice had risen high. No doubt people in the next apartments had heard him. It would be better to make a frank admission. "But I don't mind answering. I have."
"When?"
"The last time I went to his rooms—two days before his death."
Significant looks passed from one to another of the spectators.
"What was the subject of the quarrel?"
"I didn't say we had quarreled," was the sullen answer.
"Differed, then. My question was, what about?"
"I decline to say."
"I think that is all, Mr. Cunningham."
The wrinkled little juryman leaned forward and piped his question again. "Was your uncle engaged to be married at the time of his death?"
The startled eyes of Jack Cunningham leaped to the little man. There was in them dismay, almost panic. Then, swiftly, he recovered and drawled insolently, "I try to mind my own business. Do you?"
The coroner asserted himself. "Here, here, none of that! Order in this court,ifyou please, gentlemen." He bustled in his manner, turning to the attorney. "Through with Mr. Cunningham, Johns? If so, we'll push on."
"Quite." The prosecuting attorney consulted a list in front of him."Cass Hull next."
Hull came puffing to the stand. He was a porpoise of a man. His eyes dodged about the room in dread. It was as though he were looking for a way of escape.
"Your name?"
"Cass Hull."
"Business?"
"Real estate, mostly farm lands."
"Did you know James Cunningham, the deceased?" asked Johns.
"Yes. Worked with him on the Dry Valley proposition, an irrigation project."
"Ever have any trouble with him?"
"No, sir—not to say trouble." Hull was already perspiring profusely. He dragged a red bandanna from his pocket and mopped the roll of fat that swelled over his collar. "I—we had a—an argument about a settlement—nothin' serious."
"Did he throw you out of his room and down the stairs?"
"No, sir, nothin' like that a-tall. We might 'a' scuffled some, kinda in fun like. Prob'ly it looked like we was fightin', but we wasn't. My heel caught on a tread o' the stairs an' I fell down." Hull made his explanation eagerly and anxiously, dabbing at his beefy face with the handkerchief.
"When did you last see Mr. Cunningham alive?"
"Well, sir, that was the last time, though I reckon we heard him pass our door."
In answer to questions the witness explained that Cunningham had owed him, in his opinion, four thousand dollars more than he had paid. It was about this sum they had differed.
"Were you at home on the evening of the twenty-third—that is, last night?"
The witness flung out more signals of distress. "Yes, sir," he said at last in a voice dry as a whisper.
"Will you tell what, if anything, occurred?"
"Well, sir, a man knocked at our door. The woman she opened it, an' he asked which flat was Cunningham's. She told him, an' the man he started up the stairs."
"Have you seen the man since?"
"No, sir."
"Didn't hear him come downstairs later?"
"No, sir."
"At what time did this man knock?" asked the lawyer from the district attorney's office.
Kirby Lane did not move a muscle of his body, but excitement grew in him, as he waited, eyes narrowed, for the answer.
"At 9.20."
"How do you know the time so exactly?"
"Well, sir, I was windin' the clock for the night."
"Sure your clock was right?"
"Yes, sir. I happened to check up on it when the court-house clock struck nine. Mebbe it was half a minute off, as you might say."
"Describe the man."
Hull did, with more or less accuracy.
"Would you know him if you saw him again?"
"Yes, sir, I sure would."
The coroner flung a question at the witness as though it were a weapon,"Ever carry a gun, Mr. Hull?"
The big man on the stand dabbed at his veined face with the bandanna.He answered, with an ingratiating whine. "I ain't no gunman, sir.Never was."
"Ever ride the range?"
"Well, yes, as you might say," the witness answered uneasily.
"Carried a six-shooter for rattlesnakes, didn't you?"
"I reckon, but I never went hellin' around with it."
"Wore it to town with you when you went, I expect, as the other boys did."
"Mebbeso."
"What caliber was it?"
"A .38, sawed-off."
"Own it now?"
The witness mopped his fat face. "No, sir."
"Don't carry a gun in town?"
"No, sir."
"Ever own an automatic?"
"No, sir. Wouldn't know how to fire one."
"How long since you sold your .38?"
"Five years or so."
"Where did you carry it?"
"In my hip pocket."
"Which hip pocket?"
Hull was puzzled at the question. "Why, this one—the right one, o' course. There wouldn't be any sense in carryin' it where I couldn't reach it."
"That's so. Mr. Johns, you may take the witness again."
The young lawyer asked questions about the Dry Valley irrigation project. He wanted to know why there was dissatisfaction among the farmers, and from a reluctant witness drew the information that the water supply was entirely inadequate for the needs of the land under cultivation.
Mrs. Hull, called to the stand, testified that on the evening of the twenty-third a man had knocked at their door to ask in which apartment Mr. Cunningham lived. She had gone to the door, answered his question, and watched him pass upstairs.
"What time was this?"
"9.20."
Again Kirby felt a tide of excitement running in his arteries. Why were this woman and her husband setting back the clock thirty-five minutes? Was it to divert suspicion from themselves? Was it to show that this stranger must have been in Cunningham's rooms for almost an hour, during which time the millionaire promoter had been murdered?
"Describe the man."
This tall, angular woman, whose sex the years had seemed to have dried out of her personality, made a much better witness than her husband. She was acid and incisive, but her very forbidding aspect hinted of the "good woman" who never made mistakes. She described the stranger who had knocked at her door with a good deal of circumstantial detail.
"He was an outdoor man, a rancher, perhaps, or more likely a cattleman," she concluded.
"You have not seen him since that time?"
She opened her lips to say "No," but she did not say it. Her eyes had traveled past the lawyer and fixed themselves on Kirby Lane. He saw the recognition grow in them, the leap of triumph in her as the long, thin arm shot straight toward him.
"That's the man!"
A tremendous excitement buzzed in the courtroom. It was as though some one had exploded a mental bomb. Men and women craned forward to see the man who had been identified, the man who no doubt had murdered James Cunningham. The murmur of voices, the rustle of skirts, the shuffling of moving bodies filled the air.
The coroner rapped for order. "Silence in the court-room," he said sharply.
"Which man do you mean, Mrs. Hull?" asked the lawyer.
"The big brown man sittin' at the end of the front bench, the one right behind you."
Kirby rose. "Think prob'ly she means me," he suggested.
An officer in uniform passed down the aisle and laid a hand on the cattleman's shoulder. "You're under arrest," he said.
"For what, officer?" asked James Cunningham.
"For the murder of your uncle, sir."
In the tense silence that followed rose a little throat sound that was not quite a sob and not quite a wail. Kirby turned his head toward the back of the room.
Wild Rose was standing in her place looking at him with dilated eyes filled with incredulity and horror.
"Chuck" Ellis, reporter, testified that on his way home from the Press Club on the night of the twenty-third, he stopped at an alley on Glenarm Street to strike a light for his cigar. Just as he lit the match he saw a man come out from the window of a room in the Paradox Apartments and run down the fire escape. It struck him that the man might be a burglar, so he waited in the shadow of the building. The runner came down the alley toward him. He stopped the man and had some talk with him. At the request of the district attorney's assistant he detailed the conversation and located on a chart shown him the room from which he had seen the fellow emerge.
"Would you know him again?"'
"Yes."
"Do you see him in this room?"
Ellis, just off his run, had reached the court-room only a second before he stepped to the stand. Now he looked around, surprised at the lawyer's question. His wandering eye halted at Lane.
"There he is."
"Which man do you mean?"
"The one on the end of the bench."
"At what time did this take place?"
"Lemme see. About quarter-past ten, maybe."
"Which way did he go when he left you?"
"Toward Fifteenth Street."
"That is all." The lawyer turned briskly toward Kirby. "Mr. Lane, will you take the stand?"
Every eye focused on the range rider. As he moved forward and took the oath the scribbling reporters found in his movements a pantherish lightness, in his compact figure rippling muscles perfectly under control. There was an appearance of sunburnt competency about him, a crisp confidence born of the rough-and-tumble life of the outdoor West. He did not look like a cold-blooded murderer. Women found themselves hoping that he was not. The jaded weariness of the sensation-seekers vanished at sight of him. A man had walked upon the stage, one full of vital energy.
The assistant district attorney led him through the usual preliminaries. Lane said that he was by vocation a cattleman, by avocation a rough rider. He lived at Twin Buttes, Wyoming.
One of the reporters leaned toward another and whispered, "By Moses, he's the same Lane that won the rough-riding championship at Pendleton and was second at Cheyenne last year."
"Are you related to James Cunningham, the deceased?" asked the lawyer.
"His nephew."
"How long since you had seen him prior to your visit to Denver this time?"
"Three years."
"What were your relations with him?"
The coroner interposed. "You need answer no questions tending to incriminate you, Mr. Lane."
A sardonic smile rested on the rough rider's lean, brown face. "Our relations were not friendly," he said quietly.
A ripple of excitement swept the benches.
"What was the cause of the bad feeling between you?"
"A few years ago my father fell into financial difficulties. He was faced with bankruptcy. Cunningham not only refused to help him, but was the hardest of his creditors. He hounded him to the time of my father's death a few months later. His death was due to a breakdown caused by intense worry."
"You felt that Mr. Cunningham ought to have helped him?"
"My father helped him when he was young. What my uncle did was the grossest ingratitude."
"You resented it."
"Yes."
"And quarreled with him?"
"I wrote him a letter an' told him what I thought of him. Later, when we met by chance, I told him again face to face."
"You had a bitter quarrel?"
"Yes."
"That was how long ago?"
"Three years since."
"In that time did your feelings toward him modify at all?"
"My opinion of him did not change, but I had no longer any feelin' in the matter."
"Did you write to him or hear from him in that time?"
"No."
"Had you any expectation of being remembered in your uncle's will?"
"None whatever," answered Kirby, smiling. "Even if he had left me anything I should have declined to accept it. But there was no chance at all that he would."
"Yet when you came to town you called on him at the first opportunity?"
"Yes."
"On what business?"
"I reckon we'll not go into that."
Johns glanced at his notes and passed to another line of questioning."You have heard the testimony of Mr. and Mrs. Hull and of Mr. Ellis.Is that testimony true?"
"Except in one point. It lacked only three or four minutes to ten whenI knocked at the door an' Mrs. Hull opened it."
"You're sure of that?"
"Sure. I looked at my watch just before I went into the ParadoxApartments."
"Will you tell the jury what took place between you and Mrs. Hull?"
"'Soon as I saw her I knew she was scared stiff about somethin'. So was Hull. He was headin' for a bedroom, so I wouldn't see him."
The slender, well-dressed woman in the black veil, sitting far over to the left, leaned forward and seemed to listen intently. All over the room there was a stir of quickened interest.
"How did she show her fear?"
"No color in her face, eyes dilated an' full of terror, hands tremblin'."
"And Mr. Hull?"
"He was yellow. Color all gone from his face. Looked as though he'd had a shock."
"What was said, if anything?"
"I asked Mrs. Hull where my uncle's apartment was. That gave her another fright. At least she almost fainted."
"Did she say anything?"
"She told me where his rooms were. Then she shut the door, right in my face. I went upstairs to Apartment 12."
"Where your uncle lived?"
"Where my uncle lived. I rang the bell twice an' didn't get an answer. Then I noticed the door was ajar. I opened it, called, an' walked in, shuttin' it behind me. I guessed he must be around an' would be back in a few minutes."
"Just exactly what did you do?"
"I waited by the table in the living-room for a few minutes. There was a note there signed by S. Horikawa."
"We have that note. What happened next? Did your uncle return?"
"No. I had a feelin' that somethin' was wrong. I looked into the bedroom an' then opened the door into the small smoking-room. The odor of chloroform met me. I found the button an' flashed on the light."
Except the sobbing breath of an unnerved woman no slightest sound could be heard in the court-room but Lane's quiet, steady voice. It went on evenly, clearly, dominating the crowded room by the drama of its undramatic timbre.
"My uncle was sittin' in a chair, tied to it. His head was canted a little to one side an' he was lookin' up at me. There was a bullet hole in his forehead. He was dead."
The veiled woman in black gasped for air. Her head sank forward and her slender body swayed.
"Look out!" called the witness to the woman beside her.
Before Kirby could reach her, the fainting woman had slipped to the floor. He stooped to lift her head from the dusty planks—and the odor of violet perfume met his nostrils.
"If you'll permit me," a voice said.
The cattleman looked up. His cousin James, white to the lips, was beside him unfastening the veil.
The face of the woman in black was the original of the photograph Kirby had seen in his uncle's room, the one upon which had been written the words, "Always, Phyllis."
The rest of the coroner's inquest was anticlimax. Those who had come to tickle their palates with excitement tasted only one other moment of it.
"According to your own story you must have been in your uncle's apartment at least a quarter of an hour, Mr. Lane," said the prosecuting attorney. "What were you doing there all that time?"
"Most of the time I was waitin' for him to return."
"Why did you not call up the police at once, as soon as you found the crime had been committed?"
"I suppose I lost my head an' went panicky. I heard some one at the door, an' I did not want to be found there. So I ran into the bedroom, put out the light, an' left by the fire escape."
"Was that the conduct one would expect of an innocent man?"
"It was the action of an innocent man."
"You don't look like a man that would lose his head, Mr. Lane."
A smile lit the brown face of the witness. "Perhaps I wouldn't where I come from, but I'm not used to city ways. I didn't know what to do. So I followed my instinct an' bolted. I was unlucky enough to be seen."
"Carry a gun, Mr. Lane?"
"No." He corrected himself. "Sometimes I do on the range."
"Own one, I suppose?"
"Two. A .45 and a .38."
"Bring either of them to Denver?"
"No, sir."
"Did you see any gun of any kind in your uncle's rooms—either a revolver or an automatic?"
"I did not."
"That's all, sir."
The jury was out something more than an hour. The news of the verdict was brought to Kirby at the city jail by his cousin James.
"Jury finds that Uncle James came to his death from the effect of either a blow on the head by some heavy instrument, or a bullet fired at close quarters by some unknown person," James said.
"Good enough. Might have been worse for me," replied Kirby.
"Yes. I've talked with the district attorney and think I can arrange for bond. We're going to take it up with the court to-morrow. My opinion is that the Hulls did this. All through his testimony the fellow sweated fear. I've put it in the hands of a private detective agency to keep tabs on him."
The cattleman smiled ruefully. "Trouble is I'm the only witness to their panic right after the murder. Wish it had been some one else. I'm a prejudiced party whose evidence won't count for much. You're right. They've somethin' to do with it. In their evidence they shifted the time back thirty-five minutes so as to get me into Apartment 12 that much earlier. Why? If I could answer that question, I could go a long way toward solvin' the mystery of who killed Uncle James an' why he did it."
"Probably. As I see it, we have three leads to go on. One is that the guilty man is Hull. A second possibility is the unknown man from Dry Valley. A third is Horikawa."
"How about Horikawa? Did you know him well?"
"One never knows an Oriental. Perhaps I'm prejudiced because I used to live in California, but I never trust a Japanese fully. His sense of right and wrong is so different from mine. Horikawa is a quiet little fellow whose thought processes I don't pretend to understand."
"Why did he run away if he had nothin' to conceal?"
"Looks bad. By the way, a Japanese house-cleaner was convicted recently of killing a woman for whom he was working. He ran away, too, and was brought back later."
"Well, I don't know a thing about Japs except that they're good workers. But there's one thing about this business that puzzles me. This murder doesn't look to me like a white man's job. An American bad man kills an' is done with it. But whoever did this aimed to torture an' then kill, looks like. If not, why did they tie him up first?"
James nodded, reflectively. "Maybe something in what you say.Orientals strike me as being kind of unhuman, if you know what I mean.Maybe they have the red Indian habit of torture in Japan."
"Never heard of it if they have, but I've got a kinda notion—picked it up in my readin'—that Asiatics will go a long way to square a grudge. If this Horikawa had anything against Uncle James he might have planned this revenge an' taken the two thousand dollars to help his getaway."
"Yes, he might."
"Anyhow, I've made up my mind to one thing. You can 'most always get the truth when you go after it good an' hard. I'm goin' to find out who did this thing an' why."
James Cunningham looked into his cousin's face. A strong man himself, he recognized strength in another. Into the blue-gray eyes of the man from Twin Buttes had come a cold steely temper that transformed the gay, boyish face. The oil broker knew Lane had no love for his uncle. His resolution was probably based on a desire to clear his own name.
"I'm with you in that," he said quietly, and his own dark eyes were hard as jade. "We'll work this out together if you say so, Kirby."
The younger man nodded. "Suits me fine." His face softened. "You mentioned three leads. Most men would have said four. On the face of it, of the evidence at hand, the guilty man is sittin' right here talkin' with you. You know that the dead man an' I had a bitter feelin' against each other. You know there was a new cause of trouble between us, an' that I told you I was goin' to get justice out of him one way or another. I'm the only man known to have been in his rooms last night. Accordin' to the Hulls I must 'a' been there when he was killed. Then, as a final proof of my guilt, I slide out by the fire escape to get away without bein' seen. I'll say the one big lead points straight to Kirby Lane."
"Yes, but there's such a thing as character," James answered. "It's written in your face that you couldn't have done it. That's why the jury said a person unknown."
"Yes, but the jury didn't know what you knew, that I had a fresh cause of quarrel with Uncle James. Do you believe me absolutely? Don't you waver at all?"
"I don't think you had any more to do with it than I had myself," answered the older cousin instantly, with conviction.
Kirby gave him his hand impulsively. "You'll sure do to ride the river with, James."
As Rose saw the hand of the law closing in on Kirby, she felt as though an ironic fate were laughing in impish glee at this horrible climax of her woe. He had sacrificed a pot of gold and his ambition to be the champion rough rider of the world in order to keep her out of trouble. Instead of that he had himself plunged into it head first.
She found herself entangled in a net from which there was no easy escape. Part, at least, of the evidence against Kirby, or at least the implication to be drawn from it, did not fit in with what she knew to be the truth. He had not been in the apartment of James Cunningham from 9.30 until 10.15. He might have been there at both times, but not for the whole interval between. Rose had the best reason in the world for knowing that.
But what was she to do? What ought she to do? If she went with her story to the district attorney, her sister's shame must inevitably be dragged forth to be flaunted before the whole world. She could not do that. She could not make little Esther the scapegoat of her conscience. Nor could she remain silent and let Kirby stay in prison. That was unthinkable. If her story would free him she must tell it. But to whom?
She read in the "Post" that James Cunningham was endeavoring to persuade the authorities to accept bond for his cousin's appearance. Swiftly Rose made up her mind what she would do. She looked up in the telephone book the name she wanted and made connections on the line.
"Is this Mr. Cunningham?" she asked.
"Mr. Cunningham talking," came the answer.
"I want to see you on very important business. Can I come this morning?"
"I think I didn't catch your name, madam."
"My name doesn't matter. I have information about—your uncle's death."
There was just an instant's pause. Then, "Ten o'clock, at the office here," Rose heard.
A dark, good-looking young man rose from a desk in the inner office when Rose entered exactly at ten. In his eyes there sparked a little flicker of surprised appreciation. Jack Cunningham was always susceptible to the beauty of women. This girl was lovely both of feature and of form. The fluent grace of the slender young body was charming, but the weariness of grief was shadowed under the long-lashed eyes.
She looked around, hesitating. "I have an appointment with Mr.Cunningham," she explained.
"My name," answered the young man.
"Mr. James Cunningham?"
"Afraid you've made a mistake. I'm Jack Cunningham. This is my uncle's office. I'm taking charge of his affairs. You called his number instead of my brother's. People are always confusing the two."
"I'm sorry."
"If I can be of any service to you," he suggested.
"I read that your brother was trying to arrange bond for Mr. Lane. I want to see him about that. I am Rose McLean. My sister worked for your uncle in his office."
"Oh!" A film of wary caution settled over his eyes. It seemed to Rosethat what she had said transformed him into a potential adversary."Glad to meet you, Miss McLean. If you'd rather talk with my brotherI'll make an appointment with him for you."
"Perhaps that would be best," she said.
"Of course he's very busy. If it's anything I could do for you—"
"I'd like you both to hear what I have to say."
For the beating of a pulse his eyes thrust at her as though they would read her soul. Then he was all smiling urbanity.
"That seems to settle the matter. I'll call my brother up and make an appointment."
Over the wire Jack put the case to his brother. Presently he hung up the receiver. "We'll go right over, Miss McLean."
They went down the elevator and passed through the lower hall of the building to Sixteenth Street. As they walked along Stout to the Equitable Building, Rose made an explanation.
"I saw you and Mr. James Cunningham at the inquest."
His memory stirred. "Think I saw you, too. 'Member your bandaged arm.Is it broken?"
"Yes."
He felt the need of talking against an inner perturbation he did not want to show. What was this girl, the sister of Esther McLean, going to tell him and his brother? What did she know about the murder of his uncle? Excitement grew in him and he talked at random to cover it.
"Fall down?"
"A horse threw me and trod on my arm."
"Girls are too venturesome nowadays." In point of fact he did not think so. He liked girls who were good sportsmen and played the game hard. But he was talking merely to bridge a mental stress. "Think they can do anything a man can. 'Fess up, Miss McLean. You'd try to ride any horse I could, no matter how mettlesome it was. Now wouldn't you?"
"I wouldn't go that far," she said dryly. For an instant the thought flickered through her mind that she would like to get this spick-and-span riding-school model on the back of Wild Fire and see how long he would stick to the saddle.
James Cunningham met Rose with a suave courtesy, but with reserve. Like his brother he knew of only one subject about which the sister of Esther McLean could want to talk with him. Did she intend to be reasonable? Would she accept a monetary settlement and avoid the publicity that could only hurt her sister as well as the reputation of the name of Cunningham? Or did she mean to try to impose impossible conditions? How much did she know and how much guess? Until he discovered that he meant to play his cards close.
Characteristically, Rose came directly to the point after the first few words of introduction.
"You know my sister, Esther McLean, a stenographer of your uncle?" she asked.
The girl was standing. She had declined a chair. She stood straight-backed as an Indian, carrying her head with fine spirit. Her eyes attacked the oil broker, would not yield a thousandth part of an inch to his impassivity.
"I—have met her," he answered.
"You know . . . about her trouble?"
"Yes. My cousin mentioned it. We—my brother and I—greatly regret it. Anything in reason that we can do we shall, of course, hold ourselves bound for."
He flashed a glance at Jack who murmured a hurried agreement. The younger man's eyes were busy examining a calendar on the wall.
"I didn't come to see you about that now," the young woman went on, cheeks flushed, but chin held high. "Nor would I care to express my opinion of the . . . the creature who could take advantage of such a girl's love. I intend to see justice is done my sister, as far as it can now be done. But not to-day. First, I'm here to ask you if you're friends of Kirby Lane. Do you believe he killed his uncle?"
"No," replied James promptly. "I am quite sure he didn't kill him. I am trying to get him out on bond. Any sum that is asked I'll sign for."
"Then I want to tell you something you don't know. The testimony showed that Kirby went to his uncle's apartment about 9.20 and left nearly an hour later. That isn't true."
"How do you know it isn't?"
"Because I was there myself part of the time."
Jack stared at her in blank dismay. Astonishment looked at her, too, from the older brother's eyes.
"You were in my uncle's apartment—on the night of the murder?" James said at last.
"I was. I came to Denver to see him—to get justice for my sister. I didn't intend to let the villain escape scot free for what he had done."
"Pardon me," interrupted Jack, and the girl noticed his voice had a queer note of anxiety in it. "Did your sister ever tell you that my uncle was responsible for—?" He left the sentence in air.
"No, she won't talk yet. I don't know why. But I found a note signed with his initials. He's the man. I know that."
James looked at his brother. "I think we may take that for granted,Jack. We'll accept such responsibilities on us as it involves.Perhaps you'd better not interrupt Miss McLean till she has finishedher story."
"I made an appointment with him after I had tried all day to get him on the 'phone or to see him. That was Thursday, the day I reached town."
"He was in Colorado Springs all that day," explained James.
"Yes, he told me so when I reached him finally at the City Club. He didn't want to see me, but I wouldn't let him off till he agreed. So he told me to come to the Paradox and he would give me ten minutes. He told me not to come till nearly ten, as he would be busy. I think he hoped that by putting it so late and at his rooms he would deter me from coming. But I intended to see him. He couldn't get away from me so easily as that. I went."
Jack moistened dry lips. His debonair ease had quite vanished. "When did you go?"
"It was quite a little past a quarter to ten when I reached his rooms."
"Did you meet any one going up or coming down?" asked James.
"A man and a woman passed me on the stairs."
"A man and a woman," repeated Jack, almost in a whisper. His attitude was tense. His eyes burned with excitement.
"Was it light enough to tell who they were?" James asked. His cold eyes did not lift from hers until she answered.