THE MURDER
Once more the strident call of the telephone broke in, and Aurora Lane
stepped aside.
"It's Miss Julia," said she excitedly, turning upon her son eyes
suddenly grown large. "Why, it's something awful! Don--a terrible thing
has happened--last night."
"What's wrong--what's happened?" he demanded.
"Mr. Tarbush--the city marshal--why, you know--he was
killed--murdered--last night--found this morning! It was about one
o'clock, as near as they can tell, Miss Julia says. It's all over town."
An exclamation left the young man's lips. "What's that? Murdered?"
"Yes, yes--wait----" She spoke on into the telephone. "Yes, Julia, Don
and I were just at breakfast--no, we've not been on the street yet--one
o'clock, you said? That was when we were just coming home from the
library!"
"Mother," said Don, "that's right! It must have been just about one
o'clock, wasn't it?"
She looked at him steadily for a time, as she dropped the receiver, her
own face a trifle pale. "Yes--we hadn't gone to sleep at the time it
happened. He was killed right in front of his own house, Miss Julia
says."
"And where is that?--you see, I don't know much about the town."
"Beyond the square, about three blocks from the farther corner--the
little house with the low fence in front, and the deep front yard."
"We didn't pass that when we came up from the station?"
"No, we came another street. But, Don----"
"Yes?"
"When you were running last night, you must have passed right close to
there! You didn't see anything strange?"
"Of course not! I'd have looked into it. I don't recall that particular
house.
"Well," he added, after a moment's silence, "in spite of all that
happened yesterday between him and us, I'm not going to call him
anything but a good man--now."
She looked at him strangely--studied his face steadily.
"I'll be going out now, I think--I'm going to run over to see Julia for
a time. Please don't go out on the street, Don. Stay right here. We got
into trouble enough yesterday."
"You needn't fear," said he. "There's nothing and nobody in this town I
want to see. I'll be glad when I shake the dust of it off my feet--when
I once get squared away in my own business you shall leave this place
and live with me."
And then, as there came to him again and again the anticipated pain of
parting with the one he himself loved, he came up to his mother and put
his arms once more upon her shoulders. Again her hands found his hair.
She cast a quick glance about her, as though in his defense.
"Don," said she, "I think I'll never get over thinking of you as just a
boy, a little boy."
He tried to smile. "Pity you didn't drown me in the pool yonder," said
he.
It was the most cruel thing he could have found to say, although he
spoke only in his own bitterness, careless, as a man so often is, of a
woman's hurts. But she left him without comment; and soon he had resumed
his own restless walking up and down in the narrow quarters which seemed
to him such a prison.
Meantime all Spring Valley was afoot and agog over this news. It was the
most sensational thing that had happened, as Aaron Craybill said, since
Ben Wilson's wife went crazy out on the farm, come four years ago, and
killed her four babies, and hid in the haystack until they found her
three days later, and sent her to the asylum. And so forth, and so
forth.
All the good folk met in groups at home or in the streets, so that
within an hour after breakfast there was not a soul in all Spring Valley
did not know that the town marshal had just been killed by some unknown
person for some unknown reason. The news seemed dulling, stupefying. The
clerks who opened the drug stores around the public square, the only
shops open of the Sunday, were slow in their sweeping out that morning.
Pedestrians on the streets walked slowly. The entire life of the town
seemed slow. The sluggish, arresting solemnity of death sat upon all the
little community.
Spring Valley had no daily newspaper, and even the weekly _Clarion_, a
production of some six pages, had its trials in making a living there,
so close was the village to larger towns which reached out and covered
most of its commercial needs in this time of telegraph and trolley. The
editor of the _Clarion_ was, naturally, the correspondent of the largest
daily of the near-by metropolis. Twice in all his life he had had
opportunity for a first page story in the great city daily. His first
metropolitan opportunity was when the aforementioned farmer's wife had
killed her children, some four years ago. And now here was something
quite as big. Editor Anderson sat at his own breakfast table for more
than half an hour pondering on the opening sentence which he was going
to write in his dispatch to the morning daily.
By eleven-thirty he had written his story, and had taken it down to the
station agent for transmission by wire; and that worthy told him that as
soon as Number Five got by he would begin to send the message. "I can't
stop for anything so long as that now," said he.
It was somewhat longer as written than as printed, but Mr. Anderson
described the murder of the city marshal in the following terms:
The progressive little city of Spring Valley, Jackson County,
this state, was electrified this morning by the startling news
of the murder of the well-known city marshal, Mr. Joel Tarbush,
a man of sterling qualities, who has held the office for many
years, and who had endeared himself in the hearts of the
community not only for his discharge of his official duties,
but for his kindliness of heart. The funeral will occur
tomorrow afternoon at half-past three. Reverend William D.
Rawlins will give the funeral address.
The city of Spring Valley is all excitement at this writing. No
trace of the cowardly assassin has yet been found, and the
entire affair remains shrouded in the deepest mystery, which
not even the keenest intellects have been able to penetrate.
There is no one who can ascribe a motive sufficient to inspire
the murder of so respected and harmless a citizen.
Some have ascribed the fiendish act to some hobo or tramp who
may have taken revenge on the marshal for some real or fancied
injury in the past. But no one can recall any instance in which
the deceased has ever incurred the enmity of any such
characters, so that all remain at a loss how to account for
this act. There seems to have been no eyewitness, and therefore
all is but mere conjecture.
Your reporter was among the first at the premises early this
morning, and thus gained all the information that can be
secured at this writing. He has interviewed Miss Audrey
Tarbush, daughter of the deceased, who had for many years kept
house for him in their residence on Mulberry Street, about five
blocks from the courthouse, where the deceased had a small
garden and raised vegetables and flowers which he sold in the
best families of our flourishing city.
Miss Audrey Tarbush, when interviewed by our reporter, said
that she had last night, according to her usual custom, retired
at the hour of half-past nine. She did not attend the exercises
at the city library, where most of the elite of the town were
present last night, because of a headache from which she
suffered. She left the front door unlocked, as was her custom,
for the entry of her father when he had finished the duties of
his day's work. Usually, Marshal Tarbush came home at about ten
o'clock, and himself then retired. On this night, by reason of
certain extraordinary occurrences during the preceding day, he
thought it wise to remain out later than usual. This was in
accordance with his well-known courage and his conscientious
endeavor to protect the residents of the city against any
possible danger.
It was about a quarter after one o'clock, as near as Miss
Audrey Tarbush can recall, that she was awakened by the sound
of footfalls on the front porch. She called out, "Who's there?"
but got no answer. As she went to the door her father succeeded
in opening it and staggered in. He sank down into a chair near
the center table. She saw then that he was very pale, and had a
wound upon his head from which blood was still flowing. Much
alarmed, she inquired of him what had occurred. The deceased
was unable to answer. He seemed to be approaching a sort of
coma.
"Who was it? Who did it?" Miss Audrey Tarbush demanded of him.
It was a dramatic situation.
The deceased was unable to make an intelligent reply. "Someone
hit me," he muttered. That was all he could manage to say, and
that was all she could catch of his last words. Before long his
head sank forward and he breathed his last almost in her arms.
Unassisted she was able to carry the body of her father to the
near-by sofa.
At that late hour the telephone operator had gone home, so she
was unable to call any of the neighbors by means of the
telephone. She does not recall how long she was alone with the
dead body of her esteemed parent, but after a time her cries
from the front porch were heard. The neighbors came to her
assistance, but nothing could be done.
Examination of the remains of the deceased revealed a long and
ragged wound over the upper and left-hand part of the head,
breaking the cuticle for a distance of some four or five
inches. The marshal's hat had been on when he was struck. The
skull was broken for a distance of more than two inches,
according to the examination of Dr. Amos N. Beals, who examined
the body, the left parietal bone being crushed in as by some
heavy instrument.
Your reporter deduces the following theory of the crime. At a
late hour, after City Marshal Tarbush had finished his duties
in the public square, he went towards his home, the public
meeting at the library having by this time been dismissed. At a
distance of perhaps fifty feet west of the front gate of his
own home the deceased was approached by some miscreant, who
with some heavy blunt instrument struck him down from behind,
and who then made his escape, leaving no sign behind him. No
club or weapon of any kind was found.
After receiving his death blow this estimable citizen seems to
have walked, steadying himself against the top rail of the
fence, until he reached the gate. The bloody finger prints upon
the top of the fence were no doubt made by his own fingers,
which he must have raised up to his head. He was able to enter
his own gate, come up his own walk, and ascend his own front
steps. Up to that time no one can tell the story. What ensued
after that has been told by your reporter in the interview with
Miss Audrey Tarbush, his loving daughter.
So ended a long and honorable life. The pallbearers will be
chosen from leading citizens of the town, but their names have
not yet been determined. He will be buried by the Knights
Templar, to which order he belonged, probably on Sunday
afternoon, because, although such haste may appear unseemly,
this early funeral will allow a representative attendance of
all the members of the order, including practically all our
leading citizens, with their full music, so that the concluding
exercises may thus show a greater tribute of respect, the
attendance at any later day being sure to be far less general.
Your reporter has interviewed prominent citizens as to the
cause of this crime which has so shocked our community. When
approached by your reporter, Judge William Henderson,
well-known candidate for the United States senatorship, former
member of the Republic State Central Committee and prominent
citizen in this state, said, "I cannot hazard even a guess at
the perpetrator of this ghastly crime which has so shocked our
community."
The story written by Mr. Anderson ended at this point. As printed it
ended considerably in advance of this point; but at least, as he later
told his wife, he had done his best to give his paper a good story. By
the time his message was waiting in the hands of the station agent,
telephone wires were busy between Spring Valley and other larger towns.
The early afternoon papers in Columbus were on the streets by
eleven-thirty with big headlines, and a few lines of type about the
murder of "County Sheriff Abel Tarbush of Spring Valley, Jackson County,
for which murder four tramps had been suspected and placed in jail." The
deceased was described as a prominent Mason. By that time the star
reporters of the morning dailies were on the through train, Number Five,
bound east from Columbus to Spring Valley, as many learned by telephone;
so that the arrival of Number Five this day would be a matter of special
importance.
Of exact details in all these matters, Don Lane knew but little. It was
for reasons of his own, easily obvious, that he went down to the little
station to meet the through train from the West. Anne Oglesby was
coming!
His mother did not accompany him, of course, and he therefore was quite
alone. Of all those whom he encountered hurrying in the same direction,
all those who packed the little platform and who stood here and there in
groups speaking solemnly one with the other, he could count not a
friend, not an acquaintance. Dully he felt that here and there an eye
was turned upon him, that here and there a word was spoken about him. He
dismissed it as part of the aftermath of his own troubles of the
previous day. He walked nervously up and down, impatiently looking
westward down the line of rails, his own contemptuous hatred for all
these lost in the greater emotion that filled his heart. Anne was
coming--she was almost here! And he must say good-by.
Meantime, in the courthouse, there was going forward due action on the
part of the officers of the law intrusted with the solution of such
mysteries as this murder. The sheriff, a large and solid man, Dan Cowles
by name, was one of the first to inspect the premises where the crime
had been committed. Shortly after that he went over to the office of
Blackman, Justice of the Peace and coroner, who by ten o'clock that
morning had summoned his jury of six men--Nels Jorgens, the blacksmith;
Mr. Rawlins, the minister of the Church of Christ; Ben McQuaid, the
traveling man; Newman, the clothing merchant; J. B. Saunders, the Knight
Templar; Jerome Westbrook, clerk in the First National Bank.
It chanced that the county prosecutor, a young man by the name of
Slattery, was out of town at this time, so that the executive side of
the law for a moment hesitated. The sheriff therefore called up Judge
Henderson and asked his presence at the courthouse for a consultation.
The two were closeted for some time in the sheriff's office. At this
time the deliberations of the coroner's jury would have been well
advanced; therefore, Sheriff Cowles took up the telephone and called up
Coroner Blackman at the Tarbush residence, just as the latter was upon
the point of calling for a verdict of the jury in the accustomed words,
"Murder at the hands of party or parties unknown."
"Wait, Mr. Coroner!" said Sheriff Cowles. "There's going to be some more
witnesses. Keep your jury together."
A few moments later the long shrieking whistle of Number Five was heard
as she came up out of the Paw Paw Creek bottoms, climbing the hill at
the brick yards, and swung around the curve through South Spring Valley
into the stretch of straight track leading down to the station. As the
grinding brakes brought the heavy train finally to a standstill, three
or four young men swung down from the day coaches--reporters from
outside towns.
Don Lane elbowed his way to the edge of the platform. His eye was
searching eagerly along the train exits for someone else--someone else
whom he longed and yet dreaded to see.