FREAKS OF MEMORY
LEONARD MCLANE, tilted back in his revolving chair, regarded Julian
Barclay in silence for several seconds before speaking.
“Have you the flask with you?” he asked.
For answer Barclay drew it from his pocket and laid it on the desk.
McLane bent eagerly over the flask and examined it with special
care. The silver filigree work over the glass flask was made into a
chrysanthemum pattern, while the lower half was a solid silver cup, the
workmanship of the latter also carrying out the chrysanthemum pattern.
“It is a beautiful design,” said McLane at last. “And unique in having
the flowers on the cup fit into the filigree work.” He picked it up
and turned the stopper and sniffed at its contents, then replaced the
stopper and removed the silver cup from the glass bottom. “You are sure
your flask was not out of your possession while on the train before you
lent it to Tilghman?”
“Absolutely positive.”
“Then, conceding that Tilghman was drinking out of your flask when
poisoned, the powder must have been slipped into this silver cup--”
“But how without Tilghman’s knowledge?” demanded Barclay.
“I don’t know,” admitted McLane. “But I hope to find out,” he shot a
glance at his companion, but Barclay again sat half in shadow and he
could not see his expression distinctly. “Has it occurred to you to ask
the jewelers in town about the flask?”
“It has; but their information was almost nil,” responded Barclay.
“They declared the flask was probably manufactured abroad, the
workmanship pointed to that, but it bears no silversmith’s name or
mark. They also said that while the design was unusual, there might
have been a number of duplicates made from the original.”
“That is not very helpful,” mused McLane. “Where did you buy your
flask?”
“At a little Mexican town, Tia Juana, about twenty-five miles over the
border from Coronado, Cal. Tia Juana, or ‘Aunt Jane,’ as it is known
over the border, is a great gambling town, where cutthroats, thugs, and
criminals of every class fleeing from justice, take refuge. In a saloon
there I saw this flask lying on the counter and bought it from the
proprietor. He told me that it had been left by a Japanese in payment
of a debt, and when Ito drew the design of the flask on the tablecloth
in the diner on the train, I jumped to the conclusion that he was the
Jap who had sold it to the saloon proprietor, and taking the reputation
of the town into consideration, I imagined he might even then have been
fleeing from justice.”
“That is not conclusive reasoning,” smiled McLane. “You were in ‘Aunt
Jane’ as a tourist”--he paused slightly. “It is equally possible the
Jap was also a tourist and ran short of funds.”
“That is true,” Barclay glanced at the clock on the surgeon’s desk.
“And it is over four years since I purchased the flask.”
“Have you”--McLane handed the flask back to Barclay--“have you made any
inquiries about this flask at the Japanese Embassy?”
“I went to the embassy, but found the ambassador away on a trip through
the Middle West, and the embassy staff denied all knowledge of the
flask. I am afraid I am taking up too much of your time,” he added,
rising.
“No, no, sit down,” McLane raised a protesting hand, and Barclay
resumed his seat. “I am glad to talk over Tilghman’s mysterious death
with you, Mr. Barclay. Now, let me understand your theory of his
murder--you believe that Ito, the Jap, having some ulterior motive,
followed my cousin on his trip east, murdered him, and slipped away?”
“Yes, that is about my idea,” admitted Barclay. “Take the flask it
is a reasonable supposition that, not finding it in the smoking car
near where Tilghman sat, or among his effects, the murderer removed
my flask. He would not have taken it away if the flask had not been
incriminating; therefore, I believe the oxalic acid was introduced into
my flask.”
“It would seem so,” agreed McLane. “But we have yet to discover how it
was introduced into the brandy without Tilghman’s knowledge--and until
then we have no real proof against anyone.”
“I cannot agree with you,” replied Barclay obstinately. “I know the
flask was originally owned by a Jap; I meet a Jap, who has a scuffle
with Tilghman shortly before he is murdered; and this Jap is familiar
with the chrysanthemum design of my flask, even to the minutest
detail--why should he think of that flask at that time unless he had
recently seen it?” finished Barclay triumphantly.
“Memory plays queer tricks,” responded McLane. “It might be that
Ito--look here,” checking himself. “If Ito had murdered Tilghman by
putting poison in your flask, the last thing he would do would be
to call attention to the flask--it would be betraying too great a
familiarity with the crime.”
“Yes, but it is just in those small points that a criminal betrays
himself,” argued Barclay. “Giving his alibi, which may or may not be
false, but which admits of his having been in the smoking car at the
hour Tilghman was poisoned, Ito leaves the train at Spartanburg, and
the next time I catch a glimpse of him is in the Japanese Embassy, and
a few minutes later I find a flask resembling mine on a desk in the
embassy. I tell you, Doctor,” emphasizing his words by striking his
hand in his open palm, “the silver flask and Ito form a connecting link
in the chain of events leading to the murder of Dwight Tilghman.”
“Perhaps, but I cannot see the significance”--McLane paused, and
Barclay broke in hastily.
“My object in calling, Doctor, was to ascertain if Tilghman was using
his Congressional influence to the detriment of Japanese interests here
and abroad.”
McLane considered the question. “I now recall that Tilghman testified
against the Japanese before the California legislature at the time of
the passage of the anti-alien bill. He and Jim Patterson--Congressman
from California,” he stopped to explain.
“I have met Patterson,” answered Barclay, and resting his elbow on the
desk, shaded his eyes with his hand. “You were saying--”
“That Tilghman and Patterson were much in accord on the subject and,
I believe, carried on quite a correspondence. Perhaps Patterson can
give me some data which may throw light on Tilghman’s transactions with
the Japanese. I will see him.” McLane again consulted the newspaper
clippings. “There are several questions I wish to ask you before you
leave,” pulling his chair up to the desk. “When did you first meet
Dwight Tilghman?”
“The night before his murder. I boarded the train at New Orleans, and
going into the smoker was introduced to him and Professor Norcross by
Dr. Shively. We four played poker until far into the night.”
“How did Tilghman appear?”
Barclay hesitated. “Never having met him before, your question is a
little difficult to answer. His manner to me appeared natural, and
while he took little part in the conversation, he was at all times
pleasant and good-natured.”
“Was he winning?”
Barclay laughed shortly. “I believe so; I was the only heavy loser. We
played nearly all night, and I believe it was Tilghman who made the
first move to break up the game.”
“Did you talk with him next morning?”
“Not for any length of time. I had a short talk with him just before
the train stopped at the station in Atlanta.”
“Was it then you gave him your flask?”
“Yes; he asked me for it, said his scuffle with the Jap had shaken him
up and he needed a bracer.”
“Except for that, did his manner indicate excitement--terror, for
instance?”
“It did not.”
McLane consulted the notes he had scribbled on a sheet before him, then
asked, “You spoke of Dr. Shively having introduced you to Tilghman;
where had you known Shively?”
“I met him in Panama and we made the trip to the States together.
He had known Professor Norcross and Tilghman before, and they both
appeared glad to see him when he joined them in the smoking car.”
“Had he arranged to meet them on that train?”
“I think not. They all expressed great surprise at the meeting,”
Barclay rose. “I really must be going, doctor. I cannot take up any
more of your time.”
“Just one more question--Did you see Shively while the train was at
Atlanta?”
“No,” Barclay paused. “He and Norcross left the smoking car together
just as the train drew into the station, and that was my last glimpse
of them until they entered the smoker about half an hour before the
dining car steward announced the first call for dinner.” As he finished
speaking Barclay moved across the room, and the surgeon followed him.
“I am indebted to you, Mr. Barclay, for coming to see me,” remarked
McLane, opening the private door leading directly into the outside
corridor. “Your account of Tilghman’s death has interested me, and I
will take steps to investigate the points you have brought up.”
Barclay pulled his hat down until his features were partly concealed
under the shadow of the brim.
“Will you consult detectives?” he asked.
“The police are already after Ito,” McLane pressed his thumb on the
elevator button. “Several years ago I was involved in the ‘C. O. D.’
murders, and in investigating them the detectives did not--eh, shine.”
“They are not always infallible,” agreed Barclay, and McLane’s quick
ear detected the faint relief discernible in his tone. “I will let you
know immediately if I get any information about the flask from the
Japanese ambassador.” The arrival of the elevator interrupted further
conversation, and bidding McLane good night, Barclay stepped inside the
cage.
McLane continued to stare at the elevator shaft for some minutes after
the elevator with its solitary passenger had shot downward.
“After fifteen years,” he muttered. “And Jim Patterson is in town.”
“Not only in town, but here,” announced a voice just back of him, and
McLane, wheeling about, faced Representative Patterson. “I’ve been
waiting in your front office for the deuce of a long time, McLane, and
hearing your voice in the hall, came out to intercept you.”
“I am sorry to have kept you waiting; come back with me now,” and
McLane motioned toward his private door.
“I won’t stay long,” promised Patterson, preceding the surgeon into
his consulting office, and throwing himself down in a chair by the
desk. “Who was the man with you in the corridor a moment ago? His voice
sounded familiar, but I only saw his back.”
“A Mr. Barclay,”--McLane picked up Barclay’s visiting card. “Julian
Barclay.”
Patterson’s expression changed. “Who is he?” he demanded. “Who is this
Barclay?”
McLane’s eyebrows rose in interrogation, but the glance he shot at the
excited man before him was piercing in its intensity. He tossed the
visiting card to Patterson.
“Julian Barclay,” he repeated, and shrugged his shoulders.
Patterson crumpled the visiting card in his strong fingers and flung it
contemptuously into the waste paper basket.
“I’m disappointed, McLane; thought you might give me some information
about this Barclay, who he is, and all that--I have had some
connection”--he broke off to stare moodily at the floor. “Barclay is in
love with Ethel Ogden,” he remarked bitterly.
McLane sat erect and stared at him. “And Miss Ogden?” he asked; and his
voice was very grave.
“Has the poor taste to prefer Barclay to me,” Patterson’s attempt at a
smile was ghastly. “Barclay’s face is familiar, but I cannot place him.”
“Likenesses are very puzzling sometimes,” remarked McLane. “What is
your particular ailment this afternoon, Patterson? You were as sound as
a dollar the last time I examined you.”
“Still sound, except for the shock of being refused by Ethel,”
Patterson fingered the desk ornaments nearest him nervously. “It isn’t
a thing I’d mention to anyone but you, McLane.”
“I will not speak of it,” promised McLane. “And--I’m sorry, Patterson.”
“Thanks, old man,” Patterson cleared his voice of a troublesome
lump. “Before coming here I had a talk with Ethel’s cousin, Walter
Ogden--he’s not a bad sort,” he added, and McLane contented himself
with a silent nod of agreement. “Ogden told me not to take Ethel’s
refusal to heart; said she didn’t know her mind two minutes running.”
“Oh!” the ejaculation escaped McLane involuntarily, and Patterson
glanced at him sharply.
“You know Ethel?” he asked.
“Yes; she is a great friend of my wife, and we both think her a girl of
strong character.” McLane sorted the papers on his desk methodically
and laid them in a neat pile by his side. “Do not buoy yourself up with
false hope, Patterson; sometimes it is less pain in the end to face
things as they are.”
Patterson frowned. “I don’t think you gave up the girl of your choice
when she was engaged to that scoundrel, James Donaldson,” he retorted
doggedly. “And I’m not going to give Ethel up to Julian Barclay without
a fight for it. You are sure you have never heard of Barclay?”
“I have never heard of Barclay before this afternoon,” answered McLane
quietly. “I have just returned from Atlanta; had to remain there for
the inquest on Dwight Tilghman.”
“So I saw by the newspapers,” Patterson drew out his cigar case and
offered it to the surgeon. “Tilghman was a mighty bright fellow, and
his murder a shocking affair--so unnecessary.”
“I also cannot see a motive for the crime,” replied McLane gravely. “I
cannot believe that the Jap, Ito, killed him because Tilghman said he
mistook him for a negro.”
Patterson blew a cloud of tobacco smoke into the air and watched it
drift away before answering.
“You Easterners fail to grasp the character of the Japanese,” he
announced. “They are crafty, subtle, and are past masters in gaining
their own way. Silent, unobtrusive, they live, plan, and accomplish,
while we exist and ignore all signs of danger.”
McLane smiled. “I forgot your hobby for the moment,” he said. “Perhaps
you can tell me if Tilghman ever aroused their antagonism by any
anti-Japanese demonstration.”
“I believe Tilghman was among the first property owners to refuse to
sell land to a Japanese because of his nationality,” he answered. “And
it brought out a bitter attack against Tilghman in the press of Japan.”
“Pshaw! What’s a press attack?” and McLane laughed.
“Little in this country,” agreed Patterson. “But in Japan, where the
press is censored, it is safe to bet that the Japanese government
approved the attack upon Tilghman.”
“That would hardly prove a basis for murder,” mused McLane. “Why was
Tilghman coming to Washington?”
“To visit you and your charming wife.” Patterson smiled ironically.
“You are too modest, McLane; don’t always look for an ulterior motive
when guests descend on you. I’m sorry if I bore you with my talk
against the Japs; I’m rather full of it this afternoon, having argued
the subject with Professor Norcross and Walter Ogden.”
“And what views do they hold in the matter?”
“Oh, the customary disbelief.” Patterson moved restlessly. “I’m
surprised at Norcross, he’s broad-minded and up on affairs generally.”
“Where is Norcross stopping?”
“At the Ogdens’.” Patterson rose. “Are you by chance going to their
dinner tomorrow night?”
“Yes, Lois told me she had accepted for us.” McLane followed him into
the hall. “Then you don’t know why Tilghman was coming to Washington,
after first writing me that he couldn’t leave California?”
“My dear fellow, I haven’t the faintest idea.” Patterson’s impatience
was poorly concealed. “Down,” he roared, and as the elevator stopped,
he called to McLane, “Good night, see you tomorrow.”
But once inside his limousine Patterson’s growing irritability found
relief in glaring at his reflection in the small mirror opposite him.
“What was it McLane was muttering when I joined him in the hall?” he
cogitated. “‘After fifteen years--and Jim Patterson in town.’ What had
fifteen years to do with my being in town?”
Fifteen years--fifteen years--the words seemed to his excited
imagination to be keeping time with the twinkling arc lights of the
city streets, and Patterson involuntarily closed his eyes as he
reviewed the years. Suddenly he sat up, his eyes shining, and clutching
the speaking tube, he called to the chauffeur:
“To the nearest telegraph office, quick.”