UNEXPECTED EVIDENCE
THERE was an uncomfortable silence in the Ogdens’ drawing room, which
no one cared to break, and Charles, the butler, his equilibrium not
fully restored since his appearance at the inquest that afternoon,
rattled the cups and saucers on his silver tray as he passed the
after-dinner coffee in a way which set Mrs. Ogden’s teeth on edge.
“There, there, run along,” she exclaimed in an annoyed aside and
dropping her usual dignified manner of addressing her servants. “And
whatever you do, Charles, _don’t_ rattle the silver in the dining room.
Small noises,” she added, addressing Professor Norcross, who sat not
far from her, “small noises are more upsetting than big ones.”
“On the same principle that human nature can face undaunted the
emergencies of life, and succumb to every day trivial annoyances,”
answered the professor, stirring his coffee. “You must be worn out,
Mrs. Ogden, with all that you have been through during the past
twenty-four hours.”
His sympathetic tone brought tears to her eyes. “Isn’t it awful?” she
moaned. “The fire was bad enough, but now--murder! Oh, Walter, why did
you ever rent so unlucky a house?”
Ogden threw down the magazine he had been glancing over. “A tactless
speech, Jane,” and he frowned at his wife. “Sorry, Norcross.”
“That I own this house is incidental,” put in Norcross quickly, as Mrs.
Ogden colored in confusion. “You haven’t hurt my feelings a bit. I have
no association with this house; I merely bought it as an investment,
and to keep my legal residence in Washington.”
“I spoke hastily,” admitted Mrs. Ogden. “It is really we who are
unlucky; no,” correcting herself, “everything ran smoothly until Julian
Barclay appeared, and since his arrival things have gone at sixes and
sevens. He seems to attract bad luck----”
“Yes?” Norcross looked at her inquiringly, waiting for her to complete
the sentence, but Mrs. Ogden’s active mind had gone off at a tangent
and she ruminated in silence, a silence unbroken by her two companions.
“I suppose we are forced to believe that poor James Patterson was
murdered,” she stated suddenly. “But I think it was horrid of the jury
not to bring in a verdict convicting the Japanese, Ito; and to say
Jim was killed by a person, or persons, unknown--why”--drawing herself
erect. “We might infer from that that one of us was guilty!”
“We are likely to be pestered by detectives,” grumbled Ogden, rising
and moving restlessly about the room. “I’m beginning to think the
packers, in putting up those cartridges, slipped one of the thirty-two
caliber among the others, and Jim was accidentally shot after all.”
“The element of chance predominates in that theory,” argued Norcross,
rising as Ethel Ogden came into the room. “Chance that the revolver
cartridge was among the others, chance that Jim Patterson stood exactly
where he could be hit by that _one_ cartridge. No, Ogden, I would have
believed your theory also, if there had been another thirty-two caliber
bullet found among those scattered about the premises. As it is----”
“As it is?” echoed Ethel, bending eagerly forward. “You think----”
“The jury found the only verdict it could--an open one----”
“But everything proves the Japanese must be guilty,” retorted Ethel
warmly.
“There is no direct evidence against him,” broke in Ogden. “You
know”--he stopped abruptly and glanced about the room, then approached
his wife and their guests. “It strikes me as singular that Julian
Barclay is always the person to see the Jap, Ito, and no one else ever
meets him.”
“I have,” announced Ethel calmly.
“You?” Mrs. Ogden nearly dropped her coffee cup. “When?”
“Where did you see him?” demanded Walter Ogden, almost in the same
breath.
“The night before last when Ito came to steal the silver,” answered
Ethel, and she looked challengingly at Professor Norcross, who was
following each word with careful attention. Could she depend on him to
take his proper cue and not divulge too much? “Professor Norcross and I
both saw him,” she supplemented, “in his flight from the house.”
“Yes,” added Norcross. “I heard Ito open the pantry window and came
down to investigate, met Miss Ogden in the hall, and we watched Ito’s
hasty exit.”
“Well, upon my word!” ejaculated Mrs. Ogden. “And I slept peacefully
through all the excitement, and this is the first I hear of your share
in it, Ethel. I must say you are not very communicative--is she,
Julian?” twisting about to include her cousin in the conversation.
Barclay, who had loitered in the dining room to smoke his cigar,
advanced farther into the room.
“Not very communicative,” he responded absently. “What were you
discussing?”
“Cabbages,” retorted Ogden, whose temper was getting out of hand.
The fire, Patterson’s tragic death; a sleepless night, unpropitious
conditions of the stock market, the developments at the inquest had all
had their effect on his surly disposition, and Barclay’s urbane manner
proved not only a source of annoyance, but the last straw.
“Cabbages? Very good things in their line, Ogden,” answered Barclay,
with unruffled good humor. “And possibly more profitable to cultivate
than investing in Pacific trading ships.” He turned to Norcross,
apparently oblivious of Ogden’s scowl. “I see by the newspapers that
Japan and Russia plan to negotiate the new loan to China. Where will
American interests and American invested capital be if the ‘Yankees of
the East’ steal a march on us in China?”
Norcross looked grave. “It may mean the closing of the ‘open door’ in
the Orient,” he said. “And to think that the United States was the
first to open Japan’s eyes to the world----”
“The flesh, and the devil,” supplemented Barclay skeptically. “Japan
has learned the bad along with the good, and we are wilfully blind to
the situation developing in the Far East.”
“You talk like Patterson,” complained Ogden. “Poor devil!” he added,
as an afterthought. “Patterson was as rabid on the Japanese question,
Norcross, as your friend, Carter Calhoun.”
Norcross caught but the mention of Calhoun’s name. He had intercepted
a look exchanged between Ethel Ogden and Julian Barclay--a look on
Barclay’s part whose meaning bore but one interpretation, and which
had brought a touch of color to Ethel’s white cheeks. Until that
moment Ethel had ignored Barclay’s proximity, her eyes and hands
fully occupied with a small piece of embroidery. Professor Norcross
was conscious of a growing distrust of Julian Barclay--what made him
so laggard a lover, for that he worshiped Ethel was plain to the
observant professor, unless undesirable entanglements prevented open
courtship? Suddenly aware that his stare at Barclay had become a glare
of indignation, Norcross roused himself.
“Speaking of Calhoun,” he remarked. “I hear he is on his way to
Washington.”
“The devil he is!” Ogden set down his coffee cup with a bang which
imperiled the Dresden china and drew a protest from his wife. “With
Calhoun around we will never hear the end of the Japanese question.”
“Is Calhoun really coming?” asked Barclay, turning with some
abruptness to Norcross. “Or is it simply a rumor?”
The professor’s reply was lost as Charles announced from the doorway:
“Mr. Takasaki.”
The Japanese attaché appeared almost simultaneously with the
announcement of his name, and Mrs. Ogden and her husband greeted him
cordially.
“I came to ask for the health of you,” explained Takasaki, bowing
low over Ethel’s hand. “The fire and the death of the honorable Mr.
Patterson was of the most dreadful.”
“Do sit here,” Mrs. Ogden patted the sofa, and Takasaki bowing gravely
to Barclay and Professor Norcross, stepped past them and sat down by
his hostess. “We feel Mr. Patterson’s death awfully; everyone does who
knew him.”
“Mr. Patterson was a man of strong friendships,” began Norcross.
“And stronger enemies,” finished Barclay, softly, meeting the
professor’s penetrating gaze for but a moment.
“True,” agreed Norcross. “The Pattersons have a quarrelsome trait.
Patterson’s sister once told me that she always kept alive her
brother’s animosities.”
“The hateful woman!” broke in Mrs. Ogden, with more vehemence than
the occasion seemed to require, and at her husband’s quick frown she
modified her tone. “It’s a wonder Henrietta Patterson didn’t ruin her
brother’s political career.”
“You knew Miss Patterson then?” asked Barclay.
“Yes, when visiting Ethel’s mother,” indicating the girl, and Barclay
for the first time that evening addressed Ethel directly.
“Did you know Miss Patterson intimately?” he inquired.
“No, only slightly,” Ethel broke off her three-cornered conversation
with Takasaki and Walter Ogden. “Miss Patterson was a recluse, and went
very little into society. She died in Paris, last winter.”
Takasaki’s twinkling black eyes shot from one to the other, and seizing
the slight pause following Ethel’s last remark, he turned to his
hostess.
“My wife and I, we so sorry for the break-up of your dinner the most
delightful,” he began. “We hope for your honorable presence soon with
us.”
Mrs. Ogden beamed with pleasure, and launched into a brisk conversation
with Takasaki in which the other men joined. From the depths of her
large Empire chair, Ethel listened to Takasaki’s soft monotonous voice,
the deeper intonations of Barclay and Norcross, and the heavy bass
of Ogden, and a certain quality in their tones and their mannerisms
impressed her. Outwardly perfectly friendly in their intercourse,
there seemed to the listening girl, an under-current of distrust, of
watchfulness totally lacking in past meetings between the four men. If
mere suspicion of an alien hand having killed James Patterson could
raise a barrier between the polished, educated Japanese gentleman and
American men of his own class what would follow in the event of racial
war; a war of yellow against white? Ethel caught her breath sharply,
and drew her hand across her eyes as if dispelling a horrible vision.
East is East, and West is West,
And never the twain shall meet----
The quotation flashed into her mind, and abruptly she plunged into
the conversation, only to discover that Maru Takasaki had been
patiently waiting to bid her good night, and a trifle confused by her
absent-mindedness, she shook hands with Barclay by mistake, attempted
to laugh off her embarrassment, and failed miserably, while acutely
conscious of the grasp of his strong, cool fingers.
“Good night,” he said, reluctantly releasing her hand. “Tomorrow it
will be ‘good-by.’”
Ethel’s fingers closed spasmodically over Takasaki’s hand. Julian
Barclay leaving--and so soon! During the past few hectic days she had
imagined every eventuality except that.
“You leave now?” questioned Takasaki, not fully grasping Barclay’s
meaning.
“I’ll walk your way for a block or two,” he answered. “Anything I can
do for you, Cousin Jane?”
“Yes, stop at the druggist and get me a book of stamps,” Mrs. Ogden
followed the two men into the hallway, her face beaming with smiles.
Barclay’s abrupt announcement of his departure had not only surprised
but delighted her; and inwardly she hoped that Professor Norcross
would follow his example. She was tired of entertaining guests, and
she wanted the house to herself, the better to arrange new plans for
the future. At that moment a trip to Atlantic City was looming large
on her mental horizon. In that ocean-swept haven she could quietly
wait for the sensation caused by the murder of James Patterson in her
own house, to die out, and return in time to enjoy the Easter season
in Washington. In fact, such a procedure would be in excellent taste,
and the canceling of her many social engagements out of respect to the
memory of James Patterson would also be a wise move. The request for
stamps was therefore, an outcome of her thoughts; notes must be written
at once to friends and acquaintances, and dispatched before morning.
“Come into the library, Ethel,” she called, after seeing the front door
close behind Takasaki and Barclay. “Oh, I didn’t know you were just
behind me,” lowering her voice.
“I am on my way to bed,” explained Ethel.
“Oh!” Mrs. Ogden’s face fell. Having once jumped to a decision she
despised putting off action. But Ethel looked spent and weary, and
reluctantly she gave up her plans for the evening. “Run along,” she
said. “I wanted you to write letters to Mrs. Van Alstyne and Mrs.
Warner canceling my luncheon and dinner engagements, but it doesn’t
matter.”
Ethel was quick to detect the discontent in Mrs. Ogden’s voice.
“Certainly I will write them for you,” she announced. “It will take no
time at all.”
“I have a better plan,” broke in Norcross who, with Ogden, stood just
behind them. “Let me write the notes at your dictation, Mrs. Ogden, and
then your cousin can get the sleep she really needs.”
“What’s the matter with writing them yourself, Jane?” demanded Ogden.
“You never developed pen paralysis until you found a secretary
fashionable.”
Mrs. Ogden turned her back on her husband. “Of course Ethel must
go to bed,” and she smiled kindly at her. “If you will help me,
Professor----”
“I shall be delighted”--Norcross looked back as he followed Mrs.
Ogden and her husband into the library, to wave his hand to Ethel who
responded similarly as she went up the staircase.
But on reaching the next floor Ethel did not go at once to her bedroom.
Almost against her will her feet carried her to the den, and for the
third time since the fire she went over each article left in the room.
By direction of the fire chief, nothing had been touched or moved. All
furniture had been completely or partially destroyed except her metal
typewriting desk, and after inspecting the _débris_ about her, she
sat down before her desk and methodically took out its contents. Her
miniature was not there.
At last Ethel sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, endeavoring
to recall each action of the day before. No, she had not taken the
miniature away; she had put it in the top drawer of her desk just
before luncheon, and there it must have remained until carried away by
James Patterson. But what had become of it after he had secured it? Had
the murderer picked it up in his hasty flight? Or had Julian Barclay
found and pocketed it on discovering Patterson’s dead body? Ethel shook
her head; no, Barclay would have spoken of it--But would he? He had,
if he found it, only gotten back his own property.
“Beg pardon!” said a voice from the doorway, and Ethel started
violently. “Miss Ogden, is it not?” Ethel looked at the well-dressed
man in the doorway and nodded. “I did not mean to startle you, Miss
Ogden. I have been watching you for several minutes.”
“Indeed!” Ethel flushed with indignation.
“I thought you saw me,” hastily. “I am Mitchell, from the central
office,” displaying his badge. “Have you found any trace of your
miniature?”
“No,” Ethel mollified by the detective’s gentlemanly appearance and
quiet manner, looked eagerly toward him. “Have you searched for it?”
“Yes, but I can’t find it high or low,” admitted Mitchell. He came
closer to her. “I believe the man who has that miniature killed
Patterson.”
Ethel recoiled. “No!” she declared vehemently, and Mitchell looked at
her oddly. “It must be somewhere around, dropped in some crevice or
crack.” She bent over the wreck of a chair and fumbled about, more
anxious to conceal her expression from Mitchell’s inquiring gaze than
in the hopes of finding anything.
“Charles, the butler, has just admitted that before the fire chief gave
orders to have everything left just as it was, he carried some of the
_débris_ down into the basement,” volunteered Mitchell. “It’s just
possible your miniature may be in it.”
“Oh, let us go and see,” Ethel sprang impulsively for the door and
collided with Professor Norcross. “Excuse me!”
“It was my fault,” Norcross laughed as he helped her regain her
balance, then his eyes lighted on the detective. “Charles brought me
word that you wished to see me, Mitchell.”
“I did, sir.” Mitchell stepped out into the hall. “I called to ask if
you have a revolver.”
“I have,” responded Norcross, and turned at the sound of footsteps, and
a second later Barclay joined the small group.
“Asking for revolvers, Mitchell?” he inquired coolly. “I have one,”
and simultaneously the two men went to their respective rooms, leaving
Ethel staring in troubled silence at the detective.
Before she could ask the question Mitchell felt coming, Norcross was
back, revolver in hand. Mitchell took it, examined it critically,
selected a shell from its breech, snapped it shut and returned it to
Norcross just as Barclay rejoined them. His revolver was likewise
subjected to a prolonged examination, and a cartridge extracted,
marked, and slipped into the detective’s pocket.
“Thanks,” said Mitchell, handing the revolver back to Barclay. “That is
all I wished, I won’t detain you longer.”
“Oh, wait.” Ethel without a glance at Norcross and Barclay, followed
Mitchell down the back hall. “Let us go and examine the _débris_ which
you said was downstairs.”
“Certainly,” and Mitchell made way for her to precede him. In the
basement they found Charles just closing the house.
“The _débris_, is it?” he exclaimed on Mitchell stating what they
wished. “Sure, it’s all here,” and Ethel, regardless of her white gown,
dropped on her knees beside the bucket of trash and ashes. Dumping the
pail on a newspaper spread out by the attentive Charles, Ethel ran her
fingers through the mass, but without results--there was no trace of
her miniature.
“What’s this?” Mitchell, searching with her, pulled out a piece of
white flannel, and rising examined the dark stains on it under the
light. Suddenly he raised the flannel and sniffed at it.
“Powder stains,” he exclaimed, thrusting the oily, dirty cloth under
Ethel’s nose. “Where did you get this piece of flannel, Charles?” as
the butler returned from a trip to the kitchen.
“Oh, that?” inspecting the flannel. “Sure, Mr. Julian Barclay used
that to clean his revolver this mornin’--you wouldn’t be wantin’ me
to leave a dhirty bit like that in his room, Miss Ethel, would ye?”
turning to her.
But Ethel had fled.