WAYS THAT ARE DARK
AN awed silence followed Dr. Shively’s announcement.
Barclay was the first to speak. “Apoplexy?” he inquired, looking
pityingly down at the still figure. His question received no reply.
“Porter, go call the conductor,” directed Shively. “No, stay, first
show me into a vacant stateroom. Norcross, will you and Barclay carry
Tilghman; I can make a more careful and complete examination in the
privacy of a stateroom.”
The other occupants of the smoker had left immediately on the first
call for dinner, and the porter leading the way, Professor Norcross
and Barclay carried their burden into the forward stateroom of the car
behind, encountering no one on their way to it. Shively stopped for
a moment to glance keenly about the empty smoker, then followed the
little procession into the stateroom.
“Suppose you return to the smoker, Barclay,” suggested Shively, bending
over Tilghman and loosening his tie. “And--eh--just as a matter of
form, see that nothing is disturbed in there. The porter is too rattled
to be left in charge. And, Norcross, please step into my Pullman and
get my grip. Don’t either of you mention Tilghman’s death just yet to
the other passengers.”
“Very well,” promised the professor, and Barclay, contenting himself
with a nod of agreement, went back to the smoker. Reaching the empty
car he paced rapidly up and down the aisle, a feeling of horror growing
upon him. The frail barrier between the quick and the dead had lifted
momentarily--Tilghman, within arm’s reach of assistance, had died in
their midst without a hand being raised to save him.
An involuntary shiver crept down Barclay’s spine, and he moistened
his dry lips; he felt the need of stimulants. Remembering that he had
loaned his flask to Tilghman, he moved reluctantly over to the chair
the dead man had occupied and hunted about. The flask was not in sight.
As he straightened up from investigating the corners of Tilghman’s
chair, he saw Professor Norcross regarding him from the doorway, and
glad to be no longer alone in the gloomy car, he joined him.
“Discovered what ailed Tilghman, Professor?” he asked.
“Not yet.” Norcross selected a chair in the middle of the car and
Barclay balanced himself on the arm of one across the aisle. “Poor
Tilghman! He so counted on enjoying this trip to Washington. It was his
first visit east in nearly ten years.”
“Indeed? Had you known him long?”
“We met several years ago at Colonel Carter Calhoun’s residence during
one of my trips to California.” The car tilted at an uncomfortable
angle as the train raced around a curve, and Barclay almost slid into
the professor’s lap. “Tilghman at one time was quite wealthy,” went on
Norcross, reaching out a steadying hand. “Then he invested heavily in
oil concessions both in this country and in Mexico; I imagine Calhoun
had a good deal to do with putting him on his feet again.”
“Was he married?”
“I believe not. He told me that he expected to visit Dr. Leonard McLane
in Washington, and said the latter was his nearest living relative. I
shall wire McLane from the next station. Ah, here’s the conductor,” as
that uniformed official, looking much perturbed, came in. “Did you see
Dr. Shively?”
“Yes, Professor.” The conductor mopped his face with a large
handkerchief. “Mr. Tilghman’s sudden taking off has been a shock. Why
didn’t he mention that he was ill when I took his ticket?”
“Heaven knows!” Norcross shook his head pityingly. “We were all within
call. Did he appear ill, Conductor?”
“I didn’t get a good look at his face, for his hat was pulled down low
over his forehead. Judging from his attitude that he was asleep, I took
pains not to disturb him, as he had told me only this morning that he
hadn’t slept well on this trip, owing to a bad tooth.”
“Aside from toothache, I never heard Tilghman complain of
feeling badly,” said Norcross. “He looked the picture of health,
strong--wiry----”
“His scuffle this noon with the Japanese may have been more serious
than we imagined,” suggested Barclay slowly. “The Jap resorted to
jiu-jutsu, and it’s a nasty thing to run up against.”
“True,” agreed Norcross. “I’ve seen something of that science in the
East, and have heard of men sometimes dying from apoplexy after a blow.”
“But that did not follow in this instance,” broke in Dr. Shively,
joining them. “I am glad to have found you all together. Conductor,
here is the key of the stateroom; I have locked Tilghman’s body in
there, and have stationed the porter outside this car with instructions
to let no one in until you give him permission.”
“Seems to me that’s pretty extreme,” exclaimed the conductor.
“I did it because I must have a word with you in private, and this car
must be thoroughly searched before other passengers are admitted.”
“Why?” demanded the conductor. The physician’s grave manner impressed
them all and they gathered nearer in silence.
“Tilghman was murdered.”
“What?” chorused the men.
“Good God! Who did it?” demanded Barclay, recovering somewhat from his
astonishment, while Professor Norcross asked:
“How was the crime committed?”
“One at a time.” Shively held up a protesting hand. “It is for us to
discover who is the murderer.”
“Was he stabbed, sir?” asked the conductor.
“No; nor shot.” The physician seated himself and checked his remarks
off on his fingers. “On superficial examination here, I concluded
that Tilghman had died from cardiac syncope; he had apparently every
symptom. But it happened that last night he came to me and asked for
some cocaine to deaden the pain in his tooth. Before treating him with
the cocaine, I tested his heart and found he had no valvular weakness.
Therefore I was astounded as well as horrified by his sudden death,
and determined to make an examination.”
“An autopsy?” gasped the conductor.
“Oh, no.” Shively leaned forward and spoke louder, to make sure that
he was heard above the rattle of the train. “I could find no mark on
Tilghman’s body; he had most certainly not been either stabbed or shot.
And then, although all indications were against my theory, I thought of
poison.”
“Did you have a stomach pump with you?” asked Norcross, who was
listening with absorbed attention.
“Unfortunately, no. But on examining Tilghman’s mouth I detected the
odor of alcohol, and removing the absorbent cotton from the cavity in
his lower back tooth, I submitted it to chemical tests and found traces
of a solution of oxalic acid and brandy.”
Barclay turned cold. Brandy containing poison? Where in the world
was his flask? What had become of it? His thoughts running riot, he
listened dazedly to the conductor’s excited questions.
“What’s oxalic acid?” asked the latter.
“A vegetable poison, better known under the name of ‘salts of lemon’;
a powder which, if dissolved in alcohol, kills almost instantly,” was
the reply. “Also, the symptoms it produces are identical with heart
failure, the acid producing manifestation of great weakness, small
pulse, and failure of the heart’s power.”
“So Tilghman simply faded away before our eyes,” exclaimed Norcross
sorrowfully. “Oh, the pity of it!”
“He didn’t die before our eyes,” retorted Shively tartly. “By the
condition of the body I judge Tilghman had been dead about six hours.”
His listeners stared at him, astounded.
“Do you mean to say Mr. Tilghman sat in that chair with us all about
him, stone dead, and we never discovered it for six hours?” questioned
the conductor in open incredulity.
“Exactly.”
“Well, that beats time!” muttered the conductor.
“Where were we six hours ago?” asked Norcross.
The conductor consulted his watch. “In Atlanta,” he answered.
“I imagine that was where the crime was committed,” said Shively. “Who
was in this car beside Tilghman during the two hours we were in that
station?”
“I don’t know,” returned the conductor. “But I can easily find out by
asking the porter,” and he hastened out of the smoker, to reappear a
second later with the porter.
“No, suh, there wasn’t no one in this here smoker while we was in
Atlanta ’cept Mr. Tilghman,” declared the negro, on being questioned.
“Not a soul, I’ll take my Bible oath to that. I looked in here a few
minutes after de train stopped an’ Mr. Tilghman was a settin’ in de
chair jus’ as ca’m an’ peaceful, an’ I went outside an’ stood on de
platform by de steps at dat end, an’ didn’t no one pass into de car
while we was in de station.”
“How about this end of the car?” questioned the conductor. “The
vestibule----”
“Norcross and I sat there and smoked the whole time we were in Atlanta,
except for the first twenty minutes when we got some lunch at the
station restaurant,” broke in Shively sharply. “No one entered the car
while we were there. If the crime was committed it was done during the
first twenty minutes the train was in the station.”
“Did Mr. Tilghman order any brandy, porter?” asked Norcross.
“No, suh, he didn’t.”
“Might it not be that Tilghman, in a moment of despondency, killed
himself?” asked Norcross, turning to the physician. “He carried a
brandy flask in his bag.”
“If a death is possibly suicidal, it is also possibly homicidal,”
explained Shively. “The brandy flask is still in Tilghman’s bag, full
to the brim and entirely free from oxalic acid.”
“He might have borrowed a flask from some one,” suggested Barclay
slowly. “And added the poison himself.”
“Quite true, he might have. But if it’s a case of suicide, where is the
flask?” asked Shively. “Tilghman didn’t swallow that also.”
“Let’s hunt for it,” and the conductor started forward.
“Did you look about the car when you first entered, Barclay?” asked the
professor.
“Yes.” Barclay passed his hand over the upholstered back of a chair.
“But I didn’t find anything remotely resembling a flask.”
“Strange,” muttered Shively. “I found no flask in his pockets, and he
certainly did not move out of that chair after swallowing the poison.
Porter, were any of these windows opened?”
“Yessuh, an’ dey is still open wid de screens in jes’ as I lef dem.”
“True. Well, he couldn’t have flung a flask through a window glass
or a screen without doing considerable damage, of which there is no
indication; besides which, the action of the poison is very swift, he
would not have had the strength to make any such attempt.” Dropping
on his knees Shively, with the aid of a powerful magnifying glass,
examined the carpet beneath Tilghman’s chair and the chair itself.
“There is no stain, showing Tilghman did not drop the cup out of which
he was drinking. No, no, someone else was in this car, administered the
poison, and carried off the incriminating glass or flask.”
“Then it must have been that little Jap, Mr. Ito,” ejaculated the
conductor. “He’s got the creepiest ways, and there was bad blood
between him and Mr. Tilghman, witness their fight this noon.”
“Suppose you bring Mr. Ito here,” suggested Norcross, then addressing
Shively. “It will do no harm to question him.”
The physician nodded, and drawing out his notebook made several
entries; neither he nor Norcross paid attention to Julian Barclay, who
was striding nervously up and down the aisle. Should he speak of having
loaned his flask to Tilghman? Would they believe him entirely innocent
if they knew-- The entrance of the Japanese and the conductor broke in
on his troubled cogitations.
The Japanese stopped before Dr. Shively, bowed profoundly, and waited
in impressive silence for him to speak.
“Mr. Ito,” began Shively, with a courteous acknowledgment of the
other’s salutation. “I sent for you to inform you that Mr. Tilghman is
dead.”
“Who is Mr. Tilghman?” inquired Ito.
“The man you fought here this morning.”
“I no fought man,” denied Ito politely. “Stranger fell upon me and I
struggled to stand--that all. Mr. Tilghman, you say his name, he no
well when he stagger and fall on me, and now he dead?”
“And now he is dead,” repeated Shively, raising his voice so as to be
heard above the rumble of the train. “Dead, from drinking a poisonous
compound derived from rice.”
“So?” Ito reflected. “It what you call ‘hard luck.’”
Shively’s color rose. “It is ‘hard luck’ which I call upon you to
explain,” he said stiffly. “Kindly inform me where you spent your time
during the two hours this train was in Atlanta.”
“Why you ask?”
“Because during that time or, to be more exact, six hours ago, Mr.
Tilghman was poisoned by drinking brandy containing a solution of
oxalic acid. Where were you at that time, Mr. Ito?”
“You say he died six hours ago?” The Japanese consulted his watch and
did some rapid calculating. “That make time he swallow poison five
minutes past twelve. At that hour I was in public ribrary in Atlanta.
I talk with ribrarian and take out book card--he stamp time on it. If
you no believe, wire ribrarian at my expense and see I tell truth.”
Shively looked at Norcross and Barclay and then back at Ito.
“The seriousness of the situation obliges me to get corroboration
of your statement, Mr. Ito,” he said. “I shall wire at the first
opportunity to the Atlanta library.”
“Then now’s your chance,” broke in the conductor. “We are just stopping
at Greenville.”
“Can you hold the train for an answer?” asked Shively.
“No, we are late already and must make up time,” called the conductor,
as he made for the door. “Wire the librarian to send his answer to meet
the train at Spartanburg, our next stop.”
Shively made ready to follow the conductor. “Keep your eye on Ito,” he
muttered to Barclay in passing, then louder: “Come with me, Norcross. I
want you to telegraph to Spartanburg for a stomach pump, while I get a
wire off to the librarian.”
A second more and Barclay and the Japanese had the smoker to
themselves. Barclay did not relish being stared out of countenance by
a bit of yellow parchment, but he never permitted his glance to waver
before the steady regard of the oblique black eyes. Ito was the first
to speak.
“Will the honorable sir permit that I dine?” he asked.
At the request Barclay awoke to the realization that he was half
famished. Tilghman’s tragic death had put all thought of dinner out of
his mind. Obviously he must not let the Japanese out of his sight, and
there was surely no better place than a dining car for keeping him in
full view.
“Of course you can dine,” he said cheerily. “We both will; go ahead,
Mr. Ito, and I’ll follow.”
They made their way through the long train and on reaching the dining
car were given a table for two. After giving his order to their waiter,
Barclay settled back in his chair with a sigh of relief; the change
from the gloomy smoker and its tragic happenings, to the cheery dining
car, flooded with light and echoing with the laughter and chatter of
gay passengers, was a tonic in itself to his frayed nerves.
Not waiting for the return of their waiter, Barclay lifted the carafe
and leaning over poured some water into Ito’s glass. The courtesy
received no acknowledgment, for the Japanese was intent on drawing a
design on the spotless tablecloth. Barclay watched each stroke of the
pencil in idle curiosity, but suddenly the carafe remained poised
in air, for with the skill of a born artist, there grew under the
Japanese’s hand an exquisite design of the chrysanthemum--the identical
design which, done in delicate tracery, made Julian Barclay’s silver
brandy flask unique.