THE FIRST PROBLEM DEVELOPS
Doctor Westbrook's offices were in the Nettleton Building in Court
Street. It and its neighbor on the east, the Field Building, were of
that solid old style of structure devoted to business, which knew not
the elevator nor steam heat, nor any of the many devices that enter
into the complexities, and often questionable conveniences, of the
modern office edifice. They were not, and never had been, of an
imposing appearance, boasting as they did only three stories; but
they were nevertheless the blue-bloods among the city's commercial
houses, preserving their exclusive position amidst the newer
generation of garish sky-scrapers which rudely intercepted the vision
on every hand.
The occupants of these monuments of the old regime were in full
accord with their habitations,--solid, conservative, and even
aristocratic. As often as not a modest sign--if it could be
deciphered at all--notified the visitor that behind certain doors
could be found "Harvey Nettleton, Estate of," or, "Richard Fairchild,
Estate of," or some name equally well known, and associated with a
glory that had departed. In most instances, well might the present
owners of those family names cry "Ichabod!" for they had long since
ceased to have any interest in the estates other than the shadowy
interests which lie in memories and vain regrets.
As Mr. Lynden and his taciturn companion passed through the Nettleton
Building entrance, where the curious little throng was restrained by
the presence of a couple of mute policemen, the Captain's entire
manner underwent a complete and sudden transformation; his
expressionless countenance remained wooden, but into his eyes there
arrived an intentness and brightness entirely absent from them
before; his rather lethargic and apparently purposeless movements
giving way to a brisk mode of proceeding which one would hardly have
expected from his cumbrous frame. His demeanor was become at once
alert and wary, and he had little to say to Lynden.
It was now night outside, and the stairs were faintly illuminated by
the single incandescent lamp which hung at their head in the hall of
the second story. The sole indication that Mr. Converse was striving
to allow nothing to escape his observation was the quickness with
which he stooped, when near the top, and picked something from the
stairs--something too small for Lynden to catch even a glimpse
of--which, whatever it was, the Captain scrutinized intently a
moment, and, without comment, dropped into the large pocket-book he
brought forth from an inside pocket. The two continued on their way
until they reached Doctor Westbrook's office.
Everything was as Lynden had left it, save for the fact that Doctor
Westbrook, and the stranger mentioned by the young man, had been
joined by several other persons.
One was a swarthy, lean man, whose face was pitted by small-pox, and
whose rather dull eyes remained expressionless behind a pair of
gold-rimmed pince-nez. He was standing aloof from the others, and
seemed to be taking only languid interest in what was going forward.
Occasionally he coughed in a manner that told much to the physician's
trained ear; save for this, he remained silent. Mr. Merkel, the
coroner, and a uniformed policeman were also present.
"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Merkel to Converse as he and his companion
appeared. "So they have sent you, have they? How fortunate! how
exceedingly fortunate! This, gentlemen," he continued, addressing
the other occupants of the room, "is Captain Converse. He will
pardon me, I know, if I add--the great detective. Nothing has been
disturbed, Captain, nothing has been disturbed. You will find
everything just as I did. It is a bad business, a bad business."
Mr. Merkel was fussy, important, and wholly incompetent; and the
Captain was so accustomed to his repetitions of phrases that were
not, to say the least, pregnant with meaning, that he ignored them
and turned to an inspection of the dead man.
The body lay just as it had fallen. Somebody had placed a
handkerchief over the face, a covering that also hid an ugly wound in
the throat. Mr. Converse stooped and removed this, and began a
minute but rapid examination of the still form. It reposed in the
Doctor's reception-room, close to the wall, partially on its back and
partially on its right side. The right arm was extended, the fingers
of that hand still in a position as though upon the point of grasping
something. Curved naturally across the breast, the left arm
suggested restful slumber rather than death by violence; but whatever
the eyes had last looked upon, before the film dimmed their lustre,
it had stamped upon the handsome features an indelible expression of
mingled terror and horror, which one could scarcely regard without an
inward tremor of something very like fear. It was an expression
likely to remain disagreeably in the memory for a long time.
A search of the dead man's pockets revealed nothing unusual, except
that, in a petty way, he had been a violator of the law; for the
first thing Mr. Converse drew forth was a nickel-plated,
pearl-handled revolver of 32-caliber. The remainder consisted of a
number of letters, all relating to business matters; two long
envelopes, evidently but recently sealed, and addressed simply, "_El
Señor Juan de Vargas_"; a purse containing money; a gold watch; a
fountain pen, and pencil; two memorandum books; a silver match-box; a
pouch of dark tobacco, and brown cigarette papers; a handkerchief; a
penknife; a bunch of keys,--these were all.
When these effects were inventoried, while Mr. Merkel was assorting
them at Doctor Westbrook's writing-table, the dark man with the
pince-nez stepped forward. All eyes were turned toward him,
excepting, apparently, those of Converse, which continued to give the
body and the reception-room floor their attention.
"Pardon, señores," said the dark man, bestowing a bow upon the entire
group, and ending it at the Coroner; "is there anything addressed to
Juan Vargas, or Juan de Vargas? I am he."
Mr. Merkel looked at him sternly, and held up the two long envelopes.
"I see the name of Vargas--er--ah--inscribed on these. Are you Mr.
Vargas?"
The other remained unmoved, replying simply, "I am Juan de Vargas."
"What connection have you with the deceased gentleman?" continued the
Coroner, without relaxing in the least the sternness of his look.
"Can you tell us anything of this affair?"
Señor de Vargas shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing, señores; I lament
that I cannot. The contents of the envelopes should tell you about
the extent of our connection; they contain but a deed, some shares of
stock, no more. Señor de Sanchez would have delivered them to me
to-night. Open them by all means."
The man's eyes, dull and unmoving, continued to regard Mr. Merkel.
Had he been discussing the weather his tones could have been no more
dispassionate.
The Coroner tore open the envelopes, and, as the man had said, one
contained a deed, conveying certain land to Juan Sebastian de Vargas
y Escolado, the notary's certificate showing it had been signed and
acknowledged that very day before Clay Fairchild. Alberto de Sanchez
had made the transfer. The other envelope disclosed a certificate
for one thousand shares of stock in the Paquita Gold Mining and
Milling Company, also made over to Señor Vargas in due form. The
papers told no more.
"Good!" exclaimed Señor de Vargas. "We agreed yesterday, and I have
made the first payment of ten thousand dollars for myself and
associates. I was but awaiting the deed and the stock."
At this juncture Doctor Westbrook interposed:
"I happen to know that this gentleman is Señor de Vargas," said he.
"He called here with--with Señor de Sanchez last evening. I have
heard something of this deal between the two, and I believe it
represents the occasion of this gentleman's presence in the city at
this time."
Señor de Vargas acknowledged this speech with a grave "Gracias,
señor." Turning to Mr. Merkel again, "I hope there will not be much
delay?" he queried, mildly, with a certain precision of enunciation
that alone marked him of an un-English-speaking race.
Since he had comprehended the magnitude of the transaction as
disclosed by the deed and certificates, and after Doctor Westbrook's
interposition, the Coroner's manner toward the Mexican had noticeably
altered.
"No more than necessary," he replied deferentially; "no more than
necessary, sir. I am sorry, but these papers will have to remain
among the deceased's other effects until after the inquest, anyhow.
Mr. Mountjoy, our district attorney, is the proper authority for you
to see."
"Good!" returned the Mexican. "I desire not for my humble affairs to
stand in the path of justice." Bowing once more, he returned to his
former position away from the others.
Converse suddenly passed over to the Coroner, and laid a bloody
dagger upon the table. Its silver blade, crimsoned in part, was
grewsome and startling beneath the bright glare of the shaded
incandescent lamp. Mr. Merkel involuntarily drew back his hands, the
strange gentleman who had been with the Doctor since the tragedy
visibly shuddered, and for an instant--the smallest portion of a
second--the dull eyes of Señor Vargas took on a strange light, as
though the pupils had all at once distended, allowing a glimpse to
the uttermost depths, then became dull again. It was like the abrupt
opening and closing of a shutter. Otherwise his features did not
change, nor did he move. The more phlegmatic policeman looked upon
the little weapon without apparent emotion; the Doctor and Howard
Lynden with none at all.
However, as the Captain placed it upon the table his eyes took in
every occupant of the room in one rapid sweeping glance, only to drop
as he stooped and whispered to the Coroner, who there upon nodded and
turned to the waiting group.
"Now, gentlemen," said he, "this is not the inquest, of course; but
let us hear what you have to say about this. You first, Doctor
Westbrook; you first."
"What I can tell you will seem much less than it should," the Doctor
returned. "It was about five o'clock, and I was sitting at my
table--there, where you are now. I had just finished a letter to no
other than Señor de Sanchez himself."
"Is this it?" the Coroner interrupted, extending a letter to the
speaker. Doctor Westbrook replied affirmatively, and proceeded with
his recital.
"I had just completed and blotted it, and was preparing to address
the envelope, when I heard footsteps in the hall. I paused, with the
pen in my hand, and listened, for I was expecting Señor de Sanchez to
call at my office this evening, though not so early, and I imagined
the footsteps might be his. As I listened, I noted that my door was
not quite shut, and the footfalls advanced steadily down the hall,
approaching my office. When immediately outside the door, and while
I was looking up expectant of the caller's entrance, they ceased
abruptly. There was a slight sound of scraping on the floor of the
hall, as though the man--whom I could not then see--were endeavoring
to rub something from his shoe-sole on the boards, or had slipped
slightly; without the slightest warning, his whole weight plunged
against the door. It was thrown violently open by the impact, and I
was horrified to behold Señor de Sanchez stagger through, his right
hand extended in front of him, as if groping for support. As he
crossed the threshold he lurched to his right and struck the wall,
along which he slid to the floor, just as you now see him."
During his relation of these particulars, the Doctor's manner was
perfectly cool and collected. The next incident fairly electrified
his intent listeners.
"As he was falling," he continued, "I noticed the dagger handle
protruding from the left side of his throat."
"Is this the one?"
It was Converse's sibilant whisper which now rudely broke into the
recital. At the same time he thrust the silver blade close to the
other's face.
Doctor Westbrook at first merely glanced at the weapon; but something
about it evidently caught and held his attention, and an emotion
vastly different from mere recognition overspread his countenance; it
was astonishment, pure and simple.
"God bless my soul!" he gasped, in extreme amazement; "that is
mine--my paper-knife--and I did not recognize it! What does this
mean?" He sat with his eyes glued upon it, the centre of a
dumfounded group. The Captain continued a moment to hold it forward,
his gaze fixed inscrutably upon the physician's puzzled and
bewildered countenance.
Presently Converse drew the weapon slowly back again, and replaced it
upon the table.
"So that is yours?" the Coroner soberly asked.
"It is," replied the Doctor; "and I did not recognize it until this
minute. How did it--why--" he began vaguely; but Merkel interrupted.
"Well," said he, with a wave of the hand that seemed to dispose of
all complications, "it will be time enough for questions when you
have finished."
"De Sanchez was falling," resumed the Doctor after a moment's
reflection, "when I noticed the dagger handle. The body had scarcely
touched the floor before I had stooped and wrenched the blade from
the wound. It did not come easily; it required a severe tug to
loosen it, and the withdrawal of the blade was followed by such a
gush of blood that I knew some important artery must be severed. The
man's death was practically instantaneous. After I had extracted the
blade I had no time to render him any further service; I simply stood
dumfounded until Jim--Mr. Lynden--grasped my arm and shook me."
"But, Doctor Westbrook," insisted Mr. Merkel, "was there no one else
in the hall? Did you hear no other footsteps? Didn't you see or
hear some one else when the door was thrust wide open? Surely the
murderer couldn't have left so quickly without attracting the
attention of some one of you. It is simply incredible." He grasped
the arms of his chair, leaning forward in his eagerness, his heavy
countenance overshadowed with perplexity.
As the Doctor started to reply, Converse glanced sharply toward him;
when Lynden's name was presently mentioned, shifting his scrutiny to
that gentleman.
"I must say no to all those questions," was the Doctor's reply. "I
saw nobody but De Sanchez. I heard nothing but his footsteps, and
the noise he made in collapsing through this door. Ask Jim Lynden,
there; he was in the hall at the time; he followed so closely behind
De Sanchez that he arrived here before the man died."
Lynden merely shook his head, hopelessly, as if he had no vocabulary
to express himself. The Coroner was impressed by the young man's
mien, and after regarding him a moment with a scowl, turned again to
Doctor Westbrook.
"Was any one else present, Doctor?" he asked.
The physician's face was suddenly illumined.
"Yes; why, certainly. Howe!" he exclaimed. "Howe, where were you?"
The man, who apparently had been a stranger to everybody in the room,
now advanced.
"I was in there--your laboratory--looking into the light-well."
Converse noiselessly disappeared into the room indicated, returning
in a few seconds to eye the stranger with increased interest.
"And who are you, if I may ask?" bluntly demanded the Coroner.
"My name is Ferdinand Howe, sir," the stranger replied, with dignity.
"My home is in Bruceville, Georgia, and I am in your city on business
for the bank of which I happen to be the cashier. Doctor Westbrook
and I are old college-mates, and I know about as much of this affair
as he has told you; that is to say, I was there--the other side of
that partition in the laboratory--when the murdered man fell where
you now see him. The first intimation I had that anything was amiss
was when the outside door crashed open and the body fell to the
floor. I ran into this room, saw the man gasp twice, and then lie
motionless. I never saw him, and never heard of him, before this
night. That is all."
Mr. Howe appeared to be about the Doctor's age, and was a fair type
of the American man of business. He was well groomed, clean, and
possessed of a clear, steady eye.
"And you saw and heard no one else?" Mr. Merkel persisted.
Howe shook his head. "No, sir; no one. There was not the slightest
thing to indicate--"
He stopped. He shot a swift, startled glance at Doctor Westbrook;
but the Doctor remained unconscious of it, evidently absorbed in his
own cogitations. Mr. Converse's eyes watched the speaker through
mere slits, so nearly closed were they; but a gleam came from between
the contracted lids that might have betrayed a quickened interest
somewhere in the depths of his big frame.
"No," concluded Howe presently, in tones measurably subdued; "I
neither saw nor heard anybody else, but--" With compressed lips he
indicated by a nod the form on the floor. "You must remember," he
concluded, "I was in the next room, looking out the window into the
light-well."
Converse looked quickly from the speaker to Lynden. That young man
was staring strangely at Howe, evidently impressed by something
unusual in his concluding words.
Suddenly the young man caught Converse's intent look, and his own
eyes lowered. Next they shifted to Doctor Westbrook, at whom he
continued to look in a moody silence.
The Coroner, apparently more and more at sea, stared first at one and
then another of the room's occupants, at the partition which
separated the reception-room from the laboratory, and lastly through
the open doorway into the hall. The most extreme of the different
points were not over six feet apart; and for three men--wide awake
and in full possession of their faculties--to be so close to such a
crime and know nothing of it until it was all over! How could human
ingenuity supply an explanation for so incongruous a circumstance?
Had the man committed suicide? The most cursory examination of the
wound demonstrated beyond doubt that, however else it might have been
inflicted, Alberto de Sanchez was incapable of having administered it
himself.
Meanwhile the Captain was moving from one to another of the group,
his whisper barely audible, but persistent and pervading the entire
room. Occasionally he made a brief memorandum upon an
envelope,--cabalistic marks which no one but himself could have
deciphered. Then the whisper again for a moment, followed by a
deferential lowering of his gray head as he hearkened to the reply.
Had one been observing him closely he would have noticed that the
circle of inquiry gradually narrowed. The policeman he paid no
attention to at all; he was soon through with Señor Vargas; but from
Lynden he passed to Howe; next to Doctor Westbrook; and from one to
another of the last three, as a word from one suggested a new inquiry
to be asked of another. His movements were silent, his manner
unobtrusive, distracting no attention from Mr. Merkel and his
investigation. Now and then he paused and stared contemplatively
into vacancy for a moment, with the odd lifting of his right eyebrow,
and with his mouth thoughtfully pursed; but the mask of his
countenance told nothing, and only once did he include the whole
group with a question. It was after he had been whispering quietly
for some minutes with Howe.
"Who can give me young Mr. Fairchild's address? You, Doctor?" he
asked.
"Clay?" Dr. Westbrook returned. "Yes. It is close to the terminus
of the Washington Heights car line. The conductor can direct you to
it; the houses are not numbered out there."
Converse nodded, and chose a slip of paper from the table. After
looking at it, first on one side and then on the other, it apparently
did not suit his purpose; for he subjected another bit of paper to a
similar scrutiny before pencilling a hurried line thereon, although
he did not replace the first slip. The note he handed to the
policeman with a whispered word, and the policeman instantly quitted
the room. Had one still been observing Mr. Converse he would have
seen him abstractedly place the first bit of paper in his waistcoat
pocket.
Well, it seemed that no one present could throw additional light upon
the manner of Señor de Sanchez's death. Mr. Merkel arose from his
chair at the Doctor's table, and looked a pointed inquiry at the
Captain, who responded by a short negative shake of his head. As if
relieved of a distasteful responsibility, the Coroner said:
"Such of you as desire to go may do so. Captain Converse and I will
have to look about a bit. He must have an opportunity to apply his
wonderful skill, gentlemen; and you will all be notified of the
inquest; you will be duly notified..... Doctor Westbrook, I will
send a wagon for the body," he concluded. "Good-night, gentlemen."
He turned to the table again, and to a contemplation of the dead
man's personal effects, as though picking out an answer to this
latest riddle propounded by death.
Whatever of restraint had been upon the group, it was released by the
Coroner's words, and each member showed it in his own way. Ferdinand
Howe instantly advanced to Doctor Westbrook, and, smiling, held out
his hand.
"Well, Mobley," said he, as they grasped hands, "this is a
regrettable affair. It has been a shocking interruption to my visit;
a visit which I now suppose will be indefinitely extended. If I can
be of service, don't hesitate to call upon me. I shall be at the
hotel any time I am wanted. Good-night." And he quitted the room.
Next, Señor Vargas bowed before the Doctor, saying in a low,
conventional tone:
"My sympathies, Señor Doctor, that anything so deplorable should have
occurred in your apartments." He turned to the Coroner:
"Don Alberto was a fellow-countryman," he went on; "he had many
relatives and friends, by whom he was much beloved. But Mexico is
far away, señor, and should there be any delay in communicating with
those relatives or those friends, it is I, his countryman, upon whom
you should call. Upon my own responsibility I request that every
attention be accorded the body, and that no expense be considered. I
also will be at--what you call _la posado_?--the 'otel. I thank you
for your courtesy."
His departure left, besides the Captain and Mr. Merkel, only Howard
Lynden and the Doctor; as the door closed behind the Mexican, the
Doctor said:
"Now, then, we here are all about equally interested; if you have any
idea how this dreadful crime was committed, pray enlighten us.
Surely even vulgar curiosity is pardonable under the circumstances."
He looked inquiringly from the Coroner to Mr. Converse.
The latter made no remark, but watched the Doctor steadily, while Mr.
Merkel dubiously shook his head, and replied:
"It seems as though we scarcely had made a beginning yet. We shall
be obliged to go much farther, Doctor--much farther."
"I will begin right now, then," Converse whispered. "Mr. Lynden, you
can help me if you will."
All four were in the act of emerging from the room, when the Captain,
as though an idea had just occurred to him, turned suddenly and
touched Doctor Westbrook upon the arm.
"By the way, Doctor," he whispered, close to that gentleman's ear, "I
notice you have several penholders on your table; are you
particularly partial to any one of them? No, no, don't stop; go on."
The Doctor turned a surprised visage to his questioner.
"Why, yes, since you have mentioned it. I always use the black
celluloid holder. Why?"
"It is just an idea of mine; I took a particular fancy to that
holder..... And have you had occasion to put a new point in it
lately?"
Doctor Westbrook now did stop. He frowned heavily as he pondered a
moment, while the Captain watched him steadily.
"Yes," he presently said. "I placed a new pen-point in it this
evening. I found the other broken--bent--quite useless."
"Thank you, thank you," Mr. Converse said, hastily. "Good-night,
Doctor Westbrook."
While the Doctor and Mr. Merkel continued on out of the building,
Converse devoted his attention to the hall window which opened into
the light-well. There he stood until the others had disappeared;
whereupon he and Lynden reëntered the Doctor's office.