Forty-eight hours had passed, and not a trace had been found of
Lieutenant Waring. The civil officers of the law had held grave converse
with the seniors on duty at the barracks, and Cram's face was lined with
anxiety and trouble. The formal inquest was held as the flood subsided,
and the evidence of the post surgeon was most important. About the
throat of the murdered man were indubitable marks of violence. The skin
was torn as by finger-nails, the flesh bruised and discolored as by
fiercely-grasping fingers. But death, said the doctor, was caused by the
single stab. Driven downward with savage force, a sharp-pointed,
two-edged, straight-bladed knife had pierced the heart, and all was over
in an instant. One other wound there was, a slashing cut across the
stomach, which had let a large amount of blood, but might possibly not
have been mortal. What part the deceased had taken in the struggle could
only be conjectured. A little five-chambered revolver which he
habitually carried was found on the floor close at hand. Two charges had
been recently fired, for the barrel was black with powder; but no one
had heard a shot.
The bar-keeper at the Pelican could throw but little light on the
matter. The storm had broken, he said, with sudden fury. The rain dashed
in torrents against his western front, and threatened to beat in the
windows. He called to the two men who happened to be seated at a table
to assist him, and was busy trying to get up the shutters, when
Lieutenant Doyle joined them and rendered timely aid. He had frequently
seen Doyle before during the previous month. Mrs. Doyle lived in the old
Lemaître house in the block below, and he often supplied them with
whiskey. They drank nothing but whiskey. As they ran in the side door
they were surprised to see the lights of a carriage standing at the edge
of the banquette, and the driver begged for shelter for his team, saying
some gentlemen had gone inside. The bar-keeper opened a gate, and the
driver put his horses under a shed in a paved court in the rear, then
came in for a drink. Meantime, said the bar-keeper, whose name was
Bonelli, three gentlemen who were laughing over their escape from the
storm had ordered wine and gone into a private room, Doyle with them.
The only one he knew was Monsieur Lascelles, though he had seen one of
the others frequently as he rode by, and knew him to be an officer
before Mr. Doyle slapped him on the back and hailed him as "Sammy, old
buck!" or something like that. Mr. Doyle had been drinking, and the
gentleman whispered to him not to intrude just then, and evidently
wanted to get rid of him, but Mr. Lascelles, who had ordered the wine,
demanded to be introduced, and would take no denial, and invited Mr.
Doyle to join them, and ordered more wine. And then Bonelli saw that
Lascelles himself was excited by drink,--the first time he had ever
noticed it in the year he had known him. The third gentleman he had
never seen before, and could only say he was dark and sallow and did not
talk, except to urge the driver to make haste,--they must go on; but he
spoke in a low tone with Mr. Lascelles as they went to the room, and
presently the rain seemed to let up a little, though it blew hard, and
the driver went out and looked around and then returned to the private
room where the gentlemen were having their wine, and there was some
angry talk, and he came out in a few minutes very mad; said he wouldn't
be hired to drive that party any farther, or any other party, for that
matter; that no carriage could go down the levee; and then he got out
his team and drove back to town; and then Bonelli could hear sounds of
altercation in the room, and Mr. Doyle's voice, very angry, and the
strange gentleman came out, and one of the men who'd been waiting said
he had a cab, if that would answer, and he'd fetch it right off, and by
the time he got back it was raining hard again, and he took his cab in
under the shed where the carriage had been, and a couple of soldiers
from the barracks then came in, wet and cold, and begged for a drink,
and Bonelli knew one of them, called Dawson, and trusted him, as he
often had done before. When Dawson heard Lieutenant Doyle's drunken
voice he said there'd be trouble getting him home, and he'd better fetch
Mrs. Doyle, and while he was gone Lascelles came out, excited, and threw
down a twenty-dollar bill and ordered more Krug and some brandy, and
there was still loud talk, and when Bonelli carried in the bottles
Doyle was sitting back in a chair, held down by the other officer, who
was laughing at him, but nevertheless had a knife in hand,--a long,
sharp, two-edged knife,--and Doyle was calling him names, and was very
drunk, and soon after they all went out into the rear court, and Doyle
made more noise, and the cab drove away around the corner, going down
the levee through the pouring rain, one man on the box with the driver.
That was the last he saw. Then Mrs. Doyle came in mad, and demanded her
husband, and they found him reeling about the dark court, swearing and
muttering, and Dawson and she took him off between them. This must have
been before eleven o'clock; and that was absolutely all he knew.
Then Mr. Allerton had told his story again, without throwing the
faintest light on the proceedings; and the hack-driver was found, and
frankly and fully told his: that Lascelles and another gentleman hired
him about eight o'clock to drive them down to the former's place, which
they said was several squares above the barracks. He said that he would
have to charge them eight dollars such a night anywhere below the old
cotton-press, where the pavement ended. But then they had delayed
starting nearly an hour, and took another gentleman with them, and when
driven by the storm to shelter at the Pelican saloon, three squares
below where the pavement ended, and he asked for his money, saying he
dare go no farther in the darkness and the flood, the Frenchman wouldn't
pay, because he hadn't taken them all the way. He pointed out that he
had to bring another gentleman and had to wait a long time, and demanded
his eight dollars. The other gentleman, whom he found to be one of the
officers at the barracks, slipped a bill into his hand and said it was
all he had left, and if it wasn't enough he'd pay him the next time he
came to town. But the others were very angry, and called him an Irish
thief, and then the big soldier in uniform said he wouldn't have a man
abused because he was Irish, and Lieutenant Waring, as he understood the
name of this other officer to be, told him, the witness, to slip out and
say no more, that he'd fix it all right, and that was the last he saw of
the party, but he heard loud words and the sound of a scuffle as he
drove away.
And Madame d'Hervilly had given her testimony, which, translated, was
to this effect. She had known the deceased these twenty years. He had
been in the employ of her lamented husband, who died of the fever in
'55, and Monsieur had succeeded to the business, and made money, and
owned property in town, besides the old family residence on the levee
below. He was wedded to Emilie only a little while before the war, and
lived at home all through, but business languished then, they had to
contribute much, and his younger brother, Monsieur Philippe, had cost
him a great deal. Philippe was an officer in the Zouaves raised in 1861
among the French Creoles, and marched with them to Columbus, and was
wounded and came home to be nursed, and Emilie took care of him for
weeks and months, and then he went back to the war and fought bravely,
and was shot again and brought home, and this time Monsieur Lascelles
did not want to have him down at the house; he said it cost too much to
get the doctors down there: so he came under Madame's roof, and she was
very fond of the boy, and Emilie would come sometimes and play and sing
for him. When the war was over Monsieur Lascelles gave him money to go
to Mexico with Maximilian, and when the French were recalled many
deserted and came over to New Orleans, and Monsieur Lascelles was making
very little money now, and had sold his town property, and he borrowed
money of her to help, as he said, Philippe again, who came to visit him,
and he was often worried by Philippe's letters begging for money. Seven
thousand dollars now he owed her, and only last week had asked for more.
Philippe was in Key West to buy an interest in some cigar-business.
Monsieur Lascelles said if he could raise three thousand to reach
Philippe this week they would all make money, but Emilie begged her not
to, she was afraid it would all go, and on the very day before he was
found dead he came to see her in the afternoon on Rampart Street, and
Emilie had told her of Mr. Waring's kindness to her and to Nin Nin, and
how she never could have got up after being dragged into the mud by that
drunken cabman, "and she begged me to explain the matter to her husband,
who was a little vexed with her because of Mr. Waring." But he spoke
only about the money, and did not reply about Mr. Waring, except that
he would see him and make proper acknowledgment of his civility. He
seemed to think only of the money, and said Philippe had written again
and must have help, and he was angry at Emilie because she would not
urge with him, and Emilie wept, and he went away in anger, saying he had
business to detain him in town until morning, when he would expect her
to be ready to return with him.
Much of this testimony was evoked by pointed queries of the officials,
who seemed somewhat familiar with Lascelles's business and family
affairs, and who then declared that they must question the stricken
widow. Harsh and unfeeling as this may have seemed, there were probably
reasons which atoned for it. She came in on the arm of the old family
physician, looking like a drooping flower, with little Nin Nin clinging
to her hand. She was so shocked and stunned that she could barely answer
the questions put to her with all courtesy and gentleness of manner. No,
she had never heard of any quarrel between Monsieur Lascelles and his
younger brother. Yes, Philippe had been nursed by her through his
wounds. She was fond of Philippe, but not so fond as was her husband.
Mr. Lascelles would do anything for Philippe, deny himself anything
almost. Asked if Monsieur Lascelles had not given some reason for his
objection to Philippe's being nursed at his house when he came home the
second time, she was embarrassed and distressed. She said Philippe was
an impulsive boy, fancied himself in love with his brother's wife, and
Armand saw something of this, and at last upbraided him, but very
gently. There was no quarrel at all. Was there any one whom Monsieur
Lascelles had been angered with on her account? She knew of none, but
blushed, and blushed painfully. Had the deceased not recently objected
to the attentions paid her by other gentlemen? There was a murmur of
reproach among the hearers, but Madame answered unflinchingly, though
with painful blushes and tears. Monsieur Lascelles had said nothing of
disapproval until very recently; _au contraire_, he had much liked Mr.
Waring. He was the only one of the officers at the barracks whom he had
ever invited to the house, and he talked with him a great deal; had
never, even to her, spoken of a quarrel with him because Mr. Waring had
been so polite to her, until within a week or two; then--yes, he
certainly had. Of her husband's business affairs, his papers, etc., she
knew little. He always had certain moneys, though not large sums, with
all his papers, in the drawers of his cabinet, and that they should be
in so disturbed a state was not unusual. They were all in order, closed
and locked, when he started for town the morning of that fatal day, but
he often left them open and in disorder, only then locking his library
door. When she left for town, two hours after him, the library door was
open, also the side window. She could throw no light on the tragedy. She
had no idea who the stranger could be. She had not seen Philippe for
nearly a year, and believed him to be at Key West.
Alphonse, the colored boy, was so terrified by the tragedy and by his
detention under the same roof with the murdered man that his evidence
was only dragged from him. Nobody suspected the poor fellow of
complicity in the crime, yet he seemed to consider himself as on trial.
He swore he had entered the library only once during the afternoon or
evening, and that was to close the shutters when the storm broke. He
left a lamp burning low in the hall, according to custom, though he felt
sure his master and mistress would remain in town over-night rather
than attempt to come down. He had slept soundly, as negroes will,
despite the gale and the roar of the rain that drowned all other noises.
It was late the next morning when his mother called him. The old mammy
was frightened to see the front gate open, the deep water in the
streets, and the muddy footprints on the veranda. She called Alphonse,
who found that his master must have come in during the night, after all,
for the lamp was taken from the hall table, the library door was closed
and locked, so was the front door, also barred within, which it had not
been when he went to bed. He tapped at the library, got no answer, so
tiptoed to his master's bedroom; it was empty and undisturbed. Neither
had Madame nor Mademoiselle Nin Nin been to their rooms. Then he was
troubled, and then the soldiers came and called him out into the rain.
They could tell the rest.
Cram's story is already told, and he could add nothing. The officials
tried to draw the batteryman out as to the relations existing between
Lieutenant Waring and Madame, but got badly "bluffed." Cram said he had
never seen anything in the faintest degree worthy of comment. Had he
heard anything? Yes, but nothing worthy of consideration, much less of
repetition. Had he not loaned Mr. Waring his team and carriage to drive
Madame to town that morning? No. How did he get it, then? Took it! Was
Monsieur Waring in the habit of helping himself to the property of his
brother officers? Yes, whenever he felt like it, for they never
objected. The legal official thought such spirit of _camaraderie_ in the
light artillery must make life at the barracks something almost poetic,
to which Cram responded, "Oh, at times absolutely idyllic." And the tilt
ended with the civil functionary ruffled, and this was bad for the
battery. Cram never had any policy whatsoever.
Lieutenant Doyle was the next witness summoned, and a more
God-forsaken-looking fellow never sat in a shell jacket. Still in
arrest, physically, at the beck of old Braxton, and similarly hampered,
intellectually, at the will of bold John Barleycorn, Mr. Doyle came
before the civil authorities only upon formal subpoena served at post
head-quarters. The post surgeon had straightened him up during the day,
but was utterly perplexed at his condition. Mrs. Doyle's appearance in
the neighborhood some weeks before had been the signal for a series of
sprees on the Irishman's part that had on two occasions so prostrated
him that Dr. Potts, an acting assistant surgeon, had been called in to
prescribe for him, and, thanks to the vigorous constitution of his
patient, had pulled him out in a few hours. But this time "Pills the
Less" had found Doyle in a state bordering on terror, even when assured
that the quantity of his potations had not warranted an approach to
tremens. The post surgeon had been called in too, and "Pills the
Pitiless," as he was termed, thanks to his unfailing prescription of
quinine and blue mass in the shape and size of buckshot, having no
previous acquaintance, in Doyle, with these attacks, poohpoohed the
case, administered bromides and admonition in due proportion, and went
off about more important business. Dr. Potts, however, stood by his big
patient, wondering what should cause him to start in such terror at
every step upon the stair without, and striving to bring sleep to eyes
that had not closed the livelong night nor all the balmy, beautiful day.
Once he asked if Doyle wished him to send for his wife, and was startled
at the vehemence of the reply, "For God's sake, no!" and, shuddering,
Doyle had hidden his face and turned away. Potts got him to eat
something towards noon, and Doyle begged for more drink, but was
refused. He was sober, yet shattered, when Mr. Drake suddenly appeared
just about stable-call and bade him repair at once to the presence of
the commanding officer. Then Potts _had_ to give him a drink, or he
would never have got there. With the aid of a servant he was dressed,
and, accompanied by the doctor, reached the office. Braxton looked him
over coldly.
"Mr. Doyle," said he, "the civil authorities have made requisition
for----" But he had got no further when Doyle staggered, and but for the
doctor's help might have fallen.
"For God's sake, colonel, it isn't true! Sure I know nothing of it at
all at all, sir. Indade, indade, I was blind dhrunk, colonel. Sure
they'd swear a man's life away, sir, just because he was the one--he was
the one that----"
"Be silent, sir. You are not accused, that I know of. It is as a witness
you are needed.--Is he in condition to testify, doctor?"
"He is well enough, sir, to tell what he knows, but he claims to know
nothing." And this, too, Doyle eagerly seconded, but was sent along in
the ambulance, with the doctor to keep him out of mischief, and a
parting shot to the effect that when the coroner was through with him
the post commander would take hold again, so the colonel depressed more
than the cocktail stimulated, and, as luck would have it, almost the
first person to meet him inside the gloomy enclosure was his wife, and
her few whispered words only added to his misery.
The water still lay in pools about the premises, and the police had
allowed certain of the neighbors to stream in and stare at the white
walls and shaded windows, but only a favored few penetrated the hall-way
and rooms where the investigation was being held. Doyle shook like one
with the palsy as he ascended the little flight of steps and passed into
the open door-way, still accompanied by "Little Pills." People looked at
him with marked curiosity. He was questioned, re-questioned,
cross-questioned, but the result was only a hopeless tangle. He really
added nothing to the testimony of the hack-driver and Bonelli. In abject
remorse and misery he begged them to understand he was drunk when he
joined the party, got drunker, dimly remembered there was a quarrel, but
he had no cause to quarrel with any one, and that was all; he never knew
how he got home. He covered his face in his shaking hands at last, and
seemed on the verge of a fit of crying.
But then came sensation.
Quietly rising from his seat, the official who so recently had had the
verbal tilt with Cram held forth a rusty, cross-hilted, two-edged knife
that looked as though it might have lain in the mud and wet for hours.
"Have you ever seen this knife before?" he asked. And Doyle, lifting up
his eyes one instant, groaned, shuddered, and said,--
"Oh, my God, yes!"
"Whose property is it or was it?"
At first he would not reply. He moaned and shook. At last--
"Sure the initials are on the top," he cried.
But the official was relentless.
"Tell us what they are and what they represent."
People were crowding the hall-way and forcing themselves into the room.
Cram and Ferry, curiously watching their ill-starred comrade, had
exchanged glances of dismay when the knife was so suddenly produced. Now
they bent breathlessly forward.
The silence for the moment was oppressive.
"If it's the knife I mane," he sobbed at last, desperately, miserably,
"the letters are S. B. W., and it belongs to Lieutenant Waring of our
bathery."
But no questioning, however adroit, could elicit from him the faintest
information as to how it got there. The last time he remembered seeing
it, he said, was on Mr. Waring's table the morning of the review. A
detective testified to having found it among the bushes under the window
as the water receded. Ferry and the miserable Ananias were called, and
they, too, had to identify the knife, and admit that neither had seen it
about the room since Mr. Waring left for town. Of other witnesses
called, came first the proprietor of the stable to which the cab
belonged. Horse and cab, he said, covered with mud, were found under a
shed two blocks below the French Market, and the only thing in the cab
was a handsome silk umbrella, London make, which Lieutenant Pierce laid
claim to. Mrs. Doyle swore that as she was going in search of her
husband she met the cab just below the Pelican, driving furiously away,
and that in the flash of lightning she recognized the driver as the man
whom Lieutenant Waring had beaten that morning on the levee in front of
her place. A stranger was seated beside him. There were two gentlemen
inside, but she saw the face of only one,--Lieutenant Waring.
Nobody else could throw any light on the matter. The doctor, recalled,
declared the knife or dagger was shaped exactly as would have to be the
one that gave the death-blow. Everything pointed to the fact that there
had been a struggle, a deadly encounter, and that after the fatal work
was done the murderer or murderers had left the doors locked and barred
and escaped through the window, leaving the desk rifled and carrying
away what money there was, possibly to convey the idea that it was only
a vulgar murder and robbery, after all.
Of other persons who might throw light upon the tragedy the following
were missing: Lieutenant Waring, Private Dawson, the cabman, and the
unrecognized stranger. So, too, was Anatole's boat.