Tangled Trails

by Raine, William MacLeod

  "You felt that Mr. Cunningham ought to have helped him?"

  "My father helped him when he was young. What my uncle did was the grossest ingratitude."

  "You resented it."

  "Yes."

  "And quarreled with him?"

  "I wrote him a letter an' told him what I thought of him. Later, when we met by chance, I told him again face to face."

  "You had a bitter quarrel?"

  "Yes."

  "That was how long ago?"

  "Three years since."

  "In that time did your feelings toward him modify at all?"

  "My opinion of him did not change, but I had no longer any feelin' in the matter."

  "Did you write to him or hear from him in that time?"

  "No."

  "Had you any expectation of being remembered in your uncle's will?"

  "None whatever," answered Kirby, smiling. "Even if he had left me anything I should have declined to accept it. But there was no chance at all that he would."

  "Yet when you came to town you called on him at the first opportunity?"

  "Yes."

  "On what business?"

  "I reckon we'll not go into that."

  Johns glanced at his notes and passed to another line of questioning.

  "You have heard the testimony of Mr. and Mrs. Hull and of Mr. Ellis.

  Is that testimony true?"

  "Except in one point. It lacked only three or four minutes to ten when

  I knocked at the door an' Mrs. Hull opened it."

  "You're sure of that?"

  "Sure. I looked at my watch just before I went into the Paradox

  Apartments."

  "Will you tell the jury what took place between you and Mrs. Hull?"

  "'Soon as I saw her I knew she was scared stiff about somethin'. So was Hull. He was headin' for a bedroom, so I wouldn't see him."

  The slender, well-dressed woman in the black veil, sitting far over to the left, leaned forward and seemed to listen intently. All over the room there was a stir of quickened interest.

  "How did she show her fear?"

  "No color in her face, eyes dilated an' full of terror, hands tremblin'."

  "And Mr. Hull?"

  "He was yellow. Color all gone from his face. Looked as though he'd had a shock."

  "What was said, if anything?"

  "I asked Mrs. Hull where my uncle's apartment was. That gave her another fright. At least she almost fainted."

  "Did she say anything?"

  "She told me where his rooms were. Then she shut the door, right in my face. I went upstairs to Apartment 12."

  "Where your uncle lived?"

  "Where my uncle lived. I rang the bell twice an' didn't get an answer. Then I noticed the door was ajar. I opened it, called, an' walked in, shuttin' it behind me. I guessed he must be around an' would be back in a few minutes."

  "Just exactly what did you do?"

  "I waited by the table in the living-room for a few minutes. There was a note there signed by S. Horikawa."

  "We have that note. What happened next? Did your uncle return?"

  "No. I had a feelin' that somethin' was wrong. I looked into the bedroom an' then opened the door into the small smoking-room. The odor of chloroform met me. I found the button an' flashed on the light."

  Except the sobbing breath of an unnerved woman no slightest sound could be heard in the court-room but Lane's quiet, steady voice. It went on evenly, clearly, dominating the crowded room by the drama of its undramatic timbre.

  "My uncle was sittin' in a chair, tied to it. His head was canted a little to one side an' he was lookin' up at me. There was a bullet hole in his forehead. He was dead."

  The veiled woman in black gasped for air. Her head sank forward and her slender body swayed.

  "Look out!" called the witness to the woman beside her.

  Before Kirby could reach her, the fainting woman had slipped to the floor. He stooped to lift her head from the dusty planks—and the odor of violet perfume met his nostrils.

  "If you'll permit me," a voice said.

  The cattleman looked up. His cousin James, white to the lips, was beside him unfastening the veil.

  The face of the woman in black was the original of the photograph Kirby had seen in his uncle's room, the one upon which had been written the words, "Always, Phyllis."

  CHAPTER XIV

  A FRIEND IN NEED

  The rest of the coroner's inquest was anticlimax. Those who had come to tickle their palates with excitement tasted only one other moment of it.

  "According to your own story you must have been in your uncle's apartment at least a quarter of an hour, Mr. Lane," said the prosecuting attorney. "What were you doing there all that time?"

  "Most of the time I was waitin' for him to return."

  "Why did you not call up the police at once, as soon as you found the crime had been committed?"

  "I suppose I lost my head an' went panicky. I heard some one at the door, an' I did not want to be found there. So I ran into the bedroom, put out the light, an' left by the fire escape."

  "Was that the conduct one would expect of an innocent man?"

  "It was the action of an innocent man."

  "You don't look like a man that would lose his head, Mr. Lane."

  A smile lit the brown face of the witness. "Perhaps I wouldn't where I come from, but I'm not used to city ways. I didn't know what to do. So I followed my instinct an' bolted. I was unlucky enough to be seen."

  "Carry a gun, Mr. Lane?"

  "No." He corrected himself. "Sometimes I do on the range."

  "Own one, I suppose?"

  "Two. A .45 and a .38."

  "Bring either of them to Denver?"

  "No, sir."

  "Did you see any gun of any kind in your uncle's rooms—either a revolver or an automatic?"

  "I did not."

  "That's all, sir."

  The jury was out something more than an hour. The news of the verdict was brought to Kirby at the city jail by his cousin James.

  "Jury finds that Uncle James came to his death from the effect of either a blow on the head by some heavy instrument, or a bullet fired at close quarters by some unknown person," James said.

  "Good enough. Might have been worse for me," replied Kirby.

  "Yes. I've talked with the district attorney and think I can arrange for bond. We're going to take it up with the court to-morrow. My opinion is that the Hulls did this. All through his testimony the fellow sweated fear. I've put it in the hands of a private detective agency to keep tabs on him."

  The cattleman smiled ruefully. "Trouble is I'm the only witness to their panic right after the murder. Wish it had been some one else. I'm a prejudiced party whose evidence won't count for much. You're right. They've somethin' to do with it. In their evidence they shifted the time back thirty-five minutes so as to get me into Apartment 12 that much earlier. Why? If I could answer that question, I could go a long way toward solvin' the mystery of who killed Uncle James an' why he did it."

  "Probably. As I see it, we have three leads to go on. One is that the guilty man is Hull. A second possibility is the unknown man from Dry Valley. A third is Horikawa."

  "How about Horikawa? Did you know him well?"

  "One never knows an Oriental. Perhaps I'm prejudiced because I used to live in California, but I never trust a Japanese fully. His sense of right and wrong is so different from mine. Horikawa is a quiet little fellow whose thought processes I don't pretend to understand."

  "Why did he run away if he had nothin' to conceal?"

  "Looks bad. By the way, a Japanese house-cleaner was convicted recently of killing a woman for whom he was working. He ran away, too, and was brought back later."

  "Well, I don't know a thing about Japs except that they're good workers. But there's one thing about this business that puzzles me. This murder doesn't look to me like a white man's job. An American bad man kills an' is done with it. But whoever did this ai
med to torture an' then kill, looks like. If not, why did they tie him up first?"

  James nodded, reflectively. "Maybe something in what you say.

  Orientals strike me as being kind of unhuman, if you know what I mean.

  Maybe they have the red Indian habit of torture in Japan."

  "Never heard of it if they have, but I've got a kinda notion—picked it up in my readin'—that Asiatics will go a long way to square a grudge. If this Horikawa had anything against Uncle James he might have planned this revenge an' taken the two thousand dollars to help his getaway."

  "Yes, he might."

  "Anyhow, I've made up my mind to one thing. You can 'most always get the truth when you go after it good an' hard. I'm goin' to find out who did this thing an' why."

  James Cunningham looked into his cousin's face. A strong man himself, he recognized strength in another. Into the blue-gray eyes of the man from Twin Buttes had come a cold steely temper that transformed the gay, boyish face. The oil broker knew Lane had no love for his uncle. His resolution was probably based on a desire to clear his own name.

  "I'm with you in that," he said quietly, and his own dark eyes were hard as jade. "We'll work this out together if you say so, Kirby."

  The younger man nodded. "Suits me fine." His face softened. "You mentioned three leads. Most men would have said four. On the face of it, of the evidence at hand, the guilty man is sittin' right here talkin' with you. You know that the dead man an' I had a bitter feelin' against each other. You know there was a new cause of trouble between us, an' that I told you I was goin' to get justice out of him one way or another. I'm the only man known to have been in his rooms last night. Accordin' to the Hulls I must 'a' been there when he was killed. Then, as a final proof of my guilt, I slide out by the fire escape to get away without bein' seen. I'll say the one big lead points straight to Kirby Lane."

  "Yes, but there's such a thing as character," James answered. "It's written in your face that you couldn't have done it. That's why the jury said a person unknown."

  "Yes, but the jury didn't know what you knew, that I had a fresh cause of quarrel with Uncle James. Do you believe me absolutely? Don't you waver at all?"

  "I don't think you had any more to do with it than I had myself," answered the older cousin instantly, with conviction.

  Kirby gave him his hand impulsively. "You'll sure do to ride the river with, James."

  CHAPTER XV

  A GLOVE AND THE HAND IN IT

  As Rose saw the hand of the law closing in on Kirby, she felt as though an ironic fate were laughing in impish glee at this horrible climax of her woe. He had sacrificed a pot of gold and his ambition to be the champion rough rider of the world in order to keep her out of trouble. Instead of that he had himself plunged into it head first.

  She found herself entangled in a net from which there was no easy escape. Part, at least, of the evidence against Kirby, or at least the implication to be drawn from it, did not fit in with what she knew to be the truth. He had not been in the apartment of James Cunningham from 9.30 until 10.15. He might have been there at both times, but not for the whole interval between. Rose had the best reason in the world for knowing that.

  But what was she to do? What ought she to do? If she went with her story to the district attorney, her sister's shame must inevitably be dragged forth to be flaunted before the whole world. She could not do that. She could not make little Esther the scapegoat of her conscience. Nor could she remain silent and let Kirby stay in prison. That was unthinkable. If her story would free him she must tell it. But to whom?

  She read in the "Post" that James Cunningham was endeavoring to persuade the authorities to accept bond for his cousin's appearance. Swiftly Rose made up her mind what she would do. She looked up in the telephone book the name she wanted and made connections on the line.

  "Is this Mr. Cunningham?" she asked.

  "Mr. Cunningham talking," came the answer.

  "I want to see you on very important business. Can I come this morning?"

  "I think I didn't catch your name, madam."

  "My name doesn't matter. I have information about—your uncle's death."

  There was just an instant's pause. Then, "Ten o'clock, at the office here," Rose heard.

  A dark, good-looking young man rose from a desk in the inner office when Rose entered exactly at ten. In his eyes there sparked a little flicker of surprised appreciation. Jack Cunningham was always susceptible to the beauty of women. This girl was lovely both of feature and of form. The fluent grace of the slender young body was charming, but the weariness of grief was shadowed under the long-lashed eyes.

  She looked around, hesitating. "I have an appointment with Mr.

  Cunningham," she explained.

  "My name," answered the young man.

  "Mr. James Cunningham?"

  "Afraid you've made a mistake. I'm Jack Cunningham. This is my uncle's office. I'm taking charge of his affairs. You called his number instead of my brother's. People are always confusing the two."

  "I'm sorry."

  "If I can be of any service to you," he suggested.

  "I read that your brother was trying to arrange bond for Mr. Lane. I want to see him about that. I am Rose McLean. My sister worked for your uncle in his office."

  "Oh!" A film of wary caution settled over his eyes. It seemed to Rose

  that what she had said transformed him into a potential adversary.

  "Glad to meet you, Miss McLean. If you'd rather talk with my brother

  I'll make an appointment with him for you."

  "Perhaps that would be best," she said.

  "Of course he's very busy. If it's anything I could do for you—"

  "I'd like you both to hear what I have to say."

  For the beating of a pulse his eyes thrust at her as though they would read her soul. Then he was all smiling urbanity.

  "That seems to settle the matter. I'll call my brother up and make an appointment."

  Over the wire Jack put the case to his brother. Presently he hung up the receiver. "We'll go right over, Miss McLean."

  They went down the elevator and passed through the lower hall of the building to Sixteenth Street. As they walked along Stout to the Equitable Building, Rose made an explanation.

  "I saw you and Mr. James Cunningham at the inquest."

  His memory stirred. "Think I saw you, too. 'Member your bandaged arm.

  Is it broken?"

  "Yes."

  He felt the need of talking against an inner perturbation he did not want to show. What was this girl, the sister of Esther McLean, going to tell him and his brother? What did she know about the murder of his uncle? Excitement grew in him and he talked at random to cover it.

  "Fall down?"

  "A horse threw me and trod on my arm."

  "Girls are too venturesome nowadays." In point of fact he did not think so. He liked girls who were good sportsmen and played the game hard. But he was talking merely to bridge a mental stress. "Think they can do anything a man can. 'Fess up, Miss McLean. You'd try to ride any horse I could, no matter how mettlesome it was. Now wouldn't you?"

  "I wouldn't go that far," she said dryly. For an instant the thought flickered through her mind that she would like to get this spick-and-span riding-school model on the back of Wild Fire and see how long he would stick to the saddle.

  James Cunningham met Rose with a suave courtesy, but with reserve. Like his brother he knew of only one subject about which the sister of Esther McLean could want to talk with him. Did she intend to be reasonable? Would she accept a monetary settlement and avoid the publicity that could only hurt her sister as well as the reputation of the name of Cunningham? Or did she mean to try to impose impossible conditions? How much did she know and how much guess? Until he discovered that he meant to play his cards close.

  Characteristically, Rose came directly to the point after the first few words of introduction.

  "You know my sister, Esther McLean, a ste
nographer of your uncle?" she asked.

  The girl was standing. She had declined a chair. She stood straight-backed as an Indian, carrying her head with fine spirit. Her eyes attacked the oil broker, would not yield a thousandth part of an inch to his impassivity.

  "I—have met her," he answered.

  "You know . . . about her trouble?"

  "Yes. My cousin mentioned it. We—my brother and I—greatly regret it. Anything in reason that we can do we shall, of course, hold ourselves bound for."

  He flashed a glance at Jack who murmured a hurried agreement. The younger man's eyes were busy examining a calendar on the wall.

  "I didn't come to see you about that now," the young woman went on, cheeks flushed, but chin held high. "Nor would I care to express my opinion of the . . . the creature who could take advantage of such a girl's love. I intend to see justice is done my sister, as far as it can now be done. But not to-day. First, I'm here to ask you if you're friends of Kirby Lane. Do you believe he killed his uncle?"

  "No," replied James promptly. "I am quite sure he didn't kill him. I am trying to get him out on bond. Any sum that is asked I'll sign for."

  "Then I want to tell you something you don't know. The testimony showed that Kirby went to his uncle's apartment about 9.20 and left nearly an hour later. That isn't true."

  "How do you know it isn't?"

  "Because I was there myself part of the time."

  Jack stared at her in blank dismay. Astonishment looked at her, too, from the older brother's eyes.

  "You were in my uncle's apartment—on the night of the murder?" James said at last.

  "I was. I came to Denver to see him—to get justice for my sister. I didn't intend to let the villain escape scot free for what he had done."

  "Pardon me," interrupted Jack, and the girl noticed his voice had a queer note of anxiety in it. "Did your sister ever tell you that my uncle was responsible for—?" He left the sentence in air.