A BURNT FRAGMENT
When Mr. Converse so abruptly left the brother and sister in the
hall, he proceeded directly to the library, whence the body had
already been removed. Merkel had left the room, so he found himself
quite alone with his own thoughts, which, for a time, turned sombrely
upon what was to him entirely an unknown quantity:--Joyce. After a
while he seated himself in the swivel-chair, and fell to
contemplating the cryptic blotter.
Under his methodical examination the tangled lines finally resolved
themselves into portions of written words,--all backwards, of
course,--and of more or less length according to the extent the ink
of the original writing had dried before the application of the
blotter.
In the first place, if the blotter had been a new one or nearly so
when it was last used, then the writing upon which General Westbrook
had been engaged the preceding night was lengthy. Again, the longest
line was one which had been heavily underscored; it contained three
words fairly easy to decipher, and a portion of a fourth. When
reversed they read: "......ndum of Castillo Estate." As Converse
perused it he felt a strange thrill, a feeling of exultation, run
through his big frame, as if something tangible to work upon were at
last before his eyes; he read in it a hope that he would not have to
do with a Herodias or a Semiramis.
"Memorandum of Castillo Estate"--evidently, from the heaviness with
which it had been written and underlined, was the caption of the lost
document.
There was one letter which, in connection with others and fragments
of other letters, was repeated no less than twelve times--the letter
"z," McCaleb's curlicue. What could the absorbed reader conclude
otherwise than that he had an even dozen terminations of the name De
Sanchez? Clearly, then, the missing document had primarily to do
with the estate of one Castillo,--a name with which Converse was not
entirely unfamiliar, as shall later on be seen,--and Alberto de
Sanchez had been intimately connected therewith. So much for the
blotter.
His cogitations were interrupted by the simultaneous entrance of
McCaleb and Doctor Westbrook. The latter sank heavily into the
Morris chair and into a brooding reverie that ignored the others,
while the Captain drew McCaleb into the embrasure of the bay-window
behind the desk.
"Well?" he queried.
"Well, sir, to begin with, I've learned some queer things from the
darkies, especially Stonewall Jackson, the coachman. Trust the
servants, sir, to know what their masters are about. I'll make what
I got from Stonewall as brief as possible."
It appeared that Miss Westbrook, on a plea of headache, had slipped
away, unnoticed by the company, from the Farquier residence, at about
ten o'clock, the coachman driving her directly home. She had
dismissed him at the gate, with instructions to go at once and wait
for her mother. Mrs. Westbrook did not depart from the reception
till near midnight, at which time she appeared in much haste,
commanding Stonewall to hurry. McCaleb continued:
"Mrs. Westbrook seemed to be anxious and impatient to get home.
Stonewall noticed that all the way she continued to lean forward and
peer into the shadows beneath the trees which line the sidewalk on
either side of the street. I fancy her servants do not venture to
take any liberties with Mrs. Westbrook, but Stonewall could not
refrain from asking if she was looking for some one; she paid no
attention to him, and he commenced watching the sidewalk on his own
account. Isn't it pretty plain she had some reason to be suspicious
of the young lady's manoeuvres last night?"
The response was merely a nod.
"Now then, when the carriage was about midway between Tenth and
Eleventh streets, and nearing this corner, Stonewall suddenly caught
sight of a man in the act of turning from Vine Street to Tenth. He
was coming from the direction of the house, and he disappeared in the
shadows beneath the shade trees so quickly that he couldn't have told
who it was even if he had known him. Before the carriage got to the
corner another man showed up, who seemed to be following the first;
for he stepped right into the glare of the electric light at the
corner, and stood looking down Tenth Street after the other fellow.
The carriage was rapidly nearing the corner, and all at once Mrs.
Westbrook spotted Number Two. As soon as she saw him, Stonewall
says, she laughed in a quiet way, and leaned back in the seat as
though she had either found what she was looking for, or was
satisfied that any suspicions she might have had were unfounded."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Of course Stonewall didn't put it in just the way I have. I had
some difficulty in getting his meaning, and I am using my own choice
of words in repeating what he said. The point is, that just as soon
as Mrs. Westbrook saw this man she was relieved of some anxiety or
fear."
"Ah! And who was this mysterious stranger?--for I see you know him."
"Yes, sir. I'll get to that immediately."
"Go on."
"Well, suddenly Number Two became aware of the approaching carriage,
and it's plain he didn't want to be seen after all; he was so bent on
watching Number One, when he stepped so briskly into the light, that
he was heedless of his own actions. He wheeled around, gave one
glance toward the carriage, and disappeared down Tenth Street as
quickly as the other man had. But during that brief look Stonewall
had an opportunity to recognize him."
"And it was--"
"Lynden."
If Mr. Converse was surprised he showed it not at all; he said
nothing, and McCaleb, after eyeing him a moment, continued:
"The darkies all had a lot to say; but there was only one thing more
that struck me as being important, and I got it out of a little
yellow wench--a sort of housemaid. She says General Westbrook was
hoodooed last Monday night--the night of the De Sanchez inquest,
Captain,--and her yarn has made quite an impression on the other
darkies."
The speaker suddenly felt that his hearer's interest had quickened,
and he paused an instant to marshal his thoughts. But Converse
interposed with a quickness that indicated impatience to hear all
there was to be related.
"You didn't let it go at that, I suppose?" he asked.
"Oh, no. Sally's story amounts to this. General Westbrook has not
been sick at all; he was hoodooed by a black man that wasn't a
nigger."
"'A black man not a nigger'?" Converse repeated, vaguely. "What the
deuce!" He clapped McCaleb upon the shoulder with such suddenness
that it startled him. "Mac, you're a jewel!" he ejaculated, with a
very noticeable moderation of his sibilant voice. "Go on."
"I'm glad the matter is intelligible to you, Captain; I confess--"
"Never mind now; get ahead with your yarn.... Monday night--the
night of the inquest--after he had gotten home--on Tuesday they
called in Doctor Bane--Sam missed that messenger. I see. Good!
Good! What next?"
"Well, this black man brought the General a letter. Sally was
sweeping the front gallery and she saw all that happened. When the
man called, General Westbrook went out on the gallery through one of
the big windows; he seemed much surprised when the man handed him the
envelope, and asked, 'Who is this from?' But the man shook his head
and smiled, and went away immediately without a word. The General,
after watching him out of sight, went back into the library, holding
the letter away from him by one corner, as if he were half afraid of
it. Sally says she knew the messenger was a 'conjure man' the moment
she laid eyes on him, and her suspicions seem to have been confirmed
almost at once. It wasn't more than a minute after General Westbrook
returned to the library that Sally heard him call out as if he were
in pain. She peeped in, and what she saw seems to have scared her
pretty bad. The General was sitting at his desk with the 'conjure
paper' in his hand; his face was the color of ashes, his jaw open,
his eyes staring; and he didn't pay the least bit of attention to
Sally. She watched him a moment, dropped her broom, and went flying
to notify Mrs. Westbrook. That's all, sir."
"Day is breaking," said the Captain, after a moment, "and I want you
to get an hour or two of sleep before reporting to me for further
duty. I'll have my hands full to-day. Clancy can report off for
you, and I'll fix it with the Chief. Wear plain clothes."
He left the window and advanced into the room. "Clancy," he
continued, "you may go. Have the Sergeant detail a man for special
duty here to-day, and notify him that I am using McCaleb."
There are times when a man's grief is, to a limited extent, its own
antidote. And it was so with Doctor Westbrook as he sat brooding;
for when Mr. Converse dismissed the two policemen he noted that the
physician was still sitting precisely in the attitude assumed by him
when he had first dropped into the Morris chair. He was patently
oblivious to what was going on about him; and observing this also,
Mr. Converse went in search of Merkel.
He found the Coroner in the hall, conversing with the undertaker's
man, and drew him aside.
"Mr. Merkel," began the Captain, bluntly, "the moment has arrived
when you must let me run things alone."
That Merkel's dignity was ruffled and his official pride affronted
was quite plain; nevertheless, after a wordy exposition of the
irregularity of the proceeding, the "responsibilities of his office,"
and the duties incumbent upon him, he departed. Secretly, he
cherished the idea of some time overwhelming John Converse with a
brilliant _tour de force_; but the opportunity had never been
perceptible to his obtuseness, and the Captain, of course, knew
nothing of the other's ambition. If he had, perhaps he would have
smiled.
Mr. Converse returned to the library with a distinct feeling of
satisfaction. Apparently the Doctor had not stirred. After a brief
contemplation of the dejected figure, the detective advanced and laid
his hand upon one bowed shoulder.
"Come, Doctor," said he; "I must have a little talk with you."
The Doctor looked up dully, uncomprehending.
"Rouse yourself," continued Converse, "for there is a more desperate
crisis in your affairs than the death of your father. Do you hear
me? Do you understand?" Then, as Doctor Westbrook continued to
stare at him wonderingly, he added, "You must pull yourself
together--for your sister's sake."
The final appeal penetrated the stunned intelligence; on a sudden the
Doctor straightened up, the light of understanding once more in his
eyes.
"My sister?" he repeated; "Joyce? What do you mean? What of her?"
"Can you attend to what I say now?" returned Converse. He was now
masterful, compelling the other's attention. "Then listen to me
before I ask or you answer my questions." He paused for a moment,
his keen eyes fixed squarely upon the physician's.
"Doctor Westbrook," he continued, presently, "you know whether, in
the death of Alberto de Sanchez, there is any circumstance which may
affect your sister nearly; you may not know that, in the death of
your father, the circumstances involve her quite as clos--"
"Stop!"
The Doctor sprang from his chair; the emotions beneath which he had
so lately been crushed were suddenly submerged and swept away in a
wave of anger.
"You will leave my sister out of this wretched affair, sir," he
commanded, white with indignation.
Converse, however, was far from faltering before this stern, not to
say menacing, attitude; his own huge frame was the embodiment of
resolution, the cold light of his eye the reflection of an
inflexible, constraining personality, intent with a fixed
determination; and the look with which he met Dr. Westbrook's
infuriated glance did more to calm the latter than any speech could
have done. The Doctor all at once sat down again, signifying by a
slight gesture that the other might proceed.
"Doctor," the Captain went on immediately, "you will do well if you
try to curb your impatience, for at the very best what I have to say
to you will not be pleasant. Perhaps you will see it in the light of
necessity when I tell you I have taken pains to secure this
conference against interruption." And he concluded, grimly, "It is
necessary--or something worse."
"Well, what is it?" was the response, uttered with a touch of
testiness. "I hope the result will justify your assurance. I'm in
no humor to trifle."
"And you will find it no trifling matter." The speaker paused;
concluding with a deliberateness of manner that made the words vastly
portentous: "Doctor Westbrook, if the Coroner and the District
Attorney had in their possession the facts--not theories, mind, but
facts which can now be proved,--if they had laid before them all that
I know, they would order your sister placed under immediate arrest."
If the Captain's intention was to impress the gravity of the
situation upon the physician, he must have been eminently satisfied.
Doctor Westbrook collapsed as if he had received a powerful physical
blow; his face was haggard already, and now his eyes became fixed
upon his interlocutor, intent, fascinated.
"So, you see, Doctor," Converse went on, "I am going outside my duty
in giving you this opportunity to clear up some particulars, which it
has been in your power to do since--well, I will fix the time by the
death of De Sanchez."
After a silence which seemed to grow interminable, Doctor Westbrook
cleared his throat, and hoarsely asked: "What do you wish? Dispense
with preliminaries; what do you want of me?"
"Very good. I want you to summon Miss Westbrook here, and in your
presence I shall put to her a number of questions. Of course she may
answer them or not as she sees fit; but you must understand now and
clearly, Doctor, that whatever the next immediate action taken by me
may be, it will depend largely upon the outcome of this interview.
If I am inconsiderate in any particular, pray say so, and I shall try
to accommodate myself to your own and your sister's feelings in the
matter. Now go; consult Miss Westbrook's wishes, but please be
expeditious. Meet me here"--with a glance at his watch--"say, in
thirty minutes." And without another word or a look back he quitted
the room.
In the hall he encountered Sam, who, since the tragedy, seemed to
have no more weighty occupation than to wander aimlessly about in a
feeble effort to adjust himself to a novel and incomprehensible
condition. His face lighted at sight of the Captain.
"Sam," said Mr. Converse, "I should like to have a look at that
ash-hopper now."
"Sho', seh!" exclaimed the darkey in the lowest note of his mellow
voice; "you isn't really in ea'nest about dem ashes, is you?"
Mr. Converse was much in earnest.
"Well, seh," and Sam scratched his bald spot in perplexity, "you all
p'leece officehs is sho' a mighty queer lot." Then, with a sudden
assumption of his stateliest manner, "Howsomeveh, seh, if you'll
please to follow me, I'll be 'bleeged to show you de ash-hopper."
The ashes were of the soft, fluffy white kind that remain after a
complete combustion of wood; in this case kept clear of other refuse,
and sheltered from the weather, in anticipation of future lye.
"Have the ashes from the kitchen been dumped here since you cleaned
the library grate last?" Converse inquired.
"Yes, seh; twicet."
"Very good, Sam. You may go back to the house."
Once alone, Converse picked up a stick and began carefully to rake
off the top layer of ashes, penetrating into the heap not more than a
quarter of an inch at a time. He repeated this operation no more
than four or five times, when he stopped, and with his fingers
extracted a conspicuous bit of black--unmistakably the ash of
incinerated paper. It was too small to possess any advantage in
itself; but it was the counterpart of many minute particles such as
he had picked with the point of his pencil from between the bricks of
the library fireplace.
After a brief examination he cast the flake of ash aside, and
proceeded more carefully to rake over the pile.
"If there is only a larger piece, only one that will show the
writing," the delver muttered to himself, "if there is only one that
has not been entirely burnt, my search will not have been in vain.
But these flakes are all too small and fragile.... No such luck....
Ah-h-h!"
The final ejaculation was merely a breath, but pregnant with
satisfaction. The point of the stick had revealed a small piece of
paper, one edge charred, but containing a number of written
words--one a name which sent a thrill through the searcher.
The fragment had once been the lower left-hand corner of a sheet of
the commonest kind of note-paper, and inside the charred edge could
be read the commencement of two lines--evidently the last two--and a
portion of the signature, all written in _Spanish, and by a feminine
hand_:
Eso es
¿ Acabo V? No
Paquita y
At this moment Mr. Converse--for the first time in his life,
perhaps,--had reason to bless certain years spent with Abram Follett
in Latin America; for to his understanding, and without any great
knowledge of the Spanish language, the words signified:
It is ... (or, is not?)
Are you ready? No ...
Paquita and ...
Was this a portion of the "conjure paper"? Was this the message that
had hoodooed the unfortunate General--containing, beyond the scope of
the physician's skill, a potent cause for mental distress? Was it
the herald of his wretched end?
And Paquita--again the pretty feminine prænomen! Disclosing no
identity, it flaunted itself at every stage of the investigation with
a vagueness of allusion tantalizing and vexing to an extreme; ever
presenting to the mind's eye no more than a faint, nebulous image of
maiden loveliness, at once precocious and ingenuous. "Paquita and--"
whom? What other name had completed the signature to the destroyed
missive?
Mr. Converse produced the familiar and well-worn pocket-book; and
therein, with extraordinary care, he deposited the precious fragment
of paper.
Further search disclosed nothing more of value, and in a few minutes
he went back to the house to confront Doctor Westbrook and Joyce.