CHERCHEZ LA FEMME
The exterior of No. 18 Ash Lane did not present an inviting
appearance. It was a dingy, battered, and weather-worn brick
structure, marking a remote epoch in the past; and besides Mr.
Converse, it contained one other tenant, a little old man whose
entire body was so twisted and contorted into deformity by
rheumatism, that one wondered what incentive could prevail upon him
to move.
A sign above the double door conveyed to the casual wayfarer the
information that the busy, cheerful cripple's name was "A. Follett."
Long before the remainder of the legend--"Dealer in Scrap Iron,
Brass, Copper, Castings, and All Sorts of Junk"--could be deciphered,
the stranger was aware of the business conducted here; for as far as
the eye could penetrate into the recesses of the lower floor, it was
met by a conglomeration of cast-off material which promised insanity
to anybody rash enough to attempt its assortment and classification.
Close by the double entrance a gate in a high board fence gave access
to the yard. Through this each day passed the peripatetic collectors
of such refuse as Mr. Follett dealt in, and their burdens were
disposed of by a black Hercules--Mr. Follett's back and legs and
arms--who answered to the name of Joe.
The Captain's daily associates would have been quite staggered had
they known that the cheerful, grizzled, and battered dealer in junk
was his closest friend and his only confidant, and that he discussed
all his most perplexing problems with Mr. Follett. Mr. Converse,
however, had demonstrated more than once that his confidence was not
misplaced; that his friend's judgment, shrewd insight, and discretion
were of a value not to be expressed by words. In Mr. Converse's
sailor days the two had been companions on many a memorable voyage,
and each was as comprehensive of the other's silences as if they had
been filling the moments with golden speech.
On the Monday night subsequent to the inquest and one week after that
event, the two are sitting in the snug front room upstairs, and it is
Mr. Follett who first speaks.
"So, John," he remarks, "the newspapers have something to stir up the
interest in your dead Mexican man." He laughed softly and waved his
pipe with a feeble gesture toward the Captain. "But I'm thinkin' it
won't hurry you up none to crowd the canvas on you."
"You are thinking of the reward?" queried Mr. Converse.
The other nodded and continued: "Twenty thousand dollars is a heap o'
money, John; many men would do murder over an' over again for it.
Sometimes I can't believe that these ideas o' rewardin' an' punishin'
are right. No matter how high the reward, nor how hard the
punishment, some people will do wrong in the face o' one an' in spite
o' the other.... Twenty thousand American, is it?"
"Yes; and we are to draw on the De Sanchez estate through the Mexican
consul for expenses necessary to pursuing the investigation."
Mr. Follett expressed his wonder in a prolonged whistle.
"John, this is what you will have when you run down the murderer.
Then you can retire. Then you can get that little cottage an' all
them flowers you sometimes talk about: funny idea for an old sailor
man." He changed the trend of his talk abruptly, and added, with a
more serious note: "We must increase the reward for that woman.
Everything centres an' circles about her, an' that's what discourages
me. When you get clear o' the harbor on a cruise o' this kind, it's
like tryin' to navigate without chart or compass, an' the stars all
hid, to have a woman mixed in it to the extent that this one seems to
be. Make it a hundred--two hundred--dollars; but find that woman."
"Abram, you are right," Mr. Converse rejoined, with unusual warmth.
"I am no nearer to laying my finger upon her than I was the day of
the murder. As you say, we must find the woman; everything hinges
upon her. But look you, Abram, we, every one of us, missed a very
fine point at the inquest that now is as plain as the nose on your
face."
Mr. Follett unconsciously and thoughtfully fell to rubbing that
member, while he attended to his friend's words.
"What was it Howard Lynden was afraid of betraying?" continued Mr.
Converse, warming to his subject. "What was it Mr. Ferdinand Howe
was afraid of betraying? What worried Doctor Westbrook?" He stared
hard at Mr. Follett, and answered the questions himself. "It's just
this: they have reason to suspect that the woman is mixed up some way
in the matter; but how? They asserted under oath that no woman was
present; did they one and all perjure themselves? I don't believe
it."
The listener nodded gravely to signify that he was following the
argument, but offered no interruption.
"No; I believe that every man Jack of them told all he knew of the
affair. Doctor Westbrook would not lie; I don't think under the
circumstances Howe would, and Lynden--well, he just couldn't. Any
woman that you might name will not supply an adequate reason for them
all to unite in an oath of falsehood."
"Yet," observed Mr. Follett, "it is the woman, and we must look for
the one least likely to have been there."
"Exactly. And they are banded together to shield her name. We
failed to hit upon the right question, or to put it in the proper
way, so leaving them an opportunity for evasion without downright
falsehood.
"Again, Abram, would these complications involve the woman or some
one else? Are they shielding her for her sake or their own? If you
could answer me those questions, Abram, I could tell you the rest.
Where is the Mexican woman now, who smokes a cigarette while she
waits for her victim? That's Merkel's idea. Poppycock! There's no
Mexican woman on the face of the earth that all of those men would be
so anxious to shield."
"John, there's one thing about this here female that you haven't
considered yet," began Abram Follett. "She may know nothin' about
the murder; she may only have showed a common weakness o' the sex by
bein' where she had no business; she may be in the same boat with
those three men, an' they are simply a-tryin' to save her from
fallin' overboard, thinkin' she couldn't throw any light on how Mr.
de Sanchez came to be a dead man all of a sudden, but could get
herself in a pretty bad fix. They are not the best judges, o'
course; but if there's anything in that 'nonymous letter you got
about her, why, there's somebody else knows who she is, an' it's some
one who could be made to tell.
"Now then, John, listen to me a bit: there's only one other person we
know o' havin' been on that floor at the time o' the killin'--Bill
Slade; an' I know two or three things about him--though I've never
sot eyes on the man that I know of--that might interest you. First,
his father, before the war, was the Fairchild overseer; secondly,
Bill Slade himself is to-day the owner o' the old Fairchild
homestead. What we don't know that might show how they're all
tangled up together--if they really are--might be a hull lot....
Truth can't be downed, John, but it sometimes has a mighty hard time
a-gettin' up to where it can be seen an' recognized. Oftener than
not we don't want to recognize it; we just hand it a rap over the
head by way o' conveyin' the information that it mustn't get too
conspicuous."
"There's a good deal about Slade that is hard to understand; I'll
think it over." The Captain was still looking hard at Mr. Follett.
"Another thing, John: that letter gives me the idea everything ain't
a-goin' smooth with them people; there's a conflictin' interest
somewhere, you mark my words. They ain't just plain common folks,
either, that we have to do with; not the kind that goes about their
business peacefully an' ca'mly, day after day, under the heft of a
secret o' this kind; especially when so many shares it."
"Speaking of Slade," said Mr. Converse, abruptly breaking the current
of the conversation, "reminds me of something odd. I don't know that
you have ever heard of it, but there is a peculiarity about Slade and
General Westbrook that is the foundation of a joke of long standing
at the General's expense, although they are few enough who would have
the hardihood to take that liberty with him to his face.
"It seems that always when Slade and the General meet, wherever it
may be--on the street, at the bank, in offices or business
houses,--the former is possessed of some powerful emotion. He steps
to one side, oblivious of everything besides General Westbrook, at
whom he stares as though he were quite overcome by his greatness. At
the same time Slade is continually mumbling unintelligibly to
himself. After a bit he seems to realize his queer actions, and
recovers himself all at once with a sheepish look around, as if to
see whether anybody has been observing him; and if General Westbrook
has not already departed, Slade blurts out a confused apology and
hurries away. It's queer enough in that dried-up little man; for he
bears the reputation of a miser, is as sour as vinegar, lives to
himself in a little cubbyhole of a room, and hasn't, I suppose, one
intimate friend in the world. People will say, 'Slade? Why, yes, I
know old Slade. Who don't?' Yet the truth is that nobody really
does know him. He's simply a machine, and as long as he works
smoothly and in good order he's taken for granted, like the Lee
monument or the changes of the moon.
"Anyhow, the General accepts it all seriously, as a tribute from an
inferior to his own high mightiness, and he unbends to the old codger
quite graciously--for him. Whatever it is Slade has in mind, or what
he mutters to himself, no one seems to know; but 'Slade's Blessing'
has come to be a by-word in the city.
"Now then, on the night of the eleventh--last Wednesday night--the
headquarters man, Adams, who is watching Vargas, made a report in
which 'Slade's Blessing' figures in rather a curious and
incomprehensible manner. It appears that Slade went to the La Salle
House, apparently looking for some one; Vargas was sitting in the
rotunda, smoking, when all at once who should come in but General
Westbrook. Slade was then standing right by Vargas's chair, when he
caught sight of the General, and the old scene began. Westbrook came
directly up to Vargas and spoke in an absent-minded way to Slade, who
made his usual embarrassed exit. Now, Vargas did not show that he
had noticed this incident--which should have been strange and novel
to him--and there may not be any connection between it and what
followed, but the next morning Vargas called on Slade at the Guaranty
Trust Company's offices. He remained only a few minutes; but he
called again shortly before five o'clock the same evening, and
accompanied Slade to the latter's room, where he remained with the
abstracter until nearly seven o'clock."
"Belay a moment, John. Did the two know each other before?"
"Oh, no; not at all."
Mr. Follett nodded, and his friend continued:
"Vargas went to Slade's lodging again the next day, and again on
Friday--each time at five o'clock,--and remained from an hour and a
half to two hours. It's pretty clear that the first visit to Slade
at the office was merely to make an appointment, and that the others
followed therefrom. But what does it mean? Has Vargas begun a
little detective work on his own account? This question is prompted
by what followed at the La Salle House between General Westbrook and
Vargas on Wednesday night after Slade had left them.
"The General approached and made himself known to Vargas. You know
they had met only casually--at the inquest--and the meeting Wednesday
night appeared no more than a refreshing of each other's memory. Yet
when General Westbrook departed he seemed to be greatly disturbed--so
much so that Adams says he had half a mind to follow him. It is true
that the two conversed some time, but nothing appeared which would
account for the General's agitation; the talk seemed to be merely
chatty, pleasant, marked by smiles, and all that. It did not seem to
occur to Adams that a man might 'smile, and smile, and be a villain'
still; and, after all, it may be that the matter has to do with some
property titles. But why enlist the services of Señor Vargas, a
stranger? I thought that Vargas himself might be interested in some
realty here; but I've had that looked up, and his name does not
appear of record anywhere in the county. In this connection I have
been having the records carefully gone over to see if any of these
people are mixed up by some old deal. The result has been somewhat
queer; but we'll pass that up for the present."
"It's no easy matter just a-sortin' out the known facts, is it?"
observed Mr. Follett.
The Captain shook his head. "But to sum up, Abram," he added, "we
have a number of people connected by a lot of little circumstances,
which, at the present moment, have mighty wide gaps between, and seem
to point to nothing."
"I tell ye, John, a thing that's standin' stronger in my mind than
all else comes from what you've just told me, an' from what I've told
you about this man Slade.
"You know, before the war, old Bill Slade, the father, was the
Fairchild overseer. I've heard the son's story, an' it appears that
he was always little an' mean an' picayunish--not the kind that could
do any big dirty thing; just little an' sneakin'. But old Bill was
ambitious for his boy, who was just a young feller at the end o' the
war, an' he charted out a course for young Bill that pointed from the
Fairchild plantation straight to the United States Supreme Court; but
he failed to mark off all the rocks an' shoals, an' the set o' the
currents; he knew little o' the craft's qualities that was to make
the voyage; an' the consequence is, that young Bill landed high an'
dry right where he is to-day. He never drank, as I've often heard,
nor chewed nor smoked, nor he never fought, nor did anything else to
show that he had any good red blood in him--just natcherally unable
to do anything good or bad." Mr. Follett abruptly altered his tone.
"Has there been anything betwixt him and the Fairchilds since,
besides him now ownin' their old home an' lettin' it go to rack an'
ruin?" he asked.
"That's being gone into now. Nothing has been turned up so far that
sheds any light upon the problem of the murder."
Mr. Converse's reply was thoughtful; his companion's run of talk
seemed more to be a harmonious accompaniment to his own reflections
than a source either of information or available ideas. Yet he
listened patiently, self-contained and reserved, his occasional
responses showing that he was following the other's words.
"Another point, John," Mr. Follett went on. "From what you've told
me o' this Mr. Vargas, he seems to be a man who looks pretty sharp to
his own affairs without botherin' himself about other people's. You
know, meddlin' with other folks' business is the surest sign that you
can't 'tend to your own. That don't seem to be his style, so you can
be pretty sure that him mixin' himself in this matter on another tack
has somethin' important behind it."
Here, quite naturally enough, fell one of the familiar, pleasant
silences that characterized the friendship between these two men.
The Captain's manner soon began to reveal an impatience. He smoked
innumerable pipes of tobacco--not in his usual steady way, but
alternating between fits of puffing like an engine for a space, and
then permitting the fire in the bowl to die out. Several times he
rose and walked slowly to and fro the length of the room, his hands
clasped behind him, his eyes unseeing--oblivious of everything but
the problem upon which his tenacious mind was fastened. Once or
twice he paused at the window and looked out into the darkness.
All these evidences of extreme mental effort were to the still,
crippled figure in the big chair so many indications that the Captain
had seized upon an idea that he was revolving to a definite end.
Neither by word nor gesture would Mr. Follett break in upon these
cogitations until the other saw fit to enlighten him. The issue
would be yielded in good time, and he awaited it in silent, patient
eagerness.
Once Mr. Converse threw one of the windows wide open, and the sudden
in-rush of cool night air began rapidly to dissipate the smoke which
hung in well-defined strata of blue. The stillness of the night was
unbroken by any sound, until presently, many blocks away, could be
heard the faint clatter of a galloping horse. As with all distant
sounds in a sleeping city, it would now and then become completely
extinguished behind some intervening wall or building, only to burst
forth again with added clamor.
How often are the greatest crises ushered in by the most trivial of
incidents! Mr. Converse was only dimly aware of the beating hoofs,
and his train of thought was not at all interrupted by any reflection
that horse and rider might portend aught for him; then the
circumstance was entirely forgotten as the Federal Building clock
boomed forth one loud, deep-throated stroke that rang high on the
night: one o'clock.
The vibrations were still trembling audibly when he turned of a
sudden from the window.
"Abram, I have it," he announced in a tone of finality. "I know how
to find Fairchild."
Whatever Mr. Follett might have responded was never uttered; for all
at once the thud of hoofs became loud and insistent. The rider was
evidently in Ash Lane now, and approaching at a pace that would soon
bring him opposite No. 18.
"Listen!" whispered Mr. Converse; and both waited in tense
expectation while the wild rider drew nearer and nearer.
The horse was pulled up to a sharp standstill immediately below, just
as Converse turned to the window once more. In the light which fell
from the lamp behind him he could make out the faint glint of brass
buttons and the brighter reflection from a nickel-plated star: the
rider was an officer of the mounted force. What errand required such
speed, and at such an hour?
"Is it you, Captain Converse?" the rider began, breathlessly. "You
are to come to headquarters right away."
"What is it?" demanded the Captain.
"The Old Man told me to say it was a new development in the De
Sanchez case; he sent me himself. McCaleb came in off his beat half
an hour or so ago, and he looked as though he'd been seeing ghosts.
Whatever it is, he brought in the news, and it must be mighty
important to rout the Old Man out at this hour." "The Old Man," be
it known, was the Chief of Police.
"Very well, Harrison, I'll be along at once." The messenger wheeled
his blowing horse and disappeared into the night again.
Converse was not long in following. As he left the room Mr. Follett
cried cheerfully after him, "Sail, ho!" The latter was accustomed to
these unceremonious interruptions of their post-prandial communions,
and he forbore any display of curiosity.
But if Mr. Follett's figurative farewell was a prognostication that
the voyage of discovery was no longer to be conducted in unknown
seas, or, to drop metaphor altogether, that some fact had come to
light which promised explanation of the mystery, he was scarcely a
true prophet. This the Captain had presented to him in a startling
manner almost as soon as he entered the Chief's private office. He
was impressed at once by that official's unusual agitation and the
white, excited countenance of the young officer who stood by his
desk, nervously and alternately mopping his brow and the inside of
his helmet.
The Chief glared at Converse as though the Captain himself had been
guilty of some unusual offence.
"Another murder, Converse!" he cried, with unsteady articulation.
"Good Lord, what kind of a force have I got under me, anyhow?
McCaleb, here, has just brought in a most astounding report. I don't
know which way to turn; I feel--"
"May I inquire who has been murdered?" said Converse, quietly.
"General Westbrook!" thundered the Chief, banging his fist down on
the desk; "one of our very best citizens is the victim of a dastardly
assassination!"