The Mystery Of The Boule Cabinet E-Book

Burton Egbert Stevenson

• Herausgeber: Classic Detective
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The Mystery of the Boule Cabinet; A Detective Story by Burton Egbert Stevenson written 1911, is a bit on the sensational side, with stupid policeman, clever amateur sleuths, and a villain who is just a bit too...much of everything. However, the greatest thing in this book is the murder weapon.Forget Professor Peacock in The Library with The Revolver. Or even a frozen leg of lamb or a toaster. In this story the murder weapon is…wait for it. A piece of furniture. A rather large cabinet to be precise. Not a built-in, free standing. No it doesn’t fall on anybody, it’s a little more complicated than that of course.The plot is basically a locked room mystery, which is basically that someone is murdered in a locked room. The door isn't locked in this, but it still applies. You see there’s no way the person or persons could have been murdered in this room, and yet there’s this dead body. Then another one. And another one. Plus some near misses, but no one realizes that until later. The only commonality is this cabinet, and it’s definitely the murder weapon.No spoiler there that’s established almost immediately. But how is the murderer using it to kill people?Well that’s the mystery, and if I told you, you'd be mad. So I won't do that.

Leseprobe

THE MYSTERY OF THE BOULE CABINET

..................

Burton Egbert Stevenson

DETECTIVE CLASSICS

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I: A CONNOISSEUR’S VAGARY

CHAPTER II: THE FIRST TRAGEDY

CHAPTER III: THE WOUNDED HAND

CHAPTER IV: THE THUNDERBOLT

CHAPTER V: GRADY TAKES A HAND

CHAPTER VI: THE WOMAN IN THE CASE

CHAPTER VII: ROGERS GETS A SHOCK

CHAPTER VIII: PRECAUTIONS

CHAPTER IX: GUESSES AT THE RIDDLE

CHAPTER X: PREPARATIONS

CHAPTER XI: THE BURNING EYES

CHAPTER XII: GODFREY IS FRIGHTENED

CHAPTER XIII: A DISTINGUISHED CALLER

CHAPTER XIV: THE VEILED LADY

CHAPTER XV: THE SECRET OF THE UNKNOWN FRENCHMAN

CHAPTER XVI: PHILIP VANTINE’S CALLER

CHAPTER XVII: ENTER M. ARMAND

CHAPTER XVIII: I PART WITH THE BOULE CABINET

CHAPTER XIX: “LA MORT!”

CHAPTER XX: THE ESCAPE

CHAPTER XXI: GODFREY WEAVES A ROMANCE

CHAPTER XXII: “CROCHARD, L’INVINCIBLE!”

CHAPTER XXIII: WE MEET M. PIGOT

CHAPTER XXIV: THE SECRET OF THE CABINET

CHAPTER XXV: THE MICHAELOVITCH DIAMONDS

CHAPTER XXVI: THE FATE OF M. PIGOT

CHAPTER XXVII: THE LAST ACT OF THE DRAMA

CHAPTER XXVIII: CROCHARD WRITES AN EPILOGUE

CHAPTER I: A CONNOISSEUR’S VAGARY

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“HELLO!” I SAID, AS I took down the receiver of my desk ‘phone, in answer to the call.

“Mr. Vantine wishes to speak to you, sir,” said the office-boy.

“All right,” and I heard the snap of the connection.

“Is that you, Lester?” asked Philip Vantine’s voice.

“Yes. So you’re back again?”

“Got in yesterday. Can you come up to the house and lunch with me to-day?”

“I’ll be glad to,” I said, and meant it, for I liked Philip Vantine.

“I’ll look for you, then, about one-thirty.”

And that is how it happened that, an hour later, I was walking over toward Washington Square, just above which, on the Avenue, the old Vantine mansion stood. It was almost the last survival of the old régime; for the tide of business had long since overflowed from the neighbouring streets into the Avenue and swept its fashionable folk far uptown. Tall office and loft buildings had replaced the brownstone houses; only here and there did some old family hold on, like a sullen and desperate rear-guard defying the advancing enemy.

Philip Vantine was one of these. He had been born in the house where he still lived, and declared that he would die there. He had no one but himself to please in the matter, since he was unmarried and lived alone, and he mitigated the increasing roar and dust of the neighbourhood by long absences abroad. It was from one of these that he had just returned.

I may as well complete this pencil-sketch. Vantine was about fifty years of age, the possessor of a comfortable fortune, something of a connoisseur in art matters, a collector of old furniture, a little eccentric—though now that I have written the word, I find that I must qualify it, for his only eccentricity was that he persisted, in spite of many temptations, in remaining a bachelor. Marriageable women had long since ceased to consider him; mothers with maturing daughters dismissed him with a significant shake of the head. It was from them that he got the reputation of being an eccentric. But his reasons for remaining single in no way concerned his lawyers—a position which our firm had held for many years, and the active work of which had come gradually into my hands.

It was not very arduous work, consisting for the most part of the drawing of leases, the collecting of rents, the reinvestment of funds, and the adjustment of minor differences with tenants—all of which were left to our discretion. But occasionally it was necessary to consult our client on some matter of unusual importance, or to get his signature to some paper, and, at such times, I always enjoyed the talk which followed the completion of the business; for Vantine was a good talker, with a knowledge of men and of the world gained by much travel and by a detached, humourous and penetrating habit of mind.

He came forward to meet me, as I gave his man my hat and stick, and we shook hands heartily. I was glad to see him, and I think he was glad to see me. He was looking in excellent health, and brown from the voyage over.

“It’s plain to see that the trip did you good,” I said.

“Yes,” he agreed; “I never felt more fit. But come along; we can talk at table. There’s a little difficulty I want you to untangle for me.” I followed him upstairs to his study, where a table laid for two had been placed near a low window.

“I had lunch served up here,” Vantine explained, as we sat down, “because this is the only really pleasant room left in the house. If I didn’t own that plot of ground next door, this place would be impossible. As it is, I can keep the sky-scrapers far enough away to get a little sunshine now and then. I’ve had to put in an air filter, too; and double windows in the bedrooms to keep out the noise; but I dare say I can manage to hang on.”

“I can understand how you’d hate to move into a new house,” I said.

Vantine made a grimace.

“I couldn’t endure a new house. I’m used to this one—I can find my way about in it; I know where things are. I’ve grown up here, you know; and, as a man gets older, he values such associations more and more. Besides, a new house would mean new fittings, new furniture—”

He paused and glanced about the room. Every piece of furniture in it was the work of a master.

“I suppose you found some new things while you were away?” I said.

“You always do. Your luck’s proverbial.”

“Yes—and it’s that I wanted to talk to you about, I brought back six or eight pieces; I’ll show them to you presently. They are all pretty good, and one is a thing of beauty. It’s more than that—it’s an absolutely unique work of art. Only, unfortunately, it isn’t mine.”

“It isn’t yours?”

“No; and I don’t know whose it is. If I did, I’d go buy it. That’s what I want you to do for me. It’s a Boule cabinet—the most exquisite I ever saw.”

“Where did it come from?” I questioned, more and more surprised.

“It came from Paris, and it was addressed to me. The only explanation I can think of is that my shippers at Paris made a mistake, sent me a cabinet belonging to some one else, and sent mine to the other person.”

“You had bought one, then?”

“Yes; and it hasn’t turned up. But beside this one, it’s a mere daub.

My man Parks got it through the customs yesterday. As there was a

Boule cabinet on my manifest, the mistake wasn’t discovered until the

whole lot was brought up here and uncrated this morning.”

“Weren’t they uncrated in the customs?”

“No; I’ve been bringing things in for a good many years, and the customs people know I’m not a thief.”

“That’s quite a compliment,” I pointed out. “They’ve been tearing things wide open lately.”

“They’ve had a tip of some sort, I suppose. Come in,” he added, answering a tap at the door.

The door opened and Vantine’s man came in.

“A gentleman to see you, sir,” he said, and handed Vantine a card.

Vantine looked at it a little blankly.

“I don’t know him,” he said. “What does he want?”

“He wants to see you, sir; very bad, I should say.”

“What about?”

“Well, I couldn’t just make out, sir; but it seems to be important.”

“Couldn’t make out? What do you mean, Parks?”

“I think he’s a Frenchman, sir; anyway, he don’t know much English. He ain’t much of a looker, sir—I’ve seen hundreds like him sitting out in front of the cafés along the boulevards, taking all afternoon to drink a bock.”

Vantine seemed struck by a sudden idea, and he looked at the card again. Then he tapped it meditatively on the table.

“Shall I show him out, sir?” asked Parks, at last.

“No,” said Vantine, after an instant’s hesitation. “Tell him to wait,” and he dropped the card on the table beside his plate.

“I tell you, Lester,” he went on, as Parks withdrew, “when I went downstairs this morning and saw that cabinet, I could hardly believe my eyes. I thought I knew furniture, but I hadn’t any idea such a cabinet existed. The most beautiful I had ever seen is at the Louvre. It stands in the Salle Louis Fourteenth, to the left as you enter. It belonged to Louis himself. Of course I can’t be certain without a careful examination, but I believe that cabinet, beautiful as it is, is merely the counterpart of this one.”

He paused and looked at me, his eyes bright with the enthusiasm of the connoisseur.

“I’m not sure I understand your jargon,” I said. “What do you mean by ‘counterpart?’”

“Boule furniture,” he explained, “is usually of ebony inlaid with tortoise-shell, and incrusted with arabesques in metals of various kinds. The incrustation had to be very exact, and to get it so, the artist clamped together two plates of equal size and thickness, one of metal, the other of tortoise-shell, traced his design on the top one, and then cut them both out together. The result was two combinations, the original, with a tortoise-shell ground and metal applications; and the counterpart, appliqué metal with tortoise-shell arabesques. The original was really the one which the artist designed and whose effects he studied; the counterpart was merely a resultant accident with which he was not especially concerned. Understand?”

“Yes, I think so,” I said. “It’s a good deal as though Michael Angelo, when he made one of his sketches, white on black, put a sheet of carbon under his paper and made a copy at the same time, black on white.”

“Precisely. And it’s the original which has the real artistic value. Of course, the counterpart is often beautiful, too, but in a much lower degree.”

“I can understand that,” I said.

“And now, Lester,” Vantine went on, his eyes shining more and more, “if my supposition is correct—if the Grand Louis was content with the counterpart of this cabinet for the long gallery at Versailles, who do you suppose owned the original?”

I saw what he was driving at.

“You mean one of his mistresses?”

“Yes, and I think I know which one—it belonged to Madame de

Montespan.”

I stared at him in astonishment, as he sat back in his chair, smiling across at me.

“But,” I objected, “you can’t be sure—”

“Of course I’m not sure,” he agreed quickly. “That is to say, I couldn’t prove it. But there is some—ah—contributory evidence, I think you lawyers call it Boule and the Montespan were in their glory at the same time, and I can imagine that flamboyant creature commissioning the flamboyant artist to build her just such a cabinet.”

“Really, Vantine,” I exclaimed, “I didn’t know you were so romantic.

You quite take my breath away.”

He flushed a little at the words, and I saw how deeply in earnest he was.

“The craze of the collector takes him a long way sometimes,” he said. “But I believe I know what I’m talking about. I am going to make a careful examination of the cabinet as soon as I can. Perhaps I’ll find something—there ought to be a monogram on it somewhere. What I want you to do is to cable my shippers, Armand et Fils, Rue du Temple, find out who owns this cabinet, and buy it for me.”

“Perhaps the owner won’t sell,” I suggested.

“Oh yes, he will. Anything can be bought—for a price.”

“You mean you’re going to have this cabinet, whatever the cost?”

“I mean just that.”

“But, surely, there’s a limit.”

“No, there isn’t.”

“At least you’ll tell me where to begin,” I said. “I don’t know anything of the value of such things.”

“Well,” said Vantine, “suppose you begin at ten thousand francs. We mustn’t seem too eager. It’s because I’m so eager, I want you to carry it through for me. I can’t trust myself.”

“And the other end?”

“There isn’t any other end. Of course, strictly speaking, there is, because my money isn’t unlimited; but I don’t believe you will have to go over five hundred thousand francs.”

I gasped.

“You mean you’re willing to give a hundred thousand dollars for this cabinet?”

Vantine nodded.

“Maybe a little more. If the owner won’t accept that, you must let me know before you break off negotiations. I’m a little mad about it, I fancy—all collectors are a little mad. But I want that cabinet, and I’m going to have it.”

I did not reply. I only looked at him. And he laughed as he caught my glance.

“I can see you share that opinion, Lester,” he said. “You fear for me. I don’t blame you—but come and see it.”

He led the way out of the room and down the stairs; but when we reached the lower hall, he paused.

“Perhaps I’d better see my visitor first,” he said. “You’ll find a new picture or two over there in the music-room—I’ll be with you in a minute.”

I started on, and he turned through a doorway at the left.

An instant later, I heard a sharp exclamation; then his voice calling me.

“Lester! Come here!” he cried.

I ran back along the hall, into the room which he had entered. He was standing just inside the door.

“Look there,” he said, with a queer catch in his voice, and pointed with a trembling hand to a dark object on the floor.

I moved aside to see it better. Then my heart gave a sickening throb; for the object on the floor was the body of a man.

..................

CHAPTER II: THE FIRST TRAGEDY

..................

IT NEEDED BUT A GLANCE to tell me that the man was dead. There could be no life in that livid face, in those glassy eyes.

“Don’t touch him,” I said, for Vantine had started forward. “It’s too late.”

I drew him back, and we stood for a moment shaken as one always is by sudden and unexpected contact with death.

“Who is he?” I asked, at last.

“I don’t know,” answered Vantine hoarsely. “I never saw him before.” Then he strode to the bell and rang it violently. “Parks,” he went on sternly, as that worthy appeared at the door, “what has been going on in here?”

“Going on, sir?” repeated Parks, with a look of amazement, not only at the words, but at the tone in which they were uttered. “I’m sure I don’t know what—”

Then his glance fell upon the huddled body, and he stopped short, his eyes staring, his mouth open.

“Well,” said his master, sharply. “Who is he? What is he doing here?”

“Why—why,” stammered Parks, thickly, “that’s the man who was waiting to see you, sir.”

“You mean he has been killed in this house?” demanded Vantine.

“He was certainly alive when he came in, sir,” said Parks, recovering something of his self-possession. “Maybe he was just looking for a quiet place where he could kill himself. He seemed kind of excited.”

“Of course,” agreed Vantine, with a sigh of relief, “that’s the explanation. Only I wish he had chosen some place else. I suppose we shall have to call the police, Lester?”

“Yes,” I said, “and the coroner. Suppose you leave it to me. We’ll lock up this room, and nobody must leave the house until the police arrive.”

“Very well,” assented Vantine, visibly relieved, “I’ll see to that,” and he hastened away, while I went to the ‘phone, called up police headquarters, and told briefly what had happened.

Twenty minutes later, there was a ring at the bell, and Parks opened the door and admitted four men.

“Why, hello, Simmonds,” I said, recognising in the first one the detective-sergeant who had assisted in clearing up the Marathon mystery. And back of him was Coroner Goldberger, whom I had met in two previous cases; while the third countenance, looking at me with a quizzical smile, was that of Jim Godfrey, the Record’s star reporter. The fourth man was a policeman in uniform, who, at a word from Simmonds, took his station at the door.

“Yes,” said Godfrey, as we shook hands, “I happened to be talking to Simmonds when the call came in, and I thought I might as well come along. What is it?”

“Just a suicide, I think,” and I unlocked the door into the room where the dead man lay.

Simmonds, Goldberger and Godfrey stepped inside. I followed and closed the door.

“Nothing has been disturbed,” I said. “No one has touched the body.”

Simmonds nodded, and glanced inquiringly about the room; but Godfrey’s eyes, I noticed, were on the face of the dead man. Goldberger dropped to his knees beside the body, looked into the eyes and touched his fingers to the left wrist. Then he stood erect again and looked down at the body, and as I followed his gaze, I noted its attitude more accurately than I had done in the first shock of discovering it.

It was lying on its right side, half on its stomach, with its right arm doubled under it, and its left hand clutching at the floor above its head. The knees were drawn up as though in a convulsion, and the face was horribly contorted, with a sort of purple tinge under the skin, as though the blood had been suddenly congealed. The eyes were wide open, and their glassy stare added not a little to the apparent terror and suffering of the face. It was not a pleasant sight, and after a moment, I turned my eyes away with a shiver of repugnance.

The coroner glanced at Simmonds.

“Not much question as to the cause,” he said. “Poison of course.”

“Of course,” nodded Simmonds.

“But what kind?” asked Godfrey.

“It will take a post-mortem to tell that,” and Goldberger bent for another close look at the distorted face. “I’m free to admit the symptoms aren’t the usual ones.”

Godfrey shrugged his shoulders.

“I should say not,” he agreed, and turned away to an inspection of the room.

“What can you tell us about it, Mr. Lester?” Goldberger questioned.

I told all I knew—how Parks had announced a man’s arrival, how Vantine and I had come downstairs together, how Vantine had called me, and finally how Parks had identified the body as that of the strange caller.

“Have you any theory about it?” Goldberger asked.

“Only that the call was merely a pretext—that what the man was really looking for was a place where he could kill himself unobserved.”

“How long a time elapsed after Parks announced the man before you and

Mr. Vantine came downstairs?”

“Half an hour, perhaps.”

Goldberger nodded.

“Let’s have Parks in,” he said.

I opened the door and called to Parks, who was sitting on the bottom step of the stair.

Goldberger looked him over carefully as he stepped into the room; but there could be no two opinions about Parks. He had been with Vantine for eight or ten years, and the earmarks of the competent and faithful servant were apparent all over him.

“Do you know this man?” Goldberger asked, with a gesture toward the body.

“No, sir,” said Parks. “I never saw him till about an hour ago, when

Rogers called me downstairs and said there was a man to see Mr.

Vantine.”

“Who is Rogers?”

“He’s the footman, sir. He answered the door when the man rang.”

“Well, and then what happened?”

“I took his card up to Mr. Vantine, sir.”

“Did Mr. Vantine know him?”

“No, sir; he wanted to know what he wanted.”

“What did he want?”

“I don’t know, sir; he couldn’t speak English hardly at all—he was

French, I think.”

Goldberger looked down at the body again and nodded.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“And he was so excited,” Parks added, “that he couldn’t remember what little English he did know.”

“What made you think he was excited?”

“The way he stuttered, and the way his eyes glinted. That’s what makes me think he just come in here to kill hisself quiet like—I shouldn’t be surprised if you found that he’d escaped from somewhere. I had a notion to put him out without bothering Mr. Vantine—I wish now I had—but I took his card up, and Mr. Vantine said for him to wait; so I come downstairs again, and showed the man in here, and said Mr. Vantine would see him presently, and then Rogers and me went back to our lunch and we sat there eating till the bell rang, and I came in and found Mr. Vantine here.”

“Do you mean to say that you and Rogers went away and left this stranger here by himself?”

“The servants’ dining-room is right at the end of the hall, sir. We left the door open so that we could see right along the hall, clear to the front door. If he’d come out into the hall, we’d have seen him.”

“And he didn’t come out into the hall while you were there?”

“No, sir.”

“Did anybody come in?”

“Oh, no, sir; the front door has a snap-lock. It can’t be opened from the outside without a key.”

“So you are perfectly sure that no one either entered or left the house by the front door while you and Rogers were sitting there?”

“Nor by the back door either, sir; to get out the back way, you have to pass through the room where we were.”

“Where were the other servants?”

“The cook was in the kitchen, sir. This is the housemaid’s afternoon out.”

The coroner paused. Godfrey and Simmonds had both listened to this interrogation, but neither had been idle. They had walked softly about the room, had looked through a door opening into another room beyond, had examined the fastenings of the windows, and had ended by looking minutely over the carpet.

“What is the room yonder used for?” asked Godfrey, pointing to the connecting door.

“It’s a sort of store-room just now, sir,” said Parks. “Mr. Vantine is just back from Europe, and we’ve been unpacking in there some of the things he bought while abroad.”

“I guess that’s all,” said Goldberger, after a moment. “Send in Mr.

Vantine, please.”

Parks went out, and Vantine came in a moment later. He corroborated exactly the story told by Parks and myself, but he added one detail.

“Here is the man’s card,” he said, and held out a square of pasteboard.

Goldberger took the card, glanced at it, and passed it on to

Simmonds.

“That don’t tell us much,” said the latter, and gave the card to Godfrey. I looked over his shoulder and saw that it contained a single engraved line:

M. THÉOPHILE D’AURELLE

“Except that he’s French, as Parks suggested,” said Godfrey. “That’s evident, too, from the cut of his clothes.”

“Yes, and from the cut of his hair,” added Goldberger. “You say you didn’t know him, Mr. Vantine?”

“I never before saw him, to my knowledge,” answered Vantine. “The name is wholly unknown to me.”

“Well,” said Goldberger, taking possession of the card again and slipping it into his pocket, “suppose we lift him onto that couch by the window and take a look through his clothes.”

The man was slightly built, so that Simmonds and Goldberger raised the body between them without difficulty and placed it on the couch. I saw Godfrey’s eyes searching the carpet.

“What I should like to know,” he said, after a moment, “is this: if this fellow took poison, what did he take it out of? Where’s the paper, or bottle, or whatever it was?”

“Maybe it’s in his hand,” suggested Simmonds, and lifted the right hand, which hung trailing over the side of the couch.

Then, as he raised it into the light, a sharp cry burst from him.

“Look here,” he said, and held the hand so that we all could see.

It was swollen and darkly discoloured.

“See there,” said Simmonds, “something bit him,” and he pointed to two deep incisions on the back of the hand, just above the knuckles, from which a few drops of blood had oozed and dried.

With a little exclamation of surprise and excitement, Godfrey bent for an instant above the injured hand. Then he turned and looked at us.

“This man didn’t take poison,” he said, in a low voice. “He was killed!”

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CHAPTER III: THE WOUNDED HAND

..................

“HE WAS KILLED!” REPEATED GODFREY, with conviction; and, at the words, we drew together a little, with a shiver of repulsion. Death is awesome enough at any time; suicide adds to its horror; murder gives it the final touch.

So we all stood silent, staring as though fascinated at the hand which Simmonds held up to us; at those tiny wounds, encircled by discoloured flesh and with a sinister dash of clotted blood running away from them. Then Goldberger, taking a deep breath, voiced the thought which had sprung into my own brain.

“Why, it looks like a snake-bite!” he said, his voice sharp with astonishment.

And, indeed, it did. Those two tiny incisions, scarcely half an inch apart, might well have been made by a serpent’s fangs.

The quick glance which all of us cast about the room was, of course, as involuntary as the chill which ran up our spines; yet Godfrey and I—yes, and Simmonds—had the excuse that, once upon a time, we had had an encounter with a deadly snake which none of us was likely ever to forget. We all smiled a little sheepishly as we caught each other’s eyes.

“No, I don’t think it was a snake,” said Godfrey, and again bent close above the hand. “Smell it, Mr. Goldberger,” he added.

The coroner put his nose close to the hand and sniffed.

“Bitter almonds!” he said.

“Which means prussic acid,” said Godfrey, “and not snake poison.” He fell silent a moment, his eyes on the swollen hand. The rest of us stared at it too; and I suppose all the others were labouring as I was with the effort to find some thread of theory amid this chaos. “It might, of course, have been self-inflicted,” Godfrey added, quite to himself.

Goldberger sneered a little. No doubt he found the incomprehensibility of the problem rather trying to his temper.

“A man doesn’t usually commit suicide by sticking himself in the hand with a fork,” he said.

“No,” agreed Godfrey, blandly; “but I would point out that we don’t know as yet that it is a case of suicide; and I’m quite sure that, whatever it may be, it isn’t usual.”

Goldberger’s sneer deepened.

“Did any reporter for the Record ever find a case that was usual?” he queried.

It was a shrewd thrust, and one that Godfrey might well have winced under. For the Record theory was that nothing was news unless it was strange and startling, and the inevitable result was that the Record reporters endeavoured to make everything strange and startling, to play up the outré details at the expense of the rest of the story, and even, I fear, to invent such details when none existed.

Godfrey himself had been accused more than once of a too-luxuriant imagination. It was, perhaps, a realisation of this which had persuaded him, years before, to quit the detective force and take service with the Record. What might have been a weakness in the first position, was a mighty asset in the latter one, and he had won an immense success.

Please understand that I set this down in no spirit of criticism. I had known Godfrey rather intimately ever since the days when we were thrown together in solving the Holladay case, and I admired sincerely his ready wit, his quick insight, and his unshakable aplomb. He used his imagination in a way which often caused me to reflect that the police would be far more efficient if they possessed a dash of the same quality; and I had noticed that they were usually glad of his assistance, while his former connection with the force and his careful maintenance of the friendships formed at that time gave him an entrée to places denied to less-fortunate reporters. I had never known him to do a dishonourable thing—to fight for a cause he thought unjust, to print a fact given to him in confidence, or to make a statement which he knew to be untrue. Moreover, a lively sense of humour made him an admirable companion, and it was this quality, perhaps, which enabled him to receive Goldberger’s thrust with a good-natured smile.

“We’ve got our living to make, you know,” he said. “We make it as honestly as we can. What do you think, Simmonds?”

“I think,” said Simmonds, who, if he possessed an imagination, never permitted it to be suspected, “that those little cuts on the hand are merely an accident. They might have been caused in half a dozen ways. Maybe he hit his hand on something when he fell; maybe he jabbed it on a buckle; maybe he had a boil on his hand and lanced it with his knife.”

“What killed him, then?” Godfrey demanded.

“Poison—and it’s in his stomach. We’ll find it there.”

“How about the odour?” Godfrey persisted.

“He spilled some of the poison on his hand as he lifted it to his mouth. Maybe he had those cuts on his hand and the poison inflamed them. Or maybe he’s got some kind of blood disease.”

Goldberger nodded his approval, and Godfrey smiled as he looked at him.

“It’s easy to find explanations, isn’t it?” he queried.

“It’s a blamed sight easier to find a natural and simple explanation,” retorted Goldberger hotly, “than it is to find an unnatural and far-fetched one—such as how one man could kill another by scratching him on the hand. I suppose you think this fellow was murdered? That’s what you said a minute ago.”

“Perhaps I was a little hasty,” Godfrey admitted, and I suspected that, whatever his thoughts, he had made up his mind to keep them to himself. “I’m not going to theorise until I’ve got something to start with. The facts seem to point to suicide; but if he swallowed prussic acid, where’s the bottle? He didn’t swallow that too, did he?”

“Maybe we’ll find it in his clothes,” suggested Simmonds.

Thus reminded, Goldberger fell to work looking through the dead man’s pockets. The clothes were of a cheap material and not very new, so that, in life, he must have presented an appearance somewhat shabby. There was a purse in the inside coat pocket containing two bills, one for ten dollars and one for five, and there were two or three dollars in silver and four five-centime pieces in a small coin purse which he carried in his trousers’ pocket. The larger purse had four or five calling cards in one of its compartments, each bearing a different name, none of them his. On the back of one of them, Vantine’s address was written in pencil.

There were no letters, no papers, no written documents of any kind in the pockets, the remainder of whose contents consisted of such odds and ends as any man might carry about with him—a cheap watch, a pen-knife, a half-empty packet of French tobacco, a sheaf of cigarette paper, four or five keys on a ring, a silk handkerchief, and perhaps some other articles which I have forgotten—but not a thing to assist in establishing his identity.

“We’ll have to cable over to Paris,” remarked Simmonds. “He’s French, all right—that silk handkerchief proves it.”

“Yes—and his best girl proves it, too,” put in Godfrey.

“His best girl?”

For answer, Godfrey held up the watch, which he had been examining. He had opened the case, and inside it was a photograph—the photograph of a woman with bold, dark eyes and full lips and oval face—a face so typically French that it was not to be mistaken.

“A lady’s-maid, I should say,” added Godfrey, looking at it again. “Rather good-looking at one time, but past her first youth, and so compelled perhaps to bestow her affections on a man a little beneath her—no doubt compelled also to contribute to his support in order to retain him. A woman with many pasts and no future—”

“Oh, come,” broke in Goldberger impatiently, “keep your second-hand epigrams for the Record. What we want are facts.”

Godfrey flushed a little at the words and laid down the watch.

“There is one fact which you have apparently overlooked,” he said quietly, “but it proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that this fellow didn’t drift in here by accident. He came here of intention, and the intention wasn’t to kill himself, either.”

“How do you know that?” demanded Goldberger, incredulously.

Godfrey picked up the purse, opened it, and took out one of the cards.

“By this,” he said, and held it up. “You have already seen what is written on the back of it—Mr. Vantine’s name and the number of this house. That proves, doesn’t it, that this fellow came to New York expressly to see Mr. Vantine?”

“Perhaps you think Mr. Vantine killed him,” suggested Goldberger, sarcastically.

“No,” said Godfrey; “he didn’t have time. You understand, Mr. Vantine,” he added, smiling at that gentleman, who was listening to all this with perplexed countenance, “we are simply talking now about possibilities. You couldn’t possibly have killed this fellow because Lester has testified that he was with you constantly from the moment this man entered the house until his body was found, with the exception of the few seconds which elapsed between the time you entered this room and the time he joined you here, summoned by your cry. So you are out of the running.”

“Thanks,” said Vantine, drily.

“I suppose, then, you think it was Parks,” said Goldberger.

“It may quite possibly have been Parks,” agreed Godfrey, gravely.

“Nonsense!” broke in Vantine, impatiently. “Parks is as straight as a string—he’s been with me for eight years.”

“Of course it’s nonsense,” assented Goldberger. “It’s nonsense to say that he was killed by anybody. He killed himself. We’ll learn the cause when we identify him—jealousy maybe, or maybe just hard luck —he doesn’t look affluent.”

“I’ll cable to Paris,” said Simmonds. “If he belongs there, we’ll soon find out who he is.”

“You’d better call an ambulance and have him taken to the morgue,” went on Goldberger. “Somebody may identify him there. There’ll be a crowd to-morrow, for, of course, the papers will be full of this affair—”

“The Record, at least, will have a very full account,” Godfrey assured him.

“And I’ll call the inquest for the day after,” Goldberger continued. “I’ll send my physician down to make a post-mortem right away. If there’s any poison in this fellow’s stomach, we’ll find it.”

Godfrey did not speak; but I knew what was in his mind. He was thinking that, if such poison existed, the vessel which had contained it had not yet been found. The same thought, no doubt, occurred to Simmonds, for, after ordering the policeman in the hall to call the ambulance, he returned and began a careful search of the room, using his electric torch to illumine every shadowed corner. Godfrey devoted himself to a similar search; but both were without result. Then Godfrey made a minute inspection of the injured hand, while Goldberger looked on with ill-concealed impatience; and finally he moved toward the door.

“I think I’ll be going,” he said. “But I’m interested in what your physician will find, Mr. Coroner.”