CHAPTER I
THE GATHERING CLOUD
Impatiently, Ashton-Kirk threw down the last of the morning newspapers.
"Commonplace," said he. "And sordid. I am inclined to agree with DeQuincey's 'Toad-in-the-Hole' that the age of great criminals haspassed."
The man to whom he spoke sat opposite him in the lounging room ofScanlon's Gymnasium; a pair of puffy white hands were folded over abloated paunch; he had a sodden air of over-feeding andover-stimulation.
"And a good job, too," spoke this gentleman. "We can get along very wellwithout those fellows."
"I am not sure that I quite agree with that," said Ashton-Kirk. Helighted a cigar and its smoke drifted across the high ceilinged room."Crimes are growing no fewer; and if we must have crimes I shouldpersonally prefer their perpetrators to have some little artistry."
The swollen gentleman grunted.
"You were always an odd kind of fish," said he. "But, you know, everyone hasn't your love of this kind of thing."
"They have not given it the same amount of consideration, that is all.An artist in crime is, in his way, well worthy of a certain sort ofadmiration. Who could drive a knife in a man's back with a braver air ofdeviltry than Benvenuto Cellini? And yet he could turn himself from thedeed and devote himself to the producing of a Perseus, or to playing theflute well enough to attract the attention of a Pope. And his owncountrymen, the Borgias, had as pretty a talent for assassination asthey had for government."
"Very like," admitted the other. "But ain't we well rid of suchbloodthirsty apes?"
Ashton-Kirk smiled.
"I wonder," said he, "if you have ever read an engaging little volumecalled 'A Book of Scoundrels.' No? Well, I was afraid that would be so.And you have missed a treat. However, I suppose we can't expect everyone to enthuse over such things. It has been said of music that theability to appreciate it is only second to that of being able to produceit. And this must also be true in the case of crime.
"Stevenson, now, had a magnificent appreciation for a well executedenormity. In his story 'Markheim' he gives a skilful picture of areally deft assassination; and in the 'Suicide Club' he has created whatI would class as a master criminal. The Russian writers have a power inthis mood that is truly wonderful. Dostoyeffsky in his 'Crime andPunishment' has conceived a most tremendous homicide--one which wouldhave thrilled De Quincey himself."
The listener held up one pudgy hand in protest.
"Don't," he requested. "Please don't. No more. If you knew what I'vegone through you wouldn't dwell on this theme."
Just then a very big man with massive shoulders and chest came in; hewas about forty-five, but he looked pink and swift and fit; and as hepaused at the side of the heavy paunched one, the latter lookedphysically shabby in contrast.
"Hello!" Bat Scanlon, trainer, ex-wrestling champion, and bordercharacter, greeted Ashton-Kirk with a pleased look. "Glad to see you.Come in to dust off the mat with me?"
"I think I will take a turn," replied the criminologist, as he yawned,with widely stretched arms. "I've been going a bit stale lately."
Scanlon turned his glance upon the other man.
"How are you, Mr. Dennison?" he said. "Back once more, eh?"
"Believe me, it's not because I want to," returned Dennison, huskily."It's because I have to. I'm not right, Scanlon; I can't stand anythingout of the ordinary. Just a little extra tax on me, and I'm done."
Bat surveyed him, valuingly.
"No wonder," said he. "You've got a belt of felt about your waist thatonly a champion could wear. You must have kept your feet under the tablemany and many a bitter hour to win it."
"Now, confound it," said the pudgy one, exasperated, "I don't eat somuch."
"Maybe not." Scanlon looked his disbelief. "But the pangs of hunger andyou are not very intimate. Your most active moments are spent in alimousine or a club window." He winked humorously at Ashton-Kirk. "I'llsay nothing against the limousine; it's a fine invention; but legs weremade to walk on. And if you think the club window thing will ever reducethe size of your collar, you're bound to be a disappointed man."
"But I ride every day in the park," said Dennison, "and I go to thecountry club three times a week for my golf."
"Riding is a grand exercise--for the horse," commented the athlete. "Andthe people who get the most out of a golf course are paid for what theydo."
"Well, a fellow's social life must be seen to," said the defective one,a fat white hand stroking an equally fat, but blue, jowl. "He's got tohave a bit to eat and drink, and a trifle of leisure to look thingsover."
A telephone bell rang in another room, and a squeaky voice was heardanswering the call.
"If you care to come in every day and work, all right," said Scanlon,carelessly, for he understood the case perfectly. "But the eating anddrinking must scale down to what I think is right."
Dennison appealed to Ashton-Kirk.
"The last time he had me here, he made me toil like a day laborer, andfeed like his helper," said he, gloomily. "But I've got to stand it,confound the luck. I'm too short in the neck to carry weight and standexcitement. That thing fairly floored me when I heard it this morning."
"What thing?" asked Ashton-Kirk.
Dennison looked at the speaker as though astonished that any one couldbe for even a moment in doubt as to his meaning.
"Why," said he, "that murder--last night."
"I guess that's one I haven't heard about," said Bat Scanlon, andAshton-Kirk regarded the man with the paunch steadily, but said nothing.
"Not heard of that!" The man pointed an amazed finger at the discardedheap about the investigator's chair. "Why, every paper in town is justscreaming about it. The police are at a standstill. The papers say theydon't know what to do."
Just then a door opened; a fiery head was thrust into the room and asqueaky boy-voice called out:
"Mr. Scanlon! On the 'phone!"
When he reached the little office which opened from the lounging room,the red-haired boy further informed Bat:
"It's a lady, and she sounds like she was in a hurry."
Scanlon went to the telephone and took down the receiver.
"Scanlon speaking," said he, briefly.
There came a gasping, breathless little exclamation of relief in hisear.
"Oh, Bat, I'm glad you're there. I'm very glad!" The voice was full andvibrant; it had a rare quality of resonance that even the telephonecould not stifle.
"What, Nora! Is that you?" The big athlete was plainly surprised.
"Yes, it's Nora," replied the voice. "Foolish Nora Cavanaugh, who isalways in some sort of trouble. I had left word that I must not beworried by this matter, because I have my work to think of, and theconstant ringing at the door-bell and telephoning was wearing me out.And just now, Bat, it occurred to me that you would be sure to haveheard of this dreadful thing, and have been one of those turned away."
Scanlon's face was one of mystification and concern.
"Nora," said he, "why this rush of folks at your front door, and whowere they?"
"The reporters have never stopped since early morning; and the policehave been here a half dozen times."
"The police!" Bat's voice rose with a sudden sharpness that caused thered-haired boy to jump. "What do you mean by----?"
But the full, beautiful voice checked him.
"I must see you, Bat, I must see you at once," it said. "No, no, don'tcome here," hurriedly, as he began proposing such a venture. "There is acab waiting at the door now. I shall be at your place in twentyminutes."
"All right, Nora; anything you say. But if you'll only let me----"
"In twenty minutes," said the rare voice. "Good-bye."
The blank which followed told him that the girl had hung up; he turnedto the boy.
"Danny," said he, "there'll be a lady along in a little while. Have hercome in here and let me know right away."
"Yes, sir," said Danny, obligingly.
With his brows puckered in p
erplexity Bat went back to the loungingroom. Ashton-Kirk was looking out at the crowds passing in the street;Dennison was reading a blackly headlined story on the front page of oneof the newspapers, his pudgy hands shaking and his eyes feverish.
"The worst thing of the kind I ever heard of," said he with a kind ofgurgle of horror. "The very worst. The police have been bragging abouttheir efficiency during this last administration; now let's see whatthey can do. Here's a case that'll try them out."
"Oh, yes," said Bat, absently. "You were talking about being upset bythis thing. It was----" He paused suddenly, remembering that he had notyet heard.
"A murder," said the detective, as he threw down the newspaper. "A mostbrutal and devilish murder. I talked with Tom Burton last night only afew hours before this terrible thing must have happened."
"Tom Burton!" Scanlon's big, ruddy face went a little pale. "Not the'Bounder'?"
"Yes, they did call him that," confessed the other, a littleresentfully. "But that was all wrong. Burton was a good fellow when youknew him."
But Bat Scanlon was not listening; he had snatched up one of thenewspapers. In staring head-lines he was reading:
MYSTERIOUSLY STRUCK DOWN STRANGE DEED AT STANWICK! _Tom Burton, Well-Known Man About Town, the Victim._ _Police Are Puzzled!_
In the body of the type the hurried details of the crime were given--oras many of them as the journal had been able to gather before going topress.
Stanwick was a new suburb on a branch line; and some time after midnighta policeman, Colby by name, had been patrolling his beat, which wasalong Duncan Street. A girl in the dress of a nurse, and muchfrightened, rushed up to him, and in great agitation announced thatthere was a man lying dead on the floor at 620. Colby, startled andexcited, accompanied the girl to the house indicated, and there foundthe body of Thomas Burton, a "well-known clubman," stretched out uponthe floor of the sitting-room--dead--and with a frightful wound in thehead.
"The house is occupied by Frank Burton, the cartoonist for the _MorningStandard_, and his sister Mary, who has been an invalid for some years.These are the son and daughter of the dead man. They say they had not,up to last night, seen their father for a long time; his visit was asurprise and not at all a welcome one, it would appear, as they had notbeen upon good terms. According to the story told by young Burton, heand his sister left the room in which their father sat; when the youngman returned, he found his father dead, as stated."
Paper after paper was feverishly scanned by Bat, but they merelyrepeated the few, bare facts. Ashton-Kirk had turned from the window andwas watching the big trainer in some surprise.
"It's a pretty hard pull for a man when he's talked comfortably with afriend, and said 'good-bye' to him, and, then, the next thing he hears,is that he's been outrageously murdered." Dennison seemed unable to ridhis mind of this overpowering fact. "It was then I started to go under;it was just as if somebody had struck me under the heart, and I cavedright in."
Here there came a sudden bustle from the office, the closing of doors,the dragging of a chair across the floor. Then the voice of Danny camesqueakingly.
"Mr. Scanlon! Wanted in the office!"
"Right," said Bat, promptly. Then, to Ashton-Kirk, he added: "Stickaround for a little, will you? I may have something to tell you."
And then, with hurried steps, he vanished into the adjoining room.
Ashton-Kirk, Criminologist Page 2
