CHAPTER XXIVTHE ROAD TO HAPPINESS
Toothunderstruck to move or speak, the little group in the hall stared at Norcross, down whose white face great drops of perspiration were stealing, then their regard was transferred to the Japanese, Yoshida Ito, whose rough handling in the fight with the professor was attested by the closing of one eye and a bleeding lip. He looked far more the criminal than the learned professor, and a cry of protest broke from Ethel, who stood fully dressed behind Leonard McLane.
“You must be mistaken,” she stammered, addressing Colonel Calhoun. “Oh, say you have made some mistake.”
“That would be to defeat the ends of justice,” he said gravely. “Richard Norcross murdered Dwight Tilghman and James Patterson.”
“You have no proof to substantiate your charge,” retorted Norcross, speaking for the first time. “And I deny it absolutely.”
“Of course,” ironically, and Calhoun turned to Ito. “I have a witness here who saw you drop Barclay’s flask under the train at Atlanta, just after Tilghman drank the poisoned brandy from it. Speak up, Ito.”
The Japanese stepped forward into the center of the group.
“It is true,” he began, without a trace of foreign accent. “I picked up the flask immediately afterwards, and had its contents tested on reaching Washington.”
Norcross faced them undauntedly. “Will you gentlemen, Americans all, take the word of a renegade Japanese, a lying treacherous murderer, against me, an American in good repute, a naturalist of some renown?” Silence answered him, and he continued more rapidly. “I was with Dr. Horace Shively during the whole time the train was in Atlanta—if you accuse me of the crime—you must accuse him also.”
“You were talking to Shively the whole time you were standing on the vestibule of the smoker, while he sat on the lower step with his back to you,” corrected Calhoun. “And while giving him a description of a South American trip, you, using your powers of ventriloquism to carry on your tale unbroken, which made him think you were still standingright behind him, slipped inside the open door of the smoker——”
“Wait,” interrupted Ito, seeing that Norcross was about to speak. “Tilghman was sitting right at the end of the car, but a step or two inside the open door.”
“And Tilghman obligingly permitted me to drop the oxalic acid inside the small mouthpiece of the flask,” broke in Norcross scornfully.
“No. You crept up behind him and dropped the powder into the wide silver cup of the flask, which Tilghman held in his hand, and out of which he was intermittently sipping brandy while sitting with his eyes closed.”
“Indeed? And why was I not seen doing all this by the people in the car on the next track?”
“Because the window shade was down,” was Ito’s prompt reply. “It was in the cup that the chemist found the dregs containing oxalic acid.”
“So!” Norcross smiled bitterly. “You have learned your lesson well from your master, Carter Calhoun,” and there was no mistaking the fury which blazed in the professor’s eyes as he turned on his chief accuser. “Your fantastic statement that I am a ventriloquist is without foundation and is a lie.”
For answer Calhoun took a worn magazine cutting from his pocket.
“Your past condemns you,” he said sternly. “Our brain plays us queer tricks at times. In talking of your South American trip to Dr. Shively while in the act of poisoning Dwight Tilghman you gave the clew to his murder. I have a retentive memory, and the mention of your South American trip recalled a magazine article, published many years ago, recounting your adventures in the wildest part of the Amazon—and in that article you made mention of your mimicry of the human voice and of bird calls, and spoke of once extricating yourself from a dangerous situation among a hostile tribe by the use of ventriloquism, of which you said you were a past master.”
“Bosh!” But Norcross’ lips were trembling. “All manufactured out of whole cloth.”
“No,” Calhoun handed the clipping to Mitchell. “After talking with Dr. Shively this morning I went to the Congressional Library, and there found the magazine on file, and was permitted to take this clipping from one of the copies. Out of your own mouth, Norcross, you are condemned.”
Leonard McLane stepped forward. “If additional evidence is needed,” he said. “I can testify that Ethel Ogden and I were attending Mrs. Ogden in her bedroom when we apparently heard Ethel’s voice from the hall crying: ‘Help, Julian, for God’ssake, help!’ We heard the voice continue down the hall, and all the while Ethel stood facing me, absolutely silent.”
Ethel, who had kept in the background, advanced to Barclay’s side. She avoided looking at Norcross. “Did you, Julian, the night you chased this Japanese,” indicating Ito, “out into the back yard, say to him, ‘Ito, I tell you I have no more money to spare’?”
Barclay looked at her in blank amazement. “No, I never made such a remark,” he protested. “I did not catch up with Ito.”
“That is true,” confirmed the Japanese. “I have never exchanged a word with Mr. Barclay since our meeting in the train.”
Ethel looked accusingly at Norcross. “You were at my side—by using ventriloquism you made me think that Julian Barclay was in collusion with Ito, then accused of the murder of Dwight Tilghman.”
The professor’s eyes fell before her passionate indignation, and when he looked up he addressed Colonel Calhoun exclusively.
“I did all that you accuse me of,” he said coldly, and his hearers gathered closer about him. “The Japanese are good paymasters.” He looked at Walter Ogden. “You have found them so—” with insolent meaning.
“No.” Ogden drew himself erect. “AlthoughTakasaki tried to bribe me earlier tonight to engineer a Congressional lobby to prevent passage of the bills for universal military service. Most of my fortune is invested in Eastern trade, and has been practically swept away by the ruining of our Pacific shipping. The Japanese are aware of my financial straits, and brought pressure to bear to make me accept their offer.” Ogden cleared his throat. “I had but one alternative—to apply to my wife’s cousin and our guest, Julian Barclay, to loan me ready money to tide me over the next few months. My wife had a heart attack a little after one o’clock this morning and I telephoned for Dr. McLane. My wife’s condition—” he gulped and broke down.
“I shall be very glad to assist you financially,” volunteered Barclay; then addressing Norcross, “What was your object in poisoning Dwight Tilghman? You appeared the best of friends on the train.”
“I killed him because he had stolen important documents from a Japanese Secret Service agent, Mr. Soto, in San Francisco”—a low cry of astonishment broke from Ethel. “I had to recover the documents before Tilghman returned them to the Secretary of War,” added Norcross sullenly.
“But I was too quick for you,” put in Ito. “A cipher dispatch from Colonel Calhoun told me ofTilghman’s mission east and of the rumor that the Japanese were trailing him. I boarded the train the morning of Tilghman’s murder, and tried to speak to him, but he at first took me for an enemy. I approached him in the smoker, and during our scuffle slipped a note in his hand.”
“I saw you do it,” exclaimed Barclay.
Ito nodded. “Tilghman, taken by surprise, was somewhat clumsy. He evidently regarded the warning from Calhoun as genuine, but not willing to trust a Japanese wholly, he slipped the documents into your pocket, Mr. Barclay, for safe keeping, when borrowing your flask....”
“My pocket?” Barclay stared at Ito blankly. “I found no documents——”
“But only a miniature,” supplemented Ito. “The documents are concealed behind Miss Ogden’s miniature, which was painted without her knowledge by a Japanese artist, Soto, a member of their Secret Service on duty in Washington until recently, who admired Miss Ogden extravagantly, but who did not hesitate to use her beauty to shield his efforts to smuggle documents out of the United States.”
“I don’t know how you secured your information,” said Norcross scowling at Ito; “but it is correct. The United States Secret Service got wind of our activities, and it was next to impossible to passwritten data out of the country; therefore Soto, who spent the past year posing as a guest at the Japanese Embassy, conceived the idea of secreting the documents inside the gold miniature case which held the portrait of Miss Ogden, painted surreptitiously by him. When the miniature was stolen from Soto by Tilghman I was engaged to get it back. I had traveled before with Tilghman, and we were the best of friends——”
“And you were aware of his having no sense of taste,” suggested McLane.
“I was; and I used oxalic acid because its symptoms are similar to those produced by heart disease,” explained Norcross, no touch of feeling in his voice. “Thinking Tilghman’s death would be attributed to heart failure, I removed the flask—for if it had been found, it might have been tested and suspicion aroused of foul play. Frankly, if I had realized that Tilghman’s death would be instantly investigated by Dr. Shively, I would have left Barclay’s flask to incriminate him. Instead, I flung it under the car, thinking the train would crush it beyond recognition when we moved out of Atlanta.”
Ethel shuddered at the cold-blooded confession, and they all stared at Norcross, whose defiant manner repelled the faintest spark of sympathy.
“Well, you are a cool one!” Detective Mitchelllooked at his prisoner in amazement. “Was it just the desire to kill, or had you some grudge against James Patterson which made you murder him?”
Norcross glared at his questioner. “It was not murder,” he protested, “but chance. I overheard Miss Ogden ask James Patterson to get her miniature out of the burning room.”
“Did you know I had your miniature?” gasped Ethel.
“No, but not finding it among Tilghman’s effects, which I searched under Dr. Shively’s intelligent supervision,” with an evil smile, “I was desperate, and any miniature of you interested me. I decided to take a look at this miniature; bolted up the staircase, and accidently ran against Patterson, knocking a photograph out of his hand. We both stooped for it and managed between us to tear it, the upper half remaining in my grasp,” he stopped and bowed to Ethel, mockingly, “I sent it to you,” then continued to the others. “Patterson cursed me and ran on, first into Ogden’s bedroom and then into the burning room.”
“So he beat you to it,” commented Mitchell.
Norcross shrugged his shoulders. “What need for me to enter the burning room when Patterson would obligingly rescue what I wanted? I waited in Ogden’s bedroom, but being half-blinded by thesmoke, Patterson slipped by me unseen, and my intention of jerking the miniature out of his hand and disappearing was frustrated. Since Tilghman’s death I have always gone armed for any emergency, and catching a glimpse of Patterson as he raced out of the door, I fired my revolver at him.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Mitchell turning to look at the safe before which they were standing.
“I missed, the blinding smoke spoiling my aim,” finished Norcross. “As you know, the bullet struck the safe, ricocheted down the hall and hit Patterson in a vital spot. When I reached the hall I made out Patterson lying on the floor and another man stooping over him, a man who helped himself to the miniature and the torn photograph which Patterson dropped in his fall.” Norcross’ eyes traveled suggestively toward Barclay.
“Yes, I took them,” admitted Barclay.
“Curse you for a meddlesome fool!” exclaimed Norcross, and his eyes were venomous. “I knew your history, and did everything to manufacture evidence against you; but you crossed me at every turn.”
“Why didn’t you speak of this sooner, Julian?” asked Ogden, breaking his long silence.
“Because I believed until after the inquest that James Patterson had been accidently killed by the discharge of one of Ogden’s cartridges,” answeredBarclay. “That I took from him a miniature which I considered mine, and a torn half of my own photograph, I believed no one’s business but mine, and held my tongue about them. It never dawned on me that Patterson was killed on account of the miniature,” he paused and added wearily, “I wanted to help in investigating Tilghman’s death, but handicapped by my past, I dared not do so openly. You see, I had lost money heavily to Tilghman the night before the murder; I had loaned him my flask, and the poison had been administered in brandy; and I had no alibi—these, I knew, would prove damning facts against a man who had already been tried for murder.”
“And acquitted,” added Ethel. Barclay brightened at sound of her clear confident voice.
“I did go to see Dr. McLane,” he went on, “to tell him what little I knew of Tilghman’s death and my suspicions, and McLane——”
“Recognized you almost at once,” said the surgeon quietly. “There were not so many honor men in the senior class at Johns Hopkins University that I should not have recollected you, Barclay, even if I was only a freshman when you were there. And your trial absorbed my attention. Also,” he spoke with growing earnestness, “I have always regretted that you did not pursue your profession, for whichas a student, you showed so brilliant an aptitude.”
“I owe you a great deal, McLane,” Barclay’s tone was husky. “Some day, perhaps—” he broke off abruptly.
Norcross smiled scornfully. “People do not desire a physician with sleep-walking propensities,” he sneered brutally. “I am hardly surprised you became a wanderer in other lands. And you”—swinging on the Japanese—“for you there will be no land of refuge—the Japanese never pardon a traitor.”
The man addressed laughed softly. “My Japanese is but skin deep and removable,” he said, rubbing off some of his make-up. “My somewhat Oriental cast of features enabled me to take this disguise on numerous occasions, as the United States Secret Service, to which I belong, believes in fighting the devil with fire.”
Barclay listened to him with eyes almost starting from his head. “You fooled me completely,” he stammered. “Why did you draw the design of my flask on the table cloth in the dining car?”
“Because I desired to test you and find out if you had a guilty knowledge of Tilghman’s death,” was the answer. “I had seen you loan him your flask at the time he slipped the miniature in your pocket. I was also behind you when you started from the station and saw you bolt back to the train at sightof James Patterson, but believing Tilghman was watchful and would be on guard, I went to the public library, and thus gave you, Professor, a chance to poison him,” and the Secret Service operative glared at Norcross.
“In avoiding James Patterson I acted on impulse,” explained Barclay, breaking the pause. “I had not seen him for years. I have never outgrown the horror of having accidentally killed Paul Patterson, and the sight of his cousin brought back the whole tragedy, and not feeling like meeting people, I went back to my car,” he stopped and again addressed the man called Ito. “I saw a flask I mistook for mine on the desk in the library at the Japanese Embassy the night of the reception.”
“I watched you take the flask, and realized that you had made a mistake,” said the Secret Service operative. “I was detailed with several plain clothes policemen to watch the cloaks and wraps, as is frequently done at large semi-public receptions, and went in my Japanese disguise. When you saw me, I disappeared into the library, and on your entrance slipped into the conservatory and watched you from there.”
“Why in the world didn’t you come and ask me for the miniature, if you knew I had it?” demanded Barclay.
“Because I was aware that Norcross, whom I strongly suspected, did not know you had the miniature. By bribing Charles, the butler, I had the run of the house, and on the night of your dinner, Ogden, I was busy searching Norcross’ bedroom for incriminating papers when I detected smoke and rushed downstairs to warn you and your guests that the house was on fire.”
“But why did you close and lock the drawing room doors after shouting ‘Fire’?” asked McLane, before Ogden could speak.
“I slammed the doors shut to avoid meeting Barclay and being arrested on the charge of murdering Tilghman,” retorted Ito dryly. “I did not know there was a snap lock on the drawing room doors until afterward. The fire had gained headway, as I stopped to turn in a fire alarm before warning you; and not wishing to be known then under my rightful name of Jack Gilmore, United States Secret Service operative, I disappeared. Investigation has proved that the fire started from defective electric wires, and was not connived by you, Norcross”—Gilmore, alias Ito, faced the professor directly. “I was morally certain that you had murdered Tilghman, but had not real proof against you, as you were apparently with Shively while the train was at Atlanta; so I decided to use the miniature as a decoy to trapyou into a confession of guilt. But that even would have failed had not Colonel Calhoun proved you an accomplished ventriloquist.”
Barclay felt his throat tenderly. “Norcross stole the miniature from me just now——”
“And I have it.” The Secret Service operative laid the miniature in Calhoun’s hand.
“Well done, Gilmore,” he exclaimed, examining the miniature. “I am sorry to break so beautiful a painting of you, Miss Ogden——”
“Oh, please do,” begged Ethel. “It is too associated with murder and treachery for me ever to want to look at it again.”
There was a faint tinkle of broken glass and ivory as Calhoun ground his heel into the miniature, and gathering up the gold frame and its broken contents, he withdrew from behind the ivory many sheets of folded rice paper on which were fine writing and cabalistic signs.
“The Secretary of War will sleep easier in his bed than he has for many nights,” he said. “God!” He swung on Norcross, one hand lifted menacingly. “Murder I can understand, but treachery and treason—you!”—in gathering fury—“What shall I call you——”
“The nameless man,” was the bitter retort. “Why should I show loyalty to a country whose people repudiatedmy mother because she married a ‘yellow’ man.”
“Your father, then—” Calhoun stepped back, astounded.
“Was a Japanese, yes. And I was educated partly in this country and partly in Japan. I inherited my mother’s white skin and facial characteristics,only,” with emphasis. “While in Japan I assume my father’s name; while I am an American naturalist, I use my mother’s maiden name.”
Calhoun looked at him for a long moment in silence. “A hybrid! You and your kind are the future problem of the United States,” he said solemnly. “Take your prisoner, Mitchell.”
With ashen face the man they had known as Richard Norcross stepped between them as they lined up against the wall, and ignoring their presence, he walked steadily down the staircase, Mitchell by his side, and into the waiting police automobile.
As the footsteps of the departing men echoed through the silent house, Barclay moved gropingly toward Ethel; then the false strength, which had fought off physical weakness, deserted him, and without word or sound he went crashing to the floor.
Five hours later Barclay opened his eyes, and at first too dazed to move, lay in bed gazing in bewildermentat Leonard McLane taking a quiet snooze in a near-by chair. Gradually Barclay pieced together the events of the night which culminated in the arrest of the murderer and the solution of the mysteries surrounding the death of Dwight Tilghman and James Patterson. A light footstep and the swish of a skirt caused him to turn as quickly as his bandaged head permitted, but the sight of Ethel Ogden repaid him for the excruciating pain that followed the movement.
“How is Julian, Doctor?” asked Ethel. Her low voice brought McLane to his feet and he smiled sleepily at her.
“You caught me napping,” he admitted. “How did you leave Mrs. Ogden?”
“Very much better; the trained nurse says she has rallied wonderfully,” Ethel tip-toed into the room. “It was so fortunate that Cousin Walter got you immediately on the telephone, on discovering Cousin Jane’s condition.”
“I was sitting up talking to Mitchell and Carter Calhoun,” explained McLane, “We were threshing out the problems of the two tragedies. Calhoun, who called here earlier in the evening, was longing to see you and ask about the miniature, as well as talk with Norcross, with whom he has had a more or less scientific correspondence for a number ofyears, and he suggested that I bring him and Mitchell with me. He argued that you would undoubtedly be up if your cousin was ill. They were waiting downstairs talking to Gilmore, alias Ito, when Julian Barclay made his spectacular run downstairs.”
“Don’t!” Ethel shaded her eyes. “He must have hurt himself seriously when he struck his head against the newel post.”
“Nonsense, Ethel, men have tough skulls,” smiled McLane. “Barclay lost a great deal of blood while we stood talking in the hall, and that is mainly responsible for his loss of consciousness. I assure you he is——”
“Quite recovered,” said Barclay, and at the sound of his weak voice McLane hastened to the bed, leaving Ethel to follow more slowly.
“Well, I can’t pronounce you quite recovered,” he said, feeling Barclay’s pulse and examining the bandages. “But you are getting along satisfactorily. Come and see for yourself, Ethel,” making room for her, but she approached only as far as the foot of the bed. McLane, his eyes twinkling, was about to speak again when a tap sounded at the side of the open door, and Charles looked in.
“If ye please, sor, Misther Ogden do be axin’ for ye, Doctor,” he announced. “And he’s in the divil of a hurry.”
McLane smiled. “I’ll come at once,” he paused at the door, and Ethel, walking at his heels, stopped herself just in time from bumping into him. “Please wait, Ethel, and find out if Barclay needs any beef tea or coffee,” he said, and slipped away; the quick-witted Irish servant hastening after him, conveniently blind to Ethel’s beckoning finger.
Slowly, shyly Ethel approached the bed. “Would you care for some bouillon?” she asked. Barclay watched her with passionate, longing eyes.
“What did you say?” He raised his bandaged head. “I can’t possibly hear you at that distance,” he protested, and her heart beating with maddening rapidity, Ethel drew nearer, step by step, until she reached his side.
“Would you like something?” she asked faintly, not meeting his eyes.
“Yes—you.” Barclay looked at her pleadingly, his voice deserting him. He reached up and imprisoned her hand, and as her fingers nestled in his broad palm a ring fell out of her grasp. “My ring?” he said, catching it up in his other hand.
“Yes. I was bringing it back to you——”
“Ethel!” Barclay’s face grew ghastly, as hope and happiness died away.
“Only to ask you to explain this sketch.” Ethel was stammering badly as she held her mother’sdrawing before Barclay’s eyes. “Mother saw your hand, or what we thought your hand, wearing that ring, through the Pullman car window at the Atlanta station just at the time Dwight Tilghman was poisoned—and—and——”
Barclay looked at the sketch with dawning comprehension. “Will you hand me my tobacco pouch and the small book by it,” indicating a table by the bed. Ethel quickly laid the two articles in his outstretched hand, and tearing out a cigarette paper, Barclay held it in exactly the position indicated in the sketch. “It might very well be mistaken for a paper containing a powder,” he said. “When traveling about I make my own cigarettes, but in cities I buy them already made. I recall now starting to smoke on my return to the Pullman, but awoke from my preoccupation to realize that I must not smoke in that car, so I tipped up the paper at that angle to pour the tobacco back into my pouch just at the moment your mother saw me.”
“She didn’t see you, only your hand,” explained Ethel. “And it seemed so mysterious——”
“You told no one—” Ethel shook her head, and the look that leaped into Barclay’s eyes repaid her. “I owe you everything,” he said, his voice shaking with emotion. “If Mitchell had heard of your mother’s sketch, I might have had great difficulty inconvincing him of my innocence.” Barclay shivered. “All this has brought back so vividly the death of Paul Patterson——”
“Hush! you must not think of it,” and Ethel laid a tender hand on his eyes. He drew it down and kissed it lingeringly.
“Perhaps you will teach me to forget,” he said wistfully. “Paul Patterson was a splendid fellow, working his way along and building up a fine practice. He would not marry Henrietta Patterson until he could support her in comfort, having a horror of being thought a fortune hunter. They had planned a spring wedding—and six weeks before it Fate and I stepped in”—Barclay closed his eyes. “I had one interview with Henrietta Patterson, and it will live in my memory always.”
“These are morbid fancies,” protested Ethel warmly. “You are not fair to yourself, Julian. You are too young a man to have your whole life blasted by an accident, no matter how tragic, which was the direct result of overstudy and ill-health. Will you promise me to think only of the future?”
“I will do anything—everything for you,” exclaimed Barclay passionately; then, with desperate courage, “My darling, I have so little to offer you except my love that it seems utter presumption on my part to entreat you to marry me. Answer me,Ethel, here and now,” and seizing her hand he looked up into her eyes.
The carmine deepened in Ethel’s pale cheeks, but her gaze did not falter, and stooping nearer as she read those half imperious but imploring eyes, her smiling lips met his. With a low cry of unutterable joy, Barclay’s arms closed around her, and his voice, clear and tender, murmured: “My loyal sweetheart!”
Transcriber’s Notes:On page 10, withdawn has been changed to withdrawn.On page 43, ridicuously has been changed to ridiculously.On page 52, increduously has been changed to incredulously.On page 64, drop light has been changed to droplight.On page 68, Odgen has been changed to Ogden.On page 104, unincumbered has been changed to unencumbered.On page 175, insiduously has been changed to insidiously.On page 212, fom has been changed to from.On page 265, near-by has been changed to near-by.On page 283, sleepwalking has been changed to sleep-walking.On page 291, tiptoed has been changed to tip-toed.On page 294, becase has been changed to because.Minor changes have been made silently to make punctuation uniform.All other spelling, dialect and hyphenation has been left as typeset.
Transcriber’s Notes:
Transcriber’s Notes:
On page 10, withdawn has been changed to withdrawn.
On page 43, ridicuously has been changed to ridiculously.
On page 52, increduously has been changed to incredulously.
On page 64, drop light has been changed to droplight.
On page 68, Odgen has been changed to Ogden.
On page 104, unincumbered has been changed to unencumbered.
On page 175, insiduously has been changed to insidiously.
On page 212, fom has been changed to from.
On page 265, near-by has been changed to near-by.
On page 283, sleepwalking has been changed to sleep-walking.
On page 291, tiptoed has been changed to tip-toed.
On page 294, becase has been changed to because.
Minor changes have been made silently to make punctuation uniform.
All other spelling, dialect and hyphenation has been left as typeset.