MISS FULTON WRITES A LETTER
As long as the public's morbid curiosity clamoured for details of the
case, the newspapers provided them lavishly. This curiosity was
intensified by two things: first, the search for a murderer after so much
almost convincing evidence had been found against the negro, and, second,
the duel between Bristow, the amateur, and Braceway, the professional,
each bent on making his theory "stand up." The amateur had achieved far
more celebrity than he had expected.
It would have been hard to find two men less alike than he and Braceway.
Bristow was capable now and then of manifesting the strength and
impressive authority he had exhibited in his questioning of Morley.
Braceway, on the other hand, was always keyed up, dashing, imperious. And
he had a kindness of heart, a very live tenderness, such as the lame man
never displayed.
Braceway was of the tribe of dreamers.
He had learned that no man may hope to be a great detective unless he
has imagination, unless he can throw into the dark places which always
surround a mysterious crime the luminous and golden glow of fancy. He had
found also that, if a man's vocabulary is without a "perhaps" or a "but
why couldn't it be the other way?" he will never be able to judge human
nature or to consider fairly every side of any question.
He discussed these views at breakfast with Bristow, who was interested
only in his own decision of the night before to return at once to
Furmville.
"My health demands it," he said; "and I can't convince myself that either
you or I can dig up anything here to affect the final outcome of the
case."
"You're right about the health part of it; I'm not sure about the other,"
said Braceway.
"What are you after, though?" Bristow pressed him.
"Facts. That bearded man with the gold tooth, the fellow who always
started from nowhere and invariably vanished into thin air--I don't
propose to assume that he had nothing to do with the murder of Enid
Withers. I don't intend to be recorded as not having combed the country
for him if necessary.
"That disguised man is no myth. And Morley knows all about beard
'make-up.' His note to me in Furmville proved that. The negro boy, Roddy,
swears Morley and the mysterious stranger are the same.
"There isn't a crook living who can put it over on me this way with a
cheap disguise. And this case isn't cleared up until, in some way, I find
out who he is or get my hands on him." His voice was vibrant with the
intensity of his feeling. "I'm going to find him! I intend to answer, to
my own satisfaction, two questions."
"What are they?"
"The first is: was the bearded man Morley? The second: if Morley wasn't
the bearded man, who was?"
"But, if you do find this hirsute individual, what then? What becomes of
the unassailable evidence against the negro?"
"That will come later. Today I'm going to Baltimore. I've a report
already, this morning, from Platt. He went over there last night. Morley,
I find, deceived us again last night. He said nothing of leaving the
hotel to call on the lawyer, Taliaferro.
"As a matter of fact, he did visit Taliaferro.
"He called the lawyer on the telephone at twenty minutes past two and
said he would go at once to his office. If he had done so, he would have
arrived there at twenty-four minutes past two. He reached there, in fact,
at two-fifty, ten minutes of three. A half-hour of his time isn't
accounted for. He left the hotel at two-twenty-one. Where did he spend
that last half-hour? It's an interesting point."
"Yes," Bristow said, surprised. "Pawnshops?"
"Perhaps--two pawnshops."
"And the pawned diamonds and emeralds are certainly the Withers stuff, a
part of it?"
"I'm sure of it."
"Anyway you look at it," Bristow smiled pleasantly, his manner tinged
with patronizing, "you've a hard job to get away with."
"If," the other ruminated, "the jewels pawned yesterday were not Mrs.
Withers', why wouldn't the man who pawned them come forward and say so?
If there wasn't anything crooked about them, why should he hide himself?
The papers are full of it this morning. It's public property."
Bristow, looking at his watch, saw that it was nine o'clock and time for
him to go to the railroad station.
They said good-bye, each confident that the other was on the wrong trail.
"I'm leaving you," the lame man declared, "to run to your heart's content
around the clever circles you've outlined, and to beat off the newspaper
reporters."
"It's not for long," Braceway returned seriously. "I hope to be in
Furmville next week with an armful of new facts. I'll see you then."
He went to the desk and got his mail. In addition to reports from his
Atlanta office, there was one letter in a big, square envelope. He
recognized the writing and opened that first.
"Dear Mr. Braceway," it said: "I hope Mr. Bristow repeated to you
everything I told him. He is quite brilliant, I have no doubt, but I
talked to him in the belief and hope that he would tell you everything.
I know what you can do, and I trust you more than I do him. You see, you
have successes behind you.
"If he did not tell you all, I shall be glad to do so at any time."
It was signed, "Sincerely yours, Maria Fulton."
He read the note twice. When he put it into his pocket, there was a new
light in his eyes, and at the corners of his mouth a relaxation of the
lines of sternness.
"I wonder----" he began in his thoughts, and added: "Some other time,
perhaps. No; surely. I always knew her better than she knew herself."
He was frankly happy, felt himself uplifted, freshened in spirit.
Standing there in the crowded lobby, with people brushing past him and
jogging his elbow, he flashed back two years in memory to the evening
when he had warned her not to let the sweetness of her personality be
overshadowed by her sister. It was then that he had insisted on her
living her own life instead of giving up to the wishes of others always.
She had misconstrued it, deciding that he was disappointed in her. She
said his love for her had lessened, and therefore their engagement was a
great mistake.
Then came her promise to marry Morley, a promise made in pique.
Afterwards she had done everything possible to show the world she had
chosen a man instead of a weakling. This, Braceway knew, was why she had
advanced him money, bolstering up one mistake with another. It was why
she had listened to his stories of getting great wealth, if only he had a
small amount of money to start on!
What a fiasco the whole thing had been, what bitter disappointment and
sorrow! And yet, she had been fortunate in discovering now what he was.
There was no doubt about it, Braceway decided; she had loved him,
Braceway, all this time. In a few days he would tell her so, make her
confess it. He would compel her to listen to what he had to say; he would
never again jeopardize their happiness by allowing her to misunderstand
him.
He crossed the lobby with long, springy strides. He felt that he could
encounter no obstacle too great for him to overcome. Failure could not
touch him.
He left the hotel and went to Golson's office. He had much to do in
Baltimore--and elsewhere.
Hurrying to the station after a brief conference with Golson, he wondered
why he had heard nothing from Withers. What was the matter with George
anyhow? Why hadn't he acknowledged the telegram of yesterday? Couldn't he
realize, without being told, that he might be charged with the murder at
any moment?
Braceway was as well aware as Bristow of the rising flood of criticism
against Withers.
"If I can't bring things to a last show-down within a day or two," he
looked the situation squarely in the face, "it will be uncomfortable for
him--emphatically uncomfortable."
He turned to a study of the questions he wanted to put to Eidstein, this
kindly old merchant who was so considerate, so handsomely considerate,
about buying back jewels he had once sold. Mr. Eidstein, he felt sure,
must be an interesting character.