The Man is Found
McManus was unmarried and lived at the Millbank Hotel, where he
indulged in the extravagance of two rooms, a sitting room and a
bedroom. Trafford saw him at supper and arranged for an evening
interview.
“I’ll come to your room,” he said. “I’ve got nothing but a six by nine
closet on the highest floor.”
Supper over, he went for a short walk, to pass the time until the hour
of appointment. He walked out on the river road where Charles Hunter’s
great house stood, and found himself running over items of expense in
maintaining such an establishment, all directed to the question whether
a man on the income derivable from one hundred thousand dollars could
afford a home like it. Disgusted with a train of thought he could not
control, he hastened on, until at the top of Parlin Hill he saw the
Parlin homestead and quite unexpectedly began asking himself if Mrs.
Parlin was not likely to sell it and move into a smaller house.
Whipped with the lash of his now ungovernable thoughts, he returned
to the hotel and was confronted by Frank Hunter, whom he would dearly
have liked to arrest and bind over to keep the peace. He was in what
he called a “blue funk,” and did not regain his self-control until he
found himself in McManus’s room, where a sense of security seemed to
seize him.
“I’ll put this window on to the porch down and draw the shades,” he
said, suiting the action to the word. “I’ve got some things to say that
mustn’t be overheard.”
They were at the table with cigars lighted, before McManus responded
with reference to the affair in hand:
“Have you made any progress?”
“I’ve got the thing down to a dot,” he answered; “with the one
exception--you’ll say important--of the man. I can tell you how that
murder was committed, and when I have, I think you’ll agree with my
prediction of a fortnight ago as to the characteristics of the man who
committed it. What I want of you is that when the thing is told, you’ll
help me put my hands on the man.”
“I’ll do my best,” replied McManus; “but don’t forget you are giving me
the point on which you confess yourself at a loss.”
Trafford laughed.
“Isn’t that where we all want help?”
“Yes; but not always where we get it.”
“On the evening of May 10, a man came from somewhere below on the
train due here at eight o’clock. He dropped off at the Bridge station,
instead of coming into Millbank, and met another man, apparently by
appointment, about half-way between the railroad and covered bridges.
They talked about ten minutes----”
“Hold on,” interrupted McManus; “you go too fast. Was the man he met a
Millbank man?”
“Oh, I forgot. It was Frank Hunter.”
“Frank Hunter!” exclaimed McManus. “You’re still pointing to our
office, as I said before. It’s a grave responsibility you’re taking,
Mr. Trafford.”
“I’m taking no responsibility. I’m simply giving you facts. Whoever
was the murderer, I’m certain it wasn’t Frank Hunter. I’ll give you
that for your comfort. As I was saying, they talked about ten minutes
and then separated. Hunter went to his brother’s house and the stranger
turned back, crossed the railroad bridge, and went down Somerset
Street, meeting a man about a quarter of a mile below the Catholic
church, where the street runs through the heavy maple grove. You know
the spot?”
McManus nodded, attempting no other interruption.
“It was now about quarter to nine, and the two were together full
half an hour. The stranger then came back up Somerset Street and went
directly to Charles Hunter’s house. Ten minutes after, a man, who
might have been the one whom the stranger met, crossed Eddy Street to
Bicknell, came up Bicknell to Canaan, crossed Canaan to River Road,
and went directly up River Road to the Parlin homestead. He reached
there between half-past nine and quarter before ten and went to the
side door, where he rang the right-hand bell, showing that he was
acquainted with the peculiar arrangement of the bells. Mr. Wing came to
the door and the two went into the library.”
“Now,” continued Trafford after a pause, to enable McManus to grasp
all of the details, “as to the time; it was nine-thirty when Mrs.
Parlin left the room. Wing had not written his letter, so that we have
got the time pretty closely fixed. He stayed with Wing until nearly
eleven-thirty. The stranger seems to have left Hunter’s house under
pretence of catching the freight that leaves at eleven, but in reality
he went to Somerset Street and walked up and down that street until a
quarter to twelve, when he was joined by a man, presumably the one who
had come from Wing’s library. It was a pretty hazardous thing to do,
this loafing up and down Somerset Street, but up to now I haven’t found
a single person whose attention he particularly attracted and certainly
not one who pretends to have recognised him, though I feel certain he
has many acquaintances in this town.”
“If the two Hunters saw him, why don’t you get his identity from them?”
McManus demanded.
“That’ll come in time. I’ve not wanted to take too many into my
confidence, and there’s no danger of their running away. Of course,
if there’d been any possibility that this visitor was the murderer,
’twould be different, but as you’ll see, there isn’t.”
“But he may have instigated the murder, without actually firing the
shot,” said McManus. “You must pardon me, Mr. Trafford; but I can’t
help feeling you’ve shown yourself somewhat derelict in this important
matter.”
“I hope I’ll be able to exonerate myself before I finish,” said
Trafford. “At any rate, let me go on. The matters these men had to
discuss were of such interest that the visitor came near missing the
midnight train, which might have subjected me to the necessity of
having him arrested, since he would then have been in town when the
murder occurred. As it was, by hurrying through the alley between the
post-office and Neil’s store, they got the train, the stranger coming
from behind the potato warehouse, as has been testified. His companion
remained there, or he might have been recognised by Oldbeg.”
Trafford seemed disposed to muse over the possible result of such an
event and as well over another matter to which he referred a moment
later:
“It would be a curious thing to know just what was said behind the
storehouse, where they had their last words. It might throw a flood of
light on things.”
“Yes,” answered McManus, showing a feverish desire for the continuance
of the narrative; “but you might as well try to guess where yesterday’s
winds have blown to. You seem to have facts enough, without speculating
on conversations.”
“I suppose that’s true,” returned Trafford; “yet that last talk has
a fascination for me. Who knows that it wasn’t just that that sealed
Wing’s fate? You say this man may have instigated the murder. If so,
may not that have been the moment of instigation?”
“Scarcely possible,” returned McManus, as it were drawn against his
will into the discussion. “If he did anything so important, he wouldn’t
leave it for the last word and last moment.”
“There I don’t agree with you,” Trafford retorted, showing a
disposition to argue, which caused McManus a nervous irritation he
could not conceal. “From my experience, that’s just what he would do.
He’d hesitate to take the plunge; he’d wait to shape a phrase and then,
at the last moment, when it had to be done, he’d throw it off in any
form it presented itself. Actually, I’d give more to know what was said
in that two minutes, before the stranger jumped for the train, than for
all the talk of the whole evening.”
“Well; have your own way,” said McManus brusquely; “but you can’t know.
Let it rest there, and let’s go on to what happened next--if you know.”
Trafford watched him intently, as he was speaking, but when he had
finished seemed to find nothing in the speech, so he went on:
“After the train pulled out, the man behind the storehouse waited some
few minutes, till the station was closed, and the men had left, and
then he stepped out and picked up something that he saw lying on the
ground and had watched from the moment it had caught his eye. It was a
revolver, one chamber of which had been discharged. We know now how
it came there, and don’t need to go over that part. He skulked back
through Gray’s Court, keeping in the shadows when he crossed Canaan
Street, and so came again into River Road. A feverish haste had now
taken control of him, and when he reached the driveway of the Parlin
homestead, the light was still burning in the library--in fact, Mr.
Wing was at his desk, just finishing the letter which he had intended
to write early in the evening, and which the visit of this unknown man
had prevented him from writing.”
“There’s not the first thing,” interrupted McManus, who seemed now
watchful of every detail as the tale approached its climax, “to show
that he ever wrote that letter!”
“There’s been no evidence yet produced,” replied Trafford; “but the
evidence exists, and I can prove that it was written and the person
to whom it was addressed. I can prove too that it never reached that
person.”
“Go on,” said McManus.
“The man felt that what he had to do must be done quickly. Perhaps he
knew that if he took time for thought, he wouldn’t have the courage or
resolution to do the work. He went to the door where he had rung early
in the evening, and rang the same bell. Then he stepped on to the grass
east of the doorstep and waited, with the pistol he had found ready in
his hand.”
“Are you certain on that point?” demanded McManus.
Trafford stopped and looked at McManus, as if pondering that question.
Finally he answered:
“I think so. He probably had a pistol of his own, but I’m confident he
used the one he’d found. Everything points to his being a shrewd, keen
man, and naturally he would not use his own pistol when he had another
in his pocket.”
McManus nodded, indicating that Trafford was to take up the story.
“Wing came to the door, as before. He did not bring a lamp, but left
the doors open behind him. Seeing no one, he stepped out on to the
door-stone, when the man in hiding pressed the pistol against his
temple and drew the trigger at the same instant. Wing fell in a heap
on the step and threshold--his death was instantaneous.”
McManus had listened to these last words as if fascinated by the
terrible details so briefly stated. When Trafford paused on the last
word, he seemed to catch his breath with the movement of one who in the
last minute had forgotten everything but the picture before him.
“If your tale is true,” he said, breathing deeply, “your description of
the man is the man himself--a man of quick movements, strong purpose,
assured position, and absolute control of nerves. The man must have
been iron--at least while he was doing the job.”
“And he needed to be adamant to complete it. There was nothing to him
in Wing’s death, as a mere death. It saved him from nothing, though it
might save others. It was positive, not negative, gain he was after.
Perhaps, on the whole, he would rather Wing had lived. He felt it
simply a necessity, and an unpleasant one at that, that he should die.
But he was after something, and Wing’s death was only the preliminary
to securing it. Having waited to make certain the shot had aroused no
one, he stepped over the dead body and entered the library. He closed
the door behind him, went to the safe, which was still open, and took
from the upper left-hand pigeon hole a package of papers. Then he
closed the safe and turned the knob, probably mechanically, showing
that he was a man accustomed to deal with keyless safes. He went to
the desk and took from it the letter which Wing had just sealed and
directed----”
“To whom?” interrupted McManus.
“To the Governor, asking for an appointment for the following Thursday,
the thirteenth.”
McManus nodded and Trafford went on:
“Then he put out the light, raised the shade of one window to make sure
the coast was clear, and returned the way he had come. In doing so, he
closed the library door behind him and drew the outer door to until
it was stopped by the body of the dead man. Thus, you see, with all
his shrewdness, he made four mistakes; he closed and locked the safe;
he put out the light; he closed the library door, and he attempted to
close the outer door.”
“How mistakes?” asked McManus.
“If he had left the safe open, it would have been supposed mere robbery
was the purpose. If he had left the lamp burning, and the library and
outer doors open, there would have been nothing to show that some one
had visited the room after the murder.”
“There was the missing letter,” suggested McManus, who seemed to be
thinking with Trafford’s thoughts.
“Yes,” replied Trafford; “that was mistake number five.”
“But, of course,” went on McManus, “he had no means of knowing what was
in it. If it had been still unsealed, it would have been different. As
it was, he could not risk it; there was nothing else for him to do.”
“Exactly,” replied Trafford; “still, I think we can count it a mistake.
The package of papers was what he really wanted. He should have been
content with that.”
“But how did he know that he had got all in that single package? Would
he not be likely to examine the safe, especially the cupboard?”
“How would he have got at it? It was locked.”
“Unless Wing’s keys were in the lock. That might have been. He would
have taken them out when he closed the safe; it would not have closed
otherwise. I understand they were found on the mantel.”
“Who testified to that?” asked Trafford, as if trying to recall the
fact.
“I don’t remember,” said McManus. “Some one at the inquest, I think.”
“I think it would have been natural for him to open the cupboard,
though he must have seen the package when he was there early in the
evening, and so knew what he was after. However, whether he examined
further or not, he did not remain long. The next day he cleaned the
chamber of the revolver and filled it, thus leaving only one empty, and
during the night found opportunity to throw it over on to the box hedge
in the front yard.”
Trafford stopped as if he had finished his story, and McManus sat like
one in a deep reverie. Suddenly, he looked up and asked:
“Where then are the papers which were the cause of this tragedy?”
“The man has not dared use them; he keeps them concealed until it is
safe to sell them for the hundred thousand dollars which was offered
for them.”
“My God! man, how do you know these things?” demanded McManus, his face
ghastly as that of a week-old corpse.
“Do you dare deny one of them?” retorted Trafford.
“What do you mean by that?” asked the other.
“_That you are the man who murdered Wing!_”