CHAPTER XVII. AT THE FARM-HOUSE AGAIN
McKnight is always a sympathizer with the early worm. It was late whenhe appeared. Perhaps, like myself, he had not slept well. But he wasapparently cheerful enough, and he made a better breakfast than I did.It was one o'clock before we got to Baltimore. After a half hour's waitwe took a local for M-, the station near which the cinematograph picturehad been taken.
We passed the scene of the wreck, McKnight with curiosity, I with asickening sense of horror. Back in the fields was the little farm-housewhere Alison West and I had intended getting coffee, and winding awayfrom the track, maple trees shading it on each side, was the lane wherewe had stopped to rest, and where I had--it seemed presumption beyondbelief now--where I had tried to comfort her by patting her hand.
We got out at M-, a small place with two or three houses and a generalstore. The station was a one-roomed affair, with a railed-off place atthe end, where a scale, a telegraph instrument and a chair constitutedthe entire furnishing.
The station agent was a young man with a shrewd face. He stoppedhammering a piece of wood over a hole in the floor to ask where wewanted to go.
"We're not going," said McKnight, "we're coming. Have a cigar?"
The agent took it with an inquiring glance, first at it and then at us.
"We want to ask you a few questions," began McKnight, perching himselfon the railing and kicking the chair forward for me. "Or, rather, thisgentleman does."
"Wait a minute," said the agent, glancing through the window. "There's ahen in that crate choking herself to death."
He was back in a minute, and took up his position near a sawdust-filledbox that did duty as a cuspidor.
"Now fire away," he said.
"In the first place," I began, "do you remember the day the WashingtonFlier was wrecked below here?"
"Do I!" he said. "Did Jonah remember the whale?"
"Were you on the platform here when the first section passed?"
"I was."
"Do you recall seeing a man hanging to the platform of the last car?"
"There was no one hanging there when she passed here," he said withconviction. "I watched her out of sight."
"Did you see anything that morning of a man about my size, carrying asmall grip, and wearing dark clothes and a derby hat?" I asked eagerly.
McKnight was trying to look unconcerned, but I was frankly anxious. Itwas clear that the man had jumped somewhere in the mile of track justbeyond.
"Well, yes, I did." The agent cleared his throat. "When the smash camethe operator at MX sent word along the wire, both ways. I got it here,and I was pretty near crazy, though I knew it wasn't any fault of mine.
"I was standing on the track looking down, for I couldn't leave theoffice, when a young fellow with light hair limped up to me and asked mewhat that smoke was over there.
"'That's what's left of the Washington Flier,' I said, 'and I guessthere's souls going up in that smoke.'
"'Do you mean the first section?' he said, getting kind ofgreenish-yellow.
"'That's what I mean,' I said; 'split to kindling wood because Rafferty,on the second section, didn't want to be late.'
"He put his hand out in front of him, and the satchel fell with a bang.
"'My God!' he said, and dropped right on the track in a heap.
"I got him into the station and he came around, but he kept on groaningsomething awful. He'd sprained his ankle, and when he got a littlebetter I drove him over in Carter's milk wagon to the Carter place, andI reckon he stayed there a spell."
"That's all, is it?" I asked.
"That's all--or, no, there's something else. About noon that day oneof the Carter twins came down with a note from him asking me to send along-distance message to some one in Washington."
"To whom?" I asked eagerly.
"I reckon I've forgot the name, but the message was that thisfellow--Sullivan was his name--was at M-, and if the man had escapedfrom the wreck would he come to see him."
"He wouldn't have sent that message to me," I said to McKnight, rathercrestfallen. "He'd have every object in keeping out of my way."
"There might be reasons," McKnight observed judicially. "He might nothave found the papers then."
"Was the name Blakeley?" I asked.
"It might have been--I can't say. But the man wasn't there, and therewas a lot of noise. I couldn't hear well. Then in half an hour down camethe other twin to say the gentleman was taking on awful and didn't wantthe message sent."
"He's gone, of course?"
"Yes. Limped down here in about three days and took the noon train forthe city."
It seemed a certainty now that our man, having hurt himself somewhatin his jump, had stayed quietly in the farm-house until he was able totravel. But, to be positive, we decided to visit the Carter place.
I gave the station agent a five-dollar bill, which he rolled up with acouple of others and stuck in his pocket. I turned as we got to a bendin the road, and he was looking curiously after us.
It was not until we had climbed the hill and turned onto the road to theCarter place that I realized where we were going. Although we approachedit from another direction, I knew the farm-house at once. It was the onewhere Alison West and I had breakfasted nine days before. With the newrestraint between us, I did not tell McKnight. I wondered afterward ifhe had suspected it. I saw him looking hard at the gate-post which hadfigured in one of our mysteries, but he asked no questions. Afterward hegrew almost taciturn, for him, and let me do most of the talking.
We opened the front gate of the Carter place and went slowly up thewalk. Two ragged youngsters, alike even to freckles and squints, wereplaying in the yard.
"Is your mother around?" I asked.
"In the front room. Walk in," they answered in identical tones.
As we got to the porch we heard voices, and stopped. I knocked, but thepeople within, engaged in animated, rather one-sided conversation, didnot answer.
"'In the front room. Walk in,'" quoted McKnight, and did so.
In the stuffy farm parlor two people were sitting. One, a pleasant-facedwoman with a checked apron, rose, somewhat embarrassed, to meet us. Shedid not know me, and I was thankful. But our attention was riveted ona little man who was sitting before a table, writing busily. It wasHotchkiss!
He got up when he saw us, and had the grace to look uncomfortable.
"Such an interesting case," he said nervously, "I took the liberty--"
"Look here," said McKnight suddenly, "did you make any inquiries at thestation?"
"A few," he confessed. "I went to the theater last night--I feltthe need of a little relaxation--and the sight of a picture there, acinematograph affair, started a new line of thought. Probably thesame clue brought you gentlemen. I learned a good bit from the stationagent."
"The son-of-a-gun," said McKnight. "And you paid him, I suppose?"
"I gave him five dollars," was the apologetic answer. Mrs. Carter,hearing sounds of strife in the yard, went out, and Hotchkiss folded uphis papers.
"I think the identity of the man is established," he said. "What numberof hat do you wear, Mr. Blakeley?"
"Seven and a quarter," I replied.
"Well, it's only piling up evidence," he said cheerfully. "On the nightof the murder you wore light gray silk underclothing, with the secondbutton of the shirt missing. Your hat had 'L. B.' in gilt lettersinside, and there was a very minute hole in the toe of one black sock."
"Hush," McKnight protested. "If word gets to Mrs. Klopton that Mr.Blakeley was wrecked, or robbed, or whatever it was, with a buttonmissing and a hole in one sock, she'll retire to the Old Ladies' Home.I've heard her threaten it."
Mr. Hotchkiss was without a sense of humor. He regarded McKnight gravelyand went on:
"I've been up in the room where the man lay while he was unable to getaway, and there is nothing there. But I found what may be a possibleclue in the dust heap.
"Mrs. Carter tells me that in unpacking his grip the
other day she tookout of the coat of the pajamas some pieces of a telegram. As I figureit, the pajamas were his own. He probably had them on when he effectedthe exchange."
I nodded assent. All I had retained of my own clothing was the suit ofpajamas I was wearing and my bath-robe.
"Therefore the telegram was his, not yours. I have pieces here, but someare missing. I am not discouraged, however."
He spread out some bits of yellow paper, and we bent over themcuriously. It was something like this:
Man with p- Get- Br-
We spelled it out slowly.
"Now," Hotchkiss announced, "I make it something like this: The 'p.-' isone of two things, pistol--you remember the little pearl-handled affairbelonging to the murdered man--or it is pocket-book. I am inclined tothe latter view, as the pocket-book had been disturbed and the pistolhad not."
I took the piece of paper from the table and scrawled four words on it.
"Now," I said, rearranging them, "it happens, Mr. Hotchkiss, that Ifound one of these pieces of the telegram on the train. I thought it hadbeen dropped by some one else, you see, but that's immaterial. Arrangedthis way it almost makes sense. Fill out that 'p.-' with the rest of theword, as I imagine it, and it makes 'papers,' and add this scrap and youhave:
"'Man with papers (in) lower ten, car seven. Get (them).'
McKnight slapped Hotchkiss on the back. "You're a trump," he said. "Br-is Bronson, of course. It's almost too easy. You see, Mr. Blakeleyhere engaged lower ten, but found it occupied by the man who was latermurdered there. The man who did the thing was a friend of Bronson's,evidently, and in trying to get the papers we have the motive for thecrime."
"There are still some things to be explained." Mr. Hotchkiss wiped hisglasses and put them on. "For one thing, Mr. Blakeley, I am puzzled bythat bit of chain."
I did not glance at McKnight. I felt that the hand, with which I wasgathering up the bits of torn paper were shaking. It seemed to me thatthis astute little man was going to drag in the girl in spite of me.
The Man in Lower Ten Page 17
