A PROPOSITION OF PARTNERSHIP.
The usual congress of village gossips is in session to-night at the
Exchange hotel. It is the fourth day since the Raymond Bank affair, and
the details of the tragedy are discussed with an animation and a wealth
of clew that brings a smile to the face of John Barker, the New York
detective, who retreats to a quiet corner of the hotel veranda to finish
his cigar and muse upon the affair with the calm contemplation
characteristic of men in his calling.
The detective’s face expresses a shade of annoyance as Jack Ashley
ascends the steps to the veranda, draws a chair opposite his, lights a
cigar and tilts his seat back at a comfortable angle.
“You are John Barker, the detective,” began Ashley. Barker assents with
a nod.
“I haven’t a card with me, but my name is Jack Ashley, and I am attached
to the staff of the New York Hemisphere.” Barker looks duly impressed.
“You are an ordinary detective, I presume?” Barker stares. “What I mean
is, if you will pardon my frankness, you are not a Sherlock Holmes or a
M. Lecocq?” It is apparent from his face that the detective is in doubt
whether to laugh or express his displeasure. He compromises with a faint
smile and accepts the proffered cigar.
“My reason for asking,” goes on Ashley, “is that I have a proposition to
offer you.”
Barker strikes a match to touch off his weed. “That proposition is—”
“That we work this bank case together.” Barker drops the lighted match
and gazes at his new acquaintance in astonishment.
“Have another match,” remarks the other, passing it over.
The detective lights his cigar and puffs away on it for some moments in
silence. “I am not in the habit of taking in partners,” he observes
finally.
“I always take a deep interest in an affair like the Hathaway case,”
resumes Ashley, without reference to the other’s remark. “In fact, my
special line on the Hemisphere has been the running down of mysterious
crimes. I have trailed quite a number of them, and you will pardon my
egotism when I say I have been quite successful in my dual capacity of
sleuth and newspaper man.” Barker looks a trifle bored.
“To be candid, however, this case is a bit too big for me to handle
alone. It spreads out too much. It is too much of a job for one man to
look after.”
“Indeed?” The irony in the detective’s voice is thinly veiled. He says:
“Then on the strength of your intimation that you are a devilish clever
fellow—you will pardon my frankness this time—I am asked to take in an
assistant who will gladly share with me the $5,000 reward in the event
of the murderer being apprehended.”
“No; I sha’n’t bother about the reward. I am simply looking for glory.”
“You are young in the newspaper business?”
“About twelve years.”
“And looking for glory?”
Ashley laughs. “For my paper; not for myself.” He passes over a telegram
received that day. It read as follows:
=“Jack Ashley, Raymond, Vt.: Work up case at any expense, and
discover murderer if possible. Chambers.”=
“Now,” says Ashley, as he replaces the dispatch in his pocket, “I will
tell you why I think it would be to your advantage to join forces with
me.” Barker evinces some interest.
“I am in possession of some facts which you not only do not know, but
are not likely to get hold of unless I enlighten you.”
“Ah!” The detective draws his chair nearer his companion and glances
about to make sure there are no outside listeners.
“When I finish, if you consider my information as valuable as I appraise
it, you can do as you please about the partnership idea. At any rate you
will be so much ahead. Come up to my room. We will not be disturbed
there.” When they are comfortably seated and fresh cigars lighted Ashley
begins his story.
“I have run onto two clews. One of them I consider important; the other
less so. By the way, how long have you been in town? Come in on the
after-dinner train?”
“Yes, I have acquainted myself with the known facts in the case and the
result of the coroner’s inquest. Deceased came to his death at the hands
of some person unknown.”
“But who will be known ere long. But to resume. As you know, a man
called at the house of Cyrus Felton shortly before 8 o’clock of the
night of the killing. To the inquiry of the housemaid as to which Mr.
Felton was wanted the man replied that he ‘did not know there were two.’
Not long after 8 o’clock that same evening a man appeared at the ticket
office of the railroad station and inquired when the next train left.
These incidents, while not startling in themselves, seem to prove that
in each case the questioner was a stranger to Raymond. Every one around
these parts knows that there are two Feltons, father and son, and the
natives are also presumed to know that there is no night train through
the town before 11:50.”
“Very well reasoned,” remarks Barker.
“As you also know, on the afternoon of Memorial Day a chap named Ernest
Stanley was liberated from the State prison at Windsor, after serving
two of a three years’ sentence for forgery. Despite the fact that
Raymond was not his home and that he had not, so far as known, a friend
or acquaintance in the place, and contrary to the advice of the warden,
who took an interest in the fellow, he bought a ticket to this town and
started north on the afternoon train. That latter fact was proved by the
ticket agent at Windsor, who sold him the ticket and saw him board the
train. I went to Windsor this forenoon, after the inquest, saw a
photograph of this Stanley, and secured a pretty accurate description of
him.”
“But there is no evidence that he left the train at this station. Or if
he did—”
“He could have been, as I believe he was, the visitor at Felton’s
house.”
“I am not so sure of that,” contends the detective. “On the evening of
Memorial Day the agent of a granite manufacturers’ journal, published at
Chicago, stopped at this hotel. He arrived on the afternoon train from
the north, and after supper, the clerk told me when I quizzed him, he
inquired where Cyrus Felton lived. Felton, you know, is the principal
owner in the Wild River Granite Quarries. It is more than likely, is it
not, that he was the visitor at the Felton residence?”
“Still he may not have called that night.”
“True. Admitting the caller to have been Stanley, what then? A motive
must be assigned.”
“We will discuss that later. For the present suffice it to be known that
Stanley was sentenced to State prison for forging the name of Cyrus
Felton two years ago.”
“Well, what of it? If Stanley’s thoughts were of revenge they were
apparently directed against Felton, not the man who was murdered.”
“That is precisely the point that is not clear to me,” confesses Ashley.
“Now, listen. Here’s a proposition for you: If Stanley was not concerned
in the bank affair, what was he doing at 6 o’clock next morning asleep
in the bushes in a lonely gorge near South Ashfield village?”
“The devil!”
“With a package of papers clutched fast in his hands, about the size
that a bundle of treasury notes and securities would make.”
“You know he was there?”
“I met him.”
Barker is thoughtful. “You said nothing to the authorities or in your
dispatches about the incident?”
“No. I didn’t consider it worth while. The authorities were already
scouring the country round about, and I did not exploit it in my
dispatches because I concluded to save it for a longer and better story
when we run down the criminal—beg pardon, when the criminal is run down.
But,” continues Ashley, as Barker remains silent, “that is the clew to
which I attach the less importance.
“I had heard from some source that Ralph Felton had been seen at this
hotel a good share of Memorial Day, and I started in on a pumping
expedition, beginning with John Thayer, the clerk. Thayer was noticeably
uncommunicative; I thought I’d bluff him a bit, so I remarked: ‘Well,
you’ve concluded to tell me what you know, eh?’ The bluff appeared to
work, for he flushed a little and replied: ‘I’ll tell you all about it
if you will agree to keep it out of the paper.’ As I had suspended all
dispatches to the Hemisphere pending the discovery of a story worth
filing, I readily enough agreed to refrain from publishing his secret to
the world. Then he extracted a promise that I should not divulge a word
to any one in the village.
“‘Ralph Felton is as innocent of that crime as you or I,’ asserted
Thayer when all the conditions for secrecy had been satisfactorily
arranged.
“‘That is possible, but why did he refuse to answer the coroner and why
did he cut the town?’ said I.
“‘He had a good reason for wanting to keep dark, and I suppose he ran
away to prevent being compelled to testify where he was Memorial Day
afternoon and evening.’
“‘You know where he was, then?’
“‘Yes; he was here at the hotel. I tell you this because I want you to
know that he is innocent. Felton is a good friend of mine, and I thought
perhaps if you knew how the facts were you might see your way clear to
letting him down as easy as possible in the paper.’ I assured him that
my specialty was setting folks right and then Thayer told off the
following story:
“About 2 o’clock on the afternoon of Memorial Day a woman arrived at
Raymond on the afternoon train from the south, came to this hotel and
registered as ‘Isabel Winthrop.’ She was superbly dressed and displayed
an abundance of jewels. According to Thayer, whose head was completely
turned by her appearance, she was magnificently, phenomenally beautiful.
You can take that for what it is worth. Thayer assigned her a room and
showed her to it. As she passed in she requested him to send a messenger
to acquaint Ralph Felton that a lady desired to see him. Finding him was
an easy task, as he was at that moment playing poker in a room in the
hotel. Felton appeared somewhat surprised when called out, but threw up
the game and went to the woman’s room. That was the last Thayer saw of
him for an hour, when Felton left the hotel. His face was flushed and he
seemed to be laboring under strong excitement. Before he left he called
Thayer to one side. ‘John,’ said he, ‘if you are a friend of mine say
nothing about my caller to-day. You understand?’
“I remarked casually: ‘Then he returned to the hotel that afternoon?’
“‘Oh, yes,’ said he.
“‘And was there during the evening?’
“‘Yes, I noticed him in the office at the time the alarm over the bank
affair was sounded. He left the hotel then and I did not see him again
that night.’
“‘Well,’ I asked pointedly, ‘can you swear that Felton was in the hotel
between 7:45 and 8:30 the evening of Memorial Day?’ I never saw a chap
so taken back as was Thayer. He could not locate Felton at any
particular time during the evening; moreover, he could not say
positively that the Winthrop woman spent the evening in her room. He
supposed she did. The only point that Thayer was sure of was that the
woman left for the south on the first train the next morning.
“‘Thayer,’ said I, consolingly, ‘the only way I see to clear your absent
friend is to find this Winthrop woman. Describe her to me as accurately
as you can.’ He did so and I have a pretty good pen portrait of the
unknown in my memorandum-book, marked ‘Exhibit A.’
“‘Oh, by the way,’ said Thayer, ‘she left a handkerchief in the room.’
“‘The deuce she did! I must have that,’ said I. And here it is,” said
Ashley, passing over a dainty lace creation for Barker’s inspection. In
one corner is the letter “I” curiously embroidered in silk.
“There are thousands of such handkerchiefs,” comments the detective.
“Yes, but not scented with that variety of perfume.” The detective
sniffs it. “Did you ever smell anything just like that?” queries Ashley.
Barker allows that he never did and his acquaintance with scents is an
extended one.
“If Isabel Winthrop is found,” declares Ashley, “that handkerchief, and
especially that perfume, may play an important part in her discovery.”
Barker smiles.
“Truth is stranger than fiction, my boy,” retorts Ashley. “Well, what do
you think of my clews?”
The detective wraps himself in cigar smoke and thought for several
minutes. Then he extends his hand.
“I believe I’ll accept your proposition.” Ashley returns the pressure
warmly.
“I think we’ll make a strong pair to draw to,” he says.
“But,” adds Barker, “you will see that I am more or less disinterested
when I tell you that I incline to the belief that neither of your clews,
good as they are, is the correct one.”
“No? Whom do you suspect?”
Barker rises. “Ashley,” says he, “you are young, enthusiastic and
clever. How are you fixed for patience?”
“Job was a chronic kicker in comparison,” is the prompt reply.
“Well, then, about to-morrow evening I shall be ready to talk with you
and lay out the campaign. Satisfactory?”
“Perfectly. Let’s go down to the billiard room and knock the balls
around for an hour.”
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