A SCRAP OF PAPER
When the big dailies arrived at the Shanty containing accounts of the
inquest, Lancaster was perfectly convinced that Jarman was right.
Captain Berry was his enemy sure enough, though for the life of him
Frank could not conjecture the cause of such hostility. Also it seemed
as though Fairy Fan was likewise against him, since--according to
Frank--she lied freely during her five minutes' evidence.
"Starth might have asked her to marry him," he explained to his
friend, when they were strictly alone, "but I certainly never did."
"Had you any idea of doing so?"
Lancaster hesitated, not being willing to reveal his deepest and most
sacred feelings even unto this staunch friend. "I don't know to what
lengths my infatuation might have carried me."
"Oh then you did love her?" said Jarman, alertly.
"That depends on what you call love. I certainly had a fancy for her.
I thought her pretty and fascinating, and she was always on her best
behaviour with me. I think she liked me more than a little."
Eustace laid one big finger on the _Daily Telegraph_ significantly.
"It looks like it," said he.
"Berry's put her against me," replied Frank in disturbed tones. "I'll
swear that she would never lie like that, unless she was put up to it
in some way. She _did_ like me, although she was always too selfish to
love anyone but herself. Jewels and laces, carriage and pair,
admiration and cutting a dash--that was what Fairy Fan desired. I
could not offer her these things, so she was careful not to compromise
herself with me in any way. I never got so far as asking her to marry
me, though I don't know but what I mightn't have been such an ass had
I not changed my mind."
"And what caused you to change your mind, my son?"
Frank looked oddly at the big man, and then fixed his eyes studiously
on his pipe, while making an evasive reply. "I saw someone I liked
better," he explained, "and then my admiration for Fairy Fan seemed to
vanish like a cloud of smoke. After I saw that other face I thought no
more of Fan, and was able to tell Starth with a clear mind that I
didn't care about her. I'd have danced at his wedding with pleasure."
"H'm! And who is the--no, I have no right to ask that. But to continue
with the lady's evidence. We know the the first. And the second?"
"I never expressed any wish to her that Starth should die. I told her,
certainly, that I sometimes carried a revolver when slumming. But I
never mentioned that it belonged to my father, nor did I show it to
her. Lastly, I never said to Fan that my father's name was the same as
my own."
"Was it?"
"Well, yes. Francis, same as mine."
"And did the revolver belong to him?"
"It did. I got it from my aunt. There was a silver plate on it with my
father's initials, and my own, of course."
"She might have seen the revolver produced in court," said Jarman,
thoughtfully; "but why should she state that it was your father's?"
"Chance shot!" suggested Frank.
"No. She knew the initials on it were your father's and not yours.
H'm! She's in this conspiracy along with Berry."
Lancaster rose to pace the room in an exasperated manner. "Why should
there be a conspiracy?" he demanded.
"You've asked me that before," said Jarman, calmly, "and I have
replied that I think money is at the bottom of it. Evidently Berry
forced his acquaintance on you; and Fairy Fan made the running to
create jealousy and bring about this catastrophe. Money, my boy!"
Frank sat down in despair. "I don't see it," he said, pushing his
hands into his pockets. "Supposing there is money (though for the life
of me I can't think where it's to come from), why is it needful for me
to be hanged before Berry and Fairy Fan get it?"
"That's what puzzles me," said Eustace, nodding. "If they wanted you
out of the way, they could have polished you off at Sand Lane as
easily as they did Starth."
"Do you think they killed him?"
"I do, or else they employed someone else to do it. But you were lured
there to be inculpated in the crime, and, begad! they've managed
finely to put the rope round your throat. The money--well, I can't
make it out, considering the means they've taken to get you into
trouble, but there's money in the matter some way. And a mighty big
sum too, seeing they've gone as far as murder."
"But it's all so vague; and all supposition on your part."
"I admit it. All the same I can theorise in no other way, unless--"
"Well, what is it?"
"I was going to say that perhaps it's blackmail. They may find out
where you are and come forward, offering to save your neck from being
wrung if you pay them well."
"That inculpates themselves. Besides, if I am entitled to money of
which I knew nothing, it was easy enough for Fan to marry me. Then all
would have been square for Berry and her without having had to slay
Starth and outlaw me."
"Sure enough," groaned Jarman, who was getting more and more puzzled.
"What it all means I can't say. You have been outlawed in due form,
and the police are after you. All you have to do is to remain quiet
and not give yourself away, as you nearly did to Mrs. Perth the other
day."
"I hadn't my feelings under control," said Frank. "Her talk of that
stab in the breast startled me. I can't understand why I didn't see it
at the time."
"Did you feel the man's heart?"
"No. The sight of the bullet wound under the left eye was enough for
me. All I wanted to do was to get away and hide."
"Well, then, as you had only a match, and didn't feel the poor man's
heart, it's easy to see how you missed the knife wound." Jarman took
up the paper again. "The doctor says that Starth was shot first and
mutilated afterwards."
"But why should the poor wretch have been mutilated at all?"
"I can't say. It looks like a piece of savagery to me. Though, to be
sure, I think mutilation's a wrong word to be used for a clean stab.
If his ears had been cut off now, or--"
"Don't!" said Frank, with a shudder. "It's horrible! The man was shot
dead, and then stabbed to make sure. That's how I read it."
"Well, the person who sent him into the other world must have been
anxious to make certain." This time it was Eustace who paced the room.
"I only heard of one corpse being treated like that before."
"Where was that?" asked Lancaster.
"In San Francisco some years ago!"
"Who was it, and why was he slain twice--for that's what it amounts
to?"
Jarman did not answer immediately. It was close on eight o'clock, and
he stood looking out of his study window into the luminous night. He
and the secretary had been haymaking throughout the afternoon, and the
shaven expanse of a particularly rough lawn was dotted with haycocks
picturesquely disposed. Beyond was the untrimmed hedge which Jarman
could never allow to be cut, and under this grew straggling white
rose-bushes, the flowers of which showed starlike in the glimmering
light. Over the hedge through a vista of leafy elms could be seen the
far-extending country, and the lights of Tilbury in a long line like
flying illuminated railway carriages. A clear, starry sky and a yellow
harvest moon completed the beauty of the scene, and the nightingales
were singing wildly in the copse at the bottom of the meadow. Jarman
heaved a sigh of delight.
"It's a peaceful scene," said he, with a look of pure pleasure. "Why
do I go into gaslight and noisy crowds when I can dwell always in this
Arcadia?"
"Well, you don't," said Frank, not seeing where this speech would lead
to. "You haven't been in a London theatre or drawing-room for ages."
"True enough. I keep out of those things. But I was saying that San
Francisco was noisy."
"Were you? I didn't hear you," said Frank. Then, as Jarman again made
no reply, he spoke up rather pettishly. His position didn't soothe his
nerves in any way, poor fellow. "You can trust me, Eustace."
"How do you know I was becoming confidential?"
"Because you talked sentiment about the scene before you."
Eustace returned to his seat and laughed rather sadly. "You're an
observer, my son," said he. "Yes. You have told me about your past--we
must have a repetition of that story some day, for reasons you will
easily understand--now I'll tell you my romance."
"About a woman?"
"Yes. Did you ever know a romance that didn't include a woman? And
this one of mine included a corpse, too."
"Shot and stabbed?"
"Both--in the streets of 'Frisco six or seven years ago. The man's
name was Anchor."
"Are you talking of the corpse?" asked Lancaster, settling himself.
"Of what else. He was a lucky miner, and, having made no end of money,
he built a new raw palace near 'Frisco, where he settled with his
wife."
"Ah!" said Frank, intelligently, "she's the woman."
"Quite so, and I loved her for all I was worth, till I found her out."
"Eustace," remarked Lancaster, finding these details scrappy, "if you
will start in an' sail plainly, I won't interrupt."
Jarman took a pull at his pipe. "I'll give the gist of it in a few
words," said he, slowly. "I was doing some journalistic work in
'Frisco, and ran across Anchor. He was a big, burly, rough chap, but a
whacking good sort. We chummed up, and he invited me to see him. I was
introduced to Mrs. Anchor, and fell in love with her."
"What was she like?"
"You promised not to interrupt. Never mind what she was like. My taste
then is not my taste now."
"Mildred!" thought Frank, but said nothing.
"I think she liked me more than a little. But after I visited at her
house for a time, I found that Anchor was turning nasty."
"Jealous, I suppose?"
Eustace nodded. "But upon my soul he had no cause to be. I was as
straight as a die. It's not my fashion to loot other men's wives. I
think Mrs. Anchor did her best to make him jealous. After a time I
became sure, and then found out--it matters not how--that she wished
to get rid of her husband. I was to be the man to remove him."
"Confound! Did she want you to murder the man?"
"Well, that was her idea. But all this I didn't find out for a long
time. Anchor grew nasty, and I rarely went to his house. But Mrs.
Anchor used to come and see me in the city sometimes."
"Was that quite straight?"
"No, it wasn't, in one way. But, you see, she came to tell me that she
was afraid that her husband would kill her. I wasn't up to her game
then. A third man came in. His name was Sakers--a nasty, dry,
bad-tempered chap. He and Mrs. Anchor became thick as thieves. Then
she gave me the go-by."
"Oh! I suppose she hoped Sakers would kill her husband?"
"Yes. It seemed that Anchor was ruined. His wife spent all his money,
and the raw new palace was sold. The pair came to live at 'Frisco, and
Sakers loafed on the Front with Mrs. Anchor."
"Were you still in love with her?"
"I was. I tell you, Frank, I really did love that woman. She was the
most fascinating woman I ever met, and I've flirted with them in all
countries. Well, after a time, she chucked Sakers and came to me. I
gathered that she knew of some money which could be got if her husband
was out of the way."
"How?"
"Well, I didn't inquire. She proposed so plainly that I should shoot
Anchor--seeing that even her pranks couldn't make him jealous enough
to get up a duel--that I grew angry. That was an eye-opener. But even
then if she'd dropped the business I might have gone on loving her,
but she up and slanged me properly. Then I saw what a bad mind she
had, and showed her the door. What her scheme was I don't know. After
that, a week later, Anchor came to see me."
"To make trouble?"
"No, poor chap. He came to make it up. Said that he had been mistaken
in me, and that he didn't believe all the lies that were told about my
being in love with Mrs. Anchor. Then he cried, and said that she had
bolted with Sakers."
"Why wasn't he man enough to follow, and shoot?"
"He was off that night to Chicago, where the two had gone. But he came
to see me to explain. It seemed that there was some money--about a
million--that he had something to do with. He promised to see me again
before he left for Chicago, and to give me some papers about the
matter. It was by the midnight train he was going, and he was to call
back at eight. I went to the door of my house with him--it was in a
quiet side street, and we stood chatting at the door."
"But why didn't he bring the papers with him?" asked Frank.
"He didn't know if I'd take them, and, moreover, was afraid of being
robbed and killed by--well, I can't say who by, but Sakers was mixed
up in the business."
"I see. Mrs. Anchor had told Sakers what she told you, and he, less
scrupulous, intended to kill Anchor to get these papers."
"That's about the size of it. But the whole thing was so vague that I
couldn't get at the pith of it. Anchor would tell me nothing until he
came back with the papers at eight. All he said when we shook hands at
the door was 'Tamaroo--'"
"Well, go on. Tamaroo what?"
"He didn't get any further," said Jarman, "for at that moment he was
shot."
"Shot! In the open street?"
"It was a quiet side street, and, being about meal-time, there was no
one about. Also it was almost dark. The man who shot Anchor must have
been concealed in a corner close at hand. I turned, and saw him
cutting along the street. I followed, calling for the police. But he
bunked into a crowded street, and I lost him. I went up to a policeman
and made him come back with me. I had been away for fifteen minutes on
the chase. Anchor was still lying before my door, but in addition to
the shot wound there was a knife in his heart. In this instance Frank,
the knife was left in the wound. It was a brand-new bowie, and nothing
could be made of it in the way of evidence."
"What happened then?"
"Well, at first I was thought to be guilty, but I soon cleared my
character. Anchor was buried, and I never saw nor heard of Mrs.
Anchor, nor Sakers again."
"What about the papers?"
"I never heard anything of them either. But it appeared that when
Anchor was seeing me a negro came to his lodgings to wait for him. As
he didn't turn up the negro skipped. I fancied he might have been an
emissary of Mrs. Anchor's to steal those papers. But none were found."
"And who killed Anchor?"
"Well, I fancy Sakers fired the shot. But who knifed him I can't say."
Frank rose, and walking to the window stretched himself. "It's a
gruesome story," said he; "and what did Tamaroo mean?"
"I can't tell you. That was the one word the poor fellow said before
he was stretched a corpse. Well, Frank, after that I got sick of the
West and came home. A strange romance?"
"Very. But I can't make top nor tail of the business. It is strange
that Anchor should have been both shot and stabbed as Starth was."
"For that reason I tell the story. Keep it to yourself, Frank. I do
not care about wearing my heart on my sleeve."
"I'll say nothing," assented Lancaster, "and you know quite enough to
round on me if I do. I say"--he peered through the window into the
moonlight--"who is the lady?"
Jarman rose, and looked over Frank's shoulder. There was a white
figure crossing the lawn. "It's Mildred--Miss Starth."
Frank made for the door. "I'll go to my bedroom," he said. "I am not
able to meet her yet, as I might give myself away. Besides, she may
wish to talk to you about the case."
"H'm! Yes, it's just as well. Clear out. I'll let you know all that is
needful."
So Frank disappeared, and Jarman opened the front door to his visitor.
Mildred looked very weary. She wore a white dress with black bows, and
saw him looking sideways at it when she entered the study.
"I haven't had time to get proper mourning," she said, sinking into a
chair. "Mrs. Perth is furbishing up an old dress for to-morrow."
"I wasn't thinking of that," said Jarman, mendaciously. "Have some
wine, Miss Starth? You look so tired."
"I'm worn out. That awful inquest, and poor Walter's death." She hid
her face in her hands. "It's all so sudden, so terrible! I have been
in bed ever since I returned."
"So Mrs. Perth told me. I know the verdict."
"Do you think it is a true one?" asked Mildred, suddenly.
Jarman was taken aback. "How should I know?"
"The jury say that Mr. Lancaster killed Walter. But as I was leaving
the room someone--I don't know who--slipped a paper into my hand. I
have brought it to you, as I can't understand."
She handed Jarman half a sheet of notepaper. On it was written in an
unformed, childish hand three words--"Frank. Innocent. Tamaroo!"
"Tamaroo!" Jarman leaped up. "Tamaroo! What does it mean?"