Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HE WAS STEADFASTLY WATCHING THE GIRL]
Ashton-Kirk
Criminologist
BY
John T. McIntyre
Author of "Ashton-Kirk Investigator,"
"Ashton-Kirk Secret Agent," "Ashton-Kirk
Special Detective," etc.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
RALPH L. BOYER
THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
1918
COPYRIGHT
1918 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
_To my friend_
_Edward W. Mumford_
INTRODUCTION
It is always a task of much difficulty to select an experience of
Ashton-Kirk's from among the many which have been set down in the
records under his name.
A maze of episodes in these records attracts the mind, and one finds
there a train of singular adventures, any one of which would make a
book. The experiences which go to make up the volume "Ashton-Kirk,
Investigator" were chosen because they dealt with a rather arabesque
murder, the hidden features of which were brought to light in an
extraordinary way. In "Ashton-Kirk, Secret Agent," the elements seemed
uniquely mixed, and shed an unusual light upon the windings of European
diplomacy.
In the third volume, "Ashton-Kirk, Special Detective," the note of
horror was rung shrilly, and the confident talents of this extraordinary
young man were brought smartly into play. It may be that the appearance
in this history of the detective's big, good-natured, strong-handed
friend, Bat Scanlon, had something to do with its finding a place in
this series. In the present book this engaging personality has again a
part in the drama.
But aside from this influence, the episode makes a powerful appeal; the
brilliancy of the criminologist's work in the case treated here would
surely have compelled a place for it in any list of his experiences.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE GATHERING CLOUD 11
II. BAT SCANLON IS SURPRISED 21
III. THE CLOUD GROWS DARKER 32
IV. ASHTON-KIRK MAKES ONE VISIT, AND PLANS ANOTHER 50
V. THE HOUND AND THE SCENT 68
VI. ASHTON-KIRK ASKS QUESTIONS 79
VII. SOME NEW DEVELOPMENTS 88
VIII. SCANLON MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE 100
IX. A PLACE OF FEAR 113
X. THROUGH THE WINDOW 124
XI. DENNISON TALKS ONCE MORE 132
XII. A DOUBLE SHADOW 142
XIII. SOMETHING UNEXPECTED 157
XIV. ASHTON-KIRK VISITS HEADQUARTERS 170
XV. SCANLON STATES HIS POSITION 179
XVI. "CONFESSED!" 192
XVII. THE WATERS ARE TROUBLED 203
XVIII. NORA GOES TO STANWICK 216
XIX. IN THE DARK 225
XX. QUEER INTELLIGENCE 234
XXI. WHAT THE BURGLAR SAID AT GAFFNEY'S 243
XXII. WHAT DANNY SAW AT QUIGLEY'S 260
XXIII. A WOMAN! 270
XXIV. MR. QUIGLEY IS INTERVIEWED 285
XXV. NORA TALKS AND SCANLON LISTENS 297
XXVI. CONCLUSION 309
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
HE WAS STEADFASTLY WATCHING THE GIRL _Frontispiece_
"EVERY CHAMBER LOADED" 74
HE LIFTED THE BLADE ONCE MORE 146
THEN THE DOOR SWUNG OPEN 294
CHAPTER I
THE GATHERING CLOUD
Impatiently, Ashton-Kirk threw down the last of the morning newspapers.
"Commonplace," said he. "And sordid. I am inclined to agree with De
Quincey's 'Toad-in-the-Hole' that the age of great criminals has
passed."
The man to whom he spoke sat opposite him in the lounging room of
Scanlon's Gymnasium; a pair of puffy white hands were folded over a
bloated paunch; he had a sodden air of over-feeding and
over-stimulation.
"And a good job, too," spoke this gentleman. "We can get along very well
without those fellows."
"I am not sure that I quite agree with that," said Ashton-Kirk. He
lighted a cigar and its smoke drifted across the high ceilinged room.
"Crimes are growing no fewer; and if we must have crimes I should
personally prefer their perpetrators to have some little artistry."
The swollen gentleman grunted.
"You were always an odd kind of fish," said he. "But, you know, every
one hasn't your love of this kind of thing."
"They have not given it the same amount of consideration, that is all.
An artist in crime is, in his way, well worthy of a certain sort of
admiration. Who could drive a knife in a man's back with a braver air of
deviltry than Benvenuto Cellini? And yet he could turn himself from the
deed and devote himself to the producing of a Perseus, or to playing the
flute well enough to attract the attention of a Pope. And his own
countrymen, the Borgias, had as pretty a talent for assassination as
they had for government."
"Very like," admitted the other. "But ain't we well rid of such
bloodthirsty apes?"
Ashton-Kirk smiled.
"I wonder," said he, "if you have ever read an engaging little volume
called 'A Book of Scoundrels.' No? Well, I was afraid that would be so.
And you have missed a treat. However, I suppose we can't expect every
one to enthuse over such things. It has been said of music that the
ability to appreciate it is only second to that of being able to produce
it. And this must also be true in the case of crime.
"Stevenson, now, had a magnificent appreciation for a well executed
enormity. In his story 'Markheim' he gives a skilful picture of a
really deft assassination; and in the 'Suicide Club' he has created what
I would class as a master criminal. The Russian writers have a power in
this mood that is truly wonderful. Dostoyeffsky in his 'Crime and
Punishment' has conceived a most tremendous homicide--one which would
have thrilled De Quincey himself."
The listener held up one pudgy hand in protest.
"Don't," he requested. "Please don't. No more. If you knew what I've
gone through you wouldn't dwell on this theme."
Just then a very big man with massive shoulders and chest came in; he
was about forty-five, but he looked pink and swift and fit; and as he
paused at the side of the heavy paunched one, the latter looked
physically shabby in contrast.
"Hello!" Bat Scanlon, trainer, ex-wrestling champion, and border
character, greeted Ashton-Kirk with a pleased look. "Glad to see you.
Come in to dust off the mat with me?"
"I think I will take a turn," replied the criminologist, as he yawned,
with widely stretched arms. "I've been going a bit stale lately."
Scanlon turned his glance upon the other man.
"How are you, Mr. Dennison?" he said. "Back once more, eh?"
"Believe me, it's not because I want to," returned Dennison, huskily.
"It's because I have to. I'm not right, Scanlon; I can't stand anything
out of the ordinary. Just a little extra tax on me, and I'm done."
Bat surveyed him, valuingly.
"No wonder," said he. "You've got a belt of felt about your waist that
only a champion could wear. You must have kept your feet under the table
many and many a bitter hour to win it."
"Now, confound it," said the pudgy one, exasperated, "I don't eat so
much."
"Maybe not." Scanlon looked his disbelief. "But the pangs of hunger and
you are not very intimate. Your most active moments are spent in a
limousine or a club window." He winked humorously at Ashton-Kirk. "I'll
say nothing against the limousine; it's a fine invention; but legs were
made to walk on. And if you think the club window thing will ever reduce
the size of your collar, you're bound to be a disappointed man."
"But I ride every day in the park," said Dennison, "and I go to the
country club three times a week for my golf."
"Riding is a grand exercise--for the horse," commented the athlete. "And
the people who get the most out of a golf course are paid for what they
do."
"Well, a fellow's social life must be seen to," said the defective one,
a fat white hand stroking an equally fat, but blue, jowl. "He's got to
have a bit to eat and drink, and a trifle of leisure to look things
over."
A telephone bell rang in another room, and a squeaky voice was heard
answering the call.
"If you care to come in every day and work, all right," said Scanlon,
carelessly, for he understood the case perfectly. "But the eating and
drinking must scale down to what I think is right."
Dennison appealed to Ashton-Kirk.
"The last time he had me here, he made me toil like a day laborer, and
feed like his helper," said he, gloomily. "But I've got to stand it,
confound the luck. I'm too short in the neck to carry weight and stand
excitement. That thing fairly floored me when I heard it this morning."
"What thing?" asked Ashton-Kirk.
Dennison looked at the speaker as though astonished that any one could
be for even a moment in doubt as to his meaning.
"Why," said he, "that murder--last night."
"I guess that's one I haven't heard about," said Bat Scanlon, and
Ashton-Kirk regarded the man with the paunch steadily, but said nothing.
"Not heard of that!" The man pointed an amazed finger at the discarded
heap about the investigator's chair. "Why, every paper in town is just
screaming about it. The police are at a standstill. The papers say they
don't know what to do."
Just then a door opened; a fiery head was thrust into the room and a
squeaky boy-voice called out:
"Mr. Scanlon! On the 'phone!"
When he reached the little office which opened from the lounging room,
the red-haired boy further informed Bat:
"It's a lady, and she sounds like she was in a hurry."
Scanlon went to the telephone and took down the receiver.
"Scanlon speaking," said he, briefly.
There came a gasping, breathless little exclamation of relief in his
ear.
"Oh, Bat, I'm glad you're there. I'm very glad!" The voice was full and
vibrant; it had a rare quality of resonance that even the telephone
could not stifle.
"What, Nora! Is that you?" The big athlete was plainly surprised.
"Yes, it's Nora," replied the voice. "Foolish Nora Cavanaugh, who is
always in some sort of trouble. I had left word that I must not be
worried by this matter, because I have my work to think of, and the
constant ringing at the door-bell and telephoning was wearing me out.
And just now, Bat, it occurred to me that you would be sure to have
heard of this dreadful thing, and have been one of those turned away."
Scanlon's face was one of mystification and concern.
"Nora," said he, "why this rush of folks at your front door, and who
were they?"
"The reporters have never stopped since early morning; and the police
have been here a half dozen times."
"The police!" Bat's voice rose with a sudden sharpness that caused the
red-haired boy to jump. "What do you mean by----?"
But the full, beautiful voice checked him.
"I must see you, Bat, I must see you at once," it said. "No, no, don't
come here," hurriedly, as he began proposing such a venture. "There is a
cab waiting at the door now. I shall be at your place in twenty
minutes."
"All right, Nora; anything you say. But if you'll only let me----"
"In twenty minutes," said the rare voice. "Good-bye."
The blank which followed told him that the girl had hung up; he turned
to the boy.
"Danny," said he, "there'll be a lady along in a little while. Have her
come in here and let me know right away."
"Yes, sir," said Danny, obligingly.
With his brows puckered in perplexity Bat went back to the lounging
room. Ashton-Kirk was looking out at the crowds passing in the street;
Dennison was reading a blackly headlined story on the front page of one
of the newspapers, his pudgy hands shaking and his eyes feverish.
"The worst thing of the kind I ever heard of," said he with a kind of
gurgle of horror. "The very worst. The police have been bragging about
their efficiency during this last administration; now let's see what
they can do. Here's a case that'll try them out."
"Oh, yes," said Bat, absently. "You were talking about being upset by
this thing. It was----" He paused suddenly, remembering that he had not
yet heard.
"A murder," said the detective, as he threw down the newspaper. "A most
brutal and devilish murder. I talked with Tom Burton last night only a
few hours before this terrible thing must have happened."
"Tom Burton!" Scanlon's big, ruddy face went a little pale. "Not the
'Bounder'?"
"Yes, they did call him that," confessed the other, a little
resentfully. "But that was all wrong. Burton was a good fellow when you
knew him."
But Bat Scanlon was not listening; he had snatched up one of the
newspapers. In staring head-lines he was reading:
MYSTERIOUSLY STRUCK DOWN
STRANGE DEED AT STANWICK!
_Tom Burton, Well-Known Man About Town, the Victim._
_Police Are Puzzled!_
In the body of the type the hurried details of the crime were given--or
as many of them as the journal had been able to gather before going to
press.
Stanwick was a new suburb on a branch line; and some time after midnight
a policeman, Colby by name, had been patrolling his beat, which was
along Duncan Street. A girl in the dress of a nurse, and much
frightened, rushed up to him, and in great agitation announced that
there was a man lying dead on the floor at 620. Colby, startled and
excited, accompanied the girl to the house indicated, and there found
the body of Thomas Burton, a "well-known clubman," stretched out upon
the floor of the sitting-room--dead--and with a frightful wound in the
head.
"The house is occupied by Frank Burton, the cartoonist for the _Morning
Standard_, and his sister Mary, who has been an invalid for some years.
These are the son and daughter of the dead man. They say they had not,
up to last night, seen their father for a long time; his visit was a
surprise and not at all a welcome one, it would appear, as they had not
been upon good terms. According to the story told by young Burton, he
and his sister left the room in which their father sat; when the young
man returned, he found his father dead, as stated."
Paper after paper was feverishly scanned by Bat, but they merely
repeated the few, bare facts. Ashton-Kirk had turned from the window and
was watching the big trainer in some surprise.
"It's a pretty hard pull for a man when he's talked comfortably with a
friend, and said 'good-bye' to him, and, then, the next thing he hears,
is that he's been outrageously murdered." Dennison seemed unable to rid
his mind of this overpowering fact. "It was then I started to go under;
it was just as if somebody had struck me under the heart, and I caved
right in."
Here there came a sudden bustle from the office, the closing of doors,
the dragging of a chair across the floor. Then the voice of Danny came
squeakingly.
"Mr. Scanlon! Wanted in the office!"
"Right," said Bat, promptly. Then, to Ashton-Kirk, he added: "Stick
around for a little, will you? I may have something to tell you."
And then, with hurried steps, he vanished into the adjoining room.