WHAT IS A DAY?
Nine persons out of ten—yes, 999 out of every 1,000—if asked how long it takes the earth to turn once on its axis would answer twenty-four hours. And to the question: How many times does it turn on its axis in the course of the year? the answer would be 365¼ times. Both answers are wrong.
It requires but twenty-three hours and fifty-six minutes for the earth to make 366¼ turns during the year. The error springs from a wrong idea of what is meant by a day.
The day is not, as is commonly supposed, the time required by the earth to make one turn on its axis, but the interval between two successive passages of the sun across the meridian—that is to say, the time which elapses after the sun is seen exactly south in its diurnal course through the heavens before it is again seen in that position.
Now, in consequence of the earth’s revolution in its orbit, or path, round the sun, the sun has the appearance of moving very slowly in the heavens in a direction from east to west. At noon to-morrow the sun[{36}] will be a short distance to the east of the point in the heavens at which it is seen at noon to-day, so that when the earth has made one complete turn it will still have to turn four minutes longer before the sun can again be seen exactly south.
THE MAN AND THE HOUR;
Or, Sheridan Keene’s Clever Artifice.
By ALDEN F. BRADSHAW.
CHAPTER I.
THE DEATH OF JACOB MOORE.
“Chief Inspector Watts, I want you to do me a favor.”
Chief Watts met the request with a rather encouraging smile.
“I have not forgotten, Mr. French, that I am considerably your debtor in that line,” he genially rejoined, with some significance.
“Well, it is not on that account, Chief Watts, that I appeal to you at just this time. I never charge up favors against my friends. But I am confronted just now by a case which, while I am still ignorant of the immediate particulars, I fear will require exceedingly shrewd and delicate handling.”
The expression on the face of the chief inspector changed slightly.
“Is it a criminal case, Mr. French?” he asked quietly.
“It is a case of murder, Chief Watts, or so, at least, it is here stated,” replied Mr. Hamilton French, one of the brightest of Boston’s legal lights and a noted criminal lawyer. “Here is a telegram I received less than ten minutes ago.”
“Read it, please.”
“It reads: ‘Jacob Moore was murdered last night. Come at once.’ It is signed by Moore’s nephew, a man named Richard Thorpe, who has lived with Moore off and on since his boyhood.”
“Who is this Moore? Is he an acquaintance of yours?”
“Oh, yes. I have been Moore’s legal adviser for something like twenty years, and am so well informed of his family affairs that this crime, if Moore has actually been murdered, at once suggests to me possibilities and complications of a decidedly serious nature.”
“And what is the service you desire of me?” asked Chief Watts gravely.
The eminent lawyer, a man close upon sixty years, hurriedly consulted his watch. It was then about nine o’clock, a clear, cold morning in November, with the mercury out of doors well below freezing.
The scene of this interview was the private office of Chief Inspector Watts, in the headquarters building, in Pemberton Square.
“I will tell you why I have called upon you, Chief Watts,” replied the lawyer. “In the light of facts already in my possession, I anticipate serious trouble from this case, if it proves to be of a nature reported.”
“Trouble in getting at the truth?”
“Precisely.”
“I see.”
“Now, I want the help of a detective—a man of brains and energy, one who is capable of noting those obscure bits of evidence which escape the investigations of most[{37}] men, and who, having discovered them, can analyze them and deduce the most probable conclusion.”
“You want a rather clever man,” laughed Chief Watts, in his agreeable way.
“I want a very clever man,” returned the lawyer pointedly. “As a matter of fact, Chief Watts, you are the man whose aid I would have liked to secure; but I am aware that your duties here make that impossible. Furthermore, this Moore lives out Lynn way, which is beyond the customary circle of your work.”
“So it is, Mr. French.”
“Can’t you loan me just such a man as I have described, however—one to whom I can impart some of the inside facts of this case, and who will quietly investigate it for my special benefit. I apprehend some little bother from the regular force of constables and police, who persistently cling to their own methods and views; and I want the help of a man who will pull in the harness with me, to some extent at least, and whose features are not very generally known.”
“You want him to do this work on the quiet, I take it.”
“Precisely.”
“Have you visited the scene of the murder?”
“No, not since the crime was committed, Chief Watts,” replied the lawyer. “This message was the first intimation I had of it. I at once wired Thorpe that I would come out to the Moore place this morning, and asked him to stay active investigations until I arrived. I then came directly here to make the request stated.”
“Which leads me to infer that you already suspect some person of the crime, assuming one to have been committed,” said Chief Watts, looking up with a curious light in his eyes.
“Well, I will admit——”
“One moment, please. That’s neither here nor there. I do not wish to anticipate the work of any of my men.”
“Have you such a one as I described?” asked the lawyer, with manifest eagerness.
“A better one than you described, Mr. French,” nodded the chief, with an expressive upward glance at the face of the attorney; “for he is a young man who has qualities and abilities to which mere words cannot do justice. Moreover, if it is your wish, I will give him such assistance as may come in my way.”
“It will be appreciated, I assure you.”
“What is involved in this case, more than placing the crime where it belongs?”
“A considerable fortune.”
“The Moore estate?”
“Precisely.”
“When are you going down there?”
“The sooner the better. If you will grant the favor I have asked, I would like to take the next train.”
“Do so, by all means,” said Chief Watts, rising. “Garratt, send Sheridan Keene in here.”
“Is he the officer to whom you referred?” asked the lawyer.
“Yes, he is.”
“I think I have heard the name before.”
“You will hear it many times again, if he decides to continue the work he has begun. He is a young man of extraordinary——”
But the sound of a firm step in the corridor, followed by the opening of the office door, led Chief Watts to suppress his complimentary utterances, and to turn, in[{38}]stead, to the person who entered—a tall, athletic young man, of about twenty-five years, with an erect and supple figure and noticeably refined and forceful face.
“Detective Keene, this is Mr. Hamilton French, the lawyer,” said the chief gravely. “He is a personal friend—one I would be glad to effectively serve, if it is possible. I wish you to undertake some special detective work at his solicitation.”
A curious smile rose about the lips of Sheridan Keene, and he took the hand which Lawyer French extended.
“After the preface of Chief Watts,” he said, with dry pleasantry, “I hardly need assure you, Mr. French, that I shall do the best I can for you. What is the nature of this work, sir?”
“One moment, gentlemen,” interposed Chief Watts. “You have just about time to hit the half past nine train. The sooner you reach the immediate scene of this tragedy, the better. I would suggest, Mr. French, that you start at once and give Detective Keene any points you may desire during the journey.”
“My idea exactly!” exclaimed the lawyer. “Are you ready to go with me at once, Detective Keene?”
“I am always ready when duty calls,” said Keene, laughing. Yet his response was true to the very letter.
“Good!” cried the lawyer heartily. “Come, then! I have a coupé at the door.”
Keene turned back, with only one swift glance at the expressive eyes of the chief inspector; then hastened through the corridor and overtook the attorney at the outer door.
CHAPTER II.
ON THE TRAIN.
Detective Keene and the attorney caught their train by a narrow margin only, and secured a seat somewhat aloof from the few other passengers in the smoking car. This partial seclusion evidently suited the lawyer, who appeared seriously disturbed by the news of his client’s tragic death, and anxious to give Keene what information he could that would aid him in locating the criminal.
But the young detective checked him almost at the beginning.
“It is only a short run down there,” said the lawyer. “I will give you all the points I can in the time allowed, that on your arrival you will be better equipped to look the evidence over. I think——”
“First, allow me just a word, Mr. French, if you will pardon the interruption,” said Keene, turning his clear, grave eyes on the face of the attorney. “Whatever you may think, there is one thing I do not wish you to tell me.”
“What is that, Mr. Keene?”
“You already suspect some person of this crime, and I prefer not to know whom.”
“Well, well! You detectives are discerning fellows!” Mr. French exclaimed, smiling faintly. “Chief Watts drew the same inference, though from what I cannot imagine.”
“That you engage the help of a special officer before you have verified your telegram, even, is to me a sufficient indication of your suspicion,” Keene explained.
“Quite logical, too.”
“You also fear that some innocent person may be to some extent complicated.[{39}]”
“That is true, also.”
“The person,” continued Keene, with a curious twinkle in his eyes, “is a young lady—one of whom you are very fond, and who regards you as a very dear friend. She is young, and, I should say, was quite recently married; but her husband is not a clever man, nor one of much ability, and is most likely——”
“Hold, hold! You will next be telling me what sort of a woman my grandmother was!” cried the attorney, who, in truth, was amazed at the acumen of the young detective. “How on earth did you guess these facts?”
“They are facts, then?”
“Precisely.”
“I do not guess them,” Keene laughed lightly. “They are apparent through a very simple process of deduction.”
“Will you tell me how?”
“Certainly! That the person you suspect may be guilty, is not the same person you fear may be implicated, is at once suggested by your haste in procuring the aid of a special detective. If the guilty one were likely to be involved, you would have at first examined the case more calmly.”
“That is true enough,” laughed the attorney. “But why do you infer my interest to be in a lady?”
“If it were a man, you would be less anxious to relieve him of what you fear may be a distressing situation. Men can face such things more easily than women,” added Keene significantly. “Moreover, that you take this very active interest indicates both that you are fond of her and that you know that she will expect you to do it, which indicates, in turn, that she relies upon you. This suggests inexperience, hence she probably is young. So serious a crime as murder very rarely involves a young single girl, however; hence she very likely has been recently married. But her husband is not a clever man, capable of handling so serious a situation, or you would have left this matter to him rather than plunging into it so hurriedly.”
“Dear me! You should have been a lawyer. I cannot but admire——”
“Ah, but we waste time, Mr. French,” said Keene, quietly checking the lawyer’s expressions of approval. “What I wish to avoid, sir, are the very suspicions by which you are actuated, and under which you are laboring. I do not want to know whom you suspect, nor why. These things only tend to draw a detective from the straight line of true detective work. I want only the bare facts, from which, and from my own observations of the evidence in the case, I may make unbiased deductions. This is the only reliable method of detective work. With a half dozen visionary motives suggested to him, a detective becomes a weather vane. Who is this man Moore, sir?”
“He has been a client of mine for many years—more than twenty, I should say. He is a man of some considerable means, with an old country house out here a dozen miles or so.”
“A married man?”
“He is a widower. He buried his wife a dozen or fifteen years ago. At one time he was some interested in farming, having no other business; but he gave that up also after his wife’s death, and, by degrees, the last dozen years has grown into a rather sour and crabbed old man.”
“A man of years, then?[{40}]”
“Yes; Jacob Moore is about seventy years old.”
“Any children?”
“Only one of his own—a girl named Mabel, now in the twenties, and who was married about a year ago to a man named Jeffrey. Besides this girl, Moore also has reared the son of a deceased sister. He is now a man of twenty-five and the Richard Thorpe who wired me the news of his uncle’s death.”
“Does Thorpe live with his uncle?”
“A portion of the time, though for the most part in Boston, where he is in the brokerage business.”
“Does the daughter live at home?”
“No, not for a year or more,” replied the lawyer. “And I now come to those painful circumstances which lead me to——”
“Never mind by what you are led,” interposed Keene, smiling faintly. “Give me the bare facts.”
“They are these,” nodded the lawyer gravely. “Two years ago, Jacob Moore took it into his head that it would be well if his daughter were married to Thorpe, and the couple settled in the old home. Now, bear in mind that Jacob Moore was not a man to be easily turned from a project which he seriously favored. His proposition proved acceptable to his nephew, but not to his daughter. She flatly declared that she’d not even think of it.”
“Whatever it may have been like,” replied the lawyer, “the girl proved inflexible. The family broil, however, brought out the fact that she was in love with another, a man named Jeffrey, who is a carpenter by trade, and is said to be an honest and reliable fellow. I have seen him but once. If he is as good a man as he looks, I don’t blame the girl for her choice.”
“Did Mr. Moore give his consent to the girl’s marriage to Jeffrey?” asked Keene carelessly.
“Quite the contrary,” said the lawyer, with significance. “He threatened to disown the girl if she married him, which, with a will quite as strong as that of the old man himself, she speedily did. As a result, there has been a total estrangement of the two ever since.”
“Has the girl always been so headstrong?”
“She has always been dutiful, as I have observed her, and, to my way of thinking, was so in this matter. Her final determination resulted not only from a genuine love for Jeffrey, but also from the fact that he had recently buried his mother, by whose death he was left alone in the world. He had, however, a comfortable house, with several acres of arable land. To make a long story short, Mabel Moore, despite her father’s bitter opposition, married Jeffrey and went to live with him.”
“This was about a year ago?”
“Just about,” nodded the lawyer. “Since then Moore has been more morose and crabbed than ever. He has refused to recognize either his daughter or her husband, and even young Thorpe has scarce been able to endure him. As his solicitor, I have occasionally been out to see him, and was always glad to return. A more surly and perverse old codger could not be imagined.”
“Has he made a will?” inquired Keene.
“Yes.”
“Disinheriting his daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Who is his residuary legatee?”
“His nephew.”
“Does Thorpe know of this will?”
“I think not,” replied Mr. French. “In fact, I am[{41}] quite sure of it, for the will is in my possession, and Moore was not a man to have disclosed his intentions.”
“Who witnessed the document?”
“Two of my clerks, and it was drafted and executed in my office. I am very sure that the existence of this will is not known to Thorpe nor to Mabel Jeffrey.”
“What’s the value of the estate?”
“Something like fifty thousand dollars.”
“Who has been living with Moore?”
“His housekeeper is a middle-aged English woman named Haynie, who has been in his employ since his wife died. He keeps one man, also, who works about the farm and stable. These, with Thorpe, are the only members of his household.”
“Thorpe has not been there much, you say?”
“Only at intervals. I think he has not found the old man congenial, and his persistent absence, which has rather offended Moore, further convinces me that Thorpe knows nothing about the will in his favor.”
“That is a very reasonable inference,” admitted the detective, “and, possibly, does away with a motive. Is Thorpe a man of good character?”
“Yes, and is very generally liked. At the time of Mabel’s marriage he made great efforts to induce her father’s forgiveness; but, Heaven preserve him! One might as well have pleaded to a stone wall. Jacob Moore was as harsh and inflexible as—ah! here is the station! Thorpe will probably send the carriage for us.”
The train was slowing down. The lawyer arose while speaking and began to put on his overcoat. Sheridan Keene restrained him in the aisle for a moment, and said inquiringly:
“So far as you know, then, these are the bare facts?”
“Yes,” said the lawyer quickly. “Do you make anything of them?”
“Nothing at all, sir. It is too early in the game. One word more!”
“Well?”
“Introduce me here as a clerk from your office, not as a detective!”
“I understand.”
“And take no notice of what I may say and do.”
“Rely on my discretion!” nodded Mr. French approvingly, as they approached the door of the car.
CHAPTER III.
CONSTABLE BRAGG.
It had turned ten o’clock. Though the sun was now well up and the sky cloudless, the air continued biting cold and the ground was frozen hard.
It was a branch station at which the two men alighted, and only a single carriage stood at the narrow platform.
More than a mile away, across a dismal sweep of moorland and marshes, could be seen the blue waters of the broad Atlantic, broken by the grim, dark rocks of the peninsula of Nahant. Somewhat nearer was the desolate, gray turnpike making east to the cities of Lynn and Salem. It was the highway of old colonial days, and still was nearly as dreary and void of dwellings as of yore.
In the immediate neighborhood, even, the houses were few and far between, and the surrounding country was rough and hilly, interspersed with farms and wide stretches of woodland.[{42}]
As the lawyer alighted from the train a short, thickset man approached him. His grim face was not prepossessing, and he was clad in a rough, gray suit, with his pants tucked in at the top of a pair of heavy cowhide boots, which were soiled with mud.
“Be you Mr. French?” he asked bluntly, peering sharply at the lawyer from under his bushy brows.
“Yes,” was the reply. “Who are you?”
“I’m Darbage, sir—Joe Darbage;” and now the fellow touched his woolen cap. “I’m the stablehand up to the house, yonder, and Mr. Thorpe sent me down here to get you. He said you might come by this train. Bad business, this, sir!”
“I see,” nodded the lawyer, who had not recognized the fellow as Moore’s groom and gardener. “Will there be room for my clerk, also?”
“Aye, sir, I reckon so. Tumble in, and I’ll squat in the middle.”
With no observable interest in the bumpkin, who did not quite impress him as a thoroughbred countryman, Sheridan Keene followed the lawyer into the wagon and suffered Mr. Darbage to squeeze his broad hips between them.
“I’d ’a’ come with the carryall if I’d knowed there were two o’ you,” he explained, with a side glance at the face of the detective. “Get up! G’lang!”
“I brought a clerk, thinking I might need him,” said Mr. French, as the vehicle rattled over the rough road.
“I reckon there’ll be room enough, now the old man’s gone,” returned Darbage irreverently. “There wa’n’t room for no extras, though, when he was alive.”
“Then old Jacob is really dead, is he?”
“Aye, sir, as dead as he’ll ever be in this world. Can’t say what he’ll come to in the next.”
“Well, this world is the one we have most to do with while in it,” said the lawyer, with some austerity. “What are the particulars? I have only Mr. Thorpe’s telegram saying Jacob had been murdered.”
Darbage looked up without a change of countenance.
“Aye, sir, he was murdered, right enough,” said he, in his grim fashion. “Ma’am Haynie found him dead in bed this morning, with two knife slits atween his ribs, and most of his blood run out of his body, which wasn’t much, at that.”
“Is it known when the crime was committed?”
“I reckon not, sir, though I’m not sartin. Jim Bragg, the constable, is up there nosing round and looking as wise as an owl; but I can’t say what he’s l’arned. They don’t tell me much.”
“Is Mr. Thorpe at the house?”
“Aye, sir; he’s been down here nigh a week.”
“Isn’t that quite a long visit for him?”
“The ole man ain’t been over well, so Mr. Thorpe stayed on his account.”
“And Mabel?”
“Mr. Thorpe sent her word this morning, and she came right up. Fust time she’d been in the house since the ole man kicked her out. I reckon there’s the coroner driving in, sir. I heerd ’em say they’d sent for him.”
The ride from the station had been of brief duration, and they now came in view of a large country house, situated somewhat off the road. A glance at the place indicated the character of its late owner. The dwelling, once a mansion, was now out of repair; and the surrounding acres of woodland and meadows had run rank as they pleased.[{43}]
A large stable was at the rear and at one side of the house, and the faded old gray mare, behind which Jacob Moore had been wont to ride, ambled up the driveway between the elms as if eager to reach her stall.
But grim Mr. Darbage drew her down at the side door of the house, which was immediately opened by a young woman in dark attire, whose pale, pretty face and red eyes at once suggested to Keene her identity.
“Oh, Mr. French!” she exclaimed, approaching with much emotion to greet him; “I am so glad you have come! My poor father has met with——”
But the kind old lawyer took her in his arms, and silenced her with a more loving kiss than the father mentioned had ever given her in all her worthy and gentle girlhood. He led her in, and took her alone to the library; while Sheridan Keene, already at work on the case in his quiet way, followed them as far as the broad hall.
Though things wore the aspect of years of service, the large house was comfortably furnished, and the general cleanliness and order suggested the care of a capable housekeeper.
The sound of voices from a room off one side of the hall now reached the detective’s ears, and in an affair of this kind Sheridan Keene did not stand upon ceremony. He at once approached the room, the door of which stood partly open.
It was a large, square bedroom, with two windows. A broad fireplace was at one end, but the half-burned logs were cold and dead, and the air was very chilly. A bed occupied the opposite end of the room, and there, upon its bloodstained linen, stiff and cold in death, lay the figure of a thin-faced, gray-haired old man, whose face in death, even, still carried an expression of that severity and hardness which had marked all the latter years of his life.
Three men were standing near the bed, and one, evidently a physician, was examining the body.
“The man has been dead many hours, not less than twelve, I should say,” he observed, as Sheridan Keene stepped softly into the room. “It is a shocking crime!”
“Can anything be done?” asked a tall, broad-shouldered young man at his elbow.
The physician shook his head.
“Not for him,” he replied. “You had better do nothing here, Mr. Thorpe, until after the arrival of the coroner.”
Sheridan Keene looked the latter over. He was a well-built man of twenty-five, this nephew of the deceased. He had a frank and rather attractive face, with dark eyes and hair, and was the style of a man most women would have fancied, despite Mabel Moore’s evident aversion to marrying him. His features were pale now, and his manner gravely composed.
“I have already sent for the coroner, doctor,” he replied.
“Let everything remain as it is, then, until he comes.”
“He should be here now.”
“It is a case, I think,” added the physician, “which will require capable investigation. Would it not be well to send into Boston for a competent detective?”
“I have sent for Lawyer French, my uncle’s solicitor,” replied Thorpe, “and I shall place matters entirely in his hands on his arrival. I think that would be my uncle’s own wish if he were alive, instead of lying there, the victim of perfidious cowardice and foul play; and I shall[{44}] be governed accordingly. I think I had better—— Beg pardon, sir! Who are you?”
He had turned slightly, and now observed Sheridan Keene standing just within the threshold.
The detective approached with a grave bow, and without a glance at the gruesome figure on the bed.
“My name is Keene, and I am Mr. French’s clerk,” he explained politely. “I have just arrived with the attorney.”
“Oh, yes. Excuse me!” cried Thorpe, quickly offering his hand. “Where is Mr. French?”
“He is in the library with Mrs. Jeffrey!”
“I must see him at once!”
“Oh, by the way,” and Thorpe quickly turned back, “this is Doctor Carr, our local physician, Mr. Keene, and this is Mr. Bragg, the constable. They will give you any information you may desire, and I shall now request Mr. French to take entire charge of this dreadful affair. He will know all about the law bearing upon it, of which I know nothing. You will excuse me, won’t you?”
The detective bowed and gravely acknowledged the introduction to the two men remaining, while Richard Thorpe hurried from the room to seek the attorney.
Sheridan Keene sized up at a glance the two men left in his company.
The physician was an ordinary old gentleman, and presented nothing of interest. Not so, however, the other.
Jim Bragg was a burly man, with coal-black eyes and a bushy beard. He was a capital fellow for battering down a door and entering a dive of lawless ruffians, where indomitable courage was an absolute requisite; for such an occasion, you would have to go far to find Jim Bragg’s better. But the ferreting out of a cunning, well-wrought piece of knavery was utterly beyond Mr. Bragg’s ability.
But Mr. Bragg did not think so. All he wanted, or had ever wanted, as he said, was an opportunity. And it now had happened, like a long-awaited dream, when the news of Jacob Moore’s murder was published that morning; and, as he left his own home and hastened across the meadows toward the immediate scene of the tragedy, his mind, stimulated by the occasion, was filled with vague visions of startling stories in the city dailies, with the name of Detective Bragg in scare-head letters and thrilling depiction of the marvelous deeds of this new Vidocq, to say nothing of renown handed down to posterity, and the probable demand for his immediate services in Pemberton Square.
This was the man to whom Sheridan Keene now turned, with a glance that at once took in the constable’s chief characteristics.
CHAPTER IV.
DETECTIVE KEENE MAKES AN IMPRESSION.
Richard Thorpe’s immediate cordiality toward Keene, when informed of his relations with the attorney, did not escape the notice of the burly constable, whose conduct presently indicated that he not only regarded Thorpe very favorably, but was also inclined to extend this sentiment even to the latter’s friends. He winked affably to Keene, as Thorpe hastened from the room, then turned to growl in the face of the innocent physician:
“Send to town for a detective, eh? Carr, you infernal sawbones, don’t you think I’m equal to getting at the bottom o’ this affair?[{45}]”
“Why, yes, Mr. Bragg,” stammered the startled physician; “but I made the suggestion only——”
“It was a cursed innuendo, no matter what ’twas made for!” protested the doughty constable. “Looking arter crime and criminals is my bread and butter, Doctor Carr, the which I’ll not let you nor any other bonesetter whip from ’tween my teeth. Now, you look arter your end o’ this case, and don’t trouble mine, or the trouble’ll not end there. Send to town for a detective! The blamed old meddler!”
“Some folks don’t know a clever man when they see one,” said Keene, in tones disparaging the perturbed little physician, who had beaten a hasty retreat from the room, and from the ire of the bustling, black-bearded constable.
“Too true for a joke, Mr. Keene!” cried Bragg, with an emphatic headshake. “Some men are blind, and some are jealous; but I never saw a sawbones who wa’n’t a blamed fool.”
“It’s owing to their business,” assented Keene, with an object.
“So ’tis, sir! For cleverness, give me a lawyer, or a detective, or a politician, or even a gospel sharp! But a sawbones——” and the disgruntled Bragg spat his disgust into the fireplace; “a sawbones ain’t nothing! Nothing at all!”
“Not even worthy of contempt, eh?” smiled Keene. “You are the constable, I believe Mr. Thorpe said.”
“Aye, sir, I am!” Mr. Bragg readily allowed. “Mr. Thorpe put it dead right, as he always does.”
“He appears to be a nice, gentlemanly fellow,” observed Keene, in a friendly way.
“More’n that, sir, he is!” declared the garrulous constable, with emphasis. “A cleaner, nicer man than Dick Thorpe never stood in leather. He hasn’t a foe in these ’ere parts. Even that old man, stiff and stark there, was his friend—and whoever could win old Jacob Moore’s favor, sir, could win any man’s! I know, ’cause I know ’em all, root and branch. You’re a lawyer, ain’t you?”
“Yes, Constable Bragg,” affably nodded Keene, careful to give this pretentious officer all the distinction possible. “Our Mr. French has always been Moore’s legal adviser, and we shall now execute his estate—and possibly his assassins.”
“Cleverly put—very!” chuckled Mr. Bragg, clapping the detective on the shoulder. “And, seeing’s your interest runs with mine, I’ll not mind helping you, when I can.”
“Then you’ll not object to my looking over the evidence with you, merely as an assistant?”
“Sure not!”
“I’ll keep mum, understand! Of course, I don’t expect to see all you’ll see, for detective work is not in my line; but what little I get may help Mr. French in conducting the case. And, say!”
“Well, sir?”
Keene slipped his hand through the constable’s brawny arm and drew him closer, to add confidentially:
“If you can make a hit in ferreting out the truth here, there’d be a big opening elsewhere for a man of your measure.”
“D’ye think so?” was the eager inquiry.
“I know so! Furthermore, since you’re inclined to do me a turn, I’d like to reciprocate some day. Our law firm, you know, stands ace high with Chief Watts, of the[{46}] Boston inspectors; and if it comes right, we can make a strong pull for you at headquarters.”
“And you’ll do it?”
“With pleasure!”
“Put it there!” said Mr. Bragg, thrusting out his huge hand. “As for this case, what I get, you get. But that’s between us, mind you!”
“My word upon it, I’ll do nothing to get in your way.”
“That’s good enough for me, sir!”
Thus Sheridan made an impression, and paved the way to securing information from the one man who, his own detective instinct told him, would know more of the superficial features of this tragedy than all the rest of the community combined.
“Was this Moore’s desk?” he now carelessly asked, turning to a piece of furniture near one of the windows.
“Yes, sir, ’twas.”
“It is much disturbed. Was he in the habit of keeping money in it?”
“I reckon not. But some one went through it last night, that’s plain. Most likely a search for papers.”
“Possibly a will.”
“My idea exactly. Say, you’re tolerably clever yourself! Well, I’ll gamble I can name who did it.”
“I hope so. If you can, it will be one feather in your cap.”
“I’ll have many in it afore this case is ended. Come down this way, and I’ll show you something more. But this is between us, mind you!”
“If you doubt me, keep it to yourself.”
“Oh, no; I’ll trust you! I can read a man’s face, and don’t you forget it.”
At the heels of the burly constable, who was that common type of man whose eagerness to serve himself makes him the cat’s-paw of his superiors, Sheridan Keene followed through the dim hall and down a back stairway, and entered a basement laundry. From the single window a part of one pane was missing, making the room easy of access from without; and upon the plank floor, extending from the window toward the entry door, were several marks of muddy boots.
“D’ye see that, and them?” triumphantly demanded Mr. Bragg, pointing first to the window and then the floor. “It came cold late last night, and the ground was soft in the early evening. The sawbones says Moore was killed before midnight. The party who entered that window, and stole out here and upstairs, was the party who searched the desk and most likely did the rest of the job. It was done in the evening.”
“By Jove! I believe you’ve struck the trail, constable!” said Keene admiringly.
“I know I’ve struck it!” declared Mr. Bragg, with a twitch of his bushy beard. “Now come outside here!”
He led the way through the entry and out of a narrow back door, and thence around to one side of the house. The soil of a flower bed under the windows of Moore’s chamber was then frozen hard. But in several places among the dead plants and vines were the clearly defined footprints of a man’s heavy boots; deeper here and there, as if he had at times stood on tiptoe to reach the height of the window and peer into the room.
“What d’ye say to that?” demanded Mr. Bragg.
“I’ll say nothing till you see fit to do so!” said Keene significantly.
“Good for you!” nodded the constable approvingly. “Now, let’s return by the front door.[{47}]”
“Wait a moment, constable,” said Sheridan Keene. “I’d like a little more light on this affair, if you don’t mind. Who discovered the crime?”
Mr. Bragg demurred for a moment, but visions of an appointment under Chief Watts led him to respond to the request. He had lost sight of the provisions under which the promise of influence had been made.
“The housekeeper, Mrs. Haynie,” he replied.
“At what hour; do you know?”
“Nigh half past eight.”
“Did she give the alarm?”
“She ran to one of the neighbors, a piece up the road, here, scared half out of her wits. One of ’em came down here at once, and one went to tell Thorpe at the turnpike tavern, half a mile away. Dick mounted his horse and struck around to my house to notify me, in which he showed his good sense; and we came up here together. Then he sent the telegram to Mr. French, and word to Mabel Jeffrey.”
“Then Mr. Thorpe was not at home here last night?”
“No, he wasn’t,” said Mr. Bragg glibly. “He was at the road house all night. Leastwise, he was with Mabel part of the evening, waiting to see her husband. He’s been trying, you see, to fix up things between them and the old man. But Bob Jeffrey didn’t show up till midnight. Dick had dropped into the road house for a drink, and joined in a game of cards.”
“Has this been a habit of Thorpe?”
“Playing cards there? Oh, yes, regular thing. Genial fellow, Dick—and everybody likes him. It came cold soon after midnight, and his mare, being under cover, he didn’t like to expose her. She’d been sick for a week back, and that was her first time out. So he stayed at the tavern until morning.”
“I see,” nodded Keene. “Then Mrs. Haynie and the stableman were here alone all night?”
“That’s about the size of it. Darbage was at the tavern, and he stayed there until daybreak, when he came up here and slept in the stable, for fear the old man would hear him enter the house. He was some slued, I reckon; but, Lord save us! Moore was past hearing long afore that. Joe Darbage might just as well have tumbled into his own bed.”
“Do you know who last saw Mr. Moore alive, constable?” inquired Keene, who had received, with a series of little nods, the information thus far imparted.
“Mrs. Haynie was the last who saw him.”
“Do you know at what time?”
“About nine o’clock last night.”
“Was he up?”
“No, he was in bed. She went in to look to his fire, and to see if he was all right.”
“That was after Thorpe and the stableman went to the road house, was it?”
“Long after! Thorpe left here about seven o’clock, and Joe went a little later. Lord, sir, nobody will ever think of suspecting either of them! But there’s a sartin man who don’t stand so well here, and some things p’ints strong agin’ him,” Mr. Bragg added, in lower tones. “Now, this is all atween us, mind you.”
“You can depend upon me, constable,” said Keene assuringly. “This information will not go farther than to Mr. French. It will be of great help to him in the case, and we’ll not forget it. What man do you mean?”
“Young Bob Jeffrey,” whispered Mr. Bragg, with mysterious significance.[{48}]
“You mean Mabel’s husband?”
“Sure thing! Since their marriage he has been dead nuts agin’ the old man, and talks pretty rough agin’ him. More’n that, sir, he’s been drinking more’n is good for him, and using his tongue too freely. I reckon he’ll have a hard time telling where he was till midnight last night.”
“What sort of a man is this Jeffrey?”
“Well, sir, he’s a hot-headed—— Say, there’s the coroner, now! I’ll have to quit you right here, sir, for I’ve a word for him alone.”
“Many thanks for this, however, Constable Bragg,” said Keene, extending his hand.
“That’s all right, lawyer!” exclaimed Mr. Bragg, with a growl of friendly appreciation. “But all this is atween us, mind you.”
“I will not forget it.”
“And I reckon I can let you into something more a little later. Leave it to me.”
And the burly constable wiped the frozen moisture from his bushy black mustache and beard, and hustled around the corner of the house.
TO BE CONTINUED.