‘Now, Lamson,’ he said, when the car had drawn away from the mid-city tumult, ‘give me some of the details of this case so that I may be prepared to act when we arrive. Just when, so far as you can tell, did the murder take place?’
‘I can’t say just when,’ Lamson informed him. ‘I was away from the house from five o’clock in the afternoon until late last night. It might have been done while I was away, or after I returned, because she was not discovered until early this morning. One of the maids, according to custom, went to call her in time to prepare breakfast, and found her dead. I was immediately notified and, not knowing what else to do, I hurried up after you. I’ll catch that murderer, Sawyer, if it costs me my entire fortune,’ he broke off savagely. ‘That woman was a downright shrew, but she could cook. Lord bless you! she could cook! And now I must spend a year or two hunting another cook, and I shall probably be obliged to live on all manner of horrible dishes during my search. I know I can never find another who will be able to cook fish the way she could! ‘He seemed saddened, almost to the point of breaking down, at the last thought.
‘I understand, Lamson,’ said Quincy, after a protracted coughing fit behind his hand. ‘But I want to get the facts of the case itself, the murder. How was she murdered, and do you suspect anybody? Now, give me something of that sort to work on. First, what was her name, where did she come from, and how long had she been with you?’
‘Her name,’ said Lamson in a saddened voice, apparently engendered by the thought of the fish dinners which were to be his no more, ‘was Mrs Elizabeth Buck. She had been with me as cook for about twelve years, but I have no idea where she came from originally. You see, I was obliged to hire her rather hastily at a time when I was giving a dinner and my other cook –’
‘Yes, yes,’ Quincy hurriedly interrupted, ‘but had she any relatives or friends who wrote to her, or with whom she visited?’
‘Nobody of whom I ever heard. In fact, from the time when I first engaged her, I do not believe she has been away from my house a single day. Her sharp temper would rather preclude the possibility of her having any friends, and I doubt if there was a person in the world, outside myself, in whom she felt the slightest interest.’
‘Now,’ said Quincy approvingly, ‘you are started right. Give me all the details you can up to the time when the body was discovered.’
‘Well, she was a woman who, as I said, apparently had neither friends nor acquaintances. Therefore, I do not think that the affair occurred because of some old grudge a previous associate may have owed her. Since I have been talking with you a possibility, which hitherto had not occurred to me, has come into my mind. I paid her well, very well, and, as I never knew of her spending much money at a time, she must have been able to lay by quite a bit in the last twelve years. Of course she may have kept her money in a savings bank, but it is equally possible that her distrustful nature led her to hide it somewhere about her house. She did not room in my house, but in a little cottage which stood on the grounds, living by herself. Now the possibility I mentioned, and which, at the time when I left, had not been investigated, is that somebody may have murdered her for her money. Damn ’em! I’d have given them an equal amount gladly, if they’d only have let her live to cook for me.
‘In person she was a small woman of perhaps fifty, although she was so wizened and dried-up by nature that she might have been either more or less. In fact, her appearance has never changed since I have known her. She was very small in stature, and, although I think she would have been capable of putting up a stiff fight, she would have been no match, of course, for an ordinarily strong man. Last night, the servants say, she retired to her cottage at her usual time, and nothing was heard of her during the evening. Very early this morning one of the maids went to call her and, receiving no response to her knock, pushed open the door and found the body.
‘The woman had been stabbed, and the place was in a terrible state of disorder; but that part of it you can see for yourself when we get there. I left orders that nobody should enter the building, and that nothing was to be disturbed until I returned. On making the discovery, the maid rushed from the house screaming, and fell on the lawn in a dead faint. I was at once called, and, by the time the maid had regained her senses, I was on the spot. As soon as she had told her story I looked hastily into the woman’s house to verify the facts, and hurried to Boston to secure your services. You are, of course, to do whatever you think best in the matter, and I give you full authority to act in any way you may deem necessary on my premises.’
For a few moments, following the recital, Quincy was silent, knowing well that little further information was to be gained until he should arrive at the grounds and be able to examine the premises in person.
‘How did you come to employ the woman when you had absolutely no knowledge of her, or of her previous state of life?’ he asked, after a time.
‘Why, I told you that I was obliged to have a cook in great haste at that time,’ Lamson protested. ‘She was well recommended as a cook by the employment agency, and consequently I hired her with very little question. I have never had any trouble whatever with her and, in the twelve years, I had come to look on her as being scrupulously honest and trustworthy in every way. But wait, we are nearly there now, and you will soon have an opportunity to judge this matter at first hand.’
Quincy stared unseeingly at the low and dirty wooden buildings which lined the street along which the machine was speeding. The case appealed strongly to him as it had been rehearsed, and he could not suppress a certain intangible feeling that it would grow yet more interesting as it progressed. Of course, he considered, in the case of a murder for the purpose of robbery, at the possibility of which Lamson hinted, the case would undoubtedly degenerate into a mere police routine affair in which he could take no part. But, on the other hand, the very air of mystery which appeared to surround the woman, herself, gave a vague promise of possibilities into which he would be able to dig and search to his heart’s content. He glanced once more at his surroundings, and discovered that they were now in more open country and that the dirty little buildings had given place to the more imposing residences of Beverly’s summer colony. The machine turned abruptly, and he discovered that they were rolling up a curved driveway to what was undoubtedly Lamson’s house.
A much agitated servant hurried up to the machine as they alighted and, after a somewhat doubtful glance at Quincy, reported in a rapid undertone:
‘The police are here, sir, and the medical examiner. I told them of my orders against allowing anybody to enter the cook’s house until you had returned with a detective, and they consented to wait. They are down under the tree by the house now.’
‘All right, Higgins,’ Lamson replied, turning once more toward Quincy. ‘Now, Mr Sawyer, if you will come right down we can all examine the rooms together. I am somewhat surprised that the police consented to await my return. They are usually little inclined to await the convenience of a private detective, are they not?’
‘Unfortunately, they are,’ Quincy replied with a dry smile. ‘The police in a large city would not have done so, under any circumstances; but it is probable that in these smaller towns the police and all other municipal officials are more ready to pay heed to the wishes of their wealthy residents. It is out of respect to you, and through no regard for me, that they are waiting.’
Quincy carefully examined the exterior of the cook’s former place of residence as they approached. It was a pretty little cottage, painted a conservative white and standing in a location considerably removed from the residence of Lamson himself. The cottage was of fair dimensions, containing, he judged, about six rooms; but it appeared dwarfed because of the giant horse-chestnut trees which towered above it on every side. From beneath one of these trees three men arose, and came forward to meet them, Quincy having an excellent opportunity to examine the officials as they advanced.
The fo
remost of the trio he judged, by reason of the bountiful supply of gold braid sprinkled over his uniform, to be the chief of the local department. The second, who followed at a respectful distance, was evidently a member of the force, while the last, a rather small, dark-faced man in plain clothes, was undoubtedly the medical examiner. As Quincy and Lamson halted before the house, the chief bustled up to them, a smile, which was evidently intended to be courteous, playing across his ordinarily pompous features.
‘We have been waiting some time for you, Mr Lamson,’ he remarked; ‘but under the circumstances we were willing to delay our work until your return. The affair undoubtedly will prove a simple one, and it is too bad you have gone to the expense of importing a private detective.’ With the concluding words he shot a brief, but unfriendly, glance in Quincy’s direction.
Lamson made no reply to the speech, other than by a brief nod of recognition, and, stepping quickly to the door, he unlocked it and threw it open, standing aside to allow the entrance of the officials. Like a pack of hounds unleashed the local men dived through the door, and into what was apparently a living room, Quincy and Lamson following in their rear. On entering the room all paused abruptly and stared about them, the scene well warranting the sudden halt.
The room was, indeed, in a terrible state of disorder. Furniture had been overturned, some had been broken, all had been misplaced, and on every hand were to be seen signs of violence and confusion. The main feature, however, was to be found in the figure of a little woman who lay almost in the very middle of the room. The body lay face down, the hair dishevelled and the clothing somewhat disarranged from the struggle, while from its side and several inches below the left armpit protruded the hilt of a heavy and strong-bladed knife. There were very few signs of blood, as the wound had evidently bled inwardly; but the scene was ghastly enough without that.
Exercising the prerogative of his office, the medical examiner strode forward and knelt at the side of the body, gently turning it over. As he did so the watchers instinctively started, for on the woman’s face was revealed such an expression of fierce and malignant hatred as it is seldom the misfortune of any person to gaze on. The lips were drawn back in a snarl of rage which left exposed the worn and ragged teeth, and the eyes, fixed and staring, seemed to hold in their depths a fury scarcely human.
‘Lord!’ muttered Lamson, repressing a shudder. ‘She surely didn’t die with any love of man in her heart.’
The medical examiner grimly held up the knife. ‘From here on it’s your work, gentlemen,’ he observed. ‘Make what you can of this.’
The chief took the knife, and all stared curiously at it. It was an ordinary wooden-hilted knife of the kind to be found in any market and, from the thinness of the blade, it had evidently known long service and many grindings. After nodding his head over it several times, the chief passed the knife on to Quincy with the air of a man wishing to be courteous, although hardly recognizing the possibility of any value in the act. To Quincy, judging from his expression, the knife meant much or nothing. He glanced at it keenly, turned it over several times and then, without comment, returned it to the chief.
The search for clues then started in earnest, the two members of the regular force burrowing amidst the debris in the room like terriers after a rat. They pulled open every drawer, peered under or through every article of furniture, and minutely examined every square inch of space in the room. Now and then the chief would pause to glance speculatively at Quincy, as though in fear that the private detective might stumble on a clue that the regulars had overlooked. After each scrutiny, however, he invariably returned to his search, appearing satisfied that Quincy’s aimless wanderings would net him nothing of value in the way of clues.
‘By the way, Chief,’ Quincy interrupted at length, ‘may I inquire as to what it is that you expect to find in this room?’
The chief eyed him suspiciously before replying. ‘Well, it’s not customary to hand our suspicions to outsiders, but, as you are, in a way, one of us, I don’t mind telling you. Of course we are looking for possible clues which the murderer may have left behind, but primarily I want to discover whether or not the old woman’s hoard of money is missing.’
‘I see, Chief; but, unless we know, which we do not, where the money was hidden, how are we to be able to tell whether or not it is gone? We suspect, of course, but we do not know, that there was money hidden in the house. It is hardly likely that the woman would have kept any quantity of it hidden away in a bureau drawer. It strikes me that if she had money to hide she would have placed it in a more secret hiding-place under the floor boards, behind a stone in the cellar wall, or in some similar crevice. We might search a week and still not find the place. And, even if we should chance to find the money, all we should have gained would be a knowledge that the murderer did not take it. Look over the room. There was no search for money previous to our coming. That furniture was all disarranged during the struggle. Either the murderer knew exactly where the money was hidden, and took it from its hiding-place, or else he was actuated by some other motive, entirely, and had neither thought nor regard for the money that might be here.’
The chief listened stolidly to Quincy’s summing up of the matter; but he seemed unimpressed.
‘You are at liberty to follow any method you please in the conduct of your search,’ he said coldly; ‘but the regular police must act under my orders, and I see no necessity for changing the orders because of your ingenious theory. I am experienced in these matters, Mr Sawyer, and I judge that you are not; so please don’t confuse my men by advancing any other theories. This murder was for the purpose of robbery, and for no other purpose under the sun.’
Quincy meekly accepted the rebuff without reply, but there was a peculiar smile playing about his lips as he turned away. Apparently undisturbed, he wandered nonchalantly out of the room, with Lamson, angered at the treatment his special representative had received, trailing behind. To the remaining rooms on the first floor Quincy paid only the most casual notice, doing little more than to glance into each before ascending the stairs. On the second floor, however, his interest appeared to awaken, especially when the woman’s chamber had been reached.
Once within the chamber his aimless wandering ceased, and his every movement appeared to take on a definite purpose. He glanced sharply over the walls, carefully scrutinizing the few pictures with which they were adorned, after which he stepped briskly to the bureau, where he conducted a most minute examination of the contents of every drawer. Once he paused and held up a small packet before the gaze of Lamson, grinning as he did so.
‘I imagine our friends downstairs would be interested in this,’ he remarked.
‘What are they?’ Lamson questioned eagerly.
‘Bank books. Your late cook evidently patronized several savings banks, instead of hoarding her money as has been suspected. I’ll place them back where they were, and let the police discover them when they reach this point in their search. At their present rate of speed they should reach this room in a day or two.’
For some little time, after the discovery of the books, he remained before the bureau, searching every nook and cranny of it. At last, appearing vastly dissatisfied with the result, he arose and stood meditatively in the middle of the room, allowing his eyes to run rapidly over first one article of furniture and then another.
‘Did your cook have a trunk when she came here?’ he questioned abruptly.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Lamson slowly, as he strived to remember the event of twelve years previous. ‘No, I am sure she brought with her one of those old-fashioned canvas extension bags. It must be around here somewhere.’
Quincy’s interest appeared to renew itself at the information, and he was immediately deep in his search again. At last, with much shuffling and scuffling of his feet, he emerged backward from a dark nook in the closet, dragging after him the described bag. Placing it on the floo
r, he arose and stared at Lamson through eyes shining with eagerness.
‘Lamson,’ he said, ‘I expect to find the clue I want in that bag. There is one thing that no woman, and few men for that matter, regardless of station in life, is without in these days. It may be only the most tantalizing of clues which I shall be able to make nothing of, but I’ll stake my reputation that it’s there.’
With no further explanation he threw back the cover of the bag, dropped on his knees before it, and dug into its contents. For several moments there was no sound save his eager breathing, echoed by the puffing breaths of Lamson, and the swishing of articles being hastily overturned in the bag. Then, with an almost explosive exhalation, he started back and sprang to his feet, three small articles in his hand.
‘I have it, Lamson,’ he exclaimed. ‘I have it. Now, what can we make of it?’
He strode to the nearest window, with Lamson scuttling at his heels, and held up to the light three small, unmounted photographs. ‘You see, Lamson,’ he said, ‘every woman has a certain degree of sentiment in her makeup. Consequently, in these days of plentiful photographs, there is scarcely a woman anywhere who does not possess photographs of her early home, or associations surrounding it. Here we have the photographs, but, as they are not mounted, and bear no photographer’s seal, their value to us will depend on our ability to recognize the places represented.’
Lamson stared incredulously. ‘But my dear Sawyer,’ he protested, ‘those photographs may represent scenes hundreds or thousands of miles from here. How are we to recognize them? ‘
Quincy lowered the photographs and turned impressively. ‘Lamson,’ he said, ‘I have not yet looked at those photographs closely, but mark my words when I tell you that they will represent scenes within a radius of fifty miles. That woman was not a traveller.’
American Sherlocks Page 31
