[Frontispiece: "Good God, Morbley! Did You Do This?" Page 92]
THE SILVER BLADE
_THE TRUE CHRONICLE OF A
DOUBLE MYSTERY_
BY
CHARLES EDMONDS WALK
_WITH FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR
BY A. B. WENZELL_
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1908
COPYRIGHT
A. C. McCLURG & Co.
1906
Published March 18, 1908
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, Eng.
_All Rights Reserved._
The Lakeside Press
R. R. DONNELLY & SONS COMPANY
CHICAGO
TO THE MEMORY OF MY BROTHER
GEORGE EDWARD WALK
WHOSE INTEREST IN THE GROWTH OF THIS STORY
WAS NOT THE LEAST INCENTIVE
TO ITS COMPLETION
CONTENTS
_BOOK I. A DUPLEX PROBLEM_
CHAPTER
I. Exit Señor de Sanchez
II. The First Problem Develops
III. A Search for Clues
IV. Mr. Converse Appears as Chorus
V. A Telegram from Mexico
VI. The Inquest
VII. The Verdict
VIII. Cherchez la Femme
IX. The Second Problem
X. Footprints
XI. A Burnt Fragment
XII. A Door is Opened
_BOOK II. CHARLOTTE FAIRCHILD_
I. Miss Charlotte Waits in the Hall
II. Miss Charlotte Entertains a Caller
III. "Paquita--What Do You Spell?"
IV. Miss Charlotte Becomes a Factor
V. A Decision and a Letter
VI. Faint Rays from Strange Sources
VII. A Voice in the Night
VIII. The Coroner's Coup
IX. The Light Brightens--and Dims
_BOOK III. SLADE'S BLESSING_
I. Opening Ways
II. Fairchild Redivivus
III. "The Thunderbolt Has Fallen"
IV. Some Loose Ends
V. Mr. Slade Resigns
VI. An Arrest
VII. "Slade's Blessing"
_BOOK IV. THE DANCER AND THE MOUNTEBANK_
I. "That Is Paquita"
II. The Serpent Strikes
III. Which Is the Last
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Good God, Mobley! Did you do this?" ... Frontispiece
Captain Converse was endowed with the impassiveness of an Indian, nor
could one imagine him agitated in any circumstances
Joyce was herself a mystery, an enigma, as inscrutable as "Paquita"
Mr. Mountjoy's thin, handsome features were saved from asceticism
only by the lines of humor about his eyes
At times Charlotte became beautiful; a warm tide of color mounted to
her cheeks; her head became regally erect
LIST OF CHARACTERS
GEN. PEYTON WESTBROOK, a gentleman of the Old South.
MRS. WESTBROOK, his wife.
DR. MOBLEY WESTBROOK, their son.
JOYCE, Mobley's sister.
MRS. ELINOR FAIRCHILD, a widow of fallen fortunes.
CLAY, her son.
"MISS CHARLOTTE," Clay's sister.
JOHN CONVERSE, Captain of Detectives.
MR. MOUNTJOY, the District Attorney.
MR. MERKEL, the Coroner.
J. HOWARD LYNDEN, a cotton-broker.
SENOR JUAN DE VARGAS Y ESCOLADO, otherwise known
as Señor Vargas, a Mexican capitalist.
WILLIAM SLADE, an abstracter of titles.
ABRAM FOLLETT, a dealer in worn-out utilities.
ROBERT NETTLETON, a lawyer.
FERDINAND HOWE, a banker.
HARRY MCCALEB }
SEPTIMUS ADAMS } serving under Capt. Converse.
SAM }
JOE } faithful servants.
MELISSA }
POLLY ANN }
THE PLACE: A City in the South.
TIME: The Present.
BOOK I.
A DUPLEX PROBLEM
_Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand?_
--MACBETH.
THE SILVER BLADE
BOOK I--A DUPLEX PROBLEM
CHAPTER I
EXIT SEÑOR DE SANCHEZ
About six o'clock on an evening in the early part of a recent
November, the drowsy quiet sometimes pervading police headquarters
was rudely broken by the precipitate entrance of a young man, who
made his way hurriedly to the door marked, in neat gilt letters,
"CHIEF OF POLICE."
In addition to the reserve squad, whose vigil never ends, many other
officers were present in the lazy transition stage between going on
and going off duty. The attention of them all was immediately
attracted to the stranger, and held by his extraordinary manner, from
the instant he became visible in the flickering gas-lights until he
finally disappeared.
In the first place, he was not such a one as usually comes to the
city-hall basement, either voluntarily or when haled hither by one of
the law's myrmidons; for he was fashionably, even fastidiously,
attired, with a marked preciosity of manner which would have been
even more noticeable under ordinary conditions.
But it was not over any idiosyncrasy of apparel or customary detail
of personality that the aroused curiosity of the officers lingered.
Inured as they were to uncommon and surprising events, they were
nevertheless startled by this young man's advent, and greatly
interested in his extreme discomposure. It was obvious to the most
casual glance that he was the victim of a fright so potent that it
possessed him to the complete exclusion of every other feeling, made
him oblivious of the scrutiny to which he was subjected, and drove
him blindly to the commission of some idea fixed by the terror which
mastered him. And there was one other still more powerful emotion
depicted in his pallid, twitching countenance: a horror unspeakable.
Looking neither to the right nor the left, the stranger walked
directly to the Chief of Police just as that official was in the act
of closing and locking his office door for the night. The latter
looked up inquiringly, and, struck at once by the young man's
appearance, asked with sudden sharpness:
"What's the matter? What has happened?"
The young man, his wild regard fastened on the Chief, tried to
answer; but he was incapable of speech, and the effort resulted only
in a queer, gasping sound.
With the directness of a man accustomed to prompt action, the Chief
of Police opened his door once more, and guided the young man into
the smaller room beyond. The visitor, dazed by his emotions and
unable to respond to any suggestion less forceful than the actual
pressure of the persuasive hand on his arm, probably would have
remained indefinitely motionless on the threshold before any
customary invitation to enter.
The Chief struck a match and ignited a gas-jet above a big roll-top
desk. The action, simple in itself, seemed to loose the young man's
faculty of speech; just as the official turned, he darted suddenly
forward, grasped the other's arm, and began incontinently:
"Murder! Murder has been done!" The words had the effect of a cry,
although uttered in a hoarse whisper.
"Murder, I tell you. Come with me at once; don't delay." He shook
the Chief's arm excitedly, and strove to draw him toward the door.
"Hurry! Hurry! For God's sake, hurry!"
The Chief of Police easily disengaged his imprisoned arm.
"There, there .... sit down there," said he, in a tone he might have
used to calm a terrified child. "You are upset. Sit there awhile
and try to collect yourself. Come; make an effort. Pull yourself
together and tell me about it."
"But the murderer!" the young man went on, still with high
excitement, but unconsciously sinking back into the chair under the
gentle pressure of the Chief's hand. "The murderer will escape!
Great Heavens, man! even now he may be assaulting the
doctor--Mobley--do you hear me?--he may have killed him! Send
officers--go yourself--anything but to sit here idle. Come!" He
made as if to rise again; but the other pressed him back.
"Steady," said the Chief quietly. "Mobley? Do you mean Doctor
Mobley Westbrook? Has he been murdered?"
"No-no-no," in a burst of exasperation. "It was--it was--I
mean--good God, what do I mean? It--it happened in his office."
The Chief regarded him for a moment with eyes that were mere
pin-points of light.
"You are Mr. J. Howard Lynden, are you not?" he presently asked. The
other nodded a quick affirmative. "I thought so," he continued.
"Who is the murderer? Who has been murdered?--or has any murder been
done? You don't make yourself clear."
Lynden twisted nervously upon his chair. "Heavens! you do not doubt
me?" he cried. "Why, Mobley's office is like a shambles. It's
horrible!--horrible! Mobley--Doctor Westbrook, that is--was standing
right over the dying man with--with--" He checked himself abruptly,
as an expression of horror deepened in his pale countenance.
Since the introduction of Doctor Mobley Westbrook's name, the Chief
of Police was paying closer attention to the incoherent recital; he
regarded the young man gravely, and evidently concluded that the
situation was serious enough to warrant some initiative on his own
part. He was accustomed to panic-stricken people who intruded thus
unceremoniously upon him, and experience had taught him that, oftener
than not, the circumstances were far from warranting the excitement.
Concerning his present visitor, he was aware, in a general way, that
the young man was well known about town, the inheritor of a
considerable fortune from his father, and that his name figured
prominently as a leader of cotillons, on the links of the Country
Club, and among the names of the many others who formed the society
set of the city.
But all these qualifications did not supply the force so
conspicuously absent from Mr. Lynden's personality, lacking which his
perturbation was not very impressive. He was not at all bad looking:
he was even handsome in a way; but the Chief of Police, as he looked,
could not help remarking that a more resolute man would have been
less the slave of his emotions in a situation like the present.
While the young man sat drumming with nervous fingers on the arms of
his chair, the Chief pressed a button beneath his desk, whereupon the
door was almost immediately opened by an officer, who, without
entering, respectfully awaited his superior's commands.
To him the Chief said, "If Converse is in, tell him to come to my
office;" and as the door closed, "I want Captain Converse to hear
this," he explained to Lynden; "it seems to be a matter for his
department."
The two had not long to wait. A man entered, cast a piercing glance
at the visitor, and took his stand at a corner of the roll-top desk,
waiting with an air of deferential attention. He was a man of
physique so immense--with such a breadth of shoulders and absence of
neck--that his more than average height was much disguised. Above
all, he was one whose appearance must attract attention in any
gathering of his kind; for even as Lynden seemed to lack those
desirable traits, so force and resolution flowed from this man's
rugged personality, making their influence felt subtly and
insistently. His air of quiet composure was evocative of confidence.
Endowed with the impassiveness of an Indian, one could hardly imagine
him excited or agitated in any circumstances.
The Chief recognized his presence with a brief nod, and at once
addressed Lynden:
"Repeat what you have told me; see if you can't make it plainer."
The visitor recounted the bare facts in a more connected manner.
"But I was so shocked," he supplemented, "that I am afraid I can't
make myself intelligible. The facts explain nothing to my mind
further than that an atrocious murder has been committed, that the
victim is still lying in Doctor Westbrook's office, and that no one
seems to know who is responsible for the deed."
"You say the man was stabbed?" queried the Chief.
"Yes," was the reply; "stabbed in the throat."
"But I fail to understand," the Chief frowned. "Do you mean to say
that a man was stabbed in the presence of Doctor Westbrook, and that
he knows nothing about it?"
"No--no. It seems to have occurred in the hall just outside Mobley's
door; the man fell through the door into the office, Mobley said. I
don't know--I am so confused." Which last statement he confirmed by
at once becoming involved in a wild incoherency of utterance.
After he had quieted somewhat, he sat trembling for a moment,
suddenly bursting forth again:
"Wait!" he cried, his face lighting. "I forgot to say there was
another man present in Doctor Westbrook's office--a stranger to me.
I never saw him before."
"And he?"
"Just like Mobley and myself, he appeared to be overcome by the
shocking occurrence."
The Chief of Police plainly showed his perplexity. "According to
your statement--the man who was killed--will you repeat his name?"
"De Sanchez. General Westbrook's friend, Alberto de Sanchez."
"According to your statement he was bleeding profusely. Had the
weapon been withdrawn from the wound?"
The young man evinced unaccountable hesitancy. He moved uneasily,
and glanced from his questioner to the impassive figure standing at a
corner of the desk. This man, called Converse, had taken no part in
the talk; he stood silent and motionless, seemingly paying no heed to
what was going forward; but now he shot a swift glance at Lynden,
whose nervousness measurably increased. That look was remarkable in
a way: the eyes, steely gray, were in themselves without expression;
they failed, however, to veil an intentness and concentration of mind
which disclosed beyond a doubt that their owner was abnormally alive
to every detail of speech and manner; they could not hide a power of
will lying behind their quick regard, which mocked deception, and Mr.
Lynden shuddered. Instantly the brief glance was withdrawn; but the
young man, if such had been his intention, attempted no liberties
with the truth. The confusion with which he now spoke, however,
suggested strongly that the thought had entered his mind, although he
may not have entertained it there.
"I--I--I would rather that you, or some officer, accompany me to
Mobley's office," he faltered. "I consider it rather unfair, in my
condition, to press me further. I wouldn't for the world present
anything in a false light. I feel that the situation is not only
serious, but extremely delicate."
"It is that," the Chief agreed, emphatically. "For that very reason
you must tell all you know. Now, why should you hesitate in regard
to the weapon? Come now, what about it?"
"Well, sir, I answer you under protest; remember, I did not see the
blow struck."
"Sure?"
The young man nearly sprang from his chair. The interruption, a
penetrating, sibilant bullet of speech, came from the massive figure
of Mr. Converse; again that shrewd regard was fastened on him, and
the sweat started from his brow.
"No!" he cried, explosively; "I did not. By George, how nervous I
am!--but I think half-truths should not be told. No one is less
capable of perpetrating such a deed than Mobley Westbrook. Why, you
know the man!" He appealed with feverish eagerness to the two
figures now sternly confronting him. "Every one knows Mobley
Westbrook's character; would he do such a thing?"
"But come to the point--come to the point, man!" the Chief demanded,
rapping sharply upon the desk with his knuckles. "What of the
weapon--was it a knife--sword--axe--hatchet? Where was it?"
"Well, Mobley had some kind of a--blade, a--dagger in his hand; but--"
"Ah! And standing over a man whose very life-blood is ebbing away
beneath his eyes!" The Chief's manner was politely ironical, and
struck the young man cold. "You must admit that you portray an
astonishing set of circumstances to surround a man not only innocent
but ignorant of an offence," concluded the official, pointedly.
Lynden indeed started from his chair. "I knew it! I knew it!" cried
he, wildly. "I knew you would put such a construction upon my words;
now, damn it! I'll not say another word. Go--go! Go and see for
yourselves how wrong you are!"
The Chief of Police ignored this vehement advice. Instead, he curtly
admonished Lynden to remain a few moments where he was; and leaving
the wretched news-bearer alone with his own reflections, he and
Converse withdrew from the room.
After a minute or two the Chief returned. "I have sent for a
carriage," said he. "As soon as it arrives I must request you to
accompany Captain Converse to Doctor Westbrook's offices; are you
willing to do that?" He awaited the reply with an interest mingled
with doubt of what its probable tenor might be; when the young man
acquiesced with an alacrity and relief obviously sincere, his doubt
merely grew. He contemplated Lynden an instant longer, and with a
curt nod, seated himself at his desk again.
Almost at once, however, the large figure of the Captain--or plain
Mr. Converse, as he much preferred to be known--appeared in the
doorway.
"Come!" he whispered; and the whisper rasped upon Lynden's nerves.
Confound the man! was he afraid he would betray some momentous
secret, so that he did not talk like other people? Nevertheless, he
arose and followed him,--under the heavy stone arches, shrouded with
gloom in the flickering gas-light, out into the cool night air and
into a waiting hack. Two other men followed close behind, and
entered a second hack; immediately the two vehicles, one behind the
other, were going at full speed in the direction of Doctor
Westbrook's offices.
Under the soothing influence of rubber tires spinning easily over the
smooth asphalt, the young man was fast regaining his lost composure.
He was so rapt in his own thoughts that for a time he quite forgot
his still companion, and presently he laughed--mirthlessly, but a
laugh signifying sudden relief. Quite as suddenly it was checked, as
he met the inquiring, probing glance of his _vis-à-vis_.
"It is astonishing that I never thought of it before," he explained,
in an embarrassed way. "That other man--the stranger--can set Mobley
right in an instant. Do you think Doctor Westbrook could have done
it?"
Immediately he regretted the question, for it entailed hearkening to
that uncomfortable hissing voice. It was Mr. Converse's misfortune
that, properly speaking, he had no voice at all. His entire speech
was a series of sibilant utterances, wonderfully distinct and
possessed of remarkable carrying power when one considered their
quality. It is likely that he was sensitive about his vocal defect,
since he was known as a silent, taciturn man among his _confrères_.
On certain rare occasions, however,--under, for example, the spur of
an inflexible purpose or the influence of a sympathetic nature,--it
was also known that he could wax eloquent; his forceful individuality
supplied, in a large measure, the place of a normal, flexible voice.
The head of the detective department might have been anywhere between
forty and sixty years of age, so far as one could gather from his
huge frame and stolid countenance. His hair was gray, and thinning
slightly at the temples; but behind his illegible exterior there
reposed a vigor and a reserve of power--revealed now and then, as in
the lightning-like glance cast at Lynden in the Chief's office--which
could not be reconciled with age. He was, in fact, fifty-two.
His face was full and round, smooth-shaven, expressionless--such a
visage as one associates with some old sea-dog; a countenance that
has long been subjected to the hardening processes of wind and
weather. As the young man waited for a reply, the immovable features
underwent a curious change; the mouth gradually assumed a pucker, as
though the facial muscles were inelastic and unused to such exercise;
his right eyebrow lifted, which, as the other remained motionless,
was made all the more noticeable,--the effect being an expression of
inquiry and speculation that seemed ludicrously out of place. Lynden
became familiar with this queer transformation later on; he learned
to associate it with the futility of seeking to penetrate the wall of
reserve which ever surrounded this unusual man, and perceived that it
came and went as a sort of involuntary warning to place least trust
in his frankest confidences. Now it introduced the response to his
question, "Do you think Doctor Westbrook could have done it?"
"The Doctor is a strong, vigorous man, isn't he? I don't see why he
couldn't."
"My dear sir," Lynden anxiously expostulated, "you don't know Mobley
Westbrook, or you never could entertain such a thought."
"Pardon me," said Mr. Converse, carelessly, "the thought seems to be
your own; I was simply giving you the first fact that occurred to me,
to justify your opinion. I have formed none myself."
"You interpret my words strangely."
"No; your silence."
The young man, with another shudder, drew back to the corner of the
vehicle farthest from his companion.
The receding lights outside followed the carriage in squares of
diminishing illumination, which, shining through the window, made
strange play of light and shadow over that inscrutable visage. All
at once it became deeply portentous to Lynden; as if by sudden
divination he became possessed of a conviction that it was destined
to take a high place in his affairs,--signifying, perhaps, the
controlling influence in a strange drama, the first scene of which
was now upon the boards.
"It is very remarkable," the Captain mused, presently, as if the
episode were too much for him.
Lynden started from his reverie.
"Yes," he murmured, not meeting the other's eye. "Yes; it is very
remarkable." Both lapsed into a silence that continued until the end
of the ride.
As the vehicle proceeds, a few words about those whose names have
been mentioned, together with some others who will figure in this
narrative, will give a better idea of the importance of the tragedy,
the ill tidings of which Lynden had been the bearer.
Both by reason of recognized ability in his profession and of his
high family connections, Doctor Mobley Westbrook was leader of the
medical fraternity in the city of his birth and residence. He was
still youthful in spite of his thirty-five years; democratic in his
tastes, immensely popular in every class of society, and for these
reasons considerably at odds with his father.
Notwithstanding his popularity, his single excursion into politics
had only shown his unfitness for the national game; a circumstance
mentioned here because later on he is to have it brought back to him
in a manner both forcible and disagreeable.
Singularly enough,--for from another and altogether different
sentiment the General himself was popular,--General Westbrook was
known to hold his son in some disfavor because he was so well and
universally esteemed. His exclusive nature could not brook the
physician's democratic inclinations; it made the latter an alien.
The General did not understand it, and what he could not understand
he disliked.
The two personalities were remarkably divergent in every way.
General Peyton Westbrook was an exaggerated type of the old-school
Southern gentleman. Strikingly handsome, elegant in appearance, his
erect and rigid bearing, together with a falcon-like glance suggested
a stature which one in describing would be likely to pronounce tall
when in reality it was not much over five feet. His graceful
slenderness added considerably to the illusion. His hair was white,
his features cameo-like--aristocratic, and stamped with the
overweening family pride, to which, with him, every other human
emotion was subservient.
It is probable that his presence and name were better known in every
part of the State than those of any other living man. For the class
which he represented was that noble body of patricians--handsome and
recklessly brave men, and beautiful, high-minded women--who have
given the world criterions by which human excellence and human
weakness alike may be measured; and his position was a personal
hobby, persistently and consistently ridden.
Of his standing he was perhaps pardonably proud. Besides his social
position and that of his wife, who had been a Shepardson, and of his
lovely daughter, Joyce, he had fought gallantly, if not brilliantly,
through the war between the States; but he was just narrow-minded
enough to allow his pride and egoism to exclude the rest of humanity.
There was but one uniting link between Mobley and his father and
mother--the latter even more distant and unapproachable than her
spouse--and that was the daughter and sister, Joyce. Whatever their
differences, the family was held together by affection for this
beautiful girl.
The love that bound Joyce and Mobley was deep and abiding. It is not
surprising, then, when the question of his sister's marriage became
gossip, that Mobley should have taken a stand on the subject which
brought about a final and complete rupture from his father and
mother. The name with which his sister's had been linked was no
other than that of this same Alberto de Sanchez, who now lay dead,
with a ghastly knife-wound in his throat, in the Doctor's own office.
James Howard Lynden--or "Jim," as Doctor Westbrook called him--had
long been on intimate terms with the Westbrook family. And it was he
who now accompanied the silent Mr. Converse through a small but
curious group gathered about the entrance leading to the Doctor's
office; the first stage of an intermingling of interests widely
diverse; the bringing together of lives as far asunder as the stars.