THE MYSTERY OF THE DEATH WOUND.
“I woke up with the feeling that somebody had called to me, and I
started to a sitting posture on the couch before I was aware where I
was. Then, of course, a glance told me my surroundings.”
“And you still had the impression that somebody had called to you?”
“Yes.”
“Called your name?”
“Yes; and by my middle name, which is never used outside my immediate
family. My father, mother and sister always call me Meadow, or Med.”
“And your cousin? Did he call you so, also?”
“Rarely. Usually he addressed me simply as Danton, and at times with the
familiarity of some of my club friends he called me Dan. But I
discouraged such familiarities on his part, for I never liked him. In
fact, I always hated him--despised him, hated him and feared him as
well; but that is part of the story I shall tell you from the second
beginning. You know I asked you to give me two beginnings.”
“Well; you started wide-awake with the feeling that somebody had called
you, and that your middle name had been used. Go on.”
“Not wide-awake. I was dazed. There was an instant when I did not know
where I was.”
“Naturally.”
“Then there were several moments when I could not remember how I got
there, although I could tell that I was in my own room.”
“But it all came back to you as you thought it over?”
“Not all; and what did come back to my recollection came very slowly.
Let me tell you things chronologically.”
“Certainly.”
“I rubbed my eyes and saw that I was in my own room. Then I looked
around to see who had called me, and discovered Orizaba seated in the
big chair by the window; but for the life of me I could not remember how
he got there. I leaned back again among the pillows of the couch to
think it over, and then I remembered that somebody had called to me, and
I sung out to Orizaba to know if he had done it.
“He didn’t answer, and I called to him again, and then it came over me
that we had attended the same banquet at my club, and that we had come
home together--that is, I remembered the cab part of it--and I figured
that he was asleep, and had either spoken my name in his sleep, or I had
dreamed that I heard it.
“Well, I remained in that position, thinking things over and trying to
get things clear in my mind for several minutes, and then I got up,
stretched myself, looked at my watch, saw it was half-past two----”
“But you had removed your coat and vest. Where was your watch?”
“In my vest on a chair beside the couch.”
“All right. Go on.”
“My watch said half-past two. I felt rocky, so I turned out three or
four of the lights, leaving only one of them burning, and went into my
bathroom. In about three minutes I was in a cold bath, and nothing in
this world ever felt so good as that did.”
“It pulled you together, too, did it not?”
“Amazingly. Things came back to me that I had totally forgotten--but
still I was hazy about Orizaba’s presence in my room, and remembered
nothing of the quarrel.”
“And then----”
“I finished my bath and passed back into my room, and so on through it
to the sleeping-room which is just beyond. It was my intention to go to
bed at once, but as I entered my bedroom there was a clock facing me,
and the hands pointed to half-past three. I could not believe that I had
been an hour in the bath, so I went back into the other room and took
another look at my watch, only to discover that it still said half-past
two, and that it had stopped. Then I thought that possibly it was run
down, and I turned the stem, only to discover that the mainspring was
broken. All the same, if I broke that mainspring at half-past two, I had
not slept much more than half an hour in all, taking the time for the
bath into consideration.”
“That is quite evident.”
“Well, I turned then to take another look at Orizaba. To tell the truth,
I did not like the idea of his sleeping in my room, and I couldn’t yet
understand why he did so.”
“Well?”
“I hesitated a moment or so, and then I crossed the room to his side and
spoke to him. He neither replied nor moved, and so I seized him by the
shoulder and shook him.”
Danton shuddered as he uttered this last sentence--shuddered and uttered
a low groan.
“And then----” said Nick.
“Why, then his head fell over on one side, and I saw that his eyes were
half open, and---- Well, I seemed to know instantly that he was dead.”
“What did you do then?”
“I didn’t do anything at first. I only stood there staring at him in
amazed wonder. I think my senses as well as my muscles were paralyzed.”
“Quite likely.”
“I replaced him as well as I could, in the position he had occupied
before I shook him out of it, and then I felt of his flesh. It wasn’t
cold and it was not warm. It was sort of clammy. There isn’t anything
else that I know of that feels just as his flesh felt to my touch then.”
“I can understand that.”
“Well, the remarkable part of that moment is that everything about our
conduct after we were in my room together, which I have already told
you, came back to me in a flash then, as if I had not forgotten it at
all, and at the same instant I seemed to know what it was that had
killed Orizaba. My God! Mr. Carter, you don’t believe I did it, do you?
You don’t believe I could have done such a thing in my sleep, do you?”
“No. Emphatically I do not. Go on, Mr. Danton.”
“I seemed to know what had killed him as well as if I had seen it
done--as perfectly as if I had done it myself, although then it did not
occur to me that I had done it, nor as a surprising fact that I should
seem to know how it was done.”
“We will go into that later on, Danton. Just now I want you to be
particular to tell me everything that you did from that moment on, until
you entered this room here; and I want you to tell me also, as nearly as
you can, the impressions that fastened themselves on your mind between
that moment and now. There is a subconsciousness here which I wish to
fathom. And--there is one thing which I want you to bear in mind.”
“What is that?”
“That no matter what impression you are making upon the mind of Nick
Carter, you have not yet satisfied a jury that you are not detailing a
cleverly concocted story--or, in plain English, that you did not
actually kill Orizaba with deliberation and malice prepense. Do you
understand?”
“Yes; I understand.”
“Well, continue from the point where it came over you suddenly that you
knew how the murder was committed. What was it that forced that idea
upon you?”
“Nothing. It came accidentally. I discovered that in raising his head
to replace it against the upholstering of the chair in the position it
had occupied before I shook him, I was unconsciously examining the back
of his neck under his hair, which, as I have said, grows downward, quite
out of sight below his collar--in fact, below his shirt band when he has
no collar adjusted.”
“You were searching there unconsciously, you say?”
“Quite so, it would seem, since I realized suddenly what I was doing,
and only realized it when my search revealed a speck of blood where it
had oozed out and hardened into a crimson bead among the short hair on
the back of his neck.”
“And then----”
“Then, still without a full realization of my acts, I wiped away the
speck of blood with my handkerchief--wiped it away with great care and
looked for the sign of a wound underneath the spot where it had been.”
“Did you find one?”
“Barely that; nothing more. Just a little mark like the prick of a pin,
turned blue, and altogether unnoticeable unless you should search
diligently for it. I shall come to that again, sir, later, but it
belongs with that part of my story which has the second beginning.”
“Very good. For the present stick to the text you are on. What did you
do next?”
“I think in all that I did then I acted automatically. I replaced his
head in position with great care. I even walked around in front of him
to see that he looked quite as naturally asleep as when I first
discovered him.”
“And then----”
“In one of the inside compartments of my desk I keep a small metallic
casket in which I store a few treasured keepsakes. Among the things I
kept in that casket was the needle I have already described. It had been
fastened into a cork handle, like the handle of a brad-awl. The casket
was invariably locked--I do not remember ever in my life to have left it
unlocked--but now, when I went to it, it was not only unlocked, but it
was open, and--the needle was not there.”
“What about the cork handle?”
“That was there, in place, where it belonged, but the needle had been
broken off short against the cork.”
“Well, what then?”
“I took the cork handle from the box and laid it on the desk. Then I
crossed the room to my discarded trousers--for I had not dressed since
my bath and had on only my pajamas--and felt in my pocket for my keys.”
“You found them?”
“Yes. Then I crossed back again to the desk, locked the casket and
replaced it where it belonged, after which I closed my desk and locked
it, but not until I had placed the cork handle to one side. Later, I put
it in my pocket and brought it here with me. Here----”
“Never mind. We will come to that later. You told me in the beginning of
your story that when you entered your room after leaving the piazza, you
found Orizaba there, at your desk, and that the desk was open, although
you believed that you possessed the only key that would fit its lock.
How do you account for that?”
“I don’t account for it; I only know it is the truth. Every word that I
have told you is the solemn truth, so help me God!”