The Gardener Speaks
My glance at the window had been but a casual thing and the appearance
of the face had lasted only a second. As the face vanished, I uttered
a sudden cry—one which caused Bartley to give me a quick look. Briefly
I told what I had seen, and pointed at the window; then we turned and
rushed for the door and out into the open air.
The library stood upon the top of a small hill, and there were no
trees within a short distance. At the bottom of the hill, however, the
lawn was covered with trees and shrubbery. It was dark, yet not so
dark but that we should have been able to have seen any figure which
ran across our vision. But save for the trees in the distance, which
loomed a darker shadow against the blackness, we saw nothing. Bartley
motioned with his hand and we followed him to the rear of the house.
Here, too, there was a close-cropped lawn with the trees commencing on
the far edge. The trees were thicker and the shrubbery far more dense
than in the front. It needed but a look to realize that it was absurd
to expect to discover any one in the darkness. The huge lawn, together
with the many trees, offered many opportunities for hiding. Just as I
was about to say this there came a sharp exclamation of surprise and
the sound of two people tumbling through the hedge far to our left.
The path to the library ran between two rows of a high hedge. As we
rushed across the grass, the sounds of the struggle came louder to our
ears. Two people were thrashing back and forth upon the ground
slightly ahead of us. As we reached the path and turned past the
slight bend, we almost stumbled over two men—two men rolling to and
fro on the gravel.
We could dimly distinguish their figures as they struggled. Save for
the crunching of the gravel in the path and their hurried breathing,
they made no sound. Over and over, first one on top and then the
other, they rolled. The chief and Bartley rushed in to separate them.
As Bartley's hand reached the man who for the moment was on top there
came Ranville's voice.
“Just grab hold of this chap under me, will you?”
The chief pulled the other man to his feet as Ranville stood erect. I
heard him brushing the dirt from his clothes and then he laughed:
“I was coming up this confounded path when that blighter ran smash
into me; almost knocked me off my feet. And when I asked him what the
rush was, he tried to knock me down. Naturally enough, I decided we'd
better have a look at him.”
Pushing the man ahead of him, the chief started back to the library,
we following him. No one said anything, and whoever the man might be,
he kept his mouth shut. Up the steps to the piazza and then through
the open door we marched. When we were in the room, the chief whirled
the man around to get a look at his face. It needed but one glance to
tell who he was. The heavy, dull face turned toward us and filled with
fear was that of the man who worked around Warren's grounds.
He was a thick-set man whose features at the inquest had not impressed
me very highly. No one, looking at him at any time, would have said he
was very imposing, either in intelligence or physique; now, with his
face streaked with dirt from the path in which he had rolled, and with
the blood trickling from a slight cut above his eye, he made a rather
sinister appearance. The dark hair was a tangled mass, and his eyes
glared at us as he half yelled:
“What are you trying to do to me? I ain't done nothing.”
“What were you looking through the window for?” growled the chief.
Though I was pretty sure that the gardener was the man whose face I
had seen at the window a few moments before, yet I was not positive;
his next words, however, were a confession:
“Suppose I was?” he snarled. “There is no harm in that.”
“Maybe not,” retorted the chief. “But you were pretty anxious to get
away without being seen.”
“You're right there, Officer,” laughed Ranville. “He was running as
fast as he could when he banged into me.”
Ranville was wearing a light summer suit—a suit remarkable, not only
for the fineness of the cloth, but also for the way it was pressed;
now it was a mass of wrinkles, stained and soiled from the dirt. But
though the face of the Englishman had a dark streak which ran from his
eyes to his lips, yet from his manner one would never have thought
that only a moment or so before he had been struggling with the
gardener.
His remark caused the chief to make a vain attempt to wring from the
man the reason why he had been looking in the window, and also why he
had run away. But the gardener refused to make any explanations. He
would simply shrug his shoulders, or else growl out that he had done
nothing. In the end the chief, by this time a very angry man,
announced he would lock him up in the jail for the night.
“Maybe by morning you will feel like talking,” was the statement he
hurled at the gardener.
We waited until after the chief had called the police station and
asked them to send a car for his prisoner. Then bidding him good
night, we left the library and started for our car. As we walked down
the path, Ranville told us that though we had said we would walk back
to the house, yet it had taken so little time to reach the secretary's
home that he had come back to pick us up. He had just started up the
path to the library when he heard running footsteps and the next
second the man had plunged against him. The two men had rolled over
and over and as the man seemed determined to get away, Ranville had
decided that he had better discover who he might be.
All the way back to the house we discussed the matter, reaching no
conclusion. How long the gardener had been watching us or for what
reason we could not say. Ranville was more interested in endeavoring
to find out why the man had attempted to get away without being seen.
To him that was the suspicious thing. Otherwise he would have seen no
reason to become excited over the fact the man had looked in the
window. Curiosity could explain that action. It would not, however,
explain his effort to escape without being seen. We were still talking
about it when we drove into the yard.
Telling Bartley that I would place the car in the garage, I let the
two men out by the drive, noticing as I did so that the lights were
turned on in the house. The dog leaped with a bark to greet me as I
opened the garage door and followed me when I went into the house.
Hearing the sound of voices in the living room, I entered to find
Bartley talking with Carter's neighbor, the minister.
Seating myself in a chair, I listened to the conversation. I could
tell the clergyman did not have the slightest idea who Bartley might
be. I judged also that he was a little surprised at not finding Carter
at home. There was a great contrast between the two men. The minister
was very tall and thin and extremely nervous. His eyes looked tired,
and there was a certain condescension in his voice which I have
noticed in other men of his profession. Bartley, on the other hand,
leaned back in his chair with the restful air which he always wore.
His keen, intellectual face had not a single line, and though I judged
the two men were about the same age, Bartley looked at least ten years
younger.
For a while they talked in the idle fashion men do when they are
strangers. Then for a time they spoke about certain books. In the end,
naturally enough, they came to Warren's death. It was the clergyman
who brought up the subject by saying that he judged they would never
find the murderer. Bartley made no response to this, but went on to
say that the death of the scientist was a very deplorable thing for
the intellectual world. And to my surprise the minister promptly said
that he did not agree with this. And then suddenly he began to talk
very earnestly.
Long before he had finished I discovered that the man was very narrow
to say the least. He informed us that though he was sorry to have
heard of Mr. Warren's being murdered, yet, after all, he considered it
an act of God. I gave a start at this, for they were the very words
Bartley had told us had been used in the editorial he had read in a
religious journal. As the minister uttered them, I saw a rather
dismayed smile flit over Bartley's face, and he half protested.
The face of the minister lightened with strange intensity. His face
flushed with eagerness as he leaned forward to say:
“I know, of course, the phrase does not sound well. But you do not
know as I do how the materialistic teachings of the scientists are
undermining the faith of our young people. These men are destroying
the very word of God. Mr. Warren said that his new book would settle
for all time the question of evolution.”
He paused to give a scornful laugh.
“Of course, he was wrong there. Evolution is simply a guess of man and
can never be proven to be right. But his book might have caused much
confusion among the unthinking people. Now it can never be written.”
Bartley started to say something but checked himself and slumped far
down in his chair. At this moment Ranville came into the room. He had
changed his suit and with a nod to the minister took a chair near me.
The minister eyed the Englishman for a second, then turned to carry on
the strange argument. He bent forward with an intensity of feeling and
swept on:
“You men do not realize as some of we clergymen do just how evil have
become the times in which we are living. The young people of to-day
have no interest in sacred things. Pleasure and materialism are
sweeping over us; if it is not checked, God will blot us out just as
he did in the time of Noah.”
I saw Ranville's eyes open wide in astonishment. He gave the excited
man in the chair a look and drawled out:
“Really now, you can't mean all that.”
The minister brought his thin hand down upon the arm of his chair. His
voice rose a little and became sharper as he replied:
“But I do, I do. There is a wave of irreligion sweeping over the
world. Most of it is due to the materialistic teaching of the
so-called ‘men of science.’ Their absurd theory of evolution, which
teaches that man is a brute instead of a son of God, is responsible
for a good deal of it.”
Ranville gave a little puzzled shake of his head and looked at the
minister as though he was studying a new sort of animal. Then he
asked:
“Well, how do you expect to stop all the scientific teaching?”
The minister almost jumped from his chair as he cried:
“We are going to stop it! We must! We have millions of God-fearing
people behind us. Before we are through, we will prevent the teaching
of evolution by law. Make it a crime to put materialistic theories in
the minds of the young.”
Bartley's eyes met those of Ranville and the two men faintly smiled. I
looked at the minister, hardly thinking he believed what he was
saying. It needed, however, but a glance at the thin face and the
fixed determined lips to see that he was in earnest. There was a
certain look in his eyes that I did not like—the look of the fanatic.
But just when I had thought of that his expression changed and there
came a smile around his lips—a smile which made his face almost
attractive. He half laughed as he said:
“Well, I was getting started on my hobby. It is all true what I have
said. Religion is dying out under the sweep of materialistic things.
Why in the ten churches in this town—churches which will seat around
four thousand people—there were only 540 in them all last Sunday.
But—” He hesitated, and then went on: “But I don't want you to take
what I said amiss. I am very sorry Mr. Warren was killed. But in a
sense to me it seems that if such a thing had to happen, it was good
it came when it did.”
“What do you mean by that?” came Ranville's surprised question.
“Why now that book of his will never be published,” was the retort.
There came Bartley's cool voice:
“Oh, yes, it will. Niles Patton, who was Warren's assistant on the
trip into China, is to arrive to-morrow. He will finish editing
Warren's notes. The book will be out all right.”
I saw a very surprised look sweep across the minister's face, and
there came a slight frown. But he said nothing for a minute, and when
he did speak, it was to ask if we thought the Chinaman who had been
mentioned at the inquest, had anything to do with the murder. He was
told we did not know, and then for some reason the conversation died
away. Inviting us to call at his house, he bade us good night and went
out.
After his footsteps had died away, Ranville turned to Bartley with a
little laugh and asked:
“Do you have many like him?”
“Far more than you think,” was the serious reply. “In fact, Ranville,
he told the truth. There are millions in this country who are trying
to have laws passed which will prevent the teaching of science. We
have three great religious denominations that maintain great political
lobbies in Washington. They may be narrow, uncultured and all that,
but they are also sincere—the sincerity of the uneducated, and those
who from the standpoint of the psychologist fear the newer knowledge.
They want Sunday blue laws, censorship and, above all, to prevent by
law all things in which they do not believe. He was right when he said
that many of those people think Warren's death was an act of God.”
Ranville shook his head as if saying that such things were beyond his
comprehension. He laughed a bit, and had a little fun with us by
saying that it was time we became civilized; then lapsed into silence.
For a time we sat quietly thinking, the smoke from our cigars curling
above our heads. It was Ranville who spoke first, turning to Bartley:
“What do you think was back of this murder?”
“It is going to be pretty hard to discover. I suppose you Scotland
Yard men always do the same thing I do, try first to find the motive
for a crime.”
The Inspector nodded, replying:
“We do. But of course we have an extensive system which covers the
whole of England. Even at that it would be rather difficult to find
any apparent motive for this murder. There is none on the surface.”
“None that we usually find. Warren had no relative except his brother
in the south. He is a very wealthy man, and the property will go to
him. No family troubles. It seems from all we have heard he was not
killed for money. There was nothing of any value taken. On the other
hand, he had no enemies so far as I ever heard; in fact, the more you
look at it the greater becomes the mystery. Just why a man like Warren
should have been killed is the question we must answer first. Until
that is answered there can be no chance of answering the second—who
killed him.”
The Englishman was thoughtful for a while, and then sinking back in
his chair said slowly:
“That is true. The only thing we do not know about is what might have
taken place in China.”
“I know about that,” commented Bartley, and as we both looked at him
in surprise, he added:
“I ran into Niles Patton at the University Club yesterday. I have
known Patton for a long time. He was with Warren in China. He says
that they had no trouble at all on their expedition. The only reason
they were delayed in returning was not because they were molested by
outlaws, but on account of the great discoveries of fossils Warren
made. He says that so far as he knows Warren did not have an enemy in
the whole of China. You will meet him when he comes up here to finish
Warren's notes, and he will tell you the same thing.”
“But, John,” I ventured. “How about that Chinaman who visited us and
the story he told?”
Bartley threw out his hands in a gesture of hopelessness and said that
he could not answer the question. For a while we commented about his
visit, and agreed with Bartley the man had lied to us when he spoke
about a box which contained the ashes of Buddha. It was Ranville's
opinion that the Chinaman had come more to discover what we knew than
any other reason. He was rather insistent that the man should have
been held by the police. And then I remembered that I had not told
Bartley of my visit to the swamp and of the attack which had been made
on me at the church tower.
He listened soberly, smiled once or twice as something struck him as
being humorous, and opened his eyes when I narrated how I was thrown
over the tower. He laughed when I told him of the amazed look upon the
minister's face as he heard my voice and opened the trap door. But he
did not make any comment, saying that it was rather an odd thing to
have taken place.
As Bartley did not comment on my accident, Ranville after a pause
asked him if he had any kind of a theory about the case. I saw
Bartley's lips melt into a firm line, and he turned to the Englishman.
“I have no theory at all, Ranville. It seems to me that there is
something we do not know—some little thing, perhaps, which might give
the light we need. What it is I cannot even guess. You know that our
work is one-third brains and perhaps two-thirds luck. As this case now
stands, all the brains we may use upon it will not aid us unless luck
plays a little part. Plays it by giving that little clew—the hint
which would cause us to discover what the motive might be or find the
type of a person who might have killed Warren.”
The telephone bell interrupted him. It was a long, incessant ring. I
went into the hall, and in a moment there came the voice of the chief
asking for Bartley. Telling him to wait, I returned to the living room
and said that the chief was calling. With a half smile Bartley rose to
his feet and went out into the hall. We heard the low murmur of his
voice, and the conversation was rather long. When it ceased, he came
slowly back and dropped into a chair. There was a rather perplexed
look on his face as he turned to us.
“The chief called up to tell me he has succeeded in getting the
gardener to talk. And the chief, I might add, although he promised to
let the man go, has decided to hold him longer.”
“What for?” we both cried.
“Well,” came the slow reply, “the gardener says that he was asked to
go into Warren's library and take one of those three caskets which I
noticed on the stands. He was to take the one nearest the safe; for
doing this he would receive one hundred dollars.”
“Who asked him to do that?” came Ranville's eager question.
Bartley shrugged his shoulders in a gesture which might express
anything.
“He says your Chinese visitor was the one who made the proposal.”