THE BLACK WALLET
When Calvin Norwood returned he found McCarty still seated by the bed
and Victor Marchal sleeping deeply.
"The fever is broken, I think, sir. His forehead is cool and damp,"
announced McCarty in a cautious whisper. "I managed to get a dose of
that medicine down him about an hour ago like you told me, and he's
been lying there like a child ever since."
"Good! He will rest quietly now for an hour or two at least." Norwood
turned again to the door. "Come downstairs and we can talk."
With a relieved glance at the unconscious man, McCarty followed his
host from the room and down to the library. That silent hour which
had ensued since the astounding revelations had reached his ears had
brought a swift inspiration and a plan which he meant to put into
immediate execution. He was no diplomatist, however, and while he cast
about in his mind for a way to broach his subject, Norwood interrupted
his train of thought.
"How was he, McCarty, before you gave him the medicine? Pretty bad,
eh?" He spoke perfunctorily, but his eyes gleamed with unconcealed
anxiety behind their huge-rimmed glasses.
"Yes, sir. He wandered some, like anybody does in a fever," McCarty
admitted. "He wasn't what you'd call violent, though. I've seen them
when they'd want to throw themselves out of bed entirely."
"Did he talk much? What did he say?" His eagerness betrayed itself now
in his tone and McCarty responded with deliberation.
"Well, the half of it was French, Mr. Norwood, and that let me out. For
the rest, one minute, he'd be thinking he was back fighting in the war
again, and the next he'd be puzzling his poor sick brains about the
murder, but 'twas all in a jumble, like, and you could hardly make head
or tail of it. Do you think he'll be all right now the fever's broke?"
"Unless he's in for a complete nervous breakdown." Norwood moved
somewhat impatiently in his chair. "But tell me what he said about the
murder. Did he allude to last night?"
"Not in so many words. I don't remember rightly just what he said, sir,
it was all so mixed up, but he seemed to be wondering who could have
done the murder and once he said something about how kind she'd been to
him, mentioning no names," McCarty lied blandly. "I'm thinking the war
is on his mind as much as the murder, if you ask me."
"Hah!" Norwood emitted a snort of evident satisfaction and relief. "I'm
glad the poor fellow has turned the corner, anyway. Now, if Mr. Terhune
and Inspector Druet will leave him alone and not excite him with their
fool tests and questions, he may pull himself together in a few days. I
appreciate your remaining with him to-day, McCarty. I knew you were too
sensible to take any stock in the ravings of a sick man, but I wouldn't
say as much for those who are conducting the case. We were shadowed
even at the funeral and I don't mind telling you that I'm getting
confoundedly tired of it!"
"So it's all over, sir; the funeral?" McCarty asked. "How is Mr. Jarvis
taking it?"
"He bore up splendidly, considering the frightful strain he is under.
The crowd was terrific; there was a mob of morbid sight-seers extending
for a solid block or more, and the police had difficulty in forcing a
way through for the funeral cortège. Poor Evelyn; poor child! Well, it
is over and now we must bend all our energies to finding the wretch who
brought this terrible thing upon us. I've dabbled in crime mysteries
for years, as you know, but somehow I cannot take hold of this, I
cannot grasp it. The blow struck home too closely for me to get the
right perspective on it, if you know what I mean. Joan says it is a
judgment upon us--having poor Evelyn's body found here--for maintaining
that collection of crime relics. She always hated it and could never be
induced to enter the museum."
"It's a wonderful collection you've made, though, Mr. Norwood." McCarty
seized artfully upon his opportunity. "There's none other like it in
the country, and you're the envy of the whole department."
Norwood's slight dapper figure straightened and he stroked his pointed
beard complacently.
"It contains a bit of evidence of almost every known form of crime," he
remarked. "I started it many years ago, with a small bottle of poison
tablets which, labeled 'saccharin,' had lain upon a certain lady's
boudoir table in full view for days while the authorities searched far
and wide for her rival's murderer. I have added other relics to it as
time went on and opportunity offered until I flatter myself that it is
a fairly complete collection."
"It is that!" McCarty agreed heartily. "But you've not found much to
add to it lately, sir, have you?"
"Indeed, yes. It has been greatly augmented within the last year or
so," replied the other. "The rope with which old Ogilvy was hung by his
own valet, who afterward cut him down and gave the alarm of suicide;
the germs of typhoid by means of which the notorious Doctor Venner
disposed of his invalid wife's rich relations, the furrier's knife
which figured in the Rankin case, and many more came to me through
various channels. When we were so tragically interrupted the other
evening I was on the point of showing them to you."
"Couldn't you----" McCarty hesitated. "Would you feel like showing a
few of them to me now, sir, and telling me their history? I suppose
after what's happened you'll want to fight shy of the museum for a
while, but I've a tremendous interest in it. Many's the time in days
gone that I heard of your collection but never did I think I'd see it
with my own two eyes."
"I promised Joan that the museum would be kept locked until her
marriage next month." Norwood hesitated. "She vowed that unless I gave
her my word she would not remain under my roof; she feels a nervous
horror of the whole thing, you see. However, she won't be home for an
hour or so yet--I persuaded her to allow Vivaseur to take her for a
short run out into the country in his car after the funeral for she
has been cooped up for days, crying her eyes out and I don't want her
ill on my hands, too. I'll be glad to show you a thing or two which
will interest you, McCarty, and I assure you that in spite of what has
occurred I feel no qualms about entering the museum where the result of
my life work is stored. Come along."
As they passed down the hall McCarty asked suddenly:
"Did you come across that missing fingerprint photograph yet, sir; the
one of Mrs. Jarvis' impressions?"
"No. It slipped my mind completely and I forgot to ask Victor about
it," his host admitted. "However, as I told you, it can only be
mislaid."
He produced his key and opened the door and together they stepped into
the room. The pale wintry rays of the westering sun slanted obliquely
in at the tall windows, gleaming mistily on the glass tops of the cases
already veiled with a film of dust and a stale, musty odor prevailed,
as of an apartment long untenanted.
"Phew! The room was aired thoroughly on Saturday, but it is stuffy in
here already," Norwood advanced and opened one of the windows wide,
then turned and took from its hook upon the wall a length of knotted
rope. "This is the Ogilvy noose. The valet had cleverly fabricated a
lot of circumstantial evidence to convey verisimilitude to the suicide
theory, but he made one fatal error; the peculiar formation of the knot
proved conclusively that the aged millionaire could not have adjusted
it himself. Moreover it has a certain odd twist, as you can see, which
was found to be the species of knot used in staking down balloons
prior to an ascension, and investigation disclosed the fact that early
in life the valet had been an exhibitor at county fairs; a parachute
jumper. A nice bit of detail, wasn't it?"
"It was that!" McCarty examined the rope with an air of absorbed
professional interest and handed it back. "How long have you had it
here, sir?"
"Since the conclusion of the trial, eighteen months ago," Norwood
responded. "Here are some of Doctor Venner's typhoid germs which
were found secreted in his bathroom after the fourth mysteriously
coincidental death from that disease in his household in as many
months. He had placed the germs in the water cooler and his insistence
upon having that article installed directed the first suspicion against
him. A friend in the District Attorney's office who knows of my hobby
procured the specimen for me last summer. This is the furrier's knife
of which I told you. I do not believe that an implement with a keener
blade than this exists. It was sewn into the ermine collar of an
evening coat designed for Mrs. Judson Grey in such a manner that the
point would penetrate the fur and pierce the neck near the jugular vein
when the garment was fastened. A sudden death in the family sent Mrs.
Grey into mourning, however, and she gave the coat, unworn, to her
niece. The unfortunate girl died in a taxi on her way to the theatre,
as you may remember, and the ensuing investigation placed the blame on
the establishment which had made the coat, but it is very generally
surmised who the real culprit is."
"It's a wicked-looking knife, and no mistake," commented McCarty. "Did
you add it to your collection lately, Mr. Norwood?"
"About two months ago. This five-dollar gold piece is one of those made
by the Delmore counterfeiting gang. It came into my possession purely
by chance."
"When was this, sir?"
"In October." Norwood looked his surprise at the persistency of the
question. "Why are you so interested in the dates, McCarty?"
"Because I know you've no time to be showing me all your collection
now, Mr. Norwood, and the relics you've got just lately are what I'd
rather know about than those of cases long past and gone. There was one
thing you mentioned last Friday night whilst we were all having dinner
with you." McCarty paused and then added: "You were going to show it to
us, you said, sir, but instead we came on the murder. I don't recall
what it was exactly but 'twas something you told us held the only clue
to a mystery that had set New York by the ears a good while ago. You'd
only got it within a few days----"
"Of course! The Hoyos wallet!" Norwood's face lighted eagerly and he
turned to a tall cabinet against the side wall between the fireplace
and the corner where stood the case of fingerprints. "It has not
entered my mind since the discovery of poor Evelyn's body. You
remember the affair, don't you? It was a nine days' wonder a decade
ago. Hoyos was a foreigner of somewhat obscure antecedents but supposed
wealth who was breaking into society of a sort by means of Wall Street.
There were rumors of wild parties on his yacht and one night he
disappeared from on board; weeks later his body was found in the river,
fearfully mutilated, and the case was never cleared up. But where can
the wallet be? I was sure that I put it here."
While he talked Norwood's slim, nervous fingers had been running over
the assortment of documents and note books with which the narrow
shelves were filled and now he stood back gazing in perplexity about
him.
"Perhaps Captain Marchal has moved it?" suggested McCarty.
"No. He didn't know where I had placed it and he never touches this
cabinet, for its contents are of no use to him in cataloguing the
collection. He cannot see to read the notes and other papers, you know,
and these blank books are filled with my own private memoranda of the
different cases in which I have specialized. No one ever touches them
but myself. I cannot understand it!"
"Maybe you put it somewhere else yourself, sir, by mistake." McCarty
had approached and stood looking over the other's shoulder. "What did
the wallet look like?"
"It was the usual-sized bill folder, of very fine grained black seal
worn brown at the edges, and contained two letters----" Norwood broke
off. "What can have happened to it? I know I did not touch it after I
put it away here last Tuesday afternoon; I never mislay anything and I
had no occasion to open this cabinet again until Friday, just before
I went to Professor Parlowe's. Then I came to get out some data on
a recent poisoning case that I wanted to discuss with him, and the
wallet was here. I distinctly remember seeing it, for an idea came to
me to take it along and show it to the Professor; I decided not to do
so, because he is only interested in poisoning cases--he is an eminent
toxicologist, you know--and when he is engrossed in an experiment he
resents bitterly the introduction of any other topic. I closed the door
of the cabinet but did not lock it; in fact the key is still here in
the lock as you can see for yourself, McCarty. Someone must have taken
it out during the excitement following the discovery of the murder!
But who would have any interest in it? The case has been shelved and
forgotten, even by the authorities."
"If you are sure it has been taken, sir, whoever did it must have known
where to look," observed McCarty. "Did you show the wallet to anyone
after you got it or tell them where you had put it?"
"No, but anyone familiar with the museum and my method of arranging
its contents knows that I keep all documents and papers here." Norwood
ran his fingers through his hair. "But what am I saying? What possible
object could anyone I know have in taking it? Of course, it being a
wallet, someone who had access here may have thought that it contained
money and may have appropriated it. It could have been seen through the
glass door and the key was there in the lock."
"Who could have got in here?" McCarty asked. His eyes had narrowed
swiftly and there was a note of suppressed eagerness in his tone which
the other was too engrossed in his fresh problem to be cognizant of.
"Didn't you say Captain Marchal was with you in here that afternoon
just before you left to call on your friend the professor? Didn't
Captain Marchal come back after you'd gone to put away some notes he'd
been copying?"
"Not copying. Victor cannot see to read notes, you must remember,"
Norwood replied testily. "I said he had transcribed them. During the
last month, while he was familiarizing himself with the use of the
typewriter I went ahead with my own preparation of a monograph on the
various objects in my collection and talked my subject-matter into
a dictagraph for Victor to transcribe in his leisure moments. The
dictagraph is in the library beside his typewriter and the cylindrical
records for it are kept in the drawer of that cabinet over there. He
took a record or two to work on while I was away that afternoon and the
papers he put back were those upon which he had typed what the machine
had dictated to him. When I spoke of anyone who might have access here
I was thinking of strangers; those detectives from Headquarters or the
Homicide Bureau or the men who came with the Chief Medical Examiner to
take the body away."
"You'll not be finding any of them monkeying with petty larceny!"
remonstrated McCarty loyally. "Who knew that you had the wallet,
anyway, Mr. Norwood? Who did you tell?"
"No one. That is, only a few of my most intimate circle," the other
amended. "I wasn't sure of obtaining it until it was actually in my
hands. The woman had been dickering with me for her price, but I was
afraid until the last moment that she would back out of her bargain."
"What woman?"
"The one in whose possession the wallet had been all these years; a
former stewardess, I believe, on Hoyos' yacht."
"And you got the wallet from her last Tuesday?" A swift memory of what
the butler had told him darted across McCarty's mind. "Did she bring
it to you late in the afternoon? Was it her you were talking to in the
parlor and could not be disturbed when Mrs. Jarvis called to tell you
about the experiment the professor was going to make on Friday?"
"Yes. How did you know?" Norwood paused and then added impatiently:
"That has nothing to do with the disappearance of the wallet, however.
I shall make a thorough search for it to-morrow, and question Victor as
soon as he recovers, but I am convinced that it has been taken!"
"You said that you told a few people about it, sir? Who were they?"
McCarty persisted, his breath quickening a trifle in spite of his
effort to appear calmly indifferent. "Did you write to anybody about
it?"
"Only my niece, Joan, and that was a week before the wallet actually
came into my possession; when the woman first approached me with
her offer to sell it, in fact. Victor knew about it, of course, and
Billings may have heard us discussing it at the table. But this is
absurd! He has a superstitious horror of the museum and couldn't
be induced to come in here on a wager. Besides, the wallet and its
contents would be of no use to him." Norwood hesitated. "I cannot
think----"
"Did you speak of the wallet to the Jarvises?" McCarty interrupted
suddenly.
"I may have done so. Yes, I believe that I did." Norwood's tone was
constrained.
"Before the woman brought it to you or after, sir?"
"Afterwards. That is, I--I think it was. I cannot remember exactly."
There was a furtive reluctance in his reply which did not escape
McCarty's ear, and he asked quickly:
"Wasn't it at that dinner party you told them of it? The dinner they
gave in their own home on Wednesday evening?"
"It may have been. Yes, I am under the impression that it was."
Norwood's perturbation was manifest and he added nervously. "However,
that is beside the point. You are probably right, McCarty. A thing like
that doesn't disappear by itself and no one would have the slightest
reason for removing it. I must have mislaid it in the excitement
following the murder----"
"Mr. Norwood." McCarty faced him and gazed steadily into his shifting
eyes. "When you told the Jarvises about getting this wallet and the
letters or whatever was in it did the rest of the people who were there
at the dinner hear it too?"
"Naturally, since I told of it at the table," Norwood responded in
unguarded haste. "Nobody was particularly interested, however, beyond
mere idle curiosity about an old, forgotten case. I don't remember
discussing it with anyone else, and if I did it doesn't matter,
McCarty. Now that I think it over I can see that I must have mislaid it
myself. I will doubtless find it to-morrow."
He closed the cabinet door and turned with an air of finality as if to
lead the way from the museum, but McCarty lingered.
"What was in those letters, sir, that were in the wallet? You said
yourself that they were the only real clue to the mystery of how the
man came to his death. Who wrote them?"
"I don't know!" Norwood wheeled about irascibly. "The woman who sold
them to me claimed that they were written by someone who had good
reason to want Hoyos out of the way, but naturally she would not
disclose their contents until I had paid for them. I was obliged to
take them blindly at her valuation and trust to luck that I had not
been swindled."
"But you read them after, sir!" McCarty exclaimed. "You must know what
was in them! You couldn't have put them away with never a look after
being so anxious to get them and paying out good money----"
"I was called away," Norwood demurred hurriedly. "I--I did glance
over them the next day, but the ink had faded and the writing was
almost illegible. It would have been necessary to study them under a
magnifying glass, and I hadn't time then. That was Wednesday, you see,
and on the following day something or other occurred which put them
out of my mind. I did not think of them again until the wallet caught
my eye when I went to get the memorandum to take with me to Professor
Parlowe's. For all I know they may have been a mere fraud and the woman
an impostor. People know my weakness and have tried to swindle me
before this. I--I haven't the least idea what the letters contained or
who is supposed to have written them."
He raised his eyes defiantly to meet McCarty's steady gaze and read
there the futility of his attempt at evasion. He had lied and the other
knew it. A dull, mottled red crept into his cheeks, but with a shrug
he turned once more and led the way to the door and this time McCarty
followed in silence.