The enormity of suspecting Philip Crawford was so great, to my mind,
that I went at once to the district attorney's office for consultation
with him.
Mr. Goodrich listened to what I had to say, and then, when I waited for
comment, said quietly:
“Do you know, Mr. Burroughs, I have thought all along that Philip
Crawford was concealing something, but I didn't think, and don't think
now, that he has any guilty secret of his own. I rather fancied he
might know something that, if told, would be detrimental to Miss Lloyd's
cause.”
“It may be so,” I returned, “but I can't see how that would make him
conceal the fact of his having been on that late train Tuesday night.
Why, I discussed with him the possibility of Hall's coming out on it,
and it would have been only natural to say he was on it, and didn't see
Hall.”
“Unless he did see him,” remarked the district attorney.
“Yes; there's that possibility. He may be shielding Hall for Miss
Lloyd's sake--and--”
“Let's go to see him,” suggested Mr. Goodrich. “I believe in the
immediate following up of any idea we may have.”
It was about five in the afternoon, an hour when we were likely to find
Mr. Crawford at home, so we started off at once, and on reaching his
house we were told that Mr. Randolph was with him in the library, but
that he would see us. So to the library we went, and found Mr. Crawford
and his lawyer hard at work on the papers of the Joseph Crawford estate.
Perhaps it was imagination, but I thought I detected a look of
apprehension on Philip Crawford's face, as we entered, but he greeted us
in his pleasant, simple way, and asked us to be seated.
“To come right to the point, Mr. Crawford,” said the district attorney,
“Mr. Burroughs and I are still searching for new light on the tragedy of
your brother's death. And now Mr. Burroughs wants to put a few questions
to you, which may help him in his quest.”
Philip Crawford looked straight at me with his piercing eyes, and it
seemed to me that he straightened himself, as for an expected blow.
“Yes, Mr. Burroughs,” he said courteously. “What is it you want to ask?”
So plain and straightforward was his manner, that I decided to be
equally direct.
“Did you come out in that midnight train from New York last Tuesday
night?” I began.
“I did,” he replied, in even tones.
“While on the train did you sit behind a lady who left a gold bag in the
seat when she got out?”
“I did.”
“Did you pick up that bag and take it away with you?”
“I did.”
“Then, Mr. Crawford, as that is the gold bag that was found in your
brother's office, I think you owe a more detailed explanation.”
To say that the lawyer and the district attorney, who heard these
questions and answers, were astounded, is putting it too mildly. They
were almost paralyzed with surprise and dismay.
To hear these condemning assertions straight from the lips of the man
they incriminated was startling indeed.
“You are right,” said Philip Crawford. “I do owe an explanation, and I
shall give it here and now.”
Although what he was going to say was doubtless a confession, Mr.
Crawford's face showed an unmistakable expression of relief. He seemed
like a man who had borne a terrible secret around with him for the past
week, and was now glad that he was about to impart it to some one else.
He spoke very gravely, but with no faltering or hesitation.
“This is a solemn confession,” he said, turning to his lawyer, “and
is made to the district attorney, with yourself and Mr. Burroughs as
witnesses.”
Mr. Randolph bowed his head, in acknowledgment of this formal statement.
“I am a criminal in the eyes of the law,” said Mr. Crawford, in an
impersonal tone, which I knew he adopted to hide any emotion he might
feel. “I have committed a dastardly crime. But I am not the murderer of
my brother Joseph.”
We all felt our hearts lightened of a great load, for it was impossible
to disbelieve that calm statement and the clear gaze of those truthful,
unafraid eyes.
“The story I have to tell will sound as if I might have been my
brother's slayer, and this is why I assert the contrary at the outset.”
Pausing here, Mr. Crawford unlocked the drawer of a desk and took out a
small pistol, which he laid on the table.
“That,” he said, “is my revolver, and it is the weapon with which my
brother was killed.”
I felt a choking sensation. Philip Crawford's manner was so far
removed from a sensational--or melodramatic effect, that it was doubly
impressive. I believed his statement that he did not kill his brother,
but what could these further revelations mean? Hall? Florence? Young
Philip? Whom would Philip Crawford thus shield for a whole week, and
then, when forced to do so, expose?
“You are making strange declarations, Mr. Crawford,” said Lawyer
Randolph, who was already white-faced and trembling.
“I know it,” went on Philip Crawford, “and I trust you three men will
hear my story through, and then take such measures as you see fit.
“This pistol, as I said, is my property. Perhaps about a month ago,
I took it over to my brother Joseph. He has always been careless of
danger, and as he was in the habit of sitting in his office until very
late, with the long windows open on a dark veranda, I often told him he
ought to keep a weapon in his desk, by way of general protection. Then,
after there had been a number of burglaries in West Sedgwick, I took
this pistol to him, and begged him as a favor to me to let it stay in
his desk drawer as a precautionary measure. He laughed at my solicitude,
but put it away in a drawer, the upper right-hand one, among his
business papers. So much for the pistol.
“Last Tuesday night I came out from New York on that midnight train that
reaches West Sedgwick station at one o'clock. In the train I did not
notice especially who sat near me, but when I reached our station and
started to leave the car, I noticed a gold bag in the seat ahead. I
picked it up, and, with a half-formed intention of handing it to the
conductor, I left the train. But as I stepped off I did not see the
conductor, and, though I looked about for him, he did not appear, and
the train moved on. I looked in the station, but the ticket agent was
not visible, and as the hour was so late I slipped the bag into my
pocket, intending to hand it over to the railroad authorities next
morning. In fact, I thought little about it, for I was very much
perturbed over some financial considerations. I had been reading my
newspaper all the way out, from the city. It was an `extra,' with the
account of the steamship accident.”
Here Mr. Crawford looked at me, as much as to say, “There's your
precious newspaper clue,” but his manner was indicative only of sadness
and grief; he had no cringing air as of a murderer.
“However, I merely skimmed the news about the steamer, so interested was
I in the stock market reports. I needn't now tell the details, but
I knew that Joseph had a `corner' in X.Y. stock. I was myself a heavy
investor in it, and I began to realize that I must see Joseph at once,
and learn his intended actions for the next day. If he threw his stock
on the market, there would be a drop of perhaps ten points and I should
be a large loser, if, indeed, I were not entirely wiped out. So I went
from the train straight to my brother's home. When I reached the gate,
I saw there was a low light in his office, so I went round that way,
instead of to the front door. As I neared the veranda, and went up the
steps, I drew from my overcoat pocket the newspaper, and, feeling the
gold bag there also, I drew that out, thinking to show it to Joseph.
As I look back now, I think it occurred to me that the bag might be
Florence's; I had seen her carry one like it. But, as you can readily
understand, I gave no coherent thought to the bag, as my mind was
full of the business matter. The French window was open, and I stepped
inside.”
Mr. Crawford paused here, but he gave way to no visible emotion. He was
like a man with an inexorable duty to perform, and no wish to stop until
it was finished.
But truth was stamped unmistakably in every word and every look.
“Only the desk light was turned on, but that gave light enough for me to
see my brother sitting dead in his chair. I satisfied myself that he
was really dead, and then, in a sort of daze, I looked about the room.
Though I felt benumbed and half unconscious, physically, my thoughts
worked rapidly. On the desk before him I saw his will.”
An irrepressible exclamation from Mr. Randolph was the only sound that
greeted this astonishing statement.
“Yes,” and Mr. Crawford took a document from the same drawer whence he
had taken the pistol; “there is Joseph Crawford's will, leaving all his
property to Florence Lloyd.”
Mechanically, Mr. Randolph took the paper his client passed to him, and,
after a glance at it, laid it on the table in front of him.
“That was my crime,” said Philip Crawford solemnly, “and I thank God
that I can confess it and make restitution. I must have been suddenly
possessed of a devil of greed, for the moment I saw that will, I knew
that if I took it away the property would be mine, and I would then run
no danger of being ruined by my stock speculations. I had a dim feeling
that I should eventually give all, or a large part, of the fortune to
Florence, but at the moment I was obsessed by evil, and I--I stole my
brother's will.”
It was an honest confession of an awful crime. But under the spell
of that strong, low voice, and the upright bearing of that impressive
figure, we could not, at the moment, condemn; we could only listen and
wait.
“Then,” the speaker proceeded, “I was seized with the terrific,
unreasoning fear that I dare say always besets a malefactor. I had but
one thought, to get away, and leave the murder to be discovered by some
one else. In a sort of subconscious effort at caution, I took my pistol,
lest it prove incriminating evidence against me, but in my mad frenzy of
fear, I gave no thought to the gold bag or the newspaper. I came home,
secreted the will and the revolver, and ever since I have had no doubts
as to the existence of a hell. A thousand times I have been on the point
of making this confession, and even had it not been brought about as it
has, I must have given way soon. No mortal could stand out long under
the pressure of remorse and regret that has been on me this past week.
Now, gentlemen, I have told you all. The action you may take in this
matter must be of your own choosing. But, except for the stigma of past
sin, I stand again before the world, with no unconfessed crime upon my
conscience. I stole the will; I have restored it. But my hands are clean
of the blood of my brother, and I am now free to add my efforts to yours
to find the criminal and avenge the crime.”
He had not raised his voice above those low, even tones in which he had
started his recital; he had made no bid for leniency of judgment; but,
to a man, his three hearers rose and held out friendly hands to him as
he finished his story.
“Thank you,” he said simply, as he accepted this mute token of our
belief in his word. “I am gratified at your kindly attitude, but I
realize, none the less, what this will all mean for me. Not only myself
but my innocent family must share my disgrace. However, that is part of
the wrongdoer's punishment--that results fall not only on his own head,
but on the heads and hearts of his loved ones.”
“Mr. Goodrich,” said Mr. Randolph, “I don't know how you look upon this
matter from your official viewpoint, but unless you deem it necessary, I
should think that this confidence of Mr. Crawford's need never be given
to the public. May we not simply state that the missing will has been
found, without any further disclosures?”
“I am not asking for any such consideration,” said Philip Crawford.
“If you decide upon such a course, it will be entirely of your own
volition.”
The district attorney hesitated.
“Speaking personally,” he said, at last, “I may say that I place
full credence in Mr. Crawford's story. I am entirely convinced of the
absolute truth of all his statements. But, speaking officially, I may
say that in a court of justice witnesses would be required, who could
corroborate his words.”
“But such witnesses are manifestly impossible to procure,” said Mr.
Randolph.
“Certainly they are,” I agreed, “and I should like to make this
suggestion: Believing, as we do, in Mr. Crawford's story, it becomes
important testimony in the case. Now, if it were made public, it would
lose its importance, for it would set ignorant tongues wagging, and
give rise to absurd and untrue theories, and result in blocking our
best-meant efforts. So I propose that we keep the matter to ourselves
for a time--say a week or a fortnight--keeping Mr. Crawford under
surveillance, if need be. Then we can work on the case, with the benefit
of the suggestions offered by Mr. Crawford's revelations; and I, for
one, think such benefit of immense importance.”
“That will do,” said Mr. Goodrich, whose troubled face had cleared at my
suggestion. “You are quite right, Mr. Burroughs. And the `surveillance'
will be a mere empty formality. For a man who has confessed as Mr.
Crawford has done, is not going to run away from the consequences of his
confession.”
“I am not,” said Mr. Crawford. “And I am grateful for this respite from
unpleasant publicity. I will take my punishment when it comes, but I
feel with Mr. Burroughs that more progress can be made if what I have
told you is not at once generally known.”
“Where now does suspicion point?”
It was Mr. Randolph who spoke. His legal mind had already gone ahead
of the present occasion, and was applying the new facts to the old
theories.
“To Gregory Hall,” said the district attorney.
“Wait,” said I. “If Mr. Crawford left the bag and the newspaper in the
office, we have no evidence whatever that Mr. Hall came out on that late
train.”
“Nor did he need to,” said Mr. Goodrich, who was thinking rapidly. “He
might have come on an earlier train, or, for that matter, not by train
at all. He may have come out from town in a motor car.”
This was possible; but it did not seem to me probable. A motor car was
a conspicuous way for a man to come out from New York and return, if he
wished to keep his visit secret. Still, he could have left the car at
some distance from the house, and walked the rest of the way.
“Did Mr. Hall know that a revolver was kept in Mr. Crawford's desk
drawer?” I asked.
“He did,” replied Philip Crawford. “He was present when I took my pistol
over to Joseph.”
“Then,” said Mr. Goodrich, “the case looks to me very serious against
Mr. Hall. We have proved his motive, his opportunity, and his
method, or, rather, means, of committing the crime. Add to this
his unwillingness to tell where he was on Tuesday night, and I see
sufficient justification for issuing a warrant for his arrest.”
“I don't know,” said Philip Crawford, “whether such immediate measures
are advisable. I don't want to influence you, Mr. Goodrich, but suppose
we see Mr. Hall, and question him a little. Then, if it seems to you
best, arrest him.”
“That is a good suggestion, Mr. Crawford,” said the district attorney.
“We can have a sort of court of inquiry by ourselves, and perhaps Mr.
Hall will, by his own words, justify or relieve our suspicions.”
I went away from Mr. Crawford's house, and went straight to Florence
Lloyd's. I did this almost involuntarily. Perhaps if I had stopped to
think, I might have realized that it did not devolve upon me to tell
her of Philip Crawford's confession. But I wanted to tell her myself,
because I hoped that from her manner of hearing the story I could learn
something. I still believed that in trying to shield Hall, she had not
yet been entirely frank with me, and at any rate, I wanted to be the one
to tell her of the important recent discovery.
When I arrived, I found Mr. Porter in the library talking with Florence.
At first I hesitated about telling my story before him, and then
I remembered that he was one of the best of Florence's friends and
advisers, and moreover a man of sound judgment and great perspicacity.
Needless to say, they were both amazed and almost stunned by the
recital, and it was some time before they could take in the situation in
all its bearings. We had a long, grave conversation, for the three of
us were not influenced so much by the sensationalness of this new
development, as by the question of whither it led. Of course the
secret was as safe with these two, as with those of us who had heard it
directly from Philip Crawford's lips.
“I understand Philip Crawford's action,” said Mr. Porter, very
seriously. “In the first place he was not quite himself, owing to the
sudden shock of seeing his brother dead before his eyes. Also the sight
of his own pistol, with which the deed had evidently been committed,
unnerved him. It was an almost unconscious nervous action which made him
take the pistol, and it was a sort of subconscious mental working that
resulted in his abstracting the will. Had he been in full possession
of his brain faculty, he could not have done either. He did wrong, of
course, but he has made full restitution, and his wrong-doing should not
only be forgiven but forgotten.”
I looked at Mr. Porter in unfeigned admiration. Truly he had expressed
noble sentiments, and his must be a broadly noble nature that could show
such a spirit toward his fellow man.
Florence, too, gave him an appreciative glance, but her mind seemed to
be working on the possibilities of the new evidence.
“Then it would seem,” she said slowly, “that as I, myself, was in
Uncle's office at about eleven o'clock, and as Uncle Philip was there a
little after one o'clock, whoever killed Uncle Joseph came and went away
between those hours.”
“Yes,” I said, and I knew that her thoughts had flown to Gregory Hall.
“But I think there are no trains in and out again of West Sedgwick
between those hours.”
“He need not have come in a train,” said Florence slowly, as if simply
voicing her thoughts.
“Don't attempt to solve the mystery, Florence,” said Mr. Porter in
his decided way. “Leave that for those who make it their business.
Mr. Burroughs, I am sure, will do all he can, and it is not for you
to trouble your already sad heart with these anxieties. Give it up, my
girl, for it means only useless exertion on your part.”
“And on my part too, I fear, Mr. Porter,” I said. “Without wishing to
shirk my duty, I can't help feeling I'm up against a problem that to me
is insoluble. It is my desire, since the case is baffling, to call in
talent of a higher order. Fleming Stone, for instance.”
Mr. Porter gave me a sudden glance, and it was a glance I could not
understand. For an instant it seemed to me that he showed fear, and
this thought was instantly followed by the impression that he feared for
Florence. And then I chid myself for my foolish heart that made every
thought that entered my brain lead to Florence Lloyd. With my mind in
this commotion I scarcely heard Mr. Porter's words.
“No, no,” he was saying, “we need no other or cleverer detective than
you, Mr. Burroughs. If, as Florence says, the murderer was clever enough
to come between those two hours, and go away again, leaving no sign, he
is probably clever enough so to conceal his coming and going that he may
not be traced.”
“But, Mr. Porter,” I observed, “they say murder will out.”
Again that strange look came into his eyes. Surely it was an expression
of fear. But he only said, “Then you're the man to bring that result
about, Mr. Burroughs. I have great confidence in your powers as a
detective.”
He took his leave, and I was not sorry, for I wanted an opportunity to
see Florence alone.
“I am so sorry,” she said, and for the first time I saw tears in her
dear, beautiful eyes, “to hear that about Uncle Philip. But Mr. Porter
was right, he was not himself, or he never could have done it.”
“It was an awful thing for him to find his brother as he did, and go
away and leave him so.”
“Awful, indeed! But the Crawfords have always been strange in their
ways. I have never seen one of them show emotion or sentiment upon any
occasion.”
“Now you are again an heiress,” I said, suddenly realizing the fact.
“Yes,” she said, but her tone indicated that her fortune brought in its
train many perplexing troubles and many grave questions.
“Forgive me,” I began, “if I am unwarrantably intrusive, but I must
say this. Affairs are so changed now, that new dangers and troubles may
arise for you. If I can help you in any way, will you let me do so? Will
you confide in me and trust me, and will you remember that in so doing
you are not putting yourself under the slightest obligation?”
She looked at me very earnestly for a moment, and then without replying
directly to my questions, she said in a low tone, “You are the very best
friend I have ever had.”
“Florence!” I cried; but even as she had spoken, she had gone softly out
of the room, and with a quiet joy in my heart, I went away.
That afternoon I was summoned to Mr. Philip Crawford's house to be
present at the informal court of inquiry which was to interrogate
Gregory Hall.
Hall was summoned by telephone, and not long after he arrived. He was
cool and collected, as usual, and I wondered if even his arrest would
disturb his calm.
“We are pursuing the investigation of Mr. Joseph Crawford's death, Mr.
Hall,” the district attorney began, “and we wish, in the course of our
inquiries, to ask some questions of you.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Gregory Hall, with an air of polite indifference.
“And I may as well tell you at the outset,” went on Mr. Goodrich, a
little irritated at the young man's attitude, “that you, Mr. Hall, are
under suspicion.”
“Yes?” said Hall interrogatively. “But I was not here that night.”
“That's just the point, sir. You say you were not here, but you refuse
to say where you were. Now, wherever you may have been that night, a
frank admission of it will do you less harm than this incriminating
concealment of the truth.”
“In that case,” said Hall easily, “I suppose I may as well tell you.
But first, since you practically accuse me, may I ask if any new
developments have been brought to light?”
“One has,” said Mr. Goodrich. “The missing will has been found.”
“What?” cried Hall, unable to conceal his satisfaction at this
information.
“Yes,” said Mr. Goodrich coldly, disgusted at the plainly apparent
mercenary spirit of the man; “yes, the will of Mr. Joseph Crawford,
which bequeaths the bulk of his estate to Miss Lloyd, is safe in Mr.
Randolph's possession. But that fact in no way affects your connection
with the case, or our desire to learn where you were on Tuesday night.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Goodrich; I didn't hear all that you said.”
Bluffing again, thought I; and, truly, it seemed to me rather a clever
way to gain time for consideration, and yet let his answers appear
spontaneous.
The district attorney repeated his question, and now Gregory Hall
answered deliberately,
“I still refuse to tell you where I was. It in no way affects the case;
it is a private matter of my own. I was in New York City from the time
I left West Sedgwick at six o'clock on Monday, until I returned the next
morning. Further than that I will give no account of my doings.”
“Then we must assume you were engaged in some occupation of which you
are ashamed to tell.”
Hall shrugged his shoulders. “You may assume what you choose,” he said.
“I was not here, I had no hand in Mr. Crawford's death, and knew nothing
of it until my return next day.”
“You knew Mr. Crawford kept a revolver in his desk. You must know it is
not there now.”
Hall looked troubled.
“I know nothing about that revolver,” he said. “I saw it the day Mr.
Philip Crawford brought it there, but I have never seen it since.”
This sounded honest enough, but if he were the criminal, he would, of
course, make these same avowals.
“Well, Mr. Hall,” said the district attorney, with an air of finality,
“we suspect you. We hold that you had motive, opportunity, and means for
this crime. Therefore, unless you can prove an alibi for Tuesday night,
and bring witnesses to prove where you, were, we must arrest you, on
suspicion, for the murder of Joseph Crawford.”
Gregory Hall deliberated silently for a few moments, then he said:
“I am innocent. But I persist in my refusal to allow intrusion on my
private and personal affairs. Arrest me if you will, but you will yet
learn your mistake.”
I can never explain it, even to myself, but something in the man's tone
and manner convinced me, even against my own will, that he spoke the
truth.