The Spruce Street Tragedy E-Book

Irvin S. Cobb

• Herausgeber: Cobb Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

A classic late 19th-century US detective story!Cobb is remembered best for his humorous stories of Kentucky and is part of the American literary regionalism school. These stories were collected first in the book Old Judge Priest (1915), whose title character was based on a prominent West Kentucky judge named William Pitman Bishop. Writer Joel Harris wrote of these tales, "Cobb created a South peopled with honorable citizens, charming eccentrics, and loyal, subservient blacks, but at their best the Judge Priest stories are dramatic and compelling, using a wealth of precisely rendered detail to evoke a powerful mood."Among his other books are the humorous Speaking of Operations (1916), and anti-prohibition ode to bourbon, Red Likker (1929).

Leseprobe

THE SPRUCE STREET TRAGEDY

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Irvin S Cobb

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This book is a work of fiction; its contents are wholly imagined.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. THE SPRUCE STREET MURDER

CHAPTER II. OLD SPICER VISITS THE SCENE OF THE MURDER

CHAPTER III. OLD SPICER BEGINS AN INVESTIGATION

CHAPTER IV. OLD SPICER CONTINUES HIS INVESTIGATIONS—THE SECRET VAULT

CHAPTER V. SETH STRICKET MAKES HIS REPORT

CHAPTER VI. HORRIFIED WATCHERS—IN THE TUNNELS AND VAULT

CHAPTER VII. TWO IMPORTANT AND INTERESTING CHARACTERS

CHAPTER VIII. BARNEY HAWKS REVEALS A TERRIBLE SECRET—TRAPPED

CHAPTER IX. THE SITUATION CHANGED—OLD SPICER STARTS FOR NEW YORK

CHAPTER X. ON THE EVE OF A TERRIBLE CRIME

CHAPTER XI. A DOUBLE MURDER—AN UNCEREMONIOUS VISIT

CHAPTER XII. BARNEY AND JAKE START FOR NEW YORK

CHAPTER XIII. OLD SPICER AND KILLETT IN TAYLOR’S SALOON

CHAPTER XIV. JIM TAYLOR MAKES HIS APPEARANCE

CHAPTER XV. THE TRUE STORY OF THE MURDER

CHAPTER XVI. OLD SPICER INTERVIEWS CORA BELL

CHAPTER XVII. JIM TAYLOR IS ARRESTED

CHAPTER XVIII. OLD SPICER’S SPEAKING-TUBE

CHAPTER XIX. DETECTIVES IN A TIGHT SPOT

CHAPTER XX. JAKE KLINKHAMMER’S POCKETBOOK—OLD SPICER SURPRISED

CHAPTER XXI. CHAMBERLAIN’S MYSTERIOUS FRIEND—A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE

CHAPTER XXII. CHAMBERLAIN’S CAPTURE

CHAPTER XXIII. ON BOARD THE BOUNCING BETSEY

CHAPTER XXIV. IN NO MAN’S BAY—MAG’S HOVEL

CHAPTER XXV. A SURPRISE PARTY

CHAPTER XXVI. CONCLUSION

CHAPTER I. THE SPRUCE STREET MURDER

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“Hark! I thought I heard the outside door open and shut.”

“No, it was nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure, Seth.”

“What time is it now, Spicer?”

“Half-past seven.”

“Half-past seven, and George not here yet!”

“He don’t seem to have shown up, that’s a fact.”

“What can be keeping the fellow?”

“There you’ve got me, Seth. He’s usually prompt enough, you know.”

“That’s so, old man; but I tell you what, if we’re going to take hold of this case at all, we ought to be getting to work.”

“I fully agree with you, and am most anxious not to lose the next Eastern-bound train.”

“Confound it. I wish George would come. I don’t want the regular men to get in ahead of us.”

“It isn’t that that I care so much about,” said Old Spicer, quietly; “but I do hate to see a good case all muddled up.”

“And so do I,” exclaimed Stricket. “It makes me mad even now when I think of the way they managed such splendid cases as the Jennie Cramer, Rose Ambler, and half a dozen others like them.”

“Did you hear who was going over to Stony Creek this morning?”

“Only Willett, so far as I could learn; and perhaps Medical Examiner Gaylord, of Branford.”

“Well, I——”

“Hark! what’s that? The outside door this time, eh?”

“You’re right; he’s come at last. Yes, that’s George Morgan’s footstep.” Then, as some one knocked at the door of the room, “Come in, George,” and a young man of some twenty-six or twenty-seven years entered.

“I’m glad to see you, George,” continued the old detective, as the new-comer sank wearily into an arm-chair; “but I should have been better pleased to have welcomed you half an hour earlier.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Seth Stricket, quickly; “for goodness’ sake, what’s kept you, George?”

“My excuse for not being on time is a good one,” responded George Morgan, gravely. “If it were not so, I think you both know me well enough to believe I wouldn’t have occasion to offer any.”

“I am sure of that,” nodded Old Spicer.

“And so am I,” added Seth; “but let’s hear it all the same.”

“Well, you know it was agreed among us, before we parted last night, that I should see Chief Bollmann before joining you this morning.”

“Yes, that was the arrangement,” assented Old Spicer.

“Of course, he wouldn’t be at his office in the police building as early as six o’clock.”

“Not likely,” laughed Stricket.

“So, knowing that,” continued George, “I started at once for his residence, No. 40 Sylvan Avenue.”

His two listeners nodded.

“I went out George Street, expecting to turn off either before, or at least when, I reached York, but was so busy with my own thoughts that I had crossed York and was well on toward Spruce before I knew it.”

“Well?”

“When I came to myself and saw where I was, I turned into Spruce Street, and walked toward Oak.”

“For Heaven’s sake, George,” exclaimed Stricket, impatiently, “where are you driving to? Do get to Sylvan Avenue some time this morning.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Seth,” replied the young man, with a grave smile; “but I am getting to the meat of my story, and to my excuse, pretty fast now.”

“Let’s have it then.”

“Do you remember what used to be, and what is still called by some, the Turn Hall, on Spruce Street?”

“I do, very well,” said Stricket. “The property belongs to old Mother Ernst, and she keeps a saloon—a fearfully low place—in the basement.”

“You’re right in one particular, Seth; it’s low enough, in all conscience—clean under ground.”

“I’ve heard of the woman,” said Old Spicer. “She lives and sleeps in that low basement; in fact, it is said, she hardly ever shows herself above ground nowadays.”

“That’s true,” affirmed Stricket; “she’s seventy-two or -three years old, and she’s lived in that damp basement so long, she’s got the rheumatism the worst way, so that she can hardly waddle—has to use a cane.”

“Well,” continued George, “a milk-wagon was standing in front of the house, and just as I arrived abreast of the place, the milkman, Julius Smith, of East Haven, came rushing up the outside basement steps, his face as white as a sheet, his eyes bulging from their sockets, and his hair, so far as I could see it, fairly standing on end.

“‘I say, my man, what’s the matter with you?’ I demanded, seizing him by the arm, and giving him a shake to start up his ideas a little.

“‘Matter? matter?’ he gasped; ‘matter enough—murder’s the matter!’

“‘What’s that?’ I demanded, sternly; ‘what’s that you say, sir?’

“‘I say the old woman lies murdered on a lounge, in her saloon down there,’ and he pointed down the stone steps.

“‘What! Mrs. Ernst murdered?’ exclaimed a voice at my side.

“I looked round, and saw that we had been joined by Henry M. Cohen, the watchmaker; and in less than a minute more there were at least a dozen people about us.”

“You went into the house, of course, George?” said Old Spicer, inquiringly.

“Yes; the milkman, Cohen, and I entered the room where the dead body was stretched on the sofa.”

“You got a good look at it, then, before it was disturbed?”

“Yes, when we first entered the old woman was lying on her left side, with her face to the wall.”

“Had she been dead long, do you think?”

“Some hours, I should say—five or six, at least.”

“Why do you think so?”

“I felt of her limbs; they were as cold as a stone.”

“Had she been shot or stabbed?”

“Neither. Suffocated or chloroformed, it seemed to me.”

“Was she bound and gagged?”

“Yes, sir; her hands were tied together at the wrists with an ordinary pocket handkerchief. Her heavy woolen-stockinged feet were also tied together; another handkerchief encircled her shins. Around her throat and head was wrapped a sheet. That part of it which encircled the neck made a bandage so tight that it must have stopped her breathing soon after it was put into use. Her mouth was partially filled with another handkerchief.”

“Hum,” mused Old Spicer, “the murderers were well supplied with handkerchiefs, it seems.”

“Yes, sir; and of this last one—the gag—I shall have more to say by and by. The ends of it so fell across her breast that, I should think, in her desperate struggle to breathe, she had probably forced the larger part of the handkerchief from her mouth.”

“Were there no signs of blood?”

“There were a few drops on this very handkerchief, evidently from her nose; and I thought I discovered a bruise and a little blood on the back of her head.”

“Then there had been something of a scuffle?”

“Well, as to that I can’t exactly say. A superficial examination of the hands and head of the dead woman revealed no other signs indicative of a struggle or blows. Even at her throat, where generally, you know, finger-nail imprints are to be found on a person who has been strangled to death, there were no such confirmatory evidences of a struggle.”

“How was she dressed, George?” asked Stricket.

“The clothes she had on,” Cohen said, “were those she usually appeared in when at home.”

“Were they disarranged in any way?”

“That portion of her attire that covered her breast had been torn apart, and a search made presumably for a pocket-book or a roll of bank bills which was believed to be secreted there.”

“Ah-ha!” exclaimed Stricket, “the job must have been done by some one who knew the old woman, for there’s where she always carried a good share of her money.”

“That’s not conclusive,” said Old Spicer, with a shake of the head. “It’s a well-known fact that many women carry their purses under the bosom of their dress.”

“Yes,” said George, “I’ve had occasion to notice that myself.”

“Well,” said Stricket, who was very much interested, “go on. What else did you notice?”

“I saw one of her great heavy black slippers on the floor at the foot of the sofa; the mate was on the right foot. On the sofa, alongside the dead body, was a black walking-stick.”

“Ah!” said Stricket, “that has been her constant companion for the past fifteen years. Without it she couldn’t have hobbled across her saloon.”

“Were the rooms themselves very much disturbed?” asked Old Spicer.

“If the whole basement and its contents had been lifted right up and then scattered by a cyclone it could not have been in a more confused condition. I tell you, gentlemen, a house and its contents were never more thoroughly ransacked. Why, the solitary bedroom, where Cohen said Mrs. Ernst had slept for the past quarter of a century, was actually turned inside out. The bedtick was ripped open, and what it inclosed had been very industriously examined.

“The murderer or murderers made pretty thorough work of it, eh?” said Stricket, inquiringly.

“Of the bed?”

“Yes.”

“From the way they went through it, Seth, I have precious little doubt they had good reason to believe the old woman had a big pile of money hid in the stuffing of that ticking.”

“Oh-ho! and do you think they found it?”

“They may have found some, but not enough to satisfy them.”

“How do you know that?”

“From the way they went at the rest of the furniture. For instance, one of those queer, old-fashioned bureaus, such as the hunter for the antique delights to discover, stood in the bedroom. Every drawer of it had been rifled, and the various articles, none of which appeared to be very valuable, strewed the floor.

“Any other piece of furniture that seemed to be a receptacle for hidden wealth of the occupant of the basement was completely overhauled. In the front room not a box, or a bundle, or a drawer, or a pail, or a corner was overlooked by the greedy eyes of the criminals. They meant business, I can tell you.”

“Were any of the regular authorities on the ground before you came away?” asked Old Spicer, suddenly.

“Yes, the coroner, a police captain, and two or three detectives were there.”

“Have they any idea who did the deed?”

“Not the slightest; they are completely at sea.”

“Have you formed any theory yourself, George?”

“Well, to confess the truth, I have, sir.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I should like to hear your opinion before I venture to express mine.”

Old Spicer was silent for a moment, then he abruptly exclaimed:

“I should like to visit the scene of this tragedy. Suppose we go to Spruce Street at once, gentlemen.”

“What! and give up the Stony Creek affair?” exclaimed Stricket, in astonishment.

“Not necessarily,” was the reply.

“But I don’t understand, Mark.”

“I have an idea,” rejoined Old Spicer, quietly, “that in this instance, the shortest road to Stony Creek lies through Spruce Street.”

“Thunder!” ejaculated George Morgan, “I believe you are right.”

“Come, then, let us be off at once,” and a moment later the three detectives left the house.

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CHAPTER II. OLD SPICER VISITS THE SCENE OF THE MURDER

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THE CONVERSATION RELATED IN THE preceding chapter had occurred in the back parlor of Old Spicer’s residence in Home Place.

The great detective, who had now owned and occupied this house for some time, had fitted it up to suit his own fancy and convenience.

He resided there alone—that is, so far as family was concerned, for Mrs. Hettie Catlin, the widow of Frederic Catlin, was still his housekeeper, and they kept one servant-of-all-work, a middle-aged woman, upon whom the detective could thoroughly rely.

The back parlor looked out upon a small garden, and this room Old Spicer had chosen for his sanctum sanctorum, and furnished it accordingly.

It would have been a feast, even for the great Lecoq, to have been able to pay a visit to this retreat. The wonders and trophies it contained were legion, and furnished a history in epitome of all the cases Old Spicer had ever had a hand in.

Naturally the old man loved this room, and spent as much of his time in it as possible.

He had many friends, but few intimates. Those few, however, he delighted to receive within the sacred precincts of the back parlor, and for this reason George Morgan, his adopted son, had recently purchased a beautiful residence on Academy Street, the garden of which ran down to and adjoined the old detective’s little yard, and between which the means of communication was a gate in the garden fence.

Seth Stricket, too, had taken up his residence in the neighborhood, having moved into a pretty cottage on Green Street, and thus Old Spicer had his two most reliable assistants close at hand.

On reaching the sidewalk the trio passed out of Home Place, crossed Olive Street, entered Court, and keeping on, soon arrived at the police building.

Here they stopped, and entering the office, made such inquiries of the officer in charge as Spicer deemed expedient.

Chief Bollmann was not there, neither were any of the prominent members of the detective force; they were over in Spruce Street and otherwheres, working on the new murder case.

Old Spicer determined to lose no more time; so, leaving the headquarters of the police, he and his friends walked to Church Street, where they hailed a carriage, and were swiftly driven to the dead woman’s house.

George Morgan led the way down the blue stone steps to the basement, where the murder had been committed, and Old Spicer at once began to examine the place where the widow had made her home for so many years.

The building was quite a large one, and, as he knew, had been, in the early history of the Turn Verein in the city, a meeting place for that body.

It was two stories high above the basement, and divided into six tenements, all of which were occupied.

But it was the basement itself that interested Old Spicer most, and as he wandered about it he was forced to admit that it was a veritable Chinese puzzle.

The main apartment was, of course, the barroom, where for years Mrs. Ernst, and two of her three husbands before her, had sold beer and liquor.

The chief informed Spicer that up to the present year the widow had carried on the saloon business there under the usual authority. She had not, however, he said, renewed her license for the present year, although she expected to do so before the summer season set in. She was a dispenser, since her license expired, of temperance drinks ostensibly.

Old Spicer and those with him, in looking over the premises, soon discovered conclusive proof that she did not strictly interpret the license law. Ale barrels, beer kegs, and demijohns for whisky and other fiery liquors were scattered through the basement.

In the rear of the barroom was the bedroom. There were many more rooms in the basement. Fourteen inside doors led into the little rooms, each of which was furnished with one or two chairs, a lounge, table, and a stove. Most of these rooms could be reached from two or three different sides.

In the rear were two doors leading to the back yard, and a covered passage leading to a little alley through which York Street could be reached. Four doors opened out of the room where the body of Mrs. Ernst was discovered by the milkman.

No one who was unfamiliar with the premises had any idea that there were more than two rooms in the basement. The officials, Chief Bollmann, Coroner Mix, and all the detectives, including Spicer, Stricket and Morgan, who had a pretty good knowledge of the various haunts of vice in the city, were surprised to find such a thoroughly mixed-up piece of underground architecture.

Old Spicer, while inspecting the apartments and the several dark passages by which the rooms were reached, compared the surroundings, because of the abrupt and unexpected halls and turns, the scanty furnishings, and the like, to some of the celebrated structures that carried notoriety to the old Five Points in New York years ago.

In the southeast corner of the basement, where the uninitiated might expect to find a coal bin or a hole in the ground to store away wood, they discovered a room with three or four chairs and a lounge. Even the tenants on the floor above had no idea that there was such a room in existence.

One of the passages from the bedroom opened into what must have been a sort of social apartment for the patrons of the widow. It might also answer the purpose of a card or smoking-room. A cheap stove, a couple of tables, and three or four chairs comprised the furniture of this room.

Then there was discovered another apartment which was probably used as a storehouse for ale and beer barrels. Besides these there were found a woodshed and tool-room, and a suspicious looking trap-door that covered what Old Spicer was privately informed was a secret underground tunnel that extended far in the rear of the building.

He raised the heavy door and looked in; the entrance was nearly choked up with ashes.

He removed some of the rubbish with his foot, and peered eagerly into the black darkness. The hole had a mysterious look about it, and he could not but regard it with strong suspicion.

One of the tenants of the house approached, pointed to the black opening, mysteriously shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and then mumbled, in what he meant to be a confidential tone:

“That there underground passage leads clear across the back-yard, Mister Detective; and just let me tell you it’ll be a mighty interesting thoroughfare for you to inspect.”

“Thoroughfare, eh?” questioned Old Spicer, thoughtfully.

“That’s what I said, sir.”

“Thank you for the hint, my friend; most likely I shall act upon it later.” Then he closed the trap-door, and once more turned toward the bar-room.

This apartment was of comfortable dimensions, and was the principal room in the basement. It was furnished on the same scale of poverty as the rest, and the first glimpse into it would not have been very reassuring to the spectator. The bar resembled those that bloom in cheap groggeries.

There was an evident purpose on the part of the owner to keep the public from sharing the brilliancy of the interior, for a paper screen two and a half feet high and two feet wide stood at the end of the bar as a barrier to the glow of an oil lamp that shed its exclusive light through the gloomy apartment.

A dilapidated, small-sized looking-glass adorned the partition wall back of the bar. In the tool-room were a hatchet and a butcher’s knife, besides a bunch of rusty keys.

Suspended from the bar-room wall and right over the dead woman’s head, was a picture of Napoleon Bonaparte surveying a battlefield with his generals. A picture of Richard Wagner looked down on the corpse from another part of the interior.

“When I first came in here this morning with the milkman,” said Morgan, “there were bottles and half-filled glasses on the bar.”

“What was in the glasses?” asked Stricket.

“In one there was nothing but soda-water. The other contained claret.”

“How long was it after you got here before the police arrived?” asked Old Spicer.

“I had had hardly time enough to take a good look at the murdered woman when Policeman Cannon, who resides in the brick block next south of this, came in. He had only just returned from his night patrol and lain down. His wife heard the outcry in the street and aroused him.”

“I suppose he assumed authority at once?”

“Why, he found the place pretty well filled by an excited throng, and men, women and boys making excursions through the several apartments; but before he could clear out the people, Detective Reilly arrived.”

“Ah! somebody telephoned to headquarters, I suppose?”

“I suppose so, for very soon the coroner came rushing in, then Detective Brewer made his appearance in hot haste; and finally Chief Bollmann, Policeman Hyde and other officers.”

“By that time there was a scattering, I fancy,” said Stricket, with a smile.

“Yes,” assented George, “everybody was hunted from the basement except those you see here now.”

At this moment Coroner Mix joined them.

“Going to look into this case a little, Old Spicer?” he asked.

“I have some thoughts of doing so,” was the reply.

“I hope you will,” said the coroner. “If there is any information I can give you, I will impart it gladly.”

“Are there any clews to work on as yet?” asked Old Spicer.

“Very few, so far as I have been able to learn.”

“What do you know about the woman, anyway?”

“Very little indeed. The fact is, Spicer, there seems to be a blissful ignorance on every hand, even regarding the history of the victim and her family affairs.”

“Ah-ha! she kept her family affairs to herself, did she?”

“It seems so. A mystery looms up at the very outset of the case. But of that hereafter.”

“All right, the mystery can wait, if you say so. But with regard to her relatives, surely something is known about them. What have you been able to find out?”

“In the first place, I have ascertained that Mrs. Ernst had been in this country between thirty and forty years, coming from Germany; and that her financial manager, for a long time past, was Maier Zunder.”

“She was a widow, I believe?”

“Yes, a good deal of a widow. She had been married three times, and her three husbands are dead.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes; the first died in Germany.”

“What was his name?”

“George Pfaff. After his death she came to the United States and met her second husband, Franz Natolph, in New York.”

“He came to New Haven with her, didn’t he?” asked Stricket.

“Yes,” was the reply, “and they started in the saloon-business in this very place.”

“There was a pretty serious row, wasn’t there, in which Natolph got hurt?”

“Yes, one night, in this very room, Natolph was struck in the head with a bottle, nearly cracking his skull. Typhoid fever set in, and that and the injuries from the bottle soon after caused his death.”

“How long is it since Ernst, her third husband, died?” asked Old Spicer.

“Less than ten years,” was the reply.

“She left no children, I believe?”

“No—never had any, so far as I have been able to learn.”

“She has kept up the business, married or single?”

“Yes: to the very hour of her death.”

Old Spicer glanced at the dead body on the sofa.

“She was a very stout woman,” he remarked, “but, I believe, was not in good health.”

“No,” answered the coroner, “she has been troubled of late years with a severe asthmatic attack. She was rarely seen outside of this basement, for a flight of stairs was a terror to her.”

“She suffered from rheumatism, I have been told.”

“Yes, fearfully; it settled in her limbs, and caused a lameness, which was relieved somewhat by the assistance of the black walking-stick you see by her side.”

“But she did go out sometimes?”

“Only at rare intervals, and then always in a carriage.”

“She was quite well off—rich, in fact?”

“Of late years she has been increasing her wealth pretty fast. She owns this house, and the large brick block directly back of it, which fronts on York Street.”

“She was mighty close-fisted,” observed Stricket.

“Yes,” assented the coroner, “she was of a parsimonious disposition, and by some in this neighborhood was called very grasping and miserly.”

“It seems to me the chief ought to know something about her affairs,” remarked Stricket, in a musing tone; “for, if I remember rightly, he was employed by her years ago, when he was practicing law.”