It was perhaps my straightforward manner, and my quite apparent assumption of his intelligence, that made the man relax a little and reply in a more conversational tone.
Were forbidden to chatter, sir, he said, but, bein as youre the detective, I spose theres no harm. But its little we know, after all. The master was well and sound last evenin, and this mornin he was found dead in his own office-chair.
You mean a private office in his home?
Yes, sir. Mr. Crawford went to his office in New York most every day, but days when he didnt go, and evenins and Sundays, he was much in his office at home, sir.
Who discovered the tragedy?
I dont rightly know, sir, if it was Louis, his valet, or Lambert, the butler, but it was one or tother, sir.
Or both together? I suggested.
Yes, sir; or both together.
Is any one suspected of the crime?
The man hesitated a moment, and looked as if uncertain what to reply, then, as he set his jaw squarely, he said:
Not as I knows on, sir.
Tell me something of the town, I observed next, feeling that it was better to ask no more vital questions of a servant.
We were driving along streets of great beauty. Large and handsome dwellings, each set in the midst of extensive and finely-kept grounds, met the view on either aide. Elaborate entrances opened the way to wide sweeps of driveway circling green velvety lawns adorned with occasional shrubs or flower-beds. The avenues were wide, and bordered with trees carefully set out and properly trimmed. The streets were in fine condition, and everything betokened a community, not only wealthy, but intelligent and public-spirited. Surely West Sedgwick was a delightful location for the homes of wealthy New York business men.
Well, sir, said the coachman, with unconcealed pride, Mr. Crawford was the head of everything in the place. His is the handsomest house and the grandest grounds. Everybody respected him and looked up to him. He hadnt an enemy in the world.
This was an opening for further conjecture as to the murderer, and I said: But the man who killed him must have been his enemy.
Yes, sir; but I mean no enemy that anybody knew of. It must have been some burglar or intruder.
Though I wanted to learn such facts as the coachman might know, his opinions did not interest me, and I again turned my attention to the beautiful residences we were passing.
That place over there, the man went on, pointing with his whip, is Mr. Philip Crawfords housethe brother of my master, sir. Them red towers, sticking up through the trees, is the house of Mr. Lemuel Porter, a great friend of both the Crawford brothers. Next, on the left, is the home of Horace Hamilton, the great electrician. Oh, Sedgwick is full of well-known men, sir, but Joseph Crawford was king of this town. Nobodyll deny that.
I knew of Mr. Crawfords high standing in the city, and now, learning of his local preeminence, I began to think I was about to engage in what would probably be a very important case.
II. THE CRAWFORD HOUSE
Here we are, sir, said the driver, as we turned in at a fine stone gateway. This is the Joseph Crawford place.
He spoke with a sort of reverent pride, and I afterward learned that his devotion to his late master was truly exceptional.
This probably prejudiced him in favor of the Crawford place and all its appurtenances, for, to me, the estate was not so magnificent as some of the others we had passed. And yet, though not so large, I soon realized that every detail of art or architecture was perfect in its way, and that it was really a gem of a country home to which I had been brought.
We drove along a curving road to the house, passing well-arranged flower beds, and many valuable trees and shrubs. Reaching the porte cochere the driver stopped, and the groom sprang down to hand me out.
As might be expected, many people were about. Men stood talking in groups on the veranda, while messengers were seen hastily coming or going through the open front doors.
A waiting servant in the hall at once ushered me into a large room.
The effect of the interior of the house impressed me pleasantly. As I passed through the wide hall and into the drawing-room, I was conscious of an atmosphere of wealth tempered by good taste and judgment.
The drawing-room was elaborate, though not ostentatious, and seemed well adapted as a social setting for Joseph Crawford and his family. It should have been inhabited by men and women in gala dress and with smiling society manners.
It was therefore a jarring note when I perceived its only occupant to be a commonplace looking man, in an ill-cut and ill-fitting business suit. He came forward to greet me, and his manner was a trifle pompous as he announced, My name is Monroe, and I am the coroner. You, I think, are Mr. Burroughs, from New York.
It was probably not intentional, and may have been my imagination, but his tone seemed to me amusingly patronizing.
Yes, I am Mr. Burroughs, I said, and I looked at Mr. Monroe with what I hoped was an expression that would assure him that our stations were at least equal.
I fear I impressed him but slightly, for he went on to tell me that he knew of my reputation as a clever detective, and had especially desired my attendance on this case. This sentiment was well enough, but he still kept up his air and tone of patronage, which however amused more than irritated me.
I knew the man by hearsay, though we had never met before; and I knew that he was of a nature to be pleased with his own prominence as coroner, especially in the case of so important a man as Joseph Crawford.
So I made allowance for this harmless conceit on his part, and was even willing to cater to it a little by way of pleasing him. He seemed to me a man, honest, but slow of thought; rather practical and serious, and though overvaluing his own importance, yet not opinionated or stubborn.
Mr. Burroughs, he said, Im very glad you could get here so promptly; for the case seems to me a mysterious one, and the value of immediate investigation cannot be overestimated.
I quite agree with you, I returned. And now will you tell me the principal facts, as you know them, or will you depute some one else to do so?
I am even now getting a jury together, he said, and so you will be able to hear all that the witnesses may say in their presence. In the meantime, if you wish to visit the scene of the crime, Mr. Parmalee will take you there.
At the sound of his name, Mr. Parmalee stepped forward and was introduced to me. He proved to be a local detective, a young man who always attended Coroner Monroe on occasions like the present; but who, owing to the rarity of such occasions in West Sedgwick, had had little experience in criminal investigation.
He was a young man of the type often seen among Americans. He was very fair, with a pink complexion, thin, yellow hair and weak eyes. His manner was nervously alert, and though he often began to speak with an air of positiveness, he frequently seemed to weaken, and wound up his sentences in a floundering uncertainty.
He seemed to be in no way jealous of my presence there, and indeed spoke to me with an air of comradeship.
Doubtless I was unreasonable, but I secretly resented this. However I did not show my resentment and endeavored to treat Mr. Parmalee as a friend and co-worker.
The coroner had left us together, and we stood in the drawing-room, talking, or rather he talked and I listened. Upon acquaintance he seemed to grow more attractive. He was impulsive and jumped at conclusions, but he seemed to have ideas, though they were rarely definitely expressed.
He told me as much as he knew of the details of the affair and proposed that we go directly to the scene of the crime.
As this was what I was impatient to do, I consented.
You see, its this way, he said, in a confidential whisper, as we traversed the long hall: there is no doubt in any ones mind as to who committed the murder, but no name has been mentioned yet, and nobody wants to be the first to say that name. Itll come out at the inquest, of course, and then
But, I interrupted, if the identity of the murderer is so certain, why did they send for me in such haste?
Oh, that was the coroners doing. Hes a bit inclined to the spectacular, is Monroe, and he wants to make the whole affair as important as possible.
But surely, Mr. Parmalee, if you are certain of the criminal it is very absurd for me to take up the case at all.
Oh, well, Mr. Burroughs, as I say, no name has been spoken yet. And, too, a big case like this ought to have a city detective on it. Even if you only corroborate what we all feel sure of, it will prove to the public mind that it must be so.
Tell me then, who is your suspect?
Oh, no, since you are here you had better investigate with an unprejudiced mind. Though you cannot help arriving at the inevitable conclusion.
We had now reached a closed door, and, at Mr. Parmalees tap, were admitted by the inspector who was in charge of the room.
It was a beautiful apartment, far too rich and elaborate to be designated by the name of office, as it was called by every one who spoke of it; though of course it was Mr. Crawfords office, as was shown by the immense table-desk of dark mahogany, and all the other paraphernalia of a bankers work-room, from ticker to typewriter.
But the decorations of walls and ceilings, the stained glass of the windows, the pictures, rugs, and vases, all betokened luxurious tastes that are rarely indulged in office furnishings. The room was flooded with sunlight. Long French windows gave access to a side veranda, which in turn led down to a beautiful terrace and formal garden. But all these things were seen only in a hurried glance, and then my eyes fell on the tragic figure in the desk chair.
The body had not been moved, and would not be until after the jury had seen it, and though a ghastly sight, because of a bullet-hole in the left temple, otherwise it looked much as Mr. Crawford must have looked in life.
A handsome man, of large physique and strong, stern face, he must have been surprised, and killed instantly; for surely, given the chance, he would have lacked neither courage nor strength to grapple with an assailant.
I felt a deep impulse of sympathy for that splendid specimen of humanity, taken unawares, without having been given a moment in which to fight for his life, and yet presumably seeing his murderer, as he seemed to have been shot directly from the front.
As I looked at that noble face, serene and dignified in its death pallor, I felt glad that my profession was such as might lead to the avenging of such a detestable crime.
And suddenly I had a revulsion of feeling against such petty methods as deductions from trifling clues.
Moreover I remembered my totally mistaken deductions of that very morning. Let other detectives learn the truth by such claptrap means if they choose. This case was too large and too serious to be allowed to depend on surmises so liable to be mistaken. No, I would search for real evidence, human testimony, reliable witnesses, and so thorough, systematic, and persevering should my search be, that I would finally meet with success.
Heres the clue, said Parmelees voice, as he grasped my arm and turned me in another direction.
He pointed to a glittering article on the large desk.
It was a womans purse, or bag, of the sort known as gold-mesh. Perhaps six inches square, it bulged as if overcrowded with some feminine paraphernalia.
Its Miss Lloyds, went on Parmalee. She lives here, you knowMr. Crawfords niece. Shes lived here for years and years.
And you suspect her? I said, horrified.
Well, you see, shes engaged to Gregory Hall hes Mr. Crawfords secretaryand Mr. Crawford didnt approve of the match; and so
He shrugged his shoulders in a careless fashion, as if for a woman to shoot her uncle were an everyday affair.
But I was shocked and incredulous, and said so.
Where is Miss Lloyd? I asked. Does she claim ownership of this gold bag?
No; of course not, returned Parmalee. Shes no fool, Florence Lloyd isnt! Shes locked in her room and wont come out. Been there all the morning. Her maid says this isnt Miss Lloyds bag, but of course shed say that.
Well, that question ought to be easily settled. Whats in the bag?
Look for yourself. Monroe and I ran through the stuff, but theres nothing to say for sure whose bag it is.
I opened the pretty bauble, and let the contents fall out on the desk.
A crumpled handkerchief, a pair of white kid gloves, a little trinket known as a vanity case, containing a tiny mirror and a tinier powder puff; a couple of small hair-pins, a newspaper clipping, and a few silver coins were all that rewarded my trouble.
Nothing definite, indeed, and yet I knew if Fleming Stone could look at the little heap of feminine belongings, he would at once tell the fair owners age, height, and weight, if not her name and address.
I had only recently assured myself that such deductions were of little or no use, and yet, I could not help minutely examining the pretty trifles lying on the desk. I scrutinized the handkerchief for a monogram or an initial, but it had none. It was dainty, plain and fine, of sheer linen, with a narrow hem. To me it indicated an owner of a refined, feminine type, and absolutely nothing more. I couldnt help thinking that even Fleming Stone could not infer any personal characteristics of the lady from that blank square of linen.
The vanity case I knew to be a fad of fashionable women, and had that been monogrammed, it might have proved a clue. But, though pretty, it was evidently not of any great value, and was merely such a trifle as the average woman would carry about.
And yet I felt exasperated that with so many articles to study, I could learn nothing of the individual to whom they belonged. The gloves were hopeless. Of a good quality and a medium size, they seemed to tell me nothing. They were but slightly soiled, and apparently might have been worn once or twice. They had never been cleaned, as the inside showed no scrawled hieroglyphics. But all of these conclusions pointed nowhere save to the average well-groomed American woman.
The hair-pins and the silver money were equally bare of suggestion, but I hopefully picked up the bit of newspaper.
Surely this newspaper clipping must throw some light, I mused, but it proved to be only the address of a dyeing and cleaning establishment in New York City.
This is being taken care of? I said, and the burly inspector, who up to now had not spoken, said:
Yes, sir! Nobody touches a thing in this: room while Im here. You, sir, are of course an exception, but no one else is allowed to meddle with anything.
This reminded me that as the detective in charge of this case, it was my privilegeindeed, my dutyto examine the papers and personal effects that were all about, in an effort to gather clues for future use.
I was ignorant of many important details, and turned to Parmelee for information.
That young man however, though voluble, was, inclined to talk on only one subject, the suspected criminal, Miss Florence Lloyd.