STEPHANOTIS
Now Mr. Berg’s disposition was of the sort that when offended, desires to
take it out of some one else rather than to retaliate on the offender.
So, after a little further questioning of the still bewildered Swede he
turned again to Landon.
“Let us dismiss the matter of the Swede and his evidence,” he said,
lightly, “and resume the trend of our investigations. Do I understand,
Mr. Landon, that you expect to inherit a legacy from your late uncle?”
Landon’s eyes flashed. “I don’t know what you understand, Mr. Coroner. As
a matter of fact, I haven’t much opinion of your understanding. But I
know nothing of the legacy you speak of, save that my uncle said to me
yesterday, that he would leave me fifty thousand dollars in his will.
Whether he did or not, I do not know.”
The statement was made carelessly, as most of Kane Landon’s statements
were, and he seemed all unaware of the conclusions immediately drawn from
his words.
“Judge Hoyt,” said the coroner, turning to the lawyer, “are you
acquainted with the terms of Mr. Trowbridge’s will?”
“Most certainly, as I drew up the document,” was the answer.
“Is Kane Landon a beneficiary?”
“Yes; to the extent of fifty thousand dollars.”
It was impossible not to note the gleam of satisfaction that came into
Landon’s eyes at this news. Hoyt gave him a stare of utter scorn and
Avice looked amazed and grieved.
“You seem pleased at the information, Mr. Landon,” the coroner observed.
Landon favored him with a calm, indifferent glance and made no response.
Berg turned again to Miss Wilkinson, the blonde stenographer.
“Will you tell me,” he said, “if you know, what caused Mr. Trowbridge to
leave his office early, yesterday?”
The girl hesitated. She shot a quick glance at Landon, and then looked
down again. She fidgeted with her handkerchief, and twice essayed to
speak, but did not finish.
“Come,” said Berg, sharply, “I am waiting.”
“I don’t know,” said Miss Wilkinson at last.
Fibsy gave a quick whistle. “She does know,” he declared; “she takes all
the telephone calls, and she knows the G’uvnor went out ’cause somebody
telephoned for him.”
“Is this true?” asked Berg of the girl.
“How can I tell?” she retorted, pertly. “Mr. Trowbridge had a lot of
telephone calls yesterday, and I don’t know whether he went out because
of one of them or not. _I_ don’t listen to a telephone conversation after
Mr. Trowbridge takes the wire.”
“You do so!” said Fibsy, in a conversational tone. “Mr. Berg, Yellowtop
told me just after the Guv’nor went out, that he’d gone ’cause somebody
asked him over the wire to go to Van Cortlandt Park.”
“Tell the truth,” said Berg to the girl, curtly.
“Well, I just as lief,” she returned; “but it ain’t my way to tell of
private office matters in public.”
“Make it your way, now, then. It’s time you understand the seriousness of
this occasion!”
“All right. Somebody, then,—some man,—did call Mr. Trowbridge about two
o’clock, and asked him to go to Van Cortlandt Park.”
“What for? Did he say?”
“Yes, he said somebody had set a trap for him.”
“Set a trap for him! What did he mean?”
“How do I know what he meant? I ain’t a mind-reader! I tell you what he
said,—I can’t make up a meanin’ for it too. And I ain’t got a right to
tell this much. I don’t want to get nobody in trouble.”
The girl was almost in tears now, but whether the sympathy was for
herself or another was an open question.
“You have heard, Miss Wilkinson, of testimony that means to be true, but
is—er—inexact.” The coroner smiled a trifle, as if thus atoning for his
own late slip. “Therefore, I beg that you will do your utmost to remember
exactly what that message was.”
“I do, ’cause I thought it was such a funny one. The man said, ‘you’d
better come, he’s set a trap for you.’ And Mr. Trowbridge says ‘I can’t
go today, I’ve got an engagement’ And the other man said, ‘Oh, c’mon.
It’s a lovely day, and I’ll give you some stephanotis.’”
“Stephanotis!”
“Yes, sir, I remembered that, ’cause it’s my fav’rite puffume.”
“Was Mr. Trowbridge in the habit of using perfumery?” asked Berg of
Avice.
“Never,” she replied, looking at the blonde witness with scorn.
“I don’t care,” Miss Wilkinson persisted, doggedly; “I know he said that,
for I had a bottle of stephanotis one Christmas, and I never smelled
anything so good. And then he said something about the Caribbean Sea——”
“Now, Miss Wilkinson, I’m afraid you’re romancing a little,” and the
coroner looked at her in reproof.
“I’m telling you what I heard. If you don’t want to hear it, I’ll stop.”
“We want to hear it, if it’s true, not otherwise. Are you sure this man
said these absurd things?”
“They weren’t absurd, leastways, Mr. Trowbridge didn’t think so. I know
that, ’cause he was pleasant and polite, and when the man said he’d give
him some stephanotis Mr. Trowbridge said, right off, he’d go.”
“Go to the Caribbean Sea with him?”
“I don’t know whether he meant that or not. I didn’t catch on to what he
said about that, but I heard Caribbean Sea all right.”
“Do you know where that sea is?”
“No, sir. But I studied it in my geography at school, I forget where it
is, but I remember the name.”
“Well it’s between—er—that is, it’s somewhere near South America, and
the—well, it’s down that way. Did this man speaking sound like a
foreigner?”
“N—no, not exactly.”
“Like an American?”
“Yes,—I think so.”
“Explain your hesitation.”
“Well,” said the girl, desperately, “he sounded like he was trying to
sort of disguise his voice,—if you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean. How did you know it was a disguised
voice?”
“It was sort of high and then sort of low as if making believe somebody
else.”
“You’re a very observing young woman. I thought you didn’t listen to
telephone conversations of your employer.”
“Well, I just happened to hear this one. And it was so—so queer, I kind
of kept on listenin’ for a few minutes.”
“It may be fortunate that you did, as your report is interesting. Now,
can you remember any more, any other words or sentences?”
“No sir. There was a little more but I didn’t catch it. They seemed to
know what they was talkin’ about, but most anybody else wouldn’t. But I’m
dead sure about the puffumery and the Sea.”
“Those are certainly queer words to connect with this case. But maybe the
message you tell of was not the one that called Mr. Trowbridge to the
Park.”
“Maybe not, sir.”
“It might have been a friend warning him of the trap set for him, and
urging him to go south to escape it.”
“Maybe sir.”
“These things must be carefully looked into. We must get the number of
the telephone call and trace it.”
“Can’t be done,” said Detective Groot, who being a taciturn man listened
carefully and said little. “I’ve tried too many times to trace a call to
hold out any hopes of this. If it came from a big exchange it might be
barely possible to trace it; but if from a private wire or a public
booth, or from lots of such places you’ll never find it. Never in the
world.”
“Is it then so difficult to trace a telephone call?” asked one of the
jury. “I didn’t know it.”
“Yes, sir,” repeated Groot. “Why there was a big case in New York years
ago, where they made the telephone company trace a call and it cost the
company thousands of dollars. After that they tore up their slips. But
then again, you might _happen_ to find out what you want. But not at all
likely, no, not a bit likely.”
Avice looked at the speaker thoughtfully. The night before she had asked
the number of a call and received it at once. But, she remembered, she
asked a few moments after the call was made, and of the same operator.
Her thoughts wandered back to that call made by Eleanor Black, and again
she felt that impression of something sly about the woman. And to think,
she had the number of that call, and could easily find out who it
summoned. But all such things must wait till this investigation of the
present was over. She looked at Mrs. Black.
The handsome widow wore her usual sphinx-like expression and she was
gazing steadily at Kane Landon. Avice thought she detected a look in the
dark eyes as of a special, even intimate interest in the young man. She
had no reason to think they were acquaintances, yet she couldn’t help
thinking they appeared so. At any rate, Eleanor Black was paying little
or no attention to the proceedings of the inquest. But Avice remembered
she had expressed a distaste and aversion to detectives and all their
works. Surely, the girl thought, she could not have cared very much for
Uncle Rowly, if she doesn’t feel most intense interest in running the
murderer to ground.
She turned again toward the coroner to hear him saying:
“And then, Miss Wilkinson, after this mysterious message, did Mr.
Trowbridge leave the office at once?”
“Yes sir. Grabbed his hat and scooted right off. Said he wouldn’t be back
all afternoon.”
“And you did not recognize the voice as any that you had ever heard?”
“No, sir.”
“And you gathered nothing from the conversation that gave you any hint of
who the speaker might be?”
Whether it was the sharp eye of Mr. Berg compelling her, or a latent
regard for the truth, the yellow-haired girl, for some reason, stammered
out, “Well, sir, whoever it was, called Mr. Trowbridge ‘uncle.’”
Again one of those silences that seemed to shriek aloud in denunciation
of the only man present who would be supposed to call Mr. Trowbridge
“uncle.”
Berg turned toward Kane Landon. For a moment the two looked at each
other, and then the younger man’s eyes fell. He seemed for an instant on
the verge of collapse, and then, with an evident effort, drew himself up
and faced the assembly.
“You are all convinced that I am the slayer of my uncle,” he said almost
musingly; “well, arrest me, then. It is your duty.”
His hearers were amazed. Such brazen effrontery could expect no leniency.
And too, what loop-hole of escape did the suspect have? Motive,
opportunity, circumstantial evidence, all went to prove his guilt. True,
no one had seen him do the deed; true, he had not himself confessed the
crime; but how could his guilt be doubted in view of all the
incrimination as testified by witnesses?
The coroner hesitated. He was afraid of this strange young man who seemed
so daring and yet had an effect of bravado rather than guilt.
“Was it you, Mr. Landon who telephoned to Mr. Trowbridge the message we
have heard reported?”
“It was not.”
“Did you telephone your uncle at all yesterday?”
“In the morning, yes. In the afternoon, no.”
“Do you know of any one else who could call him uncle?”
“No man, that I know of.”
“This was a man speaking, Miss Wilkinson?”
“Yes, sir, I’m sure it was a man. And Mr. Trowbridge called him nephew.”
“That means, then, Mr. Landon, that it was you speaking, or some other
nephew of Mr. Trowbridge.”
“Might not the stenographer have misunderstood the words? The young lady
reports a strange conversation. I would never have dreamed of offering my
uncle stephanotis.”
“I cannot think any man would. Therefore, I think Miss Wilkinson must
have misunderstood that part of the talk.”
A diversion was created just here by the arrival of a messenger from
headquarters, who brought a possible clue. It was a lead pencil which had
been found near the scene of the crime.
“Who found it?” asked the coroner.
“One of the police detectives. He’s been scouring ground by daylight, but
this is all he found.”
“Ah, doubtless from Mr. Trowbridge’s pocket. Do you think it was his,
Miss Trowbridge?”
Avice looked at the pencil. “I can’t say positively,” she replied. “It
very likely was his. I think it is the make he used.”
“Not much of a clue,” observed Groot, glancing at the pencil.
“Kin I see it?” asked Fibsy, eagerly. And scarce waiting for permission,
he stepped to the coroner’s table, and looked carefully at the new
exhibit.
“Yep,” he said, “it’s the make and the number Mr. Trowbridge always has
in the office. Keep it careful, Mr. Berg, maybe there’s finger marks on
it, and they’ll get rubbed off.”
“That’ll do, McGuire. If you must see everything that’s going on, at
least keep quiet.”
“No, it’s no clue,” grumbled Detective Groot. “There _is_ no real clue,
no key clue, as you may say. And you have to have that, to get at a
mystery. This crime shows no brains, no planning. It isn’t the work of an
educated mind. That’s why it’s most likely an Italian thug.”
Kane Landon’s deep gray eyes turned to the speaker. “Whoever planned that
weird telephone message showed some ingenuity,” he said.
“And you did it!” cried the detective, “I meant you to fall into that
trap, and you did. My speech brought it to your mind and you spoke before
you thought. Now, what did you mean by it? What about the Caribbean Sea?
Were you going to take your uncle off there? Was the trap laid for that?”
“One question at a time,” said Landon, with a look that he permitted to
be insolent. “Does it seem to you the sender of that message was getting
my uncle into a trap, or saving him from one? I believe the young woman
reported that the message ran ‘He set a trap for you.’ Then was it not a
rescuer telling of it?”
“Don’t be too fresh, young man! You can’t pull the wool over my eyes! And
that telephone message isn’t needed to settle your case. When a man is
found dead, and with his dying breath tells who killed him, I don’t need
any further evidence.”
“Keep still, Groot,” said the coroner. “We’ve all agreed that those words
about Cain, might mean any murderer.”
“They might, but they didn’t,” answered Groot, angrily.
“As Mr. Landon says,” spoke up Judge Hoyt, “it may be merely a
coincidence that his name is Kane, when his uncle had so recently
stigmatized his assailant as Cain. Surely such questionable evidence must
be backed up by some incontrovertible facts.”
Landon looked at this man curiously. He knew him but slightly. He
remembered him as a friend of his uncle’s, but he knew nothing of his
attachment for Avice Trowbridge. Kane noted the fine face, the grave and
scholarly brow, and he breathed a sigh of relief to think that the lawyer
had said a kindly word for him. Landon’s was a peculiar nature. Reproof
or rebuke always antagonized him, but a sympathetic word softened him at
once.
Had Landon but known it, he had another friend present. Harry Pinckney,
his college mate, recognized him the moment he entered the room. Then,
obeying a sudden impulse, Pinckney drew back behind a pillar that divided
the two drawing-rooms, as is the fashion of old houses, and had remained
unseen by Landon all the morning. Pinckney himself could scarcely have
told why he did this, but it was due to a feeling that he could not write
his story for his paper with the same freedom of speech if Landon knew of
his presence. For though he refused to himself to call it by so strong a
term as suspicion, Pinckney felt that the coincidence of Cain and Kane
was too unlikely to be true. Regretting his friend’s downfall, Pinckney
thought, so far as he had yet discovered, that Landon was the most likely
suspect. And so he did not want to meet him just yet. Later, perhaps, he
could help him in some way or other, but the “story” came first.