In the darkness of his library Thornley Colton paced back and forth. The
cigarette-end glowed and died as he puffed thoughtfully. Each detail of
the girl’s murder at the theatre, described to him by the excited
Sydney, while panic had raged above them and below them in the playhouse
the night before, was being visualized by the wonderful brain that so
unerringly found logic in seeming absurdity; explanation in apparent
impossibility--because that brain had never been tricked by seeing eyes.
The murder of the girl had moved him mightily; the stilling forever of
that wonderful music seemed more a crime against the world than against
an individual. And as he paced the curtained room the mosaics of detail
became a complete picture, and he knew--_knew_--that the man who had
left their box so hurriedly the night before; the man whom Sydney had
_seen_ fire the shot, was guiltless of the murder!
He turned to face the door as hurried footsteps proclaimed to his
trained, supersensitive ears that Sydney Thames was approaching.
“Cartwright has been murdered!” cried the red-cheeked secretary
breathlessly. “It happened too late for the morning papers, but The Fee
got some early extras of the evening editions with full details.”
“Where? How?” asked Colton.
“In an up-town rathskeller. He was shot by Theodore Rogers, the lawyer.”
“He was not,” corrected the blind man quietly.
“How did you hear of it?” demanded Sydney, in surprise.
“This is the first intimation I had of such a thing, but your statement
was just a little too positive; your voice told me that _you_ believe
Rogers guilty because of the utter impossibility of the story he must
have given the police.”
Sydney flushed. “But his story is crazy, insane!” he insisted.
“Perhaps if I heard it----” suggested Colton.
Excitedly, with utter disbelief in his voice, Sydney Thames told of the
unheld pistol Rogers swore he saw; of its firing with no finger near the
trigger; of its recoil, and fall.
“Of course the police arrested him,” continued Sydney. “Cartwright held
a lot of Rogers’s paper. That’s the motive. They’ve got a clear case, as
clear as the one against the love-crazed kid who shot the violinist.”
“Just as clear,” echoed Colton slowly. Then: “But haven’t you withheld
the fact that the pistols used in both murders are exactly alike?”
“How--did you know--that?” gasped Sydney. Many times he had heard the
blind man make such amazing statements, but they always startled him.
“Because both crimes were committed by the same man in the same way!”
“But Nelson, the kid who shot the girl, was locked up in a cell,”
protested Thames.
“Exactly,” admitted the blind man. “But he killed Cartwright as surely
as he murdered the girl.”
It was several seconds before the meaning of that sentence struck
Sydney. “He shot that girl in the back!” rebelled Thames. “I saw his
face over the flash of the pistol. Even he admits that no one else could
have fired it, because it fell on his toe!”
“Rogers swears that no one did fire the bullet which killed Cartwright,”
reminded Colton. “And the pistol fell on the table in front of him.”
“That’s impossible,” asserted Thames emphatically. “Some one must have
held the gun. Some one must have pulled the trigger. There can be no
explanation of what he says he saw. The days of ghosts and black magic
have passed.”
“But not the days of black murder,” retorted Colton. “There is no black
art, ghosts, or hypnotism in the murders of last night. The method is
unique, that’s all.”
He picked up the slim, hollow stick he always carried. “I’m going to
find that murderer,” he said. “A man who could kill a girl like that is
either a fiend or a hideous blunderer. I think it’s the latter. Will you
call the machine?”
The big automobile was always ready for instant service, day or night,
and ten minutes later they were on their way down town. Beside the
driver, eager-eyed, joyful, was The Fee. Colton had promised to let him
help on the case, and the boy’s cup of happiness was full. The Fee had
but two heroes: Thornley Colton in real life; Nick Carter in his
favourite fiction.
“We’ll go to police head-quarters first,” decided Colton. “The prisoners
will be there this morning, and I’d like to question Rogers.” Then he
got from Sydney all the details the papers had given of Cartwright’s
murder.
The Fee found a friendly doorman when they reached police head-quarters
and prepared to have the time of his life. Colton’s card secured them
grudging admittance to the office of the chief of detectives. The chief,
like his men, had all the professional’s scorn for the amateur, but he
knew the blind man, with his wide acquaintance with influential people,
was not a person to antagonize. And the police had found Rogers a
different proposition from the youth whose infatuation had led him to
the dark box and the murder charge. The lawyer was well known, and his
story demanded respect despite the utter impossibility of the thing he
described. Of course, the barman and the waiter had been arrested as
witnesses, but they had not seen the actual shooting. The barman had
been dozing, and the waiter had been busy in a front booth. The shot had
aroused them.
“Going to give us some more pointers?” asked the chief tolerantly, when
he had shaken hands with Colton and nodded curtly to Sydney.
“I’d like to look into that double-murder case a bit,” confessed the
problemist, paying no attention to the tone.
“You mean the two murders committed last night,” corrected the chief
gruntingly. “Nothing to ’em. We’ve got the goods on young Nelson. Twenty
people in the three front rows saw him do it. And Rogers’s fool story is
enough to hang any man.” The real detective’s scorn for the criminal
whose methods are crude came to his voice. “He might have got away with
a suicide story--Cartwright was all broken up about the girl--but Rogers
swears it wasn’t suicide, because the manager’s hands were not near the
pistol when it was fired. He says Cartwright’s look was one of horror,
as if he’d seen his end coming, and couldn’t get away from it.”
“He did see his death coming,” put in Colton quietly; “and I think that
during the last instant he lived he realized at whose hand it came.”
“You think he got wise to Rogers at the end, eh?” guessed the chief.
“No!” The negative was sharp. “Rogers had no more to do with the murder
than you or I. Cartwright was killed by a man who had been planning the
murder for years; the death of the girl was a terrible mistake.”
The chief jumped from his chair. “What do you know?” he demanded.
“Nothing--definitely. With a little help from you I think I can show you
the real murderer.”
“You can’t show me any murderer but Rogers and Nelson,” snapped the
chief, with an air of finality. “Because you can’t convince me or
anybody else that a man could see what Rogers says he saw. A pistol with
no hand near it. It’s impossible! It’s dam’ foolishness!” He snorted.
Unconsciously Sydney Thames found himself nodding confirmation. That was
the whole thing: an impossibility. No one had been near Cartwright but
Rogers. The girl had been shot in the back, and no one could have been
behind her but Nelson. This last Sydney knew, and had seen.
“Let me see the pistols which killed Cartwright and the girl, and I’ll
convince you that the same man murdered both,” offered Colton.
“Duplicate guns aren’t so rare,” instantly resented the chief. This man
was practically telling him that he didn’t know his business!
“Those two pistols--and others that may be in the possession of the
murderer--are the only ones of their kind in the world!”
“Look at ’em, then.” The chief grabbed them from his desk. “They’re a
standard German make, single-shot target pistols, blued steel, with
barrels six inches long, numbered and sold all over Europe.”
Colton took the two pistols, and Sydney drew his chair closer to see.
“In the first place,” began the blind man, as his thin, supersensitive
fingers examined one gun, while the other lay on his knees, “murderers
don’t usually have this kind of pistol. They can’t be carried in any
ordinary pocket, and”--his forefinger-tip rested over the shallow slot
near the muzzle--“you never before saw target pistols without front
sights!”
“Took ’em off so they wouldn’t catch in the pocket,” grunted the chief
knowingly.
Colton’s lips curved in a smile. “An ingenious theory,” he grunted.
“Have you one to fit the banged-up appearance of these butts?” He held
out the pistol and indicated the nicks and scratches.
“Been used to hammer nails,” declared the chief, exaggerated weariness
in his voice. “Gun owners use ’em that way sometimes, like a woman uses
a hairbrush. Nothing to that.”
“Yes there is! No gun owner in the world ever drove a nail by holding a
gun vertically, hand on the barrel, and pounding it up and down like a
pile driver! See, the hard usage doesn’t show on the bottom of the butt,
as it would have done had the pistol been swung as a hammer. The dents
and scratches are all on the outside edge!”
The chief took the extended gun. The sarcastic smile on his lips faded
as he tried the two ways of holding it. The blind man was right! No
driving of nails could have made nicks and scratches where they were on
this pistol! “What’s that got to do with the murder?” he growled.
“Everything,” answered the problemist shortly. He took the other pistol
on his palm. “Didn’t it strike you that these were two finely balanced
pistols, even for target use?” Before the chief could reply Colton shot
another inquiry: “Didn’t you wonder at the fact that both triggers had
been filed to a hair so that the slightest jar would cause the hammer to
fall? See!” He cocked the pistol and jammed the muzzle against the
chief’s desk. The hammer choked down sharply. He tried it again, this
time jamming the butt down on a chair arm. Once more the hammer snapped
on the empty chamber.
The chief’s jaw dropped. “That’s how those nicks were made!” he
ejaculated, shocked from his supercilious attitude. The lightning-like
questions, the proving of fact after fact by Colton, had disconcerted
him. In ten minutes the man who was sightless had shown him details that
neither his keen eyes nor the eyes of his hundred men had seen, and
Colton had made of those details startling, vivid possibilities.
“May I speak to Mr. Rogers?” Colton asked the question quietly, simply,
but under his voice was a subtle note that was dominantly compelling; a
note that had made bigger and stronger men than the chief of the New
York detective bureau bow to his wishes.
“That’s all very interesting stuff,” began the chief pompously, “but
Rogers is the man who shot Cartwright, and we know that Cartwright held
a dozen thousand dollars’s worth of his paper.”
The door opened to admit an attaché, and Sydney hid a grin with his
hand. He had seen the chief press the call button even before he began
to speak.
“Bring Rogers here,” grunted the head of the detective bureau.
The lawyer came in a moment later, and the two men who accompanied him
were curtly ordered out. The strong face of the prisoner was marred by
lines indicating loss of sleep; his lips were shut grimly, a scowl
creased his forehead, his eyes, sharp and piercing, were fixed on the
chief.
“This is Mr. Colton, Rogers,” introduced the detective shortly. “He’s
got a sort of a theory on the Cartwright murder.”
“If it’s the right one he’ll save you a lot of trouble,” snapped the
lawyer ungraciously. He turned to Colton. “I’ve heard of your work on
the Villers case.” His tone was almost amiable; then into it came dull
wonder. “But that was simplicity itself beside this. I saw that revolver
before the shot was fired, unsupported by human hands, against Jim
Cartwright’s shirt front. It must have flown there on invisible wings!”
The chief grunted sarcastically, as he had grunted at each repetition of
that unvarying statement.
Thornley Colton, tapping his foot lightly with his thin stick, looked
up. “That is just what it did do!” he said. The three men stared
blankly. The blind man continued: “According to the newspapers, Mr.
Rogers, you said that something caused you to jerk up your head in time
to see that picture. Do you know what it was?”
“I do not.” Rogers shook his head. “I can only describe it as some inner
impulse.”
“Wasn’t it”--Thornley Colton’s tone was impressive--“wasn’t it a shadow,
a swift-passing shadow, your eyes saw on the floor?”
Rogers leaped to his feet. “By Heaven, it was!” he shouted. “I remember
now!” His voice trembled with excitement. “I had lowered my head, and
across the streak of light between the seat edge and table flew a
shadow--like a bird passing overhead.” He stopped suddenly, the
bewildered look on his face telling the sudden realization of his words.
“How could you know that?” he burst out.
“The human brain is a curious thing,” explained the blind man slowly.
“It unconsciously records impressions the eyes give, but they are
instantly forgotten--because the giving is so automatic--until something
recalls them. Without sight I have been compelled to figure all things
in my brain. Even the steps that you take without seeing must be
mentally visualized by me. I knew it _must_ have been a shadow that
caused you to look up. To you it was merely one of the thousand
unconscious-conscious things your eyes see during the day which are
locked up in the brain until some outside influence brings them back.”
“You can solve this thing!” Rogers shot out the words as if he had just
made a wonderful discovery. The blind man’s conscious power in himself
had won the confidence of the lawyer; made him realize that there was
some logical explanation for the thing which his eyes had seen, and
which his reason refused to accept. He forgot that he was a prisoner
formally charged with murder, he paced the room nervously. And the
chief, scowling down at his desk, was silent. “If you can find the man
who killed Jim Cartwright!” The excitement died from Roger’s voice, a
new tone came. “I knew him for thirty years, yet I never knew him until
last night!”
“I want to bring to justice the man that could kill a girl whose soul
held the music of Miss Reynolds’s.” There was unconscious rebuke in the
problemist’s voice. All his powers he had brought to avenge the innocent
girl; but he knew his efforts must be concentrated on the Cartwright
murder because that was the key, the only key that would lead to the
murderer.
“The love-crazed kid did that! He----” Rogers stopped, his eyes saw the
two pistols side by side on the commissioner’s desk. Instantly his keen
brain recognised the significance. “They’re the same!” he exclaimed.
“What were Cartwright’s relations with Miss Reynolds?” It was a command,
as Colton put it. Rogers lifted his eyes from the two pistols.
“You wrong Jim Cartwright,” he said quietly. “You’ve accepted the
general opinion of him; the opinion he never cared enough about to
refute. He wasn’t an angel, but he wasn’t the devil a thousand
jealousies have painted him. I’m going to tell you the story he told me
last night.” And he did, with all the deep feeling of his friendship,
splendidly, simply.
As the men listened they understood the tragedy of Cartwright’s love for
the woman who had been killed in the first moments of her new-found
happiness--and his; of the little girl he had taken from her dead
mother’s arms to work for, to protect, to give the happiness the mother
had been denied--only to see her foully murdered when her cup of joy had
but just been filled. The fiendishness of it held them spell-bound. The
two beings that Cartwright had loved had been snatched from him, and he
had been killed, knowing in the last instant of his life that the real
murderer of the girl was not even suspected, could not be suspected,
because of the devilish ingenuity of his crime.
“Kelly, the drunken magician, is the man who killed Cartwright!”
ejaculated the chief.
Rogers was startled for a moment, but Colton, with an inscrutable smile
on his thin lips, put a question:
“The father of the girl is dead, isn’t he?”
Rogers glanced at the blind man in surprise. “Yes,” he admitted. “He
died in the alcoholic ward of a Chicago hospital three months after his
wife was killed. He was buried in the potters’ field.”
“Where did you find that out?” scowlingly demanded the chief.
“That I didn’t proves the fact,” answered the blind man crisply. “If
Cartwright hadn’t known he was dead you’d have heard of him before. Do
you want me to go on?” he asked.
“Might as well,” granted the chief. “Maybe this is your lucky day.”
“Then I’d like to ask a few questions of the boy who was arrested as
Miss Reynolds’s murderer.”
The chief gave the order, but there was a light of triumphant
anticipation in his eyes as he waited. Unlike the murderer of
Cartwright, there was nothing mysterious in the killing of the girl,
despite the clever efforts of the blind man to prove differently. A
score of persons had seen the flash of the pistol from the rear of the
box. His men had examined the velvet-hung wall toward which the girl’s
back had been, and there was not a break in it, not a crack.
When the boy--he was little more--was led in by two detectives there
came a look of pity to the faces of Sydney and Rogers. He staggered to a
chair when the men released his arms. His lips were purple and torn
where Cartwright had beaten him to the floor the night before. A
haunting look of terror was in his eyes; his face was pasty white.
“I didn’t do it! I didn’t! I didn’t!” he whispered hoarsely, when he had
wet his dry lips to make even the whisper possible.
Colton put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I know you didn’t,” he said,
and there was a world of sympathy in his voice. A new look came to the
boy’s eyes, a trembling hand sought that of the blind man.
“I loved her and she loved me,” he said chokingly. “We were going to be
married--but that Cartwright----” Shrill vehemence came to the tone, and
he stopped.
Colton’s hand quieted him. “Listen closely now, Mr. Nelson, and tell me
if this is what happened: You groped your way to the box with your right
hand on the wall. You felt the black velvet hangings, stopped, and the
pistol went off while your right hand was stretched above you, on the
hangings, and you were facing the door that led back off the stage.”
“I remember that!” interjected Sydney. “His left side was towards
Cartwright and the girl!”
“Yet you said that the pistol flash crossed his body.”
“It did!” broke in the boy. “It was not twelve inches ahead of me! My
right foot was extended to take another step, and the pistol fell on my
toe!”
Colton turned to the three listening men. “To have fired that shot he
would have had to double his left arm behind him and have shot around
his body--a physical impossibility, even with a long-barrelled pistol.”
He placed his hand gently on the boy’s shoulder once more. “Go outside
to the men who brought you in,” he said. “You will be free in a few
hours.”
Silently the boy obeyed. When Colton faced them again there was a
curious expression on his face; the expression of a man who has seen a
thoughtless boy destroy a priceless work of art by his clumsiness.
“He killed that girl as surely as if he had placed the pistol at her
back,” he said sadly. “Yet he is as innocent of her murder as a child
unborn!”
Eager questions, demands for an explanation of that cryptic remark, were
fairly hurled at the blind man by the excited Rogers. What did he mean?
How could the boy have killed Miss Reynolds and not be guilty of her
murder? How had she been killed? By whom? Sydney Thames forbore the
questions he knew would not be answered. The chief scowled down at the
two pistols, silent, thoughtful. Colton’s statement regarding the firing
of the pistol across the boy’s body had struck him like a dash of cold
water. It was true! The boy could not have fired the shot that killed
the girl! Once more the blind man’s unerring instinct for truth had torn
down the case he and his men had been building for hours. In less than
five minutes the sightless problemist had proved a fact that twenty
pairs of eyes had failed to see.
“Where are the two men who were arrested in the rathskeller?” asked
Colton curtly, utterly ignoring the questions.
“Bailed by their boss,” answered the chief. “They can only establish
details anyway.”
“I want to interview at least one of them,” declared Colton. “I also
want to visit the rathskeller. Can Mr. Rogers go, in your company, of
course?”
“Yes.” The chief took the responsibility unhesitatingly. He realized
that he must see the thing through now.
“Is your machine down here? I want to send my boy on an errand with
mine.”
“Outside, waiting.” The chief took his hat and coat from the tree. “I’ll
go with Rogers while he gets his,” he added, as he opened the door.
The blind man hurried out, feet unerringly retracing the steps his brain
had registered when they entered. The red-haired boy ran from the group
of detectives he had been entertaining.
“Shrimp!” The blind man used the name he always called the boy, and took
him aside. He whispered instructions, thrust two or three bills into the
other’s hand. The youngster darted for the machine, and jumped up beside
the driver as the chief and Rogers came from the front door.
In silence the quartet climbed into the car; in silence they made the
journey to the rathskeller, where James Cartwright had been shot a few
hours before. The waiter who had been on duty early in the morning was
again on hand, heavy-eyed. The barman was at his home.
“Where’s the booth you occupied?” asked Colton of Rogers, when the chief
had established their identity with the nervous proprietor.
The lawyer went to it, stopped at the table, and stared down at the dark
stain that could not be removed.
“This is where we were,” he said huskily.
Colton stepped in between the table and the seat edge, and sat down,
facing the rear of the rathskeller. “Cartwright was seated at the end of
the seat, like this?” He illustrated.
Rogers nodded. “He was on the extreme end, so he could assure himself
that no one would hear.”
Colton rose, and with only the slim stick to guide him, made his way to
a booth that faced the front of the rathskeller, at right angles to the
one where the watching men still stood.
“Who was in this booth when Cartwright was shot?” It was snapped out
like the crack of a whip to the waiter.
“No-body,” faltered the serving man, wincing under the battery of eyes.
“There was!” The voice held accusation. “A man was in this booth, and he
entered a moment or so before Mr. Rogers and Mr. Cartwright!”
The waiter brushed his dry lips with the back of his hand. “He couldn’t
have had nothin’ to do with it,” he mumbled, fingers twisting and
untwisting the napkin in his hands.
“No one said he did!” said the blind man sharply. “You’ve been a witness
in a murder case before, haven’t you?”
The watching men saw a look of alarm come to the man’s eyes. The chief
stepped toward him menacingly. “Yes, sir,” muttered the waiter,
shrinking. “I saw a man shot while I was at the Royal. The police kept
me in the detention for three months, and I lost my job.”
There was a grim smile on Colton’s lips as he nodded understandingly.
“You weren’t going to take a chance on that again, were you?” His tone
was less brusque. “I’ll assure you that you won’t be held a minute if
you give me a description of the man.”
The chief opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap.
“Then I’ll tell you,” consented the waiter eagerly. “He was a good-sized
guy, with a yellow, old-lookin’ face, bald-headed, with a scar on the
top, and he had eyes that was like slits. He came in that door.” He
pointed to one that opened at the rear corner of the rathskeller,
apparently on a side street. “He was so drunk he couldn’t hardly walk,
and he almost fell into the seat. I was goin’ to put him out, we closed
in half an hour, an’ I didn’t want to have to throw no drunks in the
street. But he wanted a whisky and----” The waiter flushed and stopped.
“Go on,” prodded Colton.
The waiter looked at the proprietor and gulped nervously. “He gave me a
five-spot, an’ told me to keep the change. I was bringin’ the drink when
the other two came in. I got theirs, and went up front to figger my
checks. Then I heard the shot. When I thought of the drunk again he was
gone. But he couldn’t ’a’ done nothin’. He had a horrible bun, an’ we
seen the gun layin’ in front of this guy.” He indicated Rogers. “Me an’
the bartender figgered we wouldn’t say nothin’ about him. If we did the
police ’ld put us in the detention till they found him. His gettin’ out
like that would ’a’ looked suspicious to them if it didn’t to nobody
else. He was scared sober an’ beat it quick. That’s my idear.”
“Probably he’d had an experience in the house of detention, too,”
declared the blind man dryly; then: “You never saw him before?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s all. Let’s go, chief. There’s a detail I want to clear up at the
theatre. I’ve got to prove that girl’s murder.” Again there was the
ominous ring in the problemist’s voice.
The chief glowered at the waiter. “You stay right here till I want you,”
he warned. “If you try to beat it you go up the river.” He turned to
Colton. “Wait a minute, until I call up headquarters. I’ll give ’em the
description of that drunk, and have every man in the city on his trail.”
“And spend a week following up clues,” snapped the blind man
impatiently. “I’ll show you where he is in less than an hour!”
He paid no further attention to the gaping chief of detectives, but made
his way out of the place, the silent Sydney Thames at his elbow, the
latter’s coat sleeve lightly touching that of Thornley Colton. And the
chief followed meekly.
The blind man climbed into the front seat with the driver, and Sydney
realized that he wanted to avoid interrogation; to figure out the last
steps alone. But in the tonneau the men could not resist voicing the
questions that filled their minds. Who had killed Miss Reynolds, and
what could have been the object of the murder? What connection could a
drunken man have with the murder of Cartwright; with a pistol that had
been fired without the aid of human hands?
They were at the theatre. The box-office had just been opened for the
day, and the manager took them into the darkened house. The big
interior, dim and tomblike, sent a shudder through Sydney Thames. Last
night there had been brilliant lights, happy men, laughing women--and
the girl of the violin. To-day the great stage gaped before them, huge,
untenanted; the seats were covered with their white dust cloths; voices
sounded eerie in the barnlike emptiness. The velvet hangings at the rear
of the box, which had looked so striking with their sleek blackness the
night before, now appeared worn and dusty. The overturned chairs had
been righted, the blood-stained carpet had been replaced.
Thornley Colton’s thin stick located the chairs. His right hand groped
along the wall, so that the velvet moved under it. He thrust his slim
cane under his arm, and the wonderful fingers went over the velvet inch
by inch, sometimes so strongly that the thick stuff moved under them,
then the pressure was so light that not a quiver of the loose velvet
betrayed their presence. Inch by inch the feeling fingers made their
way, as the men watched breathlessly. Rogers could stand it no longer.
“Was the murderer concealed behind those hangings?” he asked excitedly.
“No,” Colton answered him, without moving. “The pistol flash came from
this side of the velvet.”
Silence came again. The slow-moving fingers stopped. The blind man
looked up; then his doubly keen ears caught the sound of hurrying
footsteps coming toward them down the aisle.
“A telephone message for me?” he asked, as the attaché stopped.
“Mr. Colton?”
“Yes.” He turned to the others. “Come! I think this is the last detail.”
They were at his heels as he entered the boxlike office. Tense,
expectant, though they knew not for what, they listened to the one-sided
conversation.
“Yes. Good. Did you see him? No, that’s all right. Stay there until we
come.” He spoke an aside to the ticket-seller: “Will you please take
this address for me?” The man picked up his pencil and drew a small pad
toward him. “Nine hundred and ninety-seven West Forty-fourth.” The blind
man hung up the receiver.
“What is it?” The question was chorused by the excited men.
“The address of the man who murdered Cartwright and Miss Reynolds!”