“Here we are, sir,” said the driver, as we turned in at a fine stone
gateway. “This is the Joseph Crawford place.”
He spoke with a sort of reverent pride, and I afterward learned that his
devotion to his late master was truly exceptional.
This probably prejudiced him in favor of the Crawford place and all its
appurtenances, for, to me, the estate was not so magnificent as some of
the others we had passed. And yet, though not so large, I soon realized
that every detail of art or architecture was perfect in its way, and
that it was really a gem of a country home to which I had been brought.
We drove along a curving road to the house, passing well-arranged flower
beds, and many valuable trees and shrubs. Reaching the porte cochere the
driver stopped, and the groom sprang down to hand me out.
As might be expected, many people were about. Men stood talking in
groups on the veranda, while messengers were seen hastily coming or
going through the open front doors.
A waiting servant in the hall at once ushered me into a large room.
The effect of the interior of the house impressed me pleasantly. As I
passed through the wide hall and into the drawing-room, I was conscious
of an atmosphere of wealth tempered by good taste and judgment.
The drawing-room was elaborate, though not ostentatious, and seemed
well adapted as a social setting for Joseph Crawford and his family.
It should have been inhabited by men and women in gala dress and with
smiling society manners.
It was therefore a jarring note when I perceived its only occupant to be
a commonplace looking man, in an ill-cut and ill-fitting business suit.
He came forward to greet me, and his manner was a trifle pompous as he
announced, “My name is Monroe, and I am the coroner. You, I think, are
Mr. Burroughs, from New York.”
It was probably not intentional, and may have been my imagination, but
his tone seemed to me amusingly patronizing.
“Yes, I am Mr. Burroughs,” I said, and I looked at Mr. Monroe with what
I hoped was an expression that would assure him that our stations were
at least equal.
I fear I impressed him but slightly, for he went on to tell me that he
knew of my reputation as a clever detective, and had especially desired
my attendance on this case. This sentiment was well enough, but he still
kept up his air and tone of patronage, which however amused more than
irritated me.
I knew the man by hearsay, though we had never met before; and I
knew that he was of a nature to be pleased with his own prominence
as coroner, especially in the case of so important a man as Joseph
Crawford.
So I made allowance for this harmless conceit on his part, and was even
willing to cater to it a little by way of pleasing him. He seemed to me
a man, honest, but slow of thought; rather practical and serious, and
though overvaluing his own importance, yet not opinionated or stubborn.
“Mr. Burroughs,” he said, “I'm very glad you could get here so promptly;
for the case seems to me a mysterious one, and the value of immediate
investigation cannot be overestimated.”
“I quite agree with you,” I returned. “And now will you tell me the
principal facts, as you know them, or will you depute some one else to
do so?”
“I am even now getting a jury together,” he said, “and so you will be
able to hear all that the witnesses may say in their presence. In the
meantime, if you wish to visit the scene of the crime, Mr. Parmalee will
take you there.”
At the sound of his name, Mr. Parmalee stepped forward and was
introduced to me. He proved to be a local detective, a young man who
always attended Coroner Monroe on occasions like the present; but who,
owing to the rarity of such occasions in West Sedgwick, had had little
experience in criminal investigation.
He was a young man of the type often seen among Americans. He was very
fair, with a pink complexion, thin, yellow hair and weak eyes. His
manner was nervously alert, and though he often began to speak with an
air of positiveness, he frequently seemed to weaken, and wound up his
sentences in a floundering uncertainty.
He seemed to be in no way jealous of my presence there, and indeed spoke
to me with an air of comradeship.
Doubtless I was unreasonable, but I secretly resented this. However I
did not show my resentment and endeavored to treat Mr. Parmalee as a
friend and co-worker.
The coroner had left us together, and we stood in the drawing-room,
talking, or rather he talked and I listened. Upon acquaintance he seemed
to grow more attractive. He was impulsive and jumped at conclusions, but
he seemed to have ideas, though they were rarely definitely expressed.
He told me as much as he knew of the details of the affair and proposed
that we go directly to the scene of the crime.
As this was what I was impatient to do, I consented.
“You see, it's this way,” he said, in a confidential whisper, as we
traversed the long hall: “there is no doubt in any one's mind as to who
committed the murder, but no name has been mentioned yet, and nobody
wants to be the first to say that name. It'll come out at the inquest,
of course, and then--”
“But,” I interrupted, “if the identity of the murderer is so certain,
why did they send for me in such haste?”
“Oh, that was the coroner's doing. He's a bit inclined to the
spectacular, is Monroe, and he wants to make the whole affair as
important as possible.”
“But surely, Mr. Parmalee, if you are certain of the criminal it is very
absurd for me to take up the case at all.”
“Oh, well, Mr. Burroughs, as I say, no name has been spoken yet. And,
too, a big case like this ought to have a city detective on it. Even
if you only corroborate what we all feel sure of, it will prove to the
public mind that it must be so.”
“Tell me then, who is your suspect?”
“Oh, no, since you are here you had better investigate with an
unprejudiced mind. Though you cannot help arriving at the inevitable
conclusion.”
We had now reached a closed door, and, at Mr. Parmalee's tap, were
admitted by the inspector who was in charge of the room.
It was a beautiful apartment, far too rich and elaborate to be
designated by the name of “office,” as it was called by every one who
spoke of it; though of course it was Mr. Crawford's office, as was
shown by the immense table-desk of dark mahogany, and all the other
paraphernalia of a banker's work-room, from ticker to typewriter.
But the decorations of walls and ceilings, the stained glass of the
windows, the pictures, rugs, and vases, all betokened luxurious tastes
that are rarely indulged in office furnishings. The room was flooded
with sunlight. Long French windows gave access to a side veranda, which
in turn led down to a beautiful terrace and formal garden. But all these
things were seen only in a hurried glance, and then my eyes fell on the
tragic figure in the desk chair.
The body had not been moved, and would not be until after the jury had
seen it, and though a ghastly sight, because of a bullet-hole in the
left temple, otherwise it looked much as Mr. Crawford must have looked
in life.
A handsome man, of large physique and strong, stern face, he must have
been surprised, and killed instantly; for surely, given the chance,
he would have lacked neither courage nor strength to grapple with an
assailant.
I felt a deep impulse of sympathy for that splendid specimen of
humanity, taken unawares, without having been given a moment in which to
fight for his life, and yet presumably seeing his murderer, as he seemed
to have been shot directly from the front.
As I looked at that noble face, serene and dignified in its death
pallor, I felt glad that my profession was such as might lead to the
avenging of such a detestable crime.
And suddenly I had a revulsion of feeling against such petty methods as
deductions from trifling clues.
Moreover I remembered my totally mistaken deductions of that very
morning. Let other detectives learn the truth by such claptrap means if
they choose. This case was too large and too serious to be allowed to
depend on surmises so liable to be mistaken. No, I would search for
real evidence, human testimony, reliable witnesses, and so thorough,
systematic, and persevering should my search be, that I would finally
meet with success.
“Here's the clue,” said Parmelee's voice, as he grasped my arm and
turned me in another direction.
He pointed to a glittering article on the large desk.
It was a woman's purse, or bag, of the sort known as “gold-mesh.”
Perhaps six inches square, it bulged as if overcrowded with some
feminine paraphernalia.
“It's Miss Lloyd's,” went on Parmalee. “She lives here, you know--Mr.
Crawford's niece. She's lived here for years and years.”
“And you suspect her?” I said, horrified.
“Well, you see, she's engaged to Gregory Hall he's Mr. Crawford's
secretary--and Mr. Crawford didn't approve of the match; and so--”
He shrugged his shoulders in a careless fashion, as if for a woman to
shoot her uncle were an everyday affair.
But I was shocked and incredulous, and said so.
“Where is Miss Lloyd?” I asked. “Does she claim ownership of this gold
bag?”
“No; of course not,” returned Parmalee. “She's no fool, Florence Lloyd
isn't! She's locked in her room and won't come out. Been there all the
morning. Her maid says this isn't Miss Lloyd's bag, but of course she'd
say that.”
“Well, that question ought to be easily settled. What's in the bag?”
“Look for yourself. Monroe and I ran through the stuff, but there's
nothing to say for sure whose bag it is.”