After all, matters went off very quietly. The murder of James Wilkins
caused a surprisingly small sensation. Circumstances were against it. A
prominent statesman had just denounced another prominent statesman for
having accepted the tainted money of a wicked trust, and the accused
statesman was calling heaven and earth as witness to his innocence;
the champion heavyweight pugilist of the country had just given way
to a new champion; and the Black Hand had blown up a restaurant whose
proprietor had defied it. The papers had little space left for a plain
case of robbery and murder, such as that of Wilkins seemed to be.
Caruth had told a straight story, which had been accepted at its face
value. According to him, he had come home late and had sat down to
smoke before going to bed. He had laid some money--about eighteen
hundred dollars in bills--on the table beside him. Wilkins had been
moving about and had seen the money and after a moment had left
the room. When Caruth looked for the money an instant later it had
disappeared. He had hurried downstairs in hope of catching the man,
and with the aid of the night watchman had found his body. On looking
up the references Wilkins had brought him, he had found that they were
forged. He suspected, therefore, that the man had entered his service
with sinister intent, and had been murdered by a confederate who had
come to join him in the robbery.
The recital of this combination of fact and fancy gave Caruth no
compunctions so far as Wilkins was concerned; the man’s references
really were forged, and he had really stolen the money, by whatever
particular name the law might label his act.
To Caruth, this tale seemed very lame, but, to his astonishment, no one
questioned it. So utterly was this the case that it irritated him; it
seemed to him extraordinary that the actual sequence of events could
have happened without in some way impressing itself on the intelligence
of every one who came within reach of it. He did not want to be
suspected, yet the lack of detective ability on the part of the police
angered him. Why this should be so, let psychologists explain.
The money borrowed from him by the so-called Miss Fitzhugh had been
returned the afternoon after the crime in the form of a money-order
sent by mail, about as clever a way of combining safety in transmission
with concealment of the sender as could well be contrived. Clearly she
did not desire to continue the acquaintance.
Caruth did! For several days he carefully abstained from any search,
fearing that to do so might excite suspicion, but after a week had
passed and Wilkins seemed forgotten, he began to think it safe to
start inquiries.
His search began at the steamship offices. He first examined the
passenger list of the _Latourette_, the vessel on which Miss Fitzhugh
had claimed to have arrived, and sought for her name, only to find that
it was not there. Less hopefully, he examined the lists of the vessels
sailing from New York during the week that had elapsed since the
murder, only to find no trace of her. Finally something happened that
determined him to enlist the aid of Joe Bristow, a newspaper man of his
acquaintance.
Bristow was ship-news reporter of the Consolidated Press. His duties
required him to remain at Quarantine so long as any steamship was
likely to arrive there. Ordinarily he left for the city at five or
six o’clock in the afternoon, but if one of the great liners reported
itself by wireless as intending to make port that night, he had to
remain to see what news and passengers she brought. Few steamships
reached New York without being boarded by him, and few important
visitors entered port without being interviewed by him. He, if any
one, would be likely to know if anybody answering Miss Fitzhugh’s
description had arrived recently.
Caruth, who knew him slightly as the occupant of a small apartment
high up in the Chimneystack Building, took the first opportunity that
afforded to accost him and to invite him into his apartment.
Bristow accepted readily, though a faint smile curved his lips, as if
some secret idea were stirring in his mind. He did not know Caruth very
well, though he had frequently passed the time of day with him, and he
had never before been asked to join the young fellow. Newspaper men are
apt to grow cynical, and Bristow had learned to suspect the motives of
those who sought him out.
Caruth led his guest to his den, and placed the decanters before him.
Then, through the wreaths of tobacco smoke, he put his question,
leading up to it with what he believed to be commendable astuteness.
Bristow listened quietly; then he answered one question with another.
“The _Latourette_?” he repeated. “Yes; she arrived at eight o’clock on
the night of March 5. Her mails and two of her passengers were brought
up to the city on the mail tug. Let’s see--that was the night your
valet was murdered, wasn’t it?”
Caruth blenched slightly. The reporter’s inquiry was probably only
casual, but it might easily be otherwise. Perhaps he had erred in
consulting this keen-faced newspaper man. However, there was nothing to
do but to go on.
“Yes,” he answered steadily; “it was the same night.”
Bristow nodded. “I saw the lady,” he stated reflectively. “She was a
looker all right. She had deep violet eyes and dark hair with a glint
in it. She spoke English perfectly, but there was something foreign
about her.” He paused and knocked the ash from his cigar. “I came up
on the tug with her,” he added casually.
“Yes? And her name? I--I--have reasons for wanting to know.”
Bristow smiled inscrutably. “I don’t doubt you have,” he answered
drily, “and, as it happens, I can probably give you some information.
The question is whether I shall do it.”
Caruth colored. “I don’t understand you, Mr. Bristow,” he syllabled
anxiously.
“Probably not. I will try to explain.” The reporter tossed his cigar
into the fire and leaned back in his chair. “Isn’t it curious how
things fit in together?” he began reflectively. “Life is a mosaic made
up of hundreds of separate facts. Each belongs in one place and only
in one. Until rightly fitted, the whole is an unintelligible jumble.
But when fitted, we see that they are all parts of one design. I am
interested in Russia and Russians. My work has compelled me to be;
some of the best ‘stories’ I have gotten for the Consolidated Press
have had to do with Russia. I am well acquainted in the Russian colony
here. Professor Shishkin, the distinguished Russian scientist, is a
great friend of mine. I’m telling you this so that you may understand
why I was interested in this woman--this Russian woman, for she was
Russian--about whom you are inquiring. My interest did not decrease
when she took a cab at the Battery and told the cabman to drive her to
this building.”
Caruth gasped, but said nothing.
“When I returned home after midnight,” went on the reporter, “the
elevator had stopped running, and I had to walk up the stairs. Your
door was ajar. As I passed it I distinctly heard a woman’s voice--and
yours. It was none of my business, and I went on upstairs and to bed.
The next morning I heard about your valet’s murder, and noticed that
you said nothing about a visitor in your flat. Yet a woman must have
been there when your man fled; in fact, I suspect that he had left your
door open in his flight only a moment before I passed up the stairs.
Your inquiry seems to bring all these facts into a somewhat curious
consonance.”
Caruth was breathing hard. “Well?” he asked. “What are you going to do
about it?”
The reporter hesitated. “I don’t know,” he answered at last, frankly.
“It all depends! But I want you to understand one thing, Mr. Caruth: I
am not a police reporter nor a yellow sensation reporter. My duty to
the Consolidated Press does not call on me to solve murder mysteries,
nor to pry into scandals. I don’t know you very well, nor what you
are capable of doing at a pinch. For the matter of that, nobody does
know what a man is capable of--not even himself. I’ve seen too many
unexpected manifestations of virtue and of crime to judge lightly.
That is why I have kept silent, though I knew you were holding back
something about this murder. I don’t think to-night’s developments will
lead me to change my course, though I cannot be certain. If you have
any explanation to make, I shall be glad to hear it. I shall not make
a newspaper story out of it, and I shall not repeat it without grave
cause. More than this I cannot promise.”
Caruth did not answer for a moment. His thoughts whirled, unsettled
as dry leaves in an October blast. His secret, it seemed, was not
his secret at all--had never been his secret. From the first, this
newspaper man had been able to shatter his glib story by a word,
and had refrained from doing so. How many others possessed the same
potentiality for mischief? Abruptly he threw away his cigar.
“I’ll tell you the whole story,” he declared. “I don’t know whether
you’ll believe it or not. Probably I shouldn’t believe it myself if any
one else told it to me. It seems too preposterous to talk about plots
and terrorists and all that here in New York.”
“Not at all,” Bristow smiled. “New York is a hot-bed of plots. Probably
nine-tenths of all the political plots in the world are hatched here
and hereabouts. Just consider a moment! Anybody can plot in this
country in perfect safety; and there are plenty of plotters handy. Is
it a Russian plot? New York is the second largest Russian city in the
world. It has thousands upon thousands of dwellers who have been driven
out of Russia at the blow of the knout. Is it a German one? Berlin is
the only city in the world holding more Germans than New York. Is it an
Italian one? There are more Italians in and around New York than there
are in Rome. Plots? Why, New York reeks with plots and plotters! Men
lay their schemes, raise their funds, choose their emissaries, and a
month or so later something happens in Europe--it may be the murder of
a king. But it started here, beneath our noses.”
“But if there are so many plots, why are there so few results? We
seldom hear----”
“Because if plotters are safe here, so are spies. Every European
Government maintains an army of spies in this country. Every assemblage
of plotters has one or more traitors in the pay of those who are
menaced. It’s as broad as it’s long. But go on with your story. I only
wanted to assure you that it will have to be a very remarkable case of
plotting to surprise me.”
Caruth plunged in. “When I came home that night,” he began, “she
was waiting for me. I had never seen her before. She said she was a
Russian--the daughter of a Russian man and an American woman. She gave
me a name, but it was probably assumed. She wanted a letter that had
been mailed to me in Stockholm ten days before--by mistake, she said.
It enclosed another letter that had been picked up in a bottle floating
in the Baltic. The address of this second letter was partly illegible,
but it was directed in my care and was sent to me accordingly. She said
the letter belonged of right to her friends. While she was speaking
the letter arrived--by special delivery. It seemed to be as she had
stated. I was about to surrender it to her when my man, Wilkins,
claimed it. More, he proved his claim. I gave him the letter. She
tried to buy it from him--offered eighteen hundred dollars cash for
it. Wilkins refused. Then she threatened him. Said she asked him to
surrender it for his own sake; that he would be killed if he once read
it; that she could not save him. Of course this smacked of revolution,
nihilism, terrorism. Wilkins appeared to be frightened. He agreed to
surrender the letter. He laid it on the table, took the money, and went
out. Three minutes later we discovered that he had substituted blank
paper for the letter. I ran after him and found him dead. The girl left
just before the police came.”
“And you concealed the fact that she had been here. Why?”
Caruth colored. “It--it isn’t a thing that one tells to just any one,”
he stammered. “But--well, I suppose it sounds foolish to you, but--I
love her.”
The reporter did not smile. “Foolish?” he echoed gently. “Why foolish?
Love is not foolishness. It’s madness, perhaps, but not foolishness.
Good Heavens! Do you think one can be a newspaper man and see daily the
broad trail of joy and sorrow, blood, death, ruin, happiness, rapture,
and all the rest of it that love marks athwart the path of human
life, and think it foolishness? Why, man, love means life! It means
the preservation of the race! It means evolution! It is the one great
primal passion! No, Mr. Caruth; never expect a newspaper man to laugh
at love. He has seen too much of it. Of course I knew that must be your
reason for screening the woman. But do you think she killed him?”
Caruth shook his head emphatically. “No!” he declared. “No!”
“Why not?”
“She couldn’t.” The young fellow leaned forward. “She couldn’t,” he
declared eagerly. “See here: Wilkins took the money and fled. He knew
we would be after him in a moment. He would not have delayed. He must
have been out on that fire-escape and down to the place where he was
killed before I left the room. This is the eighth floor; he was found
on the third. He must have gone there by himself. No one could have
carried his body there--not possibly! And it is preposterous to suppose
that he went down to the third floor and waited there for her to
overtake and murder him. No! She didn’t do it! She couldn’t have done
it.”
“An accomplice?”
Caruth threw up his hands. “Very likely,” he groaned. “And yet how
could an accomplice know that Wilkins had gotten away with the letter
before she knew it herself? For he was probably dead when she did
discover it. If not, he must have been killed within a very few seconds
afterwards. She made no signal; she had no reason to make any. How
could an accomplice know?”
“Let’s see!” Bristow looked around the room. “You were sitting in here,
were you not?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Of course you were. My dear fellow, can’t you really answer your own
question?”
Caruth shook his head hopelessly. “I’ve thought and thought,” he
declared, “but I don’t progress an inch. Can you answer it?”
“Of course! Look through the sliding doors behind you. What is that
thing that cuts across the upper left-hand corner of the window at the
back?”
Caruth looked, then rose to his feet. Chagrin was pictured on his
features. “Do you know,” he admitted disgustedly, “I never thought of
that before? I never realized that that infernal fire-escape crossed my
window. There is such a little piece of it that----”
“There is quite enough to permit a man to peer into your rooms. No
doubt the murderer was watching there, and when Wilkins tried to escape
by that route he found death awaiting him.”
“But--but--how did the spy know that Wilkins had changed the letters?”
“Perhaps he didn’t know it. Perhaps he was a mere thief who killed for
money; or perhaps he saw the shift which was made too deftly for you to
notice; or perhaps the girl signalled him.”
Caruth protested. “She couldn’t, I tell you!” he cried. “The time
element----”
“Oh, I don’t think she did. I am merely citing possibilities. I don’t
think she did, and I am free to admit that I really believe that
Wilkins got only what he was fishing for. He was clearly a thief, and
he seems to have been playing a dangerous game and to have lost out. I
certainly do not feel called upon to take any steps to avenge him. But
the girl is a different matter. You want to find her. Why?”
“I told you. Because I love her.”
“I understand that. But what then? You can’t possibly marry her!”
Caruth flushed. He looked very boyish to the reporter, who, scarcely
older in years, was infinitely his senior in man-making experiences and
responsibilities. Boyish, Caruth was without doubt, but American boys
possess possibilities of rapid development that amaze the older people
of the globe.
“Can’t I?” he answered, between his teeth. “Perhaps not. But if she is
free, I mean to try. Anyhow, I must see her. I must. You said you might
be able to help me!” he finished, with a boyish appeal in his voice.
The reporter rose and took up his hat. “I can give you some
information,” he admitted. “Whether it will help you, is another
question. You have been assuming, I believe, that the lady is a
nihilist, or terrorist, or whatever they may call themselves?”
“Yes. Is she not?”
“God knows! She may be. On the other hand she may be an agent of the
Russian Government, or she may be playing for her own hand. Europe
breeds plenty of men and women--aristocrats to their finger-tips--who
are driven by poverty to shady ways. Until the bloom is rubbed off,
they are the most dangerous rogues living, bearers of proud names,
masters of every social grace, apparently with everything to commend
them, and yet rotten to the core. Europeans spot them and weed them out
after a while, but we Americans are always fair game. I don’t say your
Miss Fitzhugh is one of these--but she may be. An angel face is often
part of a stock in trade. Be wise, Mr. Caruth. This woman has taken
herself out of your life. Let her go!”
But the young fellow shook his head. “I won’t believe any evil of her,”
he muttered, “and, any way, I must find her.”
The reporter shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, very well, then,” he said.
“You’re old enough to decide for yourself. You will find her at the
Women’s Hotel. She is staying there.”