The Marchburn Mystery.BY A. MAURICE LOW.
BY A. MAURICE LOW.
As Walter Brixton, chief of United States secret service agents in New York City, stepped off the Washington Limited in the Jersey City depot, the newsboys were calling, “Extra, extra, all about the murder; extra!” Brixton bought a paper. As he settled himself in the “L” car he read, under flaming head-lines, the following account, written in the short, paragraphic style which usually denotes that “copy” has been prepared in a newspaper office in a rush:
“Shortly after six o’clock this evening, Bridget Martin, one of the cleaners employed in the Empire Building, discovered the dead body of Lawrence Marchburn in his private office.
“The screams of the frightened woman brought to her assistance the janitor and some of the tenants, although nearly all of them had left the building for the day.
“A hasty examination showed that Mr. Marchburn had been shot.
“When found he was sitting at his desk, his head dropped forward and resting on his left arm, his hand clutching the receiver of the telephone with the death grip. This would seem to indicate that Mr. Marchburn had been shot in the very act of using the telephone, which was affixed to his desk. The body was still warm, but life was quite extinct.
“The murder must have been committed within an hour of the time of discovery.
“A small wound just above the heart indicated that death had probably been instantaneous.
“The police were immediately notified, and an officer appeared upon the scene. He questioned the janitor and his assistants, but learned nothing additional to the above facts. A search wasmade for the pistol, but it could not be found, which proves conclusively that it is a case of murder and not suicide.
“None of the persons had heard the sound of a pistol shot, but the woman, Martin, said she heard shortly after five o’clock what sounded like the violent slamming of a door. At that time she was on the seventh floor, and paid no attention to the noise. Mr. Marchburn’s office was on the eleventh floor.
“At this time the police have not the slightest clue on which to proceed. At the central telephone station no one remembers having been asked to connect 1611 Courtland, which was Marchburn’s number. As no record is kept of the thousands of daily calls, the telephone office can throw no light on the murder. There is no known motive for the crime, as Mr. Marchburn was not supposed to have an enemy, and was highly respected in business and social circles. The inquest to-morrow is expected to throw some light upon the awful crime.
“Mr. Marchburn was president of the International Bank Note and Engraving Company, whose offices are on the eleventh story of the Empire Building, their factory being in New Jersey.
“He came to New York about five years ago from the West, and started the Bank Note Company, which has been remarkably successful. He was a member of the Central League, the Cosmopolitan, and the Hudson Bay Clubs.
“Deceased was a director in the Seventeenth National Bank and other financial institutions, and was a member of the Jackson Avenue Presbyterian Church. He leaves a daughter, his only child, and, his wife having died several years ago, the sole heir to his vast wealth, which is estimated at millions.”
Like all detectives, Brixton was interested in any story of crime; but just now a case of his own engrossed the larger part of his attention. For some months past the country had been flooded with counterfeit notes, and, although the entire secret service force and the police of all the leading cities had been hunting the counterfeiters, they had made little progress. The bills were so nearly perfect, they so closely copied the genuine article, both as to the work of the engraver and the paper upon which they were printed, that only an expert was able to discriminate between them. People began to be thoroughly alarmed.Many got rid of their paper money as quickly as possible, and exchanged it for gold and silver so as to avoid risk. The newspapers denounced the Secretary of the Treasury for not being able to capture the criminals.
The newspapers next morning contained long accounts of the murder of Mr. Marchburn; but they were able to add little to the reports printed in the extras of the evening before. The murder of a wealthy business man in practically broad daylight, in a building on one of the most frequented streets of the city, caused a tremendous sensation, and in business circles the tragedy was more eagerly discussed than the course of the market. The coroner’s inquest brought out these facts:
Mr. Marchburn had spent the day at the factory, and returned to his office about five o’clock. The clerks had not expected him back that evening, and some of them had left. To his chief clerk he said he had stopped in on his way up town to fetch some papers which he wanted to look over at his house, and that while in the office he would write some personal letters. No one need wait for him, as he would latch the outer door after him. Then Mr. Marchburn threw open his desk, the chief clerk wished him good-evening, and in a few minutes, except for the president, the offices appeared to be vacant.
It was explained to the jury that the company occupied five rooms, all of which opened into the main corridor. Mr. Marchburn’s private room was at the extreme end of the suite. The company employed seven clerks, two of them girls. One of the girls and Mr. Marchburn’s private secretary had left before the return of that gentleman, and the other clerks testified that no stranger was in any of the rooms when they left. The last persons to leave were John Rogers, the chief clerk, and the cashier, William Harding. Rogers swore that while he was waiting for Harding to close the safe Mr. Marchburn came into the general office from his room, and asked if a certain account had been paid. Both men were positive that nobody could have been secreted in the rooms at that time, and at the close of the short conversation Mr. Marchburn again said “Good-night,” and returned to his room. Rogers put down the spring latch and tried the door from the outside. It was safely locked. They walked across the hallto the elevator, and while waiting for the car met the janitor, who inquired if the offices were empty. Rogers told him that Mr. Marchburn was in his room and would be busy for a short time.
The janitor told a straight enough story. After leaving Rogers and Harding he had worked on the other side of the building, and then went to the first floor. He was on the third story at the time when Bridget Martin’s screams alarmed him, and he hastily ran to the elevator and told the conductor to take him upstairs. At that time he did not know whence the outcry proceeded, but as the elevator went rushing up some one shouted that Mr. Marchburn had been hurt. When he reached the eleventh story and entered the company’s rooms he found the Martin woman and three or four other persons, tenants of the building. His evidence as to the finding of the body was merely corroborative of that of the other witnesses.
There are four elevators in the Empire Building. The conductor of No. 4 elevator, Richard Wright, testified as follows: “I have been employed only two days at the Empire Building. It is the rule to close down two of the elevators at half past five; at six o’clock the third is closed, and the other half an hour later. I am ‘late man’ this week. Just as six o’clock was striking and elevator No. 3 was making its last downward trip, the annunciator in my car dropped for the tenth story. I ran my car up and took in a young man. I do not remember to have seen him before. He stepped into the car, and as I pulled the rope to go down I noticed that he had a handkerchief wrapped round his right hand and he was holding it with his left, as though it hurt him. I said to him: ‘Have you hurt your hand?’ He replied: ‘Yes, I squeezed it in the door.’
“I looked at his hand again and noticed that there was blood upon the handkerchief, and I said: ‘It’s bleeding.’ The young fellow looked dreadfully scared, and I thought he was going to drop, but he said something I couldn’t hear, and as soon as the car stopped he walked away quickly.”
This testimony produced a profound sensation, and every eye was turned upon Wright.
“Why did you not mention this circumstance to the police last night?” asked the coroner.
Wright shifted about uneasily and said: “When I heard the screams upstairs and was told that Mr. Marchburn had been murdered I was scared half out of my life and clean forgot all about it until I got home. It was then too late to tell any one, and I thought I would wait until I came here.”
“Can you describe this man?” asked a juror.
“He was a young fellow; I should think about twenty-four. I didn’t notice his face particularly, except when I told him his hand was bloody, and then I saw how white he looked. I never should have thought much of it if it hadn’t been for the murder.”
“How was he dressed?”
“He had on a brown overcoat; but I don’t remember anything else.”
That was all the light Wright could throw upon the affair. Coroner and jurymen plied him with questions; but he could tell them nothing. He did not know the color of the man’s eyes, whether he wore a beard, what kind of hat he wore; in fact, he could furnish nothing which would serve as an identification. He thought he might know the man if he were to see him again; but he was not absolutely sure as to that. There was no reason to think that Wright was not telling the truth, and it was almost impossible that he could have committed the murder, but the jury, in rendering their verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown, censured Wright for having remained silent for more than twelve hours, and the coroner privately suggested to the police that they keep an eye upon Wright.
As soon as the verdict had been rendered, Detective Sergeants Johnson and Richardson, who had been detailed by Superintendent of Police Walton to attend the inquest, reported to him for further instructions. They briefly repeated the testimony and especially the startling evidence of Wright. When they had finished the chief said:
“What do you make of it?”
“The man in the brown overcoat is the murderer,” said Johnson.
“The man in the brown overcoat had nothing to do with it; but Wright knows a great deal more than he has told,” was Richardson’s analysis.
Walton looked out of the window a couple of minutes without speaking. “The person who committed the murder,” he said, as if he were talking to himself more than to his listeners, and without looking at either, “was expected to call at the office that evening by Marchburn, who came back about the time the clerks were preparing to leave, on purpose to keep his appointment. All the doors were locked. Either the visitor must have had a duplicate key, or else Marchburn left one of the doors open, or they had a private signal. Any one of a dozen persons might have been able to open the door with a duplicate key; but I don’t see anything to point in that direction. Marchburn would hardly be likely to leave the door open for his expected visitor, so it is evident the doors were kept locked, and when the prearranged signal was given Marchburn opened the door to his murderer. Who was the murderer and what was the motive? It was not money, because no valuables were taken, and the clerks say that neither papers nor anything else were disturbed. The murder was either the result of a sudden burst of passion, or else it was premeditated, and something forced the murderer to do then what had long been contemplated. There was a very strong motive. Find the motive and you find the—”
“The murderer,” interrupted Richardson.
“The murderess,” continued the chief as calmly as if he had not heard the interruption.
“A woman?” cried his listeners simultaneously.
“Certainly, a woman; it is a woman’s crime. From the time when Rogers and Harding left until the discovery of the body was a scant hour. To avoid all possible risks of interruption, Marchburn did not arrange the interview until after five, so that between that hour and six he was shot. At six he was dead, and the doctor testified he must have been dead between fifteen and thirty minutes when he was called in. So that fixes the time of the shooting between half past five and six. Marchburn expected a woman to call upon him that night, because he would not have made such careful preparations for secrecy if his visitor had been a man. He did not want his clerks to see his caller. The time between her calling and the shooting was too short for them to have quarreled; but it was long enough for her to havemade her demand and to have been refused by Marchburn. Then she shot him.”
“But the young man in the brown overcoat?” asked Johnson.
“If the coroner had the slightest sense,” sneered the chief, “he would have asked Wright if the ‘young man’ looked as if ‘he’ were disguised, and Wright’s answer would have shown whether he is merely a thick-skulled idiot or whether he has a hand in this affair. But I’m glad the question was not asked, as the woman will think her disguise has shielded her. But Wright has given himself away by his answers. He says ‘the young man’ had a handkerchief wrapped around his right hand, and was holding it with his left, as if it hurt him. Isn’t that a woman’s attitude? A man would have shoved his hand in his pocket and held it there—at any rate, until he was in the street, where no one would have noticed it or paid any attention to him. But the woman doesn’t know how to use her pockets; her hand hurts her, and she holds it out in full view, instead of hiding it, as a man would have done. I’ll stake my reputation that the young man in the brown overcoat is a woman, and that the woman is the murderer of Mr. Marchburn.”
The superintendent rapidly outlined his plans. “I want you,” he said to Richardson, “to look up Marchburn’s past record in the West. Look for the woman there, or for the chapter in his life in which the woman figures. It’s there, although it may be difficult to find. Johnson, you look up his record from the time he came to New York to the day of his death. See if there is any woman entanglement here. Keep your eye upon Wright. I can’t quite size that man up. Look for the brown overcoat. Now, Richardson, you’d better start right in, and wire me just as soon as you strike anything.”
In a few moments Johnson went back. “There is one thing I don’t understand,” he said. “Why did the woman get in the elevator at the tenth instead of the eleventh story?”
“Easy enough to explain, and another indication that we are dealing with a woman and not a man. When she left the office her natural impulse was to walk down the stairs, to avoid meeting any one, instead of courting observation, as a man would have doneunder the circumstances. She walked down one flight; she heard the cleaners moving about and dreaded meeting them, and rang for the elevator as being less dangerous. Remember we are dealing with a woman of no ordinary caliber,—one who is not a seasoned criminal, and who thinks quickly.”
From Johnson’s report next morning the superintendent learned that Marchburn had moved to New York from the West five years before his murder; that his only child, Lucille, was twenty years old; that father and daughter were very much attached to one another. Marchburn’s tastes were all domestic; he seldom stayed out late at night, unless in company with his daughter; he was a regular church attendant, and contributed liberally to its support and to charities. His business was extremely profitable, his fortune being considered very large.
Walton read the report through and felt annoyed. It was not what he wanted. He felt that he was right in charging a woman with the crime; but how was he to find a woman who left no traces behind her? Besides, the papers were growing impatient, clamoring for an arrest, and indulging in satirical flings at the impotence of the police. Suddenly an idea occurred to him. “I ought to have thought of that before,” he said to himself. “Rogers or Harding might know,” and the superintendent, once more the cold, impassive man of affairs, walked quietly out of his office.
Superintendent Walton went briskly down town, thinking deeply as he walked, and yet noticing everything that went on around him. As he turned the corner of Silver Lane his eye fell upon a portly, well-groomed man who was walking in front of him. Walton was noted for never forgetting a man or woman he had once known, and there was something about this man which seemed familiar. Quickening his pace a little, the detective pushed ahead until he came opposite a money-changer’s window, and appeared to be intently gazing at the piles of gold and silver; but out of the corner of one of his eyes he was carefully watching for the man whom he hoped would soon pass. The superintendent looked up and saw a well-preserved man of about sixty, with florid complexion and carefully trimmed whiskers. He looked like any one of hundreds of prosperous business men. Still tryingto fit the face to a name, Walton followed the man into Wall Street, and as he passed the sub-treasury he saw Brixton coming down the steps. The sight of the government agent was like a flash in the dark, and the object he was groping for was instantly made plain. The superintendent determined to take desperate chances. “By gad,” he muttered, “I’ll risk it. If he’s the man his voice will give him away.” Quickening his walk, he stepped up to the man, and, tapping him on the shoulder, said very quietly:
“I want you, John Marsh.”
With perfect composure he began, “Excuse me, sir, I do not know you—” but in the first three words his deep voice broke into a theatrical falsetto.
Walton smiled triumphantly. “Perhaps not; but I know you, Marsh,” he said, with his hand still on the man’s arm.
“This is the second time you have called me by that name. My name is not Marsh. Pardon me if I say good-morning,” said the other in perfectly modulated tones, and made a movement as if to continue on his way.
But Walton was not to be shaken off so lightly. “Wait a minute,” he said, and his voice was as pleasant and his manner as polite as that of the man whom he was addressing. “Perhaps when I tell you that I am Superintendent of Police Walton, who was chief of the detective bureau when we last met, you may remember me.”
“My dear sir, this is incomprehensible. I never had the pleasure of meeting you before, and, as I have to attend a very important meeting of the directors of my bank I must beg to be excused. If you really are the chief of police, I think, instead of wasting your time with reputable business men, you could better afford to devote a little of your leisure to finding the murderer of my dear old friend, Lawrence Marchburn.”
“You were acquainted with Mr. Marchburn?”
“Sir, I decline to submit to this impertinence any longer. If you attempt to stop me further I shall call an officer.”
“I think not,” said Walton, with a smile. “You are going with me to headquarters, or I will accompany you to your bank; which do you prefer?”
“In two minutes I could show you what a fool you are makingof yourself; but I prefer to teach you a lesson. I submit to this indignity in the interest of good government.”
“All right, Marsh; I see you are the same old Chesterfield,—just as smooth as ever. You’ve no objection if we ride, I suppose?” and Walton hailed a passing cab. As they jogged up town both men remained silent. Turning a corner, the cab gave a sudden lurch, the superintendent’s hand in some mysterious manner caught in his prisoner’s whiskers, and they came away from his face. The two men looked one another squarely in the eye. Marsh was the first to speak. “You’re a nervy one, superintendent,” he said. “What do you want me for? I’m living straight.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but I want to have a quiet little talk with you; besides, I heard you were dead.”
Marsh smiled. The loss of his whiskers showed him to be a man of about forty, with a firm jaw, a keen blue eye, and a high forehead. “I wish to God I was dead,” he said. “When a man tries to live straight he gets snagged and is disgraced.”
The cab drew up at the big building on Mulberry Street, and the superintendent, pushing his prisoner before him, led the way to his private room. “Now, Marsh, you say you have been living straight. Prove it and I’ll release you.”
The man eyed his captor sullenly. “Not till I’ve seen a lawyer,” he said.
Walton touched an electric button. “Lock this man up,” he said to the officer who appeared. As Marsh was led away the chief pushed another button. “Bring me,” he said to the messenger, “Convictions, letter M, ’84.”
Hastily turning the pages, Walton read: “Marsh, John, alias Gentleman John, generally known as Chesterfield, because of his manners and politeness, born at Sodaville, Mich. All round crook; specialty, counterfeiting United States notes. One of the most dangerous men in his line. Convicted of counterfeiting and sentenced to Albany for five years in 1870; sent to Jackson, Mich., for three years for forgery in 1878; last conviction, Joliet, counterfeiting, 1884, five years. See page 756.” Turning to the page indicated, Walton read: “Escaped from Joliet and committed suicide.”
“So he didn’t commit suicide,” mused the chief. “Well, I always had my doubts about it. I have an idea he had a hand in this counterfeiting business, and if that’s so it’s a pretty good morning’s work—almost as good as finding the Marchburn woman. I had better let Brixton know about this; it may give him a pointer.”
A clerk brought in a telegram and handed it to the superintendent. Walton read:
“Sodaville, Mich., Jan. 24.—Can you mail me at once portrait of Chesterfield Marsh, escaped Joliet, and committed suicide about 1884?“Richardson.”
“Sodaville, Mich., Jan. 24.—Can you mail me at once portrait of Chesterfield Marsh, escaped Joliet, and committed suicide about 1884?
“Richardson.”
“By Jove,” said the superintendent, “that’s curious. I wonder what he’s struck now. Well, I guess I’ll hang onto Chesterfield for a few days, anyway.” Then he telephoned to Brixton, who was now working night and day on the counterfeit money case, which divided public attention with the Marchburn mystery. To the police these cases had proved two of the most remarkable criminal problems they had ever been called upon to solve. Congress had added to the excitement by adopting the recommendation of the Secretary of the Treasury and offering a reward of fifty thousand dollars for the arrest and conviction of the counterfeiters.
Brixton came in dejectedly in answer to the summons. To Walton, who was an old friend, he admitted that he was beaten.
“Brace up, old man,” said Walton; “I’ve got something good for you,” and he at once told him of the arrest of Marsh and Richardson’s telegram.
A gleam of excitement blazed from the secret service man’s eyes. He jumped from his chair and paced the room a couple of times before he could control himself; then, leaning over his friend’s desk, he talked rapidly. “By jove, Walton, you’ve got our man. There is only one man in the country who could have done the job, and that’s Marsh. I have thought about him a dozen times since I’ve been at work on the case, but always supposed him to be dead. What a confounded idiot I am not to haveinvestigated that suicide story; yet I never had reason to doubt it.”
Both men felt certain that they were at last hot on the right trail, and that Marsh was still engaged in his old business of counterfeiting. While discussing the next move to be made Brixton suddenly said: “What does Richardson’s telegram mean?”
The words produced a peculiar effect upon Walton, which was reflected in Brixton’s face. Both men scrutinized each other for a brief space of time without speaking. It was as if they were grappling with the same thought, and yet both were afraid to frame in words what was passing through their minds. It was Walton who at last broke the silence and in a nervous sort of way said:—
“That is absurd.”
“What is?”
“What you are thinking about.”
It was curious that neither man had openly expressed his thoughts, and yet each knew what was in the other’s mind just as well as if the words had been uttered.
“I don’t know about that. Of course it looks ridiculous to commence with, but not any more so than that West Virginia case.”
“I don’t remember that,” said Walton.
“It was one of my most interesting jobs. For months we had been trying to break up a gang of counterfeiters working in West Virginia, and had failed, just as in the present instance. The thing looked pretty bad, and the merchants of the State were so worked up about the ‘queer’ that a bill was introduced in the legislature authorizing the governor to employ private detectives, as the government secret service men had shown their incompetence. Before the bill was acted upon we arrested some of the gang, and on the day when the bill came up for action we obtained conclusive evidence that the member of the legislature who introduced the bill was the brains of the gang. I went to the capitol and listened to this man’s speech in support of his measure, and after the bill had passed I arrested him and found in his pockets some of the money made by his gang. I sent him over the road.”
“You think, then,” said Walton, “that Marchburn had some connection with the counterfeiting gang.”
“I do.”
“Did Marsh murder Marchburn?”
“I don’t know about that. I rather think not, because Chesterfield, from what we know about him, is a coward and not the man to kill; but he probably knows who did. There’s a connection between the murder and the counterfeiting, and when we pull the right string both knots will come untied.”
Walton told his associate of his theory as to the murderer being a woman.
Brixton doubted it. “But it’s of no consequence,” he said. “Whoever fired the shot was a member of the gang; Marchburn knew him and expected him to call that evening. When we land our man we shall have the murderer and the counterfeiter as well.”
How was Marsh to be made to confess? Numerous plans were discussed and rejected. Finally Brixton made this suggestion: “Make Chesterfield understand that he is suspected of the murder and that you have the dots on him. You’ll have to sweat him and put him through the third degree. Don’t say a word about the counterfeiting. When he’s charged with the murder, and things begin to look black, he will squeal to save his neck. He’ll give his pals away dead sure and tell all he knows about the counterfeiting. I believe the scheme will work.”
Walton agreed with him and proceeded without delay in putting his prisoner through the sweating process. Early in the morning he had read the papers in his cell, and a detective who secretly watched him noticed that he devoured every line printed about the Marchburn murder. Later, the superintendent had him brought to his office and there subjected him to a rigorous cross-examination, and no man knew better than he how to worm the truth out of a criminal. But in Marsh he found more than a match. He either dodged every question or else declined to answer, and neither threats nor promises elicited anything of importance. For more than an hour the man submitted to being worried by his inquisitor, when at last he said:
“Chief, what are you trying to make against me?”
Walton had not taxed him with the murder, as he hoped his prisoner would make some incautious admission which would tell him what he wanted to find out. But Marsh’s question seemed to have made the time ripe for the great stroke. Looking him steadily in the eye, the chief said: “For the murder of Lawrence Marchburn.”
The prisoner gave a short, nervous laugh. “You’re clean off,” he said. “I didn’t murder him and I had nothing to do with it; but I know the man who did.”
Walton had counted upon his declaration producing a confession, or at least some signs of weakness, but this answer astounded him.
The man never flinched. “It’s God’s truth. I can tell you who committed the murder,” he repeated.
“Very well; who did it?”
But Marsh was too old a bird to be caught with chaff. “What do I get if I tell?” he asked.
“I think they would like to have you back in Joliet,” the chief answered, “and that means five years to commence with. If you give me the name of the man, and it is proven that you had nothing to do with the murder, I will see that you are not troubled.”
Marsh appeared to be thinking deeply. “Shall I have to appear as a witness?” he asked.
“Not unless it is necessary; I won’t put you on the stand if I can make the case without you.”
“Will you release me as soon as you are satisfied you have the right man?”
“Yes.”
“Then arrest Frank Richald, who was Mr. Marchburn’s stenographer. He’s your man.”
“How do you know?”
“I won’t tell; but see if I am not right.”
Walton ordered Marsh back to his cell, somewhat puzzled by the result of the interview. He did not believe all that Marsh had told him; but the mention of Richald’s name indicated that he was getting down to the man’s confederates. There was onlyone thing to do. The superintendent ordered Johnson to arrest Richald. He took his arrest quietly. Brought before Walton, he said, without waiting to be questioned: “I am innocent; but circumstances are against me.”
With a quick, sudden movement, Walton seized hold of the corner of the skirt of Richald’s brown overcoat and intently examined a dark spot on the front. “Marchburn’s blood,” he said tersely.
“I know it,” was all the prisoner said.
“Why did you murder him?” asked Walton.
“I did not murder him,” he said firmly. “When I reached the office on the night of the murder Mr. Marchburn was lying dead on his desk. I was stunned and horrified. I know now I should have given the alarm; but there were so many strange things in connection with my being there at that hour that I foolishly imagined my safety lay in flight. Some of Mr. Marchburn’s blood was on my hand, and I bound my handkerchief around it to escape observation. To avoid meeting any one I started to walk down the stairs; then I was afraid the janitor might see me and think it strange I was walking, so I called the elevator on the floor below our office and rode down.”
“What brought you back to the office that evening?” Walton asked.
“That I cannot tell you.”
Walton ordered the young man to a cell.
Next day the papers told of the arrest. They also added something about the man who stood charged with the crime. Richald was the son of a once former wealthy New York merchant, whom every one respected. At his death it was found that his estate was badly involved, and all that was left to his widow and his two children was a small estate. On the interest of this Mrs. Richald lived, her son contributing generously of his wages to her support. Two years before the murder Frank had secured a position with the Bank Note Company as Mr. Marchburn’s stenographer.
Walton now bent all his energies to securing a fuller confession from his prisoner, to ascertaining what had become of the pistol, and the motive for the crime. His best men were set to workraking over nearly every hour of Richald’s past life. Meanwhile, at the earnest request of Brixton, Walton had decided to hold onto Marsh. Walton was pretty well convinced that, while Marsh did not commit the murder, he had some connection with it, and was not going to let that elusive individual get out of his clutches so long as there was a possibility of proving it. Brixton, on his side, was certain that Marsh was in some way implicated in the counterfeiting, and proposed to keep his eye upon him until he could charge him with the crime or bring it home to some one else. The capture of Marsh seemed like a lucky find.
On the morning of the second day after Richald’s appearance in court a carriage drew up in front of the police headquarters, from which a stately looking elderly gentleman and a tall young woman alighted. The gentleman asked to see the superintendent. Walton did not need to look at the card to know his caller, Phineas Yarrow, one of the noted lawyers of the city.
The woman was dressed all in black, and was so slight that she seemed unusually tall when standing alone. She remained closely veiled.
“This young lady is a friend of Mr. Richald’s,” said the lawyer. “She is very anxious to speak with the prisoner. I am willing to vouch for all she says or does.”
Walton shot a keen glance at the girl. “This is rather unusual,” he said; “but I will accede to your request, provided, of course, the interview takes place in my presence.”
Shortly afterward Richald entered the room, and as he caught sight of the girl he trembled and appeared dazed. For a moment she hesitated, then, with a cry which touched the hearts of the older men, she rapidly crossed the room, threw her arms about the young man’s neck, and kissed him passionately.
Whether they were sweetheart and lover, husband and wife, or brother and sister, Walton had no means for knowing; but that the girl played an important part in the case he felt certain. Hurriedly writing a line, he handed it to an officer, and from that time Frank Richald’s visitor was under the shadow of the law.
For several minutes the prisoner and his visitor conversed in anxious whispers; then, going to the lawyer, the young woman said: “After you have shown me to the carriage Mr. Richald hassomething important to say to you. He will tell you everything.”
“Now tell me all,” said the lawyer, seating himself by the side of Richald. In eager whispers he told his story. When he had finished the old lawyer paced up and down the room, showing that he was laboring under intense excitement. Stopping suddenly, he said: “You must repeat this to the superintendent, here and now.”
Without hesitating, Richald in a firm voice commenced his recital—Yarrow an excited listener, and the superintendent coolly indifferent; but Richald had spoken for only a few moments when Walton’s studied indifference gave way and he was soon closely following every word. When the young man had finished the superintendent leaned across his desk, and, clasping his hand, said, “I believe you.”
“But there is no time to be lost,” he continued. Pushing several of the electric buttons on his desk, he gave his orders to the officers who appeared. Then, turning, he said, “Mr. Yarrow, will you come back at six o’clock this evening? And, Mr. Richald, I shall still have to subject you to my hospitality.”
That evening the lawyer once more entered the superintendent’s room. He found Walton and Richald busily engaged in conversation, and with them was Brixton. “Now we will get to business,” said the superintendent, seating himself at his desk.
Into this company Marsh was called. “In the first place,” said the superintendent, “it may be well to explain that Lawrence Marchburn and the prisoner were brothers.” Turning to Marsh, he said, “Now tell us your story.”
“You know all about me, superintendent,” the man commenced, and his eyes were fixed upon Walton, as if he alone were present, “and that I have always been a counterfeiter and a crook. I went crooked very young. My father was a man of considerable means, and my brother Lawrence, who was always of a jealous and grasping disposition, worked upon him so that he refused to have anything to do with me. When he died he left all his money to Lawrence and cut me off without a penny. When I escaped from Joliet I determined to make a last appeal to my brother for help. I reached his house late one night andhe received me in his library. At first he told me never to enter his house again, but during our conversation he changed his mind, and after he had given me food he said:
“‘Jack, they tell me you are one of the cleverest counterfeiters in the country.’
“I answered that I believed I had that unenviable reputation.
“‘Then here’s a scheme. I’m in a pretty tight hole. I have lost a good deal of money lately in speculation, and I have used some belonging to an estate. I am going to start a factory to make counterfeits. I shall have an office in New York and a factory in New Jersey, where we can work undisturbed and everything will look straight. I have money enough to start the factory and buy all the machinery. After a year we can retire with two fortunes and become respectable. If you have any scruples of conscience I’ll pay your fare back to Joliet.’
“Of course I consented. There was nothing else I could do.
“I fell in love with and married the daughter of my landlady, and when the baby came she was the happiest woman in the world, and I—” Marsh passed his hand across his face and there was a catch in his voice which showed the struggle he was making to remain calm.
“Well, I was determined to quit the whole business and live straight. I told this to Lawrence, and that I wanted my share of the money he was keeping for me. We had a dispute, but settled it by my agreeing to remain another six months.
“Just before the time was up he went to my wife and told her I was an escaped convict, but that he was trying to get things fixed so I need not fear arrest. He warned her not to allow me to go away, as that would be dangerous. She told me all. Then I resolved to end the matter at once. When he next came to the factory he told me that Richald, his stenographer, had discovered what we were doing, and would give the snap away. He said something must be done to close Richald’s mouth until he could close up the factory and clear out. He pretended to be fully as frightened as I was, and I was badly scared, for I did not at last want to be lagged. So I agreed to do whatever he thought best.
“He sent for me to come to New York. It had been arrangedthat I should go to his office, knock three times on the door, and if the clerks were all gone my brother would open it. After he had done so, he said, in the most cold-blooded way, that Richald would be there in a quarter of an hour; that we must get him to go to the factory, and on the way there, in a lonely spot, shoot him. He would make it appear that Richald had stolen some bonds, and when his body was found it would look like suicide. I told him that, whatever had been my past life,Iwould not commit murder. He cursed me for a coward, and said he would have me sent back to jail. I defied and left him.”
“Now,” said the superintendent, turning to Richald, “will you tell your story?”
“Two years ago,” began Richald, who was trembling with excitement, caused by Marsh’s recital, “I was engaged as stenographer by Mr. Marchburn, and shortly after became engaged to his daughter, the young lady who was here to-day. A few months ago we were secretly married, and about that time I accidentally overheard a conversation between Mr. Marchburn and his brother, which put me in possession of the colossal plot to swindle the government. I was in doubt as to my duty in the matter, but finally concluded to tell Mr. Marchburn what I knew. He declared that Marsh was the real head of the conspiracy, but, owing to circumstances, he had been unable to extricate himself from his clutches; he would, however, close up the factory as soon as possible. On the day of the murder Mr. Marchburn made an appointment for me at his office. Before leaving for New Jersey he handed me a package which he said contained several thousand dollars in negotiable securities, which he intended to have taken to his bank, but had forgotten to do so, and requested that I bring it back to the office later.
“I was a few minutes late in keeping my appointment, and when I entered Mr. Marchburn’s room I found him dead. It flashed across my mind that I might be accused of the murder; that it would be difficult for me to account for the securities, and in explaining my presence in the office I should have to reveal the conspiracy, which, for the sake of Mr. Marchburn’s daughter, I was reluctant to do. Yielding to a sudden impulse, I left the office, without raising an alarm. And—”
Just then an electric bell rang and the superintendent put his ear to a tube that hung above his chair. As he listened his face flushed. He looked up and, with an accent of conviction that caused Marsh to move uneasily in his chair, exclaimed: “Gentlemen, at last the missing link is at hand!”
The next moment the door was thrown open and an officer ushered in a middle-aged man with a traveling-bag in his hand. Stooping over the superintendent’s chair, the officer engaged him in a whispered conversation. As he proceeded, a look of triumph shone in the superintendent’s eyes. Swinging around suddenly in his chair toward Marsh, he asked abruptly: “Marsh, did you ever see this man before?” For several moments the prisoner, with eager curiosity, eyed the new-comer from head to foot. Then, turning to the superintendent, he said, with attempted composure, but with that tell-tale falsetto break in his voice, “No, I never saw him—”
“That’s the man!” cried the stranger, advancing and pointing excitedly to the prisoner. “I could tell his voice among a million.” Then, turning to Walton, he continued breathlessly, “Mr. Superintendent, on the evening of the murder I was in my insurance office in Temple Court. I had just been called to the bedside of my sick wife in Florida and rang up the sleeping-car office in Jersey City to engage a berth. I couldn’t get the connection, as the wires were crossed. I rang again and again, but, instead of getting a reply from the central office, I heard a violent quarrel going on between two men. One of them threatened to call the police, and the other shouted, ‘If you do that I’ll shoot you.’ Indeed, I did hear what sounded like the muffled report of a pistol. At that moment I was connected by the central office, and thought no more of the matter until I was seated in the cars an hour later. Then, in recalling the affair, it occurred to me that possibly I had overheard a scrap of a theatrical rehearsal, because the voice of the man who threatened to shoot had a stagy sort of falsetto break in it. And it wasn’t until I was overtaken three days ago by New York papers containing full accounts of the Marchburn murder that I knew that I held the clue to the mystery. An hour later I was on the way to New York and came directly here from the train.
“Gentlemen,” said the stranger, pausing impressively and pointing to the cowering figure of the prisoner, “that is the man whose voice I heard over the telephone. I heard him speak. I heard him threaten. I heard him rush across the floor. I heard him fire the fatal shot. It was he who murdered Lawrence Marchburn!”
Four months later the jury gave the same verdict.