THE ROAD TO HAPPINESS
TOO thunderstruck to move or speak, the little group in the hall stared
at Norcross, down whose white face great drops of perspiration were
stealing, then their regard was transferred to the Japanese, Yoshida
Ito, whose rough handling in the fight with the professor was attested
by the closing of one eye and a bleeding lip. He looked far more the
criminal than the learned professor, and a cry of protest broke from
Ethel, who stood fully dressed behind Leonard McLane.
“You must be mistaken,” she stammered, addressing Colonel Calhoun. “Oh,
say you have made some mistake.”
“That would be to defeat the ends of justice,” he said gravely.
“Richard Norcross murdered Dwight Tilghman and James Patterson.”
“You have no proof to substantiate your charge,” retorted Norcross,
speaking for the first time. “And I deny it absolutely.”
“Of course,” ironically, and Calhoun turned to Ito. “I have a witness
here who saw you drop Barclay’s flask under the train at Atlanta, just
after Tilghman drank the poisoned brandy from it. Speak up, Ito.”
The Japanese stepped forward into the center of the group.
“It is true,” he began, without a trace of foreign accent. “I picked
up the flask immediately afterwards, and had its contents tested on
reaching Washington.”
Norcross faced them undauntedly. “Will you gentlemen, Americans all,
take the word of a renegade Japanese, a lying treacherous murderer,
against me, an American in good repute, a naturalist of some renown?”
Silence answered him, and he continued more rapidly. “I was with Dr.
Horace Shively during the whole time the train was in Atlanta--if you
accuse me of the crime--you must accuse him also.”
“You were talking to Shively the whole time you were standing on the
vestibule of the smoker, while he sat on the lower step with his back
to you,” corrected Calhoun. “And while giving him a description of a
South American trip, you, using your powers of ventriloquism to carry
on your tale unbroken, which made him think you were still standing
right behind him, slipped inside the open door of the smoker----”
“Wait,” interrupted Ito, seeing that Norcross was about to speak.
“Tilghman was sitting right at the end of the car, but a step or two
inside the open door.”
“And Tilghman obligingly permitted me to drop the oxalic acid inside
the small mouthpiece of the flask,” broke in Norcross scornfully.
“No. You crept up behind him and dropped the powder into the wide
silver cup of the flask, which Tilghman held in his hand, and out of
which he was intermittently sipping brandy while sitting with his eyes
closed.”
“Indeed? And why was I not seen doing all this by the people in the car
on the next track?”
“Because the window shade was down,” was Ito’s prompt reply. “It was in
the cup that the chemist found the dregs containing oxalic acid.”
“So!” Norcross smiled bitterly. “You have learned your lesson well from
your master, Carter Calhoun,” and there was no mistaking the fury which
blazed in the professor’s eyes as he turned on his chief accuser. “Your
fantastic statement that I am a ventriloquist is without foundation and
is a lie.”
For answer Calhoun took a worn magazine cutting from his pocket.
“Your past condemns you,” he said sternly. “Our brain plays us queer
tricks at times. In talking of your South American trip to Dr. Shively
while in the act of poisoning Dwight Tilghman you gave the clew to
his murder. I have a retentive memory, and the mention of your South
American trip recalled a magazine article, published many years ago,
recounting your adventures in the wildest part of the Amazon--and in
that article you made mention of your mimicry of the human voice and
of bird calls, and spoke of once extricating yourself from a dangerous
situation among a hostile tribe by the use of ventriloquism, of which
you said you were a past master.”
“Bosh!” But Norcross’ lips were trembling. “All manufactured out of
whole cloth.”
“No,” Calhoun handed the clipping to Mitchell. “After talking with Dr.
Shively this morning I went to the Congressional Library, and there
found the magazine on file, and was permitted to take this clipping
from one of the copies. Out of your own mouth, Norcross, you are
condemned.”
Leonard McLane stepped forward. “If additional evidence is needed,”
he said. “I can testify that Ethel Ogden and I were attending Mrs.
Ogden in her bedroom when we apparently heard Ethel’s voice from the
hall crying: ‘Help, Julian, for God’s sake, help!’ We heard the voice
continue down the hall, and all the while Ethel stood facing me,
absolutely silent.”
Ethel, who had kept in the background, advanced to Barclay’s side. She
avoided looking at Norcross. “Did you, Julian, the night you chased
this Japanese,” indicating Ito, “out into the back yard, say to him,
‘Ito, I tell you I have no more money to spare’?”
Barclay looked at her in blank amazement. “No, I never made such a
remark,” he protested. “I did not catch up with Ito.”
“That is true,” confirmed the Japanese. “I have never exchanged a word
with Mr. Barclay since our meeting in the train.”
Ethel looked accusingly at Norcross. “You were at my side--by using
ventriloquism you made me think that Julian Barclay was in collusion
with Ito, then accused of the murder of Dwight Tilghman.”
The professor’s eyes fell before her passionate indignation, and when
he looked up he addressed Colonel Calhoun exclusively.
“I did all that you accuse me of,” he said coldly, and his hearers
gathered closer about him. “The Japanese are good paymasters.” He
looked at Walter Ogden. “You have found them so--” with insolent
meaning.
“No.” Ogden drew himself erect. “Although Takasaki tried to bribe me
earlier tonight to engineer a Congressional lobby to prevent passage
of the bills for universal military service. Most of my fortune is
invested in Eastern trade, and has been practically swept away by the
ruining of our Pacific shipping. The Japanese are aware of my financial
straits, and brought pressure to bear to make me accept their offer.”
Ogden cleared his throat. “I had but one alternative--to apply to my
wife’s cousin and our guest, Julian Barclay, to loan me ready money to
tide me over the next few months. My wife had a heart attack a little
after one o’clock this morning and I telephoned for Dr. McLane. My
wife’s condition--” he gulped and broke down.
“I shall be very glad to assist you financially,” volunteered Barclay;
then addressing Norcross, “What was your object in poisoning Dwight
Tilghman? You appeared the best of friends on the train.”
“I killed him because he had stolen important documents from a
Japanese Secret Service agent, Mr. Soto, in San Francisco”--a low cry
of astonishment broke from Ethel. “I had to recover the documents
before Tilghman returned them to the Secretary of War,” added Norcross
sullenly.
“But I was too quick for you,” put in Ito. “A cipher dispatch from
Colonel Calhoun told me of Tilghman’s mission east and of the rumor
that the Japanese were trailing him. I boarded the train the morning of
Tilghman’s murder, and tried to speak to him, but he at first took me
for an enemy. I approached him in the smoker, and during our scuffle
slipped a note in his hand.”
“I saw you do it,” exclaimed Barclay.
Ito nodded. “Tilghman, taken by surprise, was somewhat clumsy. He
evidently regarded the warning from Calhoun as genuine, but not willing
to trust a Japanese wholly, he slipped the documents into your pocket,
Mr. Barclay, for safe keeping, when borrowing your flask....”
“My pocket?” Barclay stared at Ito blankly. “I found no documents----”
“But only a miniature,” supplemented Ito. “The documents are concealed
behind Miss Ogden’s miniature, which was painted without her knowledge
by a Japanese artist, Soto, a member of their Secret Service on duty in
Washington until recently, who admired Miss Ogden extravagantly, but
who did not hesitate to use her beauty to shield his efforts to smuggle
documents out of the United States.”
“I don’t know how you secured your information,” said Norcross scowling
at Ito; “but it is correct. The United States Secret Service got wind
of our activities, and it was next to impossible to pass written data
out of the country; therefore Soto, who spent the past year posing
as a guest at the Japanese Embassy, conceived the idea of secreting
the documents inside the gold miniature case which held the portrait
of Miss Ogden, painted surreptitiously by him. When the miniature
was stolen from Soto by Tilghman I was engaged to get it back. I had
traveled before with Tilghman, and we were the best of friends----”
“And you were aware of his having no sense of taste,” suggested McLane.
“I was; and I used oxalic acid because its symptoms are similar to
those produced by heart disease,” explained Norcross, no touch of
feeling in his voice. “Thinking Tilghman’s death would be attributed to
heart failure, I removed the flask--for if it had been found, it might
have been tested and suspicion aroused of foul play. Frankly, if I had
realized that Tilghman’s death would be instantly investigated by Dr.
Shively, I would have left Barclay’s flask to incriminate him. Instead,
I flung it under the car, thinking the train would crush it beyond
recognition when we moved out of Atlanta.”
Ethel shuddered at the cold-blooded confession, and they all stared at
Norcross, whose defiant manner repelled the faintest spark of sympathy.
“Well, you are a cool one!” Detective Mitchell looked at his prisoner
in amazement. “Was it just the desire to kill, or had you some grudge
against James Patterson which made you murder him?”
Norcross glared at his questioner. “It was not murder,” he protested,
“but chance. I overheard Miss Ogden ask James Patterson to get her
miniature out of the burning room.”
“Did you know I had your miniature?” gasped Ethel.
“No, but not finding it among Tilghman’s effects, which I searched
under Dr. Shively’s intelligent supervision,” with an evil smile, “I
was desperate, and any miniature of you interested me. I decided to
take a look at this miniature; bolted up the staircase, and accidently
ran against Patterson, knocking a photograph out of his hand. We both
stooped for it and managed between us to tear it, the upper half
remaining in my grasp,” he stopped and bowed to Ethel, mockingly, “I
sent it to you,” then continued to the others. “Patterson cursed me and
ran on, first into Ogden’s bedroom and then into the burning room.”
“So he beat you to it,” commented Mitchell.
Norcross shrugged his shoulders. “What need for me to enter the burning
room when Patterson would obligingly rescue what I wanted? I waited
in Ogden’s bedroom, but being half-blinded by the smoke, Patterson
slipped by me unseen, and my intention of jerking the miniature out
of his hand and disappearing was frustrated. Since Tilghman’s death I
have always gone armed for any emergency, and catching a glimpse of
Patterson as he raced out of the door, I fired my revolver at him.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Mitchell turning to look at the safe before which they
were standing.
“I missed, the blinding smoke spoiling my aim,” finished Norcross. “As
you know, the bullet struck the safe, ricocheted down the hall and hit
Patterson in a vital spot. When I reached the hall I made out Patterson
lying on the floor and another man stooping over him, a man who helped
himself to the miniature and the torn photograph which Patterson
dropped in his fall.” Norcross’ eyes traveled suggestively toward
Barclay.
“Yes, I took them,” admitted Barclay.
“Curse you for a meddlesome fool!” exclaimed Norcross, and his eyes
were venomous. “I knew your history, and did everything to manufacture
evidence against you; but you crossed me at every turn.”
“Why didn’t you speak of this sooner, Julian?” asked Ogden, breaking
his long silence.
“Because I believed until after the inquest that James Patterson had
been accidently killed by the discharge of one of Ogden’s cartridges,”
answered Barclay. “That I took from him a miniature which I considered
mine, and a torn half of my own photograph, I believed no one’s
business but mine, and held my tongue about them. It never dawned on me
that Patterson was killed on account of the miniature,” he paused and
added wearily, “I wanted to help in investigating Tilghman’s death, but
handicapped by my past, I dared not do so openly. You see, I had lost
money heavily to Tilghman the night before the murder; I had loaned him
my flask, and the poison had been administered in brandy; and I had no
alibi--these, I knew, would prove damning facts against a man who had
already been tried for murder.”
“And acquitted,” added Ethel. Barclay brightened at sound of her clear
confident voice.
“I did go to see Dr. McLane,” he went on, “to tell him what little I
knew of Tilghman’s death and my suspicions, and McLane----”
“Recognized you almost at once,” said the surgeon quietly. “There were
not so many honor men in the senior class at Johns Hopkins University
that I should not have recollected you, Barclay, even if I was only a
freshman when you were there. And your trial absorbed my attention.
Also,” he spoke with growing earnestness, “I have always regretted that
you did not pursue your profession, for which as a student, you showed
so brilliant an aptitude.”
“I owe you a great deal, McLane,” Barclay’s tone was husky. “Some day,
perhaps--” he broke off abruptly.
Norcross smiled scornfully. “People do not desire a physician with
sleep-walking propensities,” he sneered brutally. “I am hardly
surprised you became a wanderer in other lands. And you”--swinging on
the Japanese--“for you there will be no land of refuge--the Japanese
never pardon a traitor.”
The man addressed laughed softly. “My Japanese is but skin deep and
removable,” he said, rubbing off some of his make-up. “My somewhat
Oriental cast of features enabled me to take this disguise on numerous
occasions, as the United States Secret Service, to which I belong,
believes in fighting the devil with fire.”
Barclay listened to him with eyes almost starting from his head. “You
fooled me completely,” he stammered. “Why did you draw the design of my
flask on the table cloth in the dining car?”
“Because I desired to test you and find out if you had a guilty
knowledge of Tilghman’s death,” was the answer. “I had seen you loan
him your flask at the time he slipped the miniature in your pocket. I
was also behind you when you started from the station and saw you bolt
back to the train at sight of James Patterson, but believing Tilghman
was watchful and would be on guard, I went to the public library, and
thus gave you, Professor, a chance to poison him,” and the Secret
Service operative glared at Norcross.
“In avoiding James Patterson I acted on impulse,” explained Barclay,
breaking the pause. “I had not seen him for years. I have never
outgrown the horror of having accidentally killed Paul Patterson, and
the sight of his cousin brought back the whole tragedy, and not feeling
like meeting people, I went back to my car,” he stopped and again
addressed the man called Ito. “I saw a flask I mistook for mine on the
desk in the library at the Japanese Embassy the night of the reception.”
“I watched you take the flask, and realized that you had made a
mistake,” said the Secret Service operative. “I was detailed with
several plain clothes policemen to watch the cloaks and wraps, as
is frequently done at large semi-public receptions, and went in my
Japanese disguise. When you saw me, I disappeared into the library, and
on your entrance slipped into the conservatory and watched you from
there.”
“Why in the world didn’t you come and ask me for the miniature, if you
knew I had it?” demanded Barclay.
“Because I was aware that Norcross, whom I strongly suspected, did not
know you had the miniature. By bribing Charles, the butler, I had the
run of the house, and on the night of your dinner, Ogden, I was busy
searching Norcross’ bedroom for incriminating papers when I detected
smoke and rushed downstairs to warn you and your guests that the house
was on fire.”
“But why did you close and lock the drawing room doors after shouting
‘Fire’?” asked McLane, before Ogden could speak.
“I slammed the doors shut to avoid meeting Barclay and being arrested
on the charge of murdering Tilghman,” retorted Ito dryly. “I did
not know there was a snap lock on the drawing room doors until
afterward. The fire had gained headway, as I stopped to turn in a
fire alarm before warning you; and not wishing to be known then
under my rightful name of Jack Gilmore, United States Secret Service
operative, I disappeared. Investigation has proved that the fire
started from defective electric wires, and was not connived by you,
Norcross”--Gilmore, alias Ito, faced the professor directly. “I was
morally certain that you had murdered Tilghman, but had not real proof
against you, as you were apparently with Shively while the train was at
Atlanta; so I decided to use the miniature as a decoy to trap you into
a confession of guilt. But that even would have failed had not Colonel
Calhoun proved you an accomplished ventriloquist.”
Barclay felt his throat tenderly. “Norcross stole the miniature from me
just now----”
“And I have it.” The Secret Service operative laid the miniature in
Calhoun’s hand.
“Well done, Gilmore,” he exclaimed, examining the miniature. “I am
sorry to break so beautiful a painting of you, Miss Ogden----”
“Oh, please do,” begged Ethel. “It is too associated with murder and
treachery for me ever to want to look at it again.”
There was a faint tinkle of broken glass and ivory as Calhoun ground
his heel into the miniature, and gathering up the gold frame and its
broken contents, he withdrew from behind the ivory many sheets of
folded rice paper on which were fine writing and cabalistic signs.
“The Secretary of War will sleep easier in his bed than he has
for many nights,” he said. “God!” He swung on Norcross, one hand
lifted menacingly. “Murder I can understand, but treachery and
treason--you!”--in gathering fury--“What shall I call you----”
“The nameless man,” was the bitter retort. “Why should I show loyalty
to a country whose people repudiated my mother because she married a
‘yellow’ man.”
“Your father, then--” Calhoun stepped back, astounded.
“Was a Japanese, yes. And I was educated partly in this country
and partly in Japan. I inherited my mother’s white skin and facial
characteristics, _only_,” with emphasis. “While in Japan I assume my
father’s name; while I am an American naturalist, I use my mother’s
maiden name.”
Calhoun looked at him for a long moment in silence. “A hybrid! You
and your kind are the future problem of the United States,” he said
solemnly. “Take your prisoner, Mitchell.”
With ashen face the man they had known as Richard Norcross stepped
between them as they lined up against the wall, and ignoring their
presence, he walked steadily down the staircase, Mitchell by his side,
and into the waiting police automobile.
As the footsteps of the departing men echoed through the silent house,
Barclay moved gropingly toward Ethel; then the false strength, which
had fought off physical weakness, deserted him, and without word or
sound he went crashing to the floor.
* * * * *
Five hours later Barclay opened his eyes, and at first too dazed to
move, lay in bed gazing in bewilderment at Leonard McLane taking a
quiet snooze in a near-by chair. Gradually Barclay pieced together the
events of the night which culminated in the arrest of the murderer and
the solution of the mysteries surrounding the death of Dwight Tilghman
and James Patterson. A light footstep and the swish of a skirt caused
him to turn as quickly as his bandaged head permitted, but the sight
of Ethel Ogden repaid him for the excruciating pain that followed the
movement.
“How is Julian, Doctor?” asked Ethel. Her low voice brought McLane to
his feet and he smiled sleepily at her.
“You caught me napping,” he admitted. “How did you leave Mrs. Ogden?”
“Very much better; the trained nurse says she has rallied wonderfully,”
Ethel tip-toed into the room. “It was so fortunate that Cousin Walter
got you immediately on the telephone, on discovering Cousin Jane’s
condition.”
“I was sitting up talking to Mitchell and Carter Calhoun,” explained
McLane, “We were threshing out the problems of the two tragedies.
Calhoun, who called here earlier in the evening, was longing to see
you and ask about the miniature, as well as talk with Norcross, with
whom he has had a more or less scientific correspondence for a number
of years, and he suggested that I bring him and Mitchell with me. He
argued that you would undoubtedly be up if your cousin was ill. They
were waiting downstairs talking to Gilmore, alias Ito, when Julian
Barclay made his spectacular run downstairs.”
“Don’t!” Ethel shaded her eyes. “He must have hurt himself seriously
when he struck his head against the newel post.”
“Nonsense, Ethel, men have tough skulls,” smiled McLane. “Barclay lost
a great deal of blood while we stood talking in the hall, and that
is mainly responsible for his loss of consciousness. I assure you he
is----”
“Quite recovered,” said Barclay, and at the sound of his weak voice
McLane hastened to the bed, leaving Ethel to follow more slowly.
“Well, I can’t pronounce you quite recovered,” he said, feeling
Barclay’s pulse and examining the bandages. “But you are getting along
satisfactorily. Come and see for yourself, Ethel,” making room for her,
but she approached only as far as the foot of the bed. McLane, his eyes
twinkling, was about to speak again when a tap sounded at the side of
the open door, and Charles looked in.
“If ye please, sor, Misther Ogden do be axin’ for ye, Doctor,” he
announced. “And he’s in the divil of a hurry.”
McLane smiled. “I’ll come at once,” he paused at the door, and Ethel,
walking at his heels, stopped herself just in time from bumping into
him. “Please wait, Ethel, and find out if Barclay needs any beef tea
or coffee,” he said, and slipped away; the quick-witted Irish servant
hastening after him, conveniently blind to Ethel’s beckoning finger.
Slowly, shyly Ethel approached the bed. “Would you care for some
bouillon?” she asked. Barclay watched her with passionate, longing eyes.
“What did you say?” He raised his bandaged head. “I can’t possibly
hear you at that distance,” he protested, and her heart beating with
maddening rapidity, Ethel drew nearer, step by step, until she reached
his side.
“Would you like something?” she asked faintly, not meeting his eyes.
“Yes--you.” Barclay looked at her pleadingly, his voice deserting him.
He reached up and imprisoned her hand, and as her fingers nestled
in his broad palm a ring fell out of her grasp. “My ring?” he said,
catching it up in his other hand.
“Yes. I was bringing it back to you----”
“Ethel!” Barclay’s face grew ghastly, as hope and happiness died away.
“Only to ask you to explain this sketch.” Ethel was stammering badly
as she held her mother’s drawing before Barclay’s eyes. “Mother saw
your hand, or what we thought your hand, wearing that ring, through
the Pullman car window at the Atlanta station just at the time Dwight
Tilghman was poisoned--and--and----”
Barclay looked at the sketch with dawning comprehension. “Will you
hand me my tobacco pouch and the small book by it,” indicating a table
by the bed. Ethel quickly laid the two articles in his outstretched
hand, and tearing out a cigarette paper, Barclay held it in exactly the
position indicated in the sketch. “It might very well be mistaken for
a paper containing a powder,” he said. “When traveling about I make
my own cigarettes, but in cities I buy them already made. I recall
now starting to smoke on my return to the Pullman, but awoke from my
preoccupation to realize that I must not smoke in that car, so I tipped
up the paper at that angle to pour the tobacco back into my pouch just
at the moment your mother saw me.”
“She didn’t see you, only your hand,” explained Ethel. “And it seemed
so mysterious----”
“You told no one--” Ethel shook her head, and the look that leaped into
Barclay’s eyes repaid her. “I owe you everything,” he said, his voice
shaking with emotion. “If Mitchell had heard of your mother’s sketch,
I might have had great difficulty in convincing him of my innocence.”
Barclay shivered. “All this has brought back so vividly the death of
Paul Patterson----”
“Hush! you must not think of it,” and Ethel laid a tender hand on his
eyes. He drew it down and kissed it lingeringly.
“Perhaps you will teach me to forget,” he said wistfully. “Paul
Patterson was a splendid fellow, working his way along and building up
a fine practice. He would not marry Henrietta Patterson until he could
support her in comfort, having a horror of being thought a fortune
hunter. They had planned a spring wedding--and six weeks before it Fate
and I stepped in”--Barclay closed his eyes. “I had one interview with
Henrietta Patterson, and it will live in my memory always.”
“These are morbid fancies,” protested Ethel warmly. “You are not fair
to yourself, Julian. You are too young a man to have your whole life
blasted by an accident, no matter how tragic, which was the direct
result of overstudy and ill-health. Will you promise me to think only
of the future?”
“I will do anything--everything for you,” exclaimed Barclay
passionately; then, with desperate courage, “My darling, I have so
little to offer you except my love that it seems utter presumption on
my part to entreat you to marry me. Answer me, Ethel, here and now,”
and seizing her hand he looked up into her eyes.
The carmine deepened in Ethel’s pale cheeks, but her gaze did not
falter, and stooping nearer as she read those half imperious but
imploring eyes, her smiling lips met his. With a low cry of unutterable
joy, Barclay’s arms closed around her, and his voice, clear and tender,
murmured: “My loyal sweetheart!”
Transcriber’s Notes:
On page 10, withdawn has been changed to withdrawn.
On page 43, ridicuously has been changed to ridiculously.
On page 52, increduously has been changed to incredulously.
On page 64, drop light has been changed to droplight.
On page 68, Odgen has been changed to Ogden.
On page 104, unincumbered has been changed to unencumbered.
On page 175, insiduously has been changed to insidiously.
On page 212, fom has been changed to from.
On page 265, near-by has been changed to near-by.
On page 283, sleepwalking has been changed to sleep-walking.
On page 291, tiptoed has been changed to tip-toed.
On page 294, becase has been changed to because.
Minor changes have been made silently to make punctuation uniform.
All other spelling, dialect and hyphenation has been left as typeset.