A Man Disappears
Trafford sent a hasty note to McManus, postponing the afternoon
appointment, and made ready to visit the logging drives at work along
the Kennebec. It was certain that no physician in Millbank had set a
broken shoulder or arm within the twenty-four hours; no man of the
character sought had left by any of the trains or stages, and the river
afforded the only unguarded means of escape. A canoe or river-driver’s
boat could easily come and go unnoticed, and it tallied with other
points in hand that the assailants were connected with the logging
interests. Another point in the case was that, in almost all the large
gangs of drivers, there was sure to be some one roughly skilled in
surgery, who could attend to minor accidents and even, temporarily, to
those of a severer nature, such as are apt to occur, often at points
far distant from skilled practitioners. Such a man could, under
emergency, even possibly have set the arm or shoulder, and could
certainly have cared for it until a surgeon at Norridgewock or farther
up the river was reached. As yet the logging drives were all above
Millbank Falls, so that Trafford’s search pointed entirely in that
direction.
Every schoolboy or farmer’s lad is a walking directory to any logging
drive within five miles, and Trafford had no difficulty in learning
that the nearest drive was at the Bombazee Rips, above Norridgewock.
Here he found the ordinary gang of a dozen men, with boats and the
implements of their trade, at work on the logs which were beginning to
jam against those that had first grounded on the ledge at the head of
the rips. Full half of the gang were French Canadians, small, dark men
of wonderful litheness and agility, men with a tenacity of life that
seems to bid defiance to the wet and exposure of their trade. It was
hard work by day, hard sleep by night, often in clothes soaked with the
river water; yet cheerful, healthful good humour was evidenced in the
loud chatter that came with every lull in the work. It was here that
the grown lads of the Chaudière, Megantic, and St. François valleys
secured that schooling in the English tongue from which race jealousy
barred them at home.
A roughly constructed shanty of pine slabs, the earth bountifully
spread with clean straw, served for sleeping; while in front was an
immense fire of logs, which served double purpose, for warmth in the
evening and cooking in the daytime. An old woodsman, whose driving
days were past, acted as cook and general camp care-taker. A group of
boys flittered about the fire, shanty, and boats. The older ones made
ventures upon the logs, and sometimes lent a hand to a driver, handling
a pick or cant-hook, a feat that made one a hero with his fellows for
the remainder of the day.
It was entirely permissible for a countryman, such as Trafford
appeared, on curiosity bent, to enter the sleeping-place or seat
himself by the fire. Indeed, at mealtime he would scarcely fail, by
virtue of his age, of an invitation to share in the coarse food,
a privilege which the boys viewed with keen envy. These boys were
unconscious spies, upon the sharpness of whose eyes Trafford counted
much. They went everywhere and saw everything, and if there was an
injured man in camp, it would take skill to keep him concealed from
them.
Trafford chatted pleasantly with the cook and joked the boys, before
he opened in a general way the subject of accidents--of which he
seemed to stand in apprehension, declaring that log-driving was in his
opinion the most dangerous of trades. At that the boys raised a shout
of derision and extolled the trade to the skies. There was not one of
them but was consumed with desire for a driver’s life, exactly as he
would be for any other life of freedom and activity whose claims for
the moment were pressed upon him.
The old man, on the other hand, admitted the element of danger, and
thrilled his hearers with accounts of hairbreadth escapes which he had
witnessed in the long years that he had been on the river. There had
been deaths, too; deaths from drowning and from crushing in the log
jams. Still, the life was a grand one for the man who was not afraid
of hard work, and if he had his to live over, he would live it on the
river again. There had been no accidents as yet, the jams were light
and easily moved. It was only here and there with this water that any
serious troubles were had. Oh, yes; Millbank Falls; that, of course,
was different. There was a hard drive, and when they got there in the
course of the next week, they would have a lively tussle.
From camp to camp, Trafford worked up to the Forks of the River and
then up the Dead River branch, and again across to the main river
and up into the Megantic woods. Nowhere was there any trace of an
injured man or a hint of knowledge of one. Wherever the camp was near
a village, so that boys gathered around, they were of material aid in
giving him information. In spite, however, of every device, he came
back down the river unsuccessful and depressed. He had a feeling of
defeat, as if in every camp some one were laughing at him as outwitted.
He knew the unreason of the feeling and yet could not escape it.
Nor was there, when he reached Millbank, any information from the lower
part of the river or from any of the surgeons whom, within a radius of
thirty miles, he had caused to be interrogated. It was if the earth
had opened and swallowed up the man--or--and he stood above the falls
and looked at the water rushing over them, as if he would question
it and wrest an answer from it. It was certain that the man--a man,
whose personality he could merely guess at--had disappeared. It was
like ridding himself of a nightmare to throw off the uneasiness that
oppressed him.
Immediately on his return, Trafford sought an interview with Mrs.
Parlin. The time was coming when the inquest must be reconvened, and as
yet there was nothing of advance since the hour when it had adjourned.
Even he was grown impatient and he could not marvel that a woman, under
the nervous strain of his employer, should be fast becoming irritably
so.
“We have no right,” she said, “to leave an innocent man under suspicion
as Jonathan has been left. If we can’t find the murderer, we can at
least prove that it isn’t he.”
“Unfortunately, until we find the man, the majority will believe him
guilty,” Trafford replied.
“What right had you to throw suspicion on him?” she demanded.
“The right of the coroner to know every fact that bears on the case.
It would have been as unjustifiable to conceal Oldbeg’s purchase of a
revolver, as it would to conceal the finding of the weapon.”
“Why wasn’t it there the morning of the eleventh?” she asked.
“My dear madam,” he said with a gentle smile, “if we knew that, we’d
know who the murderer is. We’d know it, that is: but possibly not in a
way that we could prove.”
“Precious little good that would do us,” she answered.
“So much good that the chances are ninety-nine in a hundred that the
proof would be forthcoming. There are few men who are shrewd enough to
cover every trace.”
“But these seem to be of the few,” she said.
“We are not through with them yet,” he replied; and then suddenly: “Has
the new detective, employed by Hunter and his friends, been here?”
He had, and had made a critical examination of the house from cellar
to attic; had been through the papers in the desk and safe, and had
taken away a number of scraps from the former.
“He didn’t get the writing-pad, though,” he said.
“No; that disturbed him; especially when I told him you had it.”
“The--deuce you did!” he exclaimed. “I wish--you hadn’t!”
“I had no right to conceal so important a fact,” she said.
Trafford bit his lip over this turn of his own argument, but made no
retort. He recognised in this second detective a graver impediment than
the cunning of the criminal--if, indeed, it was not the cunning of the
criminal that had interjected the second detective into the affair.
Working independently, it was scarcely possible that they could do
otherwise than thwart each other. He had the feeling that the case was
his and that no other had a professional right to throw himself into
it. If he had been on the verge of success, he would have withdrawn
from the case. As it was, the same professional pride that resented
intrusion, forbade his taking such a course.
For the twentieth time he asked:
“He certainly did a large amount of work at home and must have had
papers connected with the work here?”
“Why, certainly,” she said. “He always had a lot of professional papers
here.”
Trafford looked at her as if doubting whether he should ask the
question that hung on his lips. But he must have facts, and here if
anywhere was the information he needed. Could he trust the woman?
Finally he came and stood over her chair, as if he was afraid of the
walls even, and asked:
“Was this always his habit?”
“No,” she answered; “not while the judge was living, and never indeed
until about two years ago. Yes, it began about two years ago.”
“It was not a habit learned from the judge, then?”
“Oh, no! Of course, he brought papers home at times, and so did
Theodore; but he never kept them at home until within the last two
years.”
“Did Cranston ask you about this?” Trafford demanded.
“No,” she said, “no, he did not.”
“If he does, avoid answering him, if possible.” Then he stopped as if
he had gone too far, and she, seeing his embarrassment, checked the
answer that came to her lips.
He sat for some time silent, and then glanced up to intercept a look
that she bent upon him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Have you talked with Mr. Hunter--the one who was in Theodore’s office,
I mean?”
“Is he of the same family as Mr. Hunter who owns the great logging
interests?”
“His brother.”
“How long has he been in the office?” he asked carelessly--so
carelessly that she forgot he had not answered her question.
“About two and a half years. I think Theodore thought him an
acquisition and had great confidence in his ability.”
“A good stock,” he said, “for pushing.” Then he added after a short
pause:
“Mrs. Parlin, at the inquest you expressed in the strongest terms your
confidence that the statement presented was actually written by your
husband. Have you had any cause since to change your mind?”
“Not the slightest,” she said. “On the contrary, the facts there stated
account for many things that were strange to me before. There is no
question as to the facts, and none as to his having written them.”
“That being the case, they can have nothing to do with the murder.
The only other person who knew these facts was directly interested in
keeping them concealed. Even admitting, as might be possible, that in
order effectually to prevent exposure, she had been capable of killing
or having her son killed, would she find any likelihood of this in a
murder that would centre on him the interest of the entire State? Of
course, she did not know of the existence of this paper, and she could
not know that the murder would make the case public, but she would know
that if he knew the facts, and had any interest in their publicity, he
would have acted long ago. She would also know that if you knew the
facts, your interest was that of secrecy, the chance of which would be
diminished in the excitement of a murder case. Now that’s my reasoning,
and through it I reach the conclusion that the facts revealed in that
statement have nothing to do with the murder. I have since confirmed
this by facts outside those from which I reasoned. I haven’t told a
soul this before, not even McManus. I don’t want a soul save you to
know it now; not even McManus. But now I’m going to ask you a question,
which I believe has some bearing upon the causes of the murder, and
that is: Why, if Mr. Wing had for two years been keeping many of his
business papers at home, was there not one of them in his desk or safe
the morning the murder was discovered?”
“No papers in his desk or safe?” she said, while a look almost of
terror came over her face. “You must be mistaken! Why, there was a
package on his desk, lying right on the writing-pad, when I bade him
good-night.”
“Would you recognise it again if you saw it?”
“Yes.”
“Then look through the safe and see if you can find it.”
He opened the safe and she went through it package by package, while
he waited with that patience that comes of long training, until, the
search finished, she looked up and said:
“It isn’t here!”
“It was here at nine o’clock on the night of the tenth; it wasn’t here
at six on the morning of the eleventh. What do you make of that?”
“It had been stolen!” she gasped, looking pale and perplexed.
“There might be one other explanation,” he interposed; “and we are
bound to look at that carefully. Mr. Wing might have burned them. He
had a fire that evening.”
“Yes,” she said, “he might.”
“I made sure on that point,” he then explained, “the morning of the
murder. Not from any suspicion that papers were missing, but on the
principle of taking note of everything, even the most trivial. I can
assure you that there were no papers of any amount burned in the
fireplace the night before. We could scarcely expect it; but it would
have been a stroke of genius if the thief had burned some papers to
throw us off the track.”
“The thief!” she repeated.
“You must see,” he said, “that the theft of the papers presupposes a
thief. I have been certain from the start that some one was in the room
after the murder. What he was after I haven’t known until now. He was
at the safe, which he must have found open. Some one who wanted those
papers wanted them enough to induce him to commit this murder, and
then to enter the room and search the safe, while the dead man lay at
the door. It was a terrible risk--as terrible as that of the murder
itself. Suppose Oldbeg had been a half-hour later in coming home. He
would unquestionably have found the murdered man with the murderers in
the room. By just that narrow margin this perplexing mystery escaped
proving a mere blundering crime.”