CHAPTER XXELUSIVE CLEWS
Itwas barely nine o’clock in the morning when Leonard McLane reached his office in response to an urgent telephone call, and the one occupant of his office rose to greet him with marked impatience, which he vainly tried to conceal under cordiality.
“It was good of you to hurry down,” said Colonel Carter Calhoun following him into his private office. “I was sorry to cut short your breakfast hour.”
“That was all right,” responded McLane, pushing a chair up to his desk. “You rang off before I could ask you to breakfast with me, Colonel.”
“Thanks.” Calhoun dragged his chair forward, close to McLane. “I went at once from the Union Station to see the Secretary of War and while breakfasting with him, telephoned you from his residence. I want to thank you for wiring me of Dwight Tilghman’s murder—it was a shock, a very great shock—and now to be met with the news of James Patterson’s murder,” Calhoun sighed. “It looks badly, very badly—and no trace of the murderer.”
“I see you use the singular tense,” commented McLane.“You believe, then, Colonel, that one man committed the two crimes?”
“I prefer to reserve my theories until I’ve heard your facts.” And McLane smiled covertly at his caution.
“Have you seen the morning newspaper and its account of the Patterson inquest?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Does it not seem possible that James Patterson, blinded by the smoke from the burning room, unexpectedly encountered this Yoshida Ito, who might have been in the Ogden house only to steal, and instead killed Patterson, an outspoken enemy of his country, and escaped unseen in the smoke and confusion?” asked McLane thoughtfully.
“That did occur to me,” acknowledged Calhoun. “And your theory is borne out by the loss of the miniature, which I see in the newspaper article is reported mysteriously missing. Patterson may have taken it from the burning room and dropped it on meeting the Jap, who may have stolen it after killing him.” Calhoun pursed up his lips and looked meditatively at McLane. “It strikes me that Miss Ogden must have attached unusual importance to that miniature to have asked a man to risk his life to get it for her out of a burning room. Was it a particularly fine work of art?”
“I don’t know; I’ve never seen it.”
“Too bad,” muttered Calhoun. “Is Miss Ethel Ogden closely related to Walter Ogden?”
“Third or fourth cousin, I believe,” McLane moved restlessly; he was not pleasantly impressed with Carter Calhoun. “Miss Ogden is a charming, lovable girl, the soul of honor,” he added warmly.
“Ah, indeed; I hope to meet her soon,” Calhoun settled himself more comfortably in his chair. “Professor Norcross, you’ve met him of course, has been kind enough to keep me informed of several matters relating to Tilghman’s death, and wrote me that she was very beautiful. Who’s in your front office?” he added, with some abruptness, and McLane stared at his keen hearing; he himself had not detected footsteps in the next room.
“I imagine it is Dr. Horace Shively,” he said, rising hurriedly. “He was to call here about this time”—stopping with his hand on the doorknob. “He was on the train when Tilghman was murdered and first detected the use of oxalic acid.”
“Oh! Do you know him well?”
“No, only slightly. He had a good practice in Newport, but ill health forced him to retire, and having a comfortable fortune he spends much of his time traveling.” Turning back to the door McLane opened it, and found his expected visitor standingwith his back to him looking out of the window. “How are you, Doctor?” he exclaimed cordially, and Shively wheeled about. “Come into my private office,” added McLane, after they had shaken hands; “Colonel Calhoun is anxious to meet you, we were discussing Tilghman’s murder while waiting for you.” And he stepped aside to let Shively pass him.
Calhoun rose on their entrance and bowed gravely to Shively as McLane introduced them. “Take my seat,” he said, and dropped into another chair and sat with his back to the light. “I have traveled east, Dr. Shively, to secure data about the murder of my friend, Dwight Tilghman.”
“I am glad I am here,” answered Shively, tilting back in his chair to make room for McLane to reach his desk. “I wanted to come before, but was detained by business; however I’ve sifted out the evidence extracted at the inquest at Atlanta.”
“And your conclusions?” demanded Calhoun.
“I at first thought the Japanese, Ito, guilty, but now I believe a fellow traveler, Julian Barclay, poisoned Tilghman,” responded Shively.
“Julian Barclay? Humph!” Calhoun clasped and unclasped his long, strong fingers. “He was mentioned in the newspapers as having been the first to find Jim Patterson’s dead body—and now you say you suspect him of having some connection withTilghman’s murder. Humph!” McLane, who had started at the mention of Julian Barclay’s name, sat silent, studying the men, and debated in his own mind how much and how little he should tell them.
“Your reasons, Dr. Shively, for thinking Barclay guilty of poisoning Tilghman,” demanded Calhoun, breaking his silence.
“I have been in communication with a porter who has made out a sworn statement of having seen Julian Barclay leave the train and go toward the station entrance, and then bolt suddenly back into his Pullman car, with every indication of a desire to conceal himself. I have also found out through the Pinkertons’, whom I employed, that none of the few passengers traveling north in Barclay’s Pullman remained in that car while the train was in the Atlanta station.”
“Hah! Then Barclay had the car to himself,” Calhoun stared at Shively. “And unobserved he could do as he wished without fear of detection.”
“And also, let me state just here, that if innocent, Barclay could not prove an alibi if no passengers were in his car while the train was in Atlanta,” interposed McLane.
“He gave no alibi in his deposition,” retorted Shively. “That first directed my suspicion toward him. He must have committed the crime immediatelyon his return to the train, for Norcross and I got back from eating a light lunch in the station and stood in the vestibule of the smoking car until just before the train started, when we went back to our own section for a brief stay. And the conductor was standing in the vestibule of the car when we left it,” he added.
“With you and Norcross there and later the conductor it would have been impossible for a criminal to sneak on board your end of the smoking car,” commented Calhoun. “But a car has two entrances—what about the other?”
“Oh, the porter was there.”
“Sure?”
“Yes. I saw him standing on the lower step of the forward vestibule; anyone passing into the smoker from that end would have attracted his attention, and railroad officials assured me they could place reliance on the porter’s word and efficiency.”
McLane started to speak, then thinking better of it, sat silent contemplating his two companions.
“Did you hear no sound inside the car?” asked Calhoun.
“No. Norcross was telling me of a trip to South America as I sat below him on the step of the vestibule. We neither of us heard a sound from the interior of the car.”
“By sound, I mean a cry for help, or raised voices quarreling,” persisted Calhoun, looking directly at Shively.
“I heard none,” declared Shively positively. “And I am sure we would have heard had Tilghman been quarreling with anyone, for most of the windows were raised and screened.”
“But the noises of a railroad station might have drowned even raised voices,” objected McLane.
“I think not,” Shively pulled his chair nearer. “Norcross and I conversed in our ordinary tones, and heard each other without difficulty.”
“Then with you and Norcross at one vestibule and the porter at the other, and no sound from the interior of the car, I think it can safely be assumed that Tilghman was poisoned between the time the train first pulled into the Atlanta station and your return to the smoking car from your luncheon, Shively,” argued McLane. “How long a time elapsed while you were at luncheon?”
“Let me see—about twenty-five minutes, I imagine.”
“And how long was the train detained at Atlanta?”
“Two hours; but passengers commenced returning fully half an hour before the train started north,” Shively paused. “The mystery surrounding this crime has had a powerful attraction for me, and Ihave of my own volition employed Pinkerton detectives. They report that the hunt has narrowed down to two men—Yoshida Ito and Julian Barclay.”
“What is the evidence against the Jap, Ito?” asked McLane.
“Sifted down it amounts to little,” admitted Shively slowly. “Ito and Tilghman had a fisticuff shortly before we reached Atlanta; Tilghman compared the Jap to a yellow negro; and Ito on being questioned after the discovery of the crime, gave as his alibi that he was at the public library in Atlanta at the time the crime was committed. However, the hour’s difference in central and eastern time nullifies that alibi—he may have committed the crime and still have been at the library.”
“Then the chief evidence against the Jap is the question of time,” said McLane with growing impatience. “You also contend that Ito took offense at an implied insult given thirty or forty minutes before the train reached Atlanta. Now, I myself do not believe that crime was ever committed on impulse. It was too well planned and devilish in its ingenuity.”
“That is no argument against a Japanese having been the criminal,” said Calhoun dryly. “They are the most silent, relentless people in the world. Tome the plot smacks of the East, and is more far reaching than we yet imagine, and embraces the murder of James Patterson.”
“What!” ejaculated Shively. “You think the two crimes have a bearing on each other?”
“I do.”
“You surprise me,” muttered Shively, looking dazed. “I saw Patterson in the Atlanta station for a second on my way to the lunchroom. He told Norcross and me that he had decided to take the midnight express to Washington as that would give him several hours more in Atlanta, and he would reach Washington but a few hours later than if he took the train we were on.”
McLane sat forward in his chair. “Did Patterson by chance encounter Julian Barclay in the station?” he asked.
“I couldn’t tell you,” replied Shively.
“It was more than coincidence which brought Tilghman, Ito, James Patterson, and Julian Barclay together, perhaps unknown to each other, in that station,—it was Fate,” said Calhoun solemnly. “In sifting out one crime we will clear up both.”
“Heavens! Tilghman’s death is mysterious enough without having another murder hinging on it,” exclaimed Shively impatiently. “There is one interesting point which has not been brought out. Tilghman,after his scuffle with the Jap, borrowed a flask from Julian Barclay.”
McLane’s hand closed with some force over his chair arm. “How did you make that discovery?” he asked.
“The brakeman who passed through the smoker just after the scuffle, saw Barclay hand a flask to Tilghman. Unfortunately the man was hurt in an accident, and did not appear at the inquest,” Shively paused, then resumed more quietly. “I sent Barclay back to the empty smoker after removing Tilghman’s body, and he thus had ample opportunity to recover his flask and remove all trace of his crime.”
“But what motive had he in poisoning Tilghman?” demanded McLane excitedly.
“The loss of a large sum of money to Tilghman during a game of cards the night before the murder.”
Calhoun shook his head. “No, too thin,” he said curtly. “A deeper motive than that lies behind the murder. Tilghman was coming to Washington on a special mission, and he had with him valuable state documents, and their possession cost him his life.”
“I examined Tilghman’s personal effects and luggage,” exclaimed Shively in bewilderment. “And I found no sign of their having been disturbed or searched, nor did I see any valuable papers.”
Calhoun smiled enigmatically. “Did you not?Then the murderer must have secured the documents and left no trace of having done so. The loss of these documents may do the United States irreparable harm, may, in fact, precipitate war between this country and—Japan.”
“Then in Heaven’s name, let us find the Jap, Ito,” cried McLane, springing to his feet.
“Finding Julian Barclay would lead to the same result,” protested Shively. “They are in collusion.”
Calhoun looked at him oddly. “Not a bad idea,” he said, rising. “I must be going, McLane; I have to see Chief Connor of the Secret Service. Where are you stopping, Doctor?” turning to Shively, who had also risen.
“At the New Willard,” Shively extended his hand, and Calhoun’s strong clasp made his fingers tingle.
“One more question, Doctor, before I go,” as he spoke Calhoun turned back from the door held open by McLane. “Do you recall whether the shade of the window by which Tilghman sat was pulled down?”
“It was.”
“Thanks,” and Calhoun joined McLane in the corridor.