EYES OF ACCUSATION
Bristow, at his early breakfast, devoted himself, between mouthfuls, to
the front page of _The Furmville Sentinel_. It was given up entirely to
the Withers murder.
"Murder--murder horrible and mysterious--was committed early yesterday
morning," announced the paper in large black-face type, "when the
beautiful and charming Mrs. Enid Fulton Withers, wife of George S.
Withers, the well-known attorney of Atlanta, was choked to death in the
parlour of her home at No. 5 Manniston Road. The most heinous crime that
has ever stained the annals of Furmville," etc.
The article went on to recite that Chief Greenleaf of the Furmville
police force had been fortunate in securing the assistance of a genius in
running down the various clues that seemed to point to the guilty party.
Mr. Lawrence Bristow, of Cincinnati, now in town for his health, had
worked with him all day in unearthing many circumstances "which, although
each of them seemed trivial, led when summed up to the almost irrefutable
conviction that the murder was done by a drunken negro, Perry Carpenter,"
etc.
In spite of this, the paper continued, the dead woman's husband, arriving
unexpectedly on the scene, had employed by wire Samuel S. Braceway, the
professional detective of Atlanta, who would reach Furmville early this
morning and, probably, work with Chief Greenleaf, Mr. Bristow, and the
plain-clothes squad in the effort to remove all doubts of the guilt of
the accused negro.
There followed a sketch of Braceway which was enough to convince the
readers that in him Mr. Withers had called into the case the shrewdest
man in the South, "very probably the shrewdest man in the entire
country."
"Evidently," Bristow was thinking when Greenleaf rang the door-bell,
"while I'm a 'genius,' Braceway's the man everybody relies on when it
comes to catching the murderer."
The chief was in a hurry, and the two men, going out of Bristow's back
door, walked down to the corner of the sleeping porch of No. 7, the
nurses' home. The frail wire fences that had served to partition the back
lots of Nos. 5, 7, and 9 had either fallen down or been carried away, but
there was a tall five-board fence at the rear of the three lots. From
this board fence, the hill sloped down toward the southeast, the
direction in which the negro settlement containing the home of Lucy
Thomas was located.
Bristow, frankly bored by the belated search, let Greenleaf lead the way.
"I went up to the sanitarium late last night," the chief told him, "and
had a long talk with Miss Hardesty. She says the man she saw night before
last was right here, just a few yards from this Number Seven sleeping
porch; and, it seemed to her, he made straight for the board fence. We'll
follow in his footsteps. That will take up to the fence in the middle of
the rear line of Number Seven's lot."
He was following this route as he talked, Bristow limping a few yards
behind him.
Greenleaf overlooked nothing. The lot had been cleared of last winter's
leaves, and the search was comparatively simple, but, if he saw even so
much as a small stick on either side of him, he turned it over. They were
soon at the fence, about twenty yards from the sleeping porch.
"There's not a trace--not a trace of anything, chief," said Bristow,
leaning one elbow on the top board of the fence.
Greenleaf, however, was not to be discouraged. After he had walked around
again and again in ever-widening circles, he stopped and thought.
"If that nigger was running away and trying to make good time," he
exclaimed, suddenly inspired, "he didn't jump the fence in the middle
there, where you are. He took a line slanting down toward that negro
settlement. The chances are he went over the fence down at that corner."
He pointed to the southeastern corner back of No. 5 and, with his eyes on
the ground, began to work toward it.
Barely a yard from the corner, he stooped down swiftly, picked up
something and turned joyfully toward Bristow, who still leaned against
the fence.
"Look here! Look here, Mr. Bristow," he called, hurrying across to him.
Bristow examined the object Greenleaf had found. It consisted of six
links of a gold chain, three of the links very small and of plain gold,
the other alternating three links being larger and chased with a fine,
exquisite design of laurel leaves, the leaves so small as to be barely
distinguishable to the naked eye.
The lame man shared the chief's excitement.
"By George! You've got something worth while. I should say so!"
"What do you make of it?" asked Greenleaf, eager and pleased. "It must
have belonged to Mrs. Withers, don't you think?"
"There's one way to find out," Bristow answered, looking at his watch. It
was half-past eight o'clock. "Let's go and ask Withers."
They went around to the front of No. 5.
"One of the end links is broken," Bristow said as they ascended the
steps. "My guess is that this is a part of the necklace Mrs. Withers wore
when she was killed. You remember the mark on the back of her neck. It
might have been made by the jerk that would have been required to break
these links."
Miss Kelly, answering their ring, told them Mr. Withers had gone to the
railroad station to meet Mr. Braceway.
"Then, too," she added, "Miss Fulton's father is due on the nine o'clock
train. Mr. Withers may stop down town to meet him."
"I'd forgotten about that," said Bristow. "We'll have to ask your help."
He handed her the fragment of chain. "Will you be so kind as to take
that back to Miss Fulton and ask her whether she recognizes it, whether
she can identify it?"
Miss Kelly complied with the request at once.
She returned in a few moments.
"Miss Fulton," she reported, handing the links back to Bristow, "says
this is a part of the chain Mrs. Withers wore round her neck night before
last. She wore a lavalliere; it had two emeralds and eighteen rather
small diamonds."
"Good!" exclaimed Greenleaf, glancing at the lame man. "I guess that
fixes Perry."
"Undoubtedly," Bristow assented; and spoke to Miss Kelly: "I beg your
pardon, but is Miss Fulton up this morning, or will she be up later?"
"She's dressing now. She wants to be up to meet her father."
"In that case, I'll wait until later. What I would like to have is a
complete, detailed description of all of Mrs. Withers' jewelry. I wish
you'd mention that to her, will you?"
Greenleaf was anxious to return to his office.
"This last piece of evidence," he said, "ought to go to the coroner's
jury. It clinches the case against Perry. Here's the whole business in a
nutshell: the buttons missing from his blouse, one found in Number Five,
the other in your bungalow; Miss Hardesty's having seen him the night of
the murder; the ease with which he undoubtedly got the kitchen key from
Lucy Thomas; the imprint of his rubber-soled shoe on the porch; the
finding of this piece of gold chain; and his failure to establish an
alibi. It's more than enough to have him held for the grand jury--it's
murder in the first degree."
Bristow went back to his porch. Looking down to his left and through the
trees, he commanded a view of Freeman Avenue.
"When I see an automobile flash past that spot," he decided, "I'll hurry
down to Number Five. I want to be there to witness the meeting between
Miss Fulton and her father. It may be possible that, when this
scandal--whatever it was--was about to break concerning Mrs. Withers,
this family was lucky enough to have a negro hauled up as the murderer.
In any event, it's up to me to keep track of the relations between
Fulton, his daughter, Withers, and Morley. The psychology of the
situation now is as important as any material evidence."
He did not have long to wait. At a quarter past nine he caught a glimpse
of a big car speeding out Freeman Avenue. He sprang to his feet, hurried
down to No. 5, rang the bell, and was inside the living room by the time
the machine had climbed up Manniston Road and deposited in front of the
door its one passenger. He was a man of sixty-five or sixty-seven years
of age, very white of hair, very erect of figure.
Bristow did not have time or need to formulate an excuse for his presence
before Mr. Fulton rushed up the steps to meet Maria. As she came from the
direction of the bedrooms to greet him, her expression had in it
reluctance, timidity even.
The father and daughter met in the centre of the living room. Bristow,
stationed near the corner by the door, could see their faces. He watched
them with attention strained to the utmost.
In the eyes of Maria there was a great fear mingled with a look of
pleading. The old man's face was deep-lined; under his eyes were dark
pouches; and his lips were tightly compressed, as if he sought to prevent
his bursting into condemnation.
With a little catch in her voice, Maria cried out, "Father!" and stood
watching him.
For a moment the old man's eyes were dreary with accusation. Bristow had
never seen an emotion mirrored so clearly, so indisputably, in anybody's
eyes. It was a speaking, thundering light, he thought.
The father, without opening his mouth, plainly said to the girl:
"At last, you've killed her! It's all your fault. You've killed her."
Bristow read that as easily as if it had been held before him in printed
words. So, apparently, did Miss Fulton. The pleading expression left her
face, and, in place of it, was only a flourishing, lively fear.
But Fulton put out his arms and gathered her into them, took hold of her
mechanically, displaying neither fondness nor a desire to comfort and
soothe.
Bristow quietly left the room and returned to his porch.
"Her father," he analyzed what he had seen, "blames her for the
tragedy--possibly believes her guilty of the actual murder. Why? This is
a new angle--brand new."
He went in and called up Greenleaf, only to be told that the chief had
left word he was to be found at the Brevord Hotel. Telephoning there, he
got him on the wire.
"Neither Withers nor Braceway came up here with old Mr. Fulton," he
began.
"I know," put in the chief. "I'm down here to meet Braceway now. He and
Withers are in conference. Braceway doesn't want to go to the inquest.
I'm to take him by the undertaker's to look at the body, and then he
wants to run up to see you. Says he won't learn anything important at the
inquest; he'd rather talk to you."
"All right," returned Bristow. "That suits me perfectly. When will he be
here?"
"In half an hour, I suppose. And I'll run up as soon as the inquest is
over."
"I wonder," Bristow communed again with himself, "whether this Braceway
is on the level, whether Withers is on the level. What's their game--to
find the real murderer or to shut up a family scandal?"
The scandal theory bothered him. He saw no way of getting at it.
In less than an hour he and Braceway were shaking hands on the porch of
No. 9. Bristow, studying him rapidly, motioned him to a chair.
Here was no ordinary police-detective type. This man had neither
square-toed shoes, nor a bull neck, nor coarseness of feature. About
thirty-six years old, he was unusually slender, and straight as a dart,
a peculiar and restless gracefulness characterizing all his movements. He
seemed fairly to exude energy. He was keyed up to lightning-like motion.
He gave the impression of having a brain that worked with the precision
and force of some great machine, a machine that never missed fire.
From the toes of his highly polished tan shoes to the sheen of his blond
hair and the crown of his nobby straw hat, he looked like a well dressed
and prosperous professional man. His dark gray suit with a thin thread of
pale green in it, his silver-gray necktie, the gloves he carried in his
left hand, every detail of his appearance marked him, first as a "snappy
dresser," and second as a highly efficient man.
While they exchanged casual greetings, Braceway lit a cigarette and spun
the match, with a droning sound, far out from the porch. He did this, as
he did everything else, with a "flaire," with that indefinable something
which marks every man who has a strong personality. There was in all his
bearing a dash, an electric emphasis.
"What do you think, Mr. Bristow?" He got down to business at once. "Did
this negro Perry kill Mrs. Withers?"
Braceway blew out a big cloud of smoke and looked intently at his new
acquaintance.
"I've talked to Greenleaf," he supplemented. "I suppose he gave me all
the facts you've collected. But Greenleaf--you know what I mean," he
waved his cigarette hand expressively; "I wouldn't say he had
extraordinary powers of divination. He's a good fellow, and all that,
but--what do you think?"
"On the evidence alone, so far," Bristow answered with an appreciative,
warming smile, "I'd say Perry committed the crime."
"Oh; yes, sure." He moved quickly in his chair. "On the evidence, but
there are other things, other factors. What do you think?"
"I'm afraid that's my trouble," Bristow told him. "I've been thinking so
much that I'm somewhat muddled. But I believe there may be something more
than a negro's greed back of this thing."
"Now you're speaking mouthfuls," Braceway said, smiling brightly. "Tell
me about it."
Bristow told him--about Withers' peculiar behaviour; the whole case
against Perry; the illusive personage with the chestnut beard and gold
tooth; Morley's suspicious story and actions; and, lastly, Maria Fulton's
highly puzzling narrative of what she had seen and not seen in connection
with the murder.
Braceway listened with complete absorption, in a way that showed he was
photographing each incident and statement on his brain.
"Now," he began with almost explosive suddenness, "let's get this
straight. I want to work with you, if you'll let me." He paused long
enough for Bristow to nod a pleased assent. "And I believe there's
something back of this crime that nobody has yet put his finger on. Mr.
Withers believes it. Don't make any mistake about that. Withers is as
anxious to get the real criminal as you and I are."
"Let me understand," Bristow said in his turn. "Do you propose that we
work on the case with the supposition that Withers is in no way
responsible for any part of the tragedy?"
"Absolutely!" snapped out Braceway, thoroughly good natured despite his
abruptness. "At least, that's my plan. I'm certain Withers had nothing to
do with it."
For the first time, something far back in Bristow's brain stirred
uneasily, as if, miles away, somebody had sounded an alarm. Should he
trust this man? Would Braceway try to pick up a false scent, try to throw
the whole thing out of gear?
Although he, Bristow, had expressed to Greenleaf only last night his
confidence in Withers' innocence, would it be wise to hold to such a
belief? The future was too uncertain, too apt to produce entirely
unexpected things. At any rate, it would be silly to call himself
anything of a criminologist; and yet go ahead with a blind, spoken
conviction of the innocence of a man who unquestionably had acted in a
way to bring suspicion upon himself.
He would wait and see. He purposed to throw away no card that might later
take a trick.
"Very good," he said. "That suits me if you're satisfied. You can answer
for him, I don't doubt."
"Thoroughly so. In the first place, he and I are close personal friends;
went to college together; were fraternity mates; had an office together
until I quit practising law and went in for this sort of work. Then, too,
I've turned him inside out this morning. He doesn't know a thing.
"And, I might as well tell you now, he didn't hang around Manniston Road
night before last after his wife got in. As soon as he saw this Douglas
Campbell go home he returned to the Brevord and went to bed.
"No, sirree! Here's what I work on: either Morley killed her, or the
negro killed her, or it was done by the mysterious fellow with the gold
tooth. How does that strike you?"
"Correctly; I'm with you," agreed Bristow, still with the mental
reservation that he would deal with Withers as he saw fit.
"One thing more," added Braceway, and Bristow was surprised to see that
he looked a trifle embarrassed; "I want you to handle all the talk that
has to be had with Miss Maria Fulton. I'll be frank with you; I have to
be. It's this way: I was once in love with her; in fact, engaged to marry
her. Do you see?"
"Fully."
He was glad to know at the outset that Braceway was a friend of the
family. It might be valuable later.
Braceway threw away his cigarette and sighed with relief.
"I'm glad you understand," he said. "Now, about Withers: things have
begun to happen to him already--this morning. Since this has hit him, he
doesn't know where he'll get off eventually. I'll tell you."