ON THE TRACK.
When Eugénie left the prison, she went straight to Naball's office,
and finding him in, told all about the wonderful discovery of the
veritable five-pound note endorsed in Isaiah's writing. To say that
Naball was astonished would be a mild way to state his feelings on
receipt of this intelligence.
"It's an uncommon piece of luck," he said, looking at the note; "we
might have searched for a twelvemonth, and never come across this
piece of evidence. I think we'll get to the bottom of things this
time. You got it from Kitty Marchurst?"
"Yes, I got it yesterday in payment of my salary"
Naball whistled softly.
"Things look uncommon black against that young woman," he observed
thoughtfully. "I didn't half believe that story of hers about
Stewart's stealing the diamonds, and now this note turning up in her
possession--humph!"
"But you don't think she's guilty?" said Eugénie, clasping her hands.
"I don't say anything," replied Naball savagely, for the difficulties
of this case were beginning to irritate him. "I only say things look
black against Caprice--she's as deep as a well."
"What are you going to do now?" asked Miss Rainsford in a trembling
voice, as she rose to go.
The detective placed his hat jauntily on one side of his head, drew on
his gloves, then taking his cane, walked to the door of the office,
which he he held open for Eugénie to pass through.
"What are you going to do now?" she repeated when they were standing
in the street.
"I'm going down to Toorak," said Naball quietly, "to trace this note,
beginning with Kitty Marchurst as the last holder of it; she'll tell
lies, but whether she does or not, I'll get to the bottom of this
affair. Good-day, Miss Rainsford," and taking off his hat with a
flourish, he left her abruptly, and strolled leisurely down the
street.
Eugénie watched him with eager eyes until he was out of sight, and
then turned round to walk home.
"Oh, my dear! my dear!" she murmured, "if I can only save you from
this terrible danger--but not at the cost of that poor woman's
life--oh, not that!"
The detective, on his way down to Toorak, went over the case in his
own mind, in order to see against whom the evidence was strongest. At
last, after considerable cogitation, he came to the conclusion that,
after all, Villiers must be the guilty man, and that Kitty knew more
about the crime than she chose to tell.
"I can't get over Villiers having had that diamond crescent," he
thought, looking out of the carriage windows. "She denied it was hers,
and then Fenton told me he gave it to her. I wonder if he had anything
to do with the affair--humph!--not likely. If she thought it was him,
she'd tell at once. Perhaps she really thinks Stewart stole the
diamonds. Pish! I don't believe it. She's had a finger in the pie,
whoever did it, and this murder is the outcome of the robbery. Well,
I'll see if she can account for her possession of this five-pound
note--that's the main thing."
Kitty Marchurst was at home, and sent a message to the detective that
she would see him in a few minutes, so Naball walked up and down the
long drawing-room with some impatience.
"If she'll only tell the truth," he muttered restlessly; "but I'm
getting to doubt her, so that I can't be sure. There's one thing,
Keith Stewart's fate rests entirely with her now, so if he saved her
child's life, as she says he did, this is the time to prove her
gratitude."
At this moment the door opened, and Caprice entered. She looked pale
and weary, for the trials of the last few months had not been endured
without leaving some mark of their passage. Naball did not know
whether this haggard-looking woman was guilty or innocent, but he
could not help pitying her, so worn-out did she seem.
"You are not well," he said when she seated herself.
Kitty sighed wearily, and pushed the loose hair off her forehead.
"No," she replied listlessly. "I'm getting worn-out over this trouble.
It's no good my telling you anything, because you don't believe me.
What is the matter now? Have you got further proof of my guilt?"
"I don't know," said Naball, coolly producing the five-pound note;
"unless you call this proof."
"A five-pound note," she said contemptuously. "Well?"
"It is a five-pound note," explained Naball smoothly; "but not an
ordinary one--in fact, it is one of the notes stolen from Lazarus's
safe."
"Oh, how do you know that? By a very curious thing. One of the notes
placed in the safe on the night of the murder was endorsed by the
office-boy with the words 'Back Flat-Iron,' and strange to say the
endorsed note has turned up."
"And that is it?"
"Exactly. Now, do you understand?"
Kitty shrugged her shoulders.
"I understand that you have secured an excellent piece of evidence,
nothing more. Where did you get the note?"
"From Miss Rainsford."
"From Miss Rainsford!" repeated Kitty in surprise; "but you surely
don't suspect--"
"No, I don't," interposed the detective; "because she was able to tell
me where she got the note from."
"Well, I presume she got it from me."
"Yes," replied Naball, rather surprised at this cool admission. "She
received it yesterday from you."
"Oh! then, you think I'm guilty?"
"Not if you can tell me where you got the note from."
"Certainly I can--from Mortimer--paid to me the day before yesterday."
"Your salary?"
"Not exactly," answered Kitty; "if it had been, you'd never be able to
trace the note further back. No; I was at the theatre in the morning,
and found myself short of money, so I asked Mortimer for some. He gave
me that five-pound note, and, as he took it, from his waistcoat
pocket, I've no doubt he'll be able to recollect from whom he received
it."
"Why?"
"Because Mortimer doesn't carry fivers in his waistcoat pocket
generally," said Caprice impatiently, "so he must have put that note
there for some special reason. You'd better go and ask him."
"Certainly," said Naball, and arose to his feet. "I'm very much
obliged to you."
"Then you don't think me guilty?" asked Kitty, with a smile.
"Upon my word, I don't know what to think," said the detective
dismally. "The whole case seems mixed up. I'll tell you when I find
the man who can't account for the possession of this fiver."
Kitty smiled, and then Naball took his leave, going straight from
Toorak to the Bon-Bon Theatre, where he found Mortimer in his sanctum,
up to the ears in business, as usual.
"Well, Naball," said the manager, looking up sharply, "what's up?
Look sharp, I'm awfully busy."
"I only want to know where you got this?" asked Naball, giving him the
five-pound note.
Mortimer took it up, and looked perplexed.
"How the deuce should I know; I get so many. Why do you want to know?"
"Oh, nothing. I just want to trace the note. Caprice said you gave it
to her the day before yesterday."
"Eh! did I?"
"Yes. You took it from your waistcoat pocket."
"Of course; to be sure, she wanted some money. Yes; I kept it apart
because it was made money--won it off Malton at euchre."
"Malton!" repeated Naball in amazement; "are you sure?"
"Yes, quite. You know I'm generally unlucky at cards, and this is
about the first fiver I've made, so I kept it just to bring me luck;
but Caprice wanted money, so I handed over my luck to her. There's
nothing wrong, eh?"
"Oh, dear, no," replied Naball; "not the slightest--only some
professional business."
"Because I shouldn't like to get any poor devil into a row," said
Mortimer. "Now, be off with you, I'm busy. Good-day."
"Good-day, good-day."
Naball departed, curiously perplexed in his feelings. He had never
thought of Malton in the light of a possible criminal, and yet it was
so very strange that this note should have been traced back to him.
Then he remembered the conversation he had overheard between Mrs.
Malton and Kitty concerning the embezzlement, when Kitty denied that
she had paid the money.
"By Jove!" said Naball, a sudden thought striking him, "he was present
at that supper, and was in a regular hole for want of money. I
wouldn't be a bit surprised if he stole those diamonds to replace the
money, and his wife's thanking Caprice was all a blind, and then this
note--humph!--things look rather fishy, my friend."
When he arrived at the Never-say-die Insurance Company Office, he sent
in his card to the assistant manager, and in a few minutes was shown
into Malton's room, where that individual received him with visible
uneasiness.
"Well, Naball, and what brings you here?" he asked, watching the
detective's face stealthily.
"Only a little business, in which I want your help," said Naball,
taking the note out of his pocket-book. "Can you tell me where you got
that?"
Malton's pink-and-white complexion grew a little pale, but he laughed
in a forced manner as he glanced at the note.
"Got this?" he said. "I can't tell you. Was it ever in my possession?"
"It was," asserted Naball. "You gave it to Mortimer the day before
yesterday."
"Oh, yes, I remember now," said Malton quickly. "He won it off me at
cards."
"Exactly. Where did you get the note?"
Malton shifted uneasily in his seat, and his nether lip twitched
uneasily.
"I'm afraid I can hardly remember," he murmured, pushing back his
chair.
Naball's suspicions were now rapidly ripening to certainties. If
Malton were innocent, why these signs of agitation? He wriggled and
twisted about like an eel, yet never once met the keen eye of the
detective.
"You'd better remember," said Naball mercilessly, "or it will be the
worse for you."
"Why?" asked Malton, trying to appear composed.
"Because," explained Naball, in a low voice, "that note is one of
those stolen by the man who murdered Jacob Lazarus."
Malton, with a smothered exclamation, started to his feet, and then,
shaking in every limb, sat down again.
"No, no," he stammered, "that's absurd. It can't be--I tell you, it
can't be."
"Oh, but it can be, and it is. I tell you, the note is endorsed 'Back
Flat-Iron,' which was done by the office-boy a few moments before the
notes were put in the safe by Stewart. They were gone after the
murder, so there is no doubt they were taken by the man who committed
the crime. I got this note from Miss Rainsford, who received it from
Caprice; she, in her turn, got it from Mortimer, and he has referred
us to you. Now, where did you get it?"
Malton drummed nervously on the table.
"I can't tell you," he said in a tremulous voice.
"You must."
"It's impossible."
"I tell you what, sir," said Naball coolly, "if you don't tell, it
means trouble for you and the other man."
"What other man?" asked Malton shakily.
"The man you got this note from."
Malton thought for a moment, and then apparently made up his mind.
"You saw I was taken aback?" he asked Naball curiously.
The detective nodded.
"It's because I'm sorry for what I have to tell you--the man I got the
note from was Ezra Lazarus."
Naball jumped to his feet with a cry.
"The dead man's son?" he said.
"Yes; the dead man's son," replied Malton slowly.
Naball stood for a few minutes, then putting the note in his
pocket-book, once more took up his hat, and moved to the door.
"Where are you going?" asked Malton, rising.
"To see Mr. Ezra Lazarus," said Naball, pausing a moment. "In the
meantime, till I have certain proof of his guilt, you hold your
tongue." And he walked out, leaving Malton standing at his desk as if
turned into stone.
Naball, on his way to the newspaper office, rapidly ran over in his
own mind all the details of the case against Ezra.
"His father wouldn't give him any money, and he wanted to get married
to that girl; father and son had a quarrel on the day preceding the
murder; he was at the Bon-Bon on that night, and took Caprice
downstairs to her carriage; she gave him Stewart's coat to take back
to him again; in that coat was the knife found by Villiers under the
window; she left the theatre long before Stewart,--where did he go? to
his office, or--good heavens! if it should turn out to be true--"
Ezra received him, looking rather knocked up, but his face, though
pale, was quite placid, and Naball wondered how a man guilty of such a
terrible crime as parricide could be so calm.
"You look tired," he said, taking a seat.
"I am tired," admitted Ezra wearily. "I've been busy with my father's
affairs."
"Humph!" thought Naball; "counting his gains, I suppose."
"Any fresh development of the case?" asked Ezra.
"Yes," said Naball solemnly. "I received this note to-day, and traced
it back to Malton; he says it was given to him by you."
Ezra examined the note with great interest, and on turning it over saw
the fatal words endorsed. He looked up quickly to Naball.
"This is one of the notes that were stolen?" he asked.
"Yes," replied Naball; "and Malton said it was given to him by you."
"By me!" repeated Ezra in amazement. "How on earth could I come across
this note?"
"That's what I want to find out," said Naball.
Ezra looked at him for a moment, then the whole situation seemed to
burst on him, and with a stifled groan the unhappy young man fell back
into his chair, burying his face in his hands.
"Good God!" he cried, "you don't suspect me of killing my father?"
"If you are innocent, you can explain where you got the note."
"I cannot--I cannot," cried Ezra feverishly. "I had to pay some money
to Malton, and did so last week. There were some five-pound notes
among that money, but I cannot tell where this particular one came
from."
"Where did you get the money?" asked Naball.
"From the Hibernian Bank."
"Oh, but if you had to pay Malton money, why did you not do so by
cheque?"
"Because I wanted some money myself, and did not care about drawing
two cheques, so I drew one, covering what I owed to him and a little
over."
"Humph!" Naball thought a moment. "You are sure of this?"
"Yes; it's the only way I can account for having the note. Whoever
killed my father, must have paid it into the bank, and it came round
to me by some fatality."
"Where were you on the night of the murder?"
"At the Bon-Bon Theatre."
"Afterwards?"
"At this office."
"You can prove an _alibi?_"
"I'm afraid I can't. I was all alone."
"Look here, Mr. Lazarus," said Naball in a kind tone, "I must say
things look black against you; but I'm not satisfied yet about the
real criminal. To-day is Saturday, so I'll go to the bank the first
thing on Monday, and find out what I can. There's so many suspected of
this business, that one more or less don't matter."
Ezra groaned.
"You don't think I'm guilty?" he asked imploringly.
Naball looked keenly at him.
"No; I believe you innocent," he replied abruptly.