“Dar’s a Montagu livin’ ’bout five miles from hyar, but I ain’t never heard tell ob no Capulets in de neighborhood. Was yo’ a-referrin’ to de Richard Montagu fam’ly?”
“No, no—only to an old play,” explained Mitchell, and seeing Cato’s mystified air, added, “It would have been like the play had Dr. Thorne and Miss Millicent Porter fallen in love and the families opposed the match; that is what I meant.”
“Yessir.” Cato brightened. “Dat was what Ole Miss uster wonder ’bout, when little Miss Milly uster slip ober hyar and eat hot gingerbread.”
Mitchell’s scrutiny was not noticed by Cato as he replaced articles on the mantelpiece. “Am I mistaken—is there a romance between Dr. Thorne and Miss Porter?” he asked.
“I doan know what yo’ mean by romance,” grumbled Cato. “Marse Beverly am mos’ twelve years older than Miss Milly; dey knowed each odder when chillen, an’ Marse Beverly made her whistles an’ things, an’ fo’ fear de old Judge Porter would fo’bid Miss Milly comin’ hyar to see Ole Miss we nebber tole no one.”
Cato had an attentive listener as he ambled on who forbore to hurry him. “Has the friendship between Miss Porter and Dr. Thorne kept up?” he inquired finally.
Cato’s face altered. “No, an’ I didn’t ’spect such treatment of Marse Beverly from Miss Milly,” he grumbled. “Now Marse Beverly’s back she ain’t never troubled ter recognize him on de road—an’ she set a store by his mother—I cain’t un’erstand these hyar women folk!”
“You are not alone in that,” answered Mitchell. “The police are puzzled by the behavior of Mrs. Porter and her daughter.”
“So I heard tell.” Cato’s tone was short; too late he repented of his garrulous confidences. In the pleasure of hearing his own voice he had forgotten that Mitchell was a detective. “I ’spects Marse Beverly won’t be back ’til nearly midnight; had yo’ better wait?”
“Surely, there’s no hurry.” And in proof of his words Mitchell selected a comfortable chair. “Where did you say your master had gone?”
“Didn’t I tell yo’ he’d gone to Washington?” Cato’s manner waxed impatient, and Mitchell hastened to quiet him.
“So you did,” he agreed. “But it seems to me that he ought to be back by now.”
“Yo’ cain’t tell how dese hyar cyars is gwine ter run; sometimes Marse Beverly gets hyar right smart on time, an’ ag’in he don’t.” Cato lugged out of his pocket an old-fashioned silver timepiece, rivaling a turnip in size, and his most prized possession. It had been the gift of Mrs. Thorne from among her heirlooms, and bore the inscription, “To our most trusted friend, Cato.” The negro regarded the face of the watch solemnly as he counted off the time. “’Most ten o’clock,” he pronounced. “An’ dar’s Marse Beverly now,” as the resounding bang of the front door echoed through the house. “I’ll jes’ tell him yo’ am hyar.”
But Cato’s rheumatic limbs did not permit of rapid motion, and Thorne was halfway up the stairs before the negro’s hail reached him.
“Mister Mitchell am hyar,” announced Cato.
“Here?” Thorne paused. “Where?”
“In de dinin’-room, sah,” stepping aside as Thorne descended the staircase and crossed the living-room. “He’s been a-waitin’ some time.”
Thorne quickened his footsteps. “Hello, Mitchell, I’m very glad you had the patience to wait for me,” he exclaimed on reaching the dining-room. “Cato, bring some Scotch and vichy. Make yourself comfortable, Mitchell.”
“I’ve been doing that,” laughed Mitchell. “Cato made me feel quite at home.”
“Good.” Thorne moved over to the dining-table as Cato, returning, placed a tray with siphon and bottle of Scotch whisky before him. “Say when—”
“Enough.” Mitchell took the tall glass extended to him and filled it with vichy. “What are you Virginians going to do when your state goes ‘bone dry’?”
“Endure it with other evils,” dryly. “I wish the legislators would remember, before passing such stringent laws, that we are not all ‘self-starters,’ and dry dinners can be very dull.”
“You speak feelingly. Was that your experience at dinner tonight?” asked Mitchell, observing that Thorne wore a dress-suit.
“Yes.” Thorne pushed two chairs near the fireplace and produced a cigar box and ash trays. “What are the latest developments across the way?”
“Nothing later than the scene with Noyes this afternoon,” replied Mitchell. “Where’s that Englishman been hiding since the discovery of Brainard’s murder?”
Thorne did not speak until after lighting his cigar. “Are you quite sure that Noyes was hiding?”
“He must have been, for we sent out a general call to police headquarters throughout the country to look for him, and no trace of him has been reported. Also, doctor, no one has reported seeing him leave the Porter house Tuesday morning. How did he get to Washington? Where did he take the train for New York?”
Thorne stared thoughtfully at his highball and twirled the glass about several times before speaking.
“I don’t know that this has any bearing on the case,” he said. “But one of my patients told me today that an old country place in Maryland just across the river has been bought by an Englishman named Galbraith—my patient has seen Dr. Noyes and Galbraith motoring together and—Galbraith owns a motor power boat.”
“Oh!” Mitchell produced his memorandum book and made an entry in it. “I believe you’ve hit the trail, doctor,” he exclaimed a moment later. “I didn’t see Dr. Noyes again as, after reviving Miss Porter from her fainting spell, he went up to Craig Porter’s room, and Murray told me an hour ago that the doctor was still in the sick room and could not be called away.”
“I wish”—Thorne paused to knock the ash from his cigar—“I wish Dr. Noyes had delayed his return just one hour.”
“Why?”
“Because”—Thorne picked his words with care—“because I was called in by Mrs. Porter to attend her son, and I would have liked to have the case.”
Mitchell looked at him amusedly. “What, do you desire to pour coals of fire on Mrs. Porter’s head by curing her son, or”—his eyes twinkling as he scanned Thorne, whose air of distinction was enhanced by his well-cut evening clothes—“do you wish to have your hereditary enemy at your mercy?”
“Perhaps.” Thorne’s firm mouth relaxed into a warm, bright smile, which cloaked his abrupt change of subject. “Do you think that Noyes is implicated in Brainard’s murder?”
“I do and I don’t.” Mitchell settled back in his chair and crossed his legs. “First and foremost is his disappearance on Tuesday morning before the murder was discovered—”
“Before the murder was generally known,” put in Thorne, and Mitchell considered the suggestion gravely.
“Perhaps so,” he admitted, “but I don’t quite catch your drift,” looking inquisitively at Thorne who, however, remained silent, and Mitchell continued: “Noyes’ disappearance after the murder, his refusal to tell me where he spent the past few days, and why he has now returned to the Porter house all point to a desire for secrecy; and secrecy would indicate that he has some knowledge of the crime—if he is not the criminal himself.”
“The latter supposition I think you can dismiss,” remarked Thorne. “It was physically impossible for a one-armed man to cut Brainard’s throat.”
Mitchell did not answer at once, then pulled his chair closer to Thorne. “Were you aware until this afternoon in the Porter library that Noyes had lost his right arm?”
“No. I had never seen Noyes before.”
“But others who testified at the inquest had seen Noyes—why did they not mention that he had only one arm? Surely a rare enough condition to have made sufficient impression on his friends and the servants for them to have commented upon it at the inquest,” argued Mitchell. “In subsequent conversations, Mrs. Porter, the nurses, Miss Porter, never alluded to his having lost an arm. Why was that?”
“I’m s
ure I don’t know.” Thorne knitted his brows in thought. “It’s highly probable that they never imagined Noyes could be suspected of murdering Brainard, or they would have mentioned it to prove that he could not have killed him.”
“I don’t agree with your reasoning,” snapped Mitchell. “The loss of his arm was bound to have come up when the coroner was questioning the witnesses about the razor; any one of the servants even might casually have mentioned his infirmity. No, doctor, they didn’t allude to it because they were accustomed to his using a false arm and hand.”
“Upon my word!” Thorne sat back and contemplated the detective in surprise. “That’s an ingenious theory.”
“I’m sure I’m right,” went on Mitchell, showing more than his usual animation as he warmed to the subject. “I was about to question Murray when Miss Dorothy Deane appeared and ordered me off the place—a message from Mrs. Porter, she said, and as Murray looked as if he was ready to back up his employer’s orders, I retreated—until tomorrow. Now, doctor, you are aware of the ingenious steel and wooden limbs invented to take the place of arms and legs; they are marvels of mechanical skill, and one-armed surgeons using a false arm and hand have been known to perform the most delicate operations.” Thorne nodded agreement. “Well, why couldn’t Noyes have, with the aid of a false hand, cut Brainard’s throat?”
“It is within possibility,” admitted Thorne. “But the motive for the crime?”
The detective chuckled grimly. “In moments of stress or excitement men give themselves away. Did you observe Noyes’ expression when Miss Porter fainted? You did; then there’s the answer to your question.”
“You mean—” Thorne tossed away his cigar stub. “You mean Noyes is in love with Millicent Porter?”
“I do,” emphatically. “There’s your motive, doctor—jealousy. Now, consider all the facts,” catching sight of Thorne’s dubious expression. “Miss Porter’s engagement to Brainard was to be announced on Tuesday, but it leaked out at the dinner Monday night. Noyes may have had no idea that she was engaged to another man, and the news awakened a desire to be revenged on Brainard. It is possible that Miss Porter encouraged Noyes’ attentions, and he lived in a fool’s paradise. It’s said, ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ Well, my profession has taught me that men evince the same strong dislike to such treatment—and such motives frequently lead to murder.”
“You are building up a specious case against Noyes,” remarked Thorne. “But whether your conclusions rest on a firm foundation remains to be seen. Frankly, I was prepossessed in Noyes’ favor this afternoon; he is a man evidently of deep feeling, and, judging by appearances, living under great strain.” Thorne spoke more slowly. “Noyes is not the type of man to commit cold-blooded murder.”
“Tut, doctor, murder is not confined to a type!” retorted Mitchell. “If it were we would have an easy time detecting criminals. And they don’t go around labeled ‘criminals’ in real life any more than they do in fiction. It’s generally the least suspected person who is guilty in everyday life, and the clues are to be found in the victim’s past.”
“Exactly!” exclaimed Thorne. “Why not inquire into Brainard’s past?”
“Jones has that in charge and I’m expecting a report daily,” answered Mitchell. “I’ve learned everything there is to know concerning Brainard in Washington. He stood well in his profession, had some private means, and was counted a good fellow at the club, and was a great ‘dinner man.’”
“The latter means nothing,” commented Thorne cynically. “A suit of respectable evening clothes often covers a family skeleton in Washington society.”
“In this instance I haven’t heard the bones rattle,” laughed Mitchell. “But it may be—” he paused abruptly. “That Deane girl bothers me.”
Thorne’s hand, outstretched to grasp his glass tumbler, remained poised in air. “She need not trouble you,” he said, taking up the glass. “I’ve thought over our former conversation about her, Mitchell, very carefully, and have come to the conclusion that I was wrong.” His gray eyes held his companion’s gaze as his clear, resonant voice continued: “I believe that Miss Deane was not in Craig Porter’s bedroom when Brainard was murdered in the room next to his.”
“Where was she then?”
“Perhaps in her own bedroom or downstairs.”
“Then why doesn’t she say so?”
“Because by admitting that she left her patient she would lay herself open to dismissal for neglecting her professional duty.”
Mitchell smiled skeptically. “Better be dismissed as an incompetent nurse than be charged with murder. But you jump to conclusions, doctor. I did not allude to Miss Vera Deane a moment ago, but to her sister, Dorothy.”
“Dorothy!”
“Yes,” continued Mitchell. “I went to the Tribune office this afternoon, and she had the effrontery to tell me that the article Miss Porter threw into the unused well on the side hill was nothing but a ‘cut’ of her photograph.”
“Have you investigated the matter?”
“Sure. That old farmer, Montagu, told me of seeing Miss Porter drop something in the well yesterday; but I haven’t had time to examine the well today.”
Thorne rose and, walking over to the table in the window, pulled open its drawer. “Here’s the cut,” he announced, taking out a square piece of metal caked with mud. “Montagu also told me, and I searched the well this afternoon with his aid.”
Mitchell took the cut and gingerly turned it over. “So Dorothy Deane told the truth,” he muttered, “and got ‘fired’ for it.” And as Thorne glanced up in surprise he briefly recounted the scene in the newspaper office. At its conclusion he rose. “I’m glad to have had this talk with you, doctor.”
“Don’t go,” protested Thorne. “I can easily put you up for the night.”
“Thanks, but I must relieve Pope who is keeping his eye on the Porter house. Let me know if you see anyone up in the attic at the Porters’ tonight sending wireless messages.”
“All right, I will.” Thorne accompanied the detective into the living-room and assisted him into his overcoat. “Drop in tomorrow, Mitchell; I’m always glad to see you,” he said cordially.
“I’ll come, doctor; good night,” and Mitchell strode through the doorway and up the brick walk.
Thorne watched him out of sight, then closed the hall door and returned to the dining-room. He stopped to pull down the window shades, first taking an exhaustive look at the Porter mansion, whose dark windows showed indistinctly in the pale moonlight. Thorne next turned his attention to the neglected cut of Millicent Porter. Barely glancing at it, he flung it back in the drawer and walked over to the table and poured out another highball.
“To Vera!” he said aloud, holding up the glass, then lowered it without tasting its contents, while his eyes contracted with sudden pain. “Bah!” he ejaculated, and, replacing the glass on the tray, he stepped to the door and looked into the dark pantry.
“Cato,” he called, removing his coat, “Cato!”
Chapter XV
Edged Tools
The moonlight penetrated but feebly through the one small opening which did duty for a window of the lean-to, and its interior was a mass of shadows. Suddenly that point of light was obliterated as a dark cloth was pulled across the opening. There was a prolonged wait before the same fingers switched on an electric lamp supplied with current from a powerful dry battery, but the light was so arranged that it fell directly upon a table on which stood a photographer’s outfit. A man, his face in shadow from a huge green eye-shade which he wore low on his brow, removed his hand from the electric switch. Taking up a piece of bond paper he felt its texture, and holding it up to the light he examined with minute attention the red and blue silk fiber running through the paper.
Laying down the paper he took out his wallet and drew out some money, and holding the spurious bill and the genuine bank note against the light he compared them closely, then a smile of triumph crossed his tightly
compressed lips. It was next to impossible to distinguish between the two notes. Greatly elated, he straightened his weary back and looked about his workshop.
The cabin, for such it was, though to the casual observer it looked like only a lean-to of logs against the hillside, had but the one room which was fairly large, but owing to the numerous benches and tables and other articles it appeared smaller than it really was. At one side stood a printing-press, a metal rolling-machine, planchette cutting-machine, pump, two oil stoves, a plating outfit, and a double Turner torch, while a series of shelves held paints, oils, acids, brushes, and chemicals. Dumped in one corner were a lathe, a melting-pot, brazier, crucible and ladles, and on a nearby bench were scales, copper and zinc plates, dies, and molds.
The counterfeiter replaced the genuine money in his wallet and returned the latter to his pocket, then he moved over to a small safe and placed a handful of spurious bank notes inside it. He stood for a moment staring at the closed door of the safe, but he was in too excited a frame of mind to remain long idle, and walking over to a small cabinet he pulled out first one drawer and then another, arranging engraver’s tools and other delicate instruments with deft fingers. After that task was completed he turned his attention to the stone chimney and fireplace at the back of the cabin and banked the smoldering embers with ashes. Finally convinced that there was no danger of fire he drew out from the background large screens and arranged them in front of the homogeneous contents of the room. The screens were cleverly painted to resemble the bare walls of a log cabin, and once in position they caused the optical illusion, should any passer-by look through the window, of a deserted and empty cabin.
The counterfeiter, first concealing his green eye-shade behind one of the screens, switched off the electric light, and moving over to the window drew back the black cloth and concealed its presence by tucking it in a crevice in the log wall. A second later he was outside the cabin, and the faint click of the spring lock as he closed the door assured him that the latch had caught. He was inspecting the lock which chemicals had made old and dilapidated in appearance when a shadow obscured the moonlight shining on the door. The counterfeiter’s hand closed over the butt of a revolver inside his overcoat pocket, but before he caught sight of the newcomer a subdued but familiar voice reassured him, and his chilled blood coursed through his veins.
The Moving Finger Page 14
