FALSE CLUES
The fight had now fairly begun. The district attorney was working up the
side of the prosecution, aided, I was sure, by the over-zealous sheriff.
It remained for me to map out some definite plan of action and organize
the defence.
As I rode back to Four-Pools in the early evening after the inquest, I
continued to dwell upon the evidence, searching blindly for some clue.
The question which returned most persistently to my mind was "What has
become of Cat-Eye Mose?" It was clear now that upon the answer to this
question hinged the ultimate solution of the mystery. I still clung to
the belief that he was guilty and in hiding. But five days had elapsed
since the murder, and no trace of him had been discovered. It seemed
incredible that a man, however well he might know his ground, could,
with a whole county on his track, elude detection so effectually.
Supposing after all that he were not guilty, but the sheriff's theory
that he had been killed and the body concealed, were true; then who,
besides Radnor, could have had any motive for committing the crime?
There was nothing from the past that afforded even the suggestion of a
clue. The old man seemed to have had no enemies but his sons. His sons?
The thought of Jeff suddenly sprang into my mind. If anyone on earth
owed the Colonel a grudge it was his elder son. And Jeff had more than
his share of the Gaylord spirit which could not lightly forgive an
injury. Could he have returned secretly to the neighborhood, and,
following his father into the cave, have quarreled with him? Heaven
knows he had cause enough! He may, in his anger, have struck the old man
without knowing what he was doing, and overcome with horror at the
result, have left him and fled.
I was almost as reluctant to believe him guilty of the crime as to
believe it of Radnor, but the thought having once come, would not be
dismissed. I knew that he had sunk pretty low in the nine years since
his disappearance, but I could never think of him otherwise than as I
myself remembered him. He had been the hero of my boyhood and I revolted
from the thought of deliberately setting out to prove him guilty of his
father's murder.
I spurred my horse into a gallop, miserably trying to escape from my
suspicion; but the more I put it from me as impossible, the surer I
became that at last I had stumbled on a clue. Automatically, I began
adjusting the evidence to fit this new theory, and reluctant as I was to
see it, every circumstance from the beginning fitted it perfectly.
Jeff had returned secretly to the neighborhood, had taken up his abode
in the old negro cabins and made his presence known only to Mose. Mose
had stolen the chicken for him, and the various other missing articles.
They had resurrected the ha'nt to frighten the negroes away from the
laurel walk, and the night of the party Rad, in his masquerade, had
accidentally discovered his brother. Jeff demanded money, and Rad
undertook to supply it in order to get him away without his father's
knowing. That was why he had borrowed the hundred dollars from me, and
had written to his brokers to sell the bonds. It was Jeff who was
sitting beside Radnor the night they drove across the lawn. But unknown
to Rad, Jeff had found his way back and had robbed the safe, and Rad
suspecting it, had refused to make an investigation.
During the eleven days that intervened between the robbery and the
murder Jeff had still been hiding in the vicinity--possibly in the
neighborhood of Luray, certainly no longer in the cabins, for he had no
desire to meet his brother.
But on the day of the picnic they had met and quarreled. Rad had charged
him with the robbery and they had parted in a high state of anger. This
would explain Rad's actions in the hotel, his white face later when I
found him in the summer house. And Jeff, still quivering from the boy's
accusation, had gone back into the cave and met his father as the old
man was coming from the little gallery of the broken column with Polly
Mathers's coat. What had happened there I did not like to consider; they
both had uncontrolled tempers, and in the past there had been wrongs on
both sides. Probably Jeff's blow had been harder than he meant.
In the evening when Mattison and I brought the news of the murder, Rad
must have known instantly who was the real culprit. That was why he had
kept silent; that was why he so vehemently insisted on Mose's innocence.
I had found the light at last--though the darkness had been almost
better.
What must I do? I asked myself. Was it my duty to search out Jefferson
and convict him of this crime? No one could tell what provocation he may
have had. Why not let matters take their course? There was nothing but
circumstantial evidence against Radnor. Surely no jury would convict him
on that. I could work up a sufficient case against Mose to assure his
acquittal. He would be released with a blot on his name, he would be
regarded for the rest of his life with suspicion; but in any event there
seemed to be no outcome which would not involve the family in endless
trouble and disgrace. And besides, if he himself elected to be silent,
had I any right to speak? Then I pulled myself together. Yes, it was not
only right for me to speak; it was my duty. Rad should not be allowed to
sacrifice himself. The truth, at whatever cost, must be brought out.
My first move must be to discover Jeff's whereabouts on the day of his
father's murder. It ought not to be difficult to trace a man who had
come more than once under the surveillance of the police. Having made up
my mind as to the necessary course, I lost no time in putting it into
action. I barely waited to snatch a hasty supper before riding back to
the village. From there I sent a fifty-word telegram to the chief of
police in Seattle asking for any information as to the whereabouts of
Jefferson Gaylord on the nineteenth of May.
It was ten o'clock the next morning before an answer came. So sure was I
of what it was going to contain, that I read the words twice before
comprehending them.
"Jefferson Gaylord spent May nineteenth in lumber camp thirty
miles from Seattle. Well-known character. Mistaken identity
impossible.
"HENRY WATERSON,
"_Police Commissioner_."
I had become so obsessed with the horror of my new theory; so sure that
Jeff was the murderer of his father that I could not readjust my
thoughts to the idea that he had been at the time of the crime three
thousand miles away. The case, then, still stood exactly where it had
stood from the beginning. Six days had passed since the murder and I was
not one inch nearer the truth. Six days! I realized it with a dull
feeling of hopelessness. Every day now that was allowed to pass only
lessened the chance of our ever finding Mose and solving the mystery.
I still stood with the telegram in my hand staring at the words. I was
vaguely aware that a boy from "Miller's place" had ridden up to the
house on a bicycle, but not until Solomon approached with a second
yellow envelope in his hand was I jostled back into a state of
comprehension.
"Nurr telegram, Mars' Arnold."
I snatched it from him and ripped it open, hoping against hope that at
last a clue had turned up.
"NEW YORK, May 25.
"Post-Dispatch wants correspondent on spot. If you have any facts
to give out, save them for me. Arrive Lambert Junction three-fifty.
"TERENCE K. PATTEN."
Under the terrible strain of the past six days I had completely
forgotten Terry's existence and now the memory of his cool impertinence
came back to me with a rush. For the first moment I felt too angry to
think; I had not credited even his presumption with anything like this.
His interference in the Patterson-Pratt business was bad enough, but he
might have realized that this was a personal matter. He was calmly
proposing to turn this horrible tragedy into a story for the Sunday
papers--and that to a member of the murdered man's own family. Hot with
indignation, I tore the telegram into shreds and stalked into the house.
I paced up and down the hall for fifteen minutes, planning what I should
say to him when he arrived; and then, as I calmed down, I commenced to
see the thing in its true light.
The whole account of the crime to the minutest detail, had already
appeared in every newspaper in the country, together with the most
outrageous stories of Radnor's past career. At least nothing could be
worse than what had already been said. And after all, was not the
truth--any truth--better than these vague suspicions, this terrible
suspense? Terry could find the truth if any man on earth could do it. He
had, I knew, unraveled other tangles as mysterious as this. He was used
to this sort of work, and bringing to the matter a fresh mind, would see
light where it was only darkness to me. I had been under such a terrific
strain for so long and had borne so much responsibility, that the very
thought of having someone with whom I could share it gave me new
strength. My feeling toward him veered suddenly from indignation to
gratitude. His irrepressible confidence in himself inspired me with a
like confidence, and I wondered what I had been thinking of that I had
not sent for him at once. To my jaded mind his promised arrival appeared
better than a clue--it was almost equal to a solution.