Fresh as the early morning dew that hung, a gentle, swaying silver
mantle above the ceaseless currents of the North River, Britz awoke and
for a long time permitted his eyes to feast on the restful picture
offered by the now deserted Riverside Drive. Reluctantly he withdrew his
gaze from the alluring vista that spread from his window--the graveled
walks, the well-kept lawns sloping down to the stream, the wide stretch
of shimmering water sending slanting shafts of silver against the rocky
base of the opposite Palisades, and, in the dim distance, the softly
undulating Jersey hills meeting the sky line in a wavy gray thread
indistinctly outlined in the clearing mist.
Britz's salary was inadequate for an entire apartment on the Drive. But
he could afford a large square room overlooking the Hudson in the
apartment of a small family that understood the ways of their lodger and
ministered to his comfort.
A cold shower shook the last vestige of lassitude out of the detective's
system, and, after an ample breakfast prepared and served by the single
servant of the house, Britz devoted himself to the reports which Manning
had delivered to him the previous night.
For three hours he sat absorbed in silent study of the documents,
occasionally jotting down a brief note on a pad of paper or inter-lining
a paragraph which he regarded as having especial significance.
When he finished reading, he indulged in an additional hour of
thoughtful contemplation, arranging in their proper sequence the meager
facts which his men had discovered, and trying to draw from each bit of
new evidence its true relation to the crime.
Meager, indeed, was the helpful knowledge contained in the voluminous
reports of the men. Mrs. Collins had remained secluded in her home most
of the time; Collins had forsaken his customary haunts and also clung
desperately to the solitude of his Delmore Park mansion. Ward spent his
days at his business and his nights at his home. But around Beard things
were transpiring, although the detectives spying on him in the Tombs had
been unable to acquaint themselves with the precise nature of the moves
he was making to accomplish his release from prison.
No trace had been obtained of the butler who vanished with the documents
which Britz had gathered in Beard's home. But of the servant's eventual
capture Britz had not the slightest doubt. It was a safe guess that he
would endeavor soon to communicate with Beard either in person or by
letter, and the moment he did so he would reveal himself to the
authorities.
Of the utmost importance, however, was the report of the Coroner's
physician. The autopsy on Whitmore's body disclosed that the bullet
which killed the merchant had entered the abdomen at the right side,
traveled upward through the abdominal cavity, escaping the vital organs
in its path until it reached the spleen, which it perforated. The bullet
did not pass out of the body and was held by the Coroner as a gruesome
exhibit, to be used against whomever might be accused of Whitmore's
murder.
It was the path which the bullet had traveled that interested Britz. The
absence of powder marks, the disappearance of the pistol with which the
mortal shot was fired, effectually eliminated the theory of suicide.
Yet, a man seated in a chair, and bent on self-destruction, might easily
have inflicted the wound described by the Coroner's physician. Before
arriving at any definite conclusion, however, as to the position of the
assassin when he sent the bullet into Whitmore's body, the detective
decided to study the enlarged photograph of the wound which he had
ordered the official photographer to make.
He found the picture on his desk at Police Headquarters. Greig had
preceded him by two hours to the building in Mulberry street, and was
deep in the intricacies of the case when Britz summoned him. He entered
the room, followed a moment or two later, by Manning.
"What do you make of it?" asked Britz, holding up the picture.
"Pretty jagged wound," commented Manning.
Britz produced a magnifying glass through which the three men examined
the wound more critically.
"There are two perforations of the skin where the bullet entered," Britz
pointed out. "Undoubtedly they were made by the needle which I picked
off the floor of Whitmore's office."
"Well, what of that?" asked the chief.
"It confirms my belief that I have solved the mystery of how Whitmore
was killed."
"I don't see it," snapped the chief. "If you do, why don't you enlighten
us?"
"Because I can't be positive until I have more evidence," answered
Britz, unmoved by the other's irritation. "However, I believe that
before many days we shall have solved the entire case."
The conversation was interrupted at this juncture by the telephone bell.
Britz lifted the receiver to his ear, made several replies in
monosyllables, then returned the receiver to the hook.
"That was Watson up at Delmore Park," he informed the chief. "Says
Josephine Burden is on her way to the Tombs to visit Beard."
"Josephine Burden!" echoed Manning in undisguised surprise. "The cotton
king's daughter! Why, she's engaged to Lester Ward."
"She may be a messenger for Mrs. Collins, Ward's sister," suggested
Greig.
"Whatever her mission, I'll soon know all about it," asserted Britz.
"I'm going to the Tombs."
On the way to the big, gray City Prison, the detective tried vainly to
account for Josephine Burden's appearance in the case. That only the
most urgent reason would bring her to the Tombs at this critical stage
of the case, was self-evident. The newspapers were devoting columns to
it. The more enterprising yellow journals, whose investigations were
conducted independent of the police, were hinting openly that George
Collins ought to exchange places with Beard in prison. Every new figure
in the mystery, every new development, was being exploited frantically
in the press. Surely Josephine Burden was not braving the danger of
unwelcome notoriety merely to deliver a message from Mrs. Collins, or
Collins, or Ward. A less conspicuous messenger would have served them
equally well. No. Josephine Burden was on her way to the prison for a
reason intimately associated with herself, a compelling reason, one that
conquered her innate dislike for the newspaper prominence which she was
braving.
At the Tombs Britz held a brief conversation with the warden, after
which he was conducted to a cell at the end of a tier, behind the barred
door of which Beard must receive all his visitors save his lawyer. The
detective seated himself on a small, round wooden stool, hidden from
view by the heavy iron door of the cell. But every word of what was said
by anyone standing in the corridor, would come to Britz's ears through
the grating.
Half an hour after Britz was locked in the cell, an automobile drew up
at the curb on the Center street side of the prison and a young woman
alighted. Her slim figure was concealed beneath a long fur coat, her
face shielded by a heavy automobile veil. She approached the guard
behind the barred entrance to the jail with the timorous manner of
persons making their first visit to such an institution.
"May I see Mr. Horace Beard?" she inquired weakly.
"Sure, if he'll see you," answered the doorman, unlocking and swinging
open the broad portal.
She entered with a feeling of dread, as if the atmosphere of the place
chilled and repelled her. It is always thus with persons visiting a jail
for the first time. There is something sinister in the suggestions
conveyed by the long, silent tiers of grated iron doors, something that
strikes terror into the stoutest hearts.
A trusty carried her name to Beard and returned at the end of five
minutes with the information that the prisoner was willing to see her.
As if further to rasp her refined sensibilities and shock her, she was
escorted into a little side room and subjected to a thorough search at
the hands of a stout, impassive matron. To Josephine Burden it seemed an
unnecessary humiliation and she shrank inwardly from contact with those
rough, though nimble hands.
Being unaccustomed to the peculiar etiquette of prisons, she was unable
to appreciate how necessary is the precaution of searching all visitors.
Even with the exercise of the utmost care, it is impossible to prevent
the smuggling of weapons and other contraband to the prisoners.
Nothing to arouse the suspicion of the matron was found on Miss Burden
and she was escorted to the tier on which Beard was confined. As she
passed up the winding iron stairs and down the long corridors, catching
glimpses of human faces peering anxiously through the grating of their
cells, she could not help a feeling of pity for the poor wretches
confined like wild animals in their iron cages.
To the ordinary curiosity seeker the spectacle is one which leaves a
feeling of depression that abides with one like a frightful nightmare
prolonged through the hours of wakefulness. What then must be the
emotions of those, who, visiting the prison for the first time, behold
one who is near and dear to them peering helplessly, with that look of
mute appeal that is ever present in the eyes of unfortunate humans
deprived of liberty, from behind the interposing bars of a gloomy cell?
The first flash which Josephine Burden obtained of the man she had come
to visit, produced a feeling of horror not unmixed with revolt at the
relentless cruelty of the steel bars through which she discerned his
haggard face. Beard's form, dimly outlined against the steel door at the
end of a long corridor, seemed to have gathered to itself the wan light
that filtered through a narrow window at the right of the aisle, and
taken on a gray, misty aspect, wraith-like and terrifying. She had come
upon him abruptly, at the turn of the stairs, and for a moment she stood
silent, overcome by a chaos of emotions.
If she expected the door to open she was disappointed, for the trusty
simply withdrew half a dozen paces leaving the prisoner and his visitor
to face each other and converse through the narrow space between the
bars.
"I received your note," Beard broke the embarrassing silence, "and I
can't tell you how much it cheered me."
She advanced nearer the door, and extending a gloved hand through the
bars, permitted it to repose an instant in the prisoner's grateful palm.
"I had to come," she murmured, "although father went into a fury when I
told him."
"And you came to cheer me--to tell me you believe in me?"
Something far deeper than mere gratitude shone in his eyes, and was
reflected in the agitated countenance of the girl.
"I came to tell you that I broke my engagement to Lester Ward," she said
in quivering voice.
Cautiously Britz peered at the couple through the iron grating of his
cell. He noted the tremor which passed down Beard's form and the furtive
caress which he bestowed on the visitor's hand. At the same time the
girl lifted her veil, disclosing a finely molded face of flawless
features, with a skin of exquisite paleness, and flashing brown eyes
shaded by long, dark lashes. As she stood with fingers encircling the
bars that interposed between her and Beard, her beautiful face took on a
purposeful aspect, as of one suddenly possessed of a new and consuming
interest in life.
The news which she had brought the prisoner cheered him perceptibly. But
he regarded her as if even now he found it difficult to credit her with
the courage she must have displayed in discarding the man whom she had
promised to wed.
"How did it happen?" inquired Beard in a voice that betrayed his
bewildered state of mind.
"You must have known, your instinct must have told you that I accepted
him because of father's urging," she said. "Now that you are in trouble
I don't fear to tell you that I wanted you all the time. When I read of
your arrest I wanted to fly to you, to be near you, to sustain you. This
morning I told father of my intention to break the engagement. And, do
you know, he assented at once. But he went into a rage when I told him I
was coming here, although he seemed perfectly pleased to have me break
with Lester."
A person of duller intellect than Britz, from overhearing the
conversation between Beard and the girl, would have discerned the
romance in the lives of the couple. Had they revealed it in its most
intimate detail, they could not have conveyed a better understanding of
it than through the words uttered in this murky prison corridor. It was
plain to Britz that Beard and Ward had been suitors for the girl's hand;
that Ward's suit was successful through the favor which he found in the
eyes of the girl's father. But now, when the man with whom she really
was in love was in desperate straits, that love could no longer be
diverted from its true channel, and, like an irresistible current that
sweeps everything before it, it had carried her to the side of her
endangered lover.
Materialists may find it difficult to distinguish between love and
passion--may deny to their hearts' content the existence of any line of
demarcation between them. But the true lover has no doubt on the
subject. Love distinguishes itself from passion, through sacrifice.
Passion is invariably selfish. Love never is.
Britz, recognizing instinctively the genuineness of the woman's love,
passed over its ennobling aspect, to find therein a potent influence for
the solution of the crime with which he was engaged. The girl had
unconsciously revealed herself to him as a means to an end--that end
being the discovery and punishment of the murderer of Herbert Whitmore.
Had Beard been an experienced criminal, he would have known that no
walls have more ears, nor more delicately attuned ears, than prison
walls. And that knowledge would have inspired a suspicion of the very
bars against which he pressed his fevered face. But being without
previous jail experience, he said in a voice as distinctly audible to
Britz as if he had been talking directly to the detective,--
"Then you don't believe for a single instant the terrible accusation
they have lodged against me?"
"No one who knows you can possibly believe it," she answered in a tone
of conviction.
"Dearest," he said, adopting a confidential air, "I could leave this
prison to-morrow were I so inclined. They haven't the least particle of
evidence against me--they cannot have. Were I to force the issue they
could not make out a case sufficient to justify my being held for the
grand jury. I am staying here because I want to, because it is best that
they should direct their efforts toward trying to prove me the
murderer."
Britz, in the darkness of his cell, indulged in an amused smile. So this
man was endeavoring to draw the fire of the police in order to save the
guilty person! Here was a pretty drama of cross-purposes. Had Beard been
sufficiently shrewd to see through the purpose of his detention, he
would have submitted to his imprisonment with less complacency.
"You mean that you are offering yourself as a target in order to shield
the guilty person?" she inquired incredulously.
"Precisely."
"But why?" she demanded.
"Because I conceive it to be Mr. Whitmore's wish."
"Mr. Whitmore!" exclaimed she, obviously puzzled. "You mean he asked you
to?"
"No," acknowledged he. "But I know what must have been in his mind when
he died. I know what he would have done, had he lived to do it. Dearest,
I shouldn't have hesitated to sacrifice my own life for him. I was more
like a son to him than a secretary. And had I been with him when he
died, I know he would have imposed silence on me."
"Then the men in his office--they know the murderer and he asked them
not to tell?" An expression of astonishment overspread her face.
"No," he answered. "They don't know. They've told the truth."
"Horace,"--her voice grew persuasive--"Horace, you mustn't think of
yourself alone now. I can't bear to think of you imprisoned in this
place. For my sake you must leave it and clear yourself of this
accusation."
He shook his head sadly.
"If you knew all the circumstances you'd approve my course."
"But I don't know them--and it's torturing me." For the first time her
features showed the anguish she was suffering. He saw and was moved.
"Listen!" His eyes searched the corridor and the adjoining cells. Seeing
no one but the indifferent trusty who was too far away to overhear,
Beard continued: "Mr. Whitmore loved Mrs. Collins, as you already know.
Were scandal to break over her head--if I did not sacrifice myself to
prevent it--it would be the vilest ingratitude to an employer whose
memory I venerate."
"Then you are protecting Mrs. Collins?" Her frame throbbed with the
conflict of agonized emotions. "Mrs. Collins!" she repeated, as if
afraid that he had misunderstood.
"Yes," he answered resignedly. "I know I am doing precisely what Mr.
Whitmore would have asked, me to do. And now, dear, please don't press
me farther. I can't tell you more--not at this time. When all this shall
have been forgotten, when Mr. Whitmore's death ceases to occupy the
public and the police, then I'll tell you everything."
When two hearts charged with love begin to exchange confidences, it is
impossible to foretell what revelations will be forthcoming. And the
chances are that had Beard been allowed sufficient time, he would have
unburdened himself of the heavy load that was pressing on his heart. But
unfortunately for Britz, the hour for exercising the prisoners confined
on the tier had arrived, and a deputy warden cut short the interview
between Beard and Miss Burden. She was escorted to the street, while
Beard joined the other inmates for a half hour of exercise and fresh air
in the courtyard.
With Beard's intimation of Mrs. Collins's complicity in the murder
reiterating itself in his mind, Britz left the Tombs and proceeded
toward the Federal Building. The detective had seen, had interviewed
Mrs. Collins. It was impossible to reconcile her artless, engaging
personality with an impulse so base as to lead to murder.
Besides, Beard's remarks were open to more than one interpretation. It
was entirely possible that he was endeavoring to shield her name from
the befouling suspicion of having yielded to Whitmore, a suspicion which
the general public would be quick to convert into an unalterable belief,
once it learned that she had transferred her love from her husband to
the slain merchant. Should the murderer be discovered and brought to
trial the dissensions in the Collins household would be paraded
unsparingly in the public press. Innocent as the relations between
Whitmore and Mrs. Collins were, they would take on a guilty aspect in
the eyes of a world that is ever ready to discern its own debasing
impulses reflected in the conduct of one who has been regarded hitherto
as unstained.
Reviewing all the circumstances of the case, Britz concluded that
Beard's statement was not to be accepted as an intimation of Mrs.
Collins's guilt. For, had he not accused Collins in even stronger terms
in the very presence of his murdered employer?
It was not to be forgotten, too, that a favorite dodge of guilty persons
is to adopt the pose of a martyr. And, in lieu of an adequate defense,
to create a favorable doubt by insinuating that they are accepting
punishment in order to shield a woman. When artfully worked, this deceit
may always be relied upon to create undeserved sympathy.
Were there nothing else to absolve Mrs. Collins from the suspicion that
she was responsible for Whitmore's death, the absence of motive would
have proclaimed her innocence. She loved him. She was ready to discard
her husband for him. She and her brother were looking to him to save
them from financial ruin. No, she had nothing to gain and everything to
lose by the merchant's death.
With this conclusion fixed in his mind, Britz arrived at the office of
the United States District Attorney.
"Where is the deputy who took the convict, Arthur Travis, to Atlanta?"
he inquired.
Wells, the district attorney, smiled musingly.
"Resigned day before yesterday," he replied. "Said a relative had left
him a fortune and he was going on a long trip for his health."
Britz proceeded to enlighten the district attorney as to the real reason
for the deputy's departure. He related all the circumstances that led up
to the substitution of prisoners, Wells listening with growing
amazement. When Britz finished, the district attorney regarded him an
instant, incredulity engraved on his face.
"I can't believe it," he said. "And yet, lieutenant, I don't doubt your
word an instant."
"You'll be able to ascertain the facts for yourself," pursued Britz.
"What I am here for is to ask your help in solving the Whitmore case. Of
course, you'll prosecute the deputy if you ever find him. But I want you
to arrange things so that I can promise immunity to the substitute. His
real name is Timson. I'm going to wire a lawyer in Atlanta to get him
out of jail on a writ of habeas corpus. Now, it is more important that
we land the murderer of Herbert Whitmore than that you should send
Timson to jail for aiding in the escape of a man who was killed within a
day after obtaining his freedom. As for Beard who engineered the deal, I
doubt whether you can convict him. It will be a case of Timson's word
against Beard's and, since it is impossible to obtain corroborating
evidence, the judge will have to charge the jury to acquit Beard. But
with Timson up here to be used as a club, I think I can force Beard to
tell what he knows of the killing of his employer."
"Well, go ahead and obtain your writ of habeas corpus for the
substitute. I'll communicate with the Attorney-General in Washington and
see whether he'll agree to the immunity proposition," said Wells.
From the Federal Building Britz went to the financial district to look
up Ward. A plan of action was forming in his brain, shaping itself as
molten lead shapes itself to the mold. If Horace Beard was stained with
Whitmore's blood, there was one man who could be made to direct the
finger of accusation against him. One man there was in whose heart
bitterness and rancor could be aroused against the merchant's secretary.
Beset by financial difficulties, deserted by the girl to whom he was
engaged, Lester Ward would be an easy prey to the acute mind and
provoking methods of the experienced detective. If jealousy can inspire
hatred, then Ward must feel toward his successful rival all the
ferocious hatred of a man resenting a great deprivation. And that
vengeful passion must not be permitted to expend itself in profitless
inward torture. It was a potent force for Britz's dexterous hands to
manipulate, a destructive fury that should annihilate Beard--if Beard
was the slayer of Herbert Whitmore.