In sheer desperation, I resolved upon an interview with Inspector
Crawford. I hadn't a very high opinion of him as a detective, but I had
reached the pitch where I must do something.
I telephoned to him, but it was only after some persistence that I could
persuade him to give me even a little of his valuable time. Finally he
agreed to a fifteen-minute interview at his own home.
It was not far to his house, and as I walked over there I wondered why
he seemed so averse to a discussion of the Pembroke case. He had
impressed me, when I saw him that morning, as one of those busybodies in
the detective line who are always willing to dilate upon their clues and
their deductions, their theories and their inferences.
But as soon as I began to talk with Mr. Crawford I learned that he had
little interest in the Pembroke case, because he considered its result a
foregone conclusion.
Inspector Crawford was not an especially cultured man, nor of a
particularly affable nature, but he was possessed, as I soon learned, of
a certain stubbornness which manifested itself mainly in adhering firmly
to his own decisions.
"I know Miss Pembroke killed her uncle," he said, "because nobody else
could by any possibility have done it. I examined the windows myself.
Those which were fastened were absolutely immovable from the outside,
and those which were unfastened had the same sort of catches, and the
black woman declared she had unfastened them from the inside in the
morning. The window opening on the fire escape had a double lock, the
dumb-waiter was securely bolted on the kitchen side, the night-latch and
chain were on the front door, and, therefore, my dear sir, to get into
that apartment without breaking something was as impossible as if it had
been hermetically sealed."
"Some one might have cut out a pane of glass and replaced it," I
suggested.
The inspector looked at me with a glance almost of pity.
"It's my business to make sure of such things," he said. "Of course I
thought of that, and examined every window-pane. Had one been put in
with fresh putty during the night, I should certainly have detected it.
If you examine them, you will find both putty and paint hard and
weather-stained."
My respect for Mr. Crawford's detective ability rose rapidly, and I
frankly told him so.
He smiled disinterestedly.
"I'm not one of those spectacular detectives," he said, "who pick up a
handkerchief in the street, and declare at once that it was dropped by a
cross-eyed lady with one front tooth missing, who was on her way to
visit her step-daughter now living in Jamaica, Long Island, but who
formerly was a governess in a doctor's family in Meriden, Connecticut."
I laughed at this bit of sarcasm, but was too vitally interested in the
subject in hand to care for amusing side issues.
"Do you say then, inspector," I continued, "that there was positively no
way for any one else to get into that apartment, and that therefore Mr.
Pembroke necessarily met his death at the hands of his niece or the
colored servant?"
"Or both," added Mr. Crawford.
"You assert that as your unqualified opinion?"
"I assert it as an incontrovertible fact," said Inspector Crawford, in
his decided way, "and, though it needs no backing up of evidence, the
evidence all points unmistakably to the same fact. There are motive,
opportunity, and a weapon at hand. What more is there to say?"
"There is only this to say," I declared, maddened by his air of
finality: "that Miss Pembroke did not do it; that neither she nor the
black woman knows who did do it; and that I take it upon myself to prove
this when the occasion shall arise to do so."
Again the inspector looked at me with that compassionate expression that
irritated me beyond words.
"Mr. Landon," he said, "I have no desire to be personal, but may I ask
you, if you were as absolutely disinterested in the Pembroke case as I
am, would you not incline to my opinion?"
This silenced me, for I well knew that but for my interest in Janet
Pembroke I should inevitably be forced to Mr. Crawford's point of view.
"Ah!" he said. "I thought so. Now let me tell you, Mr. Landon--and I am
indeed sorry to tell you--that there is no possible way to get that girl
acquitted, and that your best plan is to work simply for the lightest
possible penalty. If you can plead self-defence, temporary insanity, or
even somnambulism, I advise you to do so."
"I thank you, inspector, for your advice, and regret to say that I
cannot follow it. I shall plead 'not guilty,' and I shall prove my
case."
The inspector began to look interested, for, though a man may not boast
of his own reputation, I may say that Mr. Crawford knew me as a lawyer
of long practice and wide experience; and knew, too, that I had been
successful in cases where wise and anxious judges had scarcely dared
hope for it.
"I hope it may be so," he said. "It does not seem to be possible, but,
of course, no man's judgment is infallible. Might I be allowed, however,
to ask your line of defence?"
"I don't know exactly, myself," I confessed; "but I think it will
implicate George Lawrence."
"But he couldn't get in."
"Inspector, if any one is implicated other than those two women, it must
necessarily be some one who 'couldn't get in.'"
"That is true," said the inspector; "but, all the same, a murder can't
be committed by a man who can't get in."
"That is no more impossible," I said stanchly, "than a murder committed
by either of those two women."
Again the inspector contented himself with a smile.
"I have no reason," I went on, "for suspecting George Lawrence, except
that he could be said to have a motive. I admit, as you say, that it
does not seem possible for him to have entered the apartment, unless one
of the women let him in."
"Let him in!" echoed the inspector. "I hadn't thought of that! Ah, now
I see your idea. If George Lawrence is the man who did the deed and was
let in by his cousin, while she might have been accessory, she might not
have known of the deed at all."
"That is possible, inspector," I agreed; "but had she let George in, she
must have again put the chain on the door after he went out. This is
scarcely compatible with the assumption that she knew nothing of what
had happened in the meantime."
"No," declared the inspector, in his decided way. "Your suggestion,
however, leads to a new line of investigation. But say George Lawrence
_had_ gone to the Pembrokes' apartment last night, and _had_ come away
again, the elevator boy would have known it, and would have given
evidence this morning; that is, unless he had been bribed, which is, of
course, possible. But all this will be brought out at the trial."
"Not so fast, inspector," I said, feeling a grim delight in bringing him
up with a round turn. "George Lawrence can prove a complete and perfect
alibi, attested by responsible witnesses."
Inspector Crawford looked thoroughly disgusted. "Then the whole matter
stands where it did at first," he said, "though, of course, we must
remember that, since the women could have let in George Lawrence, they
could, of course, have let in any one else, had they been so minded. But
all this is in your province, rather than in mine, and if you can find
anybody who is likely to have gone in there last night, with or without
criminal intent, I think for your own sake you had better make
investigation along that line."
"Mr. Crawford," I said, "I would not have mentioned to you even the name
of George Lawrence in this connection if I could have done what I wanted
to without your assistance. I want to go to George Lawrence's apartment,
and make a search of his rooms. I have not a definite reason for doing
this, but I feel that it may lead to something. I cannot say I suspect
George Lawrence of the crime. I cannot doubt his alibi, nor can I
imagine how he could have gotten into the apartment had he wanted to.
But I do know that he had, or at least might possibly have had, a motive
for desiring his uncle's death, and upon that perhaps irrelevant fact I
base what I shall not call a suspicion, but an interest into looking
into his affairs. I could not go through his rooms alone, but as an
inspector you will be allowed to do so, and I want to go with you and at
once."
I may have been mistaken in Mr. Crawford's inclination toward detective
work. Although he had seemed indifferent when he had been so sure of his
conclusion, the mere opportunity of searching for clues seemed to stir
him to action, and, to my surprise, he was not only willing but anxious
to go with me at once.
As I knew Lawrence would spend the entire afternoon in his work of
looking over Mr. Pembroke's papers, I felt that the coast was clear for
an hour or so, at least. So together we took a Broadway car, and were
not long in reaching Washington Square.
The inspector's badge, of course, gained him access at once to George's
apartment, and I followed him into the rooms, feeling that if there was
anything even remotely approaching a clue, I must and would find it.
Though not luxurious, Lawrence's quarters were exceedingly comfortable.
There was a studio, not large, but well lighted and furnished in a way
that showed its use as a living-room, and perhaps for small social
functions as well. A bedroom and bath completed the suite, and the
inspector told me to begin my search.
"Let us examine the place," he said, "independently of each other, and
afterward we can compare notes. I confess I have little hope of finding
evidence of any sort. Of course I don't for a moment think that, even
had Lawrence killed his uncle, he would have broken off that hat-pin and
brought it home here to incriminate himself."
"Of course not," I assented; "but, by the way, where _is_ the other half
of that hat-pin?"
The inspector gave his queer smile. "Assuming a woman to have done the
deed," he said, "we must assume her to be clever enough to dispose of a
piece of a broken hat-pin."
My heart sank at his words, for I saw how deeply rooted was his belief
in Janet's guilt, and I feared a judge and jury might look at it in the
same way.
Silently we began our search. I took the studio, and the inspector the
bedroom, first; afterward we were to go over each other's ground.
In one way, it seemed a dreadful thing to be poking round among a man's
personal belongings; but again, since the cause of justice demanded it,
I felt no hesitancy in doing so.
I took little interest in the sketches on the walls or the odd bits of
junk and curios on the tables. No man with anything to conceal would
leave it in those obvious places.
And yet I was not looking for anything George might have concealed, but
rather for some straw which might show the direction of the wind of
evidence.
For the first time in my life, I felt like the detective in fiction, and
I scrutinized carefully the floor and the rug. It seemed to me that all
the clues I had ever read of had been discovered on the floor; but the
trouble was that this floor offered so many unexpected substances that
the result was distracting. But by no stretch of the imagination could I
look upon them as clues. I certainly discovered many things upon the
floor that told their own story; but the stories were of no importance.
Cigarette or cigar ashes were in such quantity as to indicate recent
masculine guests. An artificial violet and a bit of fluffy feather
trimming showed perhaps an afternoon tea, or a reception which feminine
guests had attended. Lead-pencil shavings here and there betokened the
untidiness of an artist, and splashes of ink or water-color, though
numerous, proved merely that Lawrence had spoken the truth regarding his
profession.
Though disheartened by my non-success, I kept on until I had examined
every square inch of floor. I found nothing unexplainable to the most
ordinary intellect, except a few tiny bits of broken glass on the
hearthstone. So infinitesimal were these fragments that I almost missed
them, and, though I could not think them of any importance, I took them
up on a bit of white paper and examined them by the light. They were of
a pinkish purple color, and I wondered if they could be bits of a
druggist's phial which had contained poison. The notion was absurd
enough, for Mr. Pembroke had not been poisoned, and, moreover, even
granting my hypothesis a true one, those few specks of glass would
represent only a small fraction of a broken bottle.
But he might have dropped it, my imagination rambled on, and smashed it,
and then swept up all the fragments, as he thought, but overlooked these
specks.
At any rate, I put the paper containing the bits in my pocket, and went
on with my search. Feeling that I had finished the floor, I examined all
the furniture and decorations, paying no attention to Lawrence's desk or
personal belongings.
Mr. Crawford came in from the bedroom. "I've done up my room," he said,
"and there's nothing there at all, not even a revolver. Now, if you're
through here, we will change territory."
"I can't find anything," I returned, and as I spoke the inspector went
straight to the writing-desk.
"If there is nothing here," he said, "I give it up."
With a practised hand he ran swiftly through Lawrence's papers.
"H'm!" he said. "Our young friend has been dabbling in stocks. Bought
L. & C. Q. on a margin. That's bad, for it dropped 'way down day before
yesterday. That ought to help along your 'motive,' Mr. Landon, for as
sure as I sit here George Lawrence must have lost many thousands in Wall
Street on Wednesday."
"It is corroborative," I said, "but that's all. Granting Lawrence's
motive for desiring to inherit his uncle's money at once, there is no
real evidence that he helped matters along by putting the old gentleman
out of the way."
"Not a bit," agreed Inspector Crawford; "and you mark my word, Mr.
Landon, if there was any reason for suspecting young Lawrence, it would
have turned up before this."
"I'm not so sure of that," I returned; "and it isn't exactly evidence
I'm after, but merely a hint as to how he could have done it."
"Ah!" said the inspector, smiling again. "He couldn't have done it save
with the knowledge and assistance of his cousin."