[Illustration: “SEND AWAY THAT BOY! ORDER HIM OUT, AVICE!”
_Page 254_]
THE
MARK OF CAIN
By CAROLYN WELLS
_Author of “A Chain of Evidence,” “The Gold Bag,” “The White Alley,”
etc._
_WITH A FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR BY_
GAYLE HOSKINS
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1917
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PUBLISHED JANUARY, 1917
PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS
PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Through the Green Cord 7
II. Who Could Have Done It? 21
III. Pinckney, the Reporter 33
IV. The Inquest Begins 45
V. The Swede 57
VI. Out of the West 69
VII. Stephanotis 81
VIII. The Milk Bottle 93
IX. A Clause in the Will 105
X. Stryker’s Handkerchief 117
XI. Duane, the Detective 127
XII. A New Theory 139
XIII. Fibsy Fibs 153
XIV. Two Suitors 165
XV. The Trap that was Set 175
XVI. A Promise 187
XVII. Madame Isis 198
XVIII. All for Love 210
XIX. Two at Luncheon 223
XX. Fleming Stone 233
XXI. Stone’s Questions 245
XXII. Judge Hoyt’s Plan 259
XXIII. In Kito’s Care 269
XXIV. Escape 282
XXV. The Whole Truth 294
THE MARK OF CAIN
CHAPTER I
THROUGH THE GREEN CORD
Judge Hoyt’s strong, keen face took on a kindlier aspect and his curt
“Hello!” was followed by gentler tones, as he heard the voice of the girl
he loved, over the telephone.
“What is it, Avice?” he said, for her speech showed anxiety.
“Uncle Rowly,—he hasn’t come home yet.”
“He hasn’t? Well, I hope he’ll turn up soon. I want to see him. I was
coming up this evening.”
“Come now,” said Avice; “come now, and dine here. I am so anxious about
uncle.”
“Why, Avice, don’t worry. He is all right, of course.”
“No he isn’t. I feel a presentiment something has happened to him. He
never was so late as this before, unless we knew where he was. Do come
right up, won’t you, Judge?”
“Certainly I will; I’m very glad to. But I’m sure your fears are
groundless. What about Mrs. Black? Is she alarmed?”
“No, Eleanor laughs at me.”
“Then I think you needn’t disturb yourself. Surely she——”
“Yes, I know what you’re going to say, but she isn’t a bit fonder of
Uncle Rowly than I am. Good-by.”
Avice hung up the receiver with a little snap. She was willing that Mrs.
Black should marry her uncle, but she did hate to be relegated to second
place in the household. Already the handsome widow was asserting her
supremacy, and while Avice acknowledged the justice of it, it hurt her
pride a little.
“I’ve asked Judge Hoyt to dinner,” she said, as she returned to her post
at the window.
Mrs. Black glanced up from the evening paper she was reading and murmured
an indistinct acquiescence.
It was late June, yet the city home of the Trowbridges was still occupied
by the family. As Avice often said, the big town house was cooler than
most summer resorts, with their small rooms and lack of shade. Here, the
linen-swathed furniture, the white-draped chandeliers and pictures, the
rugless floors, all contributed to an effect of coolness and comfort.
Avice, herself, in her pretty white gown, fluttered from one window to
another, looking out for her uncle.
“Mrs. Black, why do you suppose Uncle Rowly doesn’t come? He said he
would be home early, and it’s after six o’clock now!”
“I don’t know Avice, I’m sure. Do be quiet! You fluster around so, you
make me nervous.”
“I’m nervous myself, Eleanor. I’m afraid something has happened to uncle.
Do you suppose he has had a stroke, or anything?”
“Nonsense, child, of course, not. He has been detained at the office for
something.”
“No he hasn’t; I telephoned there and the office is closed.”
“Then he has gone somewhere else.”
“But he said he would be home by five.”
“Well, he isn’t. Now, don’t worry; that can do no good.”
But Avice did worry. She continued to flit about, dividing her attention
between the clock and the window.
The girl had been an orphan from childhood, and Rowland Trowbridge had
been almost as a father to her. Avice loved him and watched over him as a
daughter; at least, that had been the case until lately. A few weeks
since, Mr. Trowbridge had succumbed to the rather florid charms of Mrs.
Black, his housekeeper, and told Avice he would marry her in a month.
Though greatly surprised and not greatly pleased, Avice had accepted the
situation and treated the housekeeper with the same pleasant courtesy she
had always shown her. The two “got along” as the phrase is, though their
natures were not in many ways congenial.
Avice remained at the window till she saw at last Leslie Hoyt’s tall form
approaching. She ran to open the door herself.
“Oh, Judge Hoyt,” she cried, “Uncle hasn’t come yet! There must be
something wrong! What can we do?”
“I don’t know, Avice, dear. Tell me all about it.”
“There’s nothing to tell, only that uncle said he would be home at five,
and it’s almost seven and he isn’t here! Such a thing never happened
before.”
“Good evening, Judge Hoyt,” said Mrs. Black’s cool, measured voice as
they entered the drawing-room. “I think our Avice is unnecessarily
alarmed. I’m sure Mr. Trowbridge can take care of himself.”
“That is doubtless true,” and for the first time a note of anxiety crept
into Hoyt’s tone; “but as Avice says, it is most unusual.”
Mrs. Black smiled indifferently and returned to her paper.
Leslie Hoyt was so frequent a visitor at the house, that he was never
treated formally. He seated himself in an easy chair, and took a
cigarette case from his pocket, while Avice continued her nervous
journeys between the clock and the window.
“We won’t wait dinner after seven,” said Mrs. Black, in a voice that
might mean either command or suggestion, as her hearers preferred.
“You may have it served now, if you like,” returned Avice, “but I shan’t
go to the table until uncle comes.”
Now, it had been nearly two hours before this that a telephone call had
been received at police headquarters.
“Is dees polizia stazione?” Inspector Collins had heard, as he held the
receiver to his ear.
Through the green cord the broken voice spoke in a halting way, as if
uncertain how to word the message.
“Yes; who is speaking?” Collins replied.
“Meester Rowlan’ Trowbridga,—he is dead-a.”
“I can’t hear you! What’s all that racket where you are?”
“My bambini—my childaren. They have-a da whoopa-cough.”
“It’s more than children making all that noise! Who are you?”
“Not matter. I say, Meester Trowbridga—he dead-a.”
“Rowland Trowbridge dead! Where—who are you?”
“You find-a heem. Bringa da bod’ home.”
“Where is he?”
“Van Cortaland’ Park. By da gollif play. You go finda da man—Bringa da
bod’ home.”
“See here, you tell me who you are!”
But a sudden click told that the message was finished, and after a few
impatient hellos, Collins hung up the receiver.
“Rubbish!” he said to himself; “some Dago woman trying to be funny. But a
queer thing,—Rowland Trowbridge! Phew, if it should be! I’ll just call up
his house.”
Collins called up the Trowbridge house on Fifth Avenue. Not to alarm any
one he merely inquired if Mr. Trowbridge was at home. The answer was no,
and, glancing at the clock, Collins called up Mr. Trowbridge’s office in
the Equitable Building. There was no response, and as it was five
o’clock, he assumed the office was already closed.
“I’ve got a hunch there’s something in it,” he mused, and acting on his
conviction, he called up the Van Cortlandt Park Precinct Station, and
told the story.
Captain Pearson, who took the message, shrugged his shoulders at its
dubious authority, but he assembled several detectives and policemen, and
set off with them in a patrol car for the golf links.
Up to Van Cortlandt Park they went, past the gay-coated, gay-voiced golf
players, on along the broad road to the woods beyond.
“By golly! There he is!” cried one of the detectives, whose expectant
eyes noted a dark heap on the ground, well back among the trees.
Jumping from the car and running across the uneven, root-roughened
ground, they found the dead body of Rowland Trowbridge.
Dressed in his business clothes, his hat on the ground near by, the body
was contorted, the hands clenched, and the face showed an expression of
rage, that betokened a violent death.
“He put up a fight,” observed Pearson. “Poor man, he had no chance.
Somebody stabbed him.”
A gash in the blood-stained waistcoat proved that the aim at the victim’s
heart had been all too sure, and his frantic, convulsive struggles of no
avail.
Eagerly the men looked for clues. But they found nothing save the dead
man and his own belongings. The scene of the tragedy was not very far
from the road, but it was well screened by the thick summer foliage, and
the rocks and high tree roots hid the body on the ground from the sight
of passers-by.
“Footprints?” said Lieutenant Pearson, musingly.
“Nothing doing,” returned Detective Groot. “Some few depressions here and
there—of course, made by human feet—but none clear enough to be called a
footprint.”
“And the ground is too stony and grassy to show them. Look well, though,
boys. No broken cuff-links, or dropped gloves? It’s a canny murderer who
doesn’t leave a shred of incriminating evidence.”
“It’s a fool murderer who does,” returned Groot. “And this affair is not
the work of a fool. Probably they’ve been spotting Mr. Trowbridge for
months. These millionaires are fair game for the Dago slayers.”
“Why Dago?”
“Didn’t an Italian woman turn in the call? How could she know of it
unless some of her own people did it?”
“But there seems to be no robbery. Here’s his watch and scarfpin all
right.”
“And his roll?”
“Yes,” said Pearson, after an investigation of the dead man’s pockets.
“Bills and change. Nothing taken, apparently.”
“Valuable papers, maybe.”
“Not a Dago, then. Your theories don’t hang together. Well, this will
create some stir in the Street! Biggest sensation in years. Rowland
Trowbridge! Phew! Won’t the papers go crazy!”
“What family has he? Wife?”
“No, nor child. Only a niece, but she’s the apple of his eye. We’ll get
Collins to telephone to the house. It’s an awful business.”
The business was awful, and its awful details took so much time that it
was seven o’clock before Inspector Collins called up the Trowbridge home.
“Maybe that’s uncle now!” cried Avice, and springing from her chair she
went to the ringing telephone.
“Hello—yes—no,—oh, _tell_ me!—I am Miss Trowbridge,—no, his niece,—please
come here, Judge Hoyt!”
Leslie Hoyt took the receiver from the hand of the agitated girl, and
received this message from the police station.
“Yes, sir; I couldn’t tell the young lady, sir. Do you belong to the
family? Well, then, there’s no use beatin’ round the bush. Mr. Trowbridge
is dead. We found his body in Van Cortlandt Park woods. Will you come
here to identify it?”
“Wait a minute! Let me think!” and Hoyt strove to control himself.
“Avice, you were right. Something has happened.”
“Oh, Uncle Rowly!”
“Yes,—” and Hoyt’s voice faltered, “he has been—has been hurt. They—they
have found him——”
“I know,” said Avice, standing perfectly still, while her face went
white. “You needn’t tell me. I know. He is dead.”
Hoyt looked at her dumbly, not contradicting. He had loved the girl for
years, but though she liked him, she would give him no promise, and he
still hoped and waited. He turned back to answer the insistent telephone.
“Yes; of course, there is nothing else to do. Tell the coroner. I will go
there at once. Are you sure of what you tell me?”
“There can be no doubt,” he said gently, as he finally left the
telephone. “There are letters in his pockets, and some of the policemen
know him. Avice, dear!”
But Avice had flung herself on a couch, her face buried in the pillows,
and was sobbing her heart out.
“Let her cry,” said Mrs. Black, softly, as she laid her long white hand
gently upon the bowed head; “it will do her good. Tell me all, Judge
Hoyt. I am the one in charge now.”
The woman’s handsome face showed dignity and authority rather than grief,
but Leslie Hoyt was merely the dead man’s lawyer, and had no right to
intrude personal comment or sympathy. He had long been a close friend of
Rowland Trowbridge and his niece, but with the housekeeper his
acquaintance was but formal.
“I know very little, Mrs. Black,” he said, his eyes wandering to the
convulsed figure on the couch. “The inspector merely told me that Mr.
Trowbridge has been killed and that some one must go to the police
station to represent the family. As his lawyer, it is appropriate that I
should go, and, indeed, it seems to me there is no one else who could—”
his voice broke as he looked again at Avice, now sitting up and staring,
wide-eyed at him.
“Yes, do go, Judge Hoyt,” she cried; “you are the one—who else could? Not
I, surely,—you don’t want me to go, do you?”
“No, Avice, no, dear,” said Mrs. Black, soothingly. “Nobody thought of
your going. Judge Hoyt has kindly consented——”
“I will stop for Doctor Fulton, I think, and ask him to go with me,” and
Leslie Hoyt took up his hat. “You had better go to your room, Avice. It
may be a long time before my return.”
“I will look after her,” and Mrs. Black nodded her head. “I will attend
to everything.”
She accompanied Hoyt to the door, saying in low tones, “When you come
back, will you bring the the—will you bring Mr. Trowbridge with you?”
“I can’t be sure. There are so many formalities to be looked after. Try
to keep Avice as quiet as possible. It will be a trying scene at best,
when we return.”
“I will do all I can for her. How fortunate that you are here, Judge
Hoyt.”
“Indeed, yes. Had I not been, the girl might have insisted on going on
this awful errand.”
The judge walked the few blocks to Doctor Fulton’s office, and luckily
finding him in, they both went at once in the doctor’s car to the scene
of the tragedy.
“Let me give you some quieting draught, Avice dear,” said Mrs. Black, as
she returned to the girl, “and then I’m going to send you to bed.”
“Indeed, you’ll do nothing of the kind. I have quite as much right here
as you have.”
“Of course you have,” and the lady’s voice was as straightforward as her
words. “I only want to spare you the shock.”
“I don’t want to be spared, I want to know all about everything that goes
on. I won’t be treated as a child or an imbecile! I want to help.”
“But, my dear, there is nothing to do.”
“There will be. If Uncle Rowly has been killed, some one has done the
deed, and I shall never rest until I find out who did it, and bring him
to justice! How can you sit there so calmly? Don’t you care? You, who
pretended to love him!”
“There, there, Avice, don’t get so excited. I know how you must feel,
but——”
“Don’t talk to me, Eleanor! You drive me crazy!”
Offended, and a little frightened at the girl’s vehemence, the older
woman ceased all attempts at conversation, and busied herself about the
rooms, with those futile, nervous little motions that most women indulge
in under stress of great excitement.
“I think, Avice, dear, you ought to try to eat some dinner,” she
suggested. “Shall we go out together?”
But Avice only looked at her in dumb reproach, and closed her eyes as if
to dismiss the subject.
Mrs. Black went into the dining-room alone.
“There has been an accident, Stryker,” she said to the butler, thinking
it unwise to say more at the present. “They will bring Mr. Trowbridge
home after a time. Meantime, say nothing to the other servants, and give
me my dinner, for I feel I must try to eat something.”
Mrs. Black’s face was inscrutable as she sat at the well-appointed table.
She ate a little of the dishes Stryker brought, but her thoughts were
evidently far away. She frowned now and then, and once she smiled, but
mostly she seemed in a brown study, and as if she had weighty affairs on
her mind. Not a tear did she shed, nor did she look bowed with sorrow;
indeed, her fine, well-poised head held itself a little higher than usual
as she gave low-voiced orders to the butler now and then.
She returned to the drawing-room and the weary hours dragged by.
Occasionally the two women spoke to each other, but only of trivialities,
or necessary details of arrangement. No word of sympathy or common grief
passed between them.
At last they heard steps outside, and they knew Rowland Trowbridge was
being brought into his house for the last time.
Judge Hoyt came in first and kept the two women in the drawing-room while
the bearers took their tragic burden up to Mr. Trowbridge’s own room.
Shortly afterward Doctor Fulton came down.
“Mr. Trowbridge was murdered,” he said briefly. “Stabbed with a dagger.
He has been dead five or six hours now. Perhaps more.”
“Who did it?” cried Avice, looking more like an avenging angel than a
grief-stricken girl.
“They have no idea. The coroner must try to determine that.”
“The coroner!” exclaimed Mrs. Black in horror.
Avice turned on her. “Yes, coroner,” she said; “how else can we find out
who killed Uncle Rowly, and punish him,—and kill _him_!”
Every one stared at Avice. The policeman in the hall looked in at the
doorway, as her ringing tones reached him. The girl was greatly excited
and her eyes blazed like stars. But she stood quietly, and spoke with
repressed force.
“What is the first thing to do?” she said, turning to Doctor Fulton, and
then glancing past him to the policeman in the doorway.
“Wait, Avice, wait,” put in Leslie Hoyt; “let us consider a moment.”
“There is nothing to be considered, Leslie. Uncle is dead. We must
discover who killed him. We must get the best detectives, and we must
never rest until we have brought the villain to justice.”
“Of course, of course, Avice,” said Mrs. Black, soothingly, “but we can’t
hurry so, child.”
“We _must_ hurry! It is only by beginning at once that we can find clues
and things. Delay means opportunity for the criminal to escape!”
Hoyt and Doctor Fulton looked at the girl in amazement. Where had she
learned these terms that fell so readily from her tongue?
“She is right,” said Judge Hoyt, sadly. “There must be no unnecessary
delay in these matters. But the law moves slowly, at best. Everything
possible will be done, Avice; you may rest assured of that. The coroner
is upstairs now, and when he comes down he will want to talk with you.
You won’t object?”
“Indeed, no. I want to see him. Why, only think, I know
nothing,—_nothing_, as yet, as to how Uncle Rowly met his death!”