Although Britz permitted his assistant to find welcome rest after the
crowded activities of the day, he did not allow himself the same
pleasant relaxation. He felt no craving for sleep. His faculties were
too tensely alert for slumber, an inexhaustible spring of energy kept
him fresh and active. There were certain channels in this mysterious
case which had thus far been entirely neglected. It was necessary to
explore them at once, lest they vanish overnight.
Britz proceeded to the Night Court, where he found the Magistrate
dispensing justice with the bored impatience of one grown tired of
hearing the monotonous repetition of trite excuses.
Accustomed as he had grown to contact with vice and crime, Britz
invariably entered this courtroom with a feeling of depression. There is
little enough romance attached to crime. In the Night Court, where vice
is on continuous parade and crime only an occasional visitor, the
spectacle one beholds is repulsive to the last degree.
Passing down the long aisle between the spectators' seats, Britz entered
the railed enclosure reserved for those having business with the court.
He held a long whispered consultation with the Magistrate, and when he
left he was in possession of a search warrant, duly signed and sealed.
With the document securely hidden in his pocket, he proceeded uptown
again, eventually pausing before a three-story, brown-stone house, two
blocks from the Whitmore Iron Works.
An automobile was waiting at the curb. Britz made mental note of the
number of the machine, and, in the vestibule of the house transferred
the number to the back of an envelope.
It was past midnight, yet the drawing-room was aglow with light. Britz
rang the bell, and after a short wait, the door was slowly opened by a
servant.
"This is Mr. Beard's home, I believe?" the detective inquired.
"Yes, but Mr. Beard is not at home," answered the servant.
"I shall wait for him," decided Britz, thrusting a broad toe into the
narrow crack through which the servant was surveying him.
"It is rather late to call," protested the servant. "Besides, I don't
know you."
"I am an officer of the law," announced Britz. "I have come to search
the premises."
In his astonishment the servant insensibly relinquished his hold of the
door knob and Britz stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind
him.
"You can't come in here!" exclaimed the servant, recovering from his
surprise. "Get out!"
Britz displayed the search warrant.
"If you attempt to interfere with me I shall place you under arrest," he
threatened.
The perturbation of the servant increased. Being a dutiful and watchful
employé, his first impulse was to repel this nocturnal invasion of the
house. But something in Britz's stern attitude convinced him that the
unwelcome visitor would forcibly resent any interference.
"Can't you wait until Mr. Beard comes?" the servant appealed.
"Mr. Beard will not be here to-night," Britz informed him.
The detective's voice had penetrated to the lighted sitting-room, for it
was answered with a painful gasp, followed by the swish of skirts. A
moment later the heavy curtains which overhung the doorway parted,
revealing a woman's form sharply outlined against the background of
light. She was dressed in a dark suit and, as she faced the two men in
the hallway she lifted a heavy black veil.
Britz noted that her beautiful face was haggard from fatigue and long
agitation, but the excitement in her eyes bespoke an energy not to be
conquered by physical weariness.
"You say Mr. Beard will not be here to-night?" she spoke, and her voice
disclosed the fear that had suddenly gripped her heart.
"No," answered Britz.
"Then it is useless for me to wait." She moved toward the door but the
detective interposed.
"I shall detain you only a few minutes," he said; "but having found you
here it is necessary that I should ascertain your identity and the
reason for this late visit."
A shock passed through her, as though he had offered her an indignity.
"I must go," she declared. "You have no right to detain me or to
question me."
"Would you prefer being questioned at Police Headquarters?" he inquired.
The implied threat had an immediate effect on her. She recoiled as from
a blow and moved slowly into the sitting-room. The detective followed
her, after directing the servant not to leave the house.
"Madam, what is your name?" he demanded brusquely.
It was not Britz's habit to be gruff with women. By nature courteous,
considerate of the weaker sex, he nevertheless realized that soft
phrases will not prop a witness who, through sheer desperation of will,
has been staving off physical collapse. On the contrary, harshness in
the inquisitor, by arousing antagonism or fear, will frequently serve to
carry the witness through a most desperate ordeal. In this case,
however, the woman showed neither fear nor resentment. Evidently she had
suffered so much as to have exhausted her capability for further
suffering. She submitted to the other's will like a tired child,
dropping into a chair and eyeing him with a vacuous expression.
"I am Mrs. George Collins," she answered his question in a weak,
listless voice.
Britz's gaze narrowed on her as if questioning her statement. But the
very haggardness of her features accentuated her incapacity for deceit.
Gradually the detective's eyes cleared with belief and his calloused
nature yielded to an impulse of pity.
"I did not expect to find you here, Mrs. Collins," he said more gently.
"I can understand your suffering--I do not wish to add a hair's weight
to it. But the conclusion is inevitable that your visit at such a late
hour has something to do with Mr. Whitmore's death, so I must ask you to
explain your presence."
She leaned back in her chair, a look of meek resignation in her face.
"I came to obtain a letter addressed to Mr. Whitmore," she said frankly.
"A letter which you wrote?"
"No."
"By whom was it written?"
"My brother--Mr. Ward."
Britz tried to guess the hidden significance of the note which had
impelled this woman to a midnight visit to Beard's house. She must have
known, just as Britz had ascertained earlier in the day, that Beard was
a bachelor, occupying the private dwelling with a lone servant. Surely
she would not have been guilty of so unconventional an act except
through desperate necessity.
"That letter--will it throw any light on Mr. Whitmore's death?" asked
Britz eagerly.
"Not the slightest," was her disappointing reply. "It has absolutely
nothing to do with it."
"Then you won't mind identifying it if I find it in my search of the
premises?"
"Not in the least--that is, on one condition," said she.
"And that condition--what is it?"
"Your promise that the letter will not be made public."
It was a condition to which the detective could readily agree. It was no
part of his duty to supply the newspapers with the intimate details
associated with every crime. He was habitually reticent toward
reporters, yet he was not unpopular with them. For, besides recognizing
and admiring his unbending honesty, his courage and resourcefulness,
they were aware that on the rare occasions when he took them into his
confidence, they could rely upon his statements as upon a mathematical
certainty. Not in all his career had he ever been known to discuss in
print his theories, or deductions, or half-baked conclusion. In that
respect he differed radically from most of the detective force. Whenever
he had a statement to make, it embodied the solution of the mystery on
which he had been working. It meant that the guilty man was safely
behind the bars and that the evidence against him was complete.
"Confidential communications obtained by me are never made public except
in a courtroom," he informed the woman. "If the letter has no bearing on
Mr. Whitmore's death it will be returned to Mr. Beard."
"But I want it--that's what I came for," she pleaded. "Can't you give it
to me?"
"Not without Mr. Beard's consent," he replied in a tone of finality.
"And then only after I have assured myself of its lack of bearing on the
Whitmore case."
She bestowed on him a glance of such keen disappointment as to provoke a
doubt of the innocence of the missive. But he did not betray what was in
his mind. Instead, he rose to his feet, and, with a polite bow, said:
"I may trust you to wait until I have completed my search. In the
meantime, kindly pardon me."
His form vanished through the curtains and she could hear him ascending
the steps. To her ears there came a short colloquy between the detective
and the servant, but the words were indistinct and she was unable to
gather their meaning. Huddled in the chair, she waited while the minutes
dragged wearily, until at the end of three-quarters of an hour the
detective's welcome footsteps were heard on the stairs.
Britz entered the room carrying a huge pile of papers which he deposited
on a chair. From the top of the pile he took a letter, and, advancing
toward her, asked:
"Is this the note?"
At sight of the letter her exhaustion vanished and she held out a
trembling hand.
"It isn't that I don't trust you," said Britz, withdrawing the missive,
"but under the circumstances I prefer to retain possession of it."
It required no formal acknowledgment from her to assure him that he held
the right note. Her face, her eyes, her very aspect proclaimed her
anxiety concerning it. Retreating to a position directly beneath the
cluster of electric lights, Britz read the letter. It was dated the
previous day and was as follows:
"_Dear Whitmore_: Mr. Beard has informed me that I may communicate
with you through him. For nearly six weeks I have waited anxiously
for your return, but I am in such sore straits that I can no longer
delay communicating with you.
"I require for use in my business the sum of one million, two
hundred thousand dollars. Unless I am able to obtain the money at
once, I am ruined. Were I the only one to suffer by the crash I
should not mind. But it means the loss of my sister's fortune, as
well as that of her husband. Grace, too, could bear the loss. But
the thought of plunging Collins into poverty, under the present
circumstances, is what impels me to appeal to you.
"To avert this catastrophe my sister joins in the appeal I am
making. I hope, in the course of the next six months, to be able to
repay the loan. But it is absolutely necessary to obtain the money
at once, for my creditors are threatening immediate bankruptcy
proceedings. And that means the end.
"Sincerely,
LESTER WARD."
"So your brother is in a bad way financially?" said Britz, more in the
way of an audible comment than as a question.
Evidently the subject was too painful for discussion, for she averted
her face as if to hide the emotions written thereon.
"Your brother expected Mr. Whitmore to rescue him?" persisted Britz.
"Yes," she acknowledged.
"And Mr. Whitmore's death leaves him in a sad predicament?"
"Ruin is inevitable," she admitted.
"Which makes it clear that it was to Mr. Ward's interest as well as your
own to find Mr. Whitmore alive?"
"Precisely," replied she. "His death was a terrible blow to us."
Britz saw the situation clearly. Ward, rendered desperate by the
impending ruin, had hoped that Whitmore would come to his rescue. But
the latter's death had destroyed all hope of aid from that direction.
The letter, far from furnishing incriminating evidence against anyone,
clearly established Ward's and Mrs. Collins's interest in keeping
Whitmore alive. Nevertheless Britz decided to retain the note on the
bare chance that subsequent developments might give it a changed aspect.
Mrs. Collins, divining with the sure instinct of a woman, the obvious
conclusion which the detective had drawn from the letter, ventured
another attempt to gain possession of it.
"Now that you are convinced that it has no bearing on Mr. Whitmore's
death, may I have it?" she asked.
"Why are you so anxious to obtain it?" retorted Britz.
"Because its possession by someone would be an endless source of
embarrassment to me," answered she.
She spoke as one engaged in a controversy of minor significance. But it
was plain that exhaustion was swiftly overtaking her, that her bruised
senses were near the end of their endurance.
"You need fear no uneasiness from the letter while it is in my
possession," the detective said reassuringly.
She accepted the statement as a final refusal to surrender the missive,
and, consulting the small watch set in her black leather purse, noted
with a frightened gasp that it was two o'clock.
"Where is Mr. Beard?" she asked, as if suddenly recalling his absence.
"He is under arrest," answered Britz in even voice.
Despite the soothing quality which he tried to inject into his tone, she
started like a frightened deer.
"Arrest!" she echoed. "Then he didn't deliver--the woman, Julia Strong,
didn't get the message?"
She shivered, as the chill breath of a new fear stole over her.
"Julia Strong is dead," said Britz, in the same calm, matter-of-fact
voice.
But to the woman the words came like a destructive avalanche. She buried
her face in her hands, while her frame shook with successive sobs. The
last shreds of her outward composure vanished as before the wind, and
she surrendered unresistingly to the turbulent emotions struggling
within her. Several minutes passed before the inward tumult subsided.
Then, lifting herself to her feet, she said with bitter emphasis:
"Four lives wrecked! Two dead!... Mr. Beard and I alive--but what a
future! What a dastardly thing to bring all this about!"
Britz, eagerly drinking in her words, watched her in a fever of
expectancy. But she checked her outburst before the fatal revelation for
which he hoped, received utterance. With a new shock she recalled his
presence, and, as if afraid of having incriminated herself, or someone
whom she wanted to shield, walked hastily toward the door.
"Please escort me to the automobile," she pleaded.
Britz recognized the futility of trying to obtain further admissions
from a woman in her distressful state of mind. The fear that had seized
her would prove a padlock on her lips. So he permitted her to lean
heavily on his arm while she passed through the door and descended the
steps to the street. Then, helping her into the machine, he waited until
the car vanished around the corner.
With a self-satisfied smile Britz slowly ascended the steps, intent on
obtaining the documents which he had left in the sitting-room.
"With those papers we'll soon wring admissions from somebody," he said
to himself. "It's a good night's work--a most profitable night's work."
To his consternation he found that the servant had closed the door. Nor
did his insistent pressure of the electric door-bell produce any effect
on the butler. Then, for the first time, Britz realized that the lights
in the sitting-room had been extinguished.
Consumed with sudden anger he climbed the low iron hand-rail that
protected the stoop, and the next instant the broad toe of his boot had
shattered the window leading to the front room. Reaching forward, he
found it easy to displace sufficient glass to permit him to step safely
into the room. Near the curtained doorway he found the electric switch
which regulated the light. As the cluster of lamps flashed up, he looked
for the documents. They were gone.
His jaw snapped viciously as he leaped out of the room and groped his
way to the head of the basement stairs. By the aid of matches he
achieved a safe passage down the narrow steps, at the bottom of which he
found the button which switched on the basement lights.
In the rear room he found precisely what he had expected. The door
opening into the yard was unlatched. Through this door the butler had
escaped with the papers.