THE MILK BOTTLE
“Nothing but an old milk bottle!” exclaimed Berg, disgustedly, as the
exhibit was placed before him on the table.
That’s all it was, and yet somehow the commonplace thing looked uncanny
when considered as evidence in a murder case. But was it evidence? Or was
it merely the remnant of a last week’s picnic in the woods?
A search of the Swede’s house had brought the thing to light, and now the
big fellow told again of his finding it.
Buried, he declared it was, not fifty feet from where he had seen the
dying man. He had not thought at first, that it had any connection with
the murder, and had taken it merely on an impulse of thrifty acquisition
of anything portable. He told his wife to wash out the ill-smelling
contents, and she had done so.
“If you’d only let it alone!” wailed Groot. “What did the stuff smell
like? Sour milk?”
“No, no,” and Sandstrom shook his head vigorously. “It bane like a
droog.”
“A droog?”
“Drugs, I suppose you mean,” said Berg. “What sort of a drug? Camphor?
Peppermint? Or, say, did it smell like prussic acid? Peach pits? Bitter
almonds? Hey?”
“Ay tank Ay don’t know those names. But it smell bad. And it had
molasses.”
“You stick to that molasses! Well, then I say it’s an old molasses bottle
long since discarded, and time and the weather had sunk it in the mud.”
“Na, not weathers. It bane buried by somebody. Ay tank the murderer.”
“The witness’s thinks would be of more value,” said the policeman who had
brought the bottle, “if we hadn’t found this bit of property also, in his
shanty.”
And then, before the eyes of all present, he undid a parcel containing a
blood-stained handkerchief! Blood-soaked, rather, for its original white
was as incarnadined as the hypothetical seas.
“Hid in between their mattresses,” he added; “looks like that settles
it!”
It did look that way, but had there been a question as to the import of
this mute testimony, it was answered by the effect on the two Swedes. The
woman sank back in her chair, almost fainting, and the man turned ashy
white, while his face took on the expression of despair that signifies
the death of the last flicker of hope.
“Yours?” asked the coroner, pointing to the tell-tale thing and looking
at Sandstrom.
“Na!” and the blue eyes looked hunted and afraid. “Ay bane found it anear
the body,——”
“Yes, you did! Quit lying now, and own up! You’re caught with the goods
on. The jig is up, so you may as well confess decently. You hid this in
your mattress!”
“Yes, Ay hid it, but it is not mine. Ay found it anear the——”
“Don’t repeat that trumped-up yarn! You killed that man! What did you do
with the knife?”
“Ay got na knife—”
“Yes, you have! Lots of knives. Come, Mrs. Sandstrom, what have you to
say?”
But the Swede woman could only incoherently repeat that her husband had
brought home the handkerchief, and declared he had found it, as he had
found the bottle, near the dead body of a strange man. They had hidden it
quickly, lest some of the police come to their house; and the bottle they
had washed to get rid of the foul odor.
“She’s in earnest,” said the coroner, looking sharply at her, “he told
her this tale and she believes it, even yet. Or if she doesn’t, she’ll
stick to it that she does. You see, it all hangs together. Sandstrom
killed Mr. Trowbridge, and probably the dying man _did_ call him Cain,
and cry out ‘Wilful murder!’ for this fellow wouldn’t be likely to make
up such a speech. But it referred to himself and he tried to place it on
another. The bottle story is a made-up yarn, by which he clumsily tried
to imply a poisoning. The lead pencil found there, is Mr. Trowbridge’s
own; the queer telephone call had nothing to do with the affair, and
there you are!”
The case was certainly plain enough. The stained handkerchief showed
clearly that it had been used to wipe a bloody blade. The long red marks
were unmistakable. There was no chance that it might have been used as a
bandage or aid to an injured person. The stains spoke for themselves, and
proclaimed the horrid deed they mutely witnessed.
A few further questions brought only unintelligible replies from the
Swede, and the verdict was speedy and unanimous.
Sandstrom was taken off to jail, but his wife was allowed to return to
her home.
Avice felt sorry for the poor woman, and stepping to her side offered
some words of sympathy.
“My man didn’t do it, Miss,” and the light blue eyes looked hopelessly
sad. “He ba’n’t that kind. He wouldn’t harm anybody. He——”
But foreseeing an imminent scene, Judge Hoyt took Avice gently by the arm
and drew her away.
“Don’t talk to her,” he whispered, “you can do the poor thing no good,
and she may become intractable. Let her alone.”
Avice let herself be persuaded, and she followed the judge to the
library. On the way, however, she was stopped by Stryker, who said the
boy wanted to speak to her.
“What boy?” asked Avice.
“That office boy, Miss Avice. He says just a minute, please.”
“Certainly,” she returned, kindly, and went back a few steps to find
Fibsy, bashfully twisting his cap in his hands as he waited for her.
“’Scuse me, Miss, but—are you boss now?”
“Boss? of what?”
“Of the—the diggin’s—the whole layout—” More by the boy’s gestures than
his words, Alice concluded he meant her uncle’s business rather than the
home.
“Why, no, I don’t suppose I am, child.”
“Who is, then? The lawyer guy?”
“Judge Hoyt? No,—what do you want to know for?”
“Well, Miss, I want a day off—off me job, you know.”
“Oh, is that all? You are—were my uncle’s office boy, weren’t you?”
“Yes’m.”
“And your name is Fibsy?”
“Well, dat name goes.”
“Then I’ll take the responsibility of saying you may have your day off.
Indeed, I’m sure you ought to. Go ahead, child, and if anybody inquires
about it, refer him to me. But you must be back in your place tomorrow.
They may need you in—in settling up matters, you know——”
“Oh, gee, yes! I’ll be on deck tomorrow, Miss. But I want today somepin’
fierce,—fer very special reasons.”
“Very well, run along, Fibsy.”
Avice stood looking after the red-headed boy, who seemed for the moment
so closely connected with her uncle’s memory. But he darted out of the
open front door and up the street, as one on most important business
bent.
The girl went on to the library, and found there Kane Landon and the
reporter Pinckney busily engaged in the staccato chatter of reunion.
Meeting for the first time in five years, they reverted to their college
days, even before referring to the awfulness of the present situation.
“But I must beat it now,” Pinckney was saying, as Avice appeared.
“Look me up, old scout, as soon as you can get around to it. A reporter’s
life is not a leisure one, and I’ve got to cover this story in short
order. Mighty unpleasant bit for you, that Cain speech. No harm done, but
it will drag your name into the paper. So long. Good-by, Miss Trowbridge.
I may see you again sometime,—yes?”
“I hope so,” said Avice, a little absently. “Good-by.”
Then she turned to Landon. For a moment they took each other’s two hands
and said no word.
Then, “It’s great to see you again,” he began; “I’d scarcely recognize
the little pig-tailed girl I played with five years ago.”
“You teased me more than you played with me,” she returned. “You were
twenty then, but you put on all the airs of a grown man.”
“I was, too. I felt old enough to be your father. That’s why I used to
lecture you so much, don’t you remember?”
“Indeed I do! You could make me mad by half a dozen words.”
“I knew it, and I loved to do it! I expect I was an awful torment.”
“Yes, you were. But tell me all about yourself. Why are you in New York
and not staying here? Oh, Kane, what does it all mean? I’ve been in such
miserable uncertainty all the morning. Not that I thought for a minute
you’d done anything—anything wrong, but it’s all so horrible. Did you
quarrel with Uncle Rowly yesterday?”
“Yes, Avice, just as the little chap said. But don’t talk about awful
things now. It’s all over, the harrowing part, I mean. Now, I just want
to look at you, and get acquainted all over again. Let’s put off anything
unpleasant until another day.”
“I remember that trait in you of old. Always put off everything
disagreeable, and hurry on anything nice,” and Avice smiled at the
recollection.
“And not a bad philosophy, my dear. Now tell me of yourself. You are
well—and happy? I mean until this tragedy came.”
“Yes, Kane, I’ve had a happy home here with Uncle. I liked it better
before Eleanor Blade came, but Uncle wanted a housekeeper, and she
applied for the position and he took her. That was about a year or more
ago, and Kane, what do you think? They were engaged to be married!”
“Yes, so I learned at the inquest. Don’t you like her?”
“I don’t know; I suppose so. But sometimes, I think I don’t trust her.”
“Don’t trust anybody, my dear Avice. That’s the safest and sanest plan.”
“Have you become a cynic? You talk like one.”
“Don’t you want me to be one?”
“Surely not. I hate cynicism.”
“Then I won’t be one. For the only wish I have in life is to please you.”
Landon’s voice fell lower, and glancing about to make sure there was no
one in hearing, he went on, “All these years, Avice, I’ve been loving you
more and more. I’ve been striving to make a name and a fortune worthy of
you. And I came home to further that purpose, and to see if there’s any
hope for me. Is there, dear?”
“Oh, Kane, don’t talk like that now. Why, just think, Uncle——”
“I know it, little girl. Uncle isn’t yet buried. But when I saw you this
morning, for the first time in so long, and when I saw how beautiful you
have grown, I couldn’t wait to tell you of my love and hopes. Tell me I
may hope,—tell me that, Avice.”
“I don’t know, Kane. You bewilder me. I never dreamed of this——”
“What, Avice! Never dreamed of it? Never even _dreamed_ that I loved
you—that you could—some day, love me?”
Avice blushed and looked down. Perhaps she had dreamed,—just dreamed of
such a thing.
“Don’t ask me about it now, Kane,” she said, firmly. “I’m all nervous and
unstrung. These awful excitements following one another so fast and
furious. Oh, I shall break down.” The tears came, but Landon said
lightly, “No, you won’t, girlie, it’s all right. I’m here now to look
after you. But you’re right. I mustn’t tease you now,—why, I’m back at my
old teasing tricks, amn’t I?”
His strong, frank voice quieted Avice, and she looked up at him as Judge
Hoyt entered the room.
“Well, Mr. Landon,” he said, “I congratulate you on an escape from a
mighty unpleasant predicament. Things looked dark for a few moments back
there. But it all came out right. Queer coincidence, wasn’t it?”
“It was all of that, Judge Hoyt. And it was probably more dangerous to—to
my peace of mind, than I realized at the time. I was pretty much
bewildered at the attack, I can tell you. You see, that was all true
about my call on my uncle, and it looked a little plausible, I suppose.”
“H’m, yes. And are you staying East for a time?”
“Forever, I hope. I’ve had enough of the wild and woolly.”
“Mr. Landon will stay here with us,” said Avice, decidedly. “I invite him
for an indefinite stay.”
“I hope you’ll accept,” observed Hoyt. “I’d be glad, Avice, for you to
have a man in the house. There’ll be more or less unpleasant publicity
after this and, until it blows over, Mr. Landon can probably save you
from tiresome interviews with reporters, if nothing more.”
“Of course, I can do that. Shall you want to remain in this house Avice,
after the estate is settled?”
“I don’t know yet. Don’t let’s talk about that now, Kane.”
“All right. What do you make of that crazy telephone message attributed
to me, Judge Hoyt?”
“Why, Mr. Landon, if you don’t mind, I’ll not answer that question.”
“But I do mind. I want you to answer it.”
“Want me to answer it honestly?”
“Honestly, certainly.”
“Then, sir, I think it was you who telephoned.”
“Oh, you do? And I said that somebody had set a trap for my uncle? And I
said I would give him Frangipanni, or whatever it was? And I said I’d
send him to the Caribbean Sea?”
“You asked me what I thought. You have it. Yes, I think you said these
things, but I think they were some jests between your uncle and yourself
that were perfectly intelligible to you two. I have no reason to think
you were angry at your uncle. Disappointed, doubtless, in not getting the
loan you asked for, but still quite ready to forgive and forget. Now,
honest, am I not right?”
Kane Landon had a curious look in his eyes. “You’re a good guesser,” he
said, a little shortly, “but you haven’t guessed right this time.”
“Then I beg your pardon, but I still believe whoever telephoned that
farrago of nonsense, had no intent but pleasantry of some sort.”
Eleanor Black came bustling in. She looked strikingly beautiful in her
black gown. Not what is technically known as “mourning,” but softly
draped folds of dull, lusterless silk, that threw into higher relief her
clear olive complexion and shining black eyes.
“A family conclave?” she said, lightly. “May I join? But first may I not
have Mr. Landon duly presented to me?”
“Oh, surely, you’ve never really met, have you?” said Avice. “Mrs. Black,
this is my cousin, or the same as cousin, for he’s Uncle Rowly’s nephew.
Kane, my very good friend, Mrs. Black.”
The two bowed, rather formally, and Mrs. Black murmured some conventional
phrases, to which Landon responded courteously.
Judge Hoyt took the occasion to draw Avice outside the hall.
“Let them get acquainted,” he said, “and suppose you pay some slight
attention to me. You’ve had eyes and ears for no one but that cousin ever
since you first saw him this morning. And now you’re asking him to live
here!”
“But you expressed approval of that!” and Avice looked surprised at his
tone.
“How could I do otherwise at the time? But I don’t approve of it, I can
tell you, unless, Avice, dearest, unless you will let us announce our
engagement at once. I mean after your uncle is buried, of course.”
“Announce our engagement! You must be crazy. I’ve never said I’d marry
you.”
“But you’ve never said you wouldn’t. And you are going to. But all I ask
just now, is that you’ll assure me you’re not in love with this Lochinvar
who has so unexpectedly come out of the West.”
“Of course, I’m not!” But the emphasis was a little too strong and the
cheek that turned away from him, a little too quickly flushed, to give
the words a ring of sincerity.
However, it seemed to satisfy Judge Hoyt. “Of course, you’re not,” he
echoed. “I only wanted to hear you say it. And remember, my girl, you
_have_ said it. And soon, as soon as you will let me, we will talk this
over, but not now. Truly, dear, I don’t want to intrude, but you know,
Avice, you must know how I love you.”
With a little gasping sigh Avice drew away the hand Hoyt had taken in his
own, and ran back into the library.
She found Landon and Eleanor Black in a close conversation that seemed
too earnest for people just introduced.
“Very well,” Eleanor was saying, “let it be that way then. I’ll give it
to you this very afternoon. But I am not sure I approve,—” and then, as
she heard Avice enter, she continued, “of—of Western life myself.”
The artifice was not altogether successful. Avice’s quick ears detected
the sudden change of inflection of the voice, and the slight involuntary
hesitation. But she ignored it and responded pleasantly to their next
casual remarks.