CHAPTER XVI
THE COLONEL WONDERS
"What did that, Colonel? What devilish thing did that?" and with a trembling finger Jack Young pointed to the body of the dead dog on the floor of the detective's room. "What killed the poor brute?"
"Unless I'm very much mistaken this did," was the answer in a low voice, and the colonel, with the watch still wrapped carefully in the wad of tissue paper, placed it on the table.
"That ticker killed the dog? Nonsense! He didn't swallow it! He had it in his mouth, but he got it out! That couldn't have killed him!"
"I think it did though, Jack, just as it killed Shere Ali and just as—"
"Do you mean—that's what killed Mrs. Darcy—that watch?"
"I don't know yet, Jack."
"But how could it? How could—"
The visitor ceased his questions to watch the colonel, who had gone to a closet and taken out a pair of rubber gloves. Putting them on, he took the watch from its tissue paper wrappings, and then, holding it under the gleaming light on his table, he gave a twist to the case, pressed on a certain point in the rim with the end of his lead pencil and a tiny needle shot out into view.
"Look!" said the colonel to Jack Young.
"Good Lord! An infernal machine in a watch!"
"Not exactly an infernal machine, but a poisoned needle which only required pressure on the rim of the case to shoot it out into the hand, or whatever part of a person or animal was near it. Poor Chet, gnawing the watch which he was playing with—worrying it as he would a bone—must have bitten on the right place. The needle shot out, pierced his tongue or lips and—the deadly poison did the rest!"
"But, Colonel—this—this is the watch Mrs. Darcy had in her hand when she was found dead!"
"Yes," was the cool response.
"And its the same one Shere Ali had in his hand when he was found dead!"
"Yes."
"But both of them had their heads smashed in!"
"Yes, Jack."
"But, Great Scott, Colonel! the watch can't do that as well as poison to death! It's out of the question!"
"Of course it is. I didn't claim the watch did anything like that. I don't even claim the poison-needle watch killed Mrs. Darcy or Shere Ali. But that it did kill Chet I'm certain."
"I believe you're right there, Colonel Ashley. Poor little dog!" and
Jack, who loved animals, looked at the limp body.
"I know I'm right, Jack. If I had seen, in time, that he had the watch I'd have tried to get it away from him. But maybe it will turn out for the best. In the interests of justice—"
"Do you think this will help in solving the mystery?"
"It may."
"But I thought you said the poison-needle watch might not have killed
Mrs. Darcy?"
"I'm not saying anything, Jack. It might, and might not."
"But the blow on her head—the stab wound in her side—?"
"Both could have been inflicted after the poison watch killed her—if it did. Mind you, Jack, I'm making no statements. I am only suggesting possibilities."
"But— Great Scott, Colonel—Shere Ali was killed in the same way!
He had the ticking watch in his hand, and his head was smashed in!"
"Yes."
"And of course he may have been struck on his head after he died from the poisoned watch?"
"Exactly."
"And this watch Darcy had in his possession to repair just before Mrs. Darcy was found dead, and she had it in her hand and—say, Colonel, where are we at?" and Jack Young looked hopelessly at his chief.
"I don't know," was the measured answer. "I wish I did. There is only one thing we can be sure of, and that is, no matter what part Darcy had in the murder—if he had any—by means of this watch in the case of Mrs. Darcy, he had none in Shere Ali's case, for Darcy was locked up when that tragedy occurred."
"That's so, Colonel. And yet— Oh, well, what's the use of speculating? What are you going to do next?"
"I don't know. I wish—"
There came another knock on the door and a voice asked:
"Is Chet in here, Colonel? I generally find him with you when he isn't in my room and—"
Mr. Bland entered through the opened door, and from the figures of the detective and his helper the eyes of Chet's owner went to that of the motionless dog. Chet's master sensed something wrong, for with a cry of his pet's name he hurried toward the stretched-out animal.
"Don't!" exclaimed the colonel, reaching out a restraining hand. "The dog has been poisoned, and with a poison so deadly that even some of the foam from his lips, in a tiny scratch, might cause your death. Don't touch him with bare hands."
"Poisoned, Colonel! Chet poisoned?"
Sorrowfully enough Colonel Ashley told how it had happened, showing the poisoned watch, but not disclosing the fact that it was the one which had figured in the deaths of Mrs. Darcy and Shere Ali. And as nothing had yet been made public to the effect that the watch, which had had a part in both cases, was more than an ordinary timepiece Mr. Bland did not connect it with these two deaths. Colonel Ashley let it be understood that the watch was a curiosity having to do with some case he was investigating.
"And if I had even dreamed that your dog would take it off the stool to worry it, as he might a bone, I'd never have let him in here," said the detective. "I can't tell you how sorry I am, Mr. Bland, for I loved Chet almost as much as you did."
"I know—I know! And he liked you. Poor little dog! Poor little dog!"
Tenderly they bore him out, the colonel insisting that no one touch him with ungloved hands, and a little later Chet was quietly buried.
"But what are you going to do about that watch—and all that it means?" asked Jack Young, later, when he was about to depart to take up the shadowing of Harry King.
"I'm going to see how it's made and try to learn whether or not Darcy was aware of its deadly nature. If he was—"
The colonel did not finish.
"Well, I'll get on my way," said Jack, after a pause. "I'll keep in touch with you, in case you need me."
"And don't lose sight of Harry King," was the parting admonition. "Something just as unexpected as this may turn up in his case," and the colonel motioned to the watch.
Left to himself, the detective looked at the timepiece on his table, now silent in its tissue wrapping. The needle, which under the magnifying glass was shown to be hollow, probably drawing the poison from some receptacle inside the case, had slipped back out of sight when the pressure was removed from the rim.
"The watch of death!" mused the colonel. "I must see how you are made inside, and I think I'd better have a professional perform an autopsy on you. I'll send for Kettridge. He knows all about watches, though I question if he ever saw one like this."
The colonel was about to use his telephone when it rang and, answering it, he was told that another visitor wished to see him.
"Who is it?" he asked the clerk downstairs.
"Mr. Aaron Grafton."
"Send him up."
Grafton was plainly nervous as he entered the room; and the colonel, had he not been a man of experience, might have allowed this nervousness to influence his judgment, and bring into too much prominence the first suspicions the detective had felt regarding this man.
"Ah, Mr. Grafton, you wish to see me?"
"Only for a moment, Colonel Ashley. I don't like to call on you thus openly, for it might give rise to all sorts of questions, but—"
"Oh, don't let that worry you. I'm a detective, and known as such now. And you, as the owner of a large department store, where shop-lifting and other crimes may be committed any day, are often in need of the services of detectives, I should say."
"I am, but—"
"Well, don't worry. If any one knows of your coming to me they will imagine you wish to consult me about something connected with your store. So don't let that influence you. But has anything else happened?"
"Yes," answered Mr. Grafton, "there has."
"What?" asked the colonel.
"Well, I've come to say that I don't think I'll need your services any more."
"Not need them?"
"No. And I wish to pay you and thank you. I'm ever so much obliged to you for what you have done—"
"But I haven't done anything yet. I haven't—Oh, I see. You are not satisfied with my work on your behalf. Well, I can't say I blame you, for really I haven't had time to give it as much consideration as I'd like. Still that couldn't be helped and—"
"Oh, don't misunderstand me, Colonel Ashley. I am not at all dissatisfied," and Mr. Grafton held up a protesting hand. "The truth is, I'll not need your services in helping me to recover the diamond cross for Mrs. Larch—or Miss Ratchford, as she calls herself since the separation. You can drop that case, Colonel."
"Drop it?"
"Yes, the diamond cross has been recovered. I just had a letter from
Cyn—from Miss Ratchford, saying she has the cross."
"She has the missing diamond cross?" fairly cried the detective.
"Yes."
"Where did she get it. Could Spotty—" The colonel whispered the last name to himself and then stopped short.
"I don't know. I just had a telegram from her, and I am going to see her now to learn the particulars," went on Aaron Grafton. "She is in Pompey, you know—where she used to live as a girl, and where I— Well, I'm going to see her. I came to tell you the diamond cross mystery is solved and if you will let me know what I owe you I'll send you a check."
"Oh, that part will be all right, Mr. Grafton. But I don't understand."
"Nor do I," flung back Aaron Grafton over his shoulder, as he left the colonel's room, rather hastily. "I'll tell you as soon as I've seen Miss Ratchford. Good-bye!" and he was gone.
For a moment the colonel remained motionless in the middle of the room.
Then a queer look came over his face as he murmured:
"Now I wonder whether he's telling the truth—or lying! Is the diamond cross in her possession, or did Grafton say that so I'd drop the case and—leave him out of it? I wonder. And, by the same token of wondering I think I'd better not let you get too far away from me, Mr. Grafton. You will bear a little closer watching."