FEVERSHAM'S STRANGE DISCOVERY.
Having possessed himself of all the facts the local detectives were
able to give, Nick Carter had dinner and then went to his rooms to
await reports from Chick and Patsy.
Chick was the first to present himself.
"I suppose you have heard about the finding of the bank-note?" began
Chick. "Well, there is this in addition: I found a negro--a wharf
porter--who says that on the afternoon preceding the murder he had that
note in his hands."
"Who gave it to him?"
"A dark-faced man of about thirty. The man wanted the negro to go into
a grocery near the wharf and get the note changed. In explanation he
said he owed the grocer a bill and wasn't ready to pay it. Otherwise he
would go himself. The negro went to the store, but the grocer was short
of small bills and so the note did not change hands."
"How does the negro know it is the same note?"
"By the number. He was afraid it was counterfeit and scrutinized it
carefully."
"Had the negro ever seen the dark-faced man before?"
"No. He was a stranger."
"How was he dressed?"
"In a business suit of speckled brown. Derby hat. He wore a black
mustache and had a diamond in his shirt-front. That's all the
description the negro could give."
"Did you make any other discoveries?"
"Yes, one more, and an important one, Nick. There's a man on L Street,
near the river, who knows something. The negro saw him talking with
the dark-faced fellow some fifteen minutes before the note-changing
proposition was broached. The negro has just returned from a day's
absence from town, and that's why his story has not yet reached the
ears of the Washington sleuths."
"What is the name of the man who lives on L Street?"
"Prosper Craven. He is a man of family: used to keep the grocery and
has some money, though he is far from rich."
"What is his reputation? Did you learn?"
"His reputation is good. But he is a silent, reserved man and does not
mingle much among his neighbors."
"I must see him at once. Meanwhile, wire Chief Wittman at San
Francisco, asking him if he knows anything of one Arthur Mannion,
giving description."
"What's your idea?"
"I'll tell you later. It is in the hatching process. It may be a
chicken, it may be a duck."
Chick grinned. "I'll wait serenely," he said, "for I know that the
result won't show that you are a goose."
Prosper Craven lived in a small brick house near the car-line. He was
a sad-faced man of fifty years, with light-blue eyes, which blinked
continually, as if the sight were defective. His nose was long and
sharp, his mouth wide and his chin narrow and non-aggressive. Nick
sized him up when he came to the door as secretive, obstinate, and weak
in judgment. Not a man of force. He might err through weakness, but his
aspirations were in the line of good. Corner him and it would be hard
to tell what he would do.
After stating that he had important business to transact, the detective
was invited into the house.
"Mr. Craven," Nick began, "a murder has been committed and every good
citizen is expected to furnish information, if he have any, that will
assist the officers in the search for the murderer. On the afternoon
preceding the death of James Playfair you conversed with a dark-faced
young man near this house. What is that young man's name?"
A troubled look came into Craven's face. He tapped the floor nervously
with his foot.
"You don't suspect him, do you?" he asked, in affected surprise.
"You have not answered my question," returned Nick sharply. "What is
the man's name?"
A pause, and then the answer: "Arthur Mannion."
"I thought so." Craven showed astonishment. His eyes blinked with
unusual rapidity. "Now," continued Nick, in a tone which made the
ex-grocer shiver, "what do you know of Mannion? What was your business
with him?"
Craven's sallow face flushed. "I shall have to consult my attorney
before answering your questions," he said, slowly and painfully. "I
shall be guided entirely by his advice. He may advise me not to tell
you anything."
"Not if what you know has any bearing on the murder?"
Craven did not reply. His expression was enigmatical.
"Don't you know." said Nick, "that Mannion is the stepson of James
Playfair?"
"I know that, certainly; but that fact has no bearing on the matter
about which you have interrogated me."
Nick Carter vented his dissatisfaction at the man's words and attitude
by these strongly spoken remarks: "See here, Mr. Craven, you are
acting very queerly. You are concealing something at a time when it
is necessary, for the proper solution of this mysterious murder, that
every act and circumstance that may have the slightest bearing upon
the matter, as connected either with the words or movements of any
suspected party, or those of other parties having relation, remote or
otherwise, with Playfair's affairs, should be made known. You are a
stranger to me, and yet, from your countenance, I think I have derived
a sufficient knowledge of your character to say that I do not believe
your concealment of any facts which you may have discovered arises
from an unworthy motive. On the contrary, I am satisfied that you are
acting from what you consider the best of motives. But this is a case
in which personal feelings, a regard for the feelings of others"--with
a keen glance at Craven's face, which flushed slightly under the
scrutiny--"should give way before the graver public interest and the
stern demands of justice."
"I thank you for your good opinion, sir," returned Craven, with
emotion, "but my position is so peculiar, there are so many things to
be taken into account, that, at this moment, I cannot see my way clear
to a full explanation. My attorney must be the judge as to what I shall
say."
"Very well," said Nick coolly. "I can say no more than that in refusing
to explain you will be taking a rather risky course."
"I am ready to take the consequences."
Craven's eyes, blinking, strayed from the detective's countenance to
the ceiling. His mouth twitched slightly and he crossed and recrossed
his legs nervously.
There was a short silence. Nick, not yet prepared to give up the quest
for information, finally said:
"Mr. Craven, as a man of the world, as an honest man, as a detective
anxious to serve the cause of justice, I believe it will be best, in
spite of what you have said, that we come to a thorough understanding.
I have the reputation of being a man of honor. In my possession are
secrets sufficient, were they once made public property, to upheave
society from San Francisco to Skowhegan. A layman, like yourself,
is not a proper judge, in my opinion, of what is relevant and what
irrelevant in matters pertaining to cases which may be tried in court.
And, in any case, I cannot proceed with celerity if I am to be hampered
at the outset by what I conceive to be unwise concealment of facts.
Justice strongly suggests that you tell me everything. Let me be the
judge of what is material and what immaterial to the issues, resting
assured all the while that no confidence which does not touch pointedly
upon this case shall ever be violated."
"I will think over the matter," said Craven slowly, "and give you my
decision later. Will that suffice?"
Nick conned the obstinate face, and then said: "It will have to, I
suppose."
When the detective left the house it was with the determination to have
Craven's movements watched while his reticence continued.
At the inquest, that evening, the surgeon who conducted the autopsy was
first examined. He had found all the organs in a healthy condition, and
his opinion was that death had resulted from strangulation.
For reasons which the chief of the secret service men approved, Nick
Carter did not give Craven's name to the coroner. The inquest, it
was certain, could not, with positiveness, name the murderer, and,
therefore, the main purpose of the official proceeding was carried
out and in a satisfactory way. The verdict was that a murder had been
committed and that death had resulted from strangulation.
One of the employees at the railway-station--Hayman by name--nodded his
head as the verdict was read, and these words fell from his lips:
"That's right, and I am onto the man."
"What's that?" The speaker was Nick Carter.
Hayman looked up, recognized the great detective--they were old
acquaintances--and at once said: "I've got an idea, that's all."
"Then we will walk to a quiet place and you shall tell me about it,"
returned Nick firmly; and taking Hayman by the arm he led the man to
the sidewalk.
In the second story of a building a few doors below the morgue, Nick
found a place suitable for a private conversation. It was one of a
suite of rooms occupied by a lawyer of the detective's acquaintance.
The lawyer luckily was in the main office at the time, doing night
work on an important civil case on trial, and he cheerfully ushered
them into the consultation office, where they would be secure from
interruption.
After Nick and Hayman had lighted cigars, the railway man spoke:
"I wish now that I had informed the coroner of what I know."
"Why didn't you inform him?"
"Because I was afraid I might suffer Playfair's fate. I have a family.
I am anything but rich, and a man has to consider such things, you
know."
"Oh! yes," said Nick, with a faint touch of scorn.
"On the night of the murder I was occupied in the railway office up to
half-past eleven in making out my weekly statement. When I had finished
I thought I would walk down to the roundhouse and see if everything
there was all right, for one of the wipers was sick and the other
would not come on duty until midnight. I was close by the door and was
about to turn the knob, when I heard the sound of voices. Two men were
speaking. One was an American; the other's voice betrayed a slight
accent which I could not place.
"'Two hours to wait,' said the American, 'before the train pulls out.'
"There was a short pause, and then the other spoke: 'There's that
Craven business. What if the fellow squeals?'
"'He won't dare to,' said the American, 'for he has too much fear of
me. Besides, it was he who suggested that I come to Washington and
interview the old man.'
"The voices ceased, and, though I waited some five minutes, nothing
more was said. Then I stole softly away, and, reentering the office,
telephoned the police officials that I had a couple of tramps for
the boys. Fifteen minutes later the patrol-wagon arrived with three
policemen. I piloted them to the roundhouse, but the two men were gone."
"Did you tell the officers what you had heard while listening at the
roundhouse door?"
"No. I should, perhaps, have done so had I not been called to the
office by a stranger, who desired to know at what hour in the morning
the first passenger-train started."
"Had you ever seen him before?"
"Now that I think of it, his voice was the same as that of the
foreigner of the roundhouse. I must be thick-headed, for the fact
did not strike me at the time. There is little more to tell. The
patrol-wagon went off while I was talking to the stranger, and I
thought no more of the matter until next morning, when I heard of
the murder. Then I put two and two together and formed a certain
conclusion."
"Describe this foreigner!"
"He was tall, dark-featured, and wore a heavy, black beard."
"Have you no idea as to his nationality?"
"I can't be positive on the point, but am inclined to think he is a
Russian. He looked like one, all right."
A Russian! Nick recalled his experiences with the Russian thugs of San
Francisco, and wondered if by any possibility this man of whom Hayman
had spoken could have been one of the number. Dorrant, the leader, was
dead, and so were Sergius and Nicholas Wykoff. There remained only
Dimitri Goloff, whose connection with the band had been slight, and who
had evinced a desire to lead an honest life. Had he suffered a relapse?
Hayman's description fitted him as far as externals went. But did he
not possess some peculiarly distinguishing characteristic? Yes, he
did--in his voice. "Hayman," said Nick quickly, "what kind of a voice
did this foreigner have? Was it light, or heavy; harsh, or clear?"
"It was heavy and harsh, like a fog-horn."
Goloff it was, then. Nick felt his pulse quicken. How lucky it was that
he had overheard Hayman's remark at the inquisitorial hearing! "Yes,"
he said, in answer to the question that looked out of the railway man's
eyes, "I know the man, and now if only you could give me a description
of the other man it would make my work much easier. But, of course, you
can't, so I will have to go ahead on the presumption that he is the man
I most desire to meet."
Hayman smiled reassuringly. "I think I can help you out, Nick. True, I
did not see the cuss, but another man did."
Nick's face brightened instantly.
"The next morning," said the railway man, "I asked Harrington, the
wiper, who had laid off the fore part of the night, on account of not
feeling well, if he had seen, before he went home, any persons hanging
about the shops of the yard.
"'Yes, sir,' said he, 'I saw two men in front of the roundhouse when I
came out at eleven o'clock.' Asked to describe them, he said that both
were tall. One looked like a foreigner. The other, though dark-faced,
was an American. He wore a black mustache, and his hat was a derby."
Nick expressed his satisfaction. "That settles it," he said. "Hayman, I
am greatly obliged to you."
The great detective did not seek his bed that night until after he had
had a watch placed on Craven's house and had enlisted the services of
the Washington detectives in the search for Arthur Mannion.
It was Nick's opinion that Mannion had not left the city. The story
told by Hayman furnished evidence that the graceless stepson of James
Playfair had a confederate, and it would probably turn out that the two
had murderously assaulted the old man. Perhaps one had held Playfair
while the other had choked the victim to death.
The next morning brought a new surprise. Nick's first visitor, before
the detective had made ready to go out, was Jacob Feversham. He was in
a high state of excitement and his opening words were:
"I have made a strange discovery, Mr. Carter."
"Ah! And what is it?"
"James Playfair's house was robbed before the murder. I found this
out last night while overhauling the things in his rooms. I am his
executor, and I made an early investigation on account of the peculiar
manner of his death. A week before he was murdered he had, in a drawer
in his desk, over two thousand dollars. The money is gone, the lock of
the drawer is broken."
"What makes you think the robbery was committed before the murder?"
"Because Playfair told me two days before his death that he must see
a locksmith to have fixed a lock in his desk which had been broken.
Every other lock was intact."
"Did he not make any reference to the robbery?"
"No. Nothing more was said, and the impression left on my mind was that
he had himself broken the lock."
"Might he not have taken the money out of the drawer before the robber
appeared?"
"I don't think so. In fact, I am positive that he did not. I'll tell
you something about Playfair, Mr. Carter. He was a very peculiar man.
He, of course, kept the larger portion of his cash in bank, but it
was his custom to keep constantly on hand in his house two or three
thousand dollars. He paid out much money in charity, as I have already
told you, and he preferred to hand out the cash to deserving applicants
rather than go to the trouble of drawing checks. He never carried much
money in his pockets, never more than fifty or sixty dollars. No, he
was robbed, and for some reason he desired to screen the robber."
"Do you know of any person, vicious in morals, whom he would have been
likely to screen?" asked Nick, with a queer look in his eyes.
"Yes, I do. It's that scoundrel of a stepson, Arthur Mannion."