A TURN IN THE GAME.
It is John Burrill!
Lying there, half buried still, with clenched hands and features
distorted. It is John Burrill, dead.
Clifford Heath utters a sharp exclamation. He starts forward suddenly,
and looks, not upon the dead face, but straight at the white thing that
is still held in the hand of one of the masons. Then he snatches it from
the man fiercely, looks at it again and more closely, and lets it fall
from his grasp. For a moment all is black to his vision, and over his
face a ghastly pallor creeps. Slowly, slowly, he lifts his hand to his
forehead, rests it there for a moment, and seems making an effort to
think. Then he drops his hand; he lifts his head; he draws himself
erect.
"O'Meara," he says, in a voice strangely hollow and unfamiliar, and
pointing to the fallen handkerchief. "Look at that. I am going home;
when you want me you will find me there." And without having so much as
glanced at the dead face so near him, he goes slowly towards his
cottage, holding his head proudly erect still.
Mr. O'Meara turns away from the corpse, and gazes for a moment after the
retreating form of his friend; then he picks up the handkerchief; it is
of softest linen, and across one corner he reads the embroidered name
of _Clifford Heath_. For a moment he stands with the telltale thing held
loosely in his hand, and then he bends down, spreads it once more over
the dead face, and turns to the men.
"This body must not be disturbed further," he says, authoritatively.
"One of you go at once and notify Soames, and then Corliss. Fortunately,
Soames lives quite near. Don't bring a gang here. Let's conduct this
business decently and in order. Do you go, Bartlett," addressing the
younger of the two men. "We will stay here until the mayor comes."
And Lawyer O'Meara buttons his coat tightly about him and draws closer
to the cellar wall, the better to protect himself from the drip, drip,
of the rain.
"It is a horrible thing, sir," ventured the mechanic, drawing further
away from the ghastly thing outlined, and made more horrible, by the
wet, white covering. "It's a fearful deed for somebody, and--it looks as
if the right man wasn't far away; we all know how he and Burrill were--"
"Hold your tongue, man," snapped O'Meara, testily, "keep 'what we all
know' until you are called on to testify. _I_ have something to think
about."
And he does think, long and earnestly, regardless of the rain;
regardless alike of the restless living companion and of the silent
dead.
By and by, they come, the mayor, the officers, the curious gazers; the
rain is nothing to them, in a case like this; there is much running to
and fro; there are all the scenes and incidents attendant upon a
first-class horror. A messenger is dispatched, in haste, to Mapleton,
and, in the wind and the rain, the drama moves on.
The messenger to Mapleton rides in hot haste; he finds none but the
servants astir in that stately house; to them he breaks the news, and
then waits while they rouse Frank Lamotte; for Jasper Lamotte has not
returned from the city.
After a time he comes down, pale and troubled of countenance; he can
scarcely credit the news he hears; he is terribly shocked, speechless
with the horror of the story told him.
By and by, he recovers his composure, in a measure; he goes to his
mother's room, and tells her the horrible news; he orders the servants
to be careful what they say in his sister's presence, and not to
approach Evan's room; then he tells the coachman to meet Mr. Lamotte,
who will come on the noon express, with the carriage. After which, he
swallows a glass of brandy; and, without waiting for breakfast, mounts
his horse and gallops madly townward.
Meantime, the fast express is steaming toward W----, bearing among its
human freight, Mr. Jasper Lamotte; and never has W---- seen upon his
usually serene face such a look as it now wears. It is harassed,
baffled, discontented, surly. He knows no one among the passengers, and
he sits aloof from his fellow travelers, making no effort to while away
the time, as travelers do.
As they near W----, however, he shakes off his dullness, and lays aside
his look of care; and when he steps upon the platform at W----, he is to
all appearance, the same smiling suave man, who went away three days
before.
There are several other passengers for W----, among whom we may see a
portly, dignified gentleman who looks to be somewhere in the forties,
and who evidently has a capital opinion of himself, and knows what he is
about. He is fashionably dressed, and wears a splendid diamond in his
shirt front. He carries in his hand a small valise, and asks for a
carriage to the best hotel.
Close behind him is another man, of a different stripe. He is a rakish
looking fellow, dressed in smart but cheap clothing. He carries in his
hand a small, square package, neatly strapped, and this alone would
betray his calling, were it not so obvious in his look and manner. The
"book fiend" has descended upon W----. He looks about him carelessly,
watches the portly gentleman as he is driven away in the carriage from
the W---- Hotel, sees Mr. Jasper Lamotte enter his landau, and drive
swiftly away, and then he trudges cheerily townward, swinging his packet
of books as he goes.
When they are out of sight of the gaping crowd about the depot, the
coachman, acting under Frank's orders, brings his horses to a walk, and,
turning upon his seat, addresses his master.
"I've dreadful news to tell you, sir; and Mr. Frank said to let you know
it quick, so as you could come there at once."
Jasper Lamotte stares in angry astonishment, scarcely taking in the
meaning of the none too lucid sentence.
"Well, sir," he says, shortly, "what are you talking about?"
This time the man came at once to the point.
"Mr. Burrill has been murdered, sir. They found him this morning in an
old cellar, close by Doctor Heath's; and they say, sir,--"
"_What!_ what do you say? Burrill--"
"Murdered, sir--killed dead--stabbed right through the heart, sir. They
are anxious for you to come. They are going to have an inquest right
there."
"Drive there, at once," cried Mr. Lamotte, hoarsely. "I must see for
myself," and he sinks back upon his seat, pale and trembling.
Meantime the carriage containing the portly gentleman arrives at the
hotel. The rain is still falling, and the gentleman steps hurriedly from
the carriage and across the pavement--so hurriedly, indeed, that he
jostles against a boy who is passing with a tray of ivory carvings and
pretty scroll-work.
Down comes the tray, and the gentleman, who is evidently kind-hearted,
cries out:
"Why, boy! Bless me, but I'm sorry! Didn't see you, upon my word. Pick
your wares up, sonny, and take stock of the broken things, then come in
and I'll make it all square. Just ask for Mr. Wedron, and don't be
bashful," and he bustles into the office of the W---- House, where he
calls for the best room they can give him, registers as "A. C. Wedron,
att'y, N. Y.," and, asking that he might have dinner as early as
possible, he goes at once to his room.
[Illustration: "Why, boy! Bless me."]
"I say," he calls to the porter who brings up his valise, "when that
young image boy comes, just send him along to me; I owe him some
damages."
A few minutes later, the boy enters the office and deposits his
disordered tray upon a chair.
"Come along, you," calls the porter, gruffly. "The gentleman's looking
for you."
"Wait a minit, can't ye?" retorts the boy coolly. "I jest want to take
account of stock."
He drops on one knee and rearranges his tray with great care and no
haste.
"There!" he exclaims, rising at length with a chuckle of satisfaction.
"I reckon that big bloke'll be about two fifty out after I call." And he
takes up his tray and says to the porter: "Now, then, give us the
address."
"Twenty-one," he replies, and the boy ascends the stairs, and
unceremoniously opens the door of twenty-one.
The gentleman, who stands at the window, turns quickly at the sound of
the opening door, and when it has closed behind the boy, he advances and
asks in a low tone:
"How lies the land, George? Is there any news?"
"I'm sorry, sir," replies the boy. "I was faithful to orders--but things
have gone wrong."
"How, my boy?"
"The man you call Burrill was murdered last night."
"Ah!"
"Yes, sir, and I _might_ have known who did it. This is the way it went,
sir: I kept an eye on all of your men as well as I could, during the
day, and kept the widest eye on the short fellow with the tramp lay-out
and the ugly face. That was easy, for he lay low all day; so I managed
to get around here two or three times during the afternoon, and I found
that Mr. Belknap was laying low, too. He staid in and about the hotel
all day, and, I think, all the evening. At night the tramp fellow began
to show signs of life, and I piped him close. Early in the evening, at
dusk, in fact, he went over the river and out toward Mapleton; on the
way he met Burrill coming to town, and he faced about and stalked him
back. Burrill lounged about a good bit, and then he went to the saloon
you pointed out to me; some fellows were waiting there for him, and they
got about a table and carried things high, drinking every five minutes.
My man kept a close look on the saloon, and seemed uneasy all the time;
once he went in, and drank two beers, but he did not venture near
Burrill and his party. By and by, I think it must have been ten o'clock
or later, Burrill came out from the saloon alone; he was very drunk, and
staggered as he walked away. He turned south, and my man came out, as I
supposed, to follow. But, instead, he took a short cut to the bridge
and crossed over, hiding himself in the low hedge on the other side. He
staid there until almost morning, and then he seemed to be disgusted, or
discouraged, or both. I staid close by, and tracked him back to his
roost! Then I turned in to get a little rest myself. I was out early,
and looked first after my man; he was out too, prowling about uneasily.
He went to the saloon, and seemed inclined to loaf there a bit; so I
went to look after Mr. Belknap. He was not visible, and so I lounged
about, as it was too wet to get out my wares. Well, it was not long
before my man came out from old 'Forty Rods,' and started out on the
south road, and I kept on behind him, and before we had gone far we met
a party of excited men, gathered about the mayor's house, and learned
that a murder had been committed. We fell in with the crowd, and went
out to the place where the body lay. It was in an empty lot, right next
to Doctor Heath's cottage; the body was down in an old cellar, and had
been hastily buried by the murderers. They say it was Doctor Heath's dog
that first discovered the body."
He pauses, and waits for a comment, but none comes; the gentleman stands
with hands behind him, and head bent, as if still listening. For a long
time, he stands thus, and then takes a turn or two about the room.
"Why, George," he says, at last. "I don't see that you could have done
better. It was no part of our plan to have this murder happen, and it
bids fair to make us some trouble that we had not counted on. But we
are used to that, George. So you think you might have known who did the
deed?"
"I might, sir, if I had followed Burrill; I felt all the time that he
was the man to watch."
"Oh!" with an odd smile; "your instincts are on the alert. However, you
did right in disregarding instinct, and obeying orders. Now then, be off
sir, and until you have further notice, keep both your eyes on Mr.
Belknap. By the by, when do they hold an inquest?"
"At three o'clock, sir; they want to have Mr. Lamotte there."
"Well! that's all, George; you had better dispose of your traps for the
day, and look sharp after Mr. Belknap."
"All right, sir;" and taking up his tray, the little detective goes out,
dropping back into his old impudent manner, as the door closes behind
him.
"So, Burrill has been killed," soliloquizes the portly gentleman seating
himself before his cheery fire. "Well, that goes to show that we
detectives don't find out all the tangles. We are lucky oftener than we
are shrewd! Now look, I fancied I had the game in my hands, and stepped
into town this morning to throw my trump and win, and now, my game is
blocked, and a new one opens against me."