THE CORONER
Not in the least reassured, but considerably aroused in all his
instincts by these further developments of a night already full of
mysterious transactions, Garrison, after a futile watch for his
neighbor, once more plunged into a study of the case in which he found
himself involved.
Vaguely he remembered to have noticed that the man who had come here to
Branchville with him on the train carried no baggage. He had no doubt
the man had been close upon his trail for some considerable time; but
why, and what he wanted, could not be so readily determined. Certain
the man had extracted Ailsa's letter from the pocket of the case, yet
half convinced that the thief had been searching for the necklaces
intrusted to his care, Garrison was puzzled.
There seemed to be no possible connection between the two. He could
not understand what a thief who would take the one would require of the
other. Aside from his money, the gems were the only articles he
possessed of the slightest value or significance. Half persuaded that
the diamonds and pearls afforded the booty for which his visitor had
searched, he was once more in doubt as to whether he had lost Ailsa's
letter or not. He might find it still among his things, at his room in
Forty-fourth Street.
He was fully convinced the man would return no more. Nevertheless,
when he turned in at last, the jewels were under the pillow.
Branchville, in the morning, proved an attractive place of residence.
Half its male population went to New York as commuters. Its housewives
then bustled about their gardens or their chicken-coops, at the rear of
the houses, and a dozen old men gathered slowly at the post-office
store to resume the task of doing nothing.
Garrison experienced no difficulty in searching out Mrs. Webber, the
woman who had supplied certain details concerning the finding of the
body of the man, John Hardy, whose death had occurred here the previous
week.
The house, at the porch of which the body had been discovered, was
empty. Mrs. Webber went with Garrison to the place, showed him exactly
where the body had reclined, and left him alone at the scene.
He looked the details over carefully. The porch was low and roofed;
its eaves projected a foot. If, as Garrison fancied, the stricken man
might have come here in weakness, to lean against the post, and had
then gone down, perhaps leaving heel-marks in the earth, all signs of
any such action had been obliterated, despite the fact that no rains
had fallen since the date of the man's demise. Garrison scrutinized
the ground closely. A piece of broken crockery, a cork, the top of a
can, an old cigar, and some bits of glass and wire lay beside the
baseboard--the usual signs of neglect. The one man-made article in all
the litter that attracted Garrison's attention was the old cigar. He
took it up for a more minute examination.
It had never been lighted. It was broken, as if someone had stepped
upon the larger end; but the label, a bright red band of paper, was
still upon it. The wrapper had somewhat spread; but the pointed end
had been bitten off, half an inch up on the taper.
Aware that the weed might have been thrown down by anyone save Hardy,
Garrison nevertheless placed it in an envelope and tucked it away in
his pocket. A visit to the local coroner presenting itself as the next
most natural step, he proceeded at once to his office.
As a dealer in real estate, a notary public, and an official in several
directions, the coroner was a busy man. He said so himself.
Garrison introduced himself candidly as a New York detective, duly
licensed, at present representing a State insurance company, and stated
the nature of his business.
"All right," said the coroner, inclined at once to be friendly. "My
name is Pike. What'd you want to know? Sit down and take it easy."
"As much as I can learn about the case." Garrison took a proffered
chair. "For instance, what did you find on the body?"
"Nothing--of any importance--a bunch of keys, a fountain-pen, and--and
just some useless trash--I believe four dollars and nineteen cents."
"Anything else?"
"Oh, some scraps of paper and a picture postal-card."
"Any cigars?" asked Garrison.
"Yep--three, with labels on 'em--all but one, I mean." He had taken
one label for his son's collection.
"What did you do with the stuff?"
"Locked it up, waiting orders from the court," replied Mr. Pike. "You
bet, I know my business."
Garrison was pursuing a point. He inquired: "Do you smoke?"
"No, I don't; and if I did, I wouldn't touch one of them," said the
coroner. "And don't you forget it."
"Did anyone help you to carry off the body--anyone who might have
thrown a cigar away, unlighted?"
"No, siree! When Billy Ford and Tom Harris git a cigar it never gits
away," said Mr. Pike.
"Did you find out where the dead man came from and what he was doing in
the village?"
"He was stopping down to Hickwood with Mrs. Wilson," answered Pike.
"His friend there was Charlie Scott, who's making a flying-machine
that's enough to make anybody luny. I've told him he can't borrow no
money from me on no such contraption, and so has Billy Dodd."
Garrison mentally noted down the fact that Scott was in need of money.
"What can you tell me of the man's appearance?" he added, after a
moment of silence. "Did his face present any signs of agony?"
"Nope. Just looked dead," said the coroner.
"Were there any signs upon him of any nature?"
"Grass stain on his knee--that's about all."
"About all?" Garrison echoed. "Was there anything else--any scratches
or bruises on his hands?"
"No--nary a scratch. He had real fine hands," said the coroner. "But
they did have a little dirt on 'em--right on three of the knuckles of
the left hand and on one on the right--the kind of dirt you can't rub
off."
"Did it look as if he'd tried to rub it off?"
"Looked as if he'd washed it a little and it wouldn't come."
"Just common black dirt?"
"Yes, kind of grimy--the kind that gits in and stays."
Garrison reflected that a sign of this nature might and might not prove
important. Everything depended on further developments. One deduction
was presented to his mind--the man had doubtless observed that his
hands were soiled and had washed them in the dark, since anyone with
the "fine" hands described by the coroner would be almost certain to
keep them immaculate; but might, in the absence of a light, wash them
half clean only.
He was not disposed to attach a very great importance to the matter,
however, and only paused for a moment to recall a number of the various
"dirts" that resist an effort to remove them--printers' ink, acid
stains, axle grease, and greasy soot.
He shifted his line of questions abruptly.
"What did you discover about the dead man's relatives? The nephew who
came to claim the body?"
"Never saw him," said the coroner. "I couldn't hang around the corpse
all day. I'm the busiest man in Branchville--and I had to go down to
New York the day he come."
"Did you take possession of any property that deceased might have had
at his room in Hickwood?"
"Sure," said Pike. "Half a dozen collars, and some socks, a few old
letters, and a box almost full of cigars."
"If these things are here in your office," said Garrison, rising, "I
should like to look them over."
"You bet, I can put my hand on anything in my business in a minute,"
boasted Mr. Pike. He rose and crossed the room to a desk with a large,
deep drawer, which he opened with a key.
The dead man's possessions were few, indeed. The three cigars which
his pocket had disgorged were lying near a little pile of money.
Garrison noted at once that the labels on two were counterparts of the
one on the broken cigar now reposing in his pocket. He opened the box
beneath his hand. The cigars inside were all precisely like the
others. Five only had ever been removed, of which four were accounted
for already. The other had doubtless been smoked.
On the even row of dark-brown weeds lay a card, on which, written in
pencil, were the words:
A BIRTHDAY GREETING--WITH LOVE.
Garrison let fall the lid and glanced with fading interest at the few
insignificant papers and other trifles which the drawer contained. He
had practically made up his mind that John Hardy had died, as the
coroner had found, of heart disease, or apoplexy, even in the act of
lighting up to smoke.
He questioned the man further, made up his mind to visit Charles Scott
and Mrs. Wilson, in Hickwood, and was presently out upon the road.