“The records show that Henri Margot, alias Jean Carnot alias Jean
Forette was married to Isabel Pelubit in Paris on March 17, four years
ago, and that she died under suspicious circumstances three months
later, leaving her husband all of a snug little fortune she possessed.
“All lies, monsieur--all lies! I do not believe anything you tell me!”
“Well, that's very foolish of you, Mazi, for you can easily prove for
yourself everything I tell you, and it will be better for you, in the
end, if you do believe.”
“I do not. But go on with--more lies!” She shrugged her shoulders
contemptuously.
Colonel Ashley leafed over a sheaf of papers he had spread out on the
table in front of him. He and Mazi sat in a room in police headquarters
in Lakeside. It was the day following the procession to the cottage on
the moor.
“The records show,” went on the detective, “that Henri Margot was
arrested in Paris, charged with having poisoned his wife so that he
might spend on another woman the money she possessed. But he was not
convicted, chiefly because the chemists could not agree on the kind of
poison that had caused death.”
“All lies--I do not believe,” said Mazi, stolidly.
“Um!” mused the colonel. “Well, Mazi, you're more stubborn than I
thought. But it doesn't make any difference to me, you know. I'm paid
for all this. Now let's see--what's next? Oh, yes. Then the records
show that Henri, or Jean, whichever you choose to call him, came to this
country. He fell in love with a pretty girl--she wasn't as pretty as
you, Mazi, I'll say that--but he fell in love with her and married
her--or pretended to. However, it was a fake ceremony, and she couldn't
prove anything when he had spent all her money and tossed her aside. So
there wasn't anything we could do to him that time.”
“More lies,” said Mazi, calmly--or at least with the appearance of
calmness.
“The records show,” went on the inexorable voice of Colonel Ashley,
“that next Jean Carnot, as he called himself then, became infatuated
with a pretty girl--and this time I'll say she was just about as pretty
as you, Mazi--and her name was Annie Tighe. She was an Irish girl, and
she insisted on being married by a priest, so there wasn't any faking
there. Jean was properly married at least.”
“What do I care for all these lies?” sneered the girl, impatiently
tapping her foot on the floor. “Why do you bore me? I am not interested!
I should like to see Jean. Ha! Where have you put him?”
“You'll see him soon enough, Mazi. I've got just a few more records
to show you, and then I'm done. Now we come to the time when, after he
found he couldn't get out of a legal marriage, Jean put his foot in it,
so to speak. He was tied right, this time, so he took refuge in a lie
when he wanted to shake off the bonds of matrimony, as my friend Jack
Young would say. He told his wife--and she was his wife, and is yet--he
told her the ceremony was a fake, that the priest was a false one, in
his pay.”
“All lies! What do I care?” sneered Mazi, again shrugging her shoulders.
“Well, now let's get along. After our friend Jean found he was tired of
his wife he shamed her into leaving him and she went--well, that isn't
pleasant to dwell on, either. Except that he's the villain responsible
for her going to the dogs. He sent her there just as he would have sent
you, Mazi, except for what has happened.”
“You mean he is not my husband?”
“Not in the least.”
“I do not believe you. It is all lies. These women are but jealous.
Proceed.”
“That's about all there is to it, Mazi, except to show you the letter
from your own priest, who confirms the fact that the priest who married
Jean Carnot and Annie Tighe was legally authorized to do so, both by the
laws of his own church and those of New York State, where the ceremony
took place. You will believe Father Capoti, won't you?” and he laid
beside the girl a letter which she read eagerly.
This time she said nothing about lies, but her face turned deadly pale.
“And this is the last exhibit,” went on the colonel, as he laid a
photograph before Mazi. It showed a man and a girl, evidently in their
wedding finery, and the face of the man was that of Jean Forette, and
that of the girl was of the woman who had groveled on the sand at the
feet of the chauffeur the night before,--Morocco Kate.
“Look on the back,” suggested the detective, and when Mazi turned the
photograph over she read:
“The happiest day of my life--Jean Carnot.”
“If you happen to have any love letters from him--and I guess you have,”
went on the colonel, “you might compare the writing and--”
“I have no need, monsieur,” was the low answer. “I--God help me.--I
believe now! Oh, the liar! If I could see him now--”
“I rather thought you'd want to,” murmured the colonel. “Bring him in!”
he called.
The door opened, and, handcuffed to a stalwart officer, in slunk Jean of
the many names.
Mazi sprang to her feet, her face livid. She would have leaped at the
prisoner, but the colonel held her back. But he could not hold back the
flood of voluble French that poured from her lips.
“Liar! Dog!” she hissed at him. “And so you have deceived me as you
deceived others! You lied--and I thought he lied!” and she motioned to
the colonel. “Oh, what a silly fool I've been! But now my eyes are open!
I see! I see!”
With a quick gesture, before the colonel could stop her, she tore in
half the picture that had swept away all her doubts.
“Mustn't do that!” chided the colonel, as he picked up the pieces which
she was about to grind under her feet. “I'll need that at the trial.”
“You--you beast!” whispered the girl, but the whisper seemed louder than
a shout would have been. “You beast! No longer will I lie for you. Why
you wanted me to, I do not know. Yes, I do! It was so that you might
be with some one else when you should have been with me. Listen, all of
you!” she cried, as she flung her arms wide. “No longer will I shield
him. He told me to say that he was with me when that golf man--Monsieur
Carwell died--before he died--but he was not. No more will I lie for
you, Jean of the many names! You were not with me! I did not even see
you that day. Bah! You were kissing some other fool maybe! Oh, my God!
I--I--”
And the colonel gently laid the trembling, shrieking girl down on a
bench, while the eyes of the shrinking figure of Jean the chauffeur
followed every movement.
He raised his free hand, and seemed to be struggling to loosen his
collar that appeared to choke him. For a moment the attention of Colonel
Ashley was turned toward Mazi, who was sobbing frantically. Then, when
he saw that she was becoming quieter, he turned to the prisoner.
“You heard all that went on, I know,” said the detective. “That's why I
put you in the next room.”
“Yes, I heard,” was the calm answer. “But what of it? You can prove
nothing only that women are fools. I shall hire a good lawyer and--poof!
What would you have--a man must live. Bigamy, it is not such a serious
charge.”
“Oh, no, there are worse,” said the colonel calmly. “You're going to
hear one presently. She told me just what I wanted to know, as I thought
she would if I could get her roused up enough against you. So, you
weren't riding, as you said, with her the day Mr. Carwell came to his
end. I never thought you were, Jean of the many names. And now, officer,
if you'll take him back and lock him up, I guess this will be about all
to-day.”
“But I want to get bail!” exclaimed the prisoner. “I have a right to be
bailed. My lawyer says so.”
“There isn't any bail in your case,” said the detective.
“Pooh! Nonsense! Bigamy, it is not such a serious charge.”
“Oh, didn't I tell you? I meant to,” said the colonel gently. “You're
under another accusation now. Jean Forette, to call you by your latest
alias, you're under arrest, charged with the murder, by poison, of
Horace Carwell, and I think we'll come pretty near convicting you by the
testimony of Mazi. Ah, would you--not quite!”
He struck down the hand the prisoner had raised to his mouth, and there
rolled over the floor a little capsule. The top came off and a white
powder spilled out.
“Don't step on it!” warned the colonel as several other officers came in
to assist in handling the prisoner, who was struggling violently.
“It's probably the same poison, mixed with French dope, that killed Mr.
Carwell. Jean had it hidden in the collar band of his shirt ready for
emergencies. But you shan't cheat the chair, Jean of the many names!”
They led the Frenchman away, struggling and screaming that he was
innocent, that it was all a mistake. By turns he prayed and blasphemed
horribly.
“That's the way they usually do when they can't get a shot of their
dope,” said the jail physician, after he had visited the prisoner and
given him a big dose of bromide. “He'll be a wreck from now on. He's
rotten with some French drug, the like of which I've never seen used
before.”
The coroner's jury had been called together again. Once more the sordid
evidence was gone over, but this time there was more of it, and it had
to do with a story told weepingly on the stand by Mazi, and corroborated
by Colonel Ashley.
And a little later, when the jury filed in, it was to report:
“We find that Horace Carwell came to his death through poison
administered by Jean Carnot, alias Jean Forette, with intent to kill.”
And a little later, when the grand jury had indicted him, the man's
nerve failed him completely, because his supply of drug was kept from
him and he babbled the truth like a child, weeping.
He had stolen two hundred dollars from the pocketbook of Mr. Carwell
the day before the championship golf game, and, the crime having been
detected by Viola's father, the chauffeur had been given twenty-four
hours in which to return the money or be exposed. He was in financial
straits, and, as developed later, had stolen elsewhere, so that he
feared arrest and exposure and was at his wit's end. He had spent much
of the money on Mazi, whom he induced to go through a secret marriage
ceremony with him.
Then Jean, like a cornered rat, and crazy from the drug he had filled
himself with, conceived the idea of poisoning Mr. Carwell. That would
prevent arrest and exposure, he reasoned.
The chauffeur found his opportunity when he was ordered to stop the
big red, white and blue car at a roadhouse just prior to the game. Mr.
Carwell was thirsty, and in bad humor, and ordered the chauffeur to
bring out some champagne. It was into this that Jean slipped the poison,
mixed with some of his own drug which he knew would retard the action of
the deadly stuff for some time. And it worked just as he had expected,
dropping Mr. Carwell in his tracks about two hours later, as he made the
stroke that won the game.
“But how did a chauffeur know so much about poison and dope as to be
able to mix a dose that would fool the chemists?” asked Jack Young of
his chief, a little later.
“Jean's father was a French chemist, and a clever one. It was there
that Jean learned to mix the powder dope he took, and he learned much
of other drugs. I suspect, though I can't prove it, that he poisoned his
first wife. A devil all the way through,” answered the colonel.
“But what did Bartlett and Mr. Carwell quarrel about so seriously that
Bartlett wouldn't tell?”
“It was about Morocco Kate. Harry learned that she had sold Mr. Carwell
a set of books, and, knowing her reputation, he feared she might have
compromised Mr. Carwell because of his sporting instincts. So Harry
begged Viola's father to come out plainly and repudiate the book
contract. But Mr. Carwell was stiff about it, and told Harry to mind his
own business. That was all. Naturally, after Harry found that Morocco
Kate really was mixed up in the case--though innocently enough--he
didn't want to tell what the quarrel was about for fear of bringing out
a scandal. As a matter of fact there never was any shadow of one.”
“And the mysterious notes to you about Viola having a poison book?”
“All sent by Jean, of course, to throw suspicion on her. I heard it
rumored, in more than one quarter, that Viola strongly disapproved of
her father's sporty life, and it was said she had stated that she would
rather see him dead than disgraced. Which was natural enough. I've said
that myself many a time about friends.
“Jean found Miss Carwell's library card, and took out the poison book in
her name, afterward anonymously sending me word about it. I admit that,
for a moment, I was staggered, but it was only for a moment. Here is
what I found in his room.”
Colonel Ashley held out a piece of paper. There was no writing on
it, but it bore the indentations, identical with one of the penciled,
printed notes.
“He wrote it on a pad,” said the colonel, “and tore off the top sheet.
But he used a hard pencil, and the impression went through. Just one of
the few mistakes he made.”
“Fine work on your part, Colonel.”
“As for Captain Poland, the money transactions did look a bit queer,
but we've since found the receipt and it's all right. A new clerk in
Carwell's office had mislaid it. It wasn't Blossom's fault, either. He's
a weak chap, but not morally bad. The worst thing he did was to fall for
Morocco Kate. But better men than he have done the same thing. However,
they won't again.”
“Why, she hasn't--”
“Oh, no; nothing as rash as that. She's going to take a new route,
that's all. She's a natural born saleswoman, and I've gotten her a place
with a big firm that owes me some favors.”
“And did Blossom come through 'clean' as he said he would?”
“He did, and he didn't. It seems that a year or so ago he inherited
eleven thousand dollars. He invested half of the money in copper and
made quite a little on the deal. Then, a short while before Carwell
died, he got Blossom to lend him some money, which he was to pay back
inside of a month or two. When Carwell's death occurred, Blossom was
in financial difficulties on account of the demands of Morocco Kate. He
could not get hold of the money he had invested, nor could he get hold
of the money he had loaned Carwell. In his quandary he took certain
securities belonging to Carwell and hypothecated them, expecting, later
on, to make good as soon as he got some of his own money back. Of course
the whole transaction was a rather shady one, and yet I still believe
the young fellow wanted to be honest.”
“How does he stand now?”
“Oh, he has managed to get hold of some of his money, and with that got
back the Carwell securities. And, of course, the Carwell estate will
have to settle with him later on, and Viola and Miss Mary Carwell are
going to keep him in his present position.
“He and Minnie Webb are to be married very soon--which reminds me that I
have an invitation for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes. It's to the wedding of Viola and Harry Bartlett. The affair
is going to be very quiet, so you can come without worrying about a
dress-suit, which I know you hate as much as I do.”
“I should say so!”
“And did Bartlett's uncle really mulct Mr. Carwell in that insurance
deal?”
“Well, that's according to how you look at the ins and outs of modern
high finance. It was a case of skin or be skinned, and I guess Harry's
uncle skinned first and beat Mr. Carwell to it. It was six of one and a
half dozen of the other. The deal would have been legitimate either way
it swung, but it made Mr. Carwell sore for a time, and that, more
than anything else, made him quarrel with Harry when Morocco Kate was
mentioned.”
The letters in the secret drawer, which had so worried Viola, proved to
be very simple, after all. They referred to a certain local committee,
organized for an international financial deal which Mr. Carwell was
endeavoring to swing with Captain Poland. The latter thought, because of
his intimate association with Viola's father, that the latter might use
his influence in the captain's love affair. But that was not to be. So
Viola's worry was for naught in this respect.
And so the golf course mystery was cleared up, though even to the end,
when he had paid the penalty for his crime, the chauffeur would not
reveal the nature of the poison he had mixed with the dope which had
made him a wreck.
Beside the still water, that ran in a deep eddy where the stream curved
under the trees, Colonel Ashley sat fishing. Beside him on the grass a
little boy, with black, curling hair, and deep, brown eyes, sat clicking
a spare reel. Off to one side, in the shade, a colored man snored.
“Hey, Unk Bob!” lisped the little boy. “Don't Shag make an awful funny
noise?”
“He certainly does, Gerry! He certainly does!”
“Just 'ike a saw bitin' wood.”
“That's it, Gerry! I'll have to speak to Shag about it. But now, Gerry,
my boy, you must keep still while Unk Bob catches a big fish.”
“Ess, I keep still. But you tell me a 'tory after?”
“Yes, I'll tell you a story.”
“Will you tell me how you was a fissin', an' a big white ball comed an',
zipp! knocked ze fiss off your hook? Will you tell me dat fiss 'tory?”
“Yes, Gerry, I'll tell you that if you'll be quiet now.”
And Shag's snores mingled with the gentle whisper of the water and the
sighing of the wind in the willows.
And then, when the creel had been emptied and Colonel Robert Lee Ashley
sat on the porch with Gerry Ashley Bartlett snugly curled in his lap
and told the story of the golf ball and the fish, while Shag cleaned the
fish fresh from the brook, two figures stood in the door of the house.
“Look, Harry!” softly said the woman's voice. “Isn't that a picture?”
“It is, indeed, my dear. Gerry adores the colonel.”
“No wonder. I do myself. Oh, by the way, Harry, I had a letter from
Captain Poland today.”
“Did you? Where is he now?” asked Harry Bartlett, as his eyes turned
lovingly from the figure of his little son in the colonel's lap to that
of his wife beside him.
“In the Philippines. He says he thinks he'll settle there. He was so
pleased that we named the Boy after him.”
“Was he?” and then, as his wife went over to steal up behind her little
son and clasp her hands over his eyes, the man, standing alone on the
porch, murmured:
“Poor Gerry!” And it was of the lonely man in the Philippines he was
speaking.
In the silent shadows Colonel Robert Lee Ashley fished again. This time
he was alone, save for the omnipresent Shag. And as the latter netted a
fish, and slipped it into the grass-lined creel, he spoke and said:
“Mr. Young, he done ast me to-day when we gwine back t' de city. He
done say dere's a big case waitin' fo' you, Colonel, sah. When is we-all
gwine back?”
“Never, Shag!”
“Nevah, Colonel, sah?”
“No. I'm going to spend all the rest of my life fishing. I've resigned
from the detective business! I'll never take another case Never!”
And Shag chuckled silently as he closed the creel.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Golf Course Mystery, by Chester K. Steele