Lucy came slowly into the room and stood near the door. She was of the peculiar-looking negress type sometimes seen in the South—light of complexion, with hard, porcelain-like blue eyes and kinky hair which, instead of being black, is brown or brownish red. After her first startled glance toward Bristow she stood with her head lowered and with an expression of sulky stubbornness.
"Sit down!" he ordered after a few moments' silence, indicating a chair near the wall.
She took her seat while he stepped to the door and closed it.
"Now, Lucy," he said, pulling at his lower lip as he stood in the middle of the room and looked down at her, "I'm not going to hurt you, and there's nothing for you to be afraid of. All I want you to do is to tell me the truth."
In spite of his reassuring words, the woman caught the full meaning of the goading sharpness in his voice. She immediately became more sullen.
"'Deed, I ain' got nothin' to tell 'bout you white folks," she said, with a touch of insolence.
"This isn't about white folks," he corrected her, resisting his quick impulse to anger. "It's about coloured folks."
"Nothin' 'bout dem neithuh," she continued in the same tone. "I don' know nothin' 'cep'n I wuz drunk. I done tole all dat down at de p'lice station."
"Listen to me!" he commanded, a little pale, "You know perfectly well what I want to find out. I want you to tell me everything you remember about Perry Carpenter's actions and words last Monday night—the night before last."
She raised and lowered her eyes rapidly, the lids working like the shutter of a camera.
"I knows what you wants, an' I knows I don' know nothin' 'tall 'bout it," she objected, her sullenness a patent defiance.
He stared at her for a full two minutes. She could hear the breath whistling between his teeth; the sound of it frightened her.
"Don't lie to me!" he said, now a trifle hoarse. "It isn't necessary, and it doesn't do anybody any good—you or Perry either."
She began to whimper.
Looking at her, he was conscious of being absorbed in the attempt to keep his temper instead of eliciting what she had to tell. He smiled.
"Stop that sniffling, and tell me what you know about Monday night! Don't you remember that Perry told you he was going to Mrs. Withers' house and steal her jewelry?"
"I done tole you I don' remembuh nothin'."
He took a step toward her and lifted his open hand as if to strike her in the face. Without waiting for the blow, she slid from the chair and fell sprawling to the floor, where she lay, moaning.
"Get up!"
She obeyed him, her arms held folded over her head as a shield against expected blows. She was still sullen, uncommunicative, her head down.
He limped swiftly to the door, left the room and went to the front part of the house. He paced the length of the living room several times, his fists clenched, his protuberant lip grown heavier.
He called to Mattie, who was in the kitchen.
"I wish," he directed, "you'd go down to Sterrett's and get a dozen oranges."
"Yes, suh. Right now, Mistuh Bristow?"
"Yes; hurry. I want some orangeade."
He returned to the bedroom and closed the door. Lucy was bent forward on the chair, moaning.
"Stop that!" he said, feeling now that he had himself and her under control. "If you don't stop, you'll have something real to sniffle about before I'm through with you! Now begin. What about Perry last Monday night?"
"Please, suh," she changed her tone, "lemme go. I ain' got nothin' to say. I feels like I might say somethin' dat ain' so. I'se kinder skeered you might make me say somethin' whut I don' mean to say."
Moving deliberately, a fine, little tremor in his fingers, he took off his coat and vest and hung them on the back of a chair. He had just noticed that it was warm and close in the shut-up room. There was a ringing in his ears. He kept repeating to himself that, if he lost his temper, she would never become communicative.
He began all over again, patient, persistent——
When Mattie came back with the oranges, she met Lucy just outside the kitchen door. There were no tears in the Thomas woman's eyes, but she seemed greatly distressed.
"Whut'd he want offen you?" Mattie asked, with the negro's usual curiosity.
"Nothin' much," replied the other, looking blankly out across Mattie's shoulder. "He jes' axed me whut I knowd 'bout Perry dat night."
"I tole you dar warn't nothin' to be skeered uv him foh," said Mattie. "Some uv you niggers ain' got no sense."
"Yas; dat's so," Lucy agreed dully, and walked slowly away.
She moved as if she felt that there was something frightful behind her. When she was half-way home, she broke into a run, and, moaning, ran the remainder of the distance. She threw herself on her bed and sobbed a long time.
She had talked, and for the present she thought she felt more sorry for Perry than she did for herself.
In the meantime, Bristow had gone into the bathroom to wash his hands.
"Pah!" he exclaimed, disgusted.
He dried his hands and walked, whistling, out to the living room. No matter how distasteful the scene with the sullen woman had been, the substantial fact remained that he had in his pocket an important document. After all, Lucy Thomas had talked—and signed.
"Mattie," he called, "fix me an orangeade, please. Mr. Greenleaf's late for dinner, and I need a little freshening up."
He went to the living room window again and gazed, with thoughtful, slightly sad eyes, out toward the mountains.
"These policemen!" he was thinking contemptuously. "They don't know how to make blockheads tell what they can tell. There are ways—and ways."
Frank Abrahamson, pawn broker and junk dealer, responded at once to Braceway's warm smile. The Jew had his racial respect for keenness and clean-cut ability. He liked this man who, dressed like a dandy, spoke with the air of authority.
"The fellow with the gold tooth?" he replied to Braceway's request for information. "Was there anything peculiar about him? Why, yes. He was clothed in peculiarities."
The pawn broker, thin, round-shouldered, with a great hook-nose and cavernous, bright eyes, spoke rapidly, without an accent, punctuating his sentences with thrusts and dartings and waves of his two hands. His fifty-five years had not lessened his vitality.
"You see, Mr. Braceway, we pawn brokers, we have to observe our customers. We become judges of human nature. At the best, we have a hard time making a living." Somehow, with his smile, he discounted this statement. "And we come to judge men as closely as we examine jewels and precious metals. You see?"
Braceway saw. He lit a cigarette and stepped to the door to throw away the match. The Jew appreciated the thoughtfulness. Trash on the floor made the morning task of sweeping up harder.
"Now," continued Abrahamson, expressing with one movement of his arm tolerant ridicule, "this man with the gold tooth and the brown beard—he thought he was disguised. By gracious! it was funny. A fellow like me takes one look at him and sees the disguise. The gold tooth—that was false, fake. When he talked to me, it was all I could do to keep from reaching across the counter and pushing that tooth more firmly into his jaw. Gold is heavy, you see. I was afraid it might drop down on my showcase and break some glass."
Abrahamson laughed. So did Braceway.
"And his beard, Mr. Braceway? That was better. To the ordinary observer, it might have looked natural—but not to me. Oh, yes; he was disguised—too much.—Besides, the other afternoon was not the first time I had seen him—no."
"You saw him two months ago, then?"
"Yes, sir—two months ago, and one month before that."
"In here?"
"Yes."
"What did he want?"
"Money. Money for jewelry. Oh, he had the jewelry. And I gave him the money—a great deal; more, perhaps, than was good for me, when you remember I always try to make a reasonable profit. He argued. He knew about values."
This interested Braceway more than anything he had yet heard.
"That gave you an idea," he suggested.
"You are quick, Mr. Braceway. It did give me an idea. It made me think: well! This man, he has pawned things before, these very same things. He knew quite well what they should bring." Abrahamson shrugged his shoulders. "And he did know—and I let him have the money. That is, I mean, what happened the first two times. This last time, the three days ago, he was different, in a hurry, and he took only what I offered. He made no argument. I could see he was frightened. Yes—he was different this last time."
The detective, oblivious of the other for a moment, blew a cloud of smoke across the counter, causing the Jew to dodge and cough.
"Let me see," Braceway said. "You saw him three months ago, two months ago, and three days ago. Had you ever seen him before?"
Abrahamson laughed, and, reaching over, slapped Braceway on the shoulder gently.
"You are so quick, Mr. Braceway! I can't swear I had ever seen him before, but I think I had—not with the gold tooth and the beard, but with a moustache and bushy eyebrows, eyebrows too bushy."
"Where? Where did you see him?"
"Here, I think—but I'm not sure, you see. Sometimes I have traveled a little—to Atlanta, to Washington, to New York. I don't know; I can't tell whether I saw him in one of those places, or some other place, or here."
Braceway urged him with his eyes.
"If you only could! Mr. Abrahamson, if you could remember where you saw him when he wore the moustache, you would enable me to put my hands on him. You'd do more. You'd give me enough information to lead to the arrest of the murderer."
Abrahamson was silent, gazing through the shop doorway. He turned to the detective again.
"I bet you, Mr. Braceway, you will be glad to hear something. Chief Greenleaf was in here this morning, asking questions. But he asked so many that were worth nothing, so few that were good. And I forgot to tell him the whole story—the things of, perhaps, significance."
"Tell me. Significance is what I'm after."
"Well, you know Mr. Withers spent almost the whole day in here before the night of the murder. Once he went out. That was in the late afternoon to get some lunch. While he was out—understand, while he was out—in came the gold-tooth fellow.
"It was bad luck. I kept him as long as I could, but he was hurried, nervous. Half an hour, forty minutes maybe, after the gold-tooth fellow had gone, in came Withers again, out of breath, complaining that he had picked the man up just outside here and followed him, only to lose him when the gold-tooth fellow went through Casey's store to the avenue.
"I showed Withers the ring the fellow had pawned for a hundred dollars.
"'Yes, yes!' he said; 'that's one of my wife's rings.'
"And he was all cut up.
"Now, here is what I have to tell." Abrahamson lowered his voice and, leaning low on his elbow, thrust his face far over the counter toward Braceway. "It is only an idea, but—it is an idea. I bet you I would not tell anybody else. Such things might get a man into trouble. But I like you, Mr. Braceway. I confide in you. Mr. Withers and that man with the beard and the gold tooth—something in the look of the eyes, something in the build of the shoulders—each reminded me of the other, a little. And they were at no time in here together. Just an idea, I told you. But——"
He spread out his hands, straightened his back, and smiled.
Braceway was, undisguisedly, amazed.
"You mean Withers was the——"
"S—sh—sh!" Abrahamson held up a protesting hand. "Not so loud, Mr. Braceway. It is just an idea for you to think over. I study faces, and all that sort of thing, and ideas sometimes are valuable—sometimes not."
"By George!" Braceway put into his expression an enthusiasm he was far from feeling. "You've done me a service, a tremendous service, Mr. Abrahamson."
He thought rapidly. Three months ago! Where had George Withers been then? Three months ago was the first of February. He started. It was then that Withers had gone to Savannah. At least, he had said he was going to Savannah. And two months ago? He was not certain, but when had George left Atlanta, ostensibly for Memphis?
Inwardly, the detective ridiculed himself. He would have sworn to the innocence of Withers. In fact, he was swearing to it all over again as he stood there in the pawnshop. Abrahamson's "idea" was out of the question. People were often victims of "wild thinking" in the midst of the excitement caused by a murder mystery.
He returned to the effort to persuade the Jew to try to remember where he had seen the bearded man without a beard, with only a moustache and bushy eyebrows.
"That's the important thing," he urged. "If you can remember that, I'll land the murderer."
"Maybe—perhaps, I can." The pawn broker hesitated, then made up his mind to confide to Braceway another secret. "I don't promise, but there is a chance. You see, Mr. Braceway, I'm a thinker." He smiled, deprecating the statement. "Most men do not think. But me, I think. I do this: I want to remember something. Good! I go back into my little room back of the shop, and I practise association of ideas. What does the moustache remind me of? What was in his voice that made me think I had seen him before? What do his eyes bring up in my mind?
"So! I go back over the months, over the years. One idea leads to another connected with it. There flash into my mind links and links of thoughts until I have a chain leading to—where? Somewhere. It is fun—and it brings the results. I will do so tonight and tomorrow. I will try. I bet you I will be able to tell you—finally. You see?"
"It's a great scheme," said Braceway, encouraging him. "It ought to work. Now, tell me this: how did this fellow strike you? What did you think of him when he was in here pawning jewels and wearing a disguise?"
"I will tell you the truth. I thought at first he was like a lot of other sick people who come here with that disease—tuberculosis. In the beginning they have plenty of money. They expect to get well before the money gives out. But they have miscalculated. They are not yet well, and the money is gone.
"What next? They must have more money. With this disease, the rich get well, the poor die. Well! I thought this fellow needed money to get well—that was all; and, like a lot of them, he was ashamed of being hard up and didn't want it known."
"Tell me this: would the ordinary man in the street have noticed that the gold tooth was a false, clumsy affair?"
"I think not. I buy all sorts of old gold and sets of false teeth. There is a market for them. I have studied them. That's why I saw what this fellow's was."
"I see. Now, will you show me what he pawned two months ago, and three months ago?"
Abrahamson consulted a big book, went to the safe at the back of the shop, and returned with two little packets. In the first were two bracelets, one studded with emeralds and diamonds, the other set with rubies. In the second envelope was a gold ring set with one large diamond surrounded by small rubies.
"I allowed him six hundred dollars on the bracelets," explained Abrahamson; "they are handsome—exquisite; and three hundred and fifty on the ring."
Braceway passed the stuff back to him. It was a part of the Withers jewelry.
"You see, Mr. Braceway," added the Jew, "all this business, this murder and everything, will cost me money. This jewelry, it is stolen goods. Chief Greenleaf leaves it here for the present, as a decoy. Perhaps, somebody might try to reclaim it. That's what he thinks. As for me, I don't think so. It is a dead loss."
He sighed and rearranged the articles in their envelopes.
"Yes," agreed the detective; "it's hard luck. You've got every reason to be interested in running down the truth in this mix-up. I wish you could tell me where you think you saw this man—the time he had neither the gold tooth nor the brown beard."
"Be patient, my friend—Mr. Braceway. By tomorrow I may remember. I shall work hard—the association of ideas! It is a great system."
Braceway thanked him and was about to leave the shop. He had already formed a new plan. He turned back to the pawn broker.
"By the way," he said, "I'm going to Washington tomorrow. If you should remember, if the association of ideas produces anything, I wonder if you'd wire me?"
"Certainly. Certainly."
The detective wrote on a slip of paper: S. S. Braceway, Willard Hotel. He handed it to Abrahamson.
"Wire me that address, collect," he directed.
Abrahamson promised, smiling. He was pleased with the idea of helping to solve the problem which convulsed Furmville.
"Oh," added Braceway, "another thing. How would you describe this fellow in addition to the fact that he wore the beard and the gold tooth?"
"Very thin lips," replied Abrahamson slowly, "and high, straight, aquiline nose, and blond hair, and—and, I should say, rather thin, high voice."
"Good!" Braceway exclaimed. "Good! Mr. Abrahamson, you've just described the man who, I believe, committed the murder. And I know where he is."
Morley had been pointed out to him in the hotel earlier in the day, and Abrahamson's memory sketched a fairly good likeness of the young man as he remembered him. Why not make certain of it at once?
"You've been very obliging," he continued, "and, I suppose, that's why I feel I can impose on you further. I confide in you, as you did in me. I'm going back to the Brevord now. Could you follow me and take a look at a man who'll be with me there?"
The Jew's eyes sparkled.
"Yes, Mr. Braceway," he said and added: "It may cost me money, closing up the shop, you understand. But if I can help——"
"Don't misunderstand me," the detective cautioned. "There's no charge of murder. Nothing like that. This fellow may be the gold-tooth man, and still not be the guilty man."
"I see; I see," Abrahamson's tone was one of importance. "You go on, Mr. Braceway. I'll follow in three minutes."
"If the man I'm with is the one who wore the disguise, if he looks more like it than Mr. Withers did, make no sign. If he's not the fellow communicate with me later—as soon as you can."
Morley was the first person Braceway saw when he entered the lobby of the hotel. He lost no time, but crossed over to the leather settee on which the young man sat. Morley looked haggard and frightened, and, although he held a newspaper in front of him, was gazing into space.
Braceway decided to "take a chance." He had a great respect for his intuitions. These "hunches," he had found, were sometimes of no value, but they had helped him often enough to make the ideas that came to him in this way worth trying. He introduced himself.
"I was wondering," he said, sitting down beside Morley, "if you couldn't help me out in a little matter."
Morley sighed and put down his paper before he answered:
"What is it?"
"Something about make-ups—facial make-up."
Morley looked at him and felt that the detective's eyes bored into him.
"What about make-up?"
"I had the idea—perhaps I got it from George Withers—that you used to be interested in a matter of theatricals."
Morley coloured.
"Yes. That is," he qualified, "I was a member of the dramatic club when I was in college, University of Pennsylvania. But I didn't know Withers knew anything about it."
Braceway's demeanour now was casual. His eyes were no longer on Morley. He was watching Abrahamson, who was at the news-stand near the main entrance.
"I thought George had mentioned it to me, but I may be mistaken. Did you ever 'make up' with a beard?"
The morning papers had got hold of the suspicion of some of the authorities that a man wearing a brown beard and a gold tooth was wanted because of the murder of Mrs. Withers. Although Chief Greenleaf had tried to keep it quiet, it had leaked out as a result of Jenkins' search for traces of the man. Morley had read all this, and Braceway's question upset him.
"No," he answered; "I never did. I played women's parts."
Abrahamson was shaking his head in negation. He made it plain that he saw in Morley no resemblance to the man who had come disguised to the pawnshop.
Braceway did not press Morley for further information.
"Then you can't help me," he laughed lightly. "Women don't wear beards."
He got up with a careless word about the hot weather and passed on to the clerk's desk. He was thinking: "He was lying. Any college annual prints the cast of the important 'show' given by the dramatic club that year. I'll wire Philadelphia."
He found the manager of the Brevord and inquired:
"How about the bellboy who was on duty all Monday night, Mr. Keene?"
"He's in the house now," Keene informed him. "Roddy is his name."
"Send him up to my room, will you?"
Braceway stepped into the elevator. Five minutes after he had disappeared, Morley went into the writing room. His hand trembled a little as he picked up a pen. He put two or three lines on several sheets of paper, one after the other, and tore up all of them.
The communication which he finally completed he put into an envelope and addressed to Braceway. It read:
"Dear Mr. Braceway: When you asked me about the make-up, I was thinking of something else and was not quite clear as to what you were saying or what you wanted to know. I remember now that, on one occasion, I did have a part as a man who wore a beard in a play given by my college dramatic club. However, I don't remember enough about it to pass as an expert on such make-ups."Yours truly,"Henry Morley."
"Dear Mr. Braceway: When you asked me about the make-up, I was thinking of something else and was not quite clear as to what you were saying or what you wanted to know. I remember now that, on one occasion, I did have a part as a man who wore a beard in a play given by my college dramatic club. However, I don't remember enough about it to pass as an expert on such make-ups.
"Yours truly,
"Henry Morley."
Going to the desk, he left the note for the detective.
"I'm a fool," he reflected, as he went to the door and looked out at the traffic in the street. "I believe I'll get a lawyer."
He considered this for a while.
"Oh, what's the use? He'll ask me a lot of questions, and——"
He shuddered and turned back into the lobby, hesitant and wretched.
"My God!" he thought miserably. "I've got to get back to Washington! I've got to! After that, I can think—think!"
But he believed he could not go until the chief of police gave him permission. If he had consulted a lawyer, he might have found out differently. As it was, he stayed on, thinking more and more disconnectedly, eating nothing, his nerves wearing to raw ends.
Upstairs Braceway was strengthening the net he had already woven around Henry Morley.
"I was right." He reviewed what he had learned from Abrahamson. "It's still up to Morley. That pawn broker's off, 'way off. He thinks George Withers resembles the man with the beard, and, although he gave me the description that fitted Morley exactly, he takes a look at him and denies emphatically that Morley resembles at all the fellow with the disguise."
Abrahamson, however, was not satisfied with what he had seen. Back in front of his shop, he opened the door, took down the sign he had left hanging on the knob, "Back in ten minutes," substituted another, "Closed for the day," relocked the door, and started off in the direction of Casey's department store.
He had decided to devote the whole afternoon to detective work. Of course, it would cost him money, having the shop closed half a day. "But," he consoled himself, "I'm worth seventy thousand dollars. I bet I am entitled to a little holiday."
Braceway had discovered long ago that the man who attempts good work as a detective must depend almost as much on his ability to make friends as he does on his capacity for sifting evidence.
"I'm a good worker," he was in the habit of saying, "but I'm not half as good working alone as I am when I have the help of all the men and women who are witnesses in a case or connected with it in some other way. I need all the cooperation I can get."
This was one reason why Roddy, when he entered Braceway's room, felt sure immediately that he would receive only kindly treatment. He had shown signs of fear on entering the room, and in his extremely black face his singularly white eyeballs had rolled around grotesquely.
But Braceway put him at ease with a smile.
"What have you been trying to do, Roddy?" was his first good-humoured question. "Think you've got sense enough to fool all the white folks?"
"Who, boss? Me, boss?" the boy returned, disavowing with a grin any pretense to intelligence. "Naw, suh, boss. You knows I ain' got no sense. I ain' nevuh tried to fool nobody."
"Didn't you tell the chief of police you were awake all of Monday night when you were on duty in the lobby and didn't you say the only thing you did was to carry up Mr. Morley's bags?"
"Yas, suh, boss; an' dat was de truth—nothin' but de truth, boss. Gawd knows——"
Braceway took from his pocket a crisp, new one-dollar bill and smoothed it out on his knee.
"Now, listen to me, Roddy," he said, this time unsmiling. "Mr. Keene has just told me he wouldn't fire you, even if you did go to sleep Monday night. There's nothing for you to be afraid of; and this dollar note is yours as soon as you tell me the truth, the real truth, about what you saw and what you missed seeing Monday night. If you don't tell me, I'll have you arrested."
Roddy's eyes, which had shone with a rather greasy glitter at the sight of the money, rolled rapidly and whitely in their sockets at the mention of arrest.
"'Deed, boss, you ain' gwine to have no cause to 'res' me, no cause whatsomever. You knows how 'tis, boss. Us coloured folks, we got a gif, jes' a natchel gif', foh nappin' an' sleepin'. Boss, dar ain' no nigger in dis town whut would have kep' wide awake—wide—all dat Monday night nor any yuther night."
"Very well. Think now. Try to remember. Were you asleep at all before midnight?"
"Naw, suh, boss. Naw, suh!"
"Not at all?"
Roddy began to wilt again.
"Well, it might uv been dis way, boss, possibilly. 'Long 'bout 'leven I kinder remembuhs jes' a sort uv nap, mo' like a slip, boss." He coughed and spoke desperately: "You see, boss, when it gits a little quiet at night, seems to me, why, right den, ev'y nigger I knows is got a hinge in his neck. 'Pears like he jes' gotter let his haid drap furward. Dar ain' no use talkin', boss, dat hinge wuks ovuhtime. I 'spec' mine done it, too, jes' like you say, 'long 'bout 'leven. Yas, suh, I reckon dat's right."
"How about the time between midnight and two in the morning? Was the hinge working then?"
"Aw, boss," replied Roddy with something like reproach, "you knows 'tain' no queshun uv a hinge arftuh midnight. Arftuh midnight, boss, de screws drap right outen' de hinge, an' dar ain' no mo' hinge. You jes' natchelly keeps your haid down an' don' lif' it no mo'. Naw, suh, dar ain' no hinge to he'p you dat late,onless—onless somebody hit you or stab you."
Braceway became stern. His eyes snapped.
"Didn't you carry Mr. Morley's grips up to his room for him that night, room number four hundred and twenty-one?"
"Yas, suh."
"What time was that?"
"Dat wuz jes' five minutes arftuh two, boss."
"Had you been asleep during the two hours before that?"
"I hates to say it, boss, but I wuz, almos' completely."
"Then, how did you wake yourself up thoroughly enough to know that it was exactly five minutes past two?"
"Lemme see, suh. Possibilly, 'twuz bekase uv whut I seen 'long about ha'fpas' one—possibilly, boss."
"So you hadn't been asleep for two hours?"
"Almos', suh. It wuz dis way: you see, boss, de bellboys' bench is right unduh de big clock in de lobby, off to de right uv de desk. I happen' dat night to let my haid slide ovuh 'g'in de glass case uv de clock, an when it stahted out to hit de ha'fpas' bell, it rattled an' whizzed, an' it jarred me. Golly, boss! I woke up an', when I seed how it wuz rainin' outside, I thought lightnin' had hit me. It skeered me—an' dat is one good way to wake up a nigger at night—skeer 'im, an' you don' have to stab him. I sorter hollered.
"I got up an' went to de main entrance, jes' to make de night clerk think I wuz on de job in case he woke up. I looked down de street tow'rd de post-office, an' I seed a man goin' in dar.
"'Bless de Lawd!' I says to myse'f. 'White people ain' got much to do—goin' to de post-office dis time uv night.' An' I went on back to de bellboys' bench and stahted in niggerin' it once mo'e."
"Niggering it?"
"Yas, boss; you know, dat means quick sleepin'. 'Peared to me I ain' no mo'e got my eyes shut when I wakes up ag'in, an' right dar in de lobby is dat same man what I seed gwine to de post-office."
"What waked you up?"
"I don' know, boss. I can' no mo'e figger dat out den I kin fly. Dat wuz de fust time in my life dat I done wake up at night when onmolested."
"How did you know the man you saw in the lobby was the one you had seen going into the post-office?"
"Dey wuz de same, boss; dat's all. Had de same buil', same long raincoat on, an' same thick beard. He had done pass' me by an' wuz on his way up de stairs 'stead uv waitin' foh me to run de elevatuh. I wouldn' nevuh seed his beard dat time, but he turn' 'roun' when he wuz nigh to de top uv de stairs an' look back at me. Den I seed foh a fac' dat he wuz de same as de yuther man I jes' done seed."
Braceway gave no sign of how highly he valued the negro's words. Seated by the window, the dollar bill still on his knee, he kept his gaze on Roddy, holding him to his narrative.
"You want me to believe that, when you saw this man two blocks away at half-past one in the morning, you noticed he wore a beard? Wasn't it too dark?"
"Naw, suh. Dem post-office lights is pow'ful, boss. I seed de beard all right, an' I seed it once mo'e when he wuz on de stairs."
"What did he do after he had looked back at you while he was going upstairs?"
"Nothin', boss. He seed I wuz lookin' at him, an' he jes' went on up an' out uv sight, in a hurry, like."
"What time was that?"
"Dat wuz twenty-six minutes uv two."
"How do you know that? You'd gone back to sleep, hadn't you?"
"Yas, suh, a little niggerin'. But, when I woke up dat way widout no reason, I kinder jumped. I wuz afeer'd dat clock might be goin' to jar me ag'in, an' I took a look at it. Dat wuz how I seed de time. It wuz twenty-six minutes uv two."
"What did you do then?"
"Nothin', boss; jes' went on niggerin' it. Dat is, I went on till de night clerk giv' me a kick on de shins and tole me to take Mistuh Morley's bags up to fo'-twenty-one. I done tole you dat was five minutes arftuh two. Den, when we got up to de room, I says to him: 'I thought you wuz in dis hotel half-hour ago, boss, when you had a beard.'
"An' right off de bat I wuz sorry I said dat. He look' at me kinder mad an' he said: 'Whut you talkin' 'bout, boy? You mus' be talkin' in yore sleep!'
"I come on back downstairs. He didn' have to say no mo'e. I tell you, boss, when a white man tell me I been talkin' in my sleep, Iisbeen talkin' in my sleep—dar ain' no argufyin' 'bout it—Iisbeen doin' dat ve'y thing."
"But you thought Mr. Morley, the man with the grips, was the one you had seen going up the stairs and, also, the one you had seen going into the post-office—and, when you saw him on the stairs and on the street, he wore a beard? Is that it?"
"I ain' thought nothin' 'bout it, boss. I knowed it."
"What did you think about his shaving off the beard at that time in the morning?" Braceway urged, fingering the dollar bill. "Didn't you think it was queer?"
"I tryin' to tell you, suh, I ain' done no thinkin' 'bout dat. He done said I wuz talkin' in my sleep, an' I is a prudent nigger."
"Did he have a gold tooth, Roddy?"
"Naw, suh," said Roddy, "but he did look rich 'nough to have one. Leastways I ain' seen he had one."
"Have you seen the man with the beard since?"
"Naw, suh. I jes' tole you, boss, he done shave it off."
"And Mr. Morley?"
"Yas, suh, I done seen him. He's in de hotel now. He's de same man."
"Did he wear rubber overshoes when he had the beard, and when he didn't have it?"
"Yas, suh—bofe times."
"Has he said anything to you since Monday night?"
"Naw, suh."
"Did you see anybody else that night—Monday night?"
"Naw, suh."
"Do you remember anything else about how the bearded man looked?"
"Naw, suh, 'cep' he look' jes' like dis Mistuh Morley; dat's all I know, boss."
Braceway got to his feet.
"All right, Roddy," he said heartily; "you're a good boy. Here's your dollar."
Roddy rolled his white eyeballs toward the ceiling and bent his black face floorward.
"Gawd bless you, boss! You is one good——"
"And here's another dollar, if you can keep your mouth shut about this until I tell you to open it. Can you do that?"
Roddy conveyed the assurance of his ability to remain dumb until a considerable time after the sounding of Gabriel's trump.
"See that you do. If you don't, I might have to arrest you after all."
When the negro had gone, Braceway stood at the window and, with glance turned toward the street, saw nothing of what was passing there. He was reviewing the facts—or possible facts—that had just come to him. Restlessness took hold of him. He fell to pacing the length of the room with long, quick strides. It seemed that, in the labour of forcing his brain to its highest activity, he called on every fibre and muscle of his physique. His cheeks were flushed; his eyes, hard and brilliant, snapped.
He was thinking—thinking, going over every particle of the evidence he had drawn from Roddy, trying to estimate its value when compared with everything else he had learned about the case. His stride grew more rapid; his breathing was faster.
The murder, the men and women connected with it, the stories they had told, all these flashed on the screen of his mind and hung there until he had judged them to their smallest detail.
What could Abrahamson have meant by indicating a belief that the man with the gold tooth looked like George Withers?
Was the boy Roddy wide enough awake that night to have formed any real opinion as to the resemblance of the bearded man and Henry Morley?
The trip to the post-office—did that explain the disappearance of the stolen jewelry? Had Morley mailed it at once to himself, or somebody else, in Washington?
Withers had returned to the Brevord early Monday night. That must have been before half-past twelve. Although the night clerk and the bellboy had been asleep at the time and had not seen him, there was no room for doubt of his return as he had described it.
And why should Morley, wearing the disguise, have waked up Roddy and assured himself, by the look flung over his shoulder, that the negro saw him on the stairs?
Or had that been Morley, after all? What reason, what motive——
Suddenly, with the abruptness of a horse thrown back on his haunches, he stood stock still in the middle of the room, his brilliant eyes staring at the wall, his breathing faster than ever, as he considered the idea that had flashed upon him. The idea grew into a theory. It had never occurred to him before, and yet it was right. It must be. He had it! For the first time, he felt sure of himself, was convinced that he held a safe grasp on the case.
He strode to the window and struck the sill with his fist. The tenseness went out of his body. He breathed a long sigh of relief. He had seen through the mist of puzzling facts and contradictory clues. The rest would be comparatively plain sailing.
Some of Braceway's friends were in the habit of laughing at him because, when he was sure of having solved a criminal puzzle, he always could be seen carrying a cane. The appearance of the cane invariably foretold the arrest of a guilty man.
He went now to the corner near the bureau and picked up the light walking-stick he had brought to Furmville strapped to his suitcase. He lingered, twirling the cane in his right hand. His thoughts went to the interview he and Bristow had had that morning with Fulton, whose white hair and deep-lined face were very clear before him. He recalled the old man's words:
"She wept bitterly. I can hear her weeping now. She had a dash, a spirit, a joyous soul. This man none of you has been able to find has been in Enid's life for a good many years."
Braceway's eyes softened.
Well, there was no need to worry now. Things were coming his way. The old man would have his revenge. He put on his hat, deciding to go down for a late lunch. When he looked at his watch, he whistled. He had promised to be at the railroad station to see the funeral party off for Atlanta on the four o'clock train; and it was now half-past three. He hurried out.
For the first time in his life, he had been guilty of taking a course which might lead to serious results, or to no results at all. He had permitted personal considerations to make "blind spots" in his brain.
Because of a warm friendship for George Withers, he had rushed to conclusions which took no account of the dead woman's husband. He had forgotten that the faces of Morley and Withers were shaped on similar lines. If any other detective had done that, Braceway would have been the first to censure him.
As he had expected, he found Withers and Mr. Fulton far ahead of train time. They had been passed through the gates and were standing on the platform. Braceway noticed that, of the two, the father was standing the ordeal with greater fortitude and calmness. Withers was nervous, fidgety, and seemed to find it impossible to stand in any one place. He drew Braceway to one side.
"I've got something to tell you, Brace," he said in a low tone, his voice tremulous. "I didn't want to tell you for—for her sake. I thought it might cause useless talk, scandal. But you're working your head off for me, and you've a right to know about it."
"Don't worry, George," Braceway reassured him. "Things are coming out all right. Don't talk if you don't feel like it."
He said this because he was suddenly aware of the quality of suffering he saw in the man's eyes. It was so evident, so striking, that he felt surprised. Perhaps, he thought, he might have exaggerated things when he had told Bristow that Enid had subjected her husband to incessant disappointments and regrets. Withers now was mourning; in fact, he appeared overwhelmed, crushed.
"It's this," Withers hurried on: "I was up there that night in front of the house until—until after one o'clock. You know I told you I was on the porch just across the road and went back to the hotel as soon as Campbell had turned his machine and gone home. That wasn't quite correct. I waited, because Enid didn't turn out the lights in the living room. It struck me as strange.
"I waited, and I fell asleep. That seems funny—a husband infuriated with his wife and trying to find out what she is doing to deceive him goes to sleep while he's watching! But that's exactly what I did.
"When I awoke, the lights were still on in the living room. I looked at my watch, and, although I couldn't see very well, I made out it was after one. I suppose I'd been asleep for half an hour at least. You see, I had had a hard night on the sleeper and a terrific day, and——"
"Sure. I understand that," Braceway consoled him. "Did you see anything, George?"
"Yes; I saw something all right," he struggled with the words. "As I looked up, a figure was silhouetted against the yellow window shade. It was a man's figure. It was after one in the morning, and a man was there with——"
His voice failed him altogether. Braceway, a perplexed look in his eyes, studied him uneasily.
"The silhouette was quite plain. There was the clear-cut shadow of him from the waist up. It was so plain that I could see he was wearing a cap. I could see the visor of it, you know; a long visor. He was a well-built man, good shoulders, and so on.
"As I got to my feet, the lights were turned off. I went across the street. I don't think I ran. It was raining. I was going to kill him. That was all I was thinking about. I was going to kill him, and I wanted to catch him unawares. I wasn't armed, and I was going to choke him to death."
The train gates were opened, and passengers began to stream past them toward the train. Withers lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. Braceway noticed the unpleasant sound of it.
"He did what I expected; came down the steps without a sound. I didn't even hear him close the door. I can't say I saw him. It was pitch dark, and I sensed where he was. I was conscious of all his movements. When he reached the bottom step, I closed with him. I couldn't trust to hitting at him. It was too dark.
"I put out my hands to get his throat, but I misjudged things. I caught him by the waist. He had on a raincoat. I could tell it by the feel of the cloth. And I couldn't get a good hold of him. While I struggled with him, he got me by the throat. He was a powerful man, a dozen times stronger than I am.
"We swayed around there for a few minutes, a few seconds—I don't know which. We didn't make any noise. I couldn't do a thing. He choked me until I thought my head would burst open.
"When he realized I was all in, he gave me a shove that made me reel down the walk a dozen steps. He didn't stop to see what I did. He ran. That is, I suppose he ran. I didn't hear him, and I didn't see him again. He disappeared—completely."
Braceway looked at his watch. It was five minutes before train time.
"What did you do then?"
"Nothing."
"Where did you go, then? What did you think? Speed up, George! I want to get all this before you go."
"Yes," said Withers, a little catch in his throat; "I thought you ought to know about it. I—I stood there a moment, there in the rain, dazed, trying to get my breath. I'd intended going in to have it out with Enid. But I didn't. I suppose I knew, if I did, I'd kill her. And I guess now I would have.
"You see, I hadn't the faintest notion that anything had happened to her; had hurt her, I mean. I got myself in hand. I didn't do anything. I went back to the hotel. I planned to have a last talk with her later in the day."
"Tell me," Braceway asked with undisguised eagerness, "did this man wear a beard?"
"I think so. I've been thinking about that all day. I think he did, but I'm not sure."
"But you saw the plain silhouette, the outline of his head and body!"
"Yes. He might have had a beard, and again he might not. He was heavily built, with a short, thick neck, and, in the attitude he was in, foreshortened by the light being above him, a strong chin might have been magnified, might have cast a shadow like that of a beard."
"And when you were struggling with him? How about that? Didn't you get close to his face?"
"Yes; but he was taller than I was—I don't know—I can't remember. But I think he had the beard, all right."
"He didn't make any noise on the steps, you say. Did he have rubber shoes?"
"I don't know. My guess would be that he did."
The conductor began to shout, "All aboard!"
They started toward the Atlanta pullman.
"I wouldn't have told you—I can't see that any of this could affect the final result—but for the fact that something might have come up to embarrass you," Withers explained, still with the unpleasant, rattling whisper. "It might have led you to think I hadn't been frank with you."
He had his foot on the first step of the car. The porter was evidently anxious to get aboard and close the vestibule door.
"What do you mean?" Braceway caught him by the sleeve.
"Somehow," Withers leaned down to whisper, "in the struggle, I think, I dropped—I lost my watch. Somebody must have picked it up, you know."
"Damn!" exploded Braceway angrily. "Why didn't——"
The train began to move. The porter put his hand to Withers' elbow and hurried him up the steps.
It was a little after three o'clock when Chief Greenleaf and Lawrence Bristow finished their "celebration dinner" and took their seats on the porch of No. 9. The host, accomplishing the impossible in a prohibition state, had produced a bottle of champagne, explaining: "Just for you, chief; I never touch it;" and the chief had enjoyed it, unmistakably.
At Bristow's suggestion they refrained from discussing any phase of the murder during the meal.
"All we have to do now," he said, "is to see that the knot in Perry's rope is artistically tied—and that's not appetizing."
"I've got something new," Greenleaf contributed; "but you're right. We'll wait until after dinner."
They were greatly pleased with what they had accomplished; and each one, without giving it voice, knew the other's pleasure was increased by the thought that they had got the better of Braceway.
They saw from the porch that an automobile was standing in front of No. 5. As they settled back in their chairs, Fulton and George Withers left the bungalow and got into the machine.
"They're going to take the body to Atlanta on the four o'clock," said Greenleaf.
For a moment they watched the receding automobile. Then Bristow inquired, "What's the new thing you've dug up?"
"The report from the Charlotte laboratories."
"Oh, you got that—by wire?"
The lame man seemed indifferent about it.
"Yes; by wire," Greenleaf paused, as if he enjoyed whetting the other's curiosity.
Bristow made no comment. He gave the impression of being confident that the report could contain nothing of value.
"You ain't very anxious to know what it is," the chief complained. "I nearly had a fit until it came."
"Oh, it doesn't matter much, one way or the other," Bristow said, conscious of Greenleaf's petulance. "The thing's settled anyway."
"That may be true; but it don't do any harm to get everything we can. The laboratory reported what you thought they'd report. Nothing under Miss Fulton's nails; particles of a white person's skin, epidermis, under Perry's."
Bristow laughed pleasantly, his eyes suddenly more alight.
"I beg your pardon, chief; I was having a little fun with you—by pretending indifference. But it's great—better than I'd really dared expect. It's the only direct, first-hand evidence we can offer showing that the negro, beyond any dispute, did attack her."
He laughed again. "Let's see the wire."
"I guess it settles the whole business," Greenleaf exulted, passing him the telegram.
He read it and handed it back.
"After that," he commented, "I'm almost tempted to throw away what I had to show you; its importance dwindles."
"What is it?"
"A confession by Lucy Thomas that Perry went to Number Five the night, rather the morning, of the murder."
"You got that—from her!" exclaimed Greenleaf.
"Yes—signed."
"Mr. Bristow, you're a wonder! By cripes, you are! My men couldn't get anything out of her. Neither could I."
"Here it is. I wrote out her story and read it back to her, and she signed it."
Greenleaf took the paper and read it: