CHAPTER XII
THE ODD COIN
Colonel Ashley fished for a time in silence, broken only by the gentle snores of Shag, farther back in the field, and by the murmur of the water. The old colored man, wrapped in a warm coat, for it was not summer yet, seemed to be enjoying his siesta when, with a suddenness that was startling in that solitude, the military detective uttered a cry of:
"I've got it!"
"What?" called Kenneth. "The solution to my problem?"
"No! My fish!" chuckled the colonel, as he skilfully played the luckless trout, now struggling to get loose from the hook.
And when the fish was landed, panting on the grass, and Shag had been roused from his slumber to slip the now limp fish into the creel, Colonel Ashley gave a sigh of relief and remarked:
"I think I see it now."
"The reason she asked no alimony?" inquired Kenneth.
"No. I wasn't thinking of that. But I have been gathering up some loose ends, and I think I know where to tie them together. However, don't think I'm not interested in your case. I've fished enough for to-day. Not that, ordinarily, I'm satisfied with one, but I'm not working the rod now. I am, as Shag calls it, 'detectin',' and I just came out here to clarify my thoughts. Having done that, I'm at your service, if I can help."
"Well, I don't know that you can. As I said, the facts of the separation of the Larchs will soon be heralded all over the city, for the final papers were filed to-day, and the reporters will be sure to see them. So there is no harm in my telling you about it. It's a plain and sordid story enough, with the exception of her refusal of alimony, and that I can't understand. Do you care to hear about it?"
"Certainly, my dear Kenneth."
"It has no connection with the Darcy murder, and so I didn't mention it to you before."
"Go on."
"It isn't generally known," went on the lawyer, "that the hotel keeper's wife has left him. She went away a short time ago, and came to me and told me her story. It was one of what at first might be called refined cruelty on her husband's part, degenerating gradually into that of the baser sort."
"You don't mean that Larch struck her—that there was physical abuse, do you?" asked the colonel.
"That's what he did. He seems to have been decent for a while after their marriage—which marriage was a mistake from the first—I can see that now. I used to know Cynthia when she was a girl—she was the daughter of Lodan Ratchford, and her mother had peculiar and, to my mind, wrong ideas of social position and money. Well, poor Cynthia is paying the penalty now. She was really forced into this marriage which, to say the least, must have been distasteful to her. But I don't suppose more than two or three know that."
The colonel did not disclose the fact that it was no news to him. Aaron Grafton's statement was being unexpectedly confirmed. He remembered that Cynthia and Grafton had once been in love with each other.
"Well, when Cynthia came to me, in my capacity as lawyer as well as old friend, I could hardly believe what she told me about her husband," went on Kenneth. "She said he had struck her more than once, and she could stand it no longer.
"She wanted to apply for a divorce, but when I showed her that this would bring about much publicity, and necessitate taking testimony on both sides with possibly a long-dragged out case, she agreed merely to ask for a separation now, on the accusation of cruel and inhuman treatment. On those grounds I went before the vice chancellor, prepared to prove my case by competent witnesses. But they were not needed."
"Why not?"
"Because Larch made no defense. He let the case go by default, for which I was glad, as it saved Cynthia from telling her story in open court. Larch, by refusing to appear, practically admitted the charges against him and did not oppose the separation.
"Then came the matter of alimony, or, rather, I should call it separate maintenance, as it is not alimony until a divorce is granted, and that has not yet been done, though we may apply for that later.
"I was prepared to ask the vice chancellor for a pretty stiff annual sum for my client, for I know Larch is rich, when, to my surprise, she would not permit it. She said if she left him it was for good and all, and that she wanted none of his bounty. She had some means of her own, she declared, and would work rather than accept a cent from him.
"So I had to let her have her way, and we did not ask the court for money, though I had no such squeamish feelings when it came to my counsel fee. I got that out of Larch rather than his wife."
"Did he pay it?"
"No; but he will, or I'll sue him and get judgment. Oh, he'll pay all right. He'll be so tickled to get out of paying his wife a monthly sum that he'll settle with me. But I can't understand her attitude any more than I can the change that came over him. For I really think he loved Cynthia once. She was a beautiful girl, and is still a handsome woman, though trouble has left its mark on her. Well, it's a queer world anyhow!"
"Isn't it?" agreed the colonel. "And it takes all sorts of persons to make it up. I'm sorry I can't offer any explanation as to why your client wouldn't accept money when she had a perfect right to it. However, as you won your case I suppose it doesn't so much matter."
"Not a great deal. Still I would like to know. There will be a sensation when this comes out."
And there was, when Daley, of the Times, scooped the other reporters and sprang his sensational story of the separation of the Larchs, the case having been heard in camera by the vice chancellor.
The murder of Mrs. Darcy had, some time ago, been shifted off the front page, though it would get back there when the young jeweler was tried. As for the killing of Shere Ali, that occasioned only passing interest, the murdered man not being well known.
But the separation of Mr. and Mrs. Larch was different. The finely appointed hotel kept by Larch, called the "Homestead," from the name of an old inn of Colonial days which it replaced, was known for miles around. It had a double reputation, so to speak. Though it had a grill, in which, nightly, there gathered such of the "sports" of Colchester as cared for that form of entertainment, the Homestead also catered to gatherings of a more refined nature. Grave, and even reverend, conventions assembled in its ballroom, and politicians of the upper, if not better, class were frequently seen in its dining-room or cafe. Being convenient to the courthouse, nearly all the judges and lawyers took lunch there. The place was also the scene of more or less important political dinners of the state, at which matters in no slight degree affecting national policies were often whipped into shape.
Larch himself was a peculiar character. In a smaller place he would have been called a saloon keeper. Going a little higher up the scale in population he might have been designated as a hotel proprietor. But in Colchester, which was rather unique among cities, he was looked up to as one of the substantial citizens of the place, for he owned the Homestead, where Washington, when it was a wayside inn, had stopped one night—at least such was the rumor—and families socially prominent, some of whose members had very strong views on prohibition, did not hesitate to attend balls given at the hotel.
And it was this man, rich, it was said, handsome certainly, that Cynthia Ratchford had married. There had been other lovers whom she might have wedded, it was rumored, and more than one had remarked:
"Why did she take him?"
To this was the answer—whispered:
"Money!"
And, in a way, it was true. The family of Cynthia Larch—at least her mother—was socially ambitious, and she saw that if her daughter became the wife of Langford Larch his wealth, combined with her own family connections, would give her a chance not only to shine in the way she desired, but to eclipse some satellites who had outshone her in the social firmament. She also saw an opportunity of paying old debts and reaping some revenges.
All of this she had done, in a measure. After the marriage, which was a brilliant and gay one, if not happy, the Larch hotel—it could hardly be called a home—became the scene of many festive occasions. A number of entertainments were given, remarkable for the brilliant and effective dresses of the women, the multiplicity and richness of the food, and the variety of the wines.
Langford Larch could not himself be called a drinking man.
Occasionally, as almost perforce he had to, he drank a little wine.
But he was never noticeably drunk. Nor was that side of his business
ever accentuated.
Gradually there had come about little whispers that Cynthia Larch had made a mistake in her marriage. There was little that was tangible—mere gossip—a hint that she would have been happier with some one else, though he had not so much money as had Larch.
The rumors floated about a bit, seemed to sink, and then started off at full steam just before the news of the separation became public. Then it was said of Larch that, soon after the echoes of the wedding chimes had died away, he had begun to treat his wife with refined cruelty—that hidden away from the public, underneath his habitual manner, there was the rawness of the brute.
But, for a time, the entertainments were kept up, and Cynthia, lovelier than ever, presided at her husband's table, graced it with her presence, and laughed and smiled at the men and women who came to partake of their lavish hospitality.
But it was noticed that the older and more conservative families were less often represented, and, when they were, it was by some of the younger members, whose reputations were already smirched or who had not yet acquired any, and were willing to "take a chance."
And, also, old friends of Mrs. Larch observed that the smile did not long linger on her face. And that behind the laughter in her eyes was the shadow of a skeleton at the feast. Then came the legal separation and the parting. Mrs. Larch, resuming, her maiden name, it was announced, had gone to a quiet place to rest.
To her few intimates it was known that Cynthia had gone to the little village of Pompey, where her father owned a small summer home. As for Larch, he met the various questions fired at him by his friends and others at the Homestead, as well as he was able. It was all due to a misunderstanding, he said.
That was before the whole story of his cruel treatment of his wife became known. For the papers of her testimony had been sealed, and it was only by a sharp trick on the part of Daley that he got access to them. Incidentally the vice chancelor was furious when it became known that the documents had been inspected by a reporter, but then it was too late.
The story spread over half the front page of the Times, and it was noted that the evening the paper came out a dinner which was to have been given by the Lawyers' Club at the Homestead was unexpectedly postponed.
"It wouldn't do, you know, after that story came out, for me and the vice chancellor who sat in the case, as well as other judges and members of the bar, to be seen there," Kenneth explained to the colonel.
Slowly and gradually, but none the less surely, a change came over the Homestead. The gathering of congenial spirits, who knew they would be undisturbed by a roistering element, grew less frequent in the grill and Tudor rooms. And it was whispered about:
"Larch is lushing!"
Meanwhile Colonel Ashley was a very busy man, and to no one did he tell very much about his activities. He saw Darcy frequently at the jail, and to that young man's pleadings that something be done, always returned the answer:
"Don't worry! It will come out all right!"
"But Amy—and the disgrace?"
"She doesn't consider herself disgraced, and you shouldn't. The best of police headquarters or prosecutor's detectives make mistakes. I'm going to rectify them. But it will take time."
"Do you know who killed my cousin?"
"I think I do."
"Then for the love of—"
"I can't tell you yet, Darcy. All in good time. I've got to be sure of my ground before I make too many moves. Oh, I know it's hard for you to stay here, and hard to have the stigma attached to your name. It's hard for Miss Mason, too, although she's bearing up like a major. Gad, sir, that's what she's doing!
"You've got a friend in her of whom you may be proud. And her father, too—he's with you from the drop of the flag, he told me. Quite a racing man he is, a gentleman and a fine judge not only of whisky, which is good in its place, but of horses and men, too. Darcy, you've got good friends!"
"I know it, Colonel, and I count you among the best."
"Thanks. Then prove it by not asking me to play my hand before I have all the cards I want. All in good time. I'm working several ends, and they all must be fitted together, like the old jigsaw puzzle, before I can act. Besides, anything I could say now wouldn't set you free. You can't get out before a trial or before I can produce some one on whom I can actually fasten the murder. And I can't do that yet. You aren't the only suspect, though. There's Harry King, still locked up—"
"No, he isn't, Colonel."
"He isn't?" cried the old detective, and there was surprise in his voice.
"No. He was bailed out to-day. I thought you knew it."
"I didn't. I'm glad you told me, though. So King got bail! Who put it up? It was high!"
"Larch!"
"The hotel keeper?"
"So I understand. They took Harry away a while ago. I wish I had been in his shoes."
"I'm glad you're not. I don't imagine, for a moment, that fool King had a hand in this affair. In fact I know he didn't. But his are pretty uncertain shoes to be in just the same. Now cheer up! This setting him free on bail has given me a new angle to work on. So cheer up, and I'll do the best I can for you. Any message you want to send to Miss Mason?"
"Only that I—" Darcy hesitated and grew red.
"I guess I understand," said the colonel with a laugh. "I'll tell her!"
The colonel spent that evening in the grill room of the Homestead. Though it was not the same as it had been, and though patronage of the better sort had fallen off considerably, it was still a jolly enough sort of place of its character to be in. A number of "men about town," as they liked to be called, were in, and Colonel Ashley was sipping his julep when there entered Mr. Kettridge, the relative of Mrs. Darcy, whose jewelry shop he was managing pending a settlement of her estate.
"Good evening, Colonel," he called genially. "Will you join me in a
Welsh rabbit?"
"Thank you, no. I'm afraid my digestion isn't quite up to that, as I've had to cut out my fishing of late. But what do you say to a julep?"
"Delighted, I'm sure," and they sat down at one of the half-enclosed tables in the grill and ordered food and drink. They had become friends since the colonel's first visit to the store, and the friendship had grown as they found they had congenial tastes.
The evening passed pleasantly for them. They talked of much, including the murder, and the colonel was more than pleased to find that the jeweler had no very strong suspicion against young Darcy.
"I've known him from a boy," said Mr. Kettridge, "and, though he has his faults, a crime such as this would be almost impossible to him, no matter what motive, such as the dispute over money or his sweetheart. He may be guilty, but I doubt it."
"My idea, exactly," returned the colonel. "Now as to certain matters in the store on the morning of the murder. The stopped clocks, for instance. Have you any theory—"
Came, at that instant, fairly bursting into the quiet grill room, some "jolly good fellows," to take them at their own valuation. There were three of them, the center figure being that of Harry King, and he was very much intoxicated.
"Hello, Harry! Where have you been?" some one called.
King regarded his questioner gravely, as though deeply pondering over the matter. It was often characteristic of him that, though he became very much intoxicated, yet, at times, under such conditions, Harry King's language approached the cultured, rather than degenerated into the common talk of the ordinary drunk. That is not always, but sometimes. It happened to be so now.
"I beg your pardon?" he said, in the cultured tones he knew so well how to use, yet of which he made so little use of late.
"I said, where have you been?" remarked the other. "We've missed you."
"I have been spending a week end in the country," King remarked, with biting sarcasm. "Found I was getting a bit stale in my golf, don't you know—" there was a momentary pause while he regained the use of his treacherous tongue, then he went on—"I caught myself foozling a few putts, and I concluded I needed to work back up to form."
There was a laugh at this, for scarcely one in the gilded grill but knew where King had been, and whither he was going. But the laugh was instantly hushed at the look that flashed from his eyes toward those who had indulged in the mirth.
King had a nasty temper that grew worse with his indulgence in drink, and it was clear that he had been indulging and intended to continue.
"I said I was—golfing," he went on, exceedingly distinctly, though with an effort. "And now, Cat," and he nodded patronizingly to the white-aproned and respectful bartender, "will you be kind enough to see what my friends will be pleased to order that they may pour out a libation to—let us say Polonius!"
"Why Polonius?" some one asked.
"Because, dear friend," replied King softly, "he somewhat resembles a certain person here, who talks too much, but who is not so wise as he thinks. And now—" he raised his glass—"to all the gods that on Olympus dwell!"
And they drank with him.
Nodding and smiling at his friends, who thronged about him, standing under the gay lights which reflected from costly oil paintings, Harry King plunged his hand into his pocket to pay the bill, a check for which the bartender had thrust toward him.
"Gad, but he's got a wad!" somebody whispered, as King pulled forth a great roll of bills, together with a number of gold and silver coins.
There was a rattle of coins on the mahogany bar as King sought to disentangle a single bill from the wadded-up currency in his pocket.
Some coins fell to the floor and rolled in the direction of the table whereat sat the colonel and Mr. Kettridge. The latter, with a pitying smile on his face, leaned over to pick them up. As he did so, and brought a piece of money up into the light, a curious look came over his face. He stared at the coin.
"What is it?" asked Colonel Ashley, noting the unusual look.
"It's—it's an odd coin—an old Roman one—that Mrs. Darcy had in her private collection, kept in the jewelry store safe," was the whispered answer. "I went over them the other day and noticed some were missing, though I saw them all when I paid a visit to her just a short time before she was killed."
"Was this odd coin in her collection?" asked the colonel, as he looked at the piece which Kettridge handed him. It was of considerable value to a collector.
"That was hers," went on the jeweler. "It must have been taken from her safe, for she had refused many offers to sell it. And now—"
"Now Harry King has it!" exclaimed Colonel Ashley. "I think this will bear looking into!"