During the night--we turned in about two A. M.--it occurred to me that I
had heard or read that no person could be legally convicted of murder
till the body of the victim had been found dead. This little matter had
been overlooked about long enough, I thought. The lawyers might have
asked concerning the _corpus delicti_, but no one had sought their
advice. It struck me that the common-sense thing to do now was to begin
at the bottom and see Collins, the undertaker, before I went too far in
exonerating Hosley, even though I could never hope to escape the spell
of his innocent, wholehearted manner.
The morning following the arrival of Jim, with his burden of woe,
seeking release through the middleman of yore, I started out early,
determined to do the biggest day's work as an intermediary ever recorded
on Cupid's card index. I found Mr. Collins busy keeping his
professional Prince Albert coat wide open, with both hands in his
trousers pockets, at his quiet "establishment"--so described on the gold
sign. I explained that I wanted some information. He recalled the
Browning case very well, and tried hard to smile when I asked for the
name of the cemetery and its location, that I might visit the grave. I
thought that might stagger him, but it did not.
"You see, this sort of burial was out of my line altogether, but I did
it to please Browning, an old friend of mine, and the children, as much
as anything," he answered with complete self-possession.
Out of his line, of course, thought I, because his specialty was
cremations, and this was a burial--much to my surprise.
"The lady was very kind to us when we lived there, Mr. Collins," I said,
lying impressively. "I have been laid up in the hospital so long I have
not had a chance to make the inquiry before. I want to take some flowers
to lay on her grave as a token of our respect--my partner and I, you
know--Mr. Hosley. We always found Mrs. Browning very accommodating" (she
never bothered me, for I did not know that she existed until she ceased
to do so). "We propose to take a whole day off and make a trip up there
now to attend to this duty which has been uppermost in our minds."
Mr. Collins being a member of the Undertakers' Association, had been
operated on for the removal of his diaphragm to prevent laughing, and he
therefore took a serious professional interest in my request. He retired
to the neighborhood of his safe, looked into some large books and
returned with the name of the cemetery and a few directions written on a
slip of paper.
"You'll find it just back of Mount Vernon, about two miles from the
trolley crossing I have given you there. Take a hack when you leave the
car; there's a livery right across the street. And say, don't forget to
come back and tell me about it."
I thanked him for his kindness and assured him I would return to tell
him the result of my search.
The proper thing to do with a murderer is to subject him to the third
degree. Very often he will quake when taken to the grave of his victim.
So I decided to take Jim up there with me; we could do it and get back
easily by noon, and maybe before. If he quaked, I would not need to be
hasty in defending him, and if he did not quake, the air would do him
good, poor chap, for he was badly unstrung and needed a ride in the
country.
"Come, Jim," I shouted, rushing into the house. "I am not going down to
the office to-day. I shall take a day off to straighten out your tangled
affairs. Get your things on and come with me."
He seemed to doubt my prowess, but slowly worked his way into his coat.
Before boarding the elevated train going north, I bought a handsome
bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley, tuberoses, asparagus fern and enough
forget-me-nots to appropriately light up the center. This indicated to
Jim that I was preparing a peace offering to tender Gabrielle. He wanted
to know if he hadn't better wait on the corner while I went in and did
the talking.
"In where?" I asked, for I had given no particulars.
"Why, you are going up to Ninety-sixth Street, aren't you?"
"Not I," said I. "At least not yet. We are going beyond that, Jim; up to
Mount Vernon and beyond by trolley when we leave the elevated." I looked
him square in the eye, and I could see no quaking. If he was suspicious,
he knew how to dissemble. Could that be possible? I wondered, but only
for a second.
"What are you going there for, Ben?"
"Can't you imagine, Jim?" I asked, having that midnight journey in mind
that he might have taken with the man Collins, or his representatives,
the night I was at the hotel. But I could not understand how he could
have had time to make the trip.
"Never was up this way in my life," he answered, "and don't see where it
comes in now, hanged if I do."
"Well, it's a little notion of mine," I assured him. "I don't want to
proceed on this matter with Gabrielle until I have been to Mount Vernon
and two miles beyond. The air will do you good, and so I brought you for
that purpose."
I thought I would appear benevolent in his eyes, if I could not startle
him. To tell the truth, I did not expect to startle him. He could not
plot, and I was a knave, I thought then, ever to have doubted him. But I
must go on and give him the third degree, for common-sense compelled
caution.
"Ben, let's cut out Mount Vernon, get off and go up to Ninety-sixth
Street. I'll go in alone and see if Gabrielle will not meet me this
morning. I think she may, if you did not spoil everything by some crazy
message."
"Why, Miss Tescheron will be down-town by this time; it is after nine
o'clock."
"That's so. I don't suppose any one but her mother would be home." He
seemed perfectly satisfied to go with me after that.
It was a dismal ride across the little stretch of country, and when the
hack drew up in front of a tall, red building, I looked at my bouquet
and then at the driver, asking him if he understood me to call for a
brewery, the only object that seemed to lie before us. The man with the
reins thereupon directed us to make a detour of the building and its
fringe of beer garden, to a point where we would behold the spot we
sought. I took Jim's arm and helped him to struggle toward the place. An
old man in his shirt-sleeves was digging in a prospective vegetable
patch with much lubrication of the horny hands of toil, in which he
grasped a potato fork.
"Getting ready to plant?" I asked, my farming blood beginning to rise.
"Why don't you use a spade and get somewhere?" There I was, as usual,
ready to give advice.
"'Tain't necessary; we don't plant very deep, only 'bout a foot or two;
expect we'll have to later on, though, if the business keeps on like it
has been goin'. Say, mister, what time is it?" A man who digs for day's
wages frequently wants to know the time, so I accommodated him and lost
track of the direction of his remarks.
"Can you tell me where I'll find the grave noted on this slip of paper?"
I asked, handing Collins' memorandum to him.
"Yes," said he, "that's one of mine. Browning--that's right. I kin show
it to you. Step this way."
When he said it was one of his, I took it to mean that he had been the
digger for the occasion. So we followed through a little rustic
gate--Hamlet Hopkins and Horatio Hosley--into a fenced lot comprising
about two acres of level ground, laid out in the smallest graves I had
ever seen. Most of them were about the size of my floral tribute. The
tiny marble slabs reared above many of the little knolls seemed like
foot-stones, and appeared to indicate that the perpendicular system of
the Irish pagans had been adopted.
"Here's your'n," said our guide, pointing to a very small exhibit in his
peculiar collection. I laid the flowers on it and glanced at the
headstone. The simple inscription read:
"TOOTSEY."
The foot-stone bore this epitaph:
"RATS!"