CASTING OF NETS
DICK was awakened out of a sound sleep the next morning by a loud
banging on his door.
“Come in,” he shouted, sleepily; then, realizing that the disturber of
his peace could not crawl through the keyhole, he scrambled out of bed,
unlocked the door and jerked it open.
“I ax yo’ pardon, Marse Dick,” said Uncle Andy, bowing and scraping
on the threshold, “but dis hyer note done come fo’ yo’, an’ de bearer
am waitin’ fo’ an answer, sah.” As he spoke he handed Dick a sealed
envelope and a small package.
“Wait a minute, Uncle, and I’ll see what it’s about,” and Dick, going
inside his room, plumped himself down on the edge of his bed and tore
open the note. Not recognizing the bold, clear writing, he turned at
once to read the signature on the last page. It was from Beatrice
Trevor. With quickened interest, he read the few lines.
_Dear Mr. Tillinghast_:
My father tells me that you are doing your best to clear up the
terrible mystery which surrounds our house. I am in great trouble. I
must see you.
I am going to dine alone with Mrs. Macallister to-night. Will you come
there at eight o’clock? I have told Wilkins to wait for your answer.
Sincerely yours,
BEATRICE TREVOR.
P. S. Wilkins tells me the accompanying package belongs to you.
“Thank the Lord!” ejaculated Dick, aloud. “Your note’s a direct answer
to my unspoken wish. You want to see me, Miss Beatrice, but I bet not
half so badly as I want to see you. But what does your postscript mean?”
Taking up the small package he looked doubtfully at it. “Best way
to find out is to open it,” he muttered, tearing off the string and
wrapping paper. It proved to be a small pasteboard box, and on lifting
the cover he saw his broken cuff link lying inside on some cotton. It
was unmistakable. The round gold button with his interwoven initials
“R. T.” stared him in the face.
With a startled cry, he sprang up and pulled out his white waistcoat
from the half-opened bureau drawer. Quickly his fingers fumbled in the
little pocket--yes, there it was, just where he had put it four nights
before. In growing excitement, he jerked out his fingers and disclosed
not his broken cuff button, but a round coin attached to a broken,
golden link!
With open mouth, and eyes fairly popping from his head, Dick
contemplated the two links, while his bewildered mind gradually pieced
together the scene in the hall. It was not surprising he had made such
a mistake, the two were identical in size; and in the semi-darkness of
the large hall and his hurry he had never glanced at the recovered cuff
button, but had taken it for granted it was the piece of jewelry he had
dropped.
As busy as he was, he had not troubled to get his broken set mended. He
had used a second pair the next morning; and this was, therefore the
first time he had thought of the broken set since thrusting the button
into his waistcoat pocket.
Taking up the coin, he examined it closely. It was apparently very old;
the edges were worn thin and the hieroglyphics on the two sides were so
defaced he could make nothing of them. It was attached by a swivel to
the heavy red-gold link. The link itself was worn at the rough ends,
but still it must have been a powerful wrench which had caused it to
break off. To Dick it looked like a link torn from a watch chain; and
an unusual one at that, for the outer side was delicately etched in
some intricate design. Pshaw! What was the use of puzzling his brains,
Wilkins could tell him all about it; and with the thought Dick walked
over to the closed door, and, opening it, looked into the corridor.
But Uncle Andy, tired of waiting, had gone about his work. There was
nothing for it but to go to the back stairs and “fetch a yell” for the
old darky, as the ancient house boasted of no bell except the one to
the front door.
Mrs. Brisbane answered Dick’s stentorian shout from the kitchen, where
she had gone to superintend the cooking of the Maryland beaten biscuits
for the morning meal.
“What is it, Dick?” she called.
“Oh, good morning, Mrs. Brisbane. Will you please ask Uncle Andy to
show the messenger up to my room. Thanks, ever so much.” And Dick
retreated hastily, conscious of his pajamas as a female boarder thrust
her head out of the door to find out what the noise was about.
He was busy writing at his desk when Wilkins’ discreet tap sounded on
his door, and at his bidding the butler entered and closed the door
behind him.
“Good morning, Wilkins; sorry to keep you waiting, but I was delayed.”
“Morning, sir. That’s all right, sir. Miss Beatrice wanted me to be
sure and see you received her note, and told me to come over here
before you left for your office. I was to be particular and get an
answer.”
“I am writing it now. I’m much obliged to you for returning my cuff
link. By the way, where did you find it?”
“I didn’t find it, sir. The second man took up the large rug near the
fireplace to shake it in the yard yesterday morning and saw the bit of
jewelry lying under one corner. He brought it to me, and as I knew you
had broken your cuff button, sir, I was pretty sure it was yours.”
“Quite right, Wilkins, and here’s a small token of my thanks,” handing
the butler some change. And as the man thanked him profusely, Dick held
up the coin, and asked: “Who does this belong to?”
Wilkins stared at it in astonishment. “I don’t know, sir.”
“Oh, come, Wilkins, I picked it up in the hall under the armor the
other night, thinking it was my cuff link. Surely, you know who owns
it?”
Wilkins turned it over curiously in his hand; then shook his head. “I
have never seen it before, sir,” he said, positively.
Dick sat for a few moments thoughtfully nibbling his pen. He
recollected that the Attorney General’s watch chain was a plain gold
affair, very different from the link in his hand.
“Did Mrs. Trevor, or perhaps Miss Beatrice, have a chain like it?” he
asked. “Women wear such peculiar gewgaws nowadays.”
But Wilkins stuck to his guns. “No, sir, they didn’t. It’s an uncommon
thing, and I’m sure I’d ’a’ remembered it if I had ever seen either of
them wear such a thing,” he stubbornly declared. “Some guest must have
dropped it, though I dunno how it stayed so long unnoticed.”
Dick looked at Wilkins queerly. A sudden thought had entered his active
brain ... by Heaven!... Suppose....
“Has the front hall been swept since the murder of Mrs. Trevor?” he
asked.
Wilkins looked bewildered. “We don’t sweep it, sir,” he answered. “It
is a hard wood floor, sir. The different rugs in the hall are shaken
and gone over by a vacuum cleaner every day. We oiled the entire floor,
sir, the morning after the supper for Madame Bernhardt. If the gold
link had been there _then_, sir, we would have found it.”
“The morning after? Why, that was the third--Mrs. Trevor was murdered
that same night?”
“Yes, sir,” stolidly.
“Does Mr. Clark, the secretary, own such a chain?”
“No, sir; he always wears a fob.”
“At what hour did Mr. Clark leave the house the day Mrs. Trevor was
killed?”
“Why, I suppose about the usual time, sir, five o’clock.” Wilkins
hesitated. “I really don’t know the exact time because I didn’t see him
go, sir.”
“Well, ask the other servants if they know, and then send me word. But
don’t rouse comment by too many questions, Wilkins. I’ll make it worth
your while if you get that information on the quiet.”
Wilkins hesitated a perceptible moment. “It wouldn’t be much use asking
them, sir. Mr. Clark can run in and out of the house at any time,” he
volunteered, finally. “He has a front door key. Mrs. Trevor said she
couldn’t have the front bell rung so often, and asked the Attorney
General to give him an extra key.”
Dick looked thoughtfully at Wilkins, but the butler’s expressionless
face told him nothing.
“Was Mr. Clark with the Attorney General yesterday?”
“No, sir; I don’t think he has been to the house since Friday
afternoon. I heard Mr. Trevor tell Miss Beatrice he had been called
away on business.” He paused, and looked suggestively at the clock.
Dick signed his note and hastily sealed the envelope. And he was on the
point of handing it to the butler when Secretary Bowers’ advice about
the missing memorandum book occurred to him.
“Can you tell me, Wilkins, how Mrs. Trevor and Miss Beatrice spent the
afternoon of the third?”
“Yes, sir. Mrs. Trevor was at home receiving callers, for Wednesday
is Cabinet Day, you know, sir. Mrs. Trevor never served refreshments
except at private teas, so I spent the afternoon in the hall with the
footman helping her guests with their coats and wraps. Miss Beatrice
went out directly after luncheon and didn’t return until about five
o’clock, sir.”
“Did she join her stepmother?”
“Not at once, sir; she first went into the private office and took off
her wraps. After that she went into the drawing-room.”
“Was anyone else in the office at that time?”
“No, sir.”
“How long did she stay there?”
“About fifteen minutes, sir. Mrs. Trevor sent me to ask her to come
into the drawing-room as Mrs. Macallister wished to see her.”
“What was Miss Beatrice doing when you entered the office?”
“Sitting at her father’s desk, sir, and writing.”
“Had--had she a memorandum book in her hand?” asked Dick hesitatingly.
So much depended on the answer.
“I didn’t see any such book, sir,” answered Wilkins, surprised. “After
I gave her Mrs. Trevor’s message, Miss Beatrice picked up her hat and
fur coat and went immediately out of the room.”
“What did she do with the papers on which she was writing?”
“She stuffed them inside the pocket of her fur coat, sir.”
“Could you see what she had been writing?”
“No, sir; I couldn’t.”
“Well, I won’t detain you any longer, Wilkins. Here’s the note for Miss
Beatrice. By the way, were Mrs. Trevor and Mr. Clark good friends?”
“Not always, sir.” Then, seeing Dick’s surprise, Wilkins hastened to
add: “Mrs. Trevor had a very quick temper. Many’s the time I’ve nearly
given notice on account of her hasty way of finding fault. She and Mr.
Clark were very thick, that is,” stumbling in his speech, “good friends
like. Mr. Clark had eyes for nobody but Miss Beatrice, and he and Mrs.
Trevor often had words over her. They had several nasty quarrels last
month, sir. Is--is that all, sir?”
“Yes. I’m very much obliged to you, Wilkins,” replied Dick, heartily.
“Good day.”
“Good day, sir,” answered Wilkins. He stopped for a moment on the other
side of the door to scratch his head in perplexity. “He’s a rum cove,
wonder what he’s up to.”
Dick wondered very much himself. It was a case of the blind leading
the blind. If Clark was guilty, and certainly suspicion pointed his
way, why should Beatrice hide the hat-pin? Above all, who had dropped
the broken gold link in the Trevors’ front hall? More and more puzzled
by the facts which he had elicited from the communicative Wilkins, he
dressed with what speed he could, and, not waiting for breakfast, ran
across to the corner drug store and rang up a taxi-cab. While waiting
he telephoned to Peggy and then to Mrs. Curtis. Both of them told
him they had never owned a chain of any description with such a coin
attached to it.
The taxi-cab was not long in coming, and he was whirled away to the
Treasury Department as rapidly as the speed laws of the District
allowed. On his arrival there he went direct to the Secret Service
Division, and on mentioning his name and errand he was at once taken to
Chief Connor.
“I won’t take up a moment of your time, Chief,” explained Dick, as the
two men sat down.
“Count de Smirnoff told me of your share in the capture of the three
Italians on Saturday,” said the famous Secret Service man. “What can I
do for you?”
“Did the Count tell you the identity of the fourth man?”
“Yes. Apparently Clark realized the game was up, for on inquiry at the
Buckingham we learned that he hasn’t been to his room since Saturday
afternoon. I have sent a description of him to every Secret Service man
in the country, and have also had the trans-Atlantic steamship lines
watched. We shall catch him, never fear, but I am afraid he will get
off afterwards. Conspiracy is a mighty hard thing to prove.”
“I am convinced you can hold Clark for another crime,” said Dick
slowly. Chief Connor looked at him in surprise.
“As for instance?” he asked.
“Mrs. Trevor’s murder.”
“Indeed!” The Chief sat back and pulled his mustache thoughtfully. “And
your grounds for such a charge?”
“Clark is the one person beside the Attorney General who can open the
safe. Mrs. Trevor’s body, you may remember, was found locked inside it.
The burglar, Nelson, declares on oath that she was there when he opened
the safe. According to the butler, who has lived with the Trevors for
over twenty years, Clark and Mrs. Trevor quarreled often. He had a
key to the Trevors’ front door, so that he could enter without anyone
in the house being the wiser. And,” added Dick, “he knew where every
member of the household would be on that night. Then the Camorra had
evidently decreed her death; Clark was said to be their direct agent in
the affair.”
“And his motive for killing Mrs. Trevor?”
“Count de Smirnoff informed me Clark was an old lover of hers in
Naples. I know that he has been paying great attention to Miss Trevor.
Possibly he did not take the precaution of being off with the old love
before being on with the new.”
Chief Connor followed Dick’s arguments closely.
“Circumstantial evidence does point toward him,” he admitted. “There is
no doubt that Clark is a pretty thorough-going rascal. Have you tried
to find out where he was on the night of the third?”
“Not yet. I came to find out if Clark had been arrested, to tell you of
my suspicions, and to ask your advice in the matter.”
“My men are busy now tracing Clark’s career. If they discover any facts
which point to the murder I will send for you. In the meantime, haven’t
you a mutual friend who would know something of Clark’s life here?”
Dick’s face brightened. “Of course, there’s Charlie Archibald; he knows
Clark pretty well. Charlie works in the Department of Justice. I’ll go
right over there.” He rose as he spoke.
“Let me know the result,” said Chief Connor.
“All right, sir. Many thanks for your suggestion. Good-by.” And he
hastened out of the building.
“The chase is getting warm,” thought Dick, as the taxi turned and
started up Fifteenth Street. “If only--only Peggy meant what she said.
Well, here’s for another try,” and he opened the door just as the car
drew up in front of the Department of Justice.
Dick hastily threaded his way through the busy rooms searching for his
friend.
“Hello, Charlie, you’re a sight for sair een,” he hailed. “Where have
you been keeping yourself?”
“Oh, boning for an exam,” said Archibald, his tired face lighting up
with a smile. “You look as if the world were treating you pretty well,
Dick?”
“Nothing to boast of. Say, Charlie,” drawing him to one side and
speaking in a low tone, “can you tell me anything about Alfred Clark?”
“Tell you anything about him?” echoed Archibald, surprised. “Well,
no, not much; he’s a quiet sort of chap, keeps himself pretty much to
himself, not a good mixer with the boys. I’ve seen more of him than the
others because he’s lending me a hand in my studies for the District
Bar examination.”
“Perhaps you can tell me where he was on the night of the third?”
“The third,” repeated Archibald. “What the deuce was I doing that
night? Wait a moment.” He took out a memorandum book and turned the
leaves rapidly. “22nd January--1st of February--ah, here we are--‘study
with Clark.’ Of course, I remember now. That night I went over to his
rooms at the Buckingham, to go over some papers with him. He has often
told me to go up to his room and wait if he wasn’t there; and so I sat
waiting and waiting until after midnight, but he never showed up. Then
I cleared out.”
“Did he ever tell you what detained him?”
“Nope, just said he forgot the engagement.”
“Do you know where Clark generally spends his time when not working?”
“He used to be with the Trevors all the time. He is quite a lady
killer, you know.” Dick shivered involuntarily, while his unconscious
friend went on. “He is society mad, but lately he’s not been like
himself. It may be money troubles; he plays the races and has been a
heavy loser. I know because I made him a small loan, and lately the
money lenders have been pressing him for payments.” He looked curiously
at Dick. “Why do you want to know all this? You and Clark never hit it
off very well.”
“I’ll explain some other time. Many thanks, old man. By-by,” and Dick
turned and ran down the corridor after the Attorney General, who had
just entered the building.
“How are you, Tillinghast?” said he, cordially, as Dick brought up
breathless before him. “Want to see me?”
“Only to ask you one question.” As he spoke, he took the gold coin out
of his pocket. “Have you ever seen this before, sir?”
The Attorney General examined the coin with interest, then handed it
back to Dick.
“Never laid eyes on it before,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
But Dick never waited to reply; he was off down the corridor as fast as
his legs could take him.
“District Building,” he called to the chauffeur as he jumped inside and
slammed the door.
Detective Hardy was reflecting on his week’s work with great
satisfaction when Dick burst hurriedly into his office.
“Time’s up, Hardy,” he said, coolly. “Come, divulge your news.”
Hardy smiled indulgently. He could afford to tease Dick a little.
“News in regard to what, sir?”
“Who killed Mrs. Trevor?”
“That’s rather a large order,” smiled the detective.
“Well, I’ll amend the question. Who do you _think_ killed Mrs. Trevor?”
Hardy’s eyes flashed with anger. He hated to be made fun of, especially
by a young “Mr.-Know-It-All,” and he instantly determined to take the
wind out of his sails.
“It isn’t a case of ‘think,’ Mr. Tillinghast; I have absolute proof.”
“Against whom?”
“Miss Beatrice Trevor.”
“Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed Dick, roughly. But his heart sank as he
thought of the hat-pin and Beatrice’s endeavor to secrete it. Should he
confide in Hardy? His conscience pricked him. Undoubtedly the detective
should be told. But he had given his word to Peggy to shield her
friend; let the consequences be what they might, he would keep it.
“Nothing of the sort,” retorted Hardy. “We know they had a bitter
quarrel; she threatened to strike her stepmother.”
“Pooh! If we believe everything an angry woman says--” Dick shrugged
his shoulders expressively. “Their bark is worse than their bite,
Hardy.”
“Maybe so, but not in this instance.”
“Next?” questioned Dick, with a tantalizing smile.
“Her maid--” began Hardy, then checked himself. “Look here, sir; this
is absolutely private, it must not get into the papers until I say so.”
“Sure; I’ll keep absolutely mum.”
“I’ve made myself solid with Suzanne, Miss Trevor’s maid. Nothing like
using a little tact in that direction, sir,” chuckled Hardy. “Anyway,
she told me that a handsome, strong (mind you, _strong_) hat-pin that
was given to Miss Beatrice by Miss Macallister is missing. Wait a
moment,” as Dick opened his lips to speak. “Suzanne says Miss Beatrice
wore it that afternoon, and when she came in went into the private
office and took off her hat there, later, carrying it up to her room,
but she didn’t have the hat-pin with her, because Suzanne asked her
where it was when she put her coat and hat away. Miss Beatrice made no
reply, and shortly after went downstairs to dinner. Suzanne never saw
the hat-pin again. She remembers it distinctly because of the curious
design of the gold about the cat’s-eye in the top.”
“See here, Hardy, that’s not much to go on. You haven’t found the
weapon remember, and therefore cannot prove it belonged to Miss
Beatrice. Secondly, Mrs. Trevor was found locked in the safe, not on
the floor.”
“Quite true, sir. But you must recollect that Mrs. Trevor was a small,
slender woman. I don’t believe she weighed over one hundred and
twenty-five pounds.”
“I know; but a relaxed body is a mighty heavy, unwieldy thing to lift.”
“Miss Trevor is tall and strong,” said Hardy, dryly. “She is a fine
tennis player, a good fencer, and is also a magnificent cross-country
rider. It wouldn’t be much exertion for her to get Mrs. Trevor into the
safe, which was a short distance away.”
Dick shook his head. “I can’t agree with you, Hardy.”
The detective leaned toward Dick and raised his hand impressively.
“Listen to me, sir. Her initialed handkerchief with blood stains upon
it was found in the safe near the body.”
Dick stared with unbelieving eyes at the triumphant detective.
“You are crazy,” he said, tersely. “In the first place, Doctor Davis
said no blood was visible on Mrs. Trevor’s outer garments. Then all the
witnesses, including yourself, testified at the inquest that nothing
had been found either in the safe or in the room.”
“I have just seen Doctor Davis,” explained Hardy, patiently. “He said
that undoubtedly some blood must have spurted out on the murderer’s
hand when the foul blow was struck. Secondly, we didn’t find the
handkerchief. It was brought to me by a person who said his conscience
would no longer permit him to keep the matter secret. He had held back
the information to protect Miss Trevor; but now, convinced of her
guilt, he could no longer shield her.”
“And may I ask the name of this--this shrimp?” asked Dick, boiling with
rage.
“Certainly. Alfred Clark, the secretary!”