CHAPTER XFREAKS OF MEMORY
Leonard McLane, tilted back in his revolving chair, regarded Julian Barclay in silence for several seconds before speaking.
“Have you the flask with you?” he asked.
For answer Barclay drew it from his pocket and laid it on the desk. McLane bent eagerly over the flask and examined it with special care. The silver filigree work over the glass flask was made into a chrysanthemum pattern, while the lower half was a solid silver cup, the workmanship of the latter also carrying out the chrysanthemum pattern.
“It is a beautiful design,” said McLane at last. “And unique in having the flowers on the cup fit into the filigree work.” He picked it up and turned the stopper and sniffed at its contents, then replaced the stopper and removed the silver cup from the glass bottom. “You are sure your flask was not out of your possession while on the train before you lent it to Tilghman?”
“Absolutely positive.”
“Then, conceding that Tilghman was drinking out of your flask when poisoned, the powder must have been slipped into this silver cup—”
“But how without Tilghman’s knowledge?” demanded Barclay.
“I don’t know,” admitted McLane. “But I hope to find out,” he shot a glance at his companion, but Barclay again sat half in shadow and he could not see his expression distinctly. “Has it occurred to you to ask the jewelers in town about the flask?”
“It has; but their information was almost nil,” responded Barclay. “They declared the flask was probably manufactured abroad, the workmanship pointed to that, but it bears no silversmith’s name or mark. They also said that while the design was unusual, there might have been a number of duplicates made from the original.”
“That is not very helpful,” mused McLane. “Where did you buy your flask?”
“At a little Mexican town, Tia Juana, about twenty-five miles over the border from Coronado, Cal. Tia Juana, or ‘Aunt Jane,’ as it is known over the border, is a great gambling town, where cutthroats, thugs, and criminals of every class fleeing from justice, take refuge. In a saloon there I saw this flask lying on the counter and bought it from the proprietor. He told me that it had been leftby a Japanese in payment of a debt, and when Ito drew the design of the flask on the tablecloth in the diner on the train, I jumped to the conclusion that he was the Jap who had sold it to the saloon proprietor, and taking the reputation of the town into consideration, I imagined he might even then have been fleeing from justice.”
“That is not conclusive reasoning,” smiled McLane. “You were in ‘Aunt Jane’ as a tourist”—he paused slightly. “It is equally possible the Jap was also a tourist and ran short of funds.”
“That is true,” Barclay glanced at the clock on the surgeon’s desk. “And it is over four years since I purchased the flask.”
“Have you”—McLane handed the flask back to Barclay—“have you made any inquiries about this flask at the Japanese Embassy?”
“I went to the embassy, but found the ambassador away on a trip through the Middle West, and the embassy staff denied all knowledge of the flask. I am afraid I am taking up too much of your time,” he added, rising.
“No, no, sit down,” McLane raised a protesting hand, and Barclay resumed his seat. “I am glad to talk over Tilghman’s mysterious death with you, Mr. Barclay. Now, let me understand your theory of his murder—you believe that Ito, the Jap, havingsome ulterior motive, followed my cousin on his trip east, murdered him, and slipped away?”
“Yes, that is about my idea,” admitted Barclay. “Take the flask it is a reasonable supposition that, not finding it in the smoking car near where Tilghman sat, or among his effects, the murderer removed my flask. He would not have taken it away if the flask had not been incriminating; therefore, I believe the oxalic acid was introduced into my flask.”
“It would seem so,” agreed McLane. “But we have yet to discover how it was introduced into the brandy without Tilghman’s knowledge—and until then we have no real proof against anyone.”
“I cannot agree with you,” replied Barclay obstinately. “I know the flask was originally owned by a Jap; I meet a Jap, who has a scuffle with Tilghman shortly before he is murdered; and this Jap is familiar with the chrysanthemum design of my flask, even to the minutest detail—why should he think of that flask at that time unless he had recently seen it?” finished Barclay triumphantly.
“Memory plays queer tricks,” responded McLane. “It might be that Ito—look here,” checking himself. “If Ito had murdered Tilghman by putting poison in your flask, the last thing he would do would be to call attention to the flask—it would be betraying too great a familiarity with the crime.”
“Yes, but it is just in those small points that a criminal betrays himself,” argued Barclay. “Giving his alibi, which may or may not be false, but which admits of his having been in the smoking car at the hour Tilghman was poisoned, Ito leaves the train at Spartanburg, and the next time I catch a glimpse of him is in the Japanese Embassy, and a few minutes later I find a flask resembling mine on a desk in the embassy. I tell you, Doctor,” emphasizing his words by striking his hand in his open palm, “the silver flask and Ito form a connecting link in the chain of events leading to the murder of Dwight Tilghman.”
“Perhaps, but I cannot see the significance”—McLane paused, and Barclay broke in hastily.
“My object in calling, Doctor, was to ascertain if Tilghman was using his Congressional influence to the detriment of Japanese interests here and abroad.”
McLane considered the question. “I now recall that Tilghman testified against the Japanese before the California legislature at the time of the passage of the anti-alien bill. He and Jim Patterson—Congressman from California,” he stopped to explain.
“I have met Patterson,” answered Barclay, and resting his elbow on the desk, shaded his eyes with his hand. “You were saying—”
“That Tilghman and Patterson were much in accord on the subject and, I believe, carried on quite a correspondence. Perhaps Patterson can give me some data which may throw light on Tilghman’s transactions with the Japanese. I will see him.” McLane again consulted the newspaper clippings. “There are several questions I wish to ask you before you leave,” pulling his chair up to the desk. “When did you first meet Dwight Tilghman?”
“The night before his murder. I boarded the train at New Orleans, and going into the smoker was introduced to him and Professor Norcross by Dr. Shively. We four played poker until far into the night.”
“How did Tilghman appear?”
Barclay hesitated. “Never having met him before, your question is a little difficult to answer. His manner to me appeared natural, and while he took little part in the conversation, he was at all times pleasant and good-natured.”
“Was he winning?”
Barclay laughed shortly. “I believe so; I was the only heavy loser. We played nearly all night, and I believe it was Tilghman who made the first move to break up the game.”
“Did you talk with him next morning?”
“Not for any length of time. I had a short talkwith him just before the train stopped at the station in Atlanta.”
“Was it then you gave him your flask?”
“Yes; he asked me for it, said his scuffle with the Jap had shaken him up and he needed a bracer.”
“Except for that, did his manner indicate excitement—terror, for instance?”
“It did not.”
McLane consulted the notes he had scribbled on a sheet before him, then asked, “You spoke of Dr. Shively having introduced you to Tilghman; where had you known Shively?”
“I met him in Panama and we made the trip to the States together. He had known Professor Norcross and Tilghman before, and they both appeared glad to see him when he joined them in the smoking car.”
“Had he arranged to meet them on that train?”
“I think not. They all expressed great surprise at the meeting,” Barclay rose. “I really must be going, doctor. I cannot take up any more of your time.”
“Just one more question—Did you see Shively while the train was at Atlanta?”
“No,” Barclay paused. “He and Norcross left the smoking car together just as the train drew into the station, and that was my last glimpse of themuntil they entered the smoker about half an hour before the dining car steward announced the first call for dinner.” As he finished speaking Barclay moved across the room, and the surgeon followed him.
“I am indebted to you, Mr. Barclay, for coming to see me,” remarked McLane, opening the private door leading directly into the outside corridor. “Your account of Tilghman’s death has interested me, and I will take steps to investigate the points you have brought up.”
Barclay pulled his hat down until his features were partly concealed under the shadow of the brim.
“Will you consult detectives?” he asked.
“The police are already after Ito,” McLane pressed his thumb on the elevator button. “Several years ago I was involved in the ‘C. O. D.’ murders, and in investigating them the detectives did not—eh, shine.”
“They are not always infallible,” agreed Barclay, and McLane’s quick ear detected the faint relief discernible in his tone. “I will let you know immediately if I get any information about the flask from the Japanese ambassador.” The arrival of the elevator interrupted further conversation, and bidding McLane good night, Barclay stepped inside the cage.
McLane continued to stare at the elevator shaft for some minutes after the elevator with its solitary passenger had shot downward.
“After fifteen years,” he muttered. “And Jim Patterson is in town.”
“Not only in town, but here,” announced a voice just back of him, and McLane, wheeling about, faced Representative Patterson. “I’ve been waiting in your front office for the deuce of a long time, McLane, and hearing your voice in the hall, came out to intercept you.”
“I am sorry to have kept you waiting; come back with me now,” and McLane motioned toward his private door.
“I won’t stay long,” promised Patterson, preceding the surgeon into his consulting office, and throwing himself down in a chair by the desk. “Who was the man with you in the corridor a moment ago? His voice sounded familiar, but I only saw his back.”
“A Mr. Barclay,”—McLane picked up Barclay’s visiting card. “Julian Barclay.”
Patterson’s expression changed. “Who is he?” he demanded. “Who is this Barclay?”
McLane’s eyebrows rose in interrogation, but the glance he shot at the excited man before him was piercing in its intensity. He tossed the visiting card to Patterson.
“Julian Barclay,” he repeated, and shrugged his shoulders.
Patterson crumpled the visiting card in his strong fingers and flung it contemptuously into the waste paper basket.
“I’m disappointed, McLane; thought you might give me some information about this Barclay, who he is, and all that—I have had some connection”—he broke off to stare moodily at the floor. “Barclay is in love with Ethel Ogden,” he remarked bitterly.
McLane sat erect and stared at him. “And Miss Ogden?” he asked; and his voice was very grave.
“Has the poor taste to prefer Barclay to me,” Patterson’s attempt at a smile was ghastly. “Barclay’s face is familiar, but I cannot place him.”
“Likenesses are very puzzling sometimes,” remarked McLane. “What is your particular ailment this afternoon, Patterson? You were as sound as a dollar the last time I examined you.”
“Still sound, except for the shock of being refused by Ethel,” Patterson fingered the desk ornaments nearest him nervously. “It isn’t a thing I’d mention to anyone but you, McLane.”
“I will not speak of it,” promised McLane. “And—I’m sorry, Patterson.”
“Thanks, old man,” Patterson cleared his voice ofa troublesome lump. “Before coming here I had a talk with Ethel’s cousin, Walter Ogden—he’s not a bad sort,” he added, and McLane contented himself with a silent nod of agreement. “Ogden told me not to take Ethel’s refusal to heart; said she didn’t know her mind two minutes running.”
“Oh!” the ejaculation escaped McLane involuntarily, and Patterson glanced at him sharply.
“You know Ethel?” he asked.
“Yes; she is a great friend of my wife, and we both think her a girl of strong character.” McLane sorted the papers on his desk methodically and laid them in a neat pile by his side. “Do not buoy yourself up with false hope, Patterson; sometimes it is less pain in the end to face things as they are.”
Patterson frowned. “I don’t think you gave up the girl of your choice when she was engaged to that scoundrel, James Donaldson,” he retorted doggedly. “And I’m not going to give Ethel up to Julian Barclay without a fight for it. You are sure you have never heard of Barclay?”
“I have never heard of Barclay before this afternoon,” answered McLane quietly. “I have just returned from Atlanta; had to remain there for the inquest on Dwight Tilghman.”
“So I saw by the newspapers,” Patterson drew out his cigar case and offered it to the surgeon. “Tilghmanwas a mighty bright fellow, and his murder a shocking affair—so unnecessary.”
“I also cannot see a motive for the crime,” replied McLane gravely. “I cannot believe that the Jap, Ito, killed him because Tilghman said he mistook him for a negro.”
Patterson blew a cloud of tobacco smoke into the air and watched it drift away before answering.
“You Easterners fail to grasp the character of the Japanese,” he announced. “They are crafty, subtle, and are past masters in gaining their own way. Silent, unobtrusive, they live, plan, and accomplish, while we exist and ignore all signs of danger.”
McLane smiled. “I forgot your hobby for the moment,” he said. “Perhaps you can tell me if Tilghman ever aroused their antagonism by any anti-Japanese demonstration.”
“I believe Tilghman was among the first property owners to refuse to sell land to a Japanese because of his nationality,” he answered. “And it brought out a bitter attack against Tilghman in the press of Japan.”
“Pshaw! What’s a press attack?” and McLane laughed.
“Little in this country,” agreed Patterson. “But in Japan, where the press is censored, it is safe tobet that the Japanese government approved the attack upon Tilghman.”
“That would hardly prove a basis for murder,” mused McLane. “Why was Tilghman coming to Washington?”
“To visit you and your charming wife.” Patterson smiled ironically. “You are too modest, McLane; don’t always look for an ulterior motive when guests descend on you. I’m sorry if I bore you with my talk against the Japs; I’m rather full of it this afternoon, having argued the subject with Professor Norcross and Walter Ogden.”
“And what views do they hold in the matter?”
“Oh, the customary disbelief.” Patterson moved restlessly. “I’m surprised at Norcross, he’s broad-minded and up on affairs generally.”
“Where is Norcross stopping?”
“At the Ogdens’.” Patterson rose. “Are you by chance going to their dinner tomorrow night?”
“Yes, Lois told me she had accepted for us.” McLane followed him into the hall. “Then you don’t know why Tilghman was coming to Washington, after first writing me that he couldn’t leave California?”
“My dear fellow, I haven’t the faintest idea.” Patterson’s impatience was poorly concealed.“Down,” he roared, and as the elevator stopped, he called to McLane, “Good night, see you tomorrow.”
But once inside his limousine Patterson’s growing irritability found relief in glaring at his reflection in the small mirror opposite him.
“What was it McLane was muttering when I joined him in the hall?” he cogitated. “‘After fifteen years—and Jim Patterson in town.’ What had fifteen years to do with my being in town?”
Fifteen years—fifteen years—the words seemed to his excited imagination to be keeping time with the twinkling arc lights of the city streets, and Patterson involuntarily closed his eyes as he reviewed the years. Suddenly he sat up, his eyes shining, and clutching the speaking tube, he called to the chauffeur:
“To the nearest telegraph office, quick.”