Death by violence was no new thing to Anthony Stevens; no man could
sail the seas he'd sailed, or penetrate the regions he had gone
through, and not have seen sudden and bloody ends a-plenty. But there
was an unexpected terror in this one; death had flipped its hand here
with a grotesquery that was horrible, and the young man felt himself
grow sick.
His eyes went about the counting-room: there was none of the litter
that shows a place hastily ransacked; the drawers of the desk were
closed; the cupboard was as it had been the day before; a strong box
set against the wall was securely locked and unmolested. The thing had
not been done for robbery, then. Revenge, perhaps? A man who dealt
as closely as Magruder would be likely to anger many; no niggard, in
Anthony's experience, had ever gone scot-free. Your clutching, greedy
trader always, at some place or other, over-stepped the line, and was
it to be wondered at if--
But Anthony, with a sharp gesture and a tightening of the mouth, put
this whole train of thought from him. It was like the drugs some
shipmen brought with them from the East; it lulled and gave false ease.
In this very room, the previous morning, Magruder had said:
"Outside there, in the docks, there are a score or more of fine,
deep-water ships; on the wharves and in the warehouses there is much
rich stuff. But if they, to the last block and spar, to the last bale
and barrel, were offered me as the price of making it known that I'd
brought you north, as I have, I'd refuse."
Anthony shivered a little. The place seemed cold; his flesh was damp;
his huge shadow, cast upon the wall by the flare of the candle, seemed
bent with the same fear that had filled the man now dead. As he stood
there Anthony tried to sense the shape of this dread; and each time a
sort of blankness came upon him. The house of Rufus Stevens' Sons, as
his mind drew it toward him, was plain, solid, normal; he could not
imagine fear trailing through its doors. But there could be no doubt
about Magruder; he had sensed the thing, and because he had spoken of
it he had paid with his life.
As Anthony looked at the dead man, his breath caught sharply, and he
frowned down at him. Then, taking the candle, he held it closer; the
blood upon the neck-cloth was hard and dark, not fluid and red as it
would have been had the crime been newly done. He touched the body; it
was rigid.
The young man put down the candle. The crime, then, was not of that
morning. It was some hours old. It had been done during the night.
Because of some urgency of business, probably the arrival of his brig
_Bristol Pride_, Magruder had remained in his counting-room until late,
with his bills of lading, and what not; and death had walked in on him
out of the night.
Walked in on him! What had occurred to himself in the night came back
to Anthony; and his mind tightened about it. Again he saw the two
men in the moonlight; again he saw the one point to his window, and
directly afterward come tramping into his room with his orders to leave
the city. And the other! He had gone toward the river; he had gone in
the direction of this very place!
Facing a tangible possibility, Anthony no longer felt that the room was
cold; his skin grew normal; his pulse beat calmly; the shadow on the
wall no longer had the cringe of infectious fear.
There came a sound from the depths of the building. Once more Anthony
went into the passage and along its length; at the far end of the
wareroom a door stood open; a porter was taking down the shutters.
Anthony was about to call to him; but his lips closed upon the sound,
and he turned and made his way quietly to the door by which he had come
in. He looked out; he saw no one in the alley; and in a moment he was
walking away, with all the unconcern he could call into his manner.
In trudging from the Half Moon to Magruder's, Anthony had worked
himself up to a high pitch of exasperation; more than once he made the
stout stick whistle as he slashed it through the air. He had formulated
certain questions that must be answered. To the devil with all this
tongue-wagging, and nothing coming of it.
But now he knew all he desired; and he had not asked a question. Also
he knew what he had to face. It was men! And it was blows! Good! They
were things he understood. When he came face to face with the men he'd
know what to say; and when the time came for the blows--Anthony smiled
here--rather grimly, to be sure; but it was the first smile of the
morning.
At Water Street and Mulberry, Christopher Dent's apothecary shop was
open, and Anthony went in. The little man was eating broiled fish
in his laboratory and had a big book in the Latin tongue propped up
before him. He shoved his spectacles up on his forehead and greeted his
visitor.
"Sit down," said he. "And take some of the halibut. I'll get you a
plate. It came fresh into the market this morning."
He began bustling about; but Anthony stopped him.
"I've had breakfast," said the young man. "An hour ago."
Christopher settled into his place at the table once more.
"You are an early riser," said he. "But, then, you always were. Many
and many a time we'd cross the river before sun-up in the spring, when
the dandelions were beginning."
Many of the tricks of boyhood persist in later life; and one of
Anthony's had been, when he was perplexed, to go to Christopher Dent.
The little apothecary had earned a great name among the youth of the
old city district by his wisdom as to stone-bruises and warts, stubbed
toes and lacerated shins; and because of this it was taken for granted
that he also spoke with authority on other things. And now the old
instinct became active in Anthony, and he told the apothecary of how he
found Magruder. Christopher shoved his spectacles still farther up on
his head, closed the book, and forgot about the fish.
"Dead!" said he.
"As a stone," said Anthony.
"And no one was about--the shutters were up, and the door was standing
open?"
"Yes."
The little old apothecary stared with round eyes.
"I knew Mr. Magruder," said he. "At odd times he'd come here for a
pennyworth of dragon-root, which he used for an asthma. A close man;
he spent little and said less. He so seldom mixed with people that I'd
have ventured he'd not a friend, nor an enemy, anywhere. What manner of
blow killed him?"
"I did not look narrowly," said the young man, "but it seemed in the
nature of a stab."
"There are some desperate rogues going about," said Christopher,
shaking his head. "Desperate, and cunning, too. Did you speak with the
watch after you gave the alarm?"
"I gave no alarm," said Anthony. Then he told of how Magruder had
written him at New Orleans, of his interview with him on the day
before, of his talk with Dr. King, and of his visitor at the Half Moon
in the small hours of the morning.
"God bless us!" said Christopher Dent, his eyes wider than before.
"What can it all mean?"
"I thought," said Anthony, "it would be best to come away quietly from
Magruder's and say nothing. As it is, the porters or clerks will find
the body in good time; then my name will be in no way connected with
the matter, and that, I think, will be of service to me."
The little apothecary considered a moment, and then gravely nodded.
"Yes," said he, "you are right. You are quite right. The city will be
in a state over this; the officers will be much exercised. If you'd
made the thing known, they'd have asked questions of you. To keep
yourself from any touch with this villainy you would have given guarded
answers. The officers are not without perception; they would have noted
your hesitancy and would, like as not, have insisted upon a clearer
statement. And that," with a look of great knowingness, "you'd probably
not be inclined to give just now. Yes, you are quite right to say
nothing; the body will be found in due course, as you say, and so no
harm will be done."
A man came into the outer shop, and the apothecary went out to him.
"I want," said the man, in a voice that Anthony seemed to recognize, "a
few pennyworth of Spanish flies, and pitch enough to make a plaster of
some size."
"For man or beast," asked Christopher dubiously.
"For a horse--a gelding with a hurt shoulder."
"I would not advise the pitch," said the apothecary; "when cold, it
grows hard, and will dull the virtue of even cantharides."
"But it will stick," maintained the other, "and no kicking or rubbing
will get it off. And this horse is the very devil for kicking and
stumbling and knocking against things."
"A small quantity of Venice turpentine," said Christopher, "and a
little yellow wax--"
"I will have pitch," interrupted the man. "You may be able to doctor
humans, Mr. Dent, but you don't understand horses. They need strong
medicines and strong words, else they'll get entirely out of hand.
There'd have been no accident last night if I'd been able to speak
properly to the beast; but having a lady passenger I had to mind my
tongue."
Anthony changed his position so that he could see the man. Yes, it was
the coachman with whom he had talked at the Half Moon; and the young
man went hastily into the shop. The man gave him a nod of recognition
and a thick-shouldered salute.
"An accident, did you say?" questioned Anthony. "It wasn't serious, I
hope."
"Only for the horse," said the man. "He's young and not much used to
being driven at night; and the way along the river as you turn the end
of the fish-market is not very light. 'Twas there he stumbled, and I
could go no further."
Anthony cocked a questioning eye at the man.
"The way along the river?" said he. "And turning the end of the
fish-market? What were you doing there?"
"It came of my passengers changing their minds," said the man. "We were
in Chestnut Street near to Fourth when they suddenly bethought them
that they'd do well to drop in on some one else before going home. Down
among the wharves is no usual place to go visiting of a night; but, as
that was their orders, there I went--or as far as I could; for after
the horse fell they got out and I saw no more of them, for I was well
occupied in getting back to the stable with a crippled beast on my
hands." Here he turned to the apothecary and added confidently: "Yes,
let it be pitch. I know that to work well. Don't be afraid that I'll
mix the fly into it; I'm too old a horse-leech for that. Get your pitch
just hot enough to run, do you see? Spread it upon a common cloth,
sprinkle the blister upon the face of it, and clap it on the shoulder.
Let him clump about as he will, there it is fixed; and in a day it will
have drawn all the humors of the fall away."
"He will have fever from the shock," said Christopher. "His pulse
will be heavy and his tongue rough. In that event I would advise
pond-dogwood. A plain infusion of the bark makes a draft, bitter, but
agreeable and efficacious."
What the man with the injured horse said in way of reply, Anthony did
not hear; for his attention was being given to little groups of people
who were hastily gathering and dissolving, gathering and dissolving,
on the street; other people were hurrying along talking excitedly with
each other. Christopher Dent, following Anthony's gaze, also saw them;
he opened the door and spoke to a victualer who was passing, wiping his
hands on his apron.
"What is it? What has happened?"
"They say a man has been killed," said the victualer. "Some merchant or
other; killed in his own counting-room, below here on the river front,
near to the fish-market--some time during the night."