A DAGGER WOUND.
In the lower hallway of the Rosemore, as the house in which Allen
Chesterbrook had his bachelor apartments was called, stood Jimmie
Neirney, the young man’s faithful valet, but a brief half hour before.
Jimmie had just returned from a trip to the post office, where he had
deposited several letters, all for his master, saving one, which he
himself had written to his sweetheart in Saratoga Springs.
Jimmie’s face was not very cheerful just then, in spite of the fact
that his master had given him notice of a two weeks’ vacation, with no
pay to be lost; said vacation to take place while Allen and his bride
were off on their honeymoon.
“Locked out of his room fer th’ first time in me life!” he murmured
to himself. “An’ me that willin’ to do me best fer him, a-cleanin’ up
his boots an’ a-brushin’ of his clothes! Well, if he don’t look his
very best on this, his weddin’ day, divil a bit is it my fault. Says
he to me, says he: ‘Jimmie, I want to be entirely alone this mornin’;
don’t disturb me unless it’s very important.’ An’ when I axed about the
juties to be done, he says, says he, he would do them all himself. Now,
what do he be a-wantin’ to keep me for if not to do th’ work?”
There was no consolation in remaining in the wide, empty hall, with no
one to console with, so, with a heavy sigh, Jimmie turned to the back
stairs to go down into the janitor’s half-public sitting room, to talk
it over with Jackson. He had just reached the stairs, when a slight
rustle beside him caused him to turn, and he caught a brief view of a
veiled lady as she passed hurriedly out the back door and down into the
yard among the clothes hung up to dry.
Being filled with his grievances Jimmie gave no thought to the woman he
had seen; indeed, he had almost forgotten her by the time he reached
the sitting room below. He found Jackson there looking over a number of
bills to be sent to the owner of the premises for payment.
“Hello, Jimmie! Why ain’t you upstairs helping Mr. Chesterbrook?” cried
Jackson cheerily; and Jimmie at once began his tale of woe, cut short
in the middle by the sound of an automobile engine, as the finest
turn-out in Lakeview drove up to the curb.
“Humph! Only twenty minutes to ten!” sniffed Jimmie, as he consulted
his big silver watch. “Larkins will have to wait ten minutes. Mr.
Chesterbrook said he would not leave till ten minutes of ten, an’ I can
tell you he is particular this mornin’, so he is!” and again Jimmie
sighed.
The valet went outside, and a short discussion took place between him
and the chauffeur. Then Jimmie entered the house again, by the hallway,
and walked slowly upstairs, looking at his watch once more as he went.
It was twelve minutes to ten.
Allen Chesterbrook occupied two rooms on the second floor, one room
facing the street and the other directly behind it. The second room was
that in which Chesterbrook slept, and it was upon the door of this that
Jimmie knocked. He waited for a summons to enter, but none came. Then
he rapped again. Still the silence continued. Thinking his master might
be in the front room, he walked to the other door and knocked. As the
silence continued he grew alarmed.
“Mr. Chesterbrook, the car is waiting!”
No reply was vouchsafed to this announcement, and now the man began to
bang on the door with all the strength of his big knuckles.
While he was knocking, a gentleman came down from the floor above. He
was rather young in appearance, faultlessly dressed, and wore a bright
buttonhole bouquet.
“Locked out, Jimmie?” he queried, with a smile.
“I can’t git no reply from Mr. Chesterbrook, sir. I’ve been a-thumpin’
like mad for siveral minutes, too.”
“I heard you. I suppose he has already gone. It is time. I am late,
too.”
“Gone, sir! Why, his automobile is waitin’ below, sir, an’ has been
these tin minutes!”
“And you are certain he has not gone?”
“Sure, sir. Isn’t Jackson watchin’ downstairs for him, to give him his
best wishes?”
“Then something must be wrong. Have you a key to either door?”
“Yes, sir; here it is.”
The man of all work produced the key as he spoke. But it could not be
used, for both doors already held keys on the inner side.
“We can’t use them, Mr. Cross.”
“Perhaps we had better force open one of the doors,” replied Henry
Cross, with quick decision. “He must be inside, or how could the doors
be locked in this way?”
Pocketing the gloves he had started to put on, the young man put his
broad shoulders to the rear door. It creaked several times, and then
burst open with a crash that brought Jackson and several others to the
scene in quick order.
The little party paused on the threshold. By the bright light which
streamed in from the room in front they saw that everything was in
disorder--chairs overturned, bureau drawers drawn out, and their
contents scattered, and that numerous articles of bric-a-brac from the
stand in the corner had been knocked down and crushed under foot.
“There he is! Merciful saints preserve us!”
It was Jimmie who uttered the shrill cry of horror, as with trembling
finger he pointed to a spot between the bed and a closet. All eyes
followed the direction indicated by the man’s pointing finger, and
there beheld a sight that was enough to make the stoutest heart quail.
Allen Chesterbrook lay there, flat on his back, with a dagger thrust
through his heart.
The face of the handsome, gifted young man was distorted with pain, and
his hands were clenched so tightly that the nails were imbedded in the
flesh. He was dressed in his favorite morning suit, a mixed brown, and
this was saturated with his life’s blood, which had run down the side
and soaked into the carpet and the white fleece rug partly under his
back.
Nevermore would his friends hear his happy, cheery voice; nevermore
would those he had helped in a hundred ways receive his aid. There he
lay, stone dead, at the time he should have been on his way to his
wedding.
It was Henry Cross who first sprang forward and caught hold of that
cold, stiffening hand. One touch was enough.
“He is dead,” was all he said, and his voice sounded strangely
unnatural.
“Dead, dead!” wailed Jimmie Neirney. “Stabbed with a dagger, too! Oh,
who could have done this divil’s own work! Who do you think did it, Mr.
Cross?”
“I can’t say. I am too astounded to think. Run for a doctor--but, no;
that is useless. It is the coroner who is wanted here.”
“An’ the weddin’ to come off!” cried Jackson. “What will Maud Willowby
say to this?”
Henry Cross gasped at the last words. His face paled and he staggered
back.
“Somebody must hasten to the church with the news,” he faltered.
“I--cannot go. Quick! I will remain here till the coroner or the police
come.”
“I’ll go!” said a man in the crowd, and disappeared on a run. He spread
the news as he went, and soon all of the residents of Lakeview knew of
the mysterious tragedy which had been enacted within their very midst.
“Open all of the windows wide, Jimmie,” said Henry Cross, a second
later. “And Jackson, keep out the crowd; the coroner and the detectives
must have full sway here first. It looks like robbery as well as
murder.”
Almost beside himself with grief and terror, Jimmie stumbled into the
front room to do as he was bidden. Jackson, who had come up and placed
his hand on the dead man’s chest, only to snatch it away when it came
in contact with blood, stalked over to the door and closed it in the
face of the gathering crowd.
“The authorities must come in here first!” he exclaimed, with a sudden
show of command, for the situation made him feel his importance even at
that chilling time.
As Henry Cross knelt by the side of the corpse, his eyes fell upon
the bouquet in the buttonhole of his coat. A sudden feeling of the
unfitness of the decoration at such a time seized him, and, wrenching
the bouquet loose, he cast it on the floor. It fell into a pool of
blood, and the white carnations became red. Made sick by the sight, he
sprang up and stepped into the front room, where Jimmie was still at
the window, parting the curtains and pulling the sashes down from the
top.
At one side of the front room stood a flat-top writing desk, where
Allen Chesterbrook had been wont to write his letters and occasionally
to transact business, for he was erratic in his habits and had seldom
spent a whole day at his office.
On the top of the desk lay several sheets of paper, unmarked in any
way. But on the leather seat of the chair before it rested half a sheet
filled with writing. Almost mechanically, Henry Cross picked up this
part of a sheet and began to peruse it.
Hardly had he read three lines when he became deeply interested. He
read on to the end, and then looked about for the remainder of the
sheet, but it could not be found. Into his pocket he thrust the slip
he held, and turned once more toward the body, and now his face bore a
mingled look of sorrow and contempt.
“The coward!” he half whispered to himself. “And to think she loved
him!”
For fully ten seconds he stood gazing at the corpse before him. Then
he pressed his hand to his forehead and a look of deep perplexity came
over his features. He walked again toward the desk, took from his
pocket the slip he had picked up, and thrust it under the loose sheets
of paper.
“The world ought to know the truth. If it does not, some innocent
person may suffer,” he went on, almost inaudibly.
“Did you speak, Mr. Cross?” questioned Jimmie, and Henry Cross started
as though a gun had gone off beside his ear.
“Me? I--why, no, Jimmie,” he stammered. “Look out of one of the windows
and see if the coroner is coming yet,” he went on.
“Here comes Mr. Granby, sir, with a policeman.”
“Mr. Granby is the coroner.”
“Sure an’ what will he do wid poor Mr. Chesterbrook?”
“I do not know--I never saw anything like this before,” returned Henry
Cross. “Poor Maud!” he murmured as he turned away.