The gloomy morning, with leaden skies and intermittent rain, reflected
Harry Kent's state of mind. He could not fix his attention on the
business letters which Sylvester placed before him; instead, his
thoughts reverted to the scene in Rochester's and Turnbull's apartment
the night before, the elusive visitor he had found there on his arrival,
his interview with Detective Ferguson, and above all the handkerchief,
saturated with amyl nitrite, and bearing the small embroidered
letter “B”--the initial, insignificant in size, but fraught with dire
possibilities if, as Ferguson hinted, Turnbull had been put to death by
an over-dose of the drug. “B “--Barbara; Barbara--“B”--his mind rang the
changes; pshaw! other names than Barbara began with “B.”
“Shall I transcribe your notes, Mr. Kent?” asked Sylvester, and Kent
awakened from his reverie, discovered that he had scrawled the name
Barbara and capital “Bs” on the writing pad. He tore off the sheet and
crumpled it into a small ball. “No, my notes are unimportant.” Kent
unlocked his desk and took some manuscript from one of the drawers.
“Make four copies of this brief, then call up the printer and ask how
soon he will complete the work on hand. Has Mr. Clymer telephoned?”
“Not this morning.” Sylvester rose, papers in hand. “There has been a
Mr. Parker of the Post who telephones regularly once an hour to ask
for Mr. Rochester's address and when he is expected at the office.” He
paused and looked inquiringly at Kent. “What shall I say the next time
he calls?”
“Switch him on my phone,” briefly. “That is all now, Sylvester. I must
be in court by noon, so have the brief copied by eleven.”
“Yes, sir,” and Sylvester departed, only to return a second later. “Miss
McIntyre to see you,” he announced, and stood aside to allow the girl to
enter.
It was the first time Kent had seen Helen since the tragedy of Tuesday,
and as he advanced to greet her he noted with concern her air of
distress and the troubled look in her eyes. Her composed manner was
obviously only maintained by the exertion of self-control, for the hand
she offered him was unsteady.
“You are so kind,” she murmured as he placed a chair for her. “Babs told
me you have promised your aid, and so I have come--” she pressed one
hand to her side as if she found breathing difficult and Kent, reaching
for his pitcher of ice water which stood near at hand, filled a tumbler
and gave it to her.
“Take a little,” he coaxed as she moved as if to refuse the glass. “Why
didn't you telephone and I would have called on you; in fact, I planned
to run in and see you this afternoon.
“It is wiser to have our talk here,” she replied. Setting down the empty
glass she gazed about the office and her face brightened at sight of
a safe standing in one corner. “Is that yours or Philip's?” she asked,
pointing to it.
“The safe? Oh, it's for our joint use, owned by the firm, you know,”
explained Kent, somewhat puzzled by her eagerness.
“Do you keep your private papers there, as well as the firm's?”
“Oh, yes; Philip has retained one section and I the other.” Kent walked
over and threw open the massive door which he had unlocked on entering
the office and left ajar. “Would you like to see the arrangements of the
compartments?”
Without answering Helen crossed the room and stood by his side.
“Which is Philip's section?” she asked.
“This,” and Kent touched the side of the safe.
Helen turned around and inspected the office; the outer door through
which she had entered was closed, as were also the private door leading
directly into the outside corridor, and the one opening into the
closet. Convinced that they were really alone, she took from her leather
hand-bag a white envelope and handed it to Kent.
“Please put this in Philip's compartment,” she said, and as he
hesitated, she added pleadingly, “Please do it, Harry, and ask no
questions.”
Kent looked at her wonderingly; the girl was obviously laboring under
intense excitement of some sort, which might at any moment break into
hysteria. Bottling up his curiosity, he stooped down in front of the
safe.
“Certainly I will put the envelope away for you,” he agreed cheerily.
“Wait, though, I must find if Philip left the key of the compartment on
his bunch.” He took from his pocket the keys he had found so useful
the night before, and selected one that resembled the key to his own
compartment, and inserted it in the lock. To his surprise he discovered
the compartment was already unlocked. Without comment he pulled open the
inside drawer and started to lay the white envelope on top of the papers
already there, when he hesitated.
“The envelope is unaddressed, Helen,” he remarked, extending it toward
her. She waved it back.
“It is sealed with red wax,” she stated. “That is all that is necessary
for identification.”
Kent turned over the envelope--the flap was held down securely with a
large red seal which bore the one letter “B.” He dropped the envelope
inside the drawer, locked the compartment, and closed the door of the
safe.
“Let us talk,” he suggested and led the way back to their chairs.
“Helen,” he began, after she was seated. “There is nothing I will not
do for your sister Barbara,” his manner grew earnest. “I--” he flushed;
baring his feelings to another, no matter how sympathetic that other
was, was foreign to his reserved nature. “I love her beyond words to
express. I tell you this to--to--gain your trust.”
“You already have it, Harry!” Impulsively Helen extended her hand, and
he held it in a firm clasp for a second. “Babs and I have come at once
to you in our trouble.”
“Yes, but you have only hinted what that trouble was,” he reminded
her gently. “I cannot really aid you until you give me your full
confidence.”
Helen looked away from him and out of the window. The relief, which
had lighted her face a moment before, had vanished. It was some minutes
before she answered.
“Babs told you that I suspected Jimmie did not die from angina
pectoris--” She spoke with an effort.
“Yes.”
She waited a second before continuing her remarks. “I have asked the
coroner to make an investigation.” She paused again, then added
with more animation, “He is the one to tell us if a crime has been
committed.”
“He can tell if death has been accelerated by a weapon, or a drug,”
responded Kent; he was weighing his words carefully so that she might
understand him fully. “But to constitute a crime, it has to be proved
first, that the act has been committed, and second, that a guilty mind
or malice prompted it. Can you furnish a clew to establish either of the
last mentioned facts in connection with Jimmie's death?”
Kent wondered if she had heard him, she was so long in replying, and he
was about to repeat his question when she addressed him.
“Have you heard from Coroner Penfield?”
“No. I tried several times to get him on the telephone, but without
success,” replied Kent; his disappointment at not receiving an answer
to his question showed in his manner. “I went to Penfield's house last
night, but he had been called away on a case and, although I waited
until nearly ten o'clock, he had not returned when I left. Have you had
word from him?”
“Not--not directly.” She had been nervously twisting her handkerchief
about in her fingers; suddenly she turned and looked full at Kent, her
eyes burning feverishly. “I would give all I possess, my hope of future
happiness even, if I could prove that Jimmie died from angina pectoris.”
Kent looked at her in mingled sympathy and doubt.--What did her words
imply--further tragedy?
“Jimmie might not have died from angina pectoris,” he said, “and still
not have been poisoned--”
“You mean--”
“Suicide.”
Slowly Helen took in his meaning, but she volunteered no remark, and
Kent after a pause, added, “While I have not seen Coroner Penfield I
did hear last night what killed Jimmie.” Helen straightened up, one hand
pressed to her heart. “It was a lethal dose of amyl nitrite.”
“Amyl nitrite,” she repeated. “Yes, I have heard that it is given
for heart trouble. How”--she looked at him queerly. “How is it
administered?”
“By crushing a capsule in a handkerchief and inhaling its fumes”--he
was watching her closely. “The handkerchief Jimmie was seen to use just
before he died was found to contain two or more broken capsules.”
Helen sat immovable for over a minute, then she bowed her head and burst
into dry tearless sobs which wracked her body. Kent laid a tender hand
on her shoulder, then concluding it was better for her to have her cry
out, he wandered aimlessly about the office waiting for her to regain
her composure.
He stopped before one of the windows facing south and stared moodily
at the Belasco Theater. That playhouse had surely never staged a more
complicated mystery than the one he had set himself to unravel. What
consolation could he offer Helen? If he encouraged her belief in his
theory that Jimmie committed suicide he would have to establish a motive
for suicide, and that motive might prove to be the theft of Colonel
McIntyre's valuable securities. Threatened with exposure as a thief and
forger, Jimmie had committed suicide, so would run the verdict; the
fact of his suicide was proof of his guilt of the crime Colonel McIntyre
virtually charged him with, and vice versa.
What had been discovered to point to murder? The finding of a
handkerchief, saturated with amyl nitrite, which had not belonged to
the dead man. Proof--bah! it was ridiculous! What more likely than that
Jimmie, while in the McIntyre house before his arrest as a burglar, had
picked up one of Barbara's handkerchiefs, stuffed it inside his pocket,
and when threatened with exposure on being held for the grand jury,
had, in desperation, crushed the amyl nitrite capsules in Barbara's
handkerchief and killed himself.
Kent drew a long, long sigh. His faith in Jimmie's honesty was shaken
at last by the accumulative evidence, and he was convinced that he had
found the solution to the problem, but how impart it to the weeping
girl? To prove her lover a thief, forger, and suicide was indeed a task
he shrank from.
A ring at the telephone caused Kent to move hastily to the instrument;
when he hung up the receiver Helen was adjusting her veil before a
mirror over the mantel.
“Colonel McIntyre is in the next room,” he said, keeping his voice
lowered.
“My father!” Helen's eyes were hard and dry. “Does he know that I am
here?”
“I don't know; Sylvester simply said he had called to see me and is
waiting in the outer office.” Observing her indecision, Kent opened the
door leading directly into the corridor. “You can leave this way without
encountering Colonel McIntyre.”
Helen hurried through the door and paused in the corridor to whisper
feverishly in Kent's ear, “Promise me you will remain faithful to
Barbara whatever develops.”
“I will!” Kent's pledge rang out clearly, and Helen with a lighter heart
turned to walk away when a telegraph boy appeared around the corner of
the corridor and thrust a yellow envelope at Kent, who stood half inside
his office watching Helen.
“Sign here,” the boy said, indicating the line on the receipt slip, and
getting it back, departed.
Motioning to Helen to wait, Kent tore open the telegram. It was from
Cleveland and dated the night before. The message ran: Called to
Cleveland. Address City Club. Rochester.
Without comment Kent held out the telegram so that Helen could read it.
“What!” she exclaimed. “Philip in Cleveland last night. I--I--don't
understand.” And looking at her Kent was astounded at the flash of
terror which shone for an instant in her eyes. Before he had time to
question her she bolted around the corridor.
Kent remained staring ahead for an instant then returned thoughtfully to
his office, and within a second Sylvester received a telephone message
to show Colonel McIntyre into Kent's office. Not only Colonel McIntyre
followed the clerk into the room but Benjamin Clymer. “Any further
developments, Kent?” inquired the banker. “No, we can't sit down; just
dropped in to see you a minute.”
“There is nothing new,” Kent had made instant decision; such information
regarding the death of Turnbull as he had gleaned from Ferguson, and the
events of the night before should be confided to Clymer alone, and not
in the presence of Colonel McIntyre.
“Did you search Turnbull's apartment last night as you spoke of doing?”
asked McIntyre.
“I did, and found no trace of your securities, Colonel.”
McIntyre lifted his eyebrows as he smiled sarcastically. “Can I see
Rochester?” he asked.
“He is in Cleveland; I don't know just when he will be back.”
“Indeed? Too bad you haven't the benefit of his advice,” remarked
McIntyre insolently. “At Clymer's request, Kent, I have allowed you
until Saturday night to find the securities and either clear Turnbull's
name or admit his guilt; there remain two days and a half before I take
the affair in my own hands and make it public.”
“I hope to establish Turnbull's innocence before that time,” retorted
Kent coolly.
Inwardly his spirits sank; had not every effort on his part brought but
further proof of Jimmie's guilt? That McIntyre would make no attempt to
hush up the scandal was obvious.
“Keep me informed of your progress,” McIntyre's manner was domineering
and Kent felt the blood mount to his temples, but he was determined
not to lose his temper whatever the provocation; McIntyre was Barbara's
father.
Clymer, aware that the atmosphere was getting strained, diplomatically
intervened.
“Dine with me to-night, Kent,” he said. “Perhaps you will then have some
news that will throw light on the present whereabouts of the securities.
I found, on making inquiries, that they have not been offered for sale
in the usual channels. Come, McIntyre, I have a directors' meeting in
twenty minutes.”
McIntyre, who had been swinging his walking stick from one hand to
the other in marked impatience, turned to Kent, his manner more
conciliatory.
“Pleasant quarters you have,” he remarked. “Does Rochester share his
room with you?”
“No, Colonel, his is across the ante-room where you waited a few minutes
ago,” explained Kent as he accompanied his visitors to the door. “This
is my office.”
“Ah, yes, I thought as much on seeing only one desk,” McIntyre's manner
grew more cordial. “Does Rochester's furniture duplicate yours, safe and
all?”
“Safe--no, he has none; that is the firm's safe.” Kent was becoming
restless under so many personal questions. “Good-by, Mr. Clymer.”
“Don't forget to-night at eight,” the banker reminded him before
stepping into the corridor. “We'll dine at the Club de Vingt. Come
along, McIntyre.”
Sylvester stopped Kent on his way back to his office and handed him the
neatly typewritten copies of his brief, and with a word of thanks the
lawyer went over to his desk and, gathering such papers as he required
at the court house, he thrust them and the brief into his leather bag,
but instead of hurrying on his way, he stood still to consider the
events of the morning.
Helen McIntyre, during their interview, had not responded to his appeal
for her confidence, nor vouchsafed any reason for her belief that Jimmie
Turnbull had been the victim of foul play. And Colonel McIntyre had
given him only until Saturday night to solve the problem! Kent's
overwrought feelings found vent in an emphatic oath.
“Excuse me,” exclaimed Sylvester mildly from the doorway. “I knocked and
understood you to say come in.
“Well, what is it?” Kent's nerves were getting a bit raw; a glance at
his watch showed him he had a slender margin only in which to reach
the court house in time for his appointment. Not even waiting for the
clerk's reply he snatched up his brief case and made for the private
door leading into the corridor. But he was destined not to get away
without another interruption.
As Sylvester was hastily explaining, “Two gentlemen to see you, Mr.
Kent,” the clerk was thrust aside and Detective Ferguson entered,
accompanied by a deputy marshal.
“Sorry to detain you, Mr. Kent,” exclaimed the detective. “I came to
tell you that Coroner Penfield has just called an inquest for this
afternoon to inquire into Jimmie Turnbull's death. Where's your partner,
Mr. Rochester?” looking around inquiringly.
“In Cleveland. Won't I do?” replied Kent, his appointment forgotten in
the news that Ferguson had just given him.
“No, we didn't come for legal advice,” Ferguson smiled; then grew
serious. “What's Mr. Rochester's address?”
Kent walked over to his desk and picked up the telegram. “The City Club,
Cleveland,” he stated.
“Thanks,” Ferguson jotted down the address in his note-book. “Jones,
here,” placing his hand on his companion, “came to serve Mr. Rochester
with a subpoena; he's wanted at the Turnbull inquest as a material
witness.”