IV

Mr. Barnes stood for a moment in a quandary, and then decided upon a

course of action. He touched the bell which he knew would call the

butler, and then sat down by the grate fire to wait. Almost immediately

his eye fell upon a bit of white paper protruding from beneath a small

rug, and he picked it up. Examining it closely, he guessed that it had

once contained some medicine in powder form, but nothing in the shape of

a label, or traces of the powder itself, was there to tell what the drug

had been.

"I wonder," thought he, "whether this bit of paper would furnish me with

a clue? I must have it examined by a chemist. He may discern by his

methods what I cannot detect with the naked eye."

With this thought in his mind, he carefully folded the paper in its

original creases and deposited it in his wallet. At that moment the

butler entered.

"What is your name?" asked Mr. Barnes.

"Thomas, sir," said the man, a fine specimen of the intelligent New York

negro. "Thomas Jefferson."

"Well, Thomas, I am a detective, and your mistress wishes me to look

into the peculiar circumstances which, as you know, have occurred. Are

you willing to help me?"

"I'll do anything for the mistress, sir."

"Very good. That is quite proper. Now, then, do you remember your

master's death?"

"Yes, sir."

"And his funeral?"

"Yes, sir."

"You know when the undertaker and his men came and went, and how often,

I presume? You let them in and saw them?"

"I let them in, yes, sir. But once or twice they went out without my

knowing."

"At five o'clock on the afternoon before the funeral, I am told that

Mrs. Quadrant visited the room where the body was, and ordered that the

coffin should be closed for the last time. Did you know this?"

"No, sir."

"I understand that at that time the undertaker and two of his men were

in the room, as were also the two Mr. Quadrants, Mrs. Quadrant, and the

doctor. Now, be as accurate as you can, and tell me in what order and

when these persons left the house."

"Dr. Mortimer went away, I remember, just after Mrs. Quadrant went to

her room to lie down. Then the gentlemen went in to dinner, and I served

them. The undertaker and one of his men left together just as dinner was

put on table. I remember that because the undertaker stood in the hall

and spoke a word to Mr. Amos just as he was entering the dining-room.

Mr. Amos then turned to me, and said for me to show them out. I went to

the door with them, and then went back to the dining-room."

"Ah! Then one of the undertaker's men was left alone with the body?"

"I suppose so, unless he went away first. I did not see him go at all.

But, come to think of it, he must have been there after the other two

went away."

"Why?"

"Because, when I let out the undertaker and his man, their wagon was at

the door, but they walked off and left it. After dinner it was gone, so

the other man must have gone out and driven off in it."

"Very probably. Now, can you tell me this man's name? The last to leave

the house, I mean?"

"I heard the undertaker call one 'Jack,' but I do not know which one."

"But you saw the two men--the assistants, I mean. Can you not describe

the one that was here last?"

"Not very well. All I can say is that the one that went away with the

undertaker was a youngish fellow without any mustache. The other was a

short, thick-set man, with dark hair and a stubby mustache. That is all

I noticed."

"That will be enough. I can probably find him at the undertaker's. Now,

can you remember whether either of the gentlemen sat up with the corpse

that night?"

"Both the gentlemen sat in here till ten o'clock. The body was across

the hall in the little reception-room near the front door. About ten the

door-bell rang, and I let in the doctor, who stopped to ask after Mrs.

Quadrant. He and Mr. Amos went up to her room. The doctor came down in a

few minutes, alone, and came into this room to talk with Mr. Mark."

"How long did he stay?"

"I don't know. Not long, I think, because he had on his overcoat. But

Mr. Mark told me I could go to bed, and he would let the doctor out. So

I just brought them a fresh pitcher of ice-water, and went to my own

room."

"That is all, then, that you know of what occurred that night?"

"No, sir. There was another thing, that I have not mentioned to any one,

though I don't think it amounts to anything."

"What was that?"

"Some time in the night I thought I heard a door slam, and the noise

woke me up. I jumped out of bed and slipped on some clothes and came as

far as the door here, but I did not come in."

"Why not?"

"Because I saw Mr. Amos in here, standing by the centre-table with a

lamp in his hand. He was looking down at Mr. Mark, who was fast asleep

alongside of the table, with his head resting on his arm on the table."

"Did you notice whether Mr. Amos was dressed or not?"

"Yes, sir. That's what surprised me. He had all his clothes on."

"Did he awaken his brother?"

"No. He just looked at him, and then tiptoed out and went upstairs. I

slipped behind the hall door, so that he would not see me."

"Was the lamp in his hand one that he had brought down from his own

room?"

"No, sir. It was one that I had been ordered to put in the room where

the coffin was, as they did not want the electric light turned on in

there all night. Mr. Amos went back into the front room, and left the

lamp there before he went upstairs."

"Do you know when Mr. Mark went up to his room? Did he remain downstairs

all night?"

"No, sir. He was in bed in his own room when I came around in the

morning. About six o'clock, that was. But I don't know when he went to

bed. He did not come down to breakfast, though, till nearly noon. The

funeral was at two o'clock."

"That is all, I think," said Mr. Barnes. "But do not let any one know

that I have talked with you."

"Just as you say, sir."

As it was now nearing noon, Mr. Barnes left the house and hastened up to

Mr. Mitchel's residence to keep his engagement for luncheon. Arrived

there, he was surprised to have Williams inform him that he had received

a telephone message to the effect that Mr. Mitchel would not be at home

for luncheon.

"But, Inspector," said Williams, "here's a note just left for you by a

messenger."

Mr. Barnes took the envelope, which he found inclosed the following from

Mr. Mitchel:

"FRIEND BARNES:--

"Am sorry I cannot be home to luncheon. Williams will give you a bite. I

have news for you. I have seen the ashes, and there is now no doubt that

a body, a human body, was burned at the crematory that day. I do not

despair that we may yet discover whose body it was. More when I know

more."

V

Mr. Barnes read this note over two or three times, and then folded it

thoughtfully and put it in his pocket. He found it difficult to decide

whether Mr. Mitchel had been really detained, or whether he had

purposely broken his appointment. If the latter, then Mr. Barnes felt

sure that already he had made some discovery which rendered this case

doubly attractive to him, so much so that he had concluded to seek the

solution himself.

"That man is a monomaniac," thought Mr. Barnes, somewhat nettled. "I

come here and attract his attention to a case that I know will afford

him an opportunity to follow a fad, and now he goes off and is working

the case alone. It is not fair. But I suppose this is another challenge,

and I must work rapidly to get at the truth ahead of him. Well, I will

accept, and fight it out."

Thus musing, Mr. Barnes, who had declined Williams's offer to serve

luncheon, left the house and proceeded to the shop of the undertaker.

This man had a name the full significance of which had never come home

to him until he began the business of caring for the dead. He spelled it

Berial, and insisted that the pronunciation demanded a long sound to the

"i," and a strong accent on the middle syllable. But he was constantly

annoyed by the cheap wit of acquaintances, who with a significant titter

would call him either Mr. "Burial," or Mr. "Bury all."

Mr. Barnes found Mr. Berial disengaged, undertakers, fortunately, not

always being rushed with business, and encountered no difficulty in

approaching his subject.

"I have called, Mr. Berial," said the detective, "to get a little

information about your management of the funeral of Mr. Quadrant."

"Certainly," said Mr. Berial; "any information I can give, you are

welcome to. Detective, I suppose?"

"Yes; in the interest of the family," replied Mr. Barnes. "There are

some odd features of this case, Mr. Berial."

"Odd?" said the undertaker. "Odd don't half cover it. It's the most

remarkable thing in the history of the world. Here I am, with an

experience in funerals covering thirty years, and I go and have a man

decently cremated, and, by hickory, if he ain't found floating in the

river the next morning. Odd? Why, there ain't any word to describe a

thing like that. It's devilish; that's the nearest I can come to it."

"Well, hardly that," said Mr. Barnes, with a smile. "Of course, since

Mr. Quadrant's body has been found in the river, it never was cremated."

"Who says so?" asked the undertaker, sharply. "Not cremated? Want to bet

on that? I suppose not. We can't make a bet about the dead. It wouldn't

be professional. But Mr. Quadrant was cremated. There isn't any question

about that point. Put that down as final."

"But it is impossible that he should have been cremated, and then

reappear at the Morgue."

"Just what I say. The thing's devilish. There's a hitch, of course. But

why should it be at my end, eh? Tell me that, will you? There's just as

much chance for a mistake at the Morgue as at the funeral, isn't there?"

This was said in a tone that challenged dispute.

"What mistake could have occurred at the Morgue?" asked Mr. Barnes.

"Mistaken identification," replied the undertaker so quickly that he had

evidently anticipated the question. "Mistaken identification. That's

your cue, Mr. Barnes. It's happened often enough before," he added, with

a chuckle.

"I scarcely think there can be a mistake of that character," said Mr.

Barnes, thinking, nevertheless, of the scar on the foot. "This

identification is not merely one of recognition; it is supported by

scientific reason, advanced by the doctors."

"Oh! doctors make mistakes too, I guess," said Mr. Berial, testily.

"Look here, you're a detective. You're accustomed to weigh evidence.

Now tell me, will you, how could this man be cremated, as I tell you he

was, and then turn up in the river? Answer that, and I'll argue with

you."

"The question, of course, turns on the fact of the cremation. How do you

know that the body was in the coffin when it was consigned to the

furnace?"

"How do I know? Why, ain't that my business? Who should know if I don't?

Didn't I put the body in the coffin myself?"

"Very true. But why could not some one have taken the body out after you

closed the coffin finally, and before the hour of the funeral?"

Mr. Berial laughed softly to himself, as though enjoying a joke too good

to be shared too soon with another. Presently he said:

"That's a proper question, of course; a very proper question, and I'll

answer it. But I must tell you a secret, so you may understand it. You

see in this business we depend a good deal on the recommendation of the

attending physician. Some doctors are real professional, and recommend a

man on his merits. Others are different. They expect a commission.

Surprises you, don't it? But it's done every day in this town. The

doctor can't save his patient, and the patient dies. Then he tells the

sorrowing friends that such and such an undertaker is the proper party

to hide away the result of his failure; failure to cure, of course. In

due time he gets his little check, ten per cent. of the funeral bill.

This seems like wandering away from the point, but I am coming back to

it. This commission arrangement naturally keeps me on the books of

certain doctors, and vicy versy it keeps them on mine. So, working for

certain doctors, it follows that I work for a certain set of people. Now

I've a Catholic doctor on my books, and it happens that the cemetery

where that church buries is in a lonesome place; just the spot for a

grave-robber to work undisturbed, especially if the watchman out there

should happen to be fond of his tipple, which I tell you, again in

confidence, that he is. Now, then, it has happened more than once,

though it has been kept quiet, that a grave filled up one afternoon

would be empty the next morning. At least the body would be gone. Of

course they wouldn't take the coffin, as they'd be likely to be caught

getting rid of it. You see, a coffin ain't exactly regular household

furniture. If they have time they fill the grave again, but often enough

they're too anxious to get away, because, of course, the watchman might

not be drunk. Well, these things being kept secret, but still pretty

well known in the congregation, told in whispers, I might say, a sort of

demand sprung up for a style of coffin that a grave-robber couldn't

open,--a sort of coffin with a combination lock, as it were."

"You don't mean to say--" began Mr. Barnes, greatly interested at last

in the old man's rather lengthy speech. He was interrupted by the

undertaker, who again chuckled as he exclaimed:

"Don't I? Well, I do, though. Of course I don't mean there's really a

combination lock. That would never do. We often have to open the coffin

for a friend who wants to see the dead face again, or for folks that

come to the funeral late. It's funny, when you come to think of it, how

folks will be late to funerals. As they only have this last visit to

make, you'd think they'd make it a point to be on time and not delay the

funeral. But about the way I fasten a coffin. If any grave-robber

tackles one of my coffins without knowing the trick, he'd be astonished,

I tell you. I often think of it and laugh. You see, there's a dozen

screws and they look just like ordinary screws. But if you work them all

out with a screw-driver, your coffin lid is just as tight as ever. You

see, it's this way. The real screw works with a reverse thread, and is

hollow on the top. Now I have a screw-driver that is really a screw.

When the screw-threaded end of this is screwed into the hollow end of

the coffin-bolt, as soon as it is in tight it begins to unscrew the

bolt. To put the bolt in, in the first place, I first screw it tight on

to my screw-driver, and then drive it in, turning backwards, and as soon

as it is tight my screw-driver begins to unscrew and so comes out. Then

I drop in my dummy screw, and just turn it down to fill the hole. Now

the dummy screw and the reverse thread of the real bolt is a puzzle for

a grave-robber, and anyway he couldn't solve it without one of my own

tools."

Mr. Barnes reflected deeply upon this as a most important statement. If

Mr. Quadrant's coffin was thus fastened, no one could have opened it

without the necessary knowledge and the special screw-driver. He

recalled that the butler had told him that one of Mr. Berial's men had

been at the house after the departure of the others. This man was

therefore in the position to have opened the coffin, supposing that he

had had one of the screw-drivers. Of this it would be well to learn.

"I suppose," said Mr. Barnes, "that the coffin in which you placed Mr.

Quadrant was fastened in this fashion?"

"Yes; and I put the lid on and fastened it myself."

"What, then, did you do with the screw-driver? You might have left it at

the house."

"I might have, but I didn't. No; I'm not getting up a combination and

then leaving the key around loose. No, sir; there's only one of those

screw-drivers, and I take care of it myself. I'll show it to you."

The old man went to a drawer, which he unlocked, and brought back the

tool.

"You see what it is," he continued--"double-ended. This end is just the

common every-day screw-driver. That is for the dummies that fill up the

hollow ends after the bolts are sent home. The other end, you see, looks

just like an ordinary screw with straight sides. There's a shoulder to

keep it from jamming. Now that's the only one of those, and I keep it

locked in that drawer with a Yale lock, and the key is always in my

pocket. No; I guess that coffin wasn't opened after I shut it."

Mr. Barnes examined the tool closely, and formed his own conclusions,

which he thought best to keep to himself.

"Yes," said he aloud; "it does seem as though the mistake must be in the

identification."

"What did I tell you?" exclaimed Mr. Berial, delighted at thinking that

he had convinced the detective. "Oh, I guess I know my business."

"I was told at the house," said Mr. Barnes, "that when you left, after

closing the coffin, one of your men stayed behind. Why was that?"

"Oh, I was hungry and anxious to get back for dinner. One of my men,

Jack, I brought away with me, because I had to send him up to another

place to get some final directions for another funeral. The other man

stayed behind to straighten up the place and bring off our things in the

wagon."

"Who was this man? What is his name?"

"Jerry, we called him. I don't know his last name."

"I would like to have a talk with him. Can I see him?"

"I am afraid not. He isn't working with me any more."

"How was that?"

"He left, that's all. Threw up his job."

"When was that?"

"This morning."

"This morning?"

"Yes; just as soon as I got here, about eight o'clock."

Mr. Barnes wondered whether there was any connection between this man's

giving up his position, and the account of the discoveries in regard to

Mr. Quadrant's body which the morning papers had published.