PRO AND CON
THE dining-room at Thornedale Lodge looked particularly cozy in the
soft lamplight, and old black Cato, surveying the room, could not
repress a smile of subdued gratification. He considered himself “one ob
de fam’ly,” and it was doubtful if even Beverly Thorne had as great an
affection for his ancestral home as did the old man who in his youth
had been a slave on the Thorne plantation. Year in and year out he had
worked on the place, being advanced from field hand to house servant in
the early days following the Civil War, and when the fortunes of the
Thornes were at the lowest ebb he had worked without wages so as to
help “Old Miss” educate her boy, Beverly, and keep the homestead from
going under the hammer. Illiterate, kindly, faithful, Cato epitomized
the spirit of the old-style darky, to whose watchful care Southern men
had not feared to leave their wives and children when they went to
fight with Robert Lee.
Cato had been true to every trust reposed in him. In his humble hands
Mrs. Thorne had left the farming of the few acres still remaining to
the once large estate, and but for his “truck garden” she would have
gone without many necessities. And when Mrs. Thorne grew older and
more feeble, Cato, when crops were bad, did not hesitate to do odd
“chores” for neighboring farmers, receiving in return poultry or fresh
vegetables which would be served to Mrs. Thorne as only Cato knew
how to cook them. But even these delicacies could not prolong Mrs.
Thorne’s feeble hold on life, and Cato, bottling up his own sorrow,
turned to his “young marster” with the same blind devotion which had
characterized his affection for Colonel and Mrs. Thorne.
It was found on reading Mrs. Thorne’s will that a small legacy left
by her husband, who had pre-deceased her by twenty years, had been
carefully hoarded against the day when Beverly Thorne would be old
enough to go to a medical college, and true to his promise to his
mother he eventually entered Johns Hopkins University, and was
graduated with honors; but the spirit of adventure, inherited from
some doughty ancestor, had sent him far afield. In his absence Cato
had acted as caretaker of the “lodge,” and when Beverly once again
entered the house he had exclaimed with delight at finding every piece
of furniture, every heirloom, valued by his mother, in its accustomed
place, and showing by its excellent condition the care lavished upon it
by Cato.
Cato’s pleasure in the cozy appearance of the dining-room was shared
by Detective Mitchell, who even forgot his impatience to see Beverly
Thorne as he examined the handsome animal heads and skins hung on the
walls.
“Fine trophies,” he commented. “I had no idea Dr. Thorne was such a
sportsman.”
“He didn’t kill all de critters,” acknowledged Cato. “Some has been in
de fam’ly a long time, far’s I can remember, an’ dat’s consid’able far.”
“So you’ve been in the family a long time?” Mitchell looked at him
shrewdly. “Remember the Civil War?”
“Jes’ like it ware yesserday,” promptly. “An’ seein’ yo’ all a-peepin’
an’ a-peerin’ at de Porter house makes me think ob when de ‘rebs’ an’
de ‘Yanks’ uster camp out hyarabouts, an’ I’d wake in de mawnin’ an’
find de Yanks hyar an’ de nex’ day dey’d vamoose, an’ de rebs would
come an’ take what was lef’ ob de fence rails ter make camp-fires.”
“But they couldn’t run off with that stone wall toward the river,”
remarked Mitchell. “Pity the wall didn’t extend around the whole place
and you wouldn’t have had so much trouble. But perhaps the wall wasn’t
built in those days?”
“Oh, but ’twas. Ole Judge Porter, him dat was de gran’son ob de fust
owner ob Dewdrop Inn, he had dat wall set dar ter cut off de ribber
view, ’caise he hated de Thornes.”
“But why?”
“’Caise his gran’mother jilted Colonel Thorne jes’ de day befo’ de
weddin’, to marry his gran’daddy.”
“Do you mean to say seriously that that dead and gone romance is at the
bottom of the present-day feud between the Thornes and the Porters?”
“I ’spect it are.” Cato crossed the room and adjusted a rug to his
taste. “Ain’t nebber heard nuffin’ else.”
“And on the strength of that Mrs. Porter refuses to receive Dr. Thorne
as a guest in her house,” Mitchell laughed. “It doesn’t seem possible
in these enlightened days that people will nurse a grievance nearly
a hundred years old. And apparently Mrs. Porter intends passing the
feud to the next generation, and keeping her daughter and Dr. Thorne
at loggerheads.” Mitchell jingled the keys in his pocket. “It has all
the atmosphere of a Montague and Capulet affair--except for the lack of
romance.”
Old Cato scratched his bald head and the little tufts of wool still
remaining, in perplexity.
“Dar’s a Montagu livin’ ’bout five miles from hyar, but I ain’t never
heard tell ob no Capulets in de neighborhood. Was yo’ a-referrin’ to de
Richard Montagu fam’ly?”
“No, no--only to an old play,” explained Mitchell, and seeing Cato’s
mystified air, added, “It would have been like the play had Dr. Thorne
and Miss Millicent Porter fallen in love and the families opposed the
match; that is what I meant.”
“Yessir.” Cato brightened. “Dat was what Ole Miss uster wonder ’bout,
when little Miss Milly uster slip ober hyar and eat hot gingerbread.”
Mitchell’s scrutiny was not noticed by Cato as he replaced articles on
the mantelpiece. “Am I mistaken--is there a romance between Dr. Thorne
and Miss Porter?” he asked.
“I doan know what yo’ mean by romance,” grumbled Cato. “Marse Beverly
am mos’ twelve years older than Miss Milly; dey knowed each odder when
chillen, an’ Marse Beverly made her whistles an’ things, an’ fo’ fear
de old Judge Porter would fo’bid Miss Milly comin’ hyar to see Ole Miss
we nebber tole no one.”
Cato had an attentive listener as he ambled on who forbore to hurry
him. “Has the friendship between Miss Porter and Dr. Thorne kept up?”
he inquired finally.
Cato’s face altered. “No, an’ I didn’t ’spect such treatment of Marse
Beverly from Miss Milly,” he grumbled. “Now Marse Beverly’s back she
ain’t never troubled ter recognize him on de road--an’ she set a store
by his mother--I cain’t un’erstand these hyar women folk!”
“You are not alone in that,” answered Mitchell. “The police are
puzzled by the behavior of Mrs. Porter and her daughter.”
“So I heard tell.” Cato’s tone was short; too late he repented of his
garrulous confidences. In the pleasure of hearing his own voice he had
forgotten that Mitchell was a detective. “I ’spects Marse Beverly won’t
be back ’til nearly midnight; had yo’ better wait?”
“Surely, there’s no hurry.” And in proof of his words Mitchell selected
a comfortable chair. “Where did you say your master had gone?”
“Didn’t I tell yo’ he’d gone to Washington?” Cato’s manner waxed
impatient, and Mitchell hastened to quiet him.
“So you did,” he agreed. “But it seems to me that he ought to be back
by now.”
“Yo’ cain’t tell how dese hyar cyars is gwine ter run; sometimes Marse
Beverly gets hyar right smart on time, an’ ag’in he don’t.” Cato
lugged out of his pocket an old-fashioned silver timepiece, rivaling a
turnip in size, and his most prized possession. It had been the gift
of Mrs. Thorne from among her heirlooms, and bore the inscription, “To
our most trusted friend, Cato.” The negro regarded the face of the
watch solemnly as he counted off the time. “’Most ten o’clock,” he
pronounced. “An’ dar’s Marse Beverly now,” as the resounding bang of
the front door echoed through the house. “I’ll jes’ tell him yo’ am
hyar.”
But Cato’s rheumatic limbs did not permit of rapid motion, and Thorne
was halfway up the stairs before the negro’s hail reached him.
“Mister Mitchell am hyar,” announced Cato.
“Here?” Thorne paused. “Where?”
“In de dinin’-room, sah,” stepping aside as Thorne descended the
staircase and crossed the living-room. “He’s been a-waitin’ some time.”
Thorne quickened his footsteps. “Hello, Mitchell, I’m very glad you had
the patience to wait for me,” he exclaimed on reaching the dining-room.
“Cato, bring some Scotch and vichy. Make yourself comfortable,
Mitchell.”
“I’ve been doing that,” laughed Mitchell. “Cato made me feel quite at
home.”
“Good.” Thorne moved over to the dining-table as Cato, returning,
placed a tray with siphon and bottle of Scotch whisky before him. “Say
when--”
“Enough.” Mitchell took the tall glass extended to him and filled it
with vichy. “What are you Virginians going to do when your state goes
‘bone dry’?”
“Endure it with other evils,” dryly. “I wish the legislators would
remember, before passing such stringent laws, that we are not all
‘self-starters,’ and dry dinners can be very dull.”
“You speak feelingly. Was that your experience at dinner tonight?”
asked Mitchell, observing that Thorne wore a dress suit.
“Yes.” Thorne pushed two chairs near the fireplace and produced a cigar
box and ash trays. “What are the latest developments across the way?”
“Nothing later than the scene with Noyes this afternoon,” replied
Mitchell. “Where’s that Englishman been hiding since the discovery of
Brainard’s murder?”
Thorne did not speak until after lighting his cigar. “Are you quite
sure that Noyes was hiding?”
“He must have been, for we sent out a general call to police
headquarters throughout the country to look for him, and no trace of
him has been reported. Also, doctor, no one has reported seeing him
leave the Porter house Tuesday morning. How did he get to Washington?
Where did he take the train for New York?”
Thorne stared thoughtfully at his highball and twirled the glass about
several times before speaking.
“I don’t know that this has any bearing on the case,” he said. “But one
of my patients told me today that an old country place in Maryland just
across the river has been bought by an Englishman named Galbraith--my
patient has seen Dr. Noyes and Galbraith motoring together
and--Galbraith owns a motor power boat.”
“Oh!” Mitchell produced his memorandum book and made an entry in it.
“I believe you’ve hit the trail, doctor,” he exclaimed a moment later.
“I didn’t see Dr. Noyes again as, after reviving Miss Porter from her
feinting spell, he went up to Craig Porter’s room, and Murray told me
an hour ago that the doctor was still in the sick room and could not be
called away.”
“I wish”--Thorne paused to knock the ash from his cigar--“I wish Dr.
Noyes had delayed his return just one hour.”
“Why?”
“Because”--Thorne picked his words with care--“because I was called in
by Mrs. Porter to attend her son, and I would have liked to have the
case.”
Mitchell looked at him amusedly. “What, do you desire to pour coals of
fire on Mrs. Porter’s head by curing her son, or”--his eyes twinkling
as he scanned Thorne, whose air of distinction was enhanced by his
well-cut evening clothes--“do you wish to have your hereditary enemy at
your mercy?”
“Perhaps.” Thorne’s firm mouth relaxed into a warm, bright smile, which
cloaked his abrupt change of subject. “Do you think that Noyes is
implicated in Brainard’s murder?”
“I do and I don’t.” Mitchell settled back in his chair and crossed
his legs. “First and foremost is his disappearance on Tuesday morning
before the murder was discovered--”
“Before the murder was generally known,” put in Thorne, and Mitchell
considered the suggestion gravely.
“Perhaps so,” he admitted, “but I don’t quite catch your drift,”
looking inquisitively at Thorne who, however, remained silent, and
Mitchell continued: “Noyes’ disappearance after the murder, his refusal
to tell me where he spent the past few days, and why he has now
returned to the Porter house all point to a desire for secrecy; and
secrecy would indicate that he has some knowledge of the crime--if he
is not the criminal himself.”
“The latter supposition I think you can dismiss,” remarked Thorne. “It
was physically impossible for a one-armed man to cut Brainard’s throat.”
Mitchell did not answer at once, then pulled his chair closer to
Thorne. “Were you aware until this afternoon in the Porter library that
Noyes had lost his right arm?”
“No. I had never seen Noyes before.”
“But others who testified at the inquest had seen Noyes--why did they
not mention that he had only one arm? Surely a rare enough condition
to have made sufficient impression on his friends and the servants for
them to have commented upon it at the inquest,” argued Mitchell. “In
subsequent conversations, Mrs. Porter, the nurses, Miss Porter, never
alluded to his having lost an arm. Why was that?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” Thorne knitted his brows in thought. “It’s
highly probable that they never imagined Noyes could be suspected of
murdering Brainard, or they would have mentioned it to prove that he
could not have killed him.”
“I don’t agree with your reasoning,” snapped Mitchell. “The loss of
his arm was bound to have come up when the coroner was questioning the
witnesses about the razor; any one of the servants even might casually
have mentioned his infirmity. No, doctor, they didn’t allude to it
because they were accustomed to his using _a false arm and hand_.”
“Upon my word!” Thorne sat back and contemplated the detective in
surprise. “That’s an ingenious theory.”
“I’m sure I’m right,” went on Mitchell, showing more than his usual
animation as he warmed to the subject. “I was about to question Murray
when Miss Dorothy Deane appeared and ordered me off the place--a
message from Mrs. Porter, she said, and as Murray looked as if he was
ready to back up his employer’s orders, I retreated--until tomorrow.
Now, doctor, you are aware of the ingenious steel and wooden limbs
invented to take the place of arms and legs; they are marvels of
mechanical skill, and one-armed surgeons using a false arm and hand
have been known to perform the most delicate operations.” Thorne nodded
agreement. “Well, why couldn’t Noyes have, with the aid of a false
hand, cut Brainard’s throat?”
“It is within possibility,” admitted Thorne. “But the motive for the
crime?”
The detective chuckled grimly. “In moments of stress or excitement
men give themselves away. Did you observe Noyes’ expression when Miss
Porter fainted? You did; then there’s the answer to your question.”
“You mean--” Thorne tossed away his cigar stub. “You mean Noyes is in
love with Millicent Porter?”
“I do,” emphatically. “There’s your motive, doctor--jealousy. Now,
consider all the facts,” catching sight of Thorne’s dubious expression.
“Miss Porter’s engagement to Brainard was to be announced on Tuesday,
but it leaked out at the dinner Monday night. Noyes may have had no
idea that she was engaged to another man, and the news awakened a
desire to be revenged on Brainard. It is possible that Miss Porter
encouraged Noyes’ attentions, and he lived in a fool’s paradise. It’s
said, ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ Well, my profession
has taught me that men evince the same strong dislike to such
treatment--and such motives frequently lead to murder.”
“You are building up a specious case against Noyes,” remarked Thorne.
“But whether your conclusions rest on a firm foundation remains to be
seen. Frankly, I was prepossessed in Noyes’ favor this afternoon; he is
a man evidently of deep feeling, and, judging by appearances, living
under great strain.” Thorne spoke more slowly. “Noyes is not the type
of man to commit cold-blooded murder.”
“Tut, doctor, murder is not confined to a type!” retorted Mitchell.
“If it were we would have an easy time detecting criminals. And they
don’t go around labeled ‘criminals’ in real life any more than they do
in fiction. It’s generally the least suspected person who is guilty in
everyday life, and the clues are to be found in the victim’s past.”
“Exactly!” exclaimed Thorne. “Why not inquire into Brainard’s past?”
“Jones has that in charge and I’m expecting a report daily,” answered
Mitchell. “I’ve learned everything there is to know concerning
Brainard in Washington. He stood well in his profession, had some
private means, and was counted a good fellow at the club, and was a
great ‘dinner man.’”
“The latter means nothing,” commented Thorne cynically. “A suit
of respectable evening clothes often covers a family skeleton in
Washington society.”
“In this instance I haven’t heard the bones rattle,” laughed Mitchell.
“But it may be--” he paused abruptly. “That Deane girl bothers me.”
Thorne’s hand, outstretched to grasp his glass tumbler, remained poised
in air. “She need not trouble you,” he said, taking up the glass.
“I’ve thought over our former conversation about her, Mitchell, very
carefully, and have come to the conclusion that I was wrong.” His gray
eyes held his companion’s gaze as his clear, resonant voice continued:
“I believe that Miss Deane was not in Craig Porter’s bedroom when
Brainard was murdered in the room next to his.”
“Where was she then?”
“Perhaps in her own bedroom or downstairs.”
“Then why doesn’t she say so?”
“Because by admitting that she left her patient she would lay herself
open to dismissal for neglecting her professional duty.”
Mitchell smiled skeptically. “Better be dismissed as an incompetent
nurse than be charged with murder. But you jump to conclusions, doctor.
I did not allude to Miss Vera Deane a moment ago, but to her sister,
Dorothy.”
“Dorothy!”
“Yes,” continued Mitchell. “I went to the _Tribune_ office this
afternoon, and she had the effrontery to tell me that the article Miss
Porter threw into the unused well on the side hill was nothing but a
‘cut’ of her photograph.”
“Have you investigated the matter?”
“Sure. That old farmer, Montagu, told me of seeing Miss Porter drop
something in the well yesterday; but I haven’t had time to examine the
well today.”
Thorne rose and, walking over to the table in the window, pulled open
its drawer. “Here’s the cut,” he announced, taking out a square piece
of metal caked with mud. “Montagu also told me, and I searched the well
this afternoon with his aid.”
Mitchell took the cut and gingerly turned it over. “So Dorothy Deane
told the truth,” he muttered, “and got ‘fired’ for it.” And as Thorne
glanced up in surprise he briefly recounted the scene in the newspaper
office. At its conclusion he rose. “I’m glad to have had this talk with
you, doctor.”
“Don’t go,” protested Thorne. “I can easily put you up for the night.”
“Thanks, but I must relieve Pope who is keeping his eye on the Porter
house. Let me know if you see anyone up in the attic at the Porters’
tonight sending wireless messages.”
“All right, I will.” Thorne accompanied the detective into the
living-room and assisted him into his overcoat. “Drop in tomorrow,
Mitchell; I’m always glad to see you,” he said cordially.
“I’ll come, doctor; good night,” and Mitchell strode through the
doorway and up the brick walk.
Thorne watched him out of sight, then closed the hall door and returned
to the dining-room. He stopped to pull down the window shades, first
taking an exhaustive look at the Porter mansion, whose dark windows
showed indistinctly in the pale moonlight. Thorne next turned his
attention to the neglected cut of Millicent Porter. Barely glancing at
it, he flung it back in the drawer and walked over to the table and
poured out another highball.
“To Vera!” he said aloud, holding up the glass, then lowered it without
tasting its contents, while his eyes contracted with sudden pain.
“Bah!” he ejaculated, and, replacing the glass on the tray, he stepped
to the door and looked into the dark pantry.
“Cato,” he called, removing his coat, “Cato!”