The Stillwater Tragedy
Page 4
IV
A sorely perplexed man sat there, bending over his papers by thelamp-light. Mr. Taggett had established himself at the Shackfordhouse on his arrival, preferring it to the hotel, where he would havebeen subjected to the curiosity of the guests and to endlessannoyances. Up to this moment, perhaps not a dozen persons in theplace had had more than a passing glimpse of him. He was a very busyman, working at his desk from morning until night, and then takingonly a brief walk, for exercise in some unfrequented street. Hismeals were sent in from the hotel to the Shackford house, where theconstables reported to him, and where he held protracted conferenceswith Justice Beemis, Coroner Whidden, Lawyer Perkins, and a fewothers, and declined to be interviewed by the local editor.
To the outside eye that weather-stained, faded old house appeareda throbbing seat of esoteric intelligence. It was as if a hundredinvisible magnetic threads converged to a focus under that roof andincessantly clicked out the most startling information,--informationwhich was never by any chance allowed to pass beyond the charmedcircle. The pile of letters which the mail brought to Mr. Taggettevery morning--chiefly anonymous suggestions, and offers ofassistance from lunatics in remote cities--was enough in itself toexasperate a community.
Covertly at first, and then openly, Stillwater began seriously toquestion Mr. Taggett's method of working up the case. The Gazette, ina double-leaded leader, went so far as to compare him to a bird withfine feathers and no song, and to suggest that perhaps the bird mighthave sung if the inducement offered had been more substantial. Asinger of Mr. Taggett's plumage was not to be taught by such chaff asfive hundred dollars. Having killed his man, the editor proceeded toremark that he would suspend judgment until next week.
As if to make perfect the bird comparison, Mr. Taggett, afterkeeping the public in suspense for six days and nights, abruptly flewaway, with all the little shreds and straws of evidence he had pickedup, to build his speculative nest elsewhere.
The defection of Mr. Taggett caused a mild panic among a certainportion of the inhabitants, who were not reassured by the statementin the Gazette that the case would now be placed in the properhands,--the hand so the county constabulary. "Within a few days,"said the editor in conclusion, "the matter will undoubtedly becleared up. At present we cannot say more;" and it would have puzzledhim very much to do so.
A week passed, and no fresh light was thrown upon the catastrophe,nor did anything occur to rattle the usual surface of life in thevillage. A man--it was Torrini, the Italian--got hurt in Dana's ironfoundry; one of Blufton's twin girls died; and Mr. Slocum took on anew hand from out of town. That was all. Stillwater was theStillwater of a year ago, with always the exception of that shadowlying upon it, and the fact that small boys who had kindling to getin were careful to get it in before nightfall. It would appear thatthe late Mr. Shackford had acquired a habit of lingering aroundwood-piles after dark, and also of stealing into bed-chambers, wherelittle children were obliged to draw the sheets over their heads inorder not to see him.
The action of the county constabulary had proved quite asmysterious and quite as barren of result as Mr. Taggett's had been.They had worn his mantle of secrecy, and arrested the tramps overagain.
Another week dragged by, and the editorial prediction seemed asfar as ever from fulfillment. But on the afternoon which closed thatfortnight a very singular thing did happen. Mr. Slocum was sittingalone in his office, which occupied the whole of a small building atthe right of the main gate to the marble works. When the door behindhim softly opened and a young man, whose dress covered withstone-dust indicated his vocation, appeared on the threshold. Hehesitated a second, and then stepped into the room. Mr. Slocum turnedround with a swift, apprehensive air.
"You gave me a start! I believe I haven't any nerves left. Well?"
"Mr. Slocum, I have found the man."
The proprietor of the marble yard half rose from the desk in hisagitation.
"Who is it?" he asked beneath his breath.
The same doubt or irresolution which had checked the workman atthe threshold seemed again to have taken possession of him. It wasfully a moment before he gained the mastery over himself; but themastery was complete; for he leaned forward gravely, almost coldly,and pronounced two words. A quick pallor overspread Mr. Slocum'sfeatures.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, sinking back into the chair. "Are youmad?"