THE INTERVIEW
JULIAN BARCLAY’S luncheon at the club had been a polite fiction,
invented under the spur of his desire to be by himself; he felt that he
could not face Ethel just then; at least, not in the presence of Walter
Ogden and his wife.
Once outside the Ogden house Barclay turned blindly toward the country.
An instinctive desire to reason his troubles in the open guided his
footsteps, and how long he tramped, and where, on the outskirts of
Washington he never knew, but when he again reached the down town
section of the city he had recovered his composure and decided on his
future actions. Too long he had drifted with the tide; whatever the
consequences to himself he must take his place in the affairs of men.
As to Ethel--he winced and bit his lip; other and better men had had
to renounce their heart’s desire. A past of shadows was an unstable
foundation on which to build a dream of happiness, and deserved a rude
awakening. There remained but one thing for him to do; to bid Ethel
good-by and wish her Godspeed on the road to happiness.
Barclay stepped into a corner drug store, looked up a number in the
city directory, and entering a taxicab repeated the number to the
chauffeur. Within ten minutes he was standing in an office building
interviewing a colored servant.
“Dr. McLane is in his office now, sir; step this way, sir,” and the
office boy piloted him into a well lighted room. Barclay sighed
impatiently on catching sight of the rows of people waiting to see the
popular surgeon; then resigning himself to the inevitable, he took a
chair near the window and awaited his turn.
Barclay picked up a newspaper, but the printed lines failed to interest
him, and when Dr. Leonard McLane entered the room to summon the next
patient into his consulting office, he was looking out of the window
at the passing vehicles and electric cars. The surgeon’s roving glance
halted as it fell on Barclay’s fine profile, then passed on, but each
time that McLane reëntered the room he contrived without attracting
Barclay’s attention, to get a better and nearer view of him.
“Well, sir,” McLane’s clear resonant voice broke in on Barclay’s sad
thoughts. “What can I do for you?” And looking up, Barclay found that
he was the last patient and the two men were alone.
“I would like a word with you in private,” he said.
McLane bowed. “This way, then,” and stepping inside the consulting
office Barclay selected a chair farthest from the window, while the
surgeon closed the communicating door, and sat down before his desk. He
waited for Barclay to speak, but it was some minutes before the latter
broke the silence.
“I have not come to consult you as a patient, Doctor,” he began. “But
on a private matter.”
“Yes?” McLane’s voice again aroused Barclay, and he cleared his throat
nervously.
“I realize that you are very busy,” he stammered, glancing about the
well-arranged office. “I promise not to take up your time needlessly.
Here is my card”--laying his visiting card on the desk, and McLane
switched on his droplight, for the winter afternoon was waning into
twilight, and read the name engraved on the card.
“Well, Mr. Barclay, what can I do for you?” he asked.
“Give me all the details of the inquest on Dwight Tilghman,” answered
Barclay promptly, looking directly at McLane. “I understand that you
went to Atlanta with the body and stayed on for the inquest.”
“True, I did,” replied McLane, and imperceptibly his hand moved the
shade of the droplight until Barclay’s face was no longer in shadow.
“Are you the Julian Barclay whose deposition was read at the inquest?”
“I am.”
“And your reasons for questioning me, Mr. Barclay?”
“I am desirous of helping trace the murderer.” The surgeon’s question
had brought a touch of color to his white face. “I want to help trap
Yoshida Ito.”
“Ah, then you know him to be guilty.”
“No, only believe him to be guilty,” corrected Barclay quickly. “And
all evidence, as far as I can ascertain, points to him--”
“Except a possible motive,” supplemented McLane. “Men do not murder
each other, Mr. Barclay, without a motive.”
The remark brought a curious glint in Barclay’s eyes which the surgeon
observed, but his own expression remained impassive.
“There is always the alternative of suicide,” remarked Barclay
composedly. “But in the case of the murder of your cousin, Dwight
Tilghman, that theory can be dispensed with.”
“Your reasons for that assertion?”
Barclay drew back farther in his chair, and the movement again brought
his face in shadow. “If Dwight Tilghman had committed suicide the
receptacle out of which he drank the poison would have been found near
him.”
“Then you contend that the absence of such a receptacle indicates the
presence of another person in the smoking car at the time Tilghman
swallowed the poison?”
“I do. Dr. Shively said the poison was almost instantaneous in its
effect and that it was physically impossible for Tilghman to dispose
of the, eh, cup or glass, after he had swallowed the poison. Therefore
another person must have been in the car, contrary to the porter’s
testimony, and,” his voice deepening, “the fact that such a person does
not come forward frankly, as he would do if innocent, presupposes his
guilt.”
McLane nodded his head. “I entirely agree with your reasoning,” he said
gravely. “I asked simply to see if your view would coincide with mine.
Dwight Tilghman was undoubtedly murdered while sitting in the smoking
car of the Washington, New Orleans, and San Francisco Express during
its stop at the station in Atlanta, Ga. The autopsy proved that a dose
of oxalic acid had been administered in brandy, and that he died almost
instantly. No other cause of death could be ascertained, as Tilghman
was physically well, and there was no indication of violence.”
“But,” Barclay hesitated and spoke more slowly, “oxalic acid has a
forbidding, sour taste, and for that reason is seldom used by would-be
murderers, the victim being quick to detect the acid taste. The
medical records prove that it is sometimes mistaken for Epsom salts
and swallowed inadvertently, and not infrequently used by suicides,”
he looked hard at McLane. “If not taken accidentally, or with suicidal
intent, Tilghman _must_ have detected the taste of the poison in the
brandy.”
“True.” McLane leaned one elbow on his desk as he bent nearer his
companion. “I have already stated that Tilghman was physically sound,
but from birth he was deficient in one particular--he had no sense of
taste.”
“Upon my word!”
Barclay drew in his breath sharply and stared at McLane in astonishment.
“Tilghman had no motive to commit suicide,” continued McLane. “I was
made executor of his will, and his affairs appear to be in excellent
shape. While not wealthy, Tilghman had several thousand dollars in the
bank, besides owning much unencumbered improved property. He was not
married, and I never heard of his having a love affair, or a quarrel
with anyone.”
“And yet he died mysteriously,” muttered Barclay. “Eliminating the
theory of suicide and considering the case as a murder, pure and
simple----”
“It’s far from simple,” corrected McLane sharply. “Here we have a man
seated in an empty smoking car poisoned by some unknown person, and the
murder not discovered until five or six hours later--no trace of the
receptacle in which the poison was administered, and the passengers on
the train now scattered to the far winds.”
“If the police succeed in finding Yoshida Ito they need look for no
other passenger,” said Barclay grimly.
“You think so?” and the glance McLane shot at his companion was keen.
“Yes,” Barclay leaned forward in his earnestness. “The Japanese on
entering the smoking car was attacked by Tilghman, that I’ll swear
to----”
“You mentioned it in your deposition,” put in McLane dryly.
“Quite so,” composedly. “After the brief scuffle, during which the
Japanese used jiu-jutsu and which, but for the interference of Dr.
Shively and Professor Norcross, might have had fatal results for
Tilghman, the latter, on recovering his breath, offered the Japanese
an insult which he was not likely to forgive. The Japanese mind works
quickly, and with them to plan is to accomplish.”
“It was a subtle brain that planned Tilghman’s murder,” agreed McLane.
“But there are some points about Ito’s conduct which to me contradict
the evidence.”
“A verdict of guilty was brought against him by the coroner’s inquest,
was it not?” asked Barclay coldly.
“Yes.” McLane opened a desk drawer and took from it several papers and
newspaper clippings, and consulted one of them as he continued: “The
coroner, in summing up, asked: ‘On the evidence, are you satisfied
beyond reasonable doubt that at noon on the day in question the
Japanese, Yoshida Ito, was in company with the deceased?’ Apparently,”
added McLane, before Barclay could interrupt, “the jury was satisfied
that Ito was in Tilghman’s company, because a verdict of guilty was
brought in. In other words, the alibi given by Ito could so easily
have been cleverly manufactured that no faith was placed in it, and it
turned the scales against the Japanese. In reality, they had not one
ray of conclusive proof against him.”
“Oh, come!” exclaimed Barclay skeptically.
“I am willing to test my belief,” retorted McLane. “Take the alibi--it
required a knowledge beforehand of the differences in central and
eastern time to think up such an alibi; a knowledge that Atlanta goes
by central time and the railroad trains running north from there use
eastern time. It appears to me extremely doubtful if the Japanese,
clever as his race is, could have worked out the alibi in so short a
time. He was a stranger in a strange land.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” retorted Barclay. “As far as we know he may
have been there a dozen times, and while, as I saw stated in an account
of the inquest, it could not be proved that he had ever been in Atlanta
before, he boarded the train at Mobile, and in that city, which also
uses central time, he may have learned that while central time prevails
in Atlanta, on northbound trains it _there_ changes to eastern time.”
“That is possible,” McLane laid down the papers. “The conductor
testified that while Ito was dining, he searched his luggage and found
no trace of any flask filled with brandy, or a cup or glass.”
“Naturally, he could have thrown away all such incriminating articles
by that time,” retorted Barclay. “Did the conductor search Ito before
he left the train?”
“Unfortunately he did not,” replied McLane as he picked up a southern
time-table from among the papers he had just laid down, and turned to
a well-thumbed page. “Ito boarded the train at twenty-two minutes of
two Wednesday morning, central time, when everyone was asleep, and his
train was due at Spartanburg at six-twenty that evening, eastern time.
As a matter of fact--what time did your train get there?” he broke off
to ask.
“We were about two hours late.”
“I see,” McLane again consulted the time-table. “Your train reached
Atlanta at ten minutes of twelve, central time; now, Mr. Barclay, how
long a time elapsed between Tilghman’s scuffle with the Jap and your
arrival at Atlanta?”
Barclay thoughtfully considered the question before replying. “I should
judge about thirty-five minutes,” he said finally.
McLane’s hand descended on the desk with a resounding whack.
“Tilghman’s murder was not planned in any thirty-five minutes,” he
announced. “Every detail gives the lie to such a supposition. Nor was
it done on the impulse of the moment; and in my opinion the insult
offered the Japanese was not of a nature to instigate him to commit
murder. Wait, Tilghman said that he mistook Ito for a negro--pshaw! the
yellow races don’t worry themselves about shade differences in their
complexions.”
“You are wrong there,” answered Barclay. “Pride of birth, ancestor
worship dominates the high cast Japanese, and Yoshida Ito, though he
desired us to believe him a traveling salesman, belonged to the former
class. Tilghman’s insult would be keenly felt and instantly resented by
a highborn Japanese.”
“If he was highborn, as you believe, Mr. Barclay, he would not then
have stooped to murder,” argued McLane. “They kill in fair fight.”
“Perhaps,” Barclay scrutinized McLane for a second in silence, then
pulled his chair closer. “I agree with you, doctor, in believing that
Tilghman’s insult was not the entire motive for his murder--”
“Then what was?” rapped out McLane.
“I don’t know,” Barclay moved impatiently. “Let me explain--before
leaving Tilghman in the smoker at Atlanta, I, at his request, loaned
him my flask.” McLane regarded his companion with lively interest
as he continued somewhat slowly. “The flask contained brandy, and I
never thought of it again until I returned to the smoker after helping
Norcross carry Tilghman’s body into a stateroom. I searched the smoker
but could not find my flask. Just afterward Dr. Shively came back
and stated that Tilghman had been poisoned by a dose of oxalic acid
dissolved in brandy.”
“Did you tell him of having loaned your flask to Tilghman?” asked
McLane, never taking his eyes from his companion.
“No,” Barclay smiled ruefully. “I realize now I should have done so at
once, but I was shaken by Tilghman’s murder, and later--” he halted
uncertainly. “Well, later, to be frank, I was afraid, not having spoken
of the flask in the first place, I would not be believed.”
“But I can’t see,” McLane frowned. “You were not in the smoker when
Tilghman was killed--”
“No, oh, no,” the rapid denial was followed by a short silence which
Barclay broke with an effort. “At the request of Dr. Shively I watched
Ito and accompanied him into dinner. While waiting for it to be served,
the Japanese drew the chrysanthemum design, which is etched on my
silver flask, on the table cloth.”
“Indeed!” Barclay could not complain of lack of attention, for McLane
never removed his gaze from him, and the short ejaculation escaped him
unconsciously.
“Ito denied all knowledge of my flask,” continued Barclay. “He stated
that he was a designer, and that was all I could get out of him.”
“And is that the last you have heard of your flask?”
“No. On the night of my arrival in Washington I accompanied my
cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Walter Ogden”--McLane moved suddenly, but Barclay
was intent on his story and did not observe him closely--“to the
Japanese Embassy. There I thought I saw Yoshida Ito, and walked down a
hall hoping to come up with him, and entered a room opening from it. I
did not find Ito in the room, but my silver flask, or its duplicate,
was lying on the desk.”
“What did you do then?” questioned McLane.
“Pocketed the flask,” briefly. “And the next day had its contents
tested by a chemist.”
“With what result?”
“A blank--it contained _saki_, the national drink of Japan.”