The Range 16 Scandal
“I guess I didn’t make any mistake in staying,” said Trafford, more to
break the embarrassing silence which followed Cranston’s withdrawal,
than with any definite purpose.
Matthewson glanced up with the air of a man who had half lost
consciousness of surrounding circumstances in a line of painful thought.
“I am under deep obligation to you,” he said slowly; and then,
apparently tracking back to his thoughts before Trafford spoke, he
added, as it seemed, irrelevantly:
“You said he could tell nothing you did not already know.”
The pain which manifested itself in his face would have shown a far
less keen man what the speaker had in mind, yet was not willing more
directly to name.
“He has not,” said Trafford quietly. “All that he hinted at I’ve known
for weeks.”
“Did you know it when you saw me before?”
Trafford nodded.
“Why did you conceal it?”
“It’s not concealment not to talk of a thing. There was no call to talk
of it so long as it had nothing to do with the murder.”
“But are you certain,” the words came hard and with a painful ring,
“that it did have nothing to do with the murder?”
The question showed Trafford how far pain and numbing anguish had
carried the man who, loyal even to the death of honour to the mother
who bore him, on that very account was the deeper sufferer.
“Absolutely!” Trafford threw into the word an intense depth of
conviction. “On that point you may exclude every doubt.”
Matthewson gave him a look of intense relief. He was reasonably certain
as to Cranston; but if there was a chain of circumstances, as there
well might be, between this story and the recent murder, what was to
save them?
“I owe you more than I can say,” he went on. “I won’t waste my
gratitude in words. The only thing I can do now, that I see, is to
answer your question of a half-hour ago. You’re entitled to that.”
He wrote some names on a slip of paper and passed it over to Trafford.
He watched him as he read, to detect, if possible, any movement of
surprise, for this question of the murder, from a matter of comparative
indifference, save as it touched the possession of certain papers, was
growing into a vital thing, that seemed to meet him at every turn,
filling him with alarm for the moment when it should uncover in all its
hideous nakedness. But there was nothing to indicate that he had told
anything which the other did not know already, until Trafford himself
spoke. Then, even, the tone was most commonplace:
“You have saved me the time and trouble it would have taken to complete
the list.” He evidently had no question of his ability to do so. “I
hope you’ll add to the obligation by answering one or two questions.
Did you meet these men separately or together?”
“I met the first two separately and the other alone.”
“And discussed with the two the papers which were in Wing’s
possession.” While pursuing the matter in apparently the most
commonplace way, Trafford did not fail to note the quick air of sudden
interest on Matthewson’s part which followed this reference to the
mysterious papers. It was not a look that betokened fear, but rather
eagerness, if the detective could read aright. He went on:
“Was it on the same matter you saw the third man?”
“Certainly,” answered Matthewson, as if eager now to give the
information he had before withheld. “There was only one thing that took
me to Millbank, and that was the papers.”
“Did you see him before or after you saw the others?”
“Before and after, both.”
“Did they know you had seen him or were to see him?”
“No. Rightly or wrongly, I suspected cross-purposes between them and
was after a second string to my bow. They thought I took an earlier
train, but I met him by arrangement. I’d sent him to see Wing and met
him to get the report.”
“Then he was with Wing during the evening?”
“Did you not know it?” demanded Matthewson, turning cross-examiner.
“A question does not always imply ignorance,” said Trafford, smiling,
“but sometimes the bolstering up of knowledge not yet in the form we
want it. I don’t hesitate to tell you that I knew Wing had a visitor
that evening. This man was with him till late?”
“He left him at eleven o’clock and met me. I parted with him in the
shadow of Pettingill’s potato storehouse, when I ran to jump on the
train.”
“You sent him to try to get those papers from Wing, and he failed.”
“Miserably failed. It was a desperate chance I took, of course; but I
could do no less than take it. In fact it was a desperate thing to use
this man, but it was my last hope, and I had no choice.”
“Yet he’s square--if I’m rightly informed. No danger from him.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean he’s not the kind of man to use in such a
thing. He’s what you might call too high-toned--not given to that kind
of work--that is, in a successful way. He wouldn’t take chances that
another man might. I guess you know better than I can tell you what I
mean.”
“I know. I understand the type of man. He gave you no hope of securing
the papers?”
“None whatever. Wing positively refused every suggestion in regard to
them, and left the impression on his mind that further attempt was
useless. While I felt that another man might have done better, I was
certain that his effort had uncovered Wing’s exact position; that Wing
was determined to hold on to the papers and use them. He was convinced
of the same thing.”
“Still you urged him to make another effort.”
“No. I was so convinced that it didn’t seem worth while--at least
along those lines. While we were talking, I heard the warning bell and
we hurried, turning off Somerset Street between Neil’s store and the
post-office. As I left him, I remember saying that I’d give the man who
would put those papers in my hands a hundred thousand dollars.”
“A hundred thousand dollars!” repeated Trafford, for once at least
showing his surprise.
“Yes,” answered Matthewson, a strange hopefulness coming into his eyes;
“I’ll give you that sum for the papers this minute.”
“I wish I had ’em,” said Trafford, in a tone half regretful and half as
if he was groping in his memory for something that bore on the matter.
“Why, haven’t you got them?” demanded Matthewson, between incredulity
and fear.
“I!” exclaimed Trafford. “I got them! I’ve never even seen them. The
man who fired the shot that killed Wing has got those papers. Find him,
and you’re on the track of the papers.”
Matthewson grew pale with revulsion of feeling. That Trafford had the
papers, he had had no question. He believed that all this had been
merely leading up to an offer and he had shaped his course, as he
thought, shrewdly, to the naming of a sum which would make the man
eager to deal. Instead, he was told in a tone that carried conviction,
that not only had Trafford not got the papers, but that they were in
the possession of an unknown man for whom the law was hunting. If he
was found, the papers would pass into the possession of the State and
the public!
“In other words, we don’t know where they are?”
“We do know,” answered Trafford, with the solemnity of a man who feels
that he is approaching accomplished purpose, “that these papers were
the cause of Wing’s death. Tell me the man who was most concerned in
getting possession of these papers and I’ll give Wing’s murderer to the
hangman--or would, if you hadn’t abolished the hangman in Maine.”
Never had the case stood so naked before Matthewson as these
words stripped it. For the murder itself he had felt comparative
indifference, his interest in the papers overtopping all else. Since
he was aware that the murdered man was his half-brother, he had been
conscious of an approach to a feeling of relief that he was dead. Now,
for the first time, he saw, as by lightning’s flash, the strife for
the papers and the murder as cause and effect. The one danger grew into
another, and each took fearfulness from the other. No effort of the
will could quite quiet the nervous tremor which the realisation of this
fact brought. His face was drawn with pain as he answered:
“There can be no man more concerned than I to get these papers.”
“Fortunately I know you were on the train when the shot was fired.”
The answer implied that but for this Trafford would suspect him, and
Matthewson so understood it; but his anxiety was too great for him even
to resent the implication. His brother was no less interested than
himself in the papers. He must warn him, warn him instantly. This man
was pitiless when a task was set before him; Henry must not let himself
be drawn into a trap.
“We have supposed,” Matthewson said, as much to ease the situation,
as from any particular bearing of the remark on the matter under
discussion, “that you had taken the papers under cover of taking the
blotter from the desk.”
“I know,” nodded Trafford. “That was the reason you had me attacked in
the bridge at Millbank. I would have been robbed of the papers--thrown
into the river, perhaps. For the moment, I assumed that it was the same
men who committed the murder. I saw my mistake, however, very quickly.”
He added the last words, as it were, as an apology for the mistake
itself. As a matter of fact, Matthewson had known nothing of the
assault until some days after it took place, but he scorned a denial
that must seem like an effort to escape responsibility, and so said
nothing to disabuse the other’s mind of the belief that he had helped
plan the assault.
“The most serious aspect of that affair,” Trafford continued, “was the
death of the Canuck--Victor Vignon.”
But Matthewson was not in a mood to feel keenly the death of a mere
logger, whom he had never seen and whose importance, in comparison
with the good name and continued power of the Matthewson family, was
as nothing. He did not care even to assume an interest for the sake of
appearance. He was thinking, thinking fast, and only half hearing what
Trafford was saying. Suddenly his attention was again aroused.
“What is the nature of these papers?” the other was asking. “With
knowledge of that, I could narrow the circle of interest, so that I
would have to deal with only a few men.”
“It can’t be the men who are interested in the papers by reason of
their contents who did the murder,” said Matthewson, speaking rapidly.
“I know them and can answer for every one of them--that is, so far as
they knew of the existence of the papers. It is some one who regards
them from the point of their saleability. It’s their money value.”
Trafford had seen this possibility already, but it did not satisfy him.
He felt that he could form a sounder judgment than this man, but to do
it he must have the facts and this man must give them to him.
“If you are correct,” he said, “you must see that you narrow the line
of enquiry to three men. I must know what the papers were to determine
which of these three is the man. I have asked you before, what is the
nature of the papers?”
“Do not think me ungrateful, if I decline to answer. I would trust you
with everything, but the secret belongs to others no less than myself.”
“Mr. Matthewson,” said Trafford seriously, “it is not pleasant to have
to play hide and seek with you. I’ve had to remind you once before that
the inquest is public. If I have this question asked there, you’ll have
to answer or----”
“Go to jail,” Matthewson said, completing the sentence. “I know. I’ve
thought of that. I shouldn’t answer.”
Matthewson drummed on the table and looked at his companion. Even his
political power could not shield him from the consequence of a refusal
to answer a question put to him at the inquest on such a murder as
this. Surely the cause must be a serious one that induced him even to
think of such an act. Trafford took up another line:
“Have you thought that if you were summoned and refused to testify, it
would be necessary for the government to supply as best it could the
want of your testimony. Have you thought that in doing so, it could not
be dainty as to means, and that it would not be impossible in such an
event that it might stumble on the story that Cranston tried to sell
you to-day?”
“In other words, you would become the pedlar of scandal,” sneered
Matthewson.
“In other words, that justice might not fail, I’d get at the facts,
even if they involved my own--brother. Don’t you see, Mr. Matthewson,
I’m giving you a chance? If, with a knowledge of all the facts, I can
bring this crime home to the murderer without bringing you into it,
I’ll do so. If I can’t, I simply know in advance what all the world is
bound to know finally. You’ve your chance. You can take it or leave it.”
“You’re pressing your advantage. I’m to tell, or you’ll find out.
Let me suggest you’ve been on the case some time and the sum of your
finding is not large.”
“So large, Mr. Matthewson, that I can make my arrest within twenty-four
hours and, I’m certain, convict my man.”
Matthewson started. There was no mistaking the tone. Still he would not
yield.
“In that event, you don’t need my answer.”
“I must have your answer to shape my proof. You’ll give it to me here
or on the witness stand. I’ll leave it to you to decide which.”
Matthewson faced him like a man at bay; then, as he saw his unflinching
purpose, he yielded and answered:
“The papers purport to impugn titles to a million dollars’ worth of
land and two millions’ worth of stumpage. They impugn too the honour of
the men who hold those titles.”
It was Trafford’s turn for surprise. The words took him back to the
great scandal of the Public Lands Office, before and while Matthewson
was Governor--the one storm that it had seemed for a time even his
political resources could not weather. Then came the sudden collapse
of the attack and the disappearance of documents that were relied on
to support it. He recalled that Judge Parlin had been retained to
prosecute the case, and that it was said that papers had been stolen
from his office which it had never been possible to replace.
“You mean,” he said, “the Range 16 scandal.”
“I believe it was so called,” said Matthewson doggedly.
“But it was said these papers had been stolen; it was supposed they had
been destroyed. How came they in Wing’s hands?”
“It is said they were stolen; but if so, not all. Parlin never was
able to fill the place of those that were taken; but this man Wing,
with devilish ingenuity and persistence, had worked and dug and pieced
together until--well, until he had got enough to make us uneasy.”
“And so you tried the old game a second time?”
“We tried to get them out of his hands. The main thing we hope now is
that as the price paid for them this time was murder, the man who got
them has destroyed them, for fear their possession would betray him.”
Trafford was silent for a few minutes, and then said:
“Don’t hope. They’re not destroyed. The man who committed murder to get
them, will not part with its price so easily. The man who holds papers
that would ruin Governor Matthewson, his sons, Charles and Frank
Hunter, and the Lord knows who else, knows that those papers would
be his surest means of escape, if his identity was discovered. Those
papers are in existence;” and he added to himself, “if I can’t convict
without them, I won’t get out of the next assault so easy.”