It was just as the men came in at the door, that I chanced to notice a
newspaper that lay on a small table. I picked it up with an apparent air
of carelessness, and, watching my chance, unobserved by Parmalee, I put
the paper away in a drawer, which I locked.
The six men, whom Coroner Monroe named over to me, by way of a brief
introduction, stepped silently as they filed past the body of their late
friend and neighbor.
For the jurymen had been gathered hastily from among the citizens of
West Sedgwick who chanced to be passing; and as it was after eleven
o'clock, they were, for the most part, men of leisure, and occupants of
the handsome homes in the vicinity.
Probably none of them had ever before been called to act on a coroner's
jury, and all seemed impressed with the awfulness of the crime, as well
as imbued with a personal sense of sorrow.
Two of the jurors had been mentioned to me by name, by the coachman
who brought me from the station. Horace Hamilton and Lemuel Porter were
near-by neighbors of the murdered man, and; I judged from their remarks,
were rather better acquainted with him than were the others.
Mr. Hamilton was of the short, stout, bald-headed type, sometimes called
aldermanic. It was plainly to be seen that his was a jocund nature, and
the awe which he felt in this dreadful presence of death, though clearly
shown on his rubicund face, was evidently a rare emotion with him.
He glanced round the room as if expecting to see everything there
materially changed, and though he looked toward the figure of Mr.
Crawford now and then, it was with difficulty, and he averted his
eyes as quickly as possible. He was distinctly nervous, and though
he listened to the remarks of Coroner Monroe and the other jurors, he
seemed impatient to get away.
Mr. Porter, in appearance, was almost the exact reverse of Mr. Hamilton.
He was a middle-aged man with the iron gray hair and piercing dark eyes
that go to make up what is perhaps the handsomest type of Americans. He
was a tall man, strong, lean and sinewy, with a bearing of dignity and
decision. Both these men were well-dressed to the point of affluence,
and, as near neighbor and intimate friends of the dead man, they seemed
to prefer to stand together and a little apart from the rest.
Three more of the jurors seemed to me not especially noticeable in any
way. They looked as one would expect property owners in West Sedgwick to
look. They listened attentively to what Mr. Monroe said, asked few or no
questions, and seemed appalled at the unusual task they had before them.
Only one juror impressed me unpleasantly. That was Mr. Orville, a
youngish man, who seemed rather elated at the position in which he found
himself. He fingered nearly everything on the desk; he peered carefully
into the face of the victim of the crime, and he somewhat ostentatiously
made notes in a small Russia leather memorandum book.
He spoke often to the coroner, saying things which seemed to me
impertinent, such as, “Have you noticed the blotter, Mr. Coroner? Very
often, you know, much may be learned from the blotter on a man's desk.”
As the large blotter in question was by no means fresh, indeed was
thickly covered with ink impressions, and as there was nothing to
indicate that Mr. Crawford had been engaged in writing immediately
before his death, Mr. Orville's suggestion was somewhat irrelevant. And,
too, the jurors were not detectives seeking clues, but were now merely
learning the known facts.
However, Mr. Orville fussed around, even looking into the wastebasket,
and turning up a corner of a large rug as if ferreting for evidence.
The others exhibited no such minute curiosity, and, after a few moments,
they followed the coroner out of the room.
Then the doctor and his assistants came to take the body away, and
I went in search of Coroner Monroe, eager for further information
concerning the case, of which I really, as yet, knew but little.
Parmalee went with me and we found Mr. Monroe in the library, quite
ready to talk with us.
“Mr. Orville seems to possess the detective instinct himself,” observed
Mr. Parmalee, with what seemed like a note of jealousy in his tone.
“The true detective mind,” returned Mr. Monroe, with his slow pomposity,
“is not dependent on instinct or intuition.”
“Oh, I think it is largely dependent on that,” I said, “or where does it
differ from the ordinary inquiring mind?”
“I'm sure you will agree with me, Mr. Burroughs,” the coroner went on,
almost as if I had not spoken, “that it depends upon a nicely adjusted
mentality that is quick to see the cause back of an effect.”
To me this seemed a fair definition of intuition, but there was
something in the unctuous roll of Mr. Monroe's words that made me
positive he was quoting his somewhat erudite speech, and had not himself
a perfectly clear comprehension of its meaning.
“It's guessing,” declared Parmalee, “that's all it is, guessing. If you
guess right, you're a famous detective; if you guess wrong, you're a
dub. That's all there is about it.”
“No, no, Mr. Parmalee,”--and Mr. Monroe slowly shook his finger at the
rash youth--“what you call guessing is really divination. Yes, my dear
sir, it is actual divination.”
“To my mind,” I put in, “detective divination is merely minute
observation. But why do we quibble over words and definitions when there
is much work to be done? When is the formal inquest to be held, Mr.
Monroe?”
“This afternoon at two o'clock,” he replied.
“Then I'll go away now,” I said, “for I must find an abiding place for
myself in West Sedgwick. There is an inn, I suppose.”
“They'll probably ask you to stay here,” observed Coroner Monroe, “but
I advise you not to do so. I think you'll be freer and less hampered in
your work if you go to the inn.”
“I quite agree with you,” I replied. “But I see little chance of being
invited to stay here. Where is the family? Who are in it?”
“Not many. There is Miss Florence Lloyd, a niece of Mr. Crawford. That
is, she is the niece of his wife. Mrs. Crawford has been dead many
years, and Miss Lloyd has kept house for her uncle all that time. Then
there is Mrs. Pierce, an elderly lady and a distant relative of Mr.
Crawford's. That is all, except the secretary, Gregory Hall, who lives
here much of the time. That is, he has a room here, but often he is in
New York or elsewhere on Mr. Crawford's business.”
“Mr. Crawford had an office both here and in New York?” I asked.
“Yes; and of late years he has stayed at home as much as possible.
He went to New York only about three or four days in the week, and
conducted his business from here the rest of the time. Young Hall is a
clever fellow, and has been Mr. Crawford's righthand man for years.”
“Where is he now?”
“We think he's in New York, but haven't yet been able to locate him
at Mr. Crawford's office there, or at his club. He is engaged to Miss
Lloyd, though I understand that the engagement is contrary to Mr.
Crawford's wishes.”
“And where is Miss Lloyd,--and Mrs. Pierce?”
“They are both in their rooms. Mrs. Pierce is prostrated at the tragedy,
and Miss Lloyd simply refuses to make her appearance.”
“But she'll have to attend the inquest?”
“Oh, yes, of course. She'll be with us then. I think I won't say
anything about her to you, as I'd rather you'd see her first with
entirely unprejudiced eyes.”
“So you, too, think Miss Lloyd is implicated?”
“I don't think anything about it, Mr. Burroughs. As coroner it is not my
place to think along such lines.”
“Well, everybody else thinks so,” broke in Parmalee. “And why? Because
there's no one else for suspicion to light on. No one else who by any
possibility could have done the deed.”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Parmalee,” said I, “there must be others. They may
not yet have come to our notice, but surely you must admit an intruder
could have come into the room by way of those long, open windows.”
“These speculations are useless, gentlemen,” said Mr. Monroe, with
his usual air of settling the matter. “Cease then, I beg, or at least
postpone them. If you are walking down the avenue, Mr. Parmalee, perhaps
you'll be good enough to conduct Mr. Burroughs to the Sedgwick Arms,
where he doubtless can find comfortable accommodations.”
I thanked Mr. Monroe for the suggestion, but said, straightforwardly
enough, that I was not yet quite ready to leave the Crawford house, but
that I would not detain Mr. Parmalee, for I could myself find my way to
the inn, having noticed it on my drive from the train.
So Parmalee went away, and I was about to return to Mr. Crawford's
office where I hoped to pursue a little uninterrupted investigation.
But Mr. Monroe detained me a moment, to present me to a tall,
fine-looking man who had just come in.
He proved to be Philip Crawford, a brother of Joseph, and I at once
observed a strong resemblance between their two faces.
“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Burroughs,” he said. “Mr. Monroe tells me
you are a clever and experienced detective, and I trust you can help us
to avenge this dastardly crime. I am busy with some important matters
just now, but later I shall be glad to confer with you, and be of any
help I can in your investigation.”
I looked at Mr. Philip Crawford curiously. Of course I didn't expect him
to give way to emotional grief, but it jarred on me to hear him refer
to his brother's tragic death in such cold tones, and with such a
businesslike demeanor.
However, I realized I did not know the man at all, and this attitude
might be due to his effort in concealing his real feelings.
He looked very like his brother Joseph, and I gathered from the
appearance of both men, and the manner of Philip, that the Crawford
nature was one of repression and self-control. Moreover, I knew nothing
of the sentiments of the two brothers, and it might easily be that they
were not entirely in sympathy.
I thanked him for his offer of help, and then as he volunteered no
further observations, I excused myself and proceeded alone to the
library.
As I entered the great room and closed the door behind me, I was again
impressed by the beauty and luxury of the appointments. Surely Joseph
Crawford must have been a man of fine calibre and refined tastes to
enjoy working in such an atmosphere. But I had only two short hours
before the inquest, and I had many things to do, so for the moment I
set myself assiduously to work examining the room again. As in my first
examination, I did no microscopic scrutinizing; but I looked over the
papers on and in the desk, I noted conditions in the desk of Mr. Hall,
the secretary, and I paid special attention to the position of the
furniture and windows, my thoughts all directed to an intruder from
outside on Mr. Crawford's midnight solitude.
I stepped through the long French window on to the veranda, and after
a thorough examination of the veranda, I went on down the steps to the
gravel walk. Against a small rosebush, just off the walk, I saw a small
slip of pink paper. I picked it up, hardly daring to hope it might be a
clue, and I saw it was a trolley transfer, whose punched holes indicated
that it had been issued the evening before. It might or might not be
important as evidence, but I put it carefully away in my note-book for
later consideration.
Returning to the library I took the newspaper which I had earlier
discovered from the drawer where I had hidden it, and after one more
swift but careful glance round the room, I went away, confident that I
had not done my work carelessly.
I left the Crawford house and walked along the beautiful avenue to the
somewhat pretentious inn bearing the name of Sedgwick Arms.
Here, as I had been led to believe, I found pleasant, even luxurious
accommodations. The landlord of the inn was smiling and pleasant,
although landlord seems an old-fashioned term to apply to the very
modern and up-to-date man who received me.
His name was Carstairs, and he had the genial, perceptive manner of a
man about town.
“Dastardly shame!” he exclaimed, after he had assured himself of my
identity. “Joseph Crawford was one of our best citizens, one of our
finest men. He hadn't an enemy in the world, my dear Mr. Burroughs--not
an enemy! generous, kindly nature, affable and friendly with all.”
“But I understand he frowned on his ward's love affair, Mr. Carstairs.”
“Yes; yes, indeed. And who wouldn't? Young Hall is no fit mate for
Florence Lloyd. He's a fortune-hunter. I know the man, and his only
ambition is the aggrandizement of his own precious self.”
“Then you don't consider Miss Lloyd concerned in this crime?”
“Concerned in crime? Florence Lloyd! why, man, you must be crazy! The
idea is unthinkable!”
I was sorry I had spoken, but I remembered too late that the suspicions
which pointed toward Miss Lloyd were probably known only to those who
had been in the Crawford house that morning. As for the townspeople in
general, though they knew of the tragedy, they knew very little of its
details.
I hastened to assure Mr. Carstairs that I had never seen Miss Lloyd,
that I had formed no opinions whatever, and that I was merely repeating
what were probably vague and erroneous suspicions of mistakenly-minded
people.
At last, behind my locked door, I took from my pocket the newspaper I
had brought from Mr. Crawford's office.
It seemed to me important, from the fact that it was an extra, published
late the night before.
An Atlantic liner had met with a serious accident, and an extra had been
hastily put forth by one of the most enterprising of our evening papers.
I, myself, had bought one of these extras, about midnight; and the
finding of a copy in the office of the murdered man might prove a clue
to the criminal.
I then examined carefully the transfer slip I had picked up on the
Crawford lawn. It had been issued after nine o'clock the evening before.
This seemed to me to prove that the holder of that transfer must have
been on the Crawford property and near the library veranda late last
night, and it seemed to me that this was plain common-sense reasoning,
and not mere intuition or divination. The transfer might have a simple
and innocent explanation, but until I could learn of that, I should hold
it carefully as a possible clue.