THE PAWN BROKER TAKES THE TRAIL
Frank Abrahamson, pawn broker and junk dealer, responded at once to
Braceway's warm smile. The Jew had his racial respect for keenness and
clean-cut ability. He liked this man who, dressed like a dandy, spoke
with the air of authority.
"The fellow with the gold tooth?" he replied to Braceway's request for
information. "Was there anything peculiar about him? Why, yes. He was
clothed in peculiarities."
The pawn broker, thin, round-shouldered, with a great hook-nose and
cavernous, bright eyes, spoke rapidly, without an accent, punctuating his
sentences with thrusts and dartings and waves of his two hands. His
fifty-five years had not lessened his vitality.
"You see, Mr. Braceway, we pawn brokers, we have to observe our
customers. We become judges of human nature. At the best, we have a hard
time making a living." Somehow, with his smile, he discounted this
statement. "And we come to judge men as closely as we examine jewels and
precious metals. You see?"
Braceway saw. He lit a cigarette and stepped to the door to throw away
the match. The Jew appreciated the thoughtfulness. Trash on the floor
made the morning task of sweeping up harder.
"Now," continued Abrahamson, expressing with one movement of his arm
tolerant ridicule, "this man with the gold tooth and the brown beard--he
thought he was disguised. By gracious! it was funny. A fellow like me
takes one look at him and sees the disguise. The gold tooth--that was
false, fake. When he talked to me, it was all I could do to keep from
reaching across the counter and pushing that tooth more firmly into his
jaw. Gold is heavy, you see. I was afraid it might drop down on my
showcase and break some glass."
Abrahamson laughed. So did Braceway.
"And his beard, Mr. Braceway? That was better. To the ordinary
observer, it might have looked natural--but not to me. Oh, yes; he was
disguised--too much.--Besides, the other afternoon was not the first time
I had seen him--no."
"You saw him two months ago, then?"
"Yes, sir--two months ago, and one month before that."
"In here?"
"Yes."
"What did he want?"
"Money. Money for jewelry. Oh, he had the jewelry. And I gave him the
money--a great deal; more, perhaps, than was good for me, when you
remember I always try to make a reasonable profit. He argued. He knew
about values."
This interested Braceway more than anything he had yet heard.
"That gave you an idea," he suggested.
"You are quick, Mr. Braceway. It did give me an idea. It made me think:
well! This man, he has pawned things before, these very same things.
He knew quite well what they should bring." Abrahamson shrugged his
shoulders. "And he did know--and I let him have the money. That is, I
mean, what happened the first two times. This last time, the three days
ago, he was different, in a hurry, and he took only what I offered. He
made no argument. I could see he was frightened. Yes--he was different
this last time."
The detective, oblivious of the other for a moment, blew a cloud of smoke
across the counter, causing the Jew to dodge and cough.
"Let me see," Braceway said. "You saw him three months ago, two months
ago, and three days ago. Had you ever seen him before?"
Abrahamson laughed, and, reaching over, slapped Braceway on the shoulder
gently.
"You are so quick, Mr. Braceway! I can't swear I had ever seen him
before, but I think I had--not with the gold tooth and the beard, but
with a moustache and bushy eyebrows, eyebrows too bushy."
"Where? Where did you see him?"
"Here, I think--but I'm not sure, you see. Sometimes I have traveled a
little--to Atlanta, to Washington, to New York. I don't know; I can't
tell whether I saw him in one of those places, or some other place, or
here."
Braceway urged him with his eyes.
"If you only could! Mr. Abrahamson, if you could remember where you saw
him when he wore the moustache, you would enable me to put my hands on
him. You'd do more. You'd give me enough information to lead to the
arrest of the murderer."
Abrahamson was silent, gazing through the shop doorway. He turned to the
detective again.
"I bet you, Mr. Braceway, you will be glad to hear something. Chief
Greenleaf was in here this morning, asking questions. But he asked so
many that were worth nothing, so few that were good. And I forgot to tell
him the whole story--the things of, perhaps, significance."
"Tell me. Significance is what I'm after."
"Well, you know Mr. Withers spent almost the whole day in here before the
night of the murder. Once he went out. That was in the late afternoon to
get some lunch. While he was out--understand, while he was out--in came
the gold-tooth fellow.
"It was bad luck. I kept him as long as I could, but he was hurried,
nervous. Half an hour, forty minutes maybe, after the gold-tooth fellow
had gone, in came Withers again, out of breath, complaining that he had
picked the man up just outside here and followed him, only to lose him
when the gold-tooth fellow went through Casey's store to the avenue.
"I showed Withers the ring the fellow had pawned for a hundred dollars.
"'Yes, yes!' he said; 'that's one of my wife's rings.'
"And he was all cut up.
"Now, here is what I have to tell." Abrahamson lowered his voice and,
leaning low on his elbow, thrust his face far over the counter toward
Braceway. "It is only an idea, but--it is an idea. I bet you I would not
tell anybody else. Such things might get a man into trouble. But I like
you, Mr. Braceway. I confide in you. Mr. Withers and that man with the
beard and the gold tooth--something in the look of the eyes, something
in the build of the shoulders--each reminded me of the other, a little.
And they were at no time in here together. Just an idea, I told you.
But----"
He spread out his hands, straightened his back, and smiled.
Braceway was, undisguisedly, amazed.
"You mean Withers was the----"
"S--sh--sh!" Abrahamson held up a protesting hand. "Not so loud, Mr.
Braceway. It is just an idea for you to think over. I study faces,
and all that sort of thing, and ideas sometimes are valuable--sometimes
not."
"By George!" Braceway put into his expression an enthusiasm he was far
from feeling. "You've done me a service, a tremendous service, Mr.
Abrahamson."
He thought rapidly. Three months ago! Where had George Withers been then?
Three months ago was the first of February. He started. It was then that
Withers had gone to Savannah. At least, he had said he was going to
Savannah. And two months ago? He was not certain, but when had George
left Atlanta, ostensibly for Memphis?
Inwardly, the detective ridiculed himself. He would have sworn to the
innocence of Withers. In fact, he was swearing to it all over again as
he stood there in the pawnshop. Abrahamson's "idea" was out of the
question. People were often victims of "wild thinking" in the midst of
the excitement caused by a murder mystery.
He returned to the effort to persuade the Jew to try to remember where he
had seen the bearded man without a beard, with only a moustache and bushy
eyebrows.
"That's the important thing," he urged. "If you can remember that, I'll
land the murderer."
"Maybe--perhaps, I can." The pawn broker hesitated, then made up his mind
to confide to Braceway another secret. "I don't promise, but there is a
chance. You see, Mr. Braceway, I'm a thinker." He smiled, deprecating the
statement. "Most men do not think. But me, I think. I do this: I want to
remember something. Good! I go back into my little room back of the shop,
and I practise association of ideas. What does the moustache remind me
of? What was in his voice that made me think I had seen him before? What
do his eyes bring up in my mind?
"So! I go back over the months, over the years. One idea leads to another
connected with it. There flash into my mind links and links of thoughts
until I have a chain leading to--where? Somewhere. It is fun--and it
brings the results. I will do so tonight and tomorrow. I will try. I
bet you I will be able to tell you--finally. You see?"
"It's a great scheme," said Braceway, encouraging him. "It ought to work.
Now, tell me this: how did this fellow strike you? What did you think of
him when he was in here pawning jewels and wearing a disguise?"
"I will tell you the truth. I thought at first he was like a lot of other
sick people who come here with that disease--tuberculosis. In the
beginning they have plenty of money. They expect to get well before the
money gives out. But they have miscalculated. They are not yet well, and
the money is gone.
"What next? They must have more money. With this disease, the rich get
well, the poor die. Well! I thought this fellow needed money to get
well--that was all; and, like a lot of them, he was ashamed of being hard
up and didn't want it known."
"Tell me this: would the ordinary man in the street have noticed that the
gold tooth was a false, clumsy affair?"
"I think not. I buy all sorts of old gold and sets of false teeth. There
is a market for them. I have studied them. That's why I saw what this
fellow's was."
"I see. Now, will you show me what he pawned two months ago, and three
months ago?"
Abrahamson consulted a big book, went to the safe at the back of the
shop, and returned with two little packets. In the first were two
bracelets, one studded with emeralds and diamonds, the other set with
rubies. In the second envelope was a gold ring set with one large diamond
surrounded by small rubies.
"I allowed him six hundred dollars on the bracelets," explained
Abrahamson; "they are handsome--exquisite; and three hundred and fifty
on the ring."
Braceway passed the stuff back to him. It was a part of the Withers
jewelry.
"You see, Mr. Braceway," added the Jew, "all this business, this murder
and everything, will cost me money. This jewelry, it is stolen goods.
Chief Greenleaf leaves it here for the present, as a decoy. Perhaps,
somebody might try to reclaim it. That's what he thinks. As for me, I
don't think so. It is a dead loss."
He sighed and rearranged the articles in their envelopes.
"Yes," agreed the detective; "it's hard luck. You've got every reason to
be interested in running down the truth in this mix-up. I wish you could
tell me where you think you saw this man--the time he had neither the
gold tooth nor the brown beard."
"Be patient, my friend--Mr. Braceway. By tomorrow I may remember. I shall
work hard--the association of ideas! It is a great system."
Braceway thanked him and was about to leave the shop. He had already
formed a new plan. He turned back to the pawn broker.
"By the way," he said, "I'm going to Washington tomorrow. If you should
remember, if the association of ideas produces anything, I wonder if
you'd wire me?"
"Certainly. Certainly."
The detective wrote on a slip of paper: S. S. Braceway, Willard Hotel. He
handed it to Abrahamson.
"Wire me that address, collect," he directed.
Abrahamson promised, smiling. He was pleased with the idea of helping to
solve the problem which convulsed Furmville.
"Oh," added Braceway, "another thing. How would you describe this fellow
in addition to the fact that he wore the beard and the gold tooth?"
"Very thin lips," replied Abrahamson slowly, "and high, straight,
aquiline nose, and blond hair, and--and, I should say, rather thin, high
voice."
"Good!" Braceway exclaimed. "Good! Mr. Abrahamson, you've just described
the man who, I believe, committed the murder. And I know where he is."
Morley had been pointed out to him in the hotel earlier in the day, and
Abrahamson's memory sketched a fairly good likeness of the young man as
he remembered him. Why not make certain of it at once?
"You've been very obliging," he continued, "and, I suppose, that's why I
feel I can impose on you further. I confide in you, as you did in me. I'm
going back to the Brevord now. Could you follow me and take a look at a
man who'll be with me there?"
The Jew's eyes sparkled.
"Yes, Mr. Braceway," he said and added: "It may cost me money, closing up
the shop, you understand. But if I can help----"
"Don't misunderstand me," the detective cautioned. "There's no charge of
murder. Nothing like that. This fellow may be the gold-tooth man, and
still not be the guilty man."
"I see; I see," Abrahamson's tone was one of importance. "You go on, Mr.
Braceway. I'll follow in three minutes."
"If the man I'm with is the one who wore the disguise, if he looks more
like it than Mr. Withers did, make no sign. If he's not the fellow
communicate with me later--as soon as you can."
Morley was the first person Braceway saw when he entered the lobby of the
hotel. He lost no time, but crossed over to the leather settee on which
the young man sat. Morley looked haggard and frightened, and, although he
held a newspaper in front of him, was gazing into space.
Braceway decided to "take a chance." He had a great respect for his
intuitions. These "hunches," he had found, were sometimes of no value,
but they had helped him often enough to make the ideas that came to him
in this way worth trying. He introduced himself.
"I was wondering," he said, sitting down beside Morley, "if you couldn't
help me out in a little matter."
Morley sighed and put down his paper before he answered:
"What is it?"
"Something about make-ups--facial make-up."
Morley looked at him and felt that the detective's eyes bored into him.
"What about make-up?"
"I had the idea--perhaps I got it from George Withers--that you used to
be interested in a matter of theatricals."
Morley coloured.
"Yes. That is," he qualified, "I was a member of the dramatic club when
I was in college, University of Pennsylvania. But I didn't know Withers
knew anything about it."
Braceway's demeanour now was casual. His eyes were no longer on Morley.
He was watching Abrahamson, who was at the news-stand near the main
entrance.
"I thought George had mentioned it to me, but I may be mistaken. Did you
ever 'make up' with a beard?"
The morning papers had got hold of the suspicion of some of the
authorities that a man wearing a brown beard and a gold tooth was wanted
because of the murder of Mrs. Withers. Although Chief Greenleaf had tried
to keep it quiet, it had leaked out as a result of Jenkins' search for
traces of the man. Morley had read all this, and Braceway's question
upset him.
"No," he answered; "I never did. I played women's parts."
Abrahamson was shaking his head in negation. He made it plain that he saw
in Morley no resemblance to the man who had come disguised to the
pawnshop.
Braceway did not press Morley for further information.
"Then you can't help me," he laughed lightly. "Women don't wear beards."
He got up with a careless word about the hot weather and passed on to the
clerk's desk. He was thinking: "He was lying. Any college annual prints
the cast of the important 'show' given by the dramatic club that year.
I'll wire Philadelphia."
He found the manager of the Brevord and inquired:
"How about the bellboy who was on duty all Monday night, Mr. Keene?"
"He's in the house now," Keene informed him. "Roddy is his name."
"Send him up to my room, will you?"
Braceway stepped into the elevator. Five minutes after he had
disappeared, Morley went into the writing room. His hand trembled a
little as he picked up a pen. He put two or three lines on several sheets
of paper, one after the other, and tore up all of them.
The communication which he finally completed he put into an envelope and
addressed to Braceway. It read:
"Dear Mr. Braceway: When you asked me about the make-up, I was thinking
of something else and was not quite clear as to what you were saying or
what you wanted to know. I remember now that, on one occasion, I did
have a part as a man who wore a beard in a play given by my college
dramatic club. However, I don't remember enough about it to pass as an
expert on such make-ups.
"Yours truly,
"Henry Morley."
Going to the desk, he left the note for the detective.
"I'm a fool," he reflected, as he went to the door and looked out at the
traffic in the street. "I believe I'll get a lawyer."
He considered this for a while.
"Oh, what's the use? He'll ask me a lot of questions, and----"
He shuddered and turned back into the lobby, hesitant and wretched.
"My God!" he thought miserably. "I've got to get back to Washington! I've
got to! After that, I can think--think!"
But he believed he could not go until the chief of police gave him
permission. If he had consulted a lawyer, he might have found out
differently. As it was, he stayed on, thinking more and more
disconnectedly, eating nothing, his nerves wearing to raw ends.
Upstairs Braceway was strengthening the net he had already woven around
Henry Morley.
"I was right." He reviewed what he had learned from Abrahamson. "It's
still up to Morley. That pawn broker's off, 'way off. He thinks George
Withers resembles the man with the beard, and, although he gave me the
description that fitted Morley exactly, he takes a look at him and denies
emphatically that Morley resembles at all the fellow with the disguise."
Abrahamson, however, was not satisfied with what he had seen. Back in
front of his shop, he opened the door, took down the sign he had left
hanging on the knob, "Back in ten minutes," substituted another, "Closed
for the day," relocked the door, and started off in the direction of
Casey's department store.
He had decided to devote the whole afternoon to detective work. Of
course, it would cost him money, having the shop closed half a day.
"But," he consoled himself, "I'm worth seventy thousand dollars. I bet
I am entitled to a little holiday."