CHAPTER IVTHE ALIBI
“Youdeny, then, having seen that chrysanthemum design on my silver flask?” persisted Barclay, his anger rising at Ito’s evasive replies to his repeated question.
The Japanese thoughtfully contemplated the soup tureen which the waiter placed impartially midway between the two men.
“I am originator of designs, honorable sir,” he said blandly. “It is possibly so that my sketch was used in decorating your flask. Show me flask and I tell you.”
“I’ve—I’ve lost my flask,” stammered Barclay. If the Japanese really had been at the Atlanta library at the hour Tilghman was poisoned he would know nothing of the flask, and he might be one of the Japanese employed by large silversmiths in this country to furnish them designs. But if he had been present at Tilghman’s murder and had guilty knowledge—Barclay’s stubborn chin became more pronounced; his future actions, however, hinged onthe little man’s alibi. “Mr. Ito,” he began deliberately, “you state that you are an artistic designer traveling in America to get in personal touch with your customers. But your name is not one usually associated with trade in your own country.”
Ito sipped his black coffee meditatively. “I poor Nipponese,” he announced. “You rich American. I travel in your country to make money; you traveled in my country,” Ito paused to pepper his soup, “and bought curios.”
The quick retort on Barclay’s lips remained unspoken as Shively stopped at their table.
“The engineer is making up time,” he said, clinging to the table as the train went around a mountain curve and unbalanced him for the moment. “We’ll be in Spartanburg very soon. Norcross and I are sitting here,” and he joined the professor at the table directly across from them.
Barclay passed a relish to the Japanese in silence, and still without speaking they continued their dinner, each apparently immersed in his own thoughts.
If Ito observed that he was watched by Shively and Norcross as well as Barclay, there was no effort on his part to hasten the service of the meal, and he waited with patient courtesy for Barclay to finish before rising.
“My car next,” he volunteered, taking his hat from the waiter.
“Go ahead, I’ll come with you.” Barclay pushed back his chair impatiently and his long stride quickly brought him up with his companion, but not in time to exchange a word in private, for Shively was at their side with Professor Norcross in tow.
“Are these your traps, Mr. Ito?” Shively pointed to two suitcases, an overcoat, and an umbrella propped up in one of the sections of the sleeper.
“Yes, honorable doctor.” Ito gravely picked up his overcoat and umbrella. “We approach Spartanburg——”
“We do,” dryly. “Just drawing into the station in fact, and here’s the conductor. Don’t move, Mr. Ito,” and Shively’s deep voice spoke command. “Wait.”
“Here’s your telegram, Doctor, the station master threw it to me.” The conductor was a trifle breathless. “What does it say, sir?”
Snatching it from him Shively tore open the dispatch and scanned it hurriedly. A look of perplexity replaced his eagerness as he read the message aloud.
Yoshida Ito was in library from noon until twenty minutes of twoP. M.today. Had long talk with him.C. L. Glenworth, librarian.
Yoshida Ito was in library from noon until twenty minutes of twoP. M.today. Had long talk with him.
C. L. Glenworth, librarian.
The Japanese, standing hat in hand, overcoat over arm, spoke first.
“Is it permitted that I go?” he asked, addressing all but looking at Shively.
“Surely.” The conductor stepped aside and Ito, bowing gravely, motioned to the waiting porter to take his suitcases, and started for the vestibule of the sleeper.
“One moment,” protested Shively, and Ito stopped, but again the conductor interfered.
“Go ahead, Mr. Ito,” he directed, and added, as Shively opened his mouth to expostulate, “No, no, Doctor, you can’t hold Mr. Ito, for you haven’t proved one thing against him; the librarian confirms his alibi.”
“But why should he leave the train at once, unless he’s running away?” demanded Norcross.
“Mr. Ito was only traveling as far as this anyway,” explained the conductor hurriedly. “His ticket read from Mobile to Spartanburg.”
On impulse Barclay wheeled about and made for the vestibule of the sleeper, but on reaching the platform he found he was too late—Yoshida Ito had vanished. Barclay returned to the smoker in time to hear the conductor’s concluding remark to Dr. Shively.
“Very well, Doctor,” he was saying. “Seeingthat this Dr. Leonard McLane, whom Mr. Tilghman was on his way to visit, is his nearest relative, I’ll carry the body to Washington, but there the undertaker will have to ship it back to Atlanta for the coroner’s inquest, provided, of course, that Mr. Tilghman was really poisoned, as the crime must have been committed in the Atlanta jurisdiction.”
“Quite right,” acknowledged Shively. “The porter has just brought me the stomach pump I telegraphed for, and in your presence, Conductor, and that of Professor Norcross and Mr. Barclay, I will make a further and fuller test for trace of poison.”
“That sounds reasonable.” The worried railroad employee looked somewhat relieved. “I’ll join you in the stateroom as soon as the train leaves here. Let me give you the key to the stateroom,” and he dropped it into the physician’s hand.
With a strong feeling of reluctance Barclay accompanied Shively and Norcross into the stateroom. Shively had done what he could with the means at his command to convert the stateroom into an operating office; his bag, bottles, instruments—the latter lying in neat array on one of the couches on which was spread a white sheet. A sheet also was thrown over Tilghman’s body, lying on the other couch. The scene brought vividly to Barclay’s mind the clinics he had attended years before, and as hesniffed the pungent odor of disinfectants, he almost imagined himself back once more obeying the directions of a famous surgeon. Shively’s voice recalled him to his surroundings.
“I examined Tilghman’s pockets hoping to find some clew of the murderer,” explained Shively. “And took pains to replace each article as I found it, as Norcross can testify.” The professor confirmed his statement with a vigorous nod.
“Did you discover anything which might turn into a clew?” inquired Barclay eagerly.
“Nothing that I considered a clew, but the police may have better luck.” Shively paused to tear open the package he carried, and fitting the instrument together, laid it with others on the couch. “A letter from Dr. McLane, a bunch of keys, a bill folder containing several hundred dollars, some loose change, and that is all.”
“A meager list for identification purposes,” commented Barclay.
“If I could only lay my hands on the flask, or glass, from which Tilghman drank the brandy,” fumed Shively. “Then I’d have the murderer.” The opening of the door interrupted him. “Ah, Conductor, come in and close the door; now, if you are ready we can commence.”
Several times while the stomach pump was in useBarclay became conscious of Shively’s scrutiny, and he mentally cursed the instinct which betrayed his familiarity with medical instruments. Suddenly Shively held up a test tube, and his expression told the conductor what his lack of medical knowledge prevented him from grasping sooner.
“So Mr. Tilghman was poisoned,” he stated, rather than asked.
“Yes, and by a dose of oxalic acid calculated to kill a dozen men,” said Shively gravely. “Who could have administered it?”
“Who, indeed?” Barclay spoke with more force than he realized, and colored as they turned toward him. “I’m going to make it my business to find out, Dr. Shively. Good night,” and not waiting for a reply he stepped into the corridor and made his way swiftly back to his own Pullman.
Barclay had been fortunate enough to secure an entire section to himself, owing to the scarcity of passengers, for the rush had set in to the south, and few were traveling northward. He found his berth not yet made up, and sinking back in his seat he thought over the events of the day. A painful desire to sneeze sent his fingers searching his pockets for a handkerchief, and in drawing it out a small object fell in his lap. After replacing his handkerchief Barclay picked up the chamois-covered bundleand unwound it. A girl’s face smiled up at him from the hollow of his hand.
Barclay looked and looked again at the miniature, unable to believe his eyes. How had a painting of a total stranger gotten into one of his pockets? He turned over the miniature hoping to find some name or initial engraved on its back, but the handsome gold case was as blank as Barclay’s mind. Gradually his dazed wits grasped the beauty of the girl. The artist had done full justice to the exquisite coloring and contour of the face, the golden curly hair, and the deep blue eyes, eyes so direct and clear they held his gaze, and he was conscious of a tantalizing wish to see her lips break into the smile which hovered in her eyes.
Barclay attempted to open the case, but there was no sign of hinge or spring, and fearing to break the ivory miniature in attempting to force it open, he rewrapped the gold case in the chamois and replaced it in his pocket. Could it be that someone on the train had dropped the miniature and he had absent-mindedly pocketed it? He racked his brain trying to recall each action of the day, but the miniature bore apparently no relation to any of them. How had it been slipped inside his pocket unknown to him? The thing smelt of legerdemain, and instantly his thoughts flew to the Japanese—but that was impossible.The girl was an American and her refinement and high bred air instantly placed her social position; she would not be likely to permit her miniature to be carried about by a Japanese designer, an artist—Good Lord!
Barclay stared in blank dismay at the seat before him, and gradually awoke to the realization that he was gazing directly at Professor Norcross, who had seated himself there a second or two before. With an effort Barclay pulled himself together.
“I’m glad you haven’t turned in,” said the professor. “For my own part I can’t sleep. Listen, Barclay,” he moved over and sat down by the latter. “I have made the most astounding discovery——”
“What is that?” asked Barclay, as the professor paused to permit a passenger promenading the aisle to pass out of hearing.
“We have let a murderer slip through our fingers,” groaned the professor.
“Then you have identified——?”
“Ito?” breaking in on Barclay’s question. “Yes.”
“But——”
“Listen!” Norcross spoke slowly and emphasized each point. “Ito was the only person on the train who had a motive for the crime. Tilghman insulted him grossly; nothing so infuriates a Japanese as to be classed with a negro; they are the proudest racein the world. Ito took prompt retaliation on Tilghman for——”
“But how, Professor?” Barclay interrupted in his turn. “It has been proved by the librarian that Ito was at the Atlanta library at noon today, and Tilghman was poisoned at that same hour in the smoking car of this train.”
“Tilghman was killed here at noon, but not at the identicalhour. Ito was at the library—man, you forget that Atlanta goes by central time, which is one hour slower than the eastern time, which prevails on this train——”
“Then you mean——?”
“That calculating by our watches Ito poisoned Tilghman at noon and an hourlater, which by our time would be one o’clock, and by Atlanta time would be noon, was in the library. Thus he had ample opportunity to commit the crime and establish a perfectly good alibi at the Atlanta library.”
“But the Atlanta librarian telegraphed he was there at noon——”
“Of course, he was going by central time which, as I have just mentioned, prevails in Atlanta. We have been going by our watches which are one houraheadof Atlanta. And between us we have muddled things up finely.”
“Let me get this clear!” Barclay rumpled his hair with both hands. “Going by Atlanta time, Ito poisoned Tilghman at eleven o’clock this morning, and was at the library at twelve?”
“Exactly.”
“But by the time prevailing on this train and our watches, Ito poisoned Tilghman at twelve o’clock and was at the library at one—and relying on our forgetting in our excitement the difference of time, handed us a perfectly good alibi.”
“You’ve put it in a nutshell.” Norcross rose. “The only opportunity the murderer had of entering the smoker unobserved was during the first twenty minutes following the train’s arrival in Atlanta. After that Shively and I stood in the vestibule smoking, while the porter was standing at the other end of the car until the train pulled out of the station.”
“How did you happen to think of the difference in time?” asked Barclay detaining the professor.
“Shively observed the hour stamped on the Atlanta telegram and commented on the fact that it was sent before he had wired, then we looked up the question of time, and that gave us the clew. To think of Ito putting it over on us.” The professor clenched his fists. “I’d like to put my hands on him.”
“So would I,” agreed Barclay cordially. “I have quite a number of questions to ask him,” and a mental vision of the girl of the miniature obscured for the moment the kindly, clever face of the naturalist.