elevator, Richard Wright, testified as follows: “I have been employed
only two days at the Empire Building. It is the rule to close down two
of the elevators at half past five; at six o’clock the third is closed,
and the other half an hour later. I am ‘late man’ this week. Just as six
o’clock was striking and elevator No. 3 was making its last downward
trip, the annunciator in my car dropped for the tenth story. I ran my car
up and took in a young man. I do not remember to have seen him before. He
stepped into the car, and as I pulled the rope to go down I noticed that
he had a handkerchief wrapped round his right hand and he was holding it
with his left, as though it hurt him. I said to him: ‘Have you hurt your
hand?’ He replied: ‘Yes, I squeezed it in the door.’
“I looked at his hand again and noticed that there was blood upon the
handkerchief, and I said: ‘It’s bleeding.’ The young fellow looked
dreadfully scared, and I thought he was going to drop, but he said
something I couldn’t hear, and as soon as the car stopped he walked away
quickly.”
This testimony produced a profound sensation, and every eye was turned
upon Wright.
“Why did you not mention this circumstance to the police last night?”
asked the coroner.
Wright shifted about uneasily and said: “When I heard the screams
upstairs and was told that Mr. Marchburn had been murdered I was scared
half out of my life and clean forgot all about it until I got home. It
was then too late to tell any one, and I thought I would wait until I
came here.”
“Can you describe this man?” asked a juror.
“He was a young fellow; I should think about twenty-four. I didn’t notice
his face particularly, except when I told him his hand was bloody, and
then I saw how white he looked. I never should have thought much of it if
it hadn’t been for the murder.”
“How was he dressed?”
“He had on a brown overcoat; but I don’t remember anything else.”
That was all the light Wright could throw upon the affair. Coroner and
jurymen plied him with questions; but he could tell them nothing. He did
not know the color of the man’s eyes, whether he wore a beard, what kind
of hat he wore; in fact, he could furnish nothing which would serve as an
identification. He thought he might know the man if he were to see him
again; but he was not absolutely sure as to that. There was no reason to
think that Wright was not telling the truth, and it was almost impossible
that he could have committed the murder, but the jury, in rendering their
verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown, censured
Wright for having remained silent for more than twelve hours, and the
coroner privately suggested to the police that they keep an eye upon
Wright.
As soon as the verdict had been rendered, Detective Sergeants Johnson
and Richardson, who had been detailed by Superintendent of Police Walton
to attend the inquest, reported to him for further instructions. They
briefly repeated the testimony and especially the startling evidence of
Wright. When they had finished the chief said:
“What do you make of it?”
“The man in the brown overcoat is the murderer,” said Johnson.
“The man in the brown overcoat had nothing to do with it; but Wright
knows a great deal more than he has told,” was Richardson’s analysis.
Walton looked out of the window a couple of minutes without speaking.
“The person who committed the murder,” he said, as if he were talking to
himself more than to his listeners, and without looking at either, “was
expected to call at the office that evening by Marchburn, who came back
about the time the clerks were preparing to leave, on purpose to keep his
appointment. All the doors were locked. Either the visitor must have had
a duplicate key, or else Marchburn left one of the doors open, or they
had a private signal. Any one of a dozen persons might have been able to
open the door with a duplicate key; but I don’t see anything to point in
that direction. Marchburn would hardly be likely to leave the door open
for his expected visitor, so it is evident the doors were kept locked,
and when the prearranged signal was given Marchburn opened the door to
his murderer. Who was the murderer and what was the motive? It was not
money, because no valuables were taken, and the clerks say that neither
papers nor anything else were disturbed. The murder was either the result
of a sudden burst of passion, or else it was premeditated, and something
forced the murderer to do then what had long been contemplated. There was
a very strong motive. Find the motive and you find the—”
“The murderer,” interrupted Richardson.
“The murderess,” continued the chief as calmly as if he had not heard the
interruption.
“A woman?” cried his listeners simultaneously.
“Certainly, a woman; it is a woman’s crime. From the time when Rogers
and Harding left until the discovery of the body was a scant hour. To
avoid all possible risks of interruption, Marchburn did not arrange the
interview until after five, so that between that hour and six he was
shot. At six he was dead, and the doctor testified he must have been
dead between fifteen and thirty minutes when he was called in. So that
fixes the time of the shooting between half past five and six. Marchburn
expected a woman to call upon him that night, because he would not have
made such careful preparations for secrecy if his visitor had been a
man. He did not want his clerks to see his caller. The time between her
calling and the shooting was too short for them to have quarreled; but it
was long enough for her to have made her demand and to have been refused
by Marchburn. Then she shot him.”
“But the young man in the brown overcoat?” asked Johnson.
“If the coroner had the slightest sense,” sneered the chief, “he would
have asked Wright if the ‘young man’ looked as if ‘he’ were disguised,
and Wright’s answer would have shown whether he is merely a thick-skulled
idiot or whether he has a hand in this affair. But I’m glad the question
was not asked, as the woman will think her disguise has shielded her. But
Wright has given himself away by his answers. He says ‘the young man’ had
a handkerchief wrapped around his right hand, and was holding it with his
left, as if it hurt him. Isn’t that a woman’s attitude? A man would have
shoved his hand in his pocket and held it there—at any rate, until he was
in the street, where no one would have noticed it or paid any attention
to him. But the woman doesn’t know how to use her pockets; her hand hurts
her, and she holds it out in full view, instead of hiding it, as a man
would have done. I’ll stake my reputation that the young man in the brown
overcoat is a woman, and that the woman is the murderer of Mr. Marchburn.”
The superintendent rapidly outlined his plans. “I want you,” he said
to Richardson, “to look up Marchburn’s past record in the West. Look
for the woman there, or for the chapter in his life in which the woman
figures. It’s there, although it may be difficult to find. Johnson, you
look up his record from the time he came to New York to the day of his
death. See if there is any woman entanglement here. Keep your eye upon
Wright. I can’t quite size that man up. Look for the brown overcoat. Now,
Richardson, you’d better start right in, and wire me just as soon as you
strike anything.”
In a few moments Johnson went back. “There is one thing I don’t
understand,” he said. “Why did the woman get in the elevator at the tenth
instead of the eleventh story?”
“Easy enough to explain, and another indication that we are dealing with
a woman and not a man. When she left the office her natural impulse was
to walk down the stairs, to avoid meeting any one, instead of courting
observation, as a man would have done under the circumstances. She
walked down one flight; she heard the cleaners moving about and dreaded
meeting them, and rang for the elevator as being less dangerous. Remember
we are dealing with a woman of no ordinary caliber,—one who is not a
seasoned criminal, and who thinks quickly.”
From Johnson’s report next morning the superintendent learned that
Marchburn had moved to New York from the West five years before his
murder; that his only child, Lucille, was twenty years old; that father
and daughter were very much attached to one another. Marchburn’s tastes
were all domestic; he seldom stayed out late at night, unless in company
with his daughter; he was a regular church attendant, and contributed
liberally to its support and to charities. His business was extremely
profitable, his fortune being considered very large.
Walton read the report through and felt annoyed. It was not what he
wanted. He felt that he was right in charging a woman with the crime; but
how was he to find a woman who left no traces behind her? Besides, the
papers were growing impatient, clamoring for an arrest, and indulging
in satirical flings at the impotence of the police. Suddenly an idea
occurred to him. “I ought to have thought of that before,” he said to
himself. “Rogers or Harding might know,” and the superintendent, once
more the cold, impassive man of affairs, walked quietly out of his office.
Superintendent Walton went briskly down town, thinking deeply as he
walked, and yet noticing everything that went on around him. As he turned
the corner of Silver Lane his eye fell upon a portly, well-groomed man
who was walking in front of him. Walton was noted for never forgetting a
man or woman he had once known, and there was something about this man
which seemed familiar. Quickening his pace a little, the detective pushed
ahead until he came opposite a money-changer’s window, and appeared to be
intently gazing at the piles of gold and silver; but out of the corner of
one of his eyes he was carefully watching for the man whom he hoped would
soon pass. The superintendent looked up and saw a well-preserved man of
about sixty, with florid complexion and carefully trimmed whiskers. He
looked like any one of hundreds of prosperous business men. Still trying
to fit the face to a name, Walton followed the man into Wall Street,
and as he passed the sub-treasury he saw Brixton coming down the steps.
The sight of the government agent was like a flash in the dark, and the
object he was groping for was instantly made plain. The superintendent
determined to take desperate chances. “By gad,” he muttered, “I’ll risk
it. If he’s the man his voice will give him away.” Quickening his walk,
he stepped up to the man, and, tapping him on the shoulder, said very
quietly:
“I want you, John Marsh.”
With perfect composure he began, “Excuse me, sir, I do not know you—” but
in the first three words his deep voice broke into a theatrical falsetto.
Walton smiled triumphantly. “Perhaps not; but I know you, Marsh,” he
said, with his hand still on the man’s arm.
“This is the second time you have called me by that name. My name is not
Marsh. Pardon me if I say good-morning,” said the other in perfectly
modulated tones, and made a movement as if to continue on his way.
But Walton was not to be shaken off so lightly. “Wait a minute,” he said,
and his voice was as pleasant and his manner as polite as that of the man
whom he was addressing. “Perhaps when I tell you that I am Superintendent
of Police Walton, who was chief of the detective bureau when we last met,
you may remember me.”
“My dear sir, this is incomprehensible. I never had the pleasure of
meeting you before, and, as I have to attend a very important meeting of
the directors of my bank I must beg to be excused. If you really are the
chief of police, I think, instead of wasting your time with reputable
business men, you could better afford to devote a little of your leisure
to finding the murderer of my dear old friend, Lawrence Marchburn.”
“You were acquainted with Mr. Marchburn?”
“Sir, I decline to submit to this impertinence any longer. If you attempt
to stop me further I shall call an officer.”
“I think not,” said Walton, with a smile. “You are going with me to
headquarters, or I will accompany you to your bank; which do you prefer?”
“In two minutes I could show you what a fool you are making of yourself;
but I prefer to teach you a lesson. I submit to this indignity in the
interest of good government.”
“All right, Marsh; I see you are the same old Chesterfield,—just as
smooth as ever. You’ve no objection if we ride, I suppose?” and Walton
hailed a passing cab. As they jogged up town both men remained silent.
Turning a corner, the cab gave a sudden lurch, the superintendent’s hand
in some mysterious manner caught in his prisoner’s whiskers, and they
came away from his face. The two men looked one another squarely in the
eye. Marsh was the first to speak. “You’re a nervy one, superintendent,”
he said. “What do you want me for? I’m living straight.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but I want to have a quiet little talk with you;
besides, I heard you were dead.”
Marsh smiled. The loss of his whiskers showed him to be a man of about
forty, with a firm jaw, a keen blue eye, and a high forehead. “I wish
to God I was dead,” he said. “When a man tries to live straight he gets
snagged and is disgraced.”
The cab drew up at the big building on Mulberry Street, and the
superintendent, pushing his prisoner before him, led the way to his
private room. “Now, Marsh, you say you have been living straight. Prove
it and I’ll release you.”
The man eyed his captor sullenly. “Not till I’ve seen a lawyer,” he said.
Walton touched an electric button. “Lock this man up,” he said to the
officer who appeared. As Marsh was led away the chief pushed another
button. “Bring me,” he said to the messenger, “Convictions, letter M,
’84.”
Hastily turning the pages, Walton read: “Marsh, John, alias Gentleman
John, generally known as Chesterfield, because of his manners and
politeness, born at Sodaville, Mich. All round crook; specialty,
counterfeiting United States notes. One of the most dangerous men in his
line. Convicted of counterfeiting and sentenced to Albany for five years
in 1870; sent to Jackson, Mich., for three years for forgery in 1878;
last conviction, Joliet, counterfeiting, 1884, five years. See page 756.”
Turning to the page indicated, Walton read: “Escaped from Joliet and
committed suicide.”
“So he didn’t commit suicide,” mused the chief. “Well, I always had my
doubts about it. I have an idea he had a hand in this counterfeiting
business, and if that’s so it’s a pretty good morning’s work—almost as
good as finding the Marchburn woman. I had better let Brixton know about
this; it may give him a pointer.”
A clerk brought in a telegram and handed it to the superintendent. Walton
read:
“SODAVILLE, MICH., Jan. 24.—Can you mail me at once portrait of
Chesterfield Marsh, escaped Joliet, and committed suicide about
1884?
“RICHARDSON.”
“By Jove,” said the superintendent, “that’s curious. I wonder what he’s
struck now. Well, I guess I’ll hang onto Chesterfield for a few days,
anyway.” Then he telephoned to Brixton, who was now working night and day
on the counterfeit money case, which divided public attention with the
Marchburn mystery. To the police these cases had proved two of the most
remarkable criminal problems they had ever been called upon to solve.
Congress had added to the excitement by adopting the recommendation of
the Secretary of the Treasury and offering a reward of fifty thousand
dollars for the arrest and conviction of the counterfeiters.
Brixton came in dejectedly in answer to the summons. To Walton, who was
an old friend, he admitted that he was beaten.
“Brace up, old man,” said Walton; “I’ve got something good for you,” and
he at once told him of the arrest of Marsh and Richardson’s telegram.
A gleam of excitement blazed from the secret service man’s eyes. He
jumped from his chair and paced the room a couple of times before he
could control himself; then, leaning over his friend’s desk, he talked
rapidly. “By jove, Walton, you’ve got our man. There is only one man
in the country who could have done the job, and that’s Marsh. I have
thought about him a dozen times since I’ve been at work on the case, but
always supposed him to be dead. What a confounded idiot I am not to have
investigated that suicide story; yet I never had reason to doubt it.”
Both men felt certain that they were at last hot on the right trail, and
that Marsh was still engaged in his old business of counterfeiting. While
discussing the next move to be made Brixton suddenly said: “What does
Richardson’s telegram mean?”
The words produced a peculiar effect upon Walton, which was reflected in
Brixton’s face. Both men scrutinized each other for a brief space of time
without speaking. It was as if they were grappling with the same thought,
and yet both were afraid to frame in words what was passing through their
minds. It was Walton who at last broke the silence and in a nervous sort
of way said:—
“That is absurd.”
“What is?”
“What you are thinking about.”
It was curious that neither man had openly expressed his thoughts, and
yet each knew what was in the other’s mind just as well as if the words
had been uttered.
“I don’t know about that. Of course it looks ridiculous to commence with,
but not any more so than that West Virginia case.”
“I don’t remember that,” said Walton.
“It was one of my most interesting jobs. For months we had been trying
to break up a gang of counterfeiters working in West Virginia, and had
failed, just as in the present instance. The thing looked pretty bad,
and the merchants of the State were so worked up about the ‘queer’ that
a bill was introduced in the legislature authorizing the governor to
employ private detectives, as the government secret service men had shown
their incompetence. Before the bill was acted upon we arrested some of
the gang, and on the day when the bill came up for action we obtained
conclusive evidence that the member of the legislature who introduced
the bill was the brains of the gang. I went to the capitol and listened
to this man’s speech in support of his measure, and after the bill had
passed I arrested him and found in his pockets some of the money made by
his gang. I sent him over the road.”
“You think, then,” said Walton, “that Marchburn had some connection with
the counterfeiting gang.”
“I do.”
“Did Marsh murder Marchburn?”
“I don’t know about that. I rather think not, because Chesterfield, from
what we know about him, is a coward and not the man to kill; but he
probably knows who did. There’s a connection between the murder and the
counterfeiting, and when we pull the right string both knots will come
untied.”
Walton told his associate of his theory as to the murderer being a woman.
Brixton doubted it. “But it’s of no consequence,” he said. “Whoever fired
the shot was a member of the gang; Marchburn knew him and expected him to
call that evening. When we land our man we shall have the murderer and
the counterfeiter as well.”
How was Marsh to be made to confess? Numerous plans were discussed and
rejected. Finally Brixton made this suggestion: “Make Chesterfield
understand that he is suspected of the murder and that you have the dots
on him. You’ll have to sweat him and put him through the third degree.
Don’t say a word about the counterfeiting. When he’s charged with the
murder, and things begin to look black, he will squeal to save his neck.
He’ll give his pals away dead sure and tell all he knows about the
counterfeiting. I believe the scheme will work.”
Walton agreed with him and proceeded without delay in putting his
prisoner through the sweating process. Early in the morning he had read
the papers in his cell, and a detective who secretly watched him noticed
that he devoured every line printed about the Marchburn murder. Later,
the superintendent had him brought to his office and there subjected
him to a rigorous cross-examination, and no man knew better than he how
to worm the truth out of a criminal. But in Marsh he found more than a
match. He either dodged every question or else declined to answer, and
neither threats nor promises elicited anything of importance. For more
than an hour the man submitted to being worried by his inquisitor, when
at last he said:
“Chief, what are you trying to make against me?”
Walton had not taxed him with the murder, as he hoped his prisoner would
make some incautious admission which would tell him what he wanted to
find out. But Marsh’s question seemed to have made the time ripe for the
great stroke. Looking him steadily in the eye, the chief said: “For the
murder of Lawrence Marchburn.”
The prisoner gave a short, nervous laugh. “You’re clean off,” he said. “I
didn’t murder him and I had nothing to do with it; but I know the man who
did.”
Walton had counted upon his declaration producing a confession, or at
least some signs of weakness, but this answer astounded him.
The man never flinched. “It’s God’s truth. I can tell you who committed
the murder,” he repeated.
“Very well; who did it?”
But Marsh was too old a bird to be caught with chaff. “What do I get if I
tell?” he asked.
“I think they would like to have you back in Joliet,” the chief answered,
“and that means five years to commence with. If you give me the name of
the man, and it is proven that you had nothing to do with the murder, I
will see that you are not troubled.”
Marsh appeared to be thinking deeply. “Shall I have to appear as a
witness?” he asked.
“Not unless it is necessary; I won’t put you on the stand if I can make
the case without you.”
“Will you release me as soon as you are satisfied you have the right man?”
“Yes.”
“Then arrest Frank Richald, who was Mr. Marchburn’s stenographer. He’s
your man.”
“How do you know?”
“I won’t tell; but see if I am not right.”
Walton ordered Marsh back to his cell, somewhat puzzled by the result of
the interview. He did not believe all that Marsh had told him; but the
mention of Richald’s name indicated that he was getting down to the man’s
confederates. There was only one thing to do. The superintendent ordered
Johnson to arrest Richald. He took his arrest quietly. Brought before
Walton, he said, without waiting to be questioned: “I am innocent; but
circumstances are against me.”
With a quick, sudden movement, Walton seized hold of the corner of the
skirt of Richald’s brown overcoat and intently examined a dark spot on
the front. “Marchburn’s blood,” he said tersely.
“I know it,” was all the prisoner said.
“Why did you murder him?” asked Walton.
“I did not murder him,” he said firmly. “When I reached the office on
the night of the murder Mr. Marchburn was lying dead on his desk. I was
stunned and horrified. I know now I should have given the alarm; but
there were so many strange things in connection with my being there at
that hour that I foolishly imagined my safety lay in flight. Some of Mr.
Marchburn’s blood was on my hand, and I bound my handkerchief around it
to escape observation. To avoid meeting any one I started to walk down
the stairs; then I was afraid the janitor might see me and think it
strange I was walking, so I called the elevator on the floor below our
office and rode down.”
“What brought you back to the office that evening?” Walton asked.
“That I cannot tell you.”
Walton ordered the young man to a cell.
Next day the papers told of the arrest. They also added something about
the man who stood charged with the crime. Richald was the son of a once
former wealthy New York merchant, whom every one respected. At his death
it was found that his estate was badly involved, and all that was left
to his widow and his two children was a small estate. On the interest of
this Mrs. Richald lived, her son contributing generously of his wages to
her support. Two years before the murder Frank had secured a position
with the Bank Note Company as Mr. Marchburn’s stenographer.
Walton now bent all his energies to securing a fuller confession from
his prisoner, to ascertaining what had become of the pistol, and the
motive for the crime. His best men were set to work raking over nearly
every hour of Richald’s past life. Meanwhile, at the earnest request
of Brixton, Walton had decided to hold onto Marsh. Walton was pretty
well convinced that, while Marsh did not commit the murder, he had some
connection with it, and was not going to let that elusive individual get
out of his clutches so long as there was a possibility of proving it.
Brixton, on his side, was certain that Marsh was in some way implicated
in the counterfeiting, and proposed to keep his eye upon him until he
could charge him with the crime or bring it home to some one else. The
capture of Marsh seemed like a lucky find.