 | XVI Steadfast Falters |  |
16. XVI
It was with steps heavy from fatigue that Major Barry entered the dark hall of his little apartment that evening, at about half past nine o'clock, and switched on the light. He took off his hat and coat in the tiny hall and, going into the sitting-room, lit the lamp. In his hand he held several letters. He settled himself in the comfortable chair by the table and, raising the lid of the humidor, took up his pipe and filled it leisurely.
"It certainly is good to have a little quiet at last," he said half aloud. "You must be
He lit his pipe and, placing his glasses, with their broad, black ribbon, on his nose, took up the pile of letters and ran over the addresses.
"Wonder whose writing this is?" he soliloquized, gazing thoughtfully at one addressed in a tight, cramped hand. He broke open the flap and took out the folded sheet. It was a short note from Barney Tutney, written from the Rossmore Hotel, asking when he might see the major.
Major Barry's hand shot out toward the telephone on the table beside him. He gave the number of Tutney's hotel, and in five minutes had arranged an immediate interview with him at the apartment. He hung up the receiver, a look of grim resolve on his face.
When the bell rang, a little later, he jumped to the door, all trace of his fatigue gone. He grasped Tutney's hand in cordial welcome, helped him off with his coat, and drew him into the cozy room.
"Sit down, Tutney," he said. "Do you smoke?" He opened the humidor, and Tutney selected a cigar. "I'm smoking a pipe," he went on. "I find it great company when I'm alone."
The major held a match to the other man's cigar and studied his face as he drew in the smoke.
"I'm very glad you decided to come over so soon," he remarked, settling himself back in his chair.
Tutney took the cigar from his mouth and examined the lighted end critically.
"I thought it was about time," he answered slowly. "By the bye, I'm mighty sorry about Cary." He looked sharply at the major from under his shaggy eyebrows.
"A bad business!" admitted the major. He puffed a moment in silence, then he added quietly: "Of course, he had absolutely no connection with the murder."
"Of course not," agreed Tutney. "But, just the same, I guess there are people who are glad to have him where he is — out of mischief!"
"Perhaps those same people won't be overjoyed to hear of your return," remarked the major grimly.
"Probably not — probably not!" The keen eyes snapped. "Things weren't goin' exactly right, and it don't do to let 'em get away from you. It's much better to take a hand in the beginnin', and oftentimes you can prevent a landslide."
"Yes," assented the major gravely. "But in this instance I'm afraid we're too late. I blame myself — "
"You couldn't do nothin', Major Barry," interposed the man, replacing the cigar in his mouth. He took a long puff and watched the smoke float off into the shadows. "How could you know how things were goin'? Now, if I'd been here, instead of in South Africa, things might have been different. When that stock was put up for sale I could have stepped right in."
"Are you sure it was Crosby's?"
"There ain't no doubt of it. The transaction was pretty well covered up, but I've managed to trace the brokers, and now I have my proofs. George Crosby's been speculatin' pretty heavily the last three months; and, besides, he got mixed up in a shyster rubber scheme, and from what I can learn, lost a pile of money in it."
Tutney stopped, and a great cloud of smoke rose around his head.
"Do you think there is any possibility of getting the estate — what is left of it — out of his hands?"
"Well, of course that's a question for a lawyer; but from the evidence I've been able to gather, I think Miss Crosby has a mighty strong case against her uncle. To my mind, there ain't no question but what she can force him to make good. There'd have to be a lawsuit, of course."
"That's the trouble; I don't know whether she would consent to it."
"She'll make a big mistake if she don't. If she waits for the three years to be up before she demands an accounting, there won't be anything left. It don't seem possible," Tutney ruminated, "that Randolph Crosby's pile should all be gone in four months and his daughter workin' for a livin'! Well, it's the first and last time, to my knowledge, that Mr. Crosby got fooled in his man. He thought an awful sight of his brother."
"Which makes George Crosby's behavior just that much more reprehensible," said Major Barry indignantly.
Tutney agreed and rose to go, promising to have his testimony ready at any time it was needed if a lawsuit were decided upon.
For a long while after Tutney left Major Barry sat puffing at his pipe and staring into the shadows. On his usually genial face was the expression it had worn when he and his command pursued Red Wolf's band after the massacre of Pine Notch. If the major had been the judge, in spite of his kindly heart, there would be as little clemency shown in this as in the other case.
However, he decided to postpone telling Betty of his discovery until the web which entangled Fairfax Cary was untangled.
"The poor child has quite enough to worry her," he thought regretfully as he rose and switched off the light; "and she's really fond of her uncle."
Contrary to the major's predictions, he did obtain permission to visit the Delaneys' rooms, and the next morning he and Betty motored down to the hotel at Sheepshead Bay, where a detective met them. They mounted the steep stairs and passed down the narrow hallway, with its unwholesome wall-paper and threadbare carpet. There was a portentous chill in the stale air, and Elizabeth shivered a little as the detective stopped before one of the closed doors and inserted the key.
The door opened, and they entered the jockey's room, evidently untouched since the day after his death. It looked neglected and desolate, with its unmade bed, half-open bureau drawers, and scattered papers. In one corner lay a crumpled red-silk shirt next to a stained pair of riding-breeches, and standing near was a riding-boot, its mate lying beside it. By the bed stood a small table, its baize cover gray with dust. In the mirror of the ash chiffonier was a snap-shot picture of Randolph Crosby.
A sob clutched at Betty's throat, but she resolutely forced it back. She glanced at the door, slightly ajar, which led into the adjoining room.
"I should like to go in there first," she said to the detective.
"Very well, Miss Crosby!"
He pushed back the door and let her pass. The men followed, and instinctively the major took off his hat.
The room was in great disorder. A trunk half filled with a motley array of garments stood in front of the window. On a chair gaped a suit-case, out of which trailed a worn shirt-waist. On the top of the bureau was a mass of toilet articles, cosmetics, ribbons, veils, and gloves.
The mantel was littered with photographs of actors and actresses, jockeys and trainers. On one corner of it, on a stand, rested Molly's best hat. It was the one she had worn at the races on the afternoon before Randolph Crosby's death, and Betty saw once more the girl's audacious face sparkling under the crimson feather and purple rose.
The remembrance of that last happy afternoon brought the hot tears of regret into Betty's eyes, and to hide them she turned quickly to the mantel. She took up the hat and with gentle fingers brushed off the dust which lay thick on the drooping feather. A large photograph that stood behind the stand fell forward, disclosing a small, round object set in the wall.
"Why, what is that?" asked Betty.
Grimes, the detective, who had been idly turning over some old newspapers on a table near the window, came quickly to her side. Betty pointed to the wall.
"Well, if that don't beat all!" he said under his breath. "How do you suppose we came to pass that up?"
"What is it?"
The major left his place by the door, where he had lingered, and the expression of extreme distaste which had fixed itself on his face turned to one of liveliest interest.
Grimes's fingers ran lovingly over the little round disk.
"That's a dictograph. I wonder who put it there, and why he done it!
The sharp, gray eyes narrowed, and he stepped toward the door that led into Pat's room, the major following.
Betty took an irresolute step after them and stopped. Her eyes fell upon the bed against which Molly had been found, and as if drawn by a power she could not resist, she walked slowly to it. She stood for a moment gazing down upon it, her imagination painting in vivid colors the last scene in the girl's life.
In the weeks of her hospital work, death had in a measure lost its horror for her, but this was different; this was death in its most revolting form, without the nobility of self-sacrifice. It was sordid, hideous, repulsive! A shudder passed over her, and she turned quickly, as if to rid herself of the
She stooped down and saw, lying on the slats, a small glittering object. From the other room came the indistinct murmur of the men's voices, broken once by an exclamation from the detective. Betty hastily put her hand into the narrow space; when she drew it out it held a gold cigarette-case. The case was half open, and the cigarettes under the gold bar were stained and dark. Betty looked at it, her eyes widening in horror.
Steps sounded behind her.
"That was a great find you made, Miss Crosby," said a voice at her shoulder. "Now, if we can discover why it was put there, and what went through it the night of the murder, I guess we'll have our man, all right!"
Elizabeth started violently and turned quickly, involuntarily keeping the hand that held the cigarette-case behind her.
The detective eyed her curiously.
"Have you found anything else?" he asked.
"Oh, no," answered Betty faintly.
Major Barry had joined them, and was standing beside her. At the man's words he, too, fastened his eyes on the girl's strained face.
"What have you in your hand?" demanded Grimes.
The blood receded from Betty's face, and she turned pleadingly to the major.
"Oh, nothing — nothing! Tell him it isn't anything!" she begged piteously.
"Miss Crosby" — the detective spoke impressively — "in the name of the law, I ask you to tell me what you have found."
He stepped toward her, and Betty, slowly drawing her hand from behind her back, held out the cigarette-case. Grimes seized it and examined it closely.
"Blood!" he exclaimed under his breath.
Where did you find it?"
"There," replied Betty in a hardly audible whisper, pointing to the bed.
"Slipped out of his pocket when he stooped over the girl!" mused Grimes. He turned the case over, searching for a mark on it. A monogram stood out in bold relief on the cover. "C," he ruminated. "Cary — "
"No! Not Cary!" Betty's words rang sharply through the room.
"Who, then?" asked Grimes quickly, his keen eyes fixed on her face.
Elizabeth did not answer, and the detective went back to his study of the letters.
"N, R, it looks to me; but I can't make it out for sure."
He held out the case to Major Barry for his corroboration; but the major shook his head.
"I haven't my glasses," he explained; "but I can see enough to know that the initials don't stand for Fairfax, which is Mr. Cary's name. I think this discovery will let him out, don't you?"
Grimes shook his head doubtfully, evidently loath to let a victim escape out of his net until he had another to take the vacant place.
"Maybe," he assented; "but it ain't for me to say. I'll take this to headquarters right off. You're sure you don't know who it belongs to?"
He looked distrustingly at Betty, who shook her head.
"Will this be used as evidence?" she asked.
The detective nodded.
"It's mighty important evidence. This and the dictograph are the best clues we've had yet, and we have you to thank for both of them, Miss Crosby. I dare say they'll clear everything up."
The major put his hand through Betty's arm.
"Come," he said gently. "Don't you think we might go now?"
| XVI Steadfast Falters | |