Crosby unfolded it on his desk, while Notman, Darrell, Feldock and the remaining reporters and detectives crowded eagerly about it. The printed form, its blank lines filled in with handwriting which Darrell knew only too well, the handwriting of Von Tresseler, together with its disfiguring blot and Catherwood’s signature, see figure 1:
FIGURE 1
FIGURE 2
There was a studied scanning of the innocent-looking contract by all those whose heads hovered above it. But it was Darrell, who, seizing a sharp-pointed pencil from his pocket, leaned forward and with a bold hand drew an equally bold rectangle on the face of the contract. It read still the same, but its appearance was now slightly more significant: to wit: figure 2.
Only for an instant did those nearest Darrell view the paper as he had modified it, when he picked up the long editorial shears on Crosby’s desk and with four great snips cut his rectangle from the paper. He laid it on the edge of the desk, apart from the printed paper which had surrounded it, and there it proclaimed a startling message to those around it:
“Right there,” Darrell announced with a grim laugh, “is the documentary evidence of the swindle extraordinary! There is the delicate hand of Von Tresseler himself. There is the one-hundred-thousand-dollar note that Catherwood — as per the date upon it — unknowingly signed more than two weeks before even the spurious death and burial of Mr. John Cooper Jarndyce here; signed before even the fake Diana St. John, the supposed wealthy lady money lender, was procured and shoved upon the scene to clinch the case when months afterward Catherwood’s estate — for Catherwood would never have lived to contest the note — should be sued in court.
“There stands in black and white an example of Brossmeier’s typesetting and printing on that mysterious press he owned. The type surrounding the interior rectangle has simply been removed from the form, and the remainder of the form used to run off several booklets of very dainty ladylike promissory notes, several canceled ones of which are doubtless already in the possession of a number of impecunious Chicagoans. The doctor is merely the innocent holder of the note — it is not up to him to be cognizant of what transaction took place between his patient, Diana St. John, and the signer of it.
“All he has to do is to file it, collect one hundred thousand dollars, turn over two thirds of the sum to Brossmeier, who again splits that sum in such a way that I’ll warrant his nephew, Carl von Tresseler, who concocted the brilliant plan, gets the lion’s share. And the total cost of this unassailable note — this one-hundred-thousand-dollar note — is the price of an automobile and a little metal tag reading ‘Dorck’!”
No one spoke, following Darrell’s clear-cut delineation of the plan of an ingenious swindler. It was one of those situations where comment was superfluous. From hand to hand the note passed in silence, and as each man inspected it at close range, the faces of several bore traces almost of admiration. The silence was broken at last by Feldock, who, knocking out the ashes of his pipe upon the brick coping which surrounded the big window that looked down upon the dark alley, seated himself on the window sill in the cool breeze and crossed his legs.
“It seems to me,” he said slowly — and he paused to allow the rest to resume their seats — “it seems to me that we’re making a lot of hubbub as to how this was done and how that was done in this case. We’re ready to go to press with a score of photographs, lots of mere printed words in the paper, vivid accounts of exciting adventures capturing unarmed men in an abandoned sanatorium — yet in spite of all this the story, at least to my mind, is a downright flivver.” He turned to Crosby.
“Darrell here” — he gave a curt inclination of his head in Darrell’s direction, and his voice seemed to take on itself a marked tone of contempt — ”has been sleeping with this story, eating with it, practically living with it for nearly four days and nights. He’s had every resource at his command: his reporter’s badge, his own time, his drawing account, and last but not least the clues, all of which he has kept superciliously locked tight in his own brain.
“From the very beginning of the story almost he has known that this bane, this Von Tresseler, was involved in the case; and also that Bross — or Brossmeier — was Von Tressler’s uncle. Yet with all this valuable information how near is he to capturing the real head of the whole conspiracy — this Von Tresseler? He plays all his counters on what appears to be a sure number on the wheel — that Von Tressler will be found hiding at the old sanatorium. And he loses. I say he’s caught the gas in the balloon; the real matter in the balloon, the rubber envelope, he’s lost! A score of hot tips, living day and night with the story, and what result? This man, Doctor Flandrau — the only man, mind you, by watching whose place Brossmeier’s trail could have been picked up — is under arrest, and the whole case spilled forth in the public prints to-morrow morning; for it’s too late now to hold back the story. What does this mean? It means that the big chance to nab Brossmeier is lost, for he’ll lie lower than a rabbit after to-morrow morning’s paper comes out; and without Brossmeier to shadow all possibilities are cut off for reaching Von Tresseler.
“In simpler language, Mr. Crosby, Darrell’s handling of the case has resulted in landing the chorus men and supernumeraries in this drama — the star has been lost.” He turned to Darrell, and there was open scorn in his words.
“Darrell, you’re a hot bird of a journalist, if I may be quite frank with you. You’re almost as warm a reporter as a cold brick in winter. Do you call this closing up a big story? Why man — you’re named correctly. Jeff — Little Jeff — the boy reporter! Little Jeff, you ought to get yourself a job at the Boston Store as a bundle boy. To my mind, you’ve simply fizzled the biggest story of the year.”
An embarrassing stillness followed the scathing indictment, from his perch on the window sill, of the famous Pacific coast star against Darrell’s handling of the case. Crosby, his legs swinging from the edge of his desk, scratched his chin awkwardly, and Notman gazing from the speaker to Darrell, proclaimed by his own silence that he himself felt the lash of the whip that had been applied to Darrell. But Darrell, after the stillness in the room had grown almost oppressive, spoke — and in the direction of his arraigner.”
“Feldock, you evidently haven’t much opinion of me as a journalist, judging from your words which might, perhaps, have been couched in a little less fragrant language. You know you once covertly accused me of having helped Von Tresseler to escape the law, in consideration for money. Now with the indictment you’ve just given in front of all these people, it’s only a question of time before that old shadow is going to hover over my shoulder blacker than ever. Again the newspaper world is going to wonder whether for the second time in my career I’ve double crossed the press in order to cross my own palm with a bit of dirty money — whether I’ve secretly sold Von Tresseler his second start on the police. I haven’t — God knows.
“And I admit that I’ve failed utterly to land the biggest character in the story. But, to be frank, the story isn’t done. I have a clue — a clue which cries to be followed to its conclusion. And I believe that by dead line to-night, Inspector Notman’s department should be able to take Von Tresseler himself into custody — that before we lock up the forms to-night we shall be able to slap one last streamer across the face of the paper in six-inch type — ‘The Call Captures Carl von Tresseler!’”
CHAPTER XXVI
“Hands Up!”
THE look which the Pacific coast star gave in response to Darrell’s startling declaration was a look of frank incredulity. But Notman, his eyes narrowed in surprise, spoke quickly in the direction of the reporter.
“A clue you have, Darrell? A further clue to the location of Von Tresseler? Do you mean it?”
Darrell nodded.
“Yes. Exactly that.” He turned his chair so that he faced the bigger part of assemblage. Amid the tense attention focused upon him by reporters and detectives alike, and it is to be admitted, even the prisoners themselves, he spoke:
> “As all of us know,” he said slowly, “Carl von Tresseler, the so-called Blonde Beast of Bremen, is wanted for an atrocious murder in New York City — the strangling of Matilda Heinemann. If he is captured he will, undoubtedly, go to the electric chair for that. A man can expiate but one crime. And it is for that reason that he will not die for one other murder he has committed — the brutal shooting down of Napoleon Foy. But it seems to be the fate of Chinese, whether slain by their own people or by people of our race, to have their deaths go unavenged. And so whether it is ever proved in a court of law that Von Tresseler killed Foy hardly matters. He would die for Matilda Heinemann’s death. On this point I think we will all agree. But we gain, by the knowledge of the truth of the Foy murder, an important link in a chain which is to prove most vital to our case.”
“But how,” asked Notman, “do you know with such certainty that Von Tresseler killed Foy?”
“For the following reason,” stated Darrell concisely. He paused. “The night of the Napoleon Foy murder, Inspector Notman, I examined the entire laundry, front and back, pretty carefully, and I noted that I had to do a lively bit of dodging to avoid the bill of a vicious cockatoo whose cage hung just a few feet back of the hand-carved cabinet which was wrenched open by the murderer. The corner druggist who conducted Mrs. Murphy to the laundry that night interrupted Foy just as the Chinaman had finished fixing the cockatoo’s cage with fresh, clean paper.
“And in this condition I found the cage. In fact, examining the cage and particularly friend cockatoo a little closer, I discovered something interesting: his beak was clotted with bood, about an inch of a black hair which he was trying vainly to swallow stuck from the corner of his mouth, and several tiny bits of clipped hair lay on the white paper at the bottom of the cage. I tried, you may rest assured, to withdraw that hair, but inasmuch as I had only scissors the best I could do was to cut it off and also to rescue the bits on the bottom of the cage. So far so good.
“I had occasion next morning,” Darrell continued, with a backward smile toward Iris, “to examine these fragments of hair under a microscope in a doctor’s office, in the effort to learn by their diameters whether they were sections of a woman’s fine silky black hair, or the thick black stump of a Chinaman’s hair. But what I saw under the microscope made me quite forget the mere matter of diameters. The pieces of black hair were in reality a light golden, but thickly covered with black scales which hung upon them like the broken bark of a tree.”
“You mean — ” ejaculated Crosby.
“That the hair was dyed,” admitted Darrell. “The final proof of this came when I mixed up a little ammonia, hydrogen peroxide, and citric acid which, as you may not know, is the base of lemon juice. In a jiffy the black scales on the hairs disappeared by oxidation, and they all reverted once more to a pure golden yellow. Thus I came to know, considering the facts I already had, what neither the police nor any other paper in town could know — that Carl von Tresseler, his blond hair, not to mention his eyebrows and eyelashes as well, reduced to black, was the person who stepped back from that cabinet that night after Foy had been shot to death.”
Darrell paused long enough to let the significance of the facts sink into his audience. Outside, the doleful protracted whistle of an all-night factory announced that midnight had come. Crosby looked guardedly at his watch, then at the big clock ticking away on the wall of his office. As the whistle died away on the night air, Darrell once more resumed his talk.
“This piece of knowledge concerning the murder of Foy,” he stated slowly, “while useless perhaps as a means of actually convicting Von Tressler in a court of law, even were he under arrest, which he isn’t, is nevertheless highly valuable for the simple reason that it completes for us a certain chain of events and motives. And the minute we examine that chain a bit closer than we have we are going to be conscious of a link which is missing — utterly and absolutely missing in it. And if we are furthermore fortunate enough to supply that link, then — ” Darrell shrugged his shoulders.
“Suppose, then,” Darrell said, warming up to his subject, “that we simply sweep off of our minds for the time being the entire collection of facts, faces and motives which we’ve garnered in to-night, and focus our attention solely on the chain of cause and effect which rose out of the gang’s discovery of the London letter of John Cooper Jarndyce. I will guarantee that the results, coupled with other facts which I will bring forth, will be more than worth the mere two minutes or so of our recapitulation.
“Last Friday night John Cooper Jarndyce managed to get a message written on a handkerchief to his girl cousin to secure immediately a certain two alarm clocks which were among his uncle’s furniture, believing that she, too, had a letter from Cyrus Woolweather in London which would make matters clear to her. Saturday night Murphy here finds the Woolweather letter on Mr. Jarndyce and takes it immediately across the city to Doctor Flandrau, where it becomes by Sunday, as we may readily infer, a subject of animated discussion between Brossmeier, to whom Flandrau turned it over, and Von Tresseler, who was really engineering this swindle. And the reason — well — that clock constituted a legal will which made their one-hundred-thousand-dollar note not worth the paper it was printed on. At any rate, by Sunday night they attempt to get information directly from Mr. Jarndyce here as to just what became of his uncle’s personal property on Ritchie Court; but he is crafty enough to set them off upon an utterly useless and false lead — the probate court records which will bring them to nothing. And right there we will leave Brossmeier and Von Tresseler and follow a more important chain of motive and event.
“What of the handkerchief with the message on it? Napoleon Foy gets it Saturday night. The bundle containing it lies in his shop over Sunday, and Monday around noontime it reaches his sorting table. There his eyes, unable to read English, nevertheless spot the message on it, and he takes it immediately to Chi Tsung Liang, the little father of Chinatown; also my good friend. Chi Tsung Liang, because he is preparing to go to Philadelphia on the five-fifteen train on business, connected with his importing firm, and because he knows that I come on duty here late in the afternoon, conveys the details of Foy’s story to his wife, O Ming Chi, to give to me, together with an exact copy of the handkerchief message; and so that O Ming Chi, who is unfamiliar with such American devices as telephones, may give me those details, he sends his personal servant Mo Kee down to the office here to summon me to his home. This taken care of, Chi Tsung Liang goes on his journey eastward.
“Armed with the copy of the handkerchief message given me by Mrs. Chi, I proceed Tuesday morning, the day following, to interview the supposed Miss Thorne whose name appears in it, and at her own request I undertake a trip to both the ‘Schimski of North Wells Street’ and the ‘Rees of Grady Court,’ each of whom are mentioned as having one of the two clocks in the case.
“I got first to Daddy Rees’ place because it is the nearer to Independence Boulevard, and there I learn that a woman bought the clock in question — a woman who I learn the noon of the following day is just a harmless little milliner living over in that odd district. But at Jake Schimski’s I pick up very strangely — note that, gentlemen, please — for the first time the trail of Brossmeier, Von Tresseler, Incorporated. Late in the afternoon of the day before — the day before, mind you, gentlemen! — before even I myself had ever heard of Schimski or the clock! — Von Tresseler himself had been there in person, had got an order for the clock from the now absent Jake, and due to the cupidity of Mrs. Jake Schimski had got a nondescript alarm clock which she admitted to me she had deliberately substituted in the box of household goods going out to the country.
“Now I see several questions ready to be hurled at me, but I crave your patience for just a moment longer while we follow the subsequent evident workings of Brossmeier, Von Tressler, Inc. And then any one of you may hurl his question. And anyone here may answer it — if he can! What was the reasoning of Brossmeier and Von Tresseler when they ripped that clock apart
Monday night and found the mainspring totally blank on both sides? Remember they did not know that Mrs. Jake had dipped a finger in Mr. Jake’s business pie. So the answer is plain. They concluded that they had secured the wrong one of two clocks — that the one dangerous to their plan was still at large. Their first throw of the dice had proved worthless.
“Now what?” asked Darrell. “In spite of the fact that they are not supposed to know anything about the handkerchief message, about Foy, about his hand-carved cabinet, or even that there were two clocks in the Ritchie Court house — in spite of all this, I say — Von Tresseler, not caring to follow fruitless trails laid down by a too wily prisoner, holds up Foy the following night — Tuesday night — shoots him dead, goes straight as an arrow to that hand-carved cabinet in the rear room, and gets away with the complete and original message sent out by their very crafty prisoner. Their possession of this message not only effectually destroys part of the proof that John Cooper Jarndyce is alive, but what is more valuable it reveals the location of the other clock — the one in the possession of Daddy.
Rees of Grady Court. No — wait — ” Darrell put up a hand as Inspector Notman attempted to interrupt. “I know just what you’re going to say, inspector, but let me finish it for you.
“Early the following morning — Wednesday — Brossmeier goes to Daddy Rees’ place on Grady Court. I know this because the description given me by Daddy Rees of the man who called there tallies exactly with that of Brossmeier’s on the record cards at the Federal Bureau. He attempts to obtain the clock. He learns, however, that a girl — an unknown girl — has bought the clock. I know — you gentlemen know, too, now — what Daddy Rees learned around noontime that day after Brossmeier had gone away empty handed; that that girl was merely a harmless little milliner.
Find the Clock Page 27
