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Following each author's name was a notice: "All rights reserved." This
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numbered I-XII.
Golden Stories
A SELECTION OF THE BEST FICTION
BY THE FOREMOST WRITERS
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
THE SHORT STORIES COMPANY
1909
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN
LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN
COPYRIGHT, 1908-1909, BY THE SHORT STORIES COMPANY
I
THE NIGHT EXPRESS
The Story of a Bank Robbery
By FRED M. WHITE
A PELTING rain volleyed against the great glass dome of the terminus, a
roaring wind boomed in the roof. Passengers, hurrying along the
platform, glistened in big coats and tweed caps pulled close over their
ears. By the platform the night express was drawn up--a glittering mass
of green and gold, shimmering with electric lights, warm, inviting, and
cozy.
Most of the corridor carriages and sleeping berths were full, for it was
early in October still, and the Scotch exodus was not just yet. A few
late comers were looking anxiously out for the guard. He came presently,
an alert figure in blue and silver. Really, he was very sorry. But the
train was unusually crowded, and he was doing the best he could. He was
perfectly aware of the fact that his questioners represented a Cabinet
Minister on his way to Balmoral and a prominent Lothian baronet, but
there are limits even to the power of an express guard, on the Grand
Coast Railway.
"Well, what's the matter with this?" the Minister demanded. "Here is an
ordinary first-class coach that will do very well for us. Now, Catesby,
unlock one of these doors and turn the lights on."
"Very sorry, my lord," the guard explained, "but it can't be done. Two
of the carriages in the coach are quite full, as you see, and the other
two are reserved. As a matter of fact, my lord, we are taking a body
down to Lydmouth. Gentleman who is going to be buried there. And the
other carriage is for the Imperial Bank of Scotland. Cashier going up
north with specie, you understand."
It was all plain enough, and disgustingly logical. To intrude upon the
presence of a body was perfectly impossible; to try and force the hand
of the bank cashier equally out of the question. As head of a great
financial house, the Minister knew that. A platform inspector bustled
along presently, with his hand to his gold-laced cap.
"Saloon carriage being coupled up behind, my lord," he said.
The problem was solved. The guard glanced at his watch. It seemed to him
that both the bank messenger and the undertaker were cutting it fine.
The coffin came presently on a hand-truck--a black velvet pall lay over
it, and on the sombre cloth a wreath or two of white lilies. The door of
the carriage was closed presently, and the blinds drawn discreetly
close. Following behind this came a barrow in charge of a couple of
platform police. On the barrow were two square deal boxes, heavy out of
all proportion to their size. These were deposited presently to the
satisfaction of a little nervous-looking man in gold-rimmed glasses. Mr.
George Skidmore, of the Imperial Bank, had his share of ordinary
courage, but he had an imagination, too, and he particularly disliked
these periodical trips to branch banks, in convoy, so to speak. He took
no risks.
"Awful night, sir," the guard observed. "Rather lucky to get a carriage
to yourself, sir. Don't suppose you would have done so only we're taking
a corpse as far as Lydmouth, which is our first stop."
"Really?" Skidmore said carelessly. "Ill wind that blows nobody good,
Catesby. I may be overcautious, but I much prefer a carriage to myself.
And my people prefer it, too. That's why we always give the railway
authorities a few days' notice. One can't be too careful, Catesby."
The guard supposed not. He was slightly, yet discreetly, amused to see
Mr. Skidmore glance under the seats of the first-class carriage.
Certainly there was nobody either there or on the racks. The carriage
at the far side was locked, and so, now, was the door next the platform.
The great glass dome was brilliantly lighted so that anything suspicious
would have been detected instantly. The guard's whistle rang out shrill
and clear, and Catesby had a glimpse of Mr. Skidmore making himself
comfortable as he swung himself into his van. The great green and gold
serpent with the brilliant electric eyes fought its way sinuously into
the throat of the wet and riotous night on its first stage of over two
hundred miles. Lydmouth would be the first stop.
So far Mr. Skidmore had nothing to worry him, nothing, that is, except
the outside chance of a bad accident. He did not anticipate, however,
that some miscreant might deliberately wreck the train on the off chance
of looting those plain deal boxes. The class of thief that banks have to
fear is not guilty of such clumsiness. Unquestionably nothing could
happen on this side of Lydmouth. The train was roaring along now through
the fierce gale at sixty odd miles an hour, Skidmore had the carriage to
himself, and was not the snug, brilliantly lighted compartment made of
steel? On one side was the carriage with the coffin; on the other side
another compartment filled with a party of sportsmen going North.
Skidmore had noticed the four of them playing bridge just before he
slipped into his own carriage. Really, he had nothing to fear. He lay
back comfortably wondering how Poe or Gaboriau would have handled such a
situation with a successful robbery behind it. There are limits, of
course, both to a novelist's imagination and a clever thief's process of
invention. So, therefore....
Three hours and twenty minutes later the express pulled up at Lydmouth.
The station clock indicated the hour to be 11.23. Catesby swung himself
out of his van on to the shining wet platform. Only one passenger was
waiting there, but nobody alighted. Catesby was sure of this, because he
was on the flags before a door could be opened. He came forward to give
a hand with the coffin in the compartment next to Skidmore's. Then he
noticed, to his surprise, that the glass in the carriage window was
smashed; he could see that the little cashier was huddled up strangely
in one corner. And Catesby could see also that the two boxes of bullion
were gone!
Catesby's heart was thumping against his ribs as he fumbled with his
key. He laid his hand upon Skidmore's shoulder, but the latter did not
move. The fair hair hung in a mass on the side of his forehead, and here
it was fair no longer. There was a hole with something horribly red and
slimy oozing from it. The carpet on the floor was piled up in a heap;
there were red smears on the cushions. It was quite evident that a
struggle had taken place here. The shattered glass in the window
testified to that. And the boxes were gone, and Skidmore had been
murdered by some assailant who had shot him through the brain. And this
mysterious antagonist had got off with the bullion, too.
A thing incredible, amazing, impossible; but there it was. By some
extraordinary method or another the audacious criminal had boarded an
express train traveling at sixty miles an hour in the teeth of a gale.
He had contrived to enter the cashier's carriage and remove specie to
the amount of eight thousand pounds! It was impossible that only one man
could have carried it. But all the same it was gone.
Catesby pulled himself together. He was perfectly certain that nobody at
present on the train had been guilty of this thing. He was perfectly
certain that nobody had left the train. Nobody could have done so after
entering the station without the guard's knowledge, and to have
attempted such a thing on the far side of the river bridge would have
been certain death to anybody. There was a long viaduct here--posts and
pillars and chains, with tragedy lurking anywhere for the madman who
attempted such a thing. And until the viaduct was reached the express
had not slackened speed. Besides, the thief who had the courage and
intelligence and daring to carry out a robbery like this was not the man
to leave an express train traveling at a speed of upwards of sixty miles
an hour.
The train had to proceed, there was no help for it. There was a hurried
conference between Catesby and the stationmaster; after that the
electric lamps in the dead man's carriage were unshipped, and the blinds
pulled down. The matter would be fully investigated when Edinburgh was
reached, meanwhile the stationmaster at Lydmouth would telephone the
Scotch capital and let them know there what they had to expect. Catesby
crept into his van again, very queer and dizzy, and with a sensation in
his legs suggestive of creeping paralysis.
* * * * *
Naturally, the mystery of the night express caused a great sensation.
Nothing like it had been known since the great crime on the South Coast,
which is connected with the name of Lefroy. But that was not so much a
mystery as a man hunt. There the criminal had been identified. But here
there was no trace and no clue whatever. It was in vain that the
Scotland Yard authorities tried to shake the evidence of the guard,
Catesby. He refused to make any admissions that would permit the police
even to build up a theory. He was absolutely certain that Mr. Skidmore
had been alone in the carriage at the moment that the express left
London; he was absolutely certain that he had locked the door of the
compartment, and the engine driver could testify that the train had
never traveled at a less speed than sixty miles an hour until the bridge
over the river leading into Lydmouth station was reached; even then
nobody could have dropped off the train without the risk of certain
death. Inspector Merrick was bound to admit this himself when he went
over the spot. And the problem of the missing bullion boxes was quite as
puzzling in its way as the mysterious way in which Mr. Skidmore had met
his death.
There was no clue to this either. Certainly there had been a struggle,
or there would not have been blood marks all over the place, and the
window would have remained intact. Skidmore had probably been forced
back into his seat, or he had collapsed there after the fatal shot was
fired. The unfortunate man had been shot through the brain with an
ordinary revolver of common pattern, so that for the purpose of proof
the bullet was useless. There were no finger marks on the carriage door,
a proof that the murderer had either worn gloves or that he had
carefully removed all traces with a cloth of some kind. It was obvious,
too, that a criminal of this class would take no risks, especially as
there was no chance of his being hurried, seeing that he had had three
clear hours for his work. The more the police went into the matter, the
more puzzled they were. It was not a difficult matter to establish the
bona fides of the passengers who traveled in the next coach with
Skidmore, and as to the rest it did not matter. Nobody could possibly
have left any of the corridor coaches without attracting notice; indeed,
the very suggestion was absurd. And there the matter rested for three
days.
It must not be supposed that the authorities had been altogether idle.
Inspector Merrick spent most of his time traveling up and down the line
by slow local trains on the off-chance of hearing some significant
incident that might lead to a clue. There was one thing obvious--the
bullion boxes must have been thrown off the train at some spot arranged
between the active thief and his confederates. For this was too big a
thing to be entirely the work of one man. Some of the gang must have
been waiting along the line in readiness to receive the boxes and carry
them to a place of safety. By this time, no doubt, the boxes themselves
had been destroyed; but eight thousand pounds in gold takes some moving,
and probably a conveyance, a motor for choice, had been employed for
this purpose. But nobody appeared to have seen or heard anything
suspicious on the night of the murder; no prowling gamekeeper or watcher
had noticed anything out of the common. Along the Essex and Norfolk
marshes, where the Grand Coast Railway wound along like a steel snake,
they had taken their desolate and dreary way. True, the dead body of a
man had been found in the fowling nets up in the mouth of the Little
Ouse, and nobody seemed to know who he was; but there could be no
connection between this unhappy individual and the express criminal.
Merrick shook his head as he listened to this from a laborer in a
roadside public house where he was making a frugal lunch on bread and
cheese.
"What do you call fowling nets?" Merrick asked.
"Why, what they catches the birds in," the rustic explained. "Thousands
and thousands of duck and teel and widgeon they catches at this time of
year. There's miles of nets along the road--great big nets like fowl
runs. Ye didn't happen to see any on 'em as ye came along in the train?"
"Now I come to think of it, yes," Merrick said thoughtfully. "I was
rather struck by all that netting. So they catch sea birds that way?"
"Catches 'em by the thousand, they does. Birds fly against the netting
in the dark and get entangled. Ducks they get by 'ticing 'em into a sort
of cage with decoys. There's some of 'em stan's the best part of half a
mile long. Covered in over the top like great cages. Ain't bad sport,
either."
Merrick nodded. He recollected it all clearly now. He recalled the wide,
desolate mud flats running right up to the railway embankment for some
miles. At high tide the mud flats were under water, and out of these the
great mass of network rose both horizontally and perpendicular. And in
this tangle the dead body of a man had been found after the storm.
There was nothing really significant in the fact that the body had been
discovered soon after the murder of Mr. George Skidmore. Still, there
might be a connection between the two incidents. Merrick was going to
make inquiries; he was after what looked like a million to one chance.
But then Merrick was a detective with an imagination, which was one of
the reasons why he had been appointed to the job. It was essentially a
case for the theoretical man. It baffled all the established rules of
the game.
Late the same afternoon Merrick arrived at Little Warlingham by means of
a baker's cart. It was here that the body of the drowned man lay
awaiting the slim chances of identity. If nothing transpired during the
next eight and forty hours, the corpse would be buried by the parish
authorities. The village policeman acted as Merrick's guide. It was an
event in his life that he was not likely to forget.
"A stranger to these parts, I should say, sir," the local officer said.
"He's in a shed at the back of the 'Blue Anchor,' where the inquest was
held. If you come this way, I'll show him to you."
"Anything found on the body?"
"Absolutely nothing, sir. No mark on the clothing or linen, either.
Probably washed off some ship in the storm. Pockets were quite empty,
too. And no signs of foul play. _There_ you are, sir!"
Casually enough Merrick bent over the still, white form lying there. The
dead face was turned up to the light, Rembrandtesque, coming through the
door. The detective straightened himself suddenly, and wiped his
forehead.
"Stranger to you, sir, of course?" the local man said grimly.
"Well, no," Merrick retorted. "I happen to know the fellow quite well.
I'm glad I came here."
* * * * *
Until it was quite too dark to see any longer Merrick was out on the mud
flats asking questions. He appeared to be greatly interested in the
wildfowlers and the many methods of catching their prey. He learned,
incidentally, that on the night of the express murder most of the nets
and lures had been washed away. He took minute particulars as to the
state of the tide on the night in question; he wanted to know if the
nets were capable of holding up against any great force. For instance,
if a school of porpoises came along? Or if a fish eagle or an osprey
found itself entangled in the meshes?
The fowlers smiled. They invited Merrick to try it for himself. On that
stormy east coast it was foolish to take any risks. And Merrick was
satisfied. As a matter of fact, he was more than satisfied.
He was really beginning to see his way at last. By the time he got back
to his headquarters again he had practically reconstructed the crime. As
he stood on the railway permanent way, gazing down into the network of
the fowlers below, he smiled to himself. He could have tossed a biscuit
on to the top of the long lengths of tarred and knotted rigging. Later
on he telephoned to the London terminus of the Grand Coast Railway for
the people there to place the services of Catesby at his disposal for a
day or two. Could Catesby meet him at Lydmouth to-morrow?
The guard could and did. He frankly admitted that he was grateful for
the little holiday. He looked as if he wanted it. The corners of his
mouth twitched, his hands were shaky.
"It's nerves, Mr. Merrick," he explained. "We all suffer from them at
times. Only we don't like the company to know it, ye understand? To tell
the truth, I've never got over that affair at the Junction here eight
years ago. I expect you remember that."
Merrick nodded. Catesby was alluding to a great railway tragedy which
had taken place outside Lydmouth station some few years back. It had
been a most disastrous affair for a local express, and Catesby had been
acting as guard to the train. He spoke of it under his breath.
"I dream of it occasionally even now," he said. "The engine left the
line and dragged the train over the embankment into the river. If you
ask me how I managed to escape, I can't tell you. I never come into
Lydmouth with the night express now without my head out of the window of
the van right away from the viaduct till she pulls up at the station.
And what's more, I never shall. It isn't fear, mind you, because I've as
much pluck as any man. It's just nerves."
"We get 'em in our profession, too," Merrick smiled. "Did you happen to
be looking out of the window on the night of the murder?"
"Yes, and every other night, too. Haven't I just told you so? Directly
we strike the viaduct I come to my feet by instinct."
"Always look out the same side, I suppose?"
"Yes, on the left. That's the platform side, you understand."
"Then if anybody had left the train there----"
"Anybody left the train! Why we were traveling at fifty miles an hour
when we reached the viaduct. Oh, yes, if anybody _had_ left the train I
should have been bound to see them, of course."
"But you can't see out of both windows at once."
"Nobody could leave the train by the other side. The stone parapet of
the viaduct almost touches the footboard, and there's a drop of ninety
feet below that. Of course I see what you are driving at, Mr. Merrick.
Now look here. I locked Mr. Skidmore in the carriage myself, and I can
_prove_ that nobody got in before we left London. That would have been
too dangerous a game so long as the train was passing any number of
brilliantly lighted stations, and by the time we got into the open we
were going at sixty miles an hour. That speed never slackened till we
were just outside Lydmouth, and I was watching at the moment that our
pace dropped. I had my head out of the window of my van till we pulled
up by the platform. I am prepared to swear to all this if you like. Lord
knows how the thing was done, and I don't suppose anybody else ever
will."
"You are mistaken there," said Merrick drily. "Now, what puzzles you,
of course, is the manner in which the murderer left the train."
"Well, isn't that the whole mystery?"
"Not to me. That's the part I really do know. Not that I can take any
great credit to myself, because luck helped me. It was, perhaps, the
most amazing piece of luck I have ever had. It was my duty, of course,
to take no chances, and I didn't. But we'll come to that presently. Let
it suffice for the moment that I know how the murderer left the train.
What puzzles me is to know how he got on it. We can dismiss every other
passenger in the train, and we need not look for an accomplice. There
_were_ accomplices, of course, but they were not on the express. Why
didn't Mr. Skidmore travel in one of the corridor coaches?"
"He was too nervous. He always had a first-class carriage to himself. We
knew he was coming, and that was why we attached an ordinary first-class
coach to the train. We shouldn't do it for anybody, but Lord Rendelmore,
the chairman of Mr. Skidmore's bank, is also one of our directors. The
coach came in handy the other night because we had an order from a
London undertaker to bring a corpse as far as here--to Lydmouth."
"Really! You would have to have a separate carriage for that."
"Naturally, Mr. Merrick. It was sort of killing two birds with one
stone."
"I see. When did you hear about the undertaking job?"
"The same morning we heard from the bank that Mr. Skidmore was going to
Lydmouth. We reserved a coach at once, and had it attached to the
Express. The other carriages were filled with ordinary passengers."
"Why didn't I hear of this before?" Merrick asked.
"_I_ don't know. It doesn't seem to me to be of much importance. You
might just as well ask me questions as to the passengers' baggage."
"Everything is of importance," Merrick said sententiously. "In our
profession, there are no such things as trifles. I suppose there will
be no difficulty in getting at the facts of this corpse business. I'll
make inquiries here presently."
So far Merrick professed himself to be satisfied. But there were still
difficulties in the way. The station people had a clear recollection of
the receipt of a coffin on the night of the tragedy, and, late as it
was, the gruesome thing had been fetched away by the people whom it was
consigned to. A plain hearse, drawn by one horse, had been driven into
the station yard, the consignment note had been receipted in the usual
way, and there was an end of the matter. Lydmouth was a big place, with
nearly a quarter of a million of inhabitants, and would necessarily
contain a good many people in the undertaking line. Clearly it was no
business of the railway company to take this thing any further.
Merrick admitted that freely enough. It was nearly dark when he came
back to the station, profoundly dissatisfied with a wasted afternoon.
"No good," he told Catesby. "At the same time there are consolations.
And, after all, I am merely confirming my suspicions. I suppose your
people here are on the telephone. If so, I should like to send a message
to your head office. I want the name of the firm in London who consigned
the coffin here. I suppose the stationmaster could manage this for me."
An hour or so later the information came. Merrick, at the telephone,
wanted a little further assistance. Would the Grand Coast Railway call
up the undertaker's firm whilst he held the line and ask the full
particulars as to the body sent from London to Lydmouth. For half an
hour Merrick stood patiently there till the reply came.
"Are you there? Is that Inspector Merrick? Oh, yes. Well, we have called
up Lincoln & Co., the undertakers. We got on to the manager himself. He
declares that the whole thing is a mistake. They have not sent a corpse
over our trunk system for two months. I read the manager the letter
asking for special facilities, a letter on the firm's own paper. The
manager does not hesitate to say the whole thing is a forgery. I think
he is right, Inspector. If we can do anything else for you----"
Merrick hung up the receiver and smiled as if pleased with himself. He
turned to his companion, Catesby.
"It's all right," he said. "Is there any way we can get back to London
to-night? The whole thing is perfectly plain, now."
* * * * *
Though Merrick returned to London thoroughly satisfied, he knew that the
sequel was not just yet. There was much conjuring work to be done before
it would be possible to place all the cards on the table. The Christmas
holidays had arrived before Merrick obtained a couple of warrants, and,
armed with these, he went down to Brighton on Boxing Day, and put up at
the Hotel Regina, registering himself as Colonel Beaumont, sometime of
the United States Field Forces. Merrick could pose as an authority on
Cuba, for on one occasion he had been there for six months on the
lookout for a defaulting bank manager. He had made certain changes in
his appearance, and just now he bore little resemblance to Inspector
Merrick of New Scotland Yard.
The big hotel on the front was full. There was a smart dance that same
night, preceded by a children's party and Christmas tree. The house
swarmed with young folks, and a good many nationalities were
represented. On occasions like these somebody generally takes the lead,
and by common consent the part of the chief of the events had been
allotted to the Marquis de Branza.
To begin with, he was immensely rich. He had vast estates in Italy. He
had been staying at the Regina for the past month, and it was whispered
that his bill had reached three figures. He entertained lavishly; he was
the soul of hospitality; he was going to buy a palace in Kings' Gardens,
and more or less settle down in Brighton.
In addition to all this the Marquis was a handsome man, very
fascinating, and a prime favorite with all the boys and girls at the
Regina. He had his little peculiarities, of course--for instance, he
paid for everything in gold. All his hotel bills were met with current
coin.
Merrick had gleaned all this before he had been a day at the Regina.
They were quite a happy family, and the Colonel speedily found himself
at home. The Marquis welcomed him as if he owned the hotel, and as if
everybody was his guest. The dance was a great success, as also were the
presents in connection with the cotillon promoted by the Marquis.
At two o'clock the following morning the Marquis was entertaining a
select party in the smoking-room. The ladies had all vanished by this
time. The Marquis was speaking of his adventures. He really had quite a
talent in that direction. Naturally, a man of his wealth was certain to
be the mark for swindlers. Merrick listened with an approving smile. He
knew that most of these stories were true, for they had all been
recorded from time to time at Scotland Yard.
"You would have made an excellent detective, Marquis," he said. "You
have made it quite clear where the police blundered over that Glasgow
tragedy. I suppose you read all about the Grand Coast Railway murder."
The Marquis started ever so slightly. There was a questioning look in
his eyes.
"Did you?" he said. "Naturally one would, Colonel. But a matter the most
inexplicable. I gave him up. From the very first I gave him up. If the
guard Catesby was not the guilty person, then I admit I have no theory."
One by one, the smoking-room company faded away. Presently only Merrick
and the Marquis remained, save one guest who had fallen asleep in his
chair. A sleepy waiter looked in and vanished again. The hotel was
absolutely quiet now. Merrick, however, was wide awake enough; so,
apparently, was the Marquis. All the same, he yawned ostentatiously.
"Let us to bed," he said. "To-morrow, perhaps----"
"No," Merrick said somewhat curtly. "I prefer to-night. Sit down."
The last two words came crisply and with a ring of command in them. The
Marquis bowed as he dropped into a chair and lighted a fresh cigarette.
A little red spot glowed on either of his brown cheeks, his eyes
glittered.
"You want to speak to me, Colonel?" he said.
"Very much indeed. Now, you are an exceedingly clever man, Marquis, and
you may be able to help me. It happens that I am deeply interested in
the Grand Coast Express murder; in fact, I have devoted the last two
months to its solution."
"With no success whatever, my dear Colonel?" the Marquis murmured.
"On the contrary, my dear Marquis, with absolute satisfaction. I am
quite sure that you will be interested in my story."
The Marquis raised his cigarette graciously.
"You are very good to give me your confidence," he said. "Pray proceed."
"Thank you. I will not bore you with any preliminary details, for they
are too recent to have faded from your memory. Sufficient that we have a
murder committed in an express train; we have the disappearance of eight
thousand pounds in gold, without any trace of the criminal. That he was
on the train at the start is obvious. That he was not in any of the
carriages conveying ordinary passengers is equally obvious. It is also
certain that he left the train after the commission of the crime.
Doubtless you read the evidence of the guard to prove that nobody left
the train after the viaduct leading to Lydmouth station was reached.
Therefore, the murderer contrived to make his escape when the express
was traveling at sixty miles per hour."
"Is not all this superfluous?" the Marquis asked.
"Well, not quite. I am going to tell you how the murderer joined the
train and how he left it after the murder and the robbery."
"You are going to tell me that! Is it possible?"
"I think so," Merrick said modestly. "Now, Mr. Skidmore had a
compartment to himself. He was locked in the very last thing, and nobody
joined the train afterward. Naturally a--well--an amateur detective like
myself wanted to know who was in the adjoining compartments. Three of
these could be dismissed at once. But in the fourth there was a
corpse----"
"A corpse! But there was no mention of that at the inquest."
"No, but the fact remains. A corpse in a coffin. In a dark compartment
with the blinds down. And, strangely enough, the firm of undertakers who
consigned, or were supposed to consign, the body to Lydmouth denied the
whole business. Therefore, it is only fair to suppose that the whole
thing was a put-up job to get a compartment in the coach that Mr.
Skidmore traveled by. I am going to assume that in that coffin the
murderer lay concealed. But let me give you a light--your cigarette is
out."
"I smoke no more," the Marquis said. "My throat, he is dry. And
then----"
"Well, then, the first part is easy. The man gets out of the coffin and
proceeds to fill it with some heavy substance which has been smuggled
into the carriage under the pall. He screws the lid down and presently
makes his way along the footboard to the next compartment. An athlete in
good condition could do that; in fact, a sailor has done it in a drunken
freak more than once. Mind you, I don't say that murder was intended in
the first instance; but will presume that there was a struggle. The
thief probably lost his temper, and perhaps Mr. Skidmore irritated him.
Now, the rest was easy. It was easy to pack up the gold in leather bags,
each containing a thousand sovereigns, and to drop them along the line
at some spot previously agreed upon. I have no doubt that the murderer
and his accomplices traveled many times up and down the line before the
details were finally settled. Any way, there was no risk here. The
broken packing cases were pitched out also, probably in some thick wood.
Or they might have been weighted and cast into a stream. Are you
interested?"
The Marquis gurgled. He had some difficulty in speaking.
"A little dangerous," he said. "Our ingenious friend could not possibly
screw himself down in the coffin after returning to his compartment. And
have you perceived the danger of discovery at Lydmouth?"
"Precisely," Merrick said drily. "It is refreshing to meet with so
luminous a mind as yours. There were many dangers, many risks to take.
The train might have been stopped, lots of things might have happened.
It would be far better for the man to leave the express. And he did so!"
"The express at top speed! Impossible!"
"To the ordinary individual, yes. But then, you see, this was not an
ordinary individual. He was--let us suppose--an acrobat, a man of great
nerve and courage, accustomed to trapeze work and the use of the diving
net."
"But Colonel, pardon me, where does the net come in?"
"The net came in at a place near Little Warlingham, on the Norfolk
coast. There are miles of net up there, trap and flight nets close by
the side of the line. These nets are wide and strong; they run many
furlongs without supports, so that an acrobat could easily turn a
somersault on to one of these at a given spot without the slightest
risk. He could study out the precise spot carefully beforehand--there
are lightships on the sands to act as guides. I have been down to the
spot and studied it all out for myself. The thing is quite easy for the
class of man I mean. I am not taking any great credit to myself, because
I happened to see the body of the man who essayed that experiment. I
recognized him for----"
"You recognized him! You knew who he was?"
"Certainly. He was Luigi Bianca, who used to perform in London years
ago, with his brother Joseph, on the high trapeze. Then one of them got
into trouble and subsequently embarked, as the papers say, on a career
of crime. And when I saw the body of Luigi I knew at once that he had
had a hand in the murder of Mr. Skidmore. When the right spot was
reached the fellow took a header in the dark boldly enough, but he did
not know that the storm had come with a very high October tide, and
washed the nets away. He fell on the sands and dislocated his neck. But
I had something to go on with. When I found out about the bogus corpse I
began to see my way. I have been making careful inquiries ever since for
the other criminal----"
"The other criminal! You mean to insinuate----"
"I insinuate nothing," Merrick said coldly; "naturally enough I wanted
to find Joseph Bianca. He was the man who picked up the gold; he was the
man who hired a car in London from Moss & Co., in Regent Street, for a
week. This was to recover the gold and incidentally also to take up the
thief who stole it. I wanted to find Joseph Bianca, and _I've done it!_"
The Marquis leaped to his feet. As he did so the man in the distant
chair woke up and moved across the room.
"Don't make a fuss!" Merrick said quietly. "You will be able to explain
presently--perhaps what you are doing here posing as a Marquis, and
where you got all that ready money from. Meanwhile, let me inform you
that I am Inspector Merrick, of Scotland Yard, and that this is Sergeant
Matthews. Joseph Bianca, you are my prisoner, and I have a warrant for
your arrest as an accessory before and after the fact for the murder of
Mr. George Skidmore. Ask them to call us a cab, Matthews!"
II
OVER THE GARDEN WALL
The Story of a Vacation
By LOUISE HAMILTON MABIE
THE impression, which floated vaguely as a perfume in the wake of the
departing Mr. and Mrs. Jasper Prentiss, adapted itself pleasingly to any
point of view. Generally, it was thought that Katrina Prentiss was to
remain at home under the eye of Grandfather McBride. Particularly, was
this Grandfather McBride's reading of the unspoken word. But Miss
Prentiss, herself, thought so otherwise that the situation completely
reversed itself. To Miss Prentiss, Grandfather McBride was left
absolutely under her eye.
Meanwhile the Jasper Prentisses, characteristically explaining nothing,
commanding nothing, leaving events to work themselves out somehow, as
events have been known to do, were off for their month's fishing without
undue worry.
"Grandfather will smoke his pipe all over the house," remarked Mrs.
Prentiss easily, as they drove away.
"Oh, Katrina will manage somehow," returned Mr. Prentiss, as easily.
"They'll come to terms. By the way, Kitty, we mustn't forget that
marmalade." And, absorbed in their list of supplies, the Jasper
Prentisses disappeared from view.
Grandfather McBride, eighty-one, dependent, save in moments of
excitement, upon his knotted stick, hard-featured, with a rusty beard
and a shabby black hat, departed slowly for his own quarters. Miss
Prentiss, twenty-one, hazel-eyed and graceful, with a wonderful creamy
skin, under a crown of auburn braids, sank dreamily upon the broad
porch step and gazed across the green lawn into the future.
"A whole month," thought Miss Prentiss, "of doing as I
please--consulting nobody, ordering things, going to places, and coming
home to--freedom." Miss Prentiss spread out her hands with a sigh of
content. "Not that I'm interfered with--ever," she added, reproaching
herself, "but now--well, I'm it."
She rose swiftly and turned up the steps. In the wide doorway stood
Grandfather McBride, stick in hand, hat jammed down, and in his mouth,
at a defiant angle, a battered black pipe. A red flag, backed up by a
declaration of the rights of man, could not have spoken more plainly.
Miss Prentiss drew back; Mr. McBride stepped forward. Their eyes met.
Then the old gentleman flung down his challenge. He removed the pipe and
held it poised in his hand.
"What you goin' to do to-day, Triny?" he asked, briskly. "When you goin'
over to see the Deerings' parrot? There ain't another such bird in
America. You go over there this morning and see that parrot. Don't loll
about the house. Don't be lazy!" Whereupon, with less profanity, but as
much of autocracy as was ever displayed by an Irish boss whipping into
shape the lowliest of his Italian gang, Mr. McBride replaced his pipe
elaborately, and walked off with the honors. Katrina, utterly
astonished, stared after him, then shrugged, then smiled.
"Poor Grandfather," she reached at length, "in minor matters I'll let
him have his way."
The next day, Grandfather McBride smoked his pipe on the porch. On the
third morning he smoked it in the drawing-room--out of sheer defiance,
for he never entered the room save under compulsion. Katrina, reminding
herself that peace was to be desired above victory, shrugged once more,
smiled, and went for a ride. When she swept in, an hour or so later,
Grandfather McBride was in the back garden with John, and the smoke of a
huge bonfire obscured the sunlight. This was revolution, simple and
straightforward, and Katrina went at once to the back garden.
"John," she said, "what is the meaning of this? Don't you know that Mr.
Prentiss never allows bonfires? The rubbish is to be carted away, _not_
set on fire."
John, apologetic, perturbed, nodded toward the old gentleman. "Yes,
miss, I know. I told Mr. McBride, miss----"
Grandfather McBride turned coldly upon Katrina. "I ordered this
bonfire," he said.
"But, Grandfather, you know the old orders. Father never allows them."
"I allow them," said Mr. McBride. "Your father's away fishing, and I'm
in charge. This is my bonfire. I order bonfires when I please. I like
'em. I like the smell of 'em, I like the smoke----" Here an unexpected
cough gave Katrina a word.
"But, Grandfather," she began again, only to be cut short.
"When the folks are home, I sit still and mind my own business. Now
they're away, I'm goin' to do things. I'm on a vacation myself," said
Mr. McBride, "and I'll have a bonfire on the front lawn if I say so. You
go back to the house, Katriny, and read Gibson."
"Ibsen," flashed Katrina.
"I don't care what his Dutch name is--read him. Or else"--a grim light
of humor in his hard gray eye--"go over and see that parrot."
Katrina almost stamped her foot. "I loathe parrots," she cried, "and I
came out to talk about this bonfire."
"I know you did," said Mr. McBride, "but this parrot ain't like other
parrots. It's a clown. It would make a rag baby laugh."
Katrina, flushed, angry, at a loss what to say, decided to say nothing.
The sight of John, discreetly gazing at the roof of the chicken house,
the grimness of Grandfather's face, the discomfort of the choking
smoke, urged a dignified retreat. She turned abruptly and left them,
overwhelmed at the exhibition furnished by Mr. McBride, confounded at
his sudden leap into activity after years of serene floating and
absolutely in the dark as to any method of controlling him in the
future.
For a week, his pipe and his daily bonfire contented Mr. McBride.
Between himself and Katrina, relations were polite but not cordial.
Katrina preserved a dignity which deceived neither of them. Both knew
that she was awaiting something sensational, and the fact worried the
old gentleman, for already he had exhausted his possibilities. He longed
for new ideas in this matter of revolution, but none came. He began to
be bored by bonfires, and the lack of opposition to them. Even the
parrot failed to amuse, and he was sinking into dull monotony, when a
walk down the long lane behind the back garden one sunny afternoon
changed the horizon of his world.
He was gone for two hours; but Katrina was away from the house herself,
and did not notice. The next afternoon he disappeared for three, finally
dragging in weary in body, but high in spirit. Twice at dinner he
chuckled audibly, and three times he recommended the parrot across the
street to Katrina. The next day he vanished after luncheon, and was late
for dinner. At this, Katrina decided to take a hand.
"Grandfather," she said abruptly at dessert, after a long interval of
silence on both sides, "it's all very well to take a vacation, but there
is such a thing as overdoing it. I'm sure you would do nothing that
would alarm mother, and I know that if she were at home she would worry
over you. For days you have had no nap. Please rest to-morrow. Don't go
walking. Let me drive you to the club for luncheon."
The old gentleman glanced up at Katrina quickly. "I declare if I hadn't
forgot all about that fellow till this minute," he said. "Speaking of
the club, how's Sparks, Katriny?"
Katrina sat suddenly erect and her color deepened. "Do you by any chance
mean Mr. Willoughby Park, Grandfather? If so, I know nothing whatever
about him. I haven't seen him for a week." This with a jerk.
"Don't you marry that chap, Katriny," went on Mr. McBride, unimpressed,
"and don't you let him come around here. He's no good. A fellow that
hangs around a country club when he ain't hangin' around a girl, is
always no good. You marry a chap with brains, Katriny, even if he ain't
so long on the cash. Why, I know a young fellow----" Mr. McBride pulled
himself up short. "You dash in for brains, Triny, and I'll take out my
pocket book." Here he nodded, as if concluding a bargain, but Katrina
was already upon her feet.
"Grandfather McBride, you are growing insufferable," she cried. "Simply
because I mention the club, you assume that I am--angling--for a man
that--that has been decently polite to me. I have never been invited to
marry Mr. Park. And you give me low advice about laying traps for some
other sort of a man. And you mention pocket books! And you go off alone
for hours and come home worn out. And you smoke your horrible old pipe
and build your sickening bonfires, just to spite me! I think you are a
wretch, and I've worried over you every day since mother left." Here she
stopped suddenly, with a catch in her throat.
The old gentleman looked at her silently. Then he got up and came around
the table. Awkwardly, he patted her shoulder. Katrina sat down.
"I'm glad you don't like Sparks, my dear," said Mr. McBride, leaning on
his stick. "And don't worry your heart over Grandfather, Triny.
Grandfather's no fool. He ain't had so much fun in years." Mr. McBride
winked just here, and put on an air of profound mystery.
"I wonder where you do disappear to," said Katrina. "I think I'll go
along."
"Don't you do that," spoke up Mr. McBride alertly. "Don't you do that!
A man can't stand a woman tagging at his heels. He's got to have room,
and air to breathe."
"Smoke, you mean," put in Katrina, with returning spirit, "and I warn
you, Grandfather, that if you make fires off our place, you'll be
arrested."
"Pooh! Fires!" said Mr. McBride contemptuously. "Amusement for children.
I ain't a-makin' fires these days, Katriny. I've got other things to
do." And, with a final pat upon her shoulder, and a last most telling
wink, Grandfather McBride dragged himself wearily, but triumphantly, to
bed.
When Katrina, on the lookout next afternoon, saw Mr. McBride join John
in the back garden, hold with him a whispered consultation broken by
many stealthy glances toward the house, and finally disappear with him
down the lane, behind a wheelbarrow laden with boards, she gave orders
that she was not at home, waited half an hour, and followed.
The lane wound coolly green and deserted from the Prentiss place into
the heart of the country. Katrina, walking steadily, passed her own,
passed the Graham and the Haskell boundaries, and stopped in surprise.
At a branching path hung a new and conspicuous sign. "Private Road! No
Trespassing, Under Penalty of the Law."
It was a churlish sign. The people of the neighborhood--a summer
settlement of friends and pleasant informalities--were used to no such
signs. And Katrina, knowing Grandfather McBride, turned at once into the
branching path. At some distance in, she passed a similar sign, with
every mark of disdain. Finally, she was brought up short by a wire
fence, with a gate, high, wooden, and new, that stretched across the
path. She tried the gate, but it did not budge. From the wood beyond
came the sound of voices and the strokes of a hammer. With a quick
glance behind her, and a determined set to her chin, she began to climb
the gate.
She was descending upon the other side in safety, when Grandfather
McBride came upon her. His hat was pushed back upon his head, his stick
was forgotten. He descended upon her as might a hungry lion upon its
prey. He roared--in fact, he bellowed.
"Katrina Prentiss, get back over that fence. Climb back over that gate;
you're trespassing. Didn't you see the signs? Are you blind? Can't you
read? What do you mean by coming in here where you don't belong? Climb
back there and go home at once!"
Katrina, unprepared for battle and aware of being at a disadvantage,
swallowed hard and obeyed. She climbed back over the gate. Once upon
solid earth, however, and she glared as fiercely at Grandfather McBride
as he stared ferociously at her.
"I'm not a child," she said furiously, when he stopped to breathe, "to
be ordered about and sent home and insulted. I have never been so
treated in my life and I give you fair warning, Grandfather, that I'll
stand it no longer. After this I'll do as I please." Whereupon Katrina,
having woman-like, in the act of obedience, said her say, retreated with
dignity and dispatch. Behind her, Mr. McBride waved his recovered stick
over the gate and shouted, but she did not turn nor attempt an answer.
He came home within an hour, slowly, leaning heavily upon his stick.
John followed with the empty wheelbarrow. They parted at the barn and
Mr. McBride went at once to his room and shut the door. Katrina, sitting
at her own window, looked thoughtfully into space and swung a key upon
her forefinger. After a time she stood up, smoothed her hair and pinned
on her wide, rose-laden hat. Then she went down the hall quietly,
stopped before Mr. McBride's door, and listened a moment. A gentle snore
proclaimed Mr. McBride's occupation. Katrina fitted the key into the
lock and turned it, took it out again and slipped it beneath a corner of
the rug, listened a further moment and then walked down the stairs, out
through the back garden, and, with a final glance behind her, turned
once more into the green and deserted lane.
It must be confessed that Katrina started upon her quest in a spirit far
removed from that of your single-minded explorer. She was urged by a
variety of causes. Among them was a determination to disobey Grandfather
McBride, to serve him with his own medicine, to pay him in his own coin,
and to do it as quickly and as frankly as possible. Her rapidly
increasing curiosity concerning the region he guarded with so much
mystery counted as well, but the paramount force--for Katrina was young
enough to take her responsibility seriously--was anxiety over the old
gentleman himself. In fact, Katrina departed, as did Lot's wife, with
her face and her thought turned backward, a policy not conducive to
brilliant success in exploration.