THE ALIBI
“YOU deny, then, having seen that chrysanthemum design on my silver
flask?” persisted Barclay, his anger rising at Ito’s evasive replies to
his repeated question.
The Japanese thoughtfully contemplated the soup tureen which the waiter
placed impartially midway between the two men.
“I am originator of designs, honorable sir,” he said blandly. “It is
possibly so that my sketch was used in decorating your flask. Show me
flask and I tell you.”
“I’ve--I’ve lost my flask,” stammered Barclay. If the Japanese really
had been at the Atlanta library at the hour Tilghman was poisoned
he would know nothing of the flask, and he might be one of the
Japanese employed by large silversmiths in this country to furnish
them designs. But if he had been present at Tilghman’s murder and had
guilty knowledge--Barclay’s stubborn chin became more pronounced; his
future actions, however, hinged on the little man’s alibi. “Mr. Ito,”
he began deliberately, “you state that you are an artistic designer
traveling in America to get in personal touch with your customers. But
your name is not one usually associated with trade in your own country.”
Ito sipped his black coffee meditatively. “I poor Nipponese,” he
announced. “You rich American. I travel in your country to make money;
you traveled in my country,” Ito paused to pepper his soup, “and bought
curios.”
The quick retort on Barclay’s lips remained unspoken as Shively stopped
at their table.
“The engineer is making up time,” he said, clinging to the table as the
train went around a mountain curve and unbalanced him for the moment.
“We’ll be in Spartanburg very soon. Norcross and I are sitting here,”
and he joined the professor at the table directly across from them.
Barclay passed a relish to the Japanese in silence, and still without
speaking they continued their dinner, each apparently immersed in his
own thoughts.
If Ito observed that he was watched by Shively and Norcross as well as
Barclay, there was no effort on his part to hasten the service of the
meal, and he waited with patient courtesy for Barclay to finish before
rising.
“My car next,” he volunteered, taking his hat from the waiter.
“Go ahead, I’ll come with you.” Barclay pushed back his chair
impatiently and his long stride quickly brought him up with his
companion, but not in time to exchange a word in private, for Shively
was at their side with Professor Norcross in tow.
“Are these your traps, Mr. Ito?” Shively pointed to two suitcases, an
overcoat, and an umbrella propped up in one of the sections of the
sleeper.
“Yes, honorable doctor.” Ito gravely picked up his overcoat and
umbrella. “We approach Spartanburg----”
“We do,” dryly. “Just drawing into the station in fact, and here’s
the conductor. Don’t move, Mr. Ito,” and Shively’s deep voice spoke
command. “Wait.”
“Here’s your telegram, Doctor, the station master threw it to me.” The
conductor was a trifle breathless. “What does it say, sir?”
Snatching it from him Shively tore open the dispatch and scanned it
hurriedly. A look of perplexity replaced his eagerness as he read the
message aloud.
Yoshida Ito was in library from noon until twenty minutes of two P. M.
today. Had long talk with him.
C. L. GLENWORTH, librarian.
The Japanese, standing hat in hand, overcoat over arm, spoke first.
“Is it permitted that I go?” he asked, addressing all but looking at
Shively.
“Surely.” The conductor stepped aside and Ito, bowing gravely, motioned
to the waiting porter to take his suitcases, and started for the
vestibule of the sleeper.
“One moment,” protested Shively, and Ito stopped, but again the
conductor interfered.
“Go ahead, Mr. Ito,” he directed, and added, as Shively opened his
mouth to expostulate, “No, no, Doctor, you can’t hold Mr. Ito, for you
haven’t proved one thing against him; the librarian confirms his alibi.”
“But why should he leave the train at once, unless he’s running away?”
demanded Norcross.
“Mr. Ito was only traveling as far as this anyway,” explained the
conductor hurriedly. “His ticket read from Mobile to Spartanburg.”
On impulse Barclay wheeled about and made for the vestibule of the
sleeper, but on reaching the platform he found he was too late--Yoshida
Ito had vanished. Barclay returned to the smoker in time to hear the
conductor’s concluding remark to Dr. Shively.
“Very well, Doctor,” he was saying. “Seeing that this Dr. Leonard
McLane, whom Mr. Tilghman was on his way to visit, is his nearest
relative, I’ll carry the body to Washington, but there the undertaker
will have to ship it back to Atlanta for the coroner’s inquest,
provided, of course, that Mr. Tilghman was really poisoned, as the
crime must have been committed in the Atlanta jurisdiction.”
“Quite right,” acknowledged Shively. “The porter has just brought me
the stomach pump I telegraphed for, and in your presence, Conductor,
and that of Professor Norcross and Mr. Barclay, I will make a further
and fuller test for trace of poison.”
“That sounds reasonable.” The worried railroad employee looked somewhat
relieved. “I’ll join you in the stateroom as soon as the train leaves
here. Let me give you the key to the stateroom,” and he dropped it into
the physician’s hand.
With a strong feeling of reluctance Barclay accompanied Shively and
Norcross into the stateroom. Shively had done what he could with the
means at his command to convert the stateroom into an operating office;
his bag, bottles, instruments--the latter lying in neat array on one of
the couches on which was spread a white sheet. A sheet also was thrown
over Tilghman’s body, lying on the other couch. The scene brought
vividly to Barclay’s mind the clinics he had attended years before, and
as he sniffed the pungent odor of disinfectants, he almost imagined
himself back once more obeying the directions of a famous surgeon.
Shively’s voice recalled him to his surroundings.
“I examined Tilghman’s pockets hoping to find some clew of the
murderer,” explained Shively. “And took pains to replace each article
as I found it, as Norcross can testify.” The professor confirmed his
statement with a vigorous nod.
“Did you discover anything which might turn into a clew?” inquired
Barclay eagerly.
“Nothing that I considered a clew, but the police may have better
luck.” Shively paused to tear open the package he carried, and fitting
the instrument together, laid it with others on the couch. “A letter
from Dr. McLane, a bunch of keys, a bill folder containing several
hundred dollars, some loose change, and that is all.”
“A meager list for identification purposes,” commented Barclay.
“If I could only lay my hands on the flask, or glass, from which
Tilghman drank the brandy,” fumed Shively. “Then I’d have the
murderer.” The opening of the door interrupted him. “Ah, Conductor,
come in and close the door; now, if you are ready we can commence.”
Several times while the stomach pump was in use Barclay became
conscious of Shively’s scrutiny, and he mentally cursed the instinct
which betrayed his familiarity with medical instruments. Suddenly
Shively held up a test tube, and his expression told the conductor what
his lack of medical knowledge prevented him from grasping sooner.
“So Mr. Tilghman was poisoned,” he stated, rather than asked.
“Yes, and by a dose of oxalic acid calculated to kill a dozen men,”
said Shively gravely. “Who could have administered it?”
“Who, indeed?” Barclay spoke with more force than he realized, and
colored as they turned toward him. “I’m going to make it my business
to find out, Dr. Shively. Good night,” and not waiting for a reply he
stepped into the corridor and made his way swiftly back to his own
Pullman.
Barclay had been fortunate enough to secure an entire section to
himself, owing to the scarcity of passengers, for the rush had set in
to the south, and few were traveling northward. He found his berth not
yet made up, and sinking back in his seat he thought over the events
of the day. A painful desire to sneeze sent his fingers searching his
pockets for a handkerchief, and in drawing it out a small object fell
in his lap. After replacing his handkerchief Barclay picked up the
chamois-covered bundle and unwound it. A girl’s face smiled up at him
from the hollow of his hand.
Barclay looked and looked again at the miniature, unable to believe
his eyes. How had a painting of a total stranger gotten into one of
his pockets? He turned over the miniature hoping to find some name or
initial engraved on its back, but the handsome gold case was as blank
as Barclay’s mind. Gradually his dazed wits grasped the beauty of the
girl. The artist had done full justice to the exquisite coloring and
contour of the face, the golden curly hair, and the deep blue eyes,
eyes so direct and clear they held his gaze, and he was conscious of a
tantalizing wish to see her lips break into the smile which hovered in
her eyes.
Barclay attempted to open the case, but there was no sign of hinge
or spring, and fearing to break the ivory miniature in attempting to
force it open, he rewrapped the gold case in the chamois and replaced
it in his pocket. Could it be that someone on the train had dropped
the miniature and he had absent-mindedly pocketed it? He racked his
brain trying to recall each action of the day, but the miniature
bore apparently no relation to any of them. How had it been slipped
inside his pocket unknown to him? The thing smelt of legerdemain, and
instantly his thoughts flew to the Japanese--but that was impossible.
The girl was an American and her refinement and high bred air instantly
placed her social position; she would not be likely to permit her
miniature to be carried about by a Japanese designer, an artist--Good
Lord!
Barclay stared in blank dismay at the seat before him, and gradually
awoke to the realization that he was gazing directly at Professor
Norcross, who had seated himself there a second or two before. With an
effort Barclay pulled himself together.
“I’m glad you haven’t turned in,” said the professor. “For my own part
I can’t sleep. Listen, Barclay,” he moved over and sat down by the
latter. “I have made the most astounding discovery----”
“What is that?” asked Barclay, as the professor paused to permit a
passenger promenading the aisle to pass out of hearing.
“We have let a murderer slip through our fingers,” groaned the
professor.
“Then you have identified----?”
“Ito?” breaking in on Barclay’s question. “Yes.”
“But----”
“Listen!” Norcross spoke slowly and emphasized each point. “Ito was
the only person on the train who had a motive for the crime. Tilghman
insulted him grossly; nothing so infuriates a Japanese as to be classed
with a negro; they are the proudest race in the world. Ito took prompt
retaliation on Tilghman for----”
“But how, Professor?” Barclay interrupted in his turn. “It has been
proved by the librarian that Ito was at the Atlanta library at noon
today, and Tilghman was poisoned at that same hour in the smoking car
of this train.”
“Tilghman was killed here at noon, but not at the identical _hour_. Ito
was at the library--man, you forget that Atlanta goes by central time,
which is one hour slower than the eastern time, which prevails on this
train----”
“Then you mean----?”
“That calculating by our watches Ito poisoned Tilghman at noon and an
hour _later_, which by our time would be one o’clock, and by Atlanta
time would be noon, was in the library. Thus he had ample opportunity
to commit the crime and establish a perfectly good alibi at the Atlanta
library.”
“But the Atlanta librarian telegraphed he was there at noon----”
“Of course, he was going by central time which, as I have just
mentioned, prevails in Atlanta. We have been going by our watches which
are one hour _ahead_ of Atlanta. And between us we have muddled things
up finely.”
“Let me get this clear!” Barclay rumpled his hair with both hands.
“Going by Atlanta time, Ito poisoned Tilghman at eleven o’clock this
morning, and was at the library at twelve?”
“Exactly.”
“But by the time prevailing on this train and our watches, Ito poisoned
Tilghman at twelve o’clock and was at the library at one--and relying
on our forgetting in our excitement the difference of time, handed us a
perfectly good alibi.”
“You’ve put it in a nutshell.” Norcross rose. “The only opportunity the
murderer had of entering the smoker unobserved was during the first
twenty minutes following the train’s arrival in Atlanta. After that
Shively and I stood in the vestibule smoking, while the porter was
standing at the other end of the car until the train pulled out of the
station.”
“How did you happen to think of the difference in time?” asked Barclay
detaining the professor.
“Shively observed the hour stamped on the Atlanta telegram and
commented on the fact that it was sent before he had wired, then we
looked up the question of time, and that gave us the clew. To think of
Ito putting it over on us.” The professor clenched his fists. “I’d like
to put my hands on him.”
“So would I,” agreed Barclay cordially. “I have quite a number of
questions to ask him,” and a mental vision of the girl of the miniature
obscured for the moment the kindly, clever face of the naturalist.