Although it was nearly three before Lyon went to sleep, he awoke the
next morning earlier than usual and lay for some time figuring on the
problem that possessed his mind before he thought of such a thing as
dressing. He must see Howell and acquaint him with the strange
developments of the night before as soon as possible, but Howell was
old-fashioned, and he kept no telephone at his residence, for the
express purpose of warding off the intrusion of business matters upon
his hours at home. It was useless, therefore, to try to communicate
with him before he reached his office, which would be at ten
precisely.
While Lyon lay speculating on the situation, his eye fell upon the
knotted handkerchief containing the booty which he had brought away
from his raid upon Fullerton's room last night. The pressing incidents
that had followed had put it for the time completely out of his mind.
He sprang from the bed to examine it.
It was a curious record of a curious form of villainy that the little
package revealed. The notes were all from women, who, by fault or
fortune, had given him some hold upon their fears. Evidently the phase
of Fullerton's nature revealed by the decadent literature and pictures
in his room had had dark and complex ramifications in his career. The
rule of terror which he had held over Edith Wolcott and Mrs. Broughton
was, it would seem, only an instance of the methods by which, for the
sake of money or malice or for pure delight in deviltry, he had made
himself master of the secret history of women, and had used his
knowledge to keep them trembling under his lash.
Lyon soon found to his relief that it was not necessary for him to
read the whole of a letter to classify it, and he conscientiously
averted his eyes from the signatures. What an oppression must have
lifted from the face of nature when this man was dead! The man must
have possessed the fascination and the venom of a cobra. Lyon used up
a box of matches burning the telltale notes over his ash-receiver, and
felt that if he should have failed in everything else, it would have
been worth all to save this package of pitiful secrets from the cold
official eye of Bede.
Two letters only he saved from the cleansing flame. They were from
William Vanderburg and contained the information which had enabled
Fullerton to terrorize Mrs. Broughton. These he kept to turn over to
Broughton, and with them he placed the old note-book of Vanderburg's
which he had taken from the pocket of the dying man. It was a curious
fact that the two tangled threads of that story should have come into
his hands and that chance should have brought his path and Mrs.
Broughton's again together.
On his way downstairs, an impulse not wholly devoid of mischief sent
him to the 'phone. If it was too early to talk to Howell, he could at
any rate get Bede on the line,--and he did.
"Hello, Mr. Bede," he said, respectfully, "This is Lyon, of the
_News_. Any new developments in the Lawrence case?"
"I think I'd better ask you that question," said Bede, somewhat drily.
"Oh, I mean authentic information, not newspaper imagination,"
protested Lyon.
"I'd like to know, Mr. Lyon, just how much of your innocence is
authentic and how much is newspaper imagination."
"Oh, come, you're making fun of me. Really, haven't you any news items
to give me?"
"Not a scrap. You are very well able to help yourself to what you
want, young man." And Bede suspended the receiver and the
conversation.
That cheered Lyon a little, but as he came out into the streets his
footsteps lagged. His imagination had achieved little good in the
present case. It had simply led him wandering far afield. He had
imagined that the woman who fled from the scene of Fullerton's murder
might be Mrs. Broughton instead of Miss Wolcott. It was not Mrs.
Broughton,--and now Bede knew all about Mrs. Broughton's share in the
evening's events. Whether it was Miss Wolcott or not seemed as
debatable as at first. Lawrence undoubtedly believed it was. Whether
Bede believed it or not, he certainly had unearthed the facts that she
had visited the Wellington to see Fullerton earlier in the evening,
and that she had been at the drug-store on Hemlock Avenue a few
minutes before the time when Fullerton must have been struck down by
Lawrence's cane. The cards were therefore practically all in his
hands, and the defence could only hope to do what he might graciously
permit. It was maddening.
That fatal cane! It was the one bit of evidence more than
circumstantial. It must be explained.
In his dejection Lyon had walked along Hemlock Avenue to Sherman
Street. The empty lot where the cane had been discovered was on his
left, and he crossed the street and stopped to look down into the
trampled hollow. That cursed cane! How was it possible that it had
come here unless by Lawrence's hand? He scowled at the spot, with
gloom on his brow and perplexity in his mind, till someone stopped
beside him, and an eager old voice asked,
"What is happening? Anything?"
It was old Mr. Wolcott, eager-eyed and interested as ever. He tried to
discover what it was that was attracting Lyon's attention, with a
lively curiosity that made Lyon laugh, even in his depression.
"I was looking for an inspiration," he said, "but I can't see one. I'm
afraid it's hopeless."
"Sometimes you see queer things when you don't expect to," the old
gentleman said, cheerfully. "Once I saw a dog-fight down in that
hollow."
"Did you?" responded Lyon, looking at his watch. "I must be going on.
I've been killing time till I could see a man down town."
"It was a lively fight. There is a Boston terrier up in our
neighborhood that is a fighter. I don't like fighting dogs
myself,--and this one is a terror. He is always pitching on to some
poor little fellow that isn't big enough to stand up to him, and
doesn't have a chance to run. I broke my cane over him."
"Indeed?" murmured Lyon, with polite indifference. Then the echo of
the words rang through the silence of his mind,--louder and louder,
until he pulled up with a start, as though some one had been calling
to him for a long time and he had just become conscious of it. "You
broke your cane over him?" he repeated, and it seemed to him that
everything about him suddenly stood still till he should get the
answer. "Was that here,--in this hollow?"
"Yes. He's a big brute of a dog, and he had the little fellow by the
throat--"
"Yes, yes. What did you do with the pieces?"
"The pieces of the cane?"
"Yes. What did you do with them?"
The old man laughed somewhat slyly. "Edith doesn't like to hear about
things like that. She thinks that I am too old to go in and straighten
out a dog-fight. I don't tell her when anything of that sort happens."
"I see," said Lyon eagerly. "So you hid the pieces?"
The old man nodded cannily. "She'd never miss the cane. I have a lot
of other walking sticks. But if she saw the broken pieces, she'd get
the whole story out of me."
"Where did you hide them?"
"Oh, I put them out of sight, all right."
"But where, man, where? Show me the place."
"But I don't want them," protested Mr. Wolcott. "It was an old cane,
anyhow. I didn't mind breaking it."
"I just wanted to see if you had found a good hiding place. Do you
suppose the pieces are still there?"
"They aren't any good."
"No, but let's look and see, anyhow. Was it hereabouts?"
"Just under the sidewalk here. There's a hole under the sidewalk that
you see when you are down in the hollow."
"Come down and show me. Here, I'll help you down, and Miss Edith won't
guess where you have been."
The old man chuckled. This added a thrill to the affair, and with some
difficulty and hard breathing he climbed down into the low-lying lot
and made his way over the snow-covered hummocks of last summer's weeds
to the place which was more familiar to Lyon than it was to him.
"Right in there," he said, pointing to the famous spot where
Lawrence's cane had been found. "Perhaps they are there now. I poked
them quite far in. But I can't see anything in there."
"You remember the place? You are sure it was right there?"
"There isn't any other place where I could poke them in, is there?"
"No, I don't see that there is. Now, can you remember when it was that
you put them in there? Was there anything that would fix the date in
your mind?"
"You remember that day you came to the house to see Edith,--the first
time you came?"
"Yes."
"Well, it was the last time I had been out for a walk before that. Not
that day. It was on a Monday, because I remember that I didn't go out
Sunday because it stormed. Monday I went, and that was when I saw the
dogs fighting."
"What sort of a cane was it?" asked Lyon, as he helped the old
gentleman to recover the upper levels of the street.
"Oh, it wasn't a cane I cared for specially. It was just an old one."
"But what was it like? Did it have a heavy knob or a little one? Can
you describe it?"
"It had a pretty heavy knob. But the wood broke off right at my hand
when I beat the dog off. It wasn't a very stout cane. I got it in New
Orleans in 1842."
"I have noticed that you have a good collection of canes. I'd like to
look at them, if you have time."
The old gentleman blossomed into a pathetic vivacity under this
unexpected interest in his affairs.
"Oh, they are nothing to speak of. Not more than eight or nine. When I
was younger, I was something of a dandy, and I liked to have whatever
was going in that sort of thing. There weren't many that could show a
better style in little things than I could. But nobody thinks an old
man like me counts. No one cares for what I have."
"I should very much like to see your canes," said Lyon. "I have been
interested in canes lately. I can think of nothing that would please
me more than an opportunity to examine your collection. May I go home
with you now and see them?"
"I shall have great pleasure in showing them to you," Mr. Wolcott
answered, with dignified courtesy, turning homeward at once. "Though I
fear that my modest collection is hardly worthy the attention of a
connoisseur."
"I can hardly claim to be a connoisseur," protested Lyon in the same
vein. "I merely have a personal interest and curiosity which I may say
amounts to a passion. Now, I suppose you can tell me where you got
each and every cane you own."
"Certainly I can. Edith says that I am forgetful, but remember the
things that happened a few years back well enough. I can tell you just
where each one came from. Here we are. Come in, sir, come in. I am
glad to have you here as my guest. I don't have so many visitors."
Miss Wolcott, hearing her grandfather enter, had come into the hall to
look after him, and she was evidently surprised to see his companion.
Her surprise could hardly equal that of Lyon, however, at the change
which a day had made in her appearance. Instead of the somewhat severe
and marvellously self-controlled woman whom he had seen before, he saw
a radiant girl, tremulous and eager. The statue had been touched with
life. She came forward with a questioning look.
"Has anything new come up? Did you wish to see me?" she asked under
her breath.
"Not yet," he answered, in the same tone, but she read something in
his eye that made her watch him.
But the old gentleman did not like this disregard of his prior and
exclusive claims as the host.
"Mr. Lyon came to see me, Edith. Sit down, Mr. Lyon. My canes are
right here in the hall. I have never made anything like a collection,
and I am afraid you will be disappointed, but this one was my
father's. I've always kept that as a souvenir, but I never carried it
myself. It was cracked when I got it, and I was afraid of breaking it.
This thin little cane was one I carried as a young man. The dandies
carried them for dress canes when they went beauing the young ladies
in those days. I could tell tales--! You wouldn't suspect it, Edith,
but your grandfather was quite a lady-killer in his day."
"This stout stick is the one that you usually carry, I see," said
Lyon. He had run his eye over the entire lot when they were first laid
before him, and the hope he had cherished that a cane resembling the
one that Lawrence had carried might be found here had swiftly
vanished. There was nothing like it. Still, even without that final
link his discovery was so nearly perfect that he could hardly in
reason ask for more. He rose, eager to get to Howell with his news.
Edith, watchful of his face, guessed that there was something more in
his inquiry than appeared upon the surface.
"Dandy has another cane upstairs, if you want to know about his entire
collection," she said.
"No, I haven't, Edith."
"Oh, yes, you have. Dandy. It's in your room, behind the door. That
cane with the heavy top that you got in New Orleans in 1842."
The old gentleman chuckled, and essayed an elaborate wink at Lyon.
"Oh, it's upstairs, is it?"
"Yes, I put it there yesterday. I came across it in the back hall. I
think Eliza had kept it up there to straighten the pictures with."
"You are talking nonsense, Edith," her grandfather interrupted,
impatiently. "I know where that cane is. It got broken and I threw it
away. It was an old cane, anyhow,--not worth making a fuss over."
"I wonder if you could find it," Lyon said to the girl, in a swift
aside. She ran at once upstairs, and in a few moments returned, a
little breathless, but successful. She was carrying a heavy-headed
cane which in general appearance was very like the broken cane which
had figured in the trial. Lyon's eyes sparkled when he saw it. His
idea that Lawrence had forgotten his cane here in the hall, and that
the old gentleman, whose eyesight was confessedly so bad that he could
not read the newspapers, had picked it out of the hall rack by mistake
for one of his own, seemed now conclusively proved. And after all his
work, that the actual discovery of the fact should come so by accident
and casually!
"Is this your New Orleans cane,--the one you told me about?" he asked.
The old gentleman was examining it with a puzzled look and growing
perplexity. "I don't understand it," he murmured. "I guess I must be
getting old. I ought to be dead."
"Nonsense. The explanation is very simple, and I think I can tell you
what It is. But first, _is_ this your New Orleans cane?"
"It certainly seems to be."
"Would you swear to it?"
"But what was that other cane?"
"Let us settle this first. Would you swear to this one,--that it is
your own, and that this is the cane that you thought you had with you
when you broke your stick across those fighting dogs? You may be asked
in court to testify to that point, Mr. Wolcott. Can you swear that
this stick is actually the one that you thought you had broken?"
"Why, of course it is. I know my own stick. But I don't understand--"
"It is very simple. Lawrence left his cane here one evening, and the
next morning, when you went for your walk, you took it in mistake for
your own. It was just about the size and weight of this one, and you
would not be likely to notice the difference since it was not the cane
you commonly carried. You broke the cane, and put the pieces under the
edge of the sidewalk. They were found there immediately after
Fullerton's murder, and as Lawrence's name was engraved around the
knob, they seemed to connect him circumstantially with the murder. It
has been the one point we could not get around."
"But didn't he remember that he had left it here? I can't understand
why that did not occur to him," Miss Wolcott exclaimed.
"Can't you imagine why he would not allow himself to remember?" Lyon
asked, bluntly.
"No. I don't understand you. _Allow_ himself to remember? Why not? If
it was merely a question of where he had left his cane, it would not
have been a serious matter to answer, would it?"
"But suppose he, too, thought, as all the rest of us did, that the
cane had been the instrument of Fullerton's death?"
"But it was not!"
"No, but it seemed so. And with that seeming fact before him, he could
not defend himself by saying he had left it here without throwing the
same suspicion upon someone in this house."
"But he could not entertain so absurd a suspicion!"
"It was far from absurd. Do you remember you told me that he had said
that a good stout cane was better than a policeman's whistle, and that
he advised you to carry one of your grandfather's sticks if you had to
go out at night?"
"Yes, I remember very well. Of course it was all in jest. We were not
talking seriously then."
"I suspect he thought afterwards that you might have taken his
suggestion seriously."
"What do you mean?"
"He has absolutely refused to give any hint of where he had lost his
cane. Of course he had not forgotten. But there was in his mind the
possibility that you had, under some necessity, acted upon his
suggestion, and had taken his cane with you when you went out that
night,--" He had been talking rapidly, following out his own line of
reasoning, and forgetting for the moment that the implication it
contained must be startling to her, till he was pulled up by the look
of horror and amazement that had gathered on her face.
"What are you saying?" she cried. "Good heavens, what do you mean? You
haven't been thinking that I--_I_ killed Mr. Fullerton with Arthur's
cane?"
"I haven't," said Lyon, simply. "I haven't from the first. But it was
very natural that, knowing what he knew and not knowing what he
didn't, Lawrence should have felt that to clear himself would be to
implicate you."
Her horror was too deep for words. She only stared at him, with that
fixed look of dismay.
"Of course," added Lyon, "now that we can explain the cane away, he
will probably speak out."
"Was that why he was so anxious I should say nothing?--because he
thought I--oh, it is not to be believed!"
"But consider, Miss Wolcott! It seemed very clear. He knew he had left
his cane here, he of course remembered the talk you had had about it
as a weapon of defense, he knew that you were out of the house that
evening, because he called to see you at a quarter of nine and you
were not in. He knew, also, that you had reason to hate Fullerton, he
knew that a woman was with Fullerton when he was killed and that when
she fled from the spot she came to this house--"
She interrupted him with a cry. "No, no! How can he think that? It is
not true! I did go to the Wellington as I told you, meaning to see him
and try to appeal to his better nature, if he had one, for the return
of my letters, but gave up my plan when I found I could not see him
alone. But I saw nothing of him after he left the Wellington with Mrs.
Broughton."
"That was early in the evening,--before eight. Did you come straight
home?"
"Yes."
"But when Lawrence called at a quarter before nine,--"
"I had shut myself up in my room with a headache, and told Eliza to
deny me to any caller."
"Then did you go out again, later?"
She looked surprised. "Yes. I went out to the drugstore afterwards to
get something to make me sleep. I was nervous and overwrought, and I
wanted to get a quiet night's sleep. Then I came home and went in at
the side door and up to my room."
"Do you know what time it was?"
"Yes, my grandfather met me in the hall and was very much excited to
find that I had been out alone so late at night. It was a few minutes
before ten. I noticed the time particularly, because he was so annoyed
about it."
"It all seems very simple, now," said Lyon, cheerfully. "Just what
Bede may have up his sleeve, of course I don't know. But I think that
with the information that you have given me, we can checkmate him very
neatly. Now I must see Howell. With this elimination of the fatal cane
as an element in the case, I cannot see that there is anything to
connect Lawrence directly with the situation. I think we can expect to
have him free at once. If we only could really discover the actual
murderer, it might be better, but I am hopeful, as things are."
"Was that all you wanted to see my canes for?" protested Mr. Wolcott,
with an air of injury.
Lyon laughed and shook his hand. "I want to add a cane to your
collection if you will let me. We'll go and pick it out the day that
Lawrence goes free!"