get word to Mr. Haworth—how warn him—put him on his guard? Though after
his telling her that she must not, she didn’t dare to go in, yet she
_would_ dare if there was no other way.
Before the poor old soul could decide what to do she heard the front
door of the house close heavily and saw someone coming down the steps.
As he turned at the bottom, the illumination from the hall windows fell
upon him, and she saw it was Haworth.
At once she determined to speak to him—to warn him of his danger—to beg
him to let her come into the house again so she could see that no harm
came to him. She said to herself that if he’d do that, she’d sleep in
front of his door at night—indeed, never let him out of her sight if
she could help it.
All this came to her while she was hurrying with all her strength to
overtake the young man as he went toward the gate; but he was walking
fast, and, crippled by rheumatism as she was, she couldn’t come up with
him. She called as loud as she dared—which was in a very subdued voice
indeed, as it wouldn’t do for that butler scoundrel to know that she
was warning him.
But Haworth either didn’t hear or wouldn’t stop; and finally, about
halfway down the drive, the old woman gave it up.
Then she decided to wait in the drive until his return; she could speak
to him there without disobeying his orders.
* * * * *
A little time after Charles Haworth disappeared in the darkness,
leaving poor old Mrs. Temple standing in the driveway not far from
the gate, he and Edith were together in the small living room of
the Findlay cottage on Cherry Street. That afternoon about half-past
four, a stranger had called on Mrs. Findlay—a mild-looking middle-aged
man—and had told her that Mr. Haworth would be there that evening
between seven and eight.
Edith had hesitated, whereupon the stranger muttered in a low voice,
“Mr. Findlay won’t be home till quite late.”
“How—how do you know?” she asked.
“Some one’ll be taking him to supper, an’ they’re liable to be engaged
in conversation for some little time.”
Before she could make any reply the man was gone.
And now Haworth was there—with her.
For a long time they scarcely spoke. A few endearing words whispered as
they clung together—that was all.
Finally he lowered her hands from his lips, though still holding them.
“Darling one—you know it already—that I’ve come with good news—don’t
you?”
He could feel her head making little nods against his breast and heard
a muffled “Yes” from down there.
“It happened—what I told you I was trying to do. Those people took the
machine—bought it you know—and to-day they paid the money—and there’ll
be other payments coming in later. So now all the trouble is over—there
won’t be any more at all!”
She suddenly looked up in his face, but he gently drew her head down
again, so then she couldn’t see his face any more but lay there
resting, and hearing his voice saying how marvelous it was that this
sale had come just in time—for it _was_ in time. The doctors said it
would be all right and a certain cure if she could get away at once.
And now she could! They hadn’t definitely decided where she was to go,
but would in a day or two. It would be the most beneficial place in
the world for her—they’d make sure of that. And they’d send the best
nurse they could find to take care of her on the journey and when she
got there. And very soon—_very_ soon—she’d be entirely cured and strong
and well again.
When he stopped speaking she twisted around a little so that she could
see his face.
“What is it?” she whispered. Her heart was suddenly beating with a
vague alarm that she couldn’t understand.
He looked down and met her anxious gaze.
“But don’t you see, dear—it’s going to be so wonderful! We’ll have
enough for everything—more than enough. Plenty to take care of you and
plenty for me to go on with anything I want to do. I brought a little
over for you to get along on just for now—see, that package on the
chair there—where my hat is. Don’t mind what’s in it; remember there’s
a lot more—thousands. They paid all that down, you see, and I’m to have
so much a year to work for them—that is, after we’ve got _you_ all
right. That’s the first thing. I couldn’t do anything,—any work at all,
if I—if I was afraid about you. And you know what you have to do for
_your_ part, don’t you, dear one? Wherever the doctors say, you must
go, and whatever they tell you to do you’ll do, won’t you?”
Edith didn’t answer. She was lying quite motionless against him. He
looked down at her.
“But—but you——” she began in a faint voice, and stopped, hesitating.
“Yes?” he encouraged her tenderly.
“I mean you——” (Quite a pause.) “Aren’t you coming too—if I—if I have
to go a long way off?”
“Yes dear—as soon as I can! But to make this sale I had to agree to
oversee the setting up of the machine—and the regulating and all that.
It’s bound to take a little time—it’s bound to, dear—and it won’t do
for you to wait—oh no!”
“But—don’t you think you can come soon?”
“Oh——I do!”
“You see, I”—she clung against him—“I wouldn’t care much about getting
well if you weren’t there.”
“My dear!”
She seemed satisfied and nestled down. After a time she spoke again, a
little mournfully. “I hoped we could do what we always thought we would
as soon as you sold something. You know what we—what we planned.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Will there—will there be enough for that, too?”
“More than enough.”
“But I suppose this other”—with a little sighing breath—“I suppose it
must come first.”
“It must, my precious one.”
“Yes, I know.”
She had referred to their plan of having her get a divorce as soon as
there was money enough to do it.
After this they sat together, silent mostly.
Suddenly Haworth realized he ought to go. He knew some arrangement had
been made for detaining Findlay, but had kept no track of the time.
Now a strong feeling that the hour was late took possession of him.
For Edith’s peace of mind the fellow mustn’t find him there. But he
couldn’t leave without going upstairs to little Mildred, asleep in her
crib.
As they approached the door of the bedroom he stopped and caught Edith
to him, holding her close in his arms.
“My dear,” he whispered, and her lips, as she looked up in his face,
moved in a soundless “Yes.”
After a moment they went on; but in that moment her heart began
throbbing again with the same vague alarm she had felt before.
Haworth had stopped when just within the door of the room and stood
there for a little, looking across at the sleeping child; then he
suddenly turned away and hurried down the stairs into the room below.
Edith, following, felt her hands caught, with a sort of desperation, in
his, and heard his whispered, “Good night ... good night, my dear!”
He released her hands and was turning to leave her, when the front
door, opening and closing again with a violent bang, shook the flimsy
little house, and instantly thereafter Augustus Findlay plunged
into the room. He was out of breath from running, and frenzied with
precisely the right mixture of vindictive jealousy and vicious alcohol
to produce perfect ignition.
“I thought so!” he shouted between his gasps for wind. “By God! I just
got on to it they were trying to hold me back!” He glared across at
Haworth. “What the hell you doing here in the house with my wife?” He
was pulling something like a glove on his right hand as he spoke.
“I’m calling on Mrs. Findlay,” Haworth answered, quietly, and turned
toward Edith as if to say a final word.
“Calling, were you?” Augustus was striding toward him. “Well if you’re
_calling_ I’ve got to show my hand—an’ here it is you —— —— ——!” Saying
which he struck Haworth a savage blow in the face with the brass
knuckles he’d been putting on his hand.
Edith, uttering a subdued cry, tried to run in between the two, but
Haworth put out his hand and held her back. He was standing quite
unconcerned, though the blood was running down the left side of his
face from an ugly cut just under the eye.
Turning to Edith as though nothing out of the way had occurred, Haworth
raised her hand to his lips, looked deeply into her eyes, and huskily
murmuring “Good-bye,” walked out of the room and out of the house
without so much as a glance at Findlay.
For an instant the two left there stood silent; then Augustus
recovering himself made for the stairs, up which he rushed with
stumbling feet. When he came pounding down again a moment later
he found Edith blocking the way. “You shan’t go!” she called out,
breathlessly. “You shan’t go with that!”
“What?” he demanded, stopping before her.
“You’ve got it there under your coat!”
“What if I have?” (Trying to pass her.)
“You shan’t take it with you! No—no—no!” She was holding to his arm and
trying to reach the gun.
He shoved her violently aside and strode toward the door. “You think
I’m going to stop for _you_, you —— ——! No, by God! an’ you’ll damned
well get it yourself when I come back!” And he was gone before she had
time to recover herself.
* * * * *
Augustus knew the streets Haworth would be likely to take to get home,
and started after him on a run—an unsteady one, owing to the load
of booze he was carrying, but he got over the ground. He had the gun
gripped in his hand and was muttering threats and foul names as he
plunged along.
But Haworth, realizing that his appearance would attract attention—for,
though he continually wiped his face, it went on bleeding—turned off
the most direct route through the well-lighted business district of
Egleston Square and Jamaica Plain, into some of the quiet streets
to the south. Even at that he had to pass through one of the lesser
business neighborhoods where there were shops with lighted windows and
people about on the sidewalks.
It was just along here that Findlay, not finding Haworth on the route
he’d expected him to take and turning off into side streets running
parallel thereto, came up with him. Shouting threats and menacing him
with his revolver, he strode along unsteadily by his side, attracting
the attention of everybody within hearing. Quite a few who happened to
be close at hand ran into shops or behind trees. Haworth’s bleeding
face added to the general alarm.
The young man suddenly turned on Findlay with a low-voiced warning.
“Keep away from me or you’ll get into trouble!” he said, and instantly
turned and walked as before.
“Trouble!” Augustus screamed. “You talk to me about trouble do you,
you —— —— ——! What in hell d’ye suppose _you’re_ going to get? I’ve
been waiting for this chance for a year, by God! for more’n a year,
by God! an’ now we’ll see where you get off, you —— —— ——!” And on he
went, letting out the foulest language he could lay his tongue to, with
Haworth paying no further attention to him; and the two disappeared
down a poorly lighted road which took them in the direction of Franklin
Park.
After this extraordinary and rather terrifying scene had shifted itself
well past the little area of shops and light, several of those who
had witnessed it came out from their places of refuge and a hurried
consultation was held, the result of which was a telephonic report of
the affair to police station 13 in Jamaica Plain, and assurance from
that quarter that a couple of men would be sent over.
One man who’d been a spectator, had sufficient curiosity to follow
Haworth and Augustus at a safe distance, and was joined later by
another who saw them pass a couple of blocks further on.
Haworth, dogged by the foul-mouthed nephew of old Michael Cripps,
turned in at the mansion gate and went up the dark and weed-grown drive
to the house. They mounted the steps of the front portico together, but
when Augustus made as if to follow him in, Haworth suddenly turned on
him. “You can’t come in here,” he said.
“We’ll see whether I can or not!” Findlay shouted, and began to fight
his way past.
“Very well, we will.” Saying which in his quiet way Haworth gripped
Augustus by the collar and gave him a shove that sent him back across
the portico nearly to the steps, and then turned and entered the house.
Findlay rushed back toward the door, which, as he reached it, was
slammed violently in his face and bolted inside. With an outburst of
the most malignant profanity he sprang against it like a maniac, making
frantic efforts to get it open, pounding and shouting and screaming
threats until exhausted and out of breath. After panting and fuming
there for a while the crazy idea took hold of him that he might get in
at a window—or at least get a look in, which was all he wanted. _One
look—that was all!_ And he stumbled and felt his way along the east
wall until he found himself under the large front window of the room on
the left. The shutters were closed, but at the bottom of one of them,
which was about on the level of his eyes as he stood on the ground,
there were two or three broken slats, and with the frenzied fit of rage
still shaking him like an ague he peered avidly in.
* * * * *
Although Mrs. Temple had waited nearly two hours in the darkness
about halfway down the drive, hoping to intercept Mr. Haworth on his
return, she wasn’t there—as you’ve already gathered—when he finally
did come. She’d been sitting for a long time in the grass at the side
of the drive, her poor old heart beating the very life out of her with
anxiety, when she suddenly became aware that a peculiar mechanical
sound was coming from the direction of the mansion. She’d heard it
before while Mr. Haworth had been working in the basement. He must have
got home by some other way than the drive, and she’d missed him.
Limping back to the house, she got into the shrubbery near the side
windows and tried to see into the room on the left, but it was still
in darkness. She tried the other windows on that side with the same
result. The entrance hall seemed to be the only place in the house
where there was a light. The sounds in the house had now ceased. All
was quiet.
Then she heard a strident voice down the Torrington Road. Faint it was
at first, but gradually growing louder as the man doing the shouting
approached. Quarreling with some one he seemed to be. Oaths were
screamed out, and a great quantity of blackguardly language along with
them.
As the abusive and threatening clamor became more distinct Mrs. Temple
realized that the parties concerned were turning in at the gate and
coming up the drive.
Intensely alarmed, she moved through the shrubbery to the front corner
of the house, where she could get a view of the dimly lighted portico.
It was only a moment before Haworth, closely hounded by Augustus,
appeared out of the darkness of the drive, and the old woman caught
the metallic glint of something that Findlay had in his hand. Without
an instant’s hesitation she hobbled toward him; if she could have
got there she’d have torn the gun away from him or been shot in the
attempt. But before she’d gone halfway the two had mounted the steps,
and a second later Augustus was staggering back, with the door slammed
in his face.
Owing to Findlay’s outcries and his fierce beating against the door,
Mrs. Temple could at first hear nothing else, but when his hammering
and shouting subsided a little she began to notice again those strange
noises from within. Upon this she hurried back along the side of
the house, still avoiding the footpath and keeping in the bushes.
Determined now to get in, even though against Mr. Haworth’s wishes,
she made for the kitchen door, but couldn’t open it, and another rear
door giving into the back hall was also locked. Then she remembered
the basement entrance at the bottom of the stone steps. She found the
door there fastened, as she’d expected, but there was a secret way to
slide the bolt back by reaching in through an aperture in the side and
finding a cord to pull.
The cord was there, but she couldn’t make it work. It was tied in some
way, and after desperate attempts she had to give it up.
She was utterly terrified, for that drunken beast might get into the
house with his knife or pistol and do Mr. Haworth some fearful injury.
In addition to this danger something alarming was going on inside. She
could hear hurried footsteps and what seemed to her strange menacing
sounds.
She started back toward the front of the house, hobbling and stumbling
through the shrubbery, thinking she might find somebody down in
Torrington Road who’d come to her assistance.
But as she came toward the side windows of the room on the left, she
was amazed to see that, instead of the darkness that had prevailed, an
unusually brilliant light was shining out in narrow beams below the
roller shades. At both windows these shades had now been pulled down,
but as is quite commonly the case, they weren’t quite long enough to
reach the bottom of the windows. She hurried to the one nearest to the
front of the house and looked in through the narrow slit.
At once she saw Mr. Haworth seated by the large table, reading a book.
She watched him intently as he sat there occasionally turning the
pages. He seemed entirely at ease and untroubled. There was nothing
about him that gave the idea of anything being wrong or out of the way.
It amazed her that he could recover entire equanimity so soon after the
frightful time he’d been having with Augustus Findlay.
As she watched him he began to feel in his pockets in the absent-minded
way she knew so well, bringing out his pipe and tobacco pouch; then
he stopped reading and began to fill the pipe. It looked so safe and
commonplace after her frightful imaginings and premonitions, that she
hesitated about calling out to him, as she’d fully intended to do.
Now he rose and got a box of matches from the mantel, returning with
it to the table. She had a momentary impulse to speak to him through
the glass, but his singularly calm and reassuring behavior made her
hesitate. Could it be that she was mistaken after all?
Quite suddenly something peculiar startled her—a moving shadow on the
floor it seemed to be, and she realized that the whole room couldn’t
be seen from where she was: the back part, where the doors to the
breakfast room and the butler’s pantry were, was out of sight. This was
behind Haworth as he stood at the table lighting his pipe, and a wave
of horror swept over her as she started for the window farther back
which would give her a view of it.
The aperture below the shade at this window was very narrow, but she
twisted round, and looking sideways was able to see through into the
room.
At last! The frightful thing had come! Standing there behind Mr.
Haworth and aiming a terrible black thing straight at his head, a man,
his face hidden by a cloth or bandage, his clothes clinging to him as
though soaking wet.... She didn’t stop to see any more, but screamed
out a frantic warning, at the same time starting back for the other
window where she could see Haworth.
As she turned she saw dimly by the light sifting out under the shades,
that a man carrying a stepladder was hurrying down the walk toward the
front of the house, and she called to him as she ran, but didn’t stop
to see whether he heard or not. In an instant she was back at the
other window and looking in. Haworth was standing close to the table,
half leaning on it and holding a lighted match to his pipe, emitting
quick puffs of smoke as he drew on it. She shrieked out his name and
beat on the glass with her hands. But she’d no more than begun this
when two shots rang out—one close after the other and with reports so
deafening that they seemed to shake the house.
The old woman was unable to move, frozen, paralyzed, seeing Haworth
spin round as he was hit, and after a weak attempt to hold to the
table for support, sink to the floor. Almost at the same time her own
trembling legs gave way and she sank down, lying half on the ground
and half against the low-growing bushes beneath the window. But only
for the briefest moment was she there, for she’d hardly more than gone
down when she was struggling to her feet again. And as she did so she
saw by the light still shining through under the roller shade, that the
man who’d been running along the path must have stopped and dropped the
ladder, for he was picking it up; and as she stumbled blindly through
the bushes toward the rear of the house he started running toward the
front, dragging the ladder after him along the walk.
The doors of the kitchen and back hall were still locked, but she found
that some one had opened the basement entrance and she got in there.
Two policemen arriving shortly after—smashing a side window to get in,
as there wasn’t time to fumble with the doors—found the old woman on
the floor holding Haworth’s limp body in her arms, his head fallen back
against her breast.
The patrolmen who smashed their way into the house some twenty-six
minutes after the firing of the shots, were sent from Station 13.
The desk sergeant got the phone call from citizens in Jamaica Plain,
describing the terrifying progress through that district of the two
quarreling men with revolvers—blood streaming down the face of one of
them. He sent a man from the station, and also the patrolman on the
nearest beat as soon as his call came in. These two had no difficulty
in picking up the trail of consternation left along the route that
Haworth and Findlay had taken. But when they’d followed it a short
distance beyond Jamaica Plain the two citizens whose curiosity had led
them into trailing the quarreling men in order to see what happened,
came sprinting down the road in a frantic effort to get away, for
they’d been close to the mansion when the shooting took place and knew
that if someone was shot suspicion might light on them.
The patrolmen took these men for the ones they were after and grabbed
them. But in a minute they saw there was something else to it; and
after a bit of time wasted in sharp questioning they got at the truth
and made a run for the Cripps mansion, bringing the two citizens along
with them. Material witnesses at least, and a good chance they’d had a
hand in it—whatever it was. After smashing one of the kitchen windows
these two citizen chaps were shoved in first and stood back against
the wall with orders not to move. Then the officers, working with
their electric torches (for all the lights were now off) ran through
the butler’s pantry, guided by the pungent smell of gunpowder, and an
instant later found what they were looking for.
A quick glance at Haworth was all they needed. One took charge; the
other ran for the nearest patrol box and reported to his station. The
station notified headquarters, and down came a department automobile
with the chief inspector and three plain-clothes men and after that the
medical examiner (called coroner in most places) and two more uniformed
men. (They need a few uniforms in a case like this so people won’t
think it’s a hold-up.)
The medical examiner came in his own car, bringing his stenographer
and a surveyor with him, as was his custom. I don’t think it’s the
usual thing to run a surveyor in, outside of Boston. Of course there
were photographers and all that, and it wasn’t any time at all before
newspapermen were swarming about.
Mrs. Temple hardly noticed anything—excepting that the lights went
suddenly on—until she found herself being urged back by one of the
policemen—he was gentle enough with the old woman—toward the swing
door of the butler’s pantry. James Dreek was standing just within the
door, looking pale and frightened, with a sort of wild-eyed blankness
on his face. The officer told them they’d have to go back into the
kitchen, and Dreek disappeared in that direction, but Mrs. Temple tried
to resist, looking back to where men were bending over Haworth—the
surveyor making measurements of positions and distances, working by
compass; the medical examiner cutting away parts of his clothing. She
made an effort to push past the policeman and get back to the body, but
he prevented her, speaking with rough kindness: “Now, now, ma’am, you
won’t be allowed over there!” But as he looked at the old woman he saw
it wasn’t an ordinary case.
“One o’ the family, ma’am?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes. Let me by!”
“You can’t do anything, lady—he’s past help.”
“I can be there with ’im, can’t I?”
“Not now, ma’am—but if you’re one o’ the family they’ll let you in
afterwards.”
She said no more, but went where he directed. There were a number of
persons waiting in the kitchen—all exits from which were guarded—but
she didn’t notice them, nor had she any idea of what was going on—that
the detectives were searching every part of the house and going
over the grounds outside with electric torches; that a couple of
plain-clothes men were out after the man who’d followed Haworth through
the streets, threatening him with a revolver; that the people waiting
there in the room with her were being taken into another room one by
one, to be questioned.
* * * * *
Some time later she found herself in the great entrance hall, standing
before a man at an improvised desk of rough boarding. There were police
about and a plain-clothes man was writing things on sheets of paper.
Two or three others not in uniform were standing near, apparently
uninterested, but in reality watching her like cats. The old woman
glanced at the various people in the room, hardly aware that they were
real. It might just as well have been a dream. After a time she thought
she heard some one speaking to her.
“What?” she asked, looking about vaguely.
An officer came to her and explained that she must answer the questions.
“What questions?” she inquired.
It appeared there was curiosity as to her name, age, and occupation.
She gave the information in a low mumbling voice, speaking absently.
That out of the way, the inspector, noticing that she was inattentive,
began with sharp emphasis:
“Mrs. Temple, you knew the deceased, did you not?”
The old woman turned to him, startled, and stood looking at him a
moment. Then she looked away, glancing rather vaguely about the room.
She was beginning to realize where she was and what was going on.
“Well, are we going to hear anything from you this evening?”
“Are you the perlice?” she asked with a sharpness of her own.
“You’re here to answer questions—not to ask them.”
“I’d like to know if you’re the perlice, that’s all!”
“This is a police investigation, if that’s what you mean. We’re taking
testimony throwing light on the crime just committed here. You may be
able to help us.”
“No——” Mrs. Temple shook her old gray head. “I won’t be able to help ye
none.”
“You mean you don’t know anything about it?”
“I mean what I told ye—that I won’t be able to help ye none.”
“You don’t seem to realize your position, madam. We can compel you
to answer questions here. But you ought to be willing to give us any
information you can without that, so we can find the guilty man and
bring him to the punishment he deserves.”
“What good’ll punishment do, I’d like to know? What’s the good o’ that
to—to the poor dear man lyin’ there—shot down like a dog he was—doin’
no harm to no one—juss standin’ there lightin’ his pipe—and shot down
like a dog!” She was unable to go on for a moment; but having caught
what she said about Haworth lighting his pipe, the inspector waited
for her. He would give her plenty of time and nurse her along, for it
looked very much as though she’d been a witness to the actual shooting.
“A nice lot of folks _you_ be,” the old woman finally went on in a
broken voice but with deep indignation back of it. “What was ye doin’
before, I’d like to know, asettin’ around offices an’ paradin’ up
and down the streets! When I went an’ warned ye more’n a week ago
that we was in danger over here, I was told there warn’t nothin’ you
could do—not till somebody done somethin’. Well, now some one’s done
somethin’ an’ ye come hurryin’ around askin’ us all about it! But ye
needn’t take no trouble askin’ me. I’ve told ye all I’ve got to tell. I
told it to one of yer perlice a-strollin’ up an’ down Centre Street in
a nice uniform with brass buttons on it!”
The inspector made no attempt to interrupt or cut short Mrs. Temple’s
somewhat fervent remarks, and when she’d quite finished he spoke to her
in a carefully softened tone.
“You’re certainly right, Mrs. Temple,” he said, “as to its being too
late to do anything now for the—the unfortunate victim in this case.
His murder was, as you indicate, a most cold-blooded crime. Every
additional particular that is brought out adds to its cruelty and
brutality. And was it really a fact, as I think you intimated, that the
poor fellow was lighting his pipe as the shots were fired?” He looked
sympathetically and inquiringly at the old woman.
But Mrs. Temple’s mouth was shut and there were no signs visible that
she had any intention of opening it.
“Rot in jail before she’d talk if she didn’t want to,” was the
inspector’s unspoken comment. Well, they’d have to make her want to,
that was all. So she was excused, almost with apologies, and allowed to
go where she pleased. But wherever that was a detective would be on the
job and not lose track of her for an instant.
* * * * *
All available information was in, but the plain-clothes men were still
working through the house and grounds. No weapon of any kind had yet
been found, and no bullet marks discovered in the room. The theory
regarding the latter was that the bullets (it was taken for granted
they’d been fired through the front window) struck against the masonry
of the fireplace or chimney and left no noticeable mark. In that case,
however, they should have been found where they dropped—and the search
for them was still going on.
Notwithstanding there were any number of witnesses to the following
of Haworth home by an infuriated man using the most abusive language
and threatening him with a revolver, no one could be found who had
any idea who this person was. Nor had anyone seen him make an attack
on Haworth that would result in the cut and bruise which had been
found on his face. The two Jamaica Plains citizens who’d followed the
quarreling couple to the house gave as good a description of him as
could be expected. But their statement that the instant before the
shots were fired he was peering in through the large window at the left
of the entrance portico and had his revolver gripped in his hand, was
positive and unshaken. Also that he stayed there a few seconds after
the firing,—though they could not make out what he was doing,—and then
turned suddenly and dashed madly down the drive into Torrington Road.
Everything pointed to this person as the man they wanted, and the
inspector had detectives out after him when the taking of testimony
had hardly begun.
The report of the medical inspector with the “survey” attached, showing
all distances, positions, heights, measurements of everything in the
room, as well as all particulars relating to the body of the murdered
man, had been turned in. Out of this technical mass of information a
few facts adapted to the limited intelligence of the layman could be
extracted. Charles Haworth’s tragic death resulted from whichever of
the two gunshot wounds found upon him was inflicted first. Either would
have caused it instantly. The shots were discharged from a distance
of from fifteen to twenty feet. No chance therefore existed of the
wounds being self-inflicted. The distance of the weapon or weapons at
the instant of discharge, the locality of the wounds and the course of
the projectiles through the body, made such a feat impossible. Both
missiles had come from behind the victim, one entering at the back of
the head and drilling the brain, the other striking near the middle of
the spine and passing through the heart. There were no burns or powder
marks on the clothing nor on the head or body, where the projectiles
went in.
The upward course of the bullets demonstrated two things—and you can
see from both of them how nicely the services of a surveyor came in:
first, Haworth must have been standing when he was shot, for otherwise
the assailant couldn’t have got low enough down to fire at the angle
shown; second, even with Haworth standing, the weapon must have been
held well down to give the bullets their upward course; but as accurate
aim (which had evidently been taken) would have been difficult if not
impossible while holding the gun down within two or three inches of
the floor, the probability was that the assailant had been standing
outside of one of the windows and had fired into the room from near the
bottom of it.
The detectives had a fresh filled pipe—the tobacco on top hardly more
than singed; a book fallen open on its face, crumpling the leaves; a
box of matches; one partly burned match—all from the floor close to the
body. The exact position of each article was given in the survey.
Haworth had evidently been reading and had stopped to fill and light
his pipe as the first of the two bullets made an end of him. No
evidence of a struggle with anyone—none that he had an idea of what was
about to happen.
* * * * *
Two persons concerned in this tragic affair got away from the mansion
and its vicinity before the arrival of the police—Hugo Pentecost from
within, slipping out quietly through the basement entrance, proceeding
through the rear of the property and coming into town by way of
Brookline,—thus avoiding Torrington Road and Roxbury altogether; and
Augustus Findlay from the front, rushing blindly down the drive like a
wild man pursued by seven devils.
After one fearful moment when he’d stood, stunned and paralyzed,
looking through the broken slats near the bottom of the shutters of
the front window—the booze suddenly swept from his system—the crashing
reports of the shots ringing in his ears and Haworth lying there in a
crumpled heap on the floor, Findlay was suddenly recalled to himself
by feeling the weight of something dragging down his right arm; and
raising it into a bar of light coming through the chinks in the
shutter, he saw his revolver gripped in his hand, his forefinger still
hooked to the trigger. He knew—hazily, but he knew it—that he’d been
following Haworth and threatening him with the gun.... And so at last
he’d done it! In a drunken frenzy he’d killed a man! Murder—murder—that
was it! The crime they hang people for or sizzle the life out of them,
strapped in an electric chair! They’d have _him_ for that if he stayed
there. Flight was his only chance, yet he couldn’t move. He saw the
lights suddenly go off in the house—somebody already there! A moment
later he heard a loud voice within calling out something, yet still his
feet were weighted with lead. Then came the sound of quick footsteps
from around the southeast corner. Some one was coming down the path at
the side of the house and dragging some heavy wooden thing—he heard it
grating along the stone flagging. Wheeling about with a desperate jerk,
he fled madly down the drive.
Findlay had been running only a few minutes (he was out on the
Torrington Road by this time) when he suddenly thought of his gun. It
mustn’t be found on him! Looking frantically about, he saw a thick
clump of shrubbery on one of the front lawns and quite near the road.
No one would look for it there! But as he stopped to pitch the weapon
over the fence he discovered that he was being followed! He mustn’t be
seen throwing the thing away—that alone would convict him! There was
nothing to do but run with the gun in his hand. Perhaps he could see a
hole or drain where he could drop it without a noticeable motion as he
ran.
* * * * *
Somewhere about the time the homicide squad arrived at the Cripps
mansion an individual whose clothing set him down as a laboring man and
who was evidently carrying a load of something with more than one-half
of one percent alcoholic content, walked a trifle unsteadily into the
South Station by the Atlantic Avenue entrance, looked blankly about,
and then stopped a man who was hurrying past and asked where there was
a telephone. On having the booths pointed out to him, he mumbled a
thick “much obliged” and made his way to them, getting into No. 19 and
occupying it for some little time. Then he reappeared in the concourse,
and after further inquiries of various persons, found the gate for the
11:35 P.M. train for New York (“Advanced” time). With much fumbling in
his pockets and boozy mutterings as a running accompaniment thereto, he
produced a ticket, and after passing in at the gate tried to give it
up to the Pullman and train conductors seated at a table just inside;
they, however, refusing to take it—as only Pullman passengers gave
their tickets there—he went on toward the train, and eventually climbed
aboard one of the day coaches.
Walking bravely down the aisle, finding not a little assistance from
the friendly arms and backs of the seats on each side, he half fell
into an unoccupied seat—the next to the last at the extreme forward
end. It might have been observed (but it wasn’t) that this seat gave a
person the advantage of having all the lights of the car at his back,
leaving his face in comparative obscurity.
Not long after the train passed the Back Bay station this man was half
asleep, his head bobbing about; and the conductor took his ticket
from the band of his cap where he had stuck it, and passed on without
getting a view of his face.
On arrival at the Grand Central a few minutes before six in the morning
(a few minutes before five, standard) he was left snoozing in his
seat after the rest of the passengers had filed out. A moment or two
later the head end trainman, running through the coaches to see that
all was clear, stopped and shook him, not altogether gently, into
consciousness, yelling as he did so, “All out—all out—Grand Central!...
You get out here!”
The drowsy chap, coming to himself and doubtless being considerably
hazy, conceived that he was being attacked, and hit out in all
directions. The result was a scuffle of wrestling and pulling, all the
more eagerly entered into by the trainman because of having had a lot
of trouble during the night trying to keep the fellow’s muddy boots off
the seat in front of him, throwing them off by main force a number of
times. The present struggle ended in the enraged passenger falling in
the aisle and being dragged out by his feet to the station platform.
* * * * *
On this same morning the steamer _North Land_, from the stern of which
Mr. Pentecost had rather skillfully disembarked a few hours after she
left Boston, came down the Sound and through Hell Gate, emerging into
the East River at about eight o’clock, daylight-saving time. Half an
hour later she was rounding the Battery into the North River, and not
long after that was backing into her berth alongside Pier 18.
By this time most of the passengers were massed in the saloon lobby of
the hurricane deck, their small luggage in their hands, ready to go
ashore through the starboard door of that lobby as soon as the steamer
was made fast and the gangplank run out from the wharf. Nearly every
officer and steward and deckhand was on duty on the starboard side,
which was the landing side in this instance, as the steamer slowly
backed in alongside her wharf.
A small rowboat had been lying close up under the stringpieces at the
shore end of the pier. There were three men in it, apparently of the
deckhand order, and they had mops and pails in the bottom of the boat
and across the seats. They had rowed in there some time before the
arrival of the steamer, coming along the south side of the slip among
the barges and scows of the New York Central Railroad Company which, at
this time, occupied the pier on that side as a freight terminal.
As the _North Land_ came slowly gliding in stern first, the men in
the rowboat pulled out into the middle of the slip and waited there.
A moment after she was made fast and the crew on the fantail had gone
forward, a man in the uniform of a ship’s officer stepped out of the
passageway near the stern on the port side (the passengers were to
disembark on the starboard) and motioned to the men in the rowboat,
upon which they pulled up close under the guard and began to make an
examination of the hull near the water line. Soon after this they had
mops out and appeared to be swabbing off something on the ship’s side,
the officer overlooking the job from the rail above them. A moment
later there were two others watching them, not in the ship’s uniform,
one from some distance forward on the port outside passageway, and the
other from near the stern end of it where it opens into the fantail.
These men each had a movie camera focused on the party in the rowboat,
and when one of the swabbers was trying to get at a place that was too
high to reach and the officer dropped him a rope ladder, the two men
kept their cameras trained on him as he clambered up and stepped over
the rail into the passage, and still followed him as he was reaching
down the ship’s side with his mop in one hand while clinging to the
rail with the other.
This man—the deckhand or swabber who had come aboard by the rope
ladder—got somehow mixed with one or two others of his kind who came
out into the passage, but eventually he could be seen climbing down
the ladder again and into the boat; and very soon after that the three
rowed lazily away with their buckets and mops. The officer hauled the
rope ladder aboard and disappeared through the “emergency exit” into
the ship’s cabin, and the men with the cameras were already gone,
one walking forward along the port passageway, and the one who had
been near the stern passing round to the starboard side by way of the
fantail. Everything was smoothly and rapidly done, the whole thing
occupying scarcely four minutes from the time the rowboat came up to
the ship’s side.
It’s hardly necessary to tell you that after this little performance
was over, the man who climbed the rope ladder with his mop was still on
board the steamer, and that the man with the same mop who went down the
ladder into the rowboat was another person altogether. Nor is it of the
least importance to mention names, for you gentlemen can hardly fail to
be aware that it was Mr. Pentecost who thus came aboard and that it was
one of his “trusties”—made up and dressed to appear in every way like
him—who slid down into the rowboat; so that it might be seen, if anyone
kept account of such things, that the number of men in it when it was
rowed away from the steamer was not less than when it came up under
the stern. And, as you can readily imagine—if you have not already
done so—the entire scene was played, as one might say, for outside
consumption only—that is, for whoever might be about in boats or barges
or on the railway pier opposite. No one connected with the steamer
could have any knowledge of it; a passenger approaching from either
direction on one of the passages would have been begged, by whichever
camera man blocked the way, to wait just a moment until the picture
was taken; an officer or seaman would receive quite the same request,
but with the added explanation that their film concern had obtained
permission from the Eastern Steamship Lines, Inc., to photograph a
bunch of seamen (which is to say, actors posing as such) swabbing blood
off the steamer’s side.
No one would have recognized Pentecost in the confusion, even had he
been seen; and it was perfectly true that such permission had been
asked and granted. Indeed, the company had loaned an officer’s uniform
to help it along. There seemed to have been a little misunderstanding
as to dates, but that was a small matter. Back of it all, if it ever
got to it, they’d have found a company and a scenario, and a couple of
thousand feet of film already taken.
* * * * *
The passengers, herded in the saloon lobby of the hurricane deck, which
was the one they were to disembark from, were growing impatient. Those
nearest the open door on the starboard side had noticed a couple of
men on the dock in conversation with a policeman, and the moment the
gangplank was run out the latter had given a signal of some kind and
the ship’s officers held everybody back. The two men came aboard at
once and went with the Purser into his office, where they scanned the
passenger list. A little later the Captain came to the door and the
Purser asked him to step in a moment. Shortly after that the Steward
and head waiter were sent for. Then (the whole affair had hardly
taken five minutes) the two men went ashore with the Purser, and at
once the ship’s officers who were blocking the way stood aside, the
two ticket takers from the New York office took their places, and the
passengers began to leave the steamer.
Near the foot of the gangplank in the vast dock building was a corner
partition where the passengers coming ashore made a turn to the right.
Back in this corner, which commanded a view of the people filing past
the two ticket takers and down the gangplank, stood the Purser with the
two men who had been looking over the passenger list in his office.
It was toward the end of the stream of disembarking passengers that Mr.
Pentecost and the two Harkers, father and son, came into view at the
top of the gangway, with one of the stewards carrying their luggage. As
they came ashore and were approaching the right-hand turn, the Purser
stepped out and shook hands with them, trusting they’d had a restful
night after their strenuous day in Boston, and wishing them good luck
with their new invention. All was in the most jovial manner, and the
three passed on toward the street. But before they’d got there one of
the stewards came running after them and said that if they had time
the Purser would like to see them for just a minute. “Why, certainly,”
Pentecost said. “Tell him we’ll be right along!”
Harker was alarmed and started to say something under his breath, but
Pentecost growled in a half whisper, without looking at him, “Can’t you
see everything they do stamps it!”
Alfred went on toward the street to get a taxi, and the two partners
turned back.
The Purser was still on the dock near the gangplank, but the two men
who’d been with him were gone—at least, not in sight. But don’t imagine
that fooled Pentecost any.
“Didn’t mean to trouble you,” Mr. Lawson called out as the two came
near.
“No trouble,” said Pentecost.
“Not at all,” added Harker. “What’s going?”
“Why, I’ve just heard something that might concern you gentlemen in a
business way. Man came aboard a minute ago and was telling about a hell
of a murder last night over in Boston.”
“Murder, eh?” said Harker, with the interest such news might naturally
inspire—but no more.
“What makes you think we’d be concerned?” Pentecost inquired.
“Hardly a chance you are—only he said it was out in West Roxbury, and I
remembered you told us _your_ man——”
“What was the name—did he say?” Pentecost asked quickly and with
awakening anxiety—just the right amount you know—not the merest trifle
overdone.
“Why no, I don’t think he did.”
Pentecost glanced at Harker and Harker at him.
“A lot of things might happen in West Roxbury,” he said, turning back
to the Purser.
“Sure they might,” assented that official; “but he said it was an
inventor chap living out there alone.”
“Inventor!” exclaimed Pentecost. “Living out——By George! And all that
money we——” He broke off, and suddenly turning to go was heard to say,
“I’ve got to make a run for a train!”
Harker emitted a “My God!” and followed his partner up the dock. But
Pentecost stopped suddenly a few yards away, where he could still be
seen and heard by the Purser (or anyone concealed in the vicinity),
and pulling out a N. Y., N. H. & H. Railroad folder, began looking for
express trains to Boston.
“That’s right,” Harker said, coming up to him. “We’ll get the first
train out!”
The Purser was approaching them.
“You stay here,” said Pentecost. “There’s a lot of business at the
office. I can wire if I want you. Here”—looking at the folder—“‘New
York to Boston’—I ought to get the nine o’clock.”
“No—” (from Harker) “half-past nine now!”
“That’s Daylight—railroad’s on Standard.”
“So it is—train’s ten our time—just make it!”
Pentecost seized the Purser’s hand. “Thank you very much, Mr. Lawson.
You’ve done us a great favor.” And as he was turning to go: “We paid
that man something like thirty thousand yesterday. A yegg’s run up on
him—that’s what it is!” He hurried out to the street and jumped into
the taxi that Alfred was holding, pushed a five-dollar bill into the
driver’s hand with “Grand Central—make time!” and shouting out a few
parting directions to Harker as the taxi started with a great jerk (the
driver was earning his money) he was whirled away into the traffic.
* * * * *
The man who was following Augustus Findlay as he fled wildly away from
the Cripps mansion a few seconds after the sound of the two revolver
shots split the air, wasn’t by any means putting a shadow on him, but
was running him close, never less than thirty yards behind, and a flash
on him from his pocket torch whenever it was safe to throw a light.
His name was Graham and he knew his business. He kept so near that
Findlay didn’t get a chance to pitch his gun anywhere, and what’s more,
I doubt if he could have done it if he’d got the chance, for the minute
he realized he was being followed and the light flashed on him every
few seconds, he was virtually on the scrap heap—which is to say, out of
his head with terror.
It was in a quiet block of Collamore Street over near the railroad
tracks that Graham ran up on him and bumped him against the iron post
or column of a street light. This nearly knocked Findlay over, but
Graham got him by the throat and shut off his wind before he had a
chance to fall, and in his wild struggles to loosen Graham’s grip so he
could get air, and Graham doing some extra thrashing about trying to
hold him, it gave the idea there was the liveliest kind of a fight on;
and a man in his shirt sleeves, who’d been sitting smoking a pipe at a
second-story window nearly above, commenced to yell at them to quit.
From that minute you could see that Graham was trying to get Findlay’s
revolver away from him, twisting his arm, trying to bite his fingers
loose, and all the while shouting out, “You damn dirty sneak, gimme
that gun! Gimme the gun, I say! It’s the gun I want!” and things like
that. And Augustus, who was terrified, thinking they were after the
thing to prove murder on him, clung to it with the tenacity of an
octopus.
The man at the second-story window, whose name it later appeared
was Rathbun, finding yelling to the two scrappers was no good, came
downstairs and out at the street door of the tenement building; but
seeing—or, to be more accurate, hearing what it was they were fighting
for, hesitated in the doorway, as he had an aversion to being shot up.
In this instant of Rathbun’s hesitation Graham gave Augustus a smash in
the face that made him loosen his hold, and then snatching the revolver
out of his hands turned and raced up Collamore Street, carrying it by
the muzzle; and Rathbun noticed, as the man swung into a street light,
that the hand he was holding it with had a glove on it.
After Graham got safely away, Rathbun went out to Findlay, who was
lying in the road, and tried to find out what it was all about and
whether he was hurt. But he couldn’t get anything out of the fellow.
After a few moments Findlay got to his feet unsteadily, stared blankly
at Rathbun for a second or two, then wheeled around and went limping
down the street toward the railroad. A sorry-looking object he was,
battered and torn and plastered with mud. But his mental condition was
sorrier. Maudlin and devastating fright possessed him. He’d done a
murder—murder—murder! Shot a man, killed a man, and they were hunting
for him—they’d get him! Drunkenness no defense. He’d looked that up
before, when he really thought of doing it! This time he didn’t think.
And he’d done it!
He stopped. If he went home they’d get him there. But if he tried to
get away it would be the same as a confession of guilt. If he went home
he could deny everything—insist that he didn’t know what they were
talking about—that he hadn’t left the house all that evening. Edith
must back him up. That is, if anyone came for him. But after all, why
should they? No one could possibly have seen him at the Haworth place.
It was dark as pitch. And the shutters were closed, so no light shone
on him. Yet who could the man have been who got his revolver? Just
a plain hold-up, that’s what it was. Yet he thought he’d heard him
following from way back near Torrington Road. But if he was a detective
he’d have arrested him. And, anyway, a detective couldn’t have got on
the job thirty seconds after Haworth was k——. Great God! He couldn’t
say it even to himself.
With his mind seething, he stumbled up the two steps to his front door
and stopped there with his hand on the knob and a quick glance up the
street, thinking he heard some one following. He turned with a sudden
terror and tried to open the door, but it was locked. He shook it and
pounded on it, and the instant he heard Edith turn the key in the lock
he burst in, closed the door frantically after him, and stood pushing
against it as if trying to keep some one out.
Edith stood quiet, watching his feverish terror. When he finally ceased
his violent pushing against the door she spoke.
“Tell me,” she said.
“Tell you what? Whad’ ye mean? I ain’t got anything to tell!”
“You have.”
“I have not! I been in a fight, that’s all. A hell of a dirty footpad
jumped on me—just over the other side of the railroad—but he didn’t get
any money—he only took my gun!”
“Your revolver?”
“Can’t you hear what I say?”
“What had you been doing with it?”
“What had——I just had it along. How could I be doing anything when
he took it away from me!” The man was almost sobbing. “You ain’t got
any right to talk to me like that! You’d ought to help me—that’s what
you’d ought to do! I’m going to bed and you tell ’em I was here all
this evening! You can do that much for me, I should think. I was here
reading a book, that book over there on the stand—that’s all you got
to say. What’s the harm o’that? Just tell ’em I was here reading that
book?”
Edith shook her head.
Then followed begging and crying and protesting on his part, but with
no response on hers. She didn’t speak again.
After Augustus had gone whining upstairs and locked himself in his
bedroom, Edith opened the front door and looked out into the dismal
night. She was hesitating. If it hadn’t been for leaving little Mildred
alone in the house with the crazed brute (who had often threatened
to kill the child) she’d have hurried through the dark streets to
Torrington Road. She knew from her husband’s behavior that something
fearful had happened, yet without an idea of how terrible it was.
Finally she sat on a chair in the small living room and waited. There
was nothing else to do.
* * * * *
It was early morning when they came—still dark. Edith heard their feet
on the wooden steps and then the heavy knock on the front door.
Two men stood there, dressed in ordinary clothes. And she could see a
uniformed policeman moving back at the side of the house. It was the
patrolman on the beat who’d been phoned from headquarters to keep an
eye on the place till the Inspectors got there. Now they’d come and
were sending him to cover the rear.
The men at the door were roughly polite. They were sorry to disturb
her, but was Mr. Findlay at home?
“Yes.”
“We’d like to see him.”
“He’s in his room upstairs. I’ll tell him you’re here.”
But as she turned to go the man who’d been speaking called after her:
“If it’s all the same to you we’ll go——Which room is it?”
“The back one—farthest from the stairs.”
“Thank you ma’am.”
The men ran up, and she heard their loud knocking on the door and gruff
orders to Findlay to open it.
Then came the crash of splintering wood (the door was a flimsy affair)
and their heavy tread as they rushed into the room. A moment later
there were more distant voices, and the men came hurrying down again.
“They got him outside, ma’am,” one of them said. “Sorry to make you all
this trouble.” And the two passed out at the front door. Edith called:
“Oh, wait! I want to——”
One of the men turned in the doorway.
“I want you to—I want you to tell me if—if——Oh, what is it?”
“Some trouble in West Roxbury, ma’am. You can find out from
headquarters.”
As the man passed into the street she could hear Augustus’s voice
through the open door. He was whining and crying that he didn’t know
anything about it—he was here at home all the evening reading a
book—that was what he was doing—he never once left the house—ask his
wife if they didn’t believe it—she was right there—just ask her; in the
midst of which came a rough caution from one of the inspectors that
he’d better keep his mouth shut—he could tell all that to the chief.
A moment later came the clatter of a car driven up from somewhere,
the slamming of its door, and the sound of its rapid departure up the
street.
* * * * *
A number of things were happening along here that I’m not going to try
to describe to you. My supposition is that I’m able to get away with
plain facts so they’ll be understood, which is all I aim at. But when
it comes to telling you about Edith Findlay through all this affair—her
going over to the mansion as soon as she could get a neighbor to take
care of little Mildred, and staying there with all that was left of
poor Haworth as long as they’d let her; and later her being at the
funeral; and after that sitting stunned and dry-eyed in her little
parlor at home while she slowly came to the realization of what it
meant—that the one person who was all there was in the world for her
had gone forever, and that somehow it was through her that the terrible
thing had come about—I’m out of it altogether. I can only briefly refer
to it as I’ve just been doing.
Yet with all these fearful things coming down on her, the poor
child—frail and delicate and already in the grip of the demon of
disease—had it in her to stand up to it, quiet and brave. I made a
mistake, though, when I said all these fearful things coming down on
her, for she knew only one. Others had no place in her mind. They
didn’t even occur to her.
And with old Mrs. Temple it was much the same, though in a different
way. Back of all the police investigations, and questionings of
witnesses, and photographing, and ransacking the mansion and grounds
surrounding it, and the sensational newspaper write-ups, and arrests,
and talk, and confusion, was this cruel blow for each of them—the loss
of the one who was dear to them.
* * * * *
Mr. Pentecost left the train at Back Bay Station on arrival in Boston,
thus saving about five minutes. And he saved some three minutes more
by not having to explain to the taxi man where Torrington Road could
be found, the morning and early afternoon papers having thoroughly
attended to that.
It was a few minutes after four o’clock (Advanced time) when his
machine came tearing up the drive—that is, tearing up the lower
part of it, for it was stopped by a patrolman some distance from
the house. Two policemen and a plainclothesman were on watch there.
Pentecost hurriedly explained who he was, and that his firm had paid
a large amount of money the day before for one of the murdered man’s
inventions—which was still in the house, he supposed. They’d left it
crated in the front hall.
The detective made no reply to that, but instead informed Mr. Pentecost
that the Chief would like to see him at headquarters.
“Yes, but wait a minute!” remonstrated Pentecost. “I want to find out
if that machine——”
“You can talk it over with the Inspector when you get there.”
“Talk it over! But my God, man—it’s our property!”
“The Inspector’ll attend to that. You don’t need to worry.”
“Was there a truck out here after it?”
“There sure was, but the truck didn’t get it. How do we know but it
might have something to do with the case?”
“Have you got the idea that anybody’s going to shoot up a man for a
three-ton machine he couldn’t get out of the house?”
“Ask the Inspector that.”
Pentecost was allowed to go in and satisfy himself that his property
was still in the house and had not been tampered with. After a moment
of breathing easier (not overdone you know) upon finding that this was
the case, he apparently began to call to mind that a terrible crime had
been committed and finally asked if he could see the poor chap who’d
been shot. But the body’d been taken to the morgue some hours before.
Half an hour later the detective and Mr. Pentecost arrived at Pemberton
Square and the Inspector didn’t keep them waiting long. Besides the
latter there were two plain-clothes men in the room—one at a table
ready to make notes, the other standing back near the window. The
Inspector, seated at his desk, greeted Pentecost pleasantly; and after
an informal question or two regarding his business and the methods of
running it, came down to the matter in hand.
“Understand your firm’s been having some dealings with the man they
shot out in Roxbury—or rather Jamaica Plain—last night.”
“Why yes, we just bought an invention of his—that is, rights to exploit
and so forth—and paid the money down for it. It was only yesterday, and
the machine’s still out there in the house. One of your men in charge
advised me to speak to you about it, and I certainly hope you’ll be so
good as to arrange it so we can——”
“All in good time Mr. Pentecost. First I’d like to have you tell me
what you know about the affair or the people concerned in it.”
“Yes, certainly, certainly—er——” Pentecost appeared to be slightly
flurried by having the subject shifted so suddenly away from what was
apparently uppermost in his mind. (It might be just as well to remember
I said “appeared to be” and “apparently.”)
“Your firm specializes in novelties of a mechanical nature, you
say—organizes companies and that sort of thing?”
“Yes—yes, we—that’s our business.”
“What are some of the inventions you’ve handled?”
“Well, there’s quite a number. The latest thing we took over was the
Crudex Oil Burning Device. We’re also behind the Polaris Refrigerating
Machine, the Acme Vacuum Cleaner and other successful things. Of course
we hit on a loser now and then, but our average stands up well.”
(Pentecost had naturally given out the straight deals that the firm had
undertaken—sometimes at considerable expense—for precisely this sort of
emergency.)
“That being your business, I take it you were attracted to Haworth’s
inventions.”
“Yes—I was.—That is, to one of them.”
“How did you happen to hear of them?”
“From reading a Sunday supplement write-up when I was over here a
couple of weeks ago—or thereabout.” And Pentecost went on to give
an account of how he went out there to see what sort of mechanical
novelties the inventor had, and to describe his visit to the ancient
mansion—the young man alone there with an old charwoman—the finding of
a device that greatly interested him—the bringing of his partner over
from New York to see it—and their ultimate purchase of the rights in
the machine and the payment of quite a large sum of money down.
“Did you see much of the old woman you speak of,—the one who came in to
cook for him and so on?”
“Not a great deal, but I had to admire her.”
“Why? What did you admire?”
“The game way she kept at it trying to protect Mr. Haworth from us,—for
she got the idea we were trying to rob him or something like that. She
bothered us some listening around, but it was no great matter, so I let
it go.—Though now I think of it I did drive her away once.”
“What was the reason for that?”
“The machine we were negotiating for depended on a secret process,
as you might say. That is, he managed his combustion to compress air
direct without the use of intervening machinery. Something they’d
hardly allow a patent on. That’s why I’m so nervous about it. I hope
nobody takes it out of that crate.”
“Was the old woman trying to see it?”
“Trying to see anything she could. We’d find her everywhere. I don’t
suppose she’d have understood the thing even if she’d got a good look
at it, but I always like to play safe when there’s no patent. So we
finally asked Haworth to keep her out of the house till we got the
machine away.”
After questioning Pentecost on other points, the business transaction
between Haworth and the firm was taken up,—the fourteen-day option, the
payment of the thirty-five thousand dollars, the arrangement made with
him for coming on to New York and setting up and adjusting the machine,
and his agreement to work under their direction for five years.
“It was a cash transaction I understand—this payment of thirty-five
thousand?”
“Yes—he insisted on having it that way.”
“Do you know his reasons for that?”
“No.”
“You actually paid him that amount—in bills?”
“Yes. That is to say, he received it from the firm. Alfred Harker, our
secretary, was the one who handed it to him.”
“But you saw—yourself—that that amount was paid over to him?”
“Yes, I did. I watched Harker counting it out for him.”
“Into his hands?”
“Well, no, it was rather too bulky for that. He counted it out on the
table.”
“And Haworth took it?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do with it—put it in his pocket?”
“I’m not sure, but I should say not. It was rather too large for an
ordinary pocket.”
“Mr. Pentecost, where, exactly, was that bunch of bills when you last
saw it?”
“My recollection isn’t clear enough to admit of a positive statement. I
have the impression that Haworth held it in his hands a short time and
then put it down on the table and stood there with one hand resting on
it.”
“What happened then?”
“Soon after the money was paid we left the house.”
“Did he bring it to the door with him when he went to see you out?”
“He didn’t come to the door—we left him standing at the table.”
“He said good night to you there?”
“Yes. And it was then that he was standing—as I remember it—with one
hand resting on the stack of bills.”
“You referred to an agreement you made with him for working under your
direction. Was he entirely willing to agree to this or did you have to
urge it to some extent?”
“We had some discussion, but he finally saw it was to his advantage,
and signed the contract willingly.”
“Have you that contract with you?”
“My partner took charge of it. I can wire him and he’ll get it in the
mail to-night.”
“Kindly do that.”
The next inquiries were as to the machine the firm had bought, and
Pentecost described it as well as he could and offered to have the
blueprints sent over from New York—an offer which was accepted. He was
unable, when asked, to give any information concerning Augustus Findlay
as he’d never seen him nor even heard his name mentioned, nor could he
tell the Inspector anything about the butler, Dreek, as he’d only seen
him once or twice in the performance of his duties and once when he
was called in to sign as a witness.... Yes, he should say it was quite
possible this butler, Dreek, had seen the bunch of money.... No, he had
no idea how it happened that Mr. Haworth had sent to a New York agency
for a butler.
Shortly after that he was excused, the Inspector intimating that he’d
like to have another chat with him in the near future.
Pentecost said of course—anything he could do, and added that if the
Inspector wanted to see Mr. Harker and his son Alfred—the two who were
with him at the Haworth place—he could get them over that night; but
he was told that such a thing was hardly necessary, as their testimony
could be taken in New York if it came to that.
“You got over here in quick time, Mr. Pentecost,” the Inspector was
moved to say as the interview was coming to a close. “We have to thank
you for that.”
“It was my business that was worrying me—not yours,” Pentecost
returned. “And now that you speak of it,” he went on, beginning to show
eagerness again, “I was advised to consult you as to how I could get
that machine out of the house. We’ve got a good-sized stack of money
invested in it and I’d like to get it into a safe place.”
“It’s perfectly safe where it is, Mr. Pentecost. We’ve got to hold it
till we can see what bearing—if any—it has on the case. Good afternoon.”
A plain-clothes man opened the door for him and Mr. Pentecost passed
out. When the man turned back into the room the Inspector spoke quickly
in an undertone: “Run out after him, Charlie, and keep him in sight
till I get someone on the job. Keep your distance—don’t let him get
wise to it.”
The detective addressed as Charlie disappeared through the door.
* * * * *
The Inspector sat thinking a moment and then got to his feet and
began pacing the room—a habit of his when hunting for the answer to
something. He suddenly stopped and spoke to the plain-clothes man at
the table who’d been taking down the conversation with Pentecost.
“What did you think of that, Alec?”
“Sounded nice an’ slick to me.”
“Ever see him before?”
“Not as I remember.”
“Got an idea I have. Can’t place it. Going to put Loderer and Trench on
him.”
“Cinch on Findlay, ain’t it?”
“What you might call that, but there’s one or two curious things about
it—money gone—thirty-five thousand in bills—we can’t get that on
Findlay.”
“Nor on this man, either, that I can see. You can’t crack an alibi like
that, with the Purser an’ all talking to ’im on the voyage. And on top
of it he comes ashore from the steamer in New York this morning.”
The inspector muttered, “Yes, I know,” absently, and was silent a
moment, thinking. Finally he said with a slightly explosive effect:
“God! I hope Bellinger gets the man that phoned in here last night!”
“You mean about this Pentecost not being on board?”
“Yes—and advising us to have the boat watched in New York.”
“Nothing on it yet?”
“Nothing to the good. We got the booth he phoned from and we picked
up a man who saw a chap go into that booth about that time, but he
couldn’t give a description except that he looked like a day laborer of
some kind—so we don’t land anywhere.”
“What booth was it?”
“Nineteen——South Station.”