The crooked cross

by Charles J. Dutton

Every light seemed to be on, and the front door was slightly open. But of Patton we did not see a sign until we rushed into the building. Then we saw him standing silently near the desk. He whirled around as we entered, and I saw a look of relief sweep his face. One thing struck me sharply—in his hand was a revolver—a revolver which he was gripping firmly.

He started down the room to meet us. His face seemed strained, though there was no fear in it. The color had gone out of his cheeks as if there had come some sudden shock. He said nothing, but as we reached his side, he took us around the desk and pointed to the door at the extreme end of the room. For a moment I saw nothing, and then as I took one step forward, I paused and came to a halt. For there by the door, huddled in a heap on the floor, lay the figure of a man—a man who did not move, a man whose appearance seemed to fill the silent room with dignity, a man whom I knew in a glance was dead.

Silently we went down the length of the room and came to a pause by the body. It was lying on its face, with the feet toward the desk; one hand was reaching forth in a pathetic position as if in the last moment of life it had tried to stretch toward the safety of the open door a few feet away. As I looked at the figure, I was impressed with the fact that the man was wearing a suit very similar to Patton's—of some indescribable dark stuff. Not only that, save for the difference in years, the figure was about the same build and hair almost the same color.

This thought lasted only a moment. Bartley dropped silently to his knees and gently lifted the still head. We bent forward to observe the man's face, and then there passed a glance between Ranville and myself, for the cold face with the staring eyes was that of the man who worked around Warren's place. I started to say something, only to have Bartley speak first.

“He was shot through the heart, from behind. I think he must have been leaving the room when the shot was fired.”

He rose to his feet and cast a reflective look back to the desk, then hurried across the floor. Silently we followed him, and when we reached the desk, we received another surprise. It was a very large desk, with a great deal of room underneath. By its side stood a wastebasket, but the wastebasket was filled to overflowing with small pieces of paper—paper torn into hundreds of small pieces, which spilled over the side of the basket and over the floor—typewritten sheets torn into hundreds of tiny bits.

Bartley picked up a handful of paper and tried to fit some of the pieces together. He found this rather difficult, and then stood looking thoughtfully at the basket. I took several pieces of the paper in my hands and discovered that they once had been part of some typewritten manuscript. Ranville gave one look at the basket, glimpsed the typewritten letters, then glanced hurriedly at the desk.

“It looks as though some one went to considerable effort to destroy a manuscript.”

Patton's voice came sharp and quick. “They did; I found that mess of papers on the floor. When I left the room there lay on my desk several hundred pages of Warren's notes. And now—now they are torn to a thousand pieces. And”—he paused—“for the life of me I cannot understand it.”

Patton's face, as he looked at the destroyed manuscript, showed that he was facing a situation which was beyond him. Not only was he very much disturbed, but also rather frightened at what had taken place. It was with a great deal of eagerness that he started to answer the request Bartley made—to tell us just what had happened.