THE PHŒNIX OF CRIME
I
Mr. Mitchel was still at breakfast one morning,
when the card of Mr. Barnes was brought to him by
his man Williams.
"Show Mr. Barnes in here," said he. "I imagine
that he must be in a hurry to see me, else he would
not call so early."
A few minutes later the detective entered, saying:
"It is very kind of you to let me come in without
waiting. I hope that I am not intruding."
"Not at all. As to being kind, why I am kind
to myself. I knew you must have something interesting
on hand to bring you around so early, and
I am proportionately curious; at the same time I
hate to go without my coffee, and I do not like to
drink it too fast, especially good coffee, and this is
good, I assure you. Draw up and have a cup, for
I observe that you came off in such a hurry this
morning that you did not get any."
"Why, thank you, I will take some, but how do
you know that I came off in a hurry and had no
coffee at home? It seems to me that if you can
tell that, you are becoming as clever as the famous
Sherlock Holmes."
"Oh, no, indeed! You and I can hardly expect
to be as shrewd as the detectives of romance.
As to my guessing that you have had no coffee, that
is not very troublesome. I notice three drops of
milk on your coat, and one on your shoe, from
which I deduce, first, that you have had no coffee,
for a man who has his coffee in the morning is
not apt to drink a glass of milk besides. Second,
you must have left home in a hurry, or you would
have had that coffee. Third, you took your glass
of milk at the ferry-house of the Staten Island boat,
probably finding that you had a minute to spare;
this is evident because the milk spots on the tails of
your frock-coat and on your shoe show that you
were standing when you drank, and leaned over
to avoid dripping the fluid on your clothes. Had
you been seated, the coat tails would have been
spread apart, and drippings would have fallen on
your trousers. The fact that in spite of your precautions
the accident did occur, and yet escaped
your notice, is further proof, not only of your hurry,
but also that your mind was abstracted,—absorbed
no doubt with the difficult problem about which you
have come to talk with me. How is my guess?"
"Correct in every detail. Sherlock Holmes could
have done no better. But we will drop him and get
down to my case, which, I assure you, is more astounding
than any, either in fact or fiction, that has
come to my knowledge."
"Go ahead! Your opening argument promises a
good play. Proceed without further waste of words."
"First, then, let me ask you, have you read the
morning's papers?"
"Just glanced through the death reports, but had
gotten no further when you came in."
"There is one death report, then, that has escaped
your attention, probably because the notice of it
occupies three columns. It is another metropolitan
mystery. Shall I read it to you? I glanced through
it in bed this morning and found it so absorbing
that, as you guessed, I hurried over here to discuss
it with you, not stopping to get my breakfast."
"In that case you might better attack an egg or
two, and let me read the article myself."
Mr. Mitchel took the paper from Mr. Barnes, who
pointed out to him the article in question, which,
under appropriate sensational headlines, read as
follows:
"The account of a most astounding mystery is reported
to-day for the first time, though the body of
the deceased, now thought to have been murdered,
was taken from the East River several days ago.
The facts are as follows. On Tuesday last, at about
six o'clock in the morning, several boys were enjoying
an early swim in the river near Eighty-fifth
Street, when one who had made a deep dive, on
reaching the surface scrambled out of the water,
evidently terrified. His companions crowded about
him asking what he had seen, and to them he declared
that there was a 'drownded man down there.'
This caused the boys to lose all further desire to go
into the water, and while they hastily scrambled into
their clothes they discussed the situation, finally deciding
that the proper course would be to notify the
police, one boy, however, wiser than the others,
declaring that he 'washed his hands of the affair' if
they should do so, because he was not 'going to be
held as no witness.' In true American fashion,
nevertheless, the majority ruled, and in a body the
boys marched to the station-house and reported
their discovery. Detectives were sent to investigate,
and after dragging the locality for half an hour
the body of a man was drawn out of the water. The
corpse was taken to the Morgue, and the customary
red tape was slowly unwound. At first the police
thought that it was a case of accidental drowning,
no marks of violence having been found on the body,
which had evidently been in the water but a few
hours. Thus no special report of the case was made
in the press. Circumstances have developed at the
autopsy, however, which make it probable that New
Yorkers are to be treated to another of the wonderful
mysteries which occur all too frequently in the
metropolis. The first point of significance is the
fact, on which all the surgeons agree, that the man
was dead when placed in the water. Secondly, the
doctors claim that he died of disease, and not from
any cause which would point to a crime. This conclusion
seems highly improbable, for who would
throw into the water the body of one who had died
naturally, and with what object could such a singular
course have been pursued? Indeed this claim of
the doctors is so preposterous that a second examination
of the body has been ordered, and will occur
to-day, when several of our most prominent surgeons
will be present. The third, and by far the most
extraordinary circumstance, is the alleged identification
of the corpse. It seems that one of the surgeons
officiating at the first autopsy was attracted
by a peculiar mark upon the face of the corpse. At
first it was thought that this was merely a bruise
caused by something striking the body while in the
water, but a closer examination proved it to be a
skin disease known as 'lichen.' It appears that
there are several varieties of this disease, some of
which are quite well known. That found on the
face of the corpse, however, is a very rare form, only
two other cases having been recorded in this country.
This is a fact of the highest importance in relation
to the events which have followed. Not unnaturally,
the doctors became greatly interested. One of
these, Dr. Elliot, the young surgeon who first examined
it closely, having never seen any examples
of lichen before, spoke of it that evening at a meeting
of his medical society. Having looked up the
literature relating to the disease in the interval, he
was enabled to give the technical name of this very
rare form of the disease. At this, another physician
present arose, and declared that it seemed to him a
most extraordinary coincidence that this case had
been reported, for he himself had recently treated
an exactly similar condition for a patient who had
finally died, his death having occurred within a
week. A lengthy and of course very technical
discussion ensued, with the result that Dr. Mortimer,
the physician who had treated the case of the
patient who had so recently died, arranged with Dr.
Elliot to go with him on the following day and
examine the body at the Morgue. This he did,
and, to the great amazement of his colleague, he
then declared, that the body before him was none
other than that of his own patient, supposed to have
been buried. When the authorities learned of this,
they summoned the family of the deceased, two
brothers and the widow. All of these persons
viewed the corpse separately, and each declared
most emphatically that it was the body of the man
whose funeral they had followed. Under ordinary
circumstances, so complete an identification of a
body would leave no room for doubt, but what is to
be thought when we are informed by the family and
friends of the deceased that the corpse had been
cremated? That the mourners had seen the coffin
containing the body placed in the furnace, and had
waited patiently during the incineration? And
that later the ashes of the dear departed had been
delivered to them, to be finally deposited in an urn
in the family vault, where it still is with contents
undisturbed? It does not lessen the mystery to
know that the body in the Morgue (or the ashes at
the cemetery) represents all that is left of one of our
most esteemed citizens, Mr. Rufus Quadrant, a
gentleman who in life enjoyed that share of wealth
which made it possible for him to connect his name
with so many charities; a gentleman whose family
in the past and in the present has ever been and
still is above the breath of suspicion. Evidently
there is a mystery that will try the skill of our very
best detectives."
"That last line reads like a challenge to the
gentlemen of your profession," said Mr. Mitchel to
Mr. Barnes as he put down the paper.
"I needed no such spur to urge me to undertake
to unravel this case, which certainly has most astonishing
features."
"Suppose we enumerate the important data and
discover what reliable deduction may be made
therefrom."
"That is what I have done a dozen times, with
no very satisfactory result. First, we learn that
a man is found in the river upon whose face there
is a curious distinguishing mark in the form of
one of the rarest of skin diseases. Second, a man
has recently died who was similarly afflicted. The
attending physician declares upon examination that
the body taken from the river is the body of his
patient. Third, the family agree that this identification
is correct. Fourth, this second dead man
was cremated. Query, how can a man's body be
cremated, and then be found whole in the river
subsequently? No such thing has been related in
fact or fiction since the beginning of the world."
"Not so fast, Mr. Barnes. What of the Phœnix?"
"Why, the living young Phœnix arose from the
ashes of his dead ancestor. But here we have seemingly
a dead body re-forming from its own ashes, the
ashes meanwhile remaining intact and unaltered.
A manifest impossibility."
"Ah; then we arrive at our first reliable deduction,
Mr. Barnes."
"Which is?"
"Which is that, despite the doctors, we have two
bodies to deal with. The ashes in the vault represent one,
while the body at the Morgue is another."
"Of course. So much is apparent, but you say
the body at the Morgue is another, and I ask you,
which other?"
"That we must learn. As you appear to be
seeking my views in this case I will give them to
you, though of course I have nothing but this newspaper
account, which may be inaccurate. Having
concluded beyond all question that there are two
bodies in this case, our first effort must be to determine
which is which. That is to say, we must discover
whether this man, Rufus Quadrant, was really
cremated, which certainly ought to be the case, or
whether, by some means, another body has been
exchanged for his, by accident or by design, and if
so, whose body that was."
"If it turns out that the body at the Morgue is
really that of Mr. Quadrant, then, of course, as
you say, some other man's body was cremated,
and——"
"Why may it not have been a woman's?"
"You are right, and that only makes the point
to which I was about to call your attention more
forcible. If an unknown body has been incinerated,
how can we ever identify it?"
"I do not know. But we have not arrived at
that bridge yet. The first step is to reach a final
conclusion in regard to the body at the Morgue.
There are several things to be inquired into, there."
"I wish you would enumerate them."
"With pleasure. First, the autopsy is said to
have shown that the man died a natural death, that
is, that disease, and not one of his fellow-beings,
killed him. What disease was this, and was it the
same as that which caused the death of Mr. Quadrant?
If the coroner's physicians declared what
disease killed the man, and named the same as that
which carried off Mr. Quadrant, remembering that
the body before them was unknown, we would have
a strong corroboration of the alleged identification."
"Very true. That will be easily learned."
"Next, as to this lichen. I should think it important
to know more of that. Is it because the two
cases are examples of the same rare variety of the
disease, or was there something so distinct about
the location and area or shape of the diseased surface,
that the doctor could not possibly be mistaken?—for
doctors do make mistakes, you know."
"Yes, just as detectives do," said Mr. Barnes,
smiling, as he made notes of Mr. Mitchel's suggestions.
"If you learn that the cause of death was the
same, and that the lichen was not merely similar but
identical, I should think that there could be little
reason for longer doubting the identification. But
if not fully satisfied by your inquiries along these
lines, then it might be well to see the family of Mr.
Quadrant, and inquire whether they too depend
upon this lichen as the only means of identification,
or whether, entirely aside from that diseased spot,
they would be able to swear that the body at the
Morgue is their relative. You would have in connection
with this inquiry an opportunity to ask
many discreet questions which might be of assistance
to you."
"All of this is in relation to establishing beyond a
doubt the identity of the body at the Morgue, and
of course the work to that end will practically be
simple. In my own mind I have no doubt that the
body of Mr. Quadrant is the one found in the water.
Of course, as you suggest, it will be as well to know
this rather than merely to think it. But once knowing
it, what then of the body which is now ashes?"
"We must identify that also."
"Identify ashes!" exclaimed Mr. Barnes. "Not
an easy task."
"If all tasks were easy, Mr. Barnes," said Mr.
Mitchel, "we should have little need of talent such
as yours. Suppose you follow my advice, provided
you intend to accept it, as far as I have indicated,
and then report to me the results."
"I will do so with pleasure. I do not think it
will occupy much time. Perhaps by luncheon,
I——"
"You could get back here and join me. Do
so!"
"In the meanwhile shall you do any—any investigating?"
"I shall do considerable thinking. I will cogitate
as to the possibility of a Phœnix arising from those
ashes."
II
Leaving Mr. Mitchel, Mr. Barnes went directly
to the office of Dr. Mortimer, and after waiting
nearly an hour was finally ushered into the consulting-room.
"Dr. Mortimer," said Mr. Barnes, "I have
called in relation to this remarkable case of Mr.
Quadrant. I am a detective, and the extraordinary
nature of the facts thus far published attracts me
powerfully, so that, though not connected with the
regular police, I am most anxious to unravel this
mystery if possible, though, of course, I should do
nothing that would interfere with the regular officers
of the law. I have called, hoping that you might
be willing to answer a few questions."
"I think I have heard of you, Mr. Barnes, and if,
as you say, you will do nothing to interfere with
justice, I have no objection to telling you what I
know, though I fear it is little enough."
"I thank you, Doctor, for your confidence, which,
I assure you, you shall not regret. In the first place,
then, I would like to ask you about this identification.
The newspaper account states that you have depended
upon some skin disease. Is that of such a
nature that you can be absolutely certain in your
opinion?"
"I think so," said the doctor. "But then, as
you must have found in your long experience, all
identifications of the dead should be accepted with
a little doubt. Death alters the appearance of every
part of the body, and especially the face. We think
that we know a man by the contour of his face,
whereas we often depend, during life, upon the
habitual expressions which the face ever carries.
For example, suppose that we know a young girl,
full of life and happiness, with a sunny disposition
undimmed by care or the world's worry. She is
ever smiling, or ready to smile. Thus we know her.
Let that girl suffer a sudden and perhaps painful
death. In terror and agony as she dies, the features
are distorted, and in death the resultant expression
is somewhat stamped upon the features. Let that
body lie in the water for a time, and when recovered
it is doubtful whether all of her friends would identify
her. Some would, but others would with equal
positiveness declare that these were mistaken. Yet
you observe the physical contours would still be
present."
"I am pleased, Doctor, by what you say," said
Mr. Barnes, "because with such appreciation of the
changes caused by death and exposure in the water,
I must lay greater reliance upon your identification.
In this case, as I understand it, there is something
peculiar about the body, a mark of disease called
lichen, I believe?"
"Yes. But what I have said about the changes
caused by death must have weight here also," said
the doctor. "You see I am giving you all the
points that may militate against my identification,
that you may the better judge of its correctness.
We must not forget that we are dealing with a disease
of very great rarity; so rare, in fact, that this
very case is the only one that I have ever seen.
Consequently I cannot claim to be perfectly familiar
with the appearance of surfaces attacked by this disease,
after they have suffered the possible alterations
of death."
"Then you mean that, after all, this spot upon
which the identification rests does not now look as
it did in life?"
"I might answer both yes and no to that.
Changes have occurred, but they do not, in my
opinion, prevent me from recognizing both the disease
and the corpse. To fully explain this I must
tell you something of the disease itself, if you will
not be bored?"
"Not at all. Indeed, I prefer to know all that
you can make intelligible to a layman."
"I will use simple language. Formerly a great
number of skin diseases were grouped under the
general term 'lichen,' which included all growths
which might be considered fungoid. At the present
time we are fairly well able to separate the animal
from the vegetable parasitic diseases, and under the
term 'lichen' we include very few forms. The most
common is lichen planus, which unfortunately is not
infrequently met, and is therefore very well understood
by the specialists. Lichen ruber, however, is
quite distinct. It was first described by the German,
Hebra, and has been sufficiently common in
Europe to enable the students to thoroughly well
describe it. In this country, however, it seems to
be one of the rarest of diseases. White of Boston
reported a case, and Fox records another, accompanied
by a colored photograph, which, of course,
aids greatly in enabling any one to recognize a case
should it occur. There is one more fact to which I
must allude as having an important bearing upon
my identification. Lichen ruber, like other lichens,
is not confined to any one part of the body; on the
contrary, it would be remarkable, should the disease
be uncontrolled for any length of time, not to see it
in many places. This brings me to my point. The
seat of the disease, in the case of Mr. Quadrant, was
the left cheek, where a most disfiguring spot appeared.
It happened that I was in constant attendance
upon Mr. Quadrant for the trouble which
finally caused his decease, and therefore I saw this
lichen in its incipiency, and more fortunately I
recognized its true nature. Now whether due to my
treatment or not, it is a fact that the disease did not
spread; that is to say, it did not appear elsewhere
upon the body."
"I see! I see!" said Mr. Barnes, much pleased.
"This is an important point. For if the body at
the Morgue exhibits a spot in that exact locality
and nowhere else, and if it is positively this same
skin disease, it is past belief that it should be any
other than the body of your patient."
"So I argue. That two such unique examples of
so rare a disease should occur at the same time
seems incredible, though remotely possible. Thus,
as you have indicated, we have but to show that the
mark on the body at the Morgue is truly caused by
this disease, and not by some abrasion while in the
water, in order to make our opinion fairly tenable.
Both Dr. Elliot and myself have closely examined
the spot, and we have agreed that it is not an abrasion.
Had the face been thus marked in the water,
we should find the cuticle rubbed off, which is not
the case. Contrarily, in the disease under consideration,
the cuticle, though involved in the disease, and
even missing in minute spots, is practically present.
No, I am convinced that the mark on the body at
the Morgue existed in life as the result of this
lichen, though the alteration of color since death
gives us a much changed appearance."
"Then I may consider that you are confident that
this mark on the body is of the same shape, in the
same position, and caused by the same disease as
that which you observed upon Mr. Quadrant?"
"Yes. I do not hesitate to assert that. To this
you may add that I identify the body in a general
way also."
"By which you mean?"
"That without this mark, basing my opinion
merely upon my long acquaintance with the man, I
would be ready to declare that Mr. Quadrant's body
is the one which was taken from the water."
"What, then, is your opinion as to how this
strange occurrence has come about? If Mr. Quadrant
was cremated, how could——"
"It could not, of course. This is not the age of
miracles. Mr. Quadrant was not cremated. Of
that we may be certain."
"But the family claim that they saw his body
consigned to the furnace."
"The family believe this, I have no doubt. But
how could they be sure? Let us be accurate in
considering what we call facts. What did the family
see at the crematory? They saw a closed coffin
placed into the furnace."
"A coffin, though, which contained the body of
their relative."
Mr. Barnes did not of course himself believe this,
but made the remark merely to lead the doctor on.
"Again you are inaccurate. Let us rather say a
coffin which once contained the body of their relative."
"Ah; then you think that it was taken from
the coffin and another substituted for it?"
"No. I do not go so far. I think, nay, I am
sure, that Mr. Quadrant's body was taken from the
coffin, but whether another was substituted for it, is
a question. The coffin may have been empty when
burned."
"Could we settle that point by an examination of
the ashes?"
The doctor started as though surprised at the
question. After a little thought he replied hesitatingly:
"Perhaps. It seems doubtful. Ashes from bone
and animal matter would, I suppose, bring us chemical
results different from those of burned wood.
Whether our analytical chemists could solve such a
problem remains to be seen. Ordinarily one would
think that ashes would resist all efforts at identification."
The doctor seemed lost in thoughtful consideration
of this scientific problem.
"The trimmings of the coffin might contain
animal matter if made of wool," suggested Mr.
Barnes.
"True; that would certainly complicate the work
of the chemist, and throw doubt upon his reported
results."
"You admitted, Doctor, that the body was placed
in the coffin. Do you know that positively?"
"Yes. I called on the widow on the night previous
to the funeral, and the body was then in the
coffin. I saw it in company with the widow and
the two brothers. It was then that it was decided
that the coffin should be closed and not opened
again."
"Whose wish was this?"
"The widow's. You may well understand that
this lichen greatly disfigured Mr. Quadrant, and
that he was extremely sensitive about it. So much
so that he had not allowed any one to see him for
many weeks prior to his death. It was in deference
to this that the widow expressed the wish that no
one but the immediate family should see him in his
coffin. For this reason also she stipulated that the
coffin should be burned with the body."
"You say this was decided on the night before
the funeral?"
"Yes. To be accurate, about five o'clock in the
afternoon, though at this season and in the closed
rooms the lamps were already lighted."
"Was this known to many persons? That is,
that the coffin was not again to be opened?"
"It was known of course to the two brothers, and
also to the undertaker and two of his assistants who
were present."
"The undertaker himself closed the casket, I
presume?"
"Yes. He was closing it as I escorted the widow
back to her own room."
"Did the brothers leave the room with you?"
"I think so. Yes, I am sure of it."
"So that the body was left with the undertaker
and his men, after they knew that it was not to be
opened again?"
"Yes."
"Did these men leave before you did?"
"No. I left almost immediately after taking the
widow to her own room and seeing her comfortably
lying down, apparently recovered from the hysterical
spell which I had been summoned to check.
You know, of course, that the Quadrant residence is
but a block from here."
"There is one more point, Doctor. Of what
disease did Mr. Quadrant die?"
"My diagnosis was what in common parlance I
may call cancer of the stomach. This, of course,
I only knew from the symptoms. That is to say,
there had been no operation, as the patient was
strenuously opposed to such a procedure. He repeatedly
said to me, 'I would rather die than be
cut up.' A strange prejudice in these days of successful
surgery, when the knife in skilful hands
promises so much more than medication."
"Still these symptoms were sufficient in your
own mind to satisfy you that your diagnosis was
accurate?"
"I can only say in reply that I have frequently
in the presence of similar symptoms performed an
operation, and always with the same result. The
cancer was always present."
"Now the coroner's autopsy on the body at the
Morgue is said to have shown that death was due to
disease. Do you know what they discovered?"
"Dr. Elliot told me that it was cancer of the
stomach."
"Why, then, the identification seems absolute?"
"So it seems. Yes."
III
Mr. Barnes next called at the home of the
Quadrants, and was informed that both of the
gentlemen were out. With some hesitation he sent
a brief note in to the widow, explaining his purpose
and asking for an interview. To his gratification
his request was granted, and he was shown up to
that lady's reception-room.
"I fear, madame," said he, "that my visit may
seem an intrusion, but I take the deepest sort of interest
in this sad affair of your husband, and I would
much appreciate having your permission and authority
to investigate it, with the hope of discovering
the wrong-doers."
"I see by your note," said Mrs. Quadrant in a
low, sad voice, "that you are a detective, but not
connected with the police. That is why I have decided
to see you. I have declined to see the regular
detective sent here by the police, though my husband's
brothers, I believe, have answered all his
questions. But as for myself, I felt that I could
not place this matter in the hands of men whom
my husband always distrusted. Perhaps his prejudice
was due to his politics, but he frequently declared
that our police force was corrupt. Thus you
understand why I am really glad that you have
called, for I am anxious, nay, determined, to discover
if possible who it was who has done me this
grievous wrong. To think that my poor husband
was there in the river, when I thought that his body
had been duly disposed of. It is horrible, horrible!"
"It is indeed horrible, madame," said Mr.
Barnes sympathizingly. "But we must find the
guilty person or persons and bring them to justice."
"Yes! That is what I wish. That is what I am
ready to pay any sum to accomplish. You must
not consider you are working, as you courteously
offer, merely to satisfy your professional interest in
a mysterious case. I wish you to undertake this as
my special agent."
"As you please, madame, but in that case I must
make one condition. I would ask that you tell this
to no one unless I find it necessary. At present I
think I can do better if I am merely regarded as a
busybody detective attracted by an odd case."
"Why, certainly, no one need know. Now tell
me what you think of this matter."
"Well, it is rather early to formulate an opinion.
An opinion is dangerous. One is so apt to endeavor
to prove himself right, whereas he ought merely to
seek out the truth. But if you have any opinion, it
is necessary for me to know it. Therefore I must
answer you by asking the very question which you
have asked me. What do you think?"
"I think that some one took the body of my husband
from the coffin, and that we burned an empty
casket. But to guess what motive there could be
for such an act would be beyond my mental abilities.
I have thought about it till my head has
ached, but I can find no reason for such an unreasonable
act."
"Let me then suggest one to you, and then perhaps
your opinion may be more useful. Suppose
that some person, some one who had the opportunity,
had committed a murder. By removing the
body of your husband, and replacing it with that of
his victim, the evidences of his own crime would be
concealed. The discovery of your husband's body,
even if identified, as it has been, could lead to little
else than mystification, for the criminal well knew
that the autopsy would show natural causes of
death."
"But what a terrible solution this is which you
suggest! Why, no one had access to the coffin except
the undertaker and his two men!"
"You naturally omit your two brothers, but a
detective cannot make such discrimination."
"Why, of course I do not count them, for certainly
neither of them could be guilty of such a
crime as you suggest. It is true that Amos—but
that is of no consequence."
"Who is Amos?" asked Mr. Barnes, aroused by
the fact that Mrs. Quadrant had left her remark unfinished.
"Amos is one of my brothers—my husband's
brothers, I mean. Amos Quadrant was next in age,
and Mark the youngest of the three. But, Mr.
Barnes, how could one of the undertakers have
made this exchange which you suggest? Certainly
they could not have brought the dead body here,
and my husband's body never left the house prior
to the funeral."
"The corpse which was left in place of that of
your husband must have been smuggled into this
house by some one. Why not by one of these men?
How, is a matter for explanation later. There is
one other possibility about which you may be able
to enlighten me. What opportunity, if any, was
there that this substitution may have occurred at
the crematory?"
"None at all. The coffin was taken from the
hearse by our own pall-bearers, friends all of them,
and carried directly to the room into which the furnace
opened. Then, in accordance with my special
request, the coffin, unopened, was placed in the
furnace in full view of all present."
"Were you there yourself?"
"Oh! no, no! I could not have endured
such a sight. The cremation was resorted to as a
special request of my husband. But I am bitterly
opposed to such a disposition of the dead, and
therefore remained at home."
"Then how do you know what you have told
me?—that there was no chance for substitution at
the crematory?"
"Because my brothers and other friends have related
all that occurred there in detail, and all tell
the same story that I have told you."
"Dr. Mortimer tells me that you decided to have
the coffin closed finally on the evening prior to the
funeral. With the casket closed, I presume you
did not consider it necessary to have the usual
watchers?"
"Not exactly, though the two gentlemen, I believe,
sat up through the night, and occasionally
visited the room where the casket was."
"Ah! Then it would seem to have been impossible
for any one to enter the house and accomplish
the exchange, without being detected by one or
both of these gentlemen?"
"Of course not," said Mrs. Quadrant, and then,
realizing the necessary deduction, she hastened to
add: "I do not know. After all, they may not
have sat up through all the night."
"Did any one enter the house that night, so far
as you know?"
"No one, except Dr. Mortimer, who stopped in
about ten as he was returning from a late professional
call. He asked how I was, and went on, I
believe."
"But neither of the undertakers came back upon
any excuse?"
"Not to my knowledge."
At this moment some one was heard walking in
the hall below, and Mrs. Quadrant added:
"I think that may be one of my brothers now.
Suppose you go down and speak to him. He
would know whether any one came to the house
during the night. You may tell him that you have
seen me, if you wish, and that I have no objection
to your endeavoring to discover the truth."
Mr. Barnes bade Mrs. Quadrant adieu and went
down to the parlor floor. Not meeting any one, he
touched a bell, and when the servant responded,
asked for either of the gentlemen of the house who
might have come in. He was informed that Mr.
Mark Quadrant was in the library, and was invited
to see him there.
Mr. Mark Quadrant was of medium height, body
finely proportioned, erect figure, a well-poised head,
keen, bright eyes, a decided blond, and wore a Vandyke
beard, close trimmed. He looked at Mr.
Barnes in such a manner that the detective knew
that whatever he might learn from this man would
be nothing that he would prefer to conceal, unless
accidentally surprised from him. It was necessary
therefore to approach the subject with considerable
circumspection.
"I have called," said Mr. Barnes, "in relation to
the mysterious circumstances surrounding the death
of your brother."
"Are you connected with the police force?"
asked Mr. Quadrant.
"No. I am a private detective."
"Then you will pardon my saying that you are
an intruder—an unwelcome intruder."
"I think not," said Mr. Barnes, showing no
irritation at his reception. "I have the permission
of Mrs. Quadrant to investigate this affair."
"Oh! You have seen her, have you?"
"I have just had an interview with her."
"Then your intrusion is more than unwelcome;
it is an impertinence."
"Why, pray?"
"You should have seen myself or my brother,
before disturbing a woman in the midst of her grief."
"I asked for you or your brother, but you were
both away. It was only then that I asked to see
Mrs. Quadrant."
"You should not have done so. It was impertinent,
I repeat. Why could you not have waited
to see one of us?"
"Justice cannot wait. Delay is often dangerous."
"What have you to do with justice? This affair
is none of your business."
"The State assumes that a crime is an outrage
against all its citizens, and any man has the right to
seek out and secure the punishment of the criminal."
"How do you know that any crime has been
committed?"
"There can be no doubt about it. The removal
of your brother's body from his coffin was a criminal
act in itself, even if we do not take into account the
object of the person who did this."
"And what, pray, was the object, since you are
so wise?"
"Perhaps the substitution of the body of a victim
of murder, in order that the person killed might be
incinerated."
"That proposition is worthy of a detective. You
first invent a crime, and then seek to gain employment
in ferreting out what never occurred."
"That hardly holds with me, as I have offered
my service without remuneration."
"Oh, I see. An enthusiast in your calling! A
crank, in other words. Well, let me prick your
little bubble. Suppose I can supply you with
another motive, one not at all connected with
murder?"
"I should be glad to hear you propound one."
"Suppose that I tell you that though my brother
requested that his body should be cremated, both
his widow and myself were opposed? Suppose
that I further state that my brother Amos, being
older than I, assumed the management of affairs,
and insisted that the cremation should occur? And
then suppose that I admit that to thwart that, I removed
the body myself?"
"You ask me to suppose all this," said Mr.
Barnes quietly. "In reply, I ask you, do you
make such a statement?"
"Why, no. I do not intend to make any statement,
because I do not consider that you have any
right to mix yourself up in this affair. It is my
wish that the matter should be allowed to rest.
Nothing could be more repugnant to my feelings,
or to my brother's, were he alive, poor fellow, than
all this newspaper notoriety. I wish to see the
body buried, and the mystery with it. I have no
desire for any solution."
"But, despite your wishes, the affair will be,
must be, investigated. Now, to discuss your imaginary
proposition, I will say that it is so improbable
that no one would believe it."
"Why not, pray?"
"First, because it was an unnatural procedure
upon such an inadequate motive. A man might
kill his brother, but he would hardly desecrate his
brother's coffin merely to prevent a certain form of
disposing of the dead."
"That is mere presumption. You cannot dogmatically
state what may actuate a man."
"But in this case the means was inadequate to
the end."
"How so?"
"If the combined wishes of yourself and the
widow could not sway your brother Amos, who had
taken charge of the funeral, how could you hope
when the body should be removed from the river,
that he would be more easily brought around to
your wishes?"
"The effort to cremate the body having failed
once, he would not resist my wishes in the second
burial."
"That is doubtful. I should think he would be so
incensed by your act, that he would be more than
ever determined that you should have no say in the
matter. But supposing that you believed otherwise,
and that you wished to carry out this extraordinary
scheme, you had no opportunity to do so."
"Why not?"
"I suppose, of course, that your brother sat up
with the corpse through the night before the
funeral."
"Exactly. You suppose a good deal more than
you know. My brother did not sit up with the
corpse. As the coffin had been closed, there was
no need to follow that obsolete custom. My brother
retired before ten o'clock. I myself remained up
some hours longer."
Thus in the mental sparring Mr. Barnes had succeeded
in learning one fact from this reluctant
witness.
"But even so," persisted the detective, "you
would have found difficulty in removing the body
from this house to the river."
"Yet it was done, was it not?"
This was unanswerable. Mr. Barnes did not for a
moment place any faith in what this brother had
said. He argued that had he done anything like
what he suggested, he would never have hinted at
it as a possibility. Why he did so was a puzzle.
Perhaps he merely wished to make the affair seem
more intricate, in the hope of persuading him to
drop the investigation, being, as he had stated,
honestly anxious to have the matter removed from
the public gaze, and caring nothing about any explanation
of how his brother's body had been taken
from the coffin. On the other hand, there was a
possibility which could not be entirely overlooked.
He might really have been guilty of acting as he
had suggested, and perhaps now told of it as a cunning
way of causing the detective to discredit such
a solution of the mystery. Mr. Barnes thought it
well to pursue the subject a little further.
"Suppose," said he, "that it could be shown
that the ashes now in the urn at the cemetery are
the ashes of a human being?"
"You will be smart if you can prove that," said
Mr. Quadrant. "Ashes are ashes, I take it, and
you will get little proof there. But since you discussed
my proposition, I will argue with you about
yours. You say, suppose the ashes are those of a
human being. Very well, then, that would prove that
my brother was cremated after all, and that I have
been guying you, playing with you as a fisherman
who fools a fish with feathers instead of real bait."
"But what of the identification of the body at
the Morgue?"
"Was there ever a body at the Morgue that was
not identified a dozen times? People are apt to be
mistaken about their friends after death."
"But this identification was quite complete, being
backed up by scientific reasons advanced by experts."
"Yes, but did you ever see a trial where expert
witnesses were called, that equally expert witnesses
did not testify to the exact contrary? Let me ask
you a question. Have you seen this body at the
Morgue?"
"Not yet."
"Go and see it. Examine the sole of the left
foot. If you do not find a scar three or four inches
long the body is not that of my brother. This scar
was the result of a bad gash made by stepping on a
shell when in bathing. He was a boy at the time,
and I was with him."
"But, Mr. Quadrant," said Mr. Barnes, astonished
by the new turn of the conversation, "I understood
that you yourself admitted that the identification
was correct."
"The body was identified by Dr. Mortimer first.
My sister and my brother agreed with the doctor,
and I agreed with them all, for reasons of my own."
"Would you mind stating those reasons?"
"You are not very shrewd if you cannot guess.
I want this matter dropped. Had I denied the
identity of the body it must have remained at the
Morgue, entailing more newspaper sensationalism.
By admitting the identity, I hoped that the body
would be given to us for burial, and that the affair
would then be allowed to die."
"Then if, as you now signify, this is not your
brother's body, what shall I think of your suggestion
that you yourself placed the body in the river?"
"What shall you think? Why, think what you
like. That is your affair. The less you think about
it, though, the better pleased I should be. And now
really I cannot permit this conversation to be prolonged.
You must go, and if you please I wish that
you do not come here again."
"I am sorry that I cannot promise that. I shall
come if I think it necessary. This is your sister's
house, I believe, and she has expressed a wish that
I pursue this case to the end."
"My sister is a fool. At any rate, I can assure
you, you shall not get another chance at me, so
make the most of what information I have given
you. Good morning."
With these words Mr. Mark Quadrant walked out
of the room, leaving Mr. Barnes alone.
IV
Mr. Barnes stood for a moment in a quandary,
and then decided upon a course of action. He
touched the bell which he knew would call the
butler, and then sat down by the grate fire to wait.
Almost immediately his eye fell upon a bit of white
paper protruding from beneath a small rug, and he
picked it up. Examining it closely, he guessed that
it had once contained some medicine in powder
form, but nothing in the shape of a label, or traces
of the powder itself, was there to tell what the drug
had been.
"I wonder," thought he, "whether this bit of
paper would furnish me with a clue? I must have
it examined by a chemist. He may discern by his
methods what I cannot detect with the naked eye."
With this thought in his mind, he carefully folded
the paper in its original creases and deposited it in
his wallet. At that moment the butler entered.
"What is your name?" asked Mr. Barnes.
"Thomas, sir," said the man, a fine specimen of
the intelligent New York negro. "Thomas Jefferson."
"Well, Thomas, I am a detective, and your
mistress wishes me to look into the peculiar circumstances
which, as you know, have occurred. Are
you willing to help me?"
"I'll do anything for the mistress, sir."
"Very good. That is quite proper. Now, then,
do you remember your master's death?"
"Yes, sir."
"And his funeral?"
"Yes, sir."
"You know when the undertaker and his men
came and went, and how often, I presume? You
let them in and saw them?"
"I let them in, yes, sir. But once or twice they
went out without my knowing."
"At five o'clock on the afternoon before the
funeral, I am told that Mrs. Quadrant visited the
room where the body was, and ordered that the coffin
should be closed for the last time. Did you know
this?"
"No, sir."
"I understand that at that time the undertaker
and two of his men were in the room, as were also
the two Mr. Quadrants, Mrs. Quadrant, and the
doctor. Now, be as accurate as you can, and tell
me in what order and when these persons left the
house."
"Dr. Mortimer went away, I remember, just
after Mrs. Quadrant went to her room to lie down.
Then the gentlemen went in to dinner, and I served
them. The undertaker and one of his men left together
just as dinner was put on table. I remember
that because the undertaker stood in the hall and
spoke a word to Mr. Amos just as he was entering
the dining-room. Mr. Amos then turned to me,
and said for me to show them out. I went to the
door with them, and then went back to the dining-room."
"Ah! Then one of the undertaker's men was
left alone with the body?"
"I suppose so, unless he went away first. I did
not see him go at all. But, come to think of it, he
must have been there after the other two went
away."
"Why?"
"Because, when I let out the undertaker and his
man, their wagon was at the door, but they walked
off and left it. After dinner it was gone, so the
other man must have gone out and driven off in it."
"Very probably. Now, can you tell me this man's
name? The last to leave the house, I mean?"
"I heard the undertaker call one 'Jack,' but I do
not know which one."
"But you saw the two men—the assistants, I
mean. Can you not describe the one that was here
last?"
"Not very well. All I can say is that the one
that went away with the undertaker was a youngish
fellow without any mustache. The other was a
short, thick-set man, with dark hair and a stubby
mustache. That is all I noticed."
"That will be enough. I can probably find him
at the undertaker's. Now, can you remember
whether either of the gentlemen sat up with the
corpse that night?"
"Both the gentlemen sat in here till ten o'clock.
The body was across the hall in the little reception-room
near the front door. About ten the door-bell
rang, and I let in the doctor, who stopped to ask
after Mrs. Quadrant. He and Mr. Amos went up
to her room. The doctor came down in a few
minutes, alone, and came into this room to talk with
Mr. Mark."
"How long did he stay?"
"I don't know. Not long, I think, because he
had on his overcoat. But Mr. Mark told me I could
go to bed, and he would let the doctor out. So I
just brought them a fresh pitcher of ice-water, and
went to my own room."
"That is all, then, that you know of what occurred
that night?"
"No, sir. There was another thing, that I have
not mentioned to any one, though I don't think it
amounts to anything."
"What was that?"
"Some time in the night I thought I heard a door
slam, and the noise woke me up. I jumped out of
bed and slipped on some clothes and came as far as
the door here, but I did not come in."
"Why not?"
"Because I saw Mr. Amos in here, standing by
the centre-table with a lamp in his hand. He was
looking down at Mr. Mark, who was fast asleep
alongside of the table, with his head resting on his
arm on the table."
"Did you notice whether Mr. Amos was dressed
or not?"
"Yes, sir. That's what surprised me. He had
all his clothes on."
"Did he awaken his brother?"
"No. He just looked at him, and then tiptoed
out and went upstairs. I slipped behind the hall
door, so that he would not see me."
"Was the lamp in his hand one that he had
brought down from his own room?"
"No, sir. It was one that I had been ordered to
put in the room where the coffin was, as they did
not want the electric light turned on in there all
night. Mr. Amos went back into the front room,
and left the lamp there before he went upstairs."
"Do you know when Mr. Mark went up to his
room? Did he remain downstairs all night?"
"No, sir. He was in bed in his own room when
I came around in the morning. About six o'clock,
that was. But I don't know when he went to bed.
He did not come down to breakfast, though, till
nearly noon. The funeral was at two o'clock."
"That is all, I think," said Mr. Barnes. "But
do not let any one know that I have talked with
you."
"Just as you say, sir."
As it was now nearing noon, Mr. Barnes left the
house and hastened up to Mr. Mitchel's residence to
keep his engagement for luncheon. Arrived there,
he was surprised to have Williams inform him that
he had received a telephone message to the effect
that Mr. Mitchel would not be at home for luncheon.
"But, Inspector," said Williams, "here's a note
just left for you by a messenger."
Mr. Barnes took the envelope, which he found
inclosed the following from Mr. Mitchel:
"Friend Barnes:—
"Am sorry I cannot be home to luncheon. Williams
will give you a bite. I have news for you. I
have seen the ashes, and there is now no doubt that
a body, a human body, was burned at the crematory
that day. I do not despair that we may yet
discover whose body it was. More when I know
more."
V
Mr. Barnes read this note over two or three
times, and then folded it thoughtfully and put it in
his pocket. He found it difficult to decide whether
Mr. Mitchel had been really detained, or whether he
had purposely broken his appointment. If the latter,
then Mr. Barnes felt sure that already he had
made some discovery which rendered this case
doubly attractive to him, so much so that he had
concluded to seek the solution himself.
"That man is a monomaniac," thought Mr.
Barnes, somewhat nettled. "I come here and attract
his attention to a case that I know will afford
him an opportunity to follow a fad, and now he
goes off and is working the case alone. It is not
fair. But I suppose this is another challenge, and
I must work rapidly to get at the truth ahead of
him. Well, I will accept, and fight it out."
Thus musing, Mr. Barnes, who had declined
Williams's offer to serve luncheon, left the house
and proceeded to the shop of the undertaker. This
man had a name the full significance of which had
never come home to him until he began the business
of caring for the dead. He spelled it Berial, and
insisted that the pronunciation demanded a long
sound to the "i," and a strong accent on the middle
syllable. But he was constantly annoyed by the
cheap wit of acquaintances, who with a significant
titter would call him either Mr. "Burial," or Mr.
"Bury all."
Mr. Barnes found Mr. Berial disengaged, undertakers,
fortunately, not always being rushed with
business, and encountered no difficulty in approaching
his subject.
"I have called, Mr. Berial," said the detective,
"to get a little information about your management
of the funeral of Mr. Quadrant."
"Certainly," said Mr. Berial; "any information
I can give, you are welcome to. Detective, I
suppose?"
"Yes; in the interest of the family," replied Mr.
Barnes. "There are some odd features of this case,
Mr. Berial."
"Odd?" said the undertaker. "Odd don't
half cover it. It's the most remarkable thing in
the history of the world. Here I am, with an experience
in funerals covering thirty years, and I go
and have a man decently cremated, and, by hickory,
if he ain't found floating in the river the next morning.
Odd? Why, there ain't any word to describe
a thing like that. It's devilish; that's the nearest
I can come to it."
"Well, hardly that," said Mr. Barnes, with a
smile. "Of course, since Mr. Quadrant's body has
been found in the river, it never was cremated."
"Who says so?" asked the undertaker, sharply.
"Not cremated? Want to bet on that? I suppose
not. We can't make a bet about the dead. It
wouldn't be professional. But Mr. Quadrant was
cremated. There isn't any question about that
point. Put that down as final."
"But it is impossible that he should have been
cremated, and then reappear at the Morgue."
"Just what I say. The thing's devilish. There's
a hitch, of course. But why should it be at my end,
eh? Tell me that, will you? There's just as much
chance for a mistake at the Morgue as at the funeral,
isn't there?" This was said in a tone that challenged
dispute.
"What mistake could have occurred at the
Morgue?" asked Mr. Barnes.
"Mistaken identification," replied the undertaker
so quickly that he had evidently anticipated the
question. "Mistaken identification. That's your
cue, Mr. Barnes. It's happened often enough before,"
he added, with a chuckle.
"I scarcely think there can be a mistake of that
character," said Mr. Barnes, thinking, nevertheless,
of the scar on the foot. "This identification is not
merely one of recognition; it is supported by scientific
reason, advanced by the doctors."
"Oh! doctors make mistakes too, I guess," said
Mr. Berial, testily. "Look here, you're a detective.
You're accustomed to weigh evidence. Now tell
me, will you, how could this man be cremated, as I
tell you he was, and then turn up in the river?
Answer that, and I'll argue with you."
"The question, of course, turns on the fact of
the cremation. How do you know that the body
was in the coffin when it was consigned to the
furnace?"
"How do I know? Why, ain't that my business?
Who should know if I don't? Didn't I put the
body in the coffin myself?"
"Very true. But why could not some one have
taken the body out after you closed the coffin
finally, and before the hour of the funeral?"
Mr. Berial laughed softly to himself, as though
enjoying a joke too good to be shared too soon with
another. Presently he said:
"That's a proper question, of course; a very
proper question, and I'll answer it. But I must
tell you a secret, so you may understand it. You
see in this business we depend a good deal on the
recommendation of the attending physician. Some
doctors are real professional, and recommend a man
on his merits. Others are different. They expect
a commission. Surprises you, don't it? But it's
done every day in this town. The doctor can't save
his patient, and the patient dies. Then he tells the
sorrowing friends that such and such an undertaker
is the proper party to hide away the result of his
failure; failure to cure, of course. In due time he
gets his little check, ten per cent. of the funeral bill.
This seems like wandering away from the point, but
I am coming back to it. This commission arrangement
naturally keeps me on the books of certain
doctors, and vicy versy it keeps them on mine. So,
working for certain doctors, it follows that I work
for a certain set of people. Now I've a Catholic
doctor on my books, and it happens that the cemetery
where that church buries is in a lonesome place;
just the spot for a grave-robber to work undisturbed,
especially if the watchman out there should happen
to be fond of his tipple, which I tell you, again in
confidence, that he is. Now, then, it has happened
more than once, though it has been kept quiet, that
a grave filled up one afternoon would be empty the
next morning. At least the body would be gone.
Of course they wouldn't take the coffin, as they'd
be likely to be caught getting rid of it. You see, a
coffin ain't exactly regular household furniture. If
they have time they fill the grave again, but often
enough they're too anxious to get away, because,
of course, the watchman might not be drunk. Well,
these things being kept secret, but still pretty
well known in the congregation, told in whispers, I
might say, a sort of demand sprung up for a style
of coffin that a grave-robber couldn't open,—a
sort of coffin with a combination lock, as it were."
"You don't mean to say—" began Mr. Barnes,
greatly interested at last in the old man's rather
lengthy speech. He was interrupted by the undertaker,
who again chuckled as he exclaimed:
"Don't I? Well, I do, though. Of course I don't
mean there's really a combination lock. That
would never do. We often have to open the coffin
for a friend who wants to see the dead face again,
or for folks that come to the funeral late. It's
funny, when you come to think of it, how folks will
be late to funerals. As they only have this last
visit to make, you'd think they'd make it a point
to be on time and not delay the funeral. But
about the way I fasten a coffin. If any grave-robber
tackles one of my coffins without knowing
the trick, he'd be astonished, I tell you. I often
think of it and laugh. You see, there's a dozen
screws and they look just like ordinary screws. But
if you work them all out with a screw-driver, your
coffin lid is just as tight as ever. You see, it's this
way. The real screw works with a reverse thread,
and is hollow on the top. Now I have a screw-driver
that is really a screw. When the screw-threaded
end of this is screwed into the hollow end of the
coffin-bolt, as soon as it is in tight it begins to unscrew
the bolt. To put the bolt in, in the first
place, I first screw it tight on to my screw-driver,
and then drive it in, turning backwards, and as
soon as it is tight my screw-driver begins to unscrew
and so comes out. Then I drop in my
dummy screw, and just turn it down to fill the
hole. Now the dummy screw and the reverse
thread of the real bolt is a puzzle for a grave-robber,
and anyway he couldn't solve it without
one of my own tools."
Mr. Barnes reflected deeply upon this as a most
important statement. If Mr. Quadrant's coffin was
thus fastened, no one could have opened it without
the necessary knowledge and the special screw-driver.
He recalled that the butler had told him
that one of Mr. Berial's men had been at the house
after the departure of the others. This man was
therefore in the position to have opened the coffin,
supposing that he had had one of the screw-drivers.
Of this it would be well to learn.
"I suppose," said Mr. Barnes, "that the coffin
in which you placed Mr. Quadrant was fastened in
this fashion?"
"Yes; and I put the lid on and fastened it
myself."
"What, then, did you do with the screw-driver?
You might have left it at the house."
"I might have, but I didn't. No; I'm not
getting up a combination and then leaving the key
around loose. No, sir; there's only one of those
screw-drivers, and I take care of it myself. I'll
show it to you."
The old man went to a drawer, which he unlocked,
and brought back the tool.
"You see what it is," he continued—"double-ended.
This end is just the common every-day
screw-driver. That is for the dummies that fill up
the hollow ends after the bolts are sent home. The
other end, you see, looks just like an ordinary screw
with straight sides. There's a shoulder to keep it
from jamming. Now that's the only one of those,
and I keep it locked in that drawer with a Yale lock,
and the key is always in my pocket. No; I guess
that coffin wasn't opened after I shut it."
Mr. Barnes examined the tool closely, and formed
his own conclusions, which he thought best to keep
to himself.
"Yes," said he aloud; "it does seem as though
the mistake must be in the identification."
"What did I tell you?" exclaimed Mr. Berial,
delighted at thinking that he had convinced the
detective. "Oh, I guess I know my business."
"I was told at the house," said Mr. Barnes, "that
when you left, after closing the coffin, one of your
men stayed behind. Why was that?"
"Oh, I was hungry and anxious to get back for
dinner. One of my men, Jack, I brought away with
me, because I had to send him up to another place
to get some final directions for another funeral.
The other man stayed behind to straighten up the
place and bring off our things in the wagon."
"Who was this man? What is his name?"
"Jerry, we called him. I don't know his last
name."
"I would like to have a talk with him. Can I
see him?"
"I am afraid not. He isn't working with me
any more."
"How was that?"
"He left, that's all. Threw up his job."
"When was that?"
"This morning."
"This morning?"
"Yes; just as soon as I got here, about eight
o'clock."
Mr. Barnes wondered whether there was any connection
between this man's giving up his position,
and the account of the discoveries in regard to Mr.
Quadrant's body which the morning papers had
published.
VI
"Mr. Berial," said Mr. Barnes after a few
moments' thought, "I wish you would let me have
a little talk with your man—Jack, I think you called
him. And I would like to speak to him alone if you
don't mind. I feel that I must find this other fellow,
Jerry, and perhaps Jack may be able to give
me some information as to his home, unless you can
yourself tell me where he lives."
"No; I know nothing about him," said Mr.
Berial. "Of course you can speak to Jack. I'll
call him in here and I'll be off to attend to some
business. That will leave you alone with him."
Jack, when he came in, proved to be a character.
Mr. Barnes soon discovered that he had little faith
in the good intentions of any one in the world except
himself. He evidently was one of those men
who go through life with a grievance, feeling that
all people have in some way contributed to their
misfortune.
"Your name is Jack," said Mr. Barnes; "Jack
what?"
"Jackass, you might say," answered the fellow,
with a coarse attempt at wit.
"And why, pray?"
"Well, a jackass works like a slave, don't he?
And what does he get out of it? Lots of blows,
plenty of cuss words, and a little fodder. It's the
same with yours truly."
"Very well, my man, have your joke. But now
tell me your name. I am a detective."
"The devil a much I care for that. I ain't got
nothin' to hide. My name's Randal, if you must
have it. Jack Randal."
"Very good. Now I want to ask you a few
questions about the funeral of Mr. Quadrant."
"Ask away. Nobody's stoppin' you."
"You assisted in preparing the body for the
coffin, I think?"
"Yes, and helped to put him in it."
"Have you any idea how he got out of it
again?" asked Mr. Barnes suddenly.
"Nit. Leastways, not any worth mentionin',
since I can't prove what I might think."
"But I should like to know what you think, anyway,"
persisted the detective.
"Well, I think he was took out," said Randal
with a hoarse laugh.
"Then you do not believe that he was cremated?"
"Cremated? Not on your life. If he was made
into ashes, would he turn up again a floater and
drift onto the marble at the Morgue? I don't
think."
"But how could the body have gotten out of the
coffin?"
"He couldn't. I never saw a stiff do that,
except once, at an Irish wake, and that fellow
wasn't dead. No, the dead don't walk. Not
these days. I tell you, he was took out of the
box. That's as plain as your nose, not meanin'
to be personal."
"Come, come, you have said all that before.
What I want to know is, how you think he could
have been taken out of the coffin."
"Lifted out, I reckon."
Mr. Barnes saw that nothing would be gained by
getting angry, though the fellow's persistent flippancy
annoyed him extremely. He thought best
to appear satisfied with his answers, and to endeavor
to get his information by slow degrees, since he could
not get it more directly.
"Were you present when the coffin lid was
fastened?"
"Yes; the boss did that."
"How was it fastened? With the usual style of
screws?"
"Oh, no! We used the boss's patent screw, warranted
to keep the corpse securely in his grave.
Once stowed away in the boss's patent screw-top
casket, no ghost gets back to trouble the long-suffering
family."
"You know all about these patent coffin-screws?"
"Why, sure. Ain't I been working with old
Berial these three years?"
"Does Mr. Berial always screw on the coffin lids
himself?"
"Yes; he's stuck on it."
"He keeps the screw-driver in his own possession?"
"So he thinks."
"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Barnes, immediately
attentive.
"Just what I say. Old Berial thinks he's got
the only screw-driver."
"But you know that there is another?"
"Who says so? I don't know anything of the
sort."
"Why, then, do you cast a doubt upon the matter
by saying that Mr. Berial thinks he has the only
one?"
"Because I do doubt it, that's all."
"Why do you doubt it?"
"Oh, I don't know. A fellow can't always
account for what he thinks, can he?"
"You must have some reason for thinking there
may be a duplicate of that screw-driver."
"Well, what if I have?"
"I would like to know it."
"No doubt! But it ain't right to cast suspicions
when you can't prove a thing, is it?"
"Perhaps others may find the proof."
"Just so. People in your trade are pretty good
at that, I reckon."
"Good at what?"
"Proving things that don't exist."
"But if your suspicion is groundless, there can be
no harm in telling it to me."
"Oh, there's grounds enough for what I think.
Look here, suppose a case. Suppose a party, a
young female party, dies. Suppose her folks think
they'd like to have her hands crossed on her breast.
Suppose a man, me, for instance, helps the boss fix
up that young party with her hands crossed, and
suppose there's a handsome shiner, a fust-water
diamond, on one finger. Suppose we screw down
that coffin lid tight at night, and the boss carts off
his pet screw-driver. Then suppose next day, when
he opens that coffin for the visitors to have a last
look at the young person, that the other man, meanin'
me, happens to notice that the shiner is missin'.
If no other person notices it, that's because they're
too busy grievin'. But that's the boss's luck, I
say. The diamond's gone, just the same, ain't it?
Now, you wouldn't want to claim that the young
person come out of that patent box and give that
diamond away in the night, would you? If she
come out at all, I should say it was in the form of a
ghost, and I never heard of ghosts wearin' diamonds,
or givin' away finger rings. Did you?"
"Do you mean to say that such a thing as this
has occurred?"
"Oh, I ain't sayin' a word. I don't make no
accusations. You can draw your own conclusions.
But in a case like that you would think there was
more than one of them screw-drivers, now, wouldn't
you?"
"I certainly should, unless we imagined that Mr.
Berial himself returned to the house and stole the
ring. But that, of course, is impossible."
"Is it?"
"Why, would you think that Mr. Berial would
steal?"
"Who knows? We're all honest, till we're
caught."
"Tell me this. If Mr. Berial keeps that screw-driver
always in his own possession, how could any
one have a duplicate of it made?"
"Dead easy. If you can't see that, you're as
soft as the old man."
"Perhaps I am. But tell me how it could be
done."
"Why, just see. That tool is double-ended.
But one end is just a common, ordinary screw-driver.
You don't need to imitate that. The
other end is just a screw that fits into the thread at
the end of the bolts. Now old Berial keeps his
precious screw-driver locked up, but the bolts lay
around by the gross. Any man about the place
could take one and have a screw cut to fit it, and
there you are."
This was an important point, and Mr. Barnes was
glad to have drawn it out. It now became only too
plain that the patented device was no hindrance to
any one knowing of it, and especially to one who had
access to the bolts. This made it the more necessary
to find the man Jerry.
"There was another man besides yourself who
assisted at the Quadrant funeral, was there not?"
asked Mr. Barnes.
"There was another man, but he didn't assist
much. He was no good."
"What was this man's name?"
"That's why I say he's no good. He called
himself Jerry Morton, but it didn't take me long
to find out that his name was really Jerry Morgan.
Now a man with two names is usually a crook, to
my way of thinkin'."
"He gave up his job here this morning, did he
not?"
"Did he?"
"Yes. Can you tell why he should have done
so? Was he not well enough paid?"
"Too well, I take it. He got the same money I
do, and I done twice as much work. So he's
chucked it, has he? Well, I shouldn't wonder if
there was good reason."
"What reason?"
"Oh, I don't know. That story about old Quadrant
floatin' back was in the papers to-day, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"Very well. There you are."
"You mean that this man Morgan might have
had a hand in that?"
"Oh, he had a hand in it all right. So did I
and the boss, for that matter. But the boss and
me left him screwed tight in his box, and Jerry he
was left behind to pick up, as it were. And he had
the wagon too. Altogether, I should say he had
the chance if anybody. But mind you, I ain't
makin' no accusations."
"Then, if Jerry did this, he must have had a
duplicate screw-driver?"
"You're improvin', you are. You begin to see
things. But I never seen him with no screw-driver,
remember that."
"Was he in Mr. Berial's employment at the time
of the other affair?"
"What other affair?"
"The case of the young lady from whose finger
the diamond ring was stolen."
"Oh, that. Why, he might have been, of course,
but then, you know, we was only supposin' a case
there. We didn't say that was a real affair."
Randal laughed mockingly.
"Have you any idea as to where I could find this
man Morgan?"
"I don't think you will find him."
"Why not?"
"Skipped, I guess. He wouldn't chuck this job
just to take a holiday."
"Do you know where he lived?"
"Eleventh Avenue near Fifty-fourth Street. I
don't know the number, but it was over the butcher
shop."
"If this man Morgan did this thing, can you
imagine why he did it?"
"For pay; you can bet on that. Morgan ain't
the man as would take a risk like that for the fun of
the thing."
"But how could he hope to be paid for such an
act?"
"Oh, he wouldn't hope. You don't know
Jerry. He'd be paid, part in advance anyway,
and balance on demand."
"But who would pay him, and with what object?"
"Oh, I don't know. But let me tell you something.
Them brothers weren't all so lovin' to one
another as the outside world thinks. In the fust
place, as I gathered by listenin' to the talk of the
servants, the one they called Amos didn't waste no
love on the dead one, though I guess the other one,
Mark, liked him some. I think he liked the widow
even better." Here he laughed. "Now the dead
man wanted to be cremated—that is, he said so before
he was dead. The widow didn't relish the
idea, but she ain't strong-minded enough to push
her views. Now we'll suppose a case again. I
like that style, it don't commit you to anything.
Well, suppose this fellow Mark thinks he'll get into
the good graces of the widow by hindering the cremation.
He stands out agin it. Amos he says the
old fellow wanted to be burned, and let him burn.
'He'll burn in hell, anyway.' That nice, sweet
remark he did make, I'll tell you that much. Then
the brothers they quarrel. And a right good row
they did have, so I hear. Now we'll suppose again.
Why couldn't our friend, Mr. Mark, have got up
this scheme to stop the cremation?"
Mr. Barnes was startled to hear this man suggest
exactly what Mark himself had hinted at. Could it
be only a coincidence or was it really the solution
of the mystery? But if so, what of the body that
was really cremated? But then again the only evidence
in his possession on that point was the bare
statement in the note received from Mr. Mitchel.
Two constructions could be placed upon that note.
First, it might have been honestly written by Mr.
Mitchel, who really believed what he wrote, though,
smart as he was, he might have been mistaken.
Secondly, the note might merely have been written
to send Mr. Barnes off on a wrong clue, thus leaving
Mr. Mitchel a chance to follow up the right one.
Resuming his conversation with Randal, Mr. Barnes
said:
"Then you imagine that Mr. Mark Quadrant
hired this man Morgan to take away the body and
hide it until after the funeral?"
"Oh, I don't know. All I'll say is, I don't
think Jerry would be too good for a little job like
that. Say, you're not a bad sort, as detectives go.
I don't mind givin' you a tip."
"I am much obliged, I am sure," said Mr.
Barnes, smiling at the fellow's presumption.
"Don't mention it. I make no charge. But see.
Have you looked at the corpse at the Morgue?"
"No. Why?"
"Well, I stopped in this morning and had a peep
at him. I guess it's Quadrant all right."
"Have you any special way of knowing that?"
"Well, when the boss was injectin' the embalmin'
fluid, he stuck the needle in the wrong place
first, and had to put it in again. That made two
holes. They're both there. You might wonder
why we embalmed a body that was to be cremated.
You see, we didn't know the family wasn't going
to let him be seen, and we was makin' him look
natural."
"And you are sure there are two punctures in
the body at the Morgue?"
"Dead sure. That's a joke. But that ain't the
tip I want to give you. This is another case of
diamond rings."
"You mean that there were diamond rings left on
the hand when the body was placed in the coffin?"
"One solitaire; a jim dandy. And likewise a
ruby, set deep like a carbuncle, I think they call
them other red stones. Then on the little finger of
the other hand there was a solid gold ring, with a
flat top to it, and a letter 'Q' in it, made of little
diamonds. Them rings never reached the Morgue."
"But even so, that does not prove that they were
taken by the man who removed the corpse from the
coffin. They might have been taken by those who
found the body in the river."
"Nit. Haven't you read the papers? Boys
found it, but they called in the police to get it out
of the water. Since then the police has been in
charge. Now I ain't got none too good an opinion
of the police myself, but they don't rob the dead.
They squeeze the livin', all right, but not the dead.
Put that down. You can believe, if you like, that
Jerry carted that body off to the river and dumped
it in, diamond rings and all. But as I said before,
you don't know Jerry. No, sir, if I was you, I'd
find them rings, and find out how they got there.
And maybe I can help you there, too,—that is, if
you'll make it worth my while."
Mr. Barnes understood the hint and responded
promptly:
"Here is a five-dollar bill," said he. "And if
you really tell me anything that aids me in finding
the rings, I will give you ten more."
"That's the talk," said Randal, taking the
money. "Well, it's this way. You'll find that
crooks, like other fly birds, has regular haunts.
Now I happen to know that Jerry spouted his
watch, a silver affair, but a good timer, once, and I
take it he'd carry the rings where he's known,
'specially as I'm pretty sure the pawnbroker ain't
over inquisitive about where folks gets the things
they borrow on. If I was you, I'd try the shop on
Eleventh Avenue by Fiftieth Street. It don't look
like a rich place, but that kind don't want to attract
too much attention."
"I will go there. I have no doubt that if he took
the rings we will find them at that place. One thing
more. How was Mr. Quadrant dressed when you
placed him in the coffin? The newspapers make
no mention of the clothing found on him."
"Oh, we didn't dress him. You see, he was to
be burned, so we just shrouded him. Nothin' but
plain white cloth. No buttons or nothin' that
wouldn't burn up. The body at the Morgue was
found without no clothes of any kind. I'd recognize
that shroud, though, if it turns up. So there's
another point for you."
"One thing more. You are evidently sure that
Mr. Quadrant's body was taken out of the coffin.
Do you think, then, that the coffin was empty when
they took it to the crematory?"
"Why, sure! What could there be in it?"
"Suppose I were to tell you that another detective
has examined the ashes and declares that he can
prove that a human body was burned with that
coffin. What would you say?"
"I'd say he was a liar. I'd say he was riggin'
you to get you off the scent. No, sir! Don't you
follow no such blind trail as that."
VII
As Mr. Barnes left the undertaker's shop he observed
Mr. Burrows coming towards him. It will
be recalled that this young detective, now connected
with the regular police force of the metropolis, had
earlier in life been a protégé of Mr. Barnes. It was
not difficult to guess from his being in this neighborhood
that to him had been intrusted an investigation
of the Quadrant mystery.
"Why, hello, Mr. Barnes," Mr. Burrows exclaimed,
as he recognized his old friend. "What
are you doing about here? Nosing into this Quadrant
matter, I'll be bound."
"It is an attractive case," replied Mr. Barnes, in
non-committal language. "Are you taking care of
it for the office?"
"Yes; and the more I look into it the more complicated
I find it. If you are doing any work on it,
I wouldn't mind comparing notes."
"Very well, my boy," said Mr. Barnes, after a
moment's thought, "I will confess that I have gone
a little way into this. What have you done?"
"Well, in the first place, there was another examination
by the doctors this morning. There isn't
a shadow of doubt that the man at the Morgue was
dead when thrown into the water. What's more,
he died in his bed."
"Of what disease?"
"Cancer of the stomach. Put that down as fact
number one. Fact number two is that the mark on
his face is exactly the same, and from the same skin
disease that old Quadrant had. Seems he also had
a cancer, so I take it the identification is complete;
especially as the family say it is their relative."
"Do they all agree to that?"
"Why, yes—that is, all except the youngest
brother. He says he guesses it's his brother.
Something about that man struck me as peculiar."
"Ah! Then you have seen him?"
"Yes. Don't care to talk to detectives. Wants
the case hushed up; says there's nothing in it.
Now I know there is something in it, and I am not
sure he tells all he knows."
"Have you formed any definite conclusion as to
the motive in this case?"
"The motive for what?"
"Why, for removing the body from the coffin."
"Well, I think the motive of the man who did it
was money. What the motive of the man who
hired him was, I can't prove yet."
"Oh! Then you think there are two in it?"
"Yes; I'm pretty sure of that. And I think I
can put my finger on the man that made the actual
transfer."
The two men were walking as they talked, Mr.
Burrows having turned and joined the older detective.
Mr. Barnes was surprised to find his friend
advancing much the same theory as that held by
Randal. He was more astonished, however, at the
next reply elicited. He asked:
"Do you mind naming this man?"
"Not to you, if you keep it quiet till I'm ready
to strike. I'm pretty sure that the party who carried
the body away and put it in the river was the
undertaker's assistant, a fellow who calls himself
Randal."
Mr. Barnes started, but quickly regained his self-control.
Then he said:
"Randal? Why, how could he have managed it?"
"Easily enough. It seems that the coffin was
closed at five on the afternoon before the funeral,
and the undertaker was told, in the presence of this
fellow Randal, that it would not be opened again.
Then the family went in to dine, and Berial and the
other man, a fellow with an alias, but whose true
name is Morgan, left the house, the other one,
Randal, remaining behind to clear up. The undertaker's
wagon was also there, and Randal drove it
to the stables half an hour or so later."
Mr. Barnes noted here that there was a discrepancy
between the facts as related by Mr. Burrows and as
he himself had heard them. He had been told by
Berial himself that it was "Jack" who had left the
house with him, while Burrows evidently believed
that it was Jack Randal who had been left behind.
It was important, therefore, to learn whether there
existed any other reason for suspecting Randal
rather than Morgan.
"But though he may have had this opportunity,"
said Mr. Barnes, "you would hardly connect him
with this matter without corroborative evidence."
"Oh, the case is not complete yet," said Mr.
Burrows; "but I have had this fellow Randal
watched for three days. We at the office knew
about this identification before the newspapers got
hold of it, be sure of that. Now one curious thing
that he has done was to attempt to destroy some
pawn-tickets."
"Pawn-tickets?"
"Yes. I was shadowing him myself last night,
when I saw him tear up some paper and drop the
pieces in the gutter at the side of the pavement. I
let my man go on, for the sake of recovering those
bits of paper. It took some perseverance and no
little time, but I found them, and when put together,
as I have said, they proved to be pawn-tickets."
"Have you looked at the property represented
yet?"
"No. Would you like to go with me? We'll
go together. I was about to make my first open
appearance at the undertaker's shop to face this
fellow, when you met me. But there's time enough
for that. We'll go and look at the rings if you say
the word."
"Rings, are they?" said Mr. Barnes. "Why, I
would like nothing better. They might have been
taken from the corpse."
"Haven't a doubt of it," said Mr. Burrows.
"Here are the pawn-tickets. There are two of
them. Both for rings." He handed the two pawn-tickets
to Mr. Barnes. The pieces had been pasted
on another bit of paper and the two were consequently
now on a single sheet. Mr. Barnes looked
at them closely and then said:
"Why, Burrows, these are made out in the name
of Jerry Morgan. Are you sure you have made no
mistake in this affair?"
"Mistake? Not a bit of it. That fellow thinks
he is smart, but I don't agree with him. He imagines
that we might guess that one of those who had
the handling of the body did this job, and when he
pawned the rings he just used the other fellow's
name. It's an old trick, and not very good, either."
Mr. Barnes was not entirely convinced, though
the theory was possible, nay, plausible. In which
case, the tip which Randal had given to Mr. Barnes
was merely a part of his rather commonplace scheme
of self-protection at the expense of a fellow-workman.
He was glad now that he had met Burrows,
for his possession of the pawn-tickets made it easy
to visit the pawnbroker and see the rings; while his
connection with the regular force would enable him
to seize them should they prove to have been stolen
from the body of Mr. Quadrant. It was noteworthy
that the pawn-tickets had been issued by the man
to whose place Randal had directed him. Arrived
there, Mr. Burrows demanded to see the rings, to
which the pawnbroker at first demurred, arguing
that the tickets had been torn, that they had not
been issued to the one presenting them, and that
unless they were to be redeemed he must charge a
fee of twenty-five cents for showing the goods. To
all of this Mr. Burrows listened patiently and then
showing his shield said meaningly:
"Now, friend Isaac, you get those rings out, and
it will be better for you. The Chief has had an eye
on this little shop of yours for some time."
"So help me Moses!" said the man, "he can
keep both eyes on if he likes."
But his demeanor changed, and with considerable
alacrity he brought out the rings. There were
three, just as Randal had described to Mr. Barnes,
including the one with the initial "Q" set in
diamonds.
"Who left these with you?" asked Mr. Burrows.
"The name is on the ticket," answered the pawnbroker.
"You are inaccurate, my friend. A name is on
the ticket, yes, but not the name. Now tell me
the truth."
"It's all straight. I ain't hiding anything.
Morgan brought the things here."
"Morgan, eh? You are sure his name is Morgan?
Quite sure?"
"Why, that's the name I know him by. Sometimes
he goes by the name of Morton, I've heard.
But with me it's always been Morgan, Jerry Morgan,
just as it reads on the ticket."
"Oh, then you know this man Morgan?"
"No; only that he borrows money on security
once in a while."
"Well, now, if his name is Morgan, did you think
this ring with a 'Q' on it was his? Does 'Q'
stand for Morgan?"
"That's none of my affair. Heavens, I can't
ask everybody where they get things. They'd be
insulted."
"Insulted! That's a good one. Well, when I
get my hands on this chap he'll be badly insulted,
for I'll ask him a lot of questions. Now, Isaac, let
me tell you what this 'Q' stands for. It stands for
Quadrant, and that's the name of the man found in
the river lately, and these three rings came off his
fingers. After death, Isaac; after death! What
do you think of that?"
"You don't say! I'm astonished!"
"Are you, now? Never thought your friend
Morgan or Morton, who works out by the day,
and brought valuable diamonds to pawn, would do
such a thing, did you? Thought he bought these
things out of his wages, eh?"
"I never knew he wasn't honest, so help me
Moses! or I wouldn't have had a thing to do with
him."
"Perhaps not. You're too honest yourself to
take 'swag' from a 'crook,' even though you loan
about one quarter of the value."
"I gave him all he asked for. He promised to
take them out again."
"Well, he won't, Isaac. I'll take them out
myself."
"You don't mean you're going to keep the
rings? Where do I come in?"
"You're lucky you don't come into jail."
"May I ask this man a few questions, Burrows?"
said Mr. Barnes.
"As many as you like, and see that you answer
straight, Isaac. Don't forget what I hinted about
the Chief having an eye on you."
"Why, of course, I'll answer anything."
"You say you have known this man Morgan for
some time?" asked Mr. Barnes. "Can you give me
an idea of how he looks?"
"Why, I ain't much on descriptions. Morgan
is a short fellow, rather stocky, and he's got
dark hair and a mustache that looks like a paintbrush."
Mr. Barnes recalled the description which the
butler had given of the man who had remained at
the house when the others went away, and this
tallied very well with it. As Berial had declared
that it was Morgan who had been left at the house,
and as this description did not fit Randal at all, he
being above medium height, with a beardless face
which made him seem younger than he probably
was, it began to look as though in some way Mr.
Burrows had made a mistake, and that Randal was
not criminally implicated, though perhaps he had
stolen the pawn-tickets, and subsequently destroyed
them when he found that a police investigation was
inevitable.
There was no object in further questioning the
pawnbroker, who pleaded that as the owners of the
property were rich, and as he had "honestly" made
the loan, they might be persuaded to return to him
the amount of his advance, adding that he would
willingly throw off his "interest."
Leaving the place, and walking together across
town, Mr. Barnes said to Mr. Burrows:
"Tom, I am afraid you are on a wrong scent.
That man Randal stole those pawn-tickets. He did
not himself pawn the rings."
"Maybe," said the younger man, only half convinced.
"But you mark my word. Randal is in
this. Don't believe all that 'fence' says. He may
be in with Randal. I fancy that Randal pawned
the things, but made the Jew put Morgan's name
on them. Now that we ask him questions, he declares
that Morgan brought them to him, either to
protect Randal, or most likely to protect himself.
Since there is a real Morgan, and he knew the man,
he had no right to write his name on those tickets
for things brought to him by some one else."
"But why are you so sure that Morgan is innocent?
How do you know that he was the one that
went off with old Berial when they left the house?"
"Simply because the other man, Randal, took
the wagon back to the stables."
"Are you certain of that?"
"Absolutely. I have been to the stables, and
they all tell the same story. Randal took the
wagon out, harnessing the horse himself, as he often
did. And Randal brought it back again, after six
o'clock; of that they are certain, because the place
is merely a livery for express wagons, trucks, and
the like. The regular stable-boys go off between
six and seven, and there is no one in charge at night
except the watchman. The drivers usually take
care of their own horses. Now the watchman was
already there when Randal came in with the wagon,
and two of the stable-boys also saw him."
"Now, Tom, you said that in your belief there
was another man in this case,—one who really was
the principal. Have you any suspicion as to that
man's identity?"
"Here's my idea," said Mr. Burrows. "This
fellow Randal was sounded by the man who finally
engaged him for the job, and, proving to be the right
sort, was engaged. He was to take the body out of
the coffin and carry it away. The man who hired
Randal must have been one of the brothers."
"Why?"
"It must have been, else the opportunity could
not have been made, for, mark me, it was made.
See! The widow was taken to the room to see the
corpse, and then it was arranged that the coffin
should be closed and not opened again before the
funeral. That was to make all sure. Then came
the closing of the coffin and the departure of two of
the undertakers. The third, Randal, remained behind,
and while the family lingered at dinner the
job was done. The body was carried out to the
wagon and driven off. Now we come to the question,
which of the brothers did this?"
"Which have you decided upon?"
"Why, the object of this devilish act was to
please the widow by preventing this cremation to
which she objected. The man who concocted that
scheme thought that when the body should be
found it would then be buried, which would gratify
the widow. Now why did he wish to gratify her?
Because he's in love with her. She's not old, you
know, and she's still pretty."
"Then you think that Mark Quadrant concocted
this scheme?"
"No! I think that Amos Quadrant is our man."
It seemed destined that Mr. Burrows should surprise
Mr. Barnes. If the older detective was astonished
when he had heard Burrows suggest that Randal
had been the accomplice in this affair, he was more
astounded now to hear him accuse the elder brother
of being the principal. For, had not Mark Quadrant
told him that it was Amos who had insisted
upon the cremation? And that Amos, being the
elder, had assumed the control of the funeral?
"Burrows," said Mr. Barnes, "I hope that you
are not merely following your impulsive imagination?"
Mr. Burrows colored as he replied with some heat:
"You need not forever twit me with my stupidity
in my first case. Of course I may be mistaken, but
I am doing routine work on this affair. I have not
any real proof yet to support my theories. If I had
I should make an arrest. But I have evidence
enough to make it my duty to go ahead on definite
lines. When the mystery clears a little, I may see
things differently."
"I should like to know why you think that Amos
is in love with his sister-in-law."
"Perhaps it would be safer to claim that he was
once in love with her. The past is a certainty, the
present mere conjecture. I got the tip from a slip
of the tongue made by Dr. Mortimer, and I have
corroborated the facts since. I was speaking with
Dr. Mortimer of the possibility of there being any
ill-feeling between the members of this family, when
he said: 'I believe there was some hard feeling between
the deceased and his brother Amos arising
from jealousy.' When he had let the word 'jealousy'
pass his lips, he closed up like a clam, and
when I pressed him, tried to pass it off by saying
that Amos was jealous of his brother's business and
social successes. But that did not go down with
me, so I have had some guarded inquiries made,
with the result that it is certain that Amos loved
this woman before she accepted Rufus."
"What if I tell you that I have heard that the
younger brother, Mark, is in love with the widow,
and that it was he who opposed cremation, while it
was Amos who insisted upon carrying out the wishes
of his brother?"
"What should I say to that? Well, I should say
that you probably got that yarn from Randal, and
that he had been 'stuffing you,' as the vernacular
has it, hoping you'll excuse the vulgar expression."
It nettled Mr. Barnes to have his younger confrère
guess so accurately the source of his information,
and to hear him discredit it so satirically. He
recognized, however, that upon the evidence offered
Mr. Burrows had not yet made out his case, and that
therefore the mystery was yet far from solved.
"Look here, Burrows," said Mr. Barnes. "Take
an older man's advice. Don't go too fast in this
case. Before you come to any conclusion, find this
man Jerry Morgan."
"Why, there won't be any trouble about that."
"Oh, then you know where he is?"
"Why, he is still with Berial. At least he was
up to last night."
"Ah, now we come to it!" Mr. Barnes was
gratified to find that Burrows had not kept full control
of his case. "Last night was many hours ago.
Morgan threw up his job this morning, and left."
"The devil you say!"
"Oh, yes," said Mr. Barnes, determined now
to make Mr. Burrows a little uncomfortable. "I
have no doubt he intends to skip out, but, of course,
he cannot get away. You have him shadowed?"
"Why, no, I have not," said Mr. Burrows, dejectedly.
"You see, I did not connect him in my
mind with——"
"Perhaps he is not connected with the case in
your mind, Burrows, but he is connected with it in
fact. He is unquestionably the key to the situation
at present. With him in our hands we could decide
whether it was he or Randal who pawned those
rings. Without him we can prove nothing. In
short, until you get at him the case is at a standstill."
"You are right, Mr. Barnes," said Mr. Burrows,
manfully admitting his error. "I have been an ass.
I was so sure about Randal that I did not use
proper precautions, and Morgan has slipped through
my fingers. But I'll find his trail, and I'll track
him. I'll follow him to the opposite ocean if necessary,
but I'll bring him back."
"That is the right spirit, Tom. Find him and
bring him back if you can. If you cannot, then
get the truth out of him. Let me say one thing
more. For the present at least, work upon the
supposition that it was he who pawned those rings.
In that case he has at least two hundred dollars for
travelling expenses."
"You are right. I'll begin at once without
losing another minute."
"Where will you start?"
"I'll start where he started—at his own house.
He's left there by now, of course, but I'll have a
look at the place and talk a bit with the neighbors.
When you hear from me again, I'll have Morgan."
VIII
Mr. Barnes returned to his home that night feeling
well satisfied with his day's work. With little
real knowledge he had started out in the morning,
and within ten hours he had dipped deeply into the
heart of the mystery. Yet he felt somewhat like a
man who has succeeded in working his way into the
thickest part of a forest, with no certainty as to where
he might emerge again, or how. Moreover, though
he had seemingly accomplished so much during the
first day, he seemed destined to make little headway
for many days thereafter. On the second day of
his investigation he ascertained one fact which was
more misleading than helpful. It will be recalled
that Mark Quadrant had told him that his brother
had a scar on the sole of his foot made by cutting
himself whilst in swimming. Mr. Barnes went to
the Morgue early, and examined both feet most carefully.
There was no such scar, nor was it possible
that there ever could have been. The feet were absolutely
unmarred. Could it be possible that, in
spite of the apparently convincing proof that this
body had been correctly identified, nevertheless a
mistake had been made?
This question puzzled the detective mightily, and
he longed impatiently for an opportunity to talk
with one of the family, especially with the elder
brother, Amos. Delay, however, seemed unavoidable.
The police authorities, having finally accepted
the identification, delivered the body to the Quadrants,
and a second funeral occurred. Thus two
more days elapsed before Mr. Barnes felt at liberty
to intrude, especially as it was not known that he
had been regularly retained by Mrs. Quadrant.
Meanwhile nothing was heard from Burrows, who
had left the city, and, as a further annoyance, Mr.
Barnes was unable to catch Mr. Mitchel at home
though he called three times. Failing to meet that
gentleman, and chafing at his enforced inactivity,
the detective finally concluded to visit the cemetery
in the hope of learning what had occurred when Mr.
Mitchel had inspected the ashes. Again, however,
was he doomed to disappointment. His request to
be allowed to examine the contents of the urn was
refused, strict orders to that effect having been imposed
by the Chief of the regular detective force.
"You see," explained the superintendent, "we
could not even let you look into the urn upon the
order of one of the family, because they have claimed
the body at the Morgue, and so they have no claim
on these ashes. If a body was burned that day,
then there is a body yet to be accounted for, and
the authorities must guard the ashes as their only
chance to make out a case. Of course they can't
identify ashes, but the expert chemists claim they
can tell whether a human body or only an empty
coffin was put into the furnace."
"And are the experts making such an analysis?"
asked Mr. Barnes.
"Yes. The Chief himself came here with two of
them, the day before yesterday. They emptied out
the ashes onto a clean marble slab, and looked all
through the pile. Then they put some in two
bottles, and sealed the bottles, and then put the
balance back in the urn and sealed that also. So,
you see, there isn't any way for me to let you look
into that urn."
"No, of course not," admitted the detective, reluctantly.
"Tell me, was any one else present at
this examination besides the Chief and the two
experts?"
"Yes. A gentleman they called Mitchel, I believe."
Mr. Barnes had expected this answer, yet it irritated
him to hear it. Mr. Mitchel had information
which the detective would have given much to share.
During the succeeding days he made numerous
ineffectual efforts to have an interview with Amos
Quadrant, but repeatedly was told that he was
"Not at home." Mrs. Quadrant, too, had left
town for a rest at one of their suburban homes, and
Mark Quadrant had gone with her. The city house,
with its closed shutters, seemed as silent as the
grave, and the secret of what had occurred within
those walls seemed almost hopelessly buried.
"What a pity," thought the detective, "that
walls do not have tongues as well as ears."
A week later Mr. Barnes was more fortunate. He
called at the Quadrant mansion, expecting to once
more hear the servant say coldly, "Not at home,"
in answer to his inquiry for Mr. Quadrant, when, to
his surprise and pleasure, Mr. Quadrant himself
stepped out of the house as he approached it. The
detective went up to him boldly, and said:
"Mr. Quadrant, I must have a few words with
you."
"Must?" said Mr. Quadrant with an angry inflection.
"I think not. Move out of my way, and
let me pass."
"Not until you have given me an interview," said
Mr. Barnes firmly, without moving.
"You are impertinent, sir. If you interfere with
me further, I will have you arrested," said Mr.
Quadrant, now thoroughly aroused.
"If you call a policeman," said Mr. Barnes,
calmly, "I will have you arrested."
"And upon what charge, pray?" said Mr. Quadrant,
contemptuously.
"I will accuse you of instigating the removal of
your brother's body from the coffin."
"You are mad."
"There are others who hold this view, so it would
be wise for you to move carefully in this matter."
"Would you object to telling me what others
share your extraordinary opinion?"
"I did not say that it is my opinion. More than
that, I will say that it is not my opinion, not at
present at all events. But it is the view which is
receiving close attention at police headquarters."
"Are you one of the detectives?"
"I am a detective, but not connected with the
city force."
"Then by what right do you intrude yourself
into this affair?"
Mr. Barnes knew that he must play his best card
now, to gain his point with this man. He watched
him closely as he answered:
"I am employed by Mrs. Quadrant."
There was an unmistakable start. Amos Quadrant
was much disturbed to hear that his sister-in-law
had hired a detective, and curiously enough he
made no effort to hide his feelings. With some
show of emotion he said in a low voice:
"In that case, perhaps, we should better have a
talk together. Come in."
With these words he led the way into the house,
and invited the detective into the same room wherein
he had talked with Mark Quadrant. When they had
found seats, Mr. Quadrant opened the conversation
immediately.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"John Barnes," was the reply.
"Barnes? I have heard of you. Well, Mr.
Barnes, let me be very frank with you. Above all
things it has been my wish that this supposed
mystery should not be cleared up. To me it is a
matter of no consequence who did this thing, or
why it was done. Indeed, what suspicions have
crossed my mind make me the more anxious not to
know the truth. Feeling thus, I should have done
all in my power to hinder the work of the regular
police. When you tell me that my sister-in-law has
engaged your services, you take me so by surprise
that I am compelled to think a bit in order to determine
what course to pursue. You can readily understand
that my position is a delicate and embarrassing
one."
"I understand that thoroughly, and you have my
sympathy, Mr. Quadrant."
"You may mean that well, but I do not thank
you," said Mr. Quadrant, coldly. "I want no
man's sympathy. This is purely an impersonal interview,
and I prefer to have that distinctly prominent
in our minds throughout this conversation. Let
there be no misunderstanding and no false pretenses.
You are a detective bent upon discovering the author
of certain singular occurrences. I am a man upon
whom suspicion has alighted; and, moreover, guilty
or innocent, I desire to prevent you from accomplishing
your purpose. I do not wish the truth to
be known. Do we understand one another?"
"Perfectly," said Mr. Barnes, astonished by the
man's manner and admiring his perfect self-control
and his bold conduct.
"Then we may proceed," said Mr. Quadrant.
"Do you wish to ask me questions, or will you reply
to one or two from me?"
"I will answer yours first, if you will reply to
mine afterwards."
"I make no bargains. I will answer, but I do
not promise to tell you anything unless it pleases
me to do so. You have the same privilege. First,
then, tell me how it happened that Mrs. Quadrant
engaged you in this case."
"I called here, attracted merely by the extraordinary
features of this case, and Mrs. Quadrant
granted me a short interview, at the end of which
she offered to place the matter in my hands as her
representative."
"Ah! Then she did not of her own thought send
for you?"
"No."
"You told me that the regular detectives are considering
the theory that I instigated this affair. As
you used the word instigated, it should follow that
some other person, an accomplice, is suspected likewise.
Is that the idea?"
"That is one theory."
"And who, pray, is my alleged accomplice?"
"That I cannot tell you without betraying confidence."
"Very good. Next you declared that you yourself
do not share this view. Will you tell me on
what grounds you exculpate me?"
"With pleasure. The assumed reason for this
act of removing your brother from his coffin was to
prevent the cremation. Now it was yourself who
wished to have the body incinerated."
"You are mistaken. I did not wish it. On the
contrary, I most earnestly wished that there should
be no cremation. You see I incriminate myself."
He smiled painfully, and a dejected expression
crossed his face. For an instant he looked like a
man long tired of carrying some burden, then
quickly he recovered his composure.
"You astonish me," said Mr. Barnes. "I was
told by Mr. Mark that you insisted upon carrying
out your brother's wish in this matter of disposing
of his body."
"My brother told you that? Well, it is true.
He and I quarrelled about it. He wished to have a
regular burial, contrary to our brother's oft-repeated
injunction. I opposed him, and, being the elder, I
assumed the responsibility, and gave the orders."
"But you have admitted that you did not wish
this?"
"Do we always have our wishes gratified in this
world?"
The detective, watching the man's face closely,
again noted that expression of weariness cross his
features, and an instinctive feeling of pity was
aroused. Once more the skein became more entangled.
His own suspicion against Mark Quadrant
rested upon the supposition that the act was committed
with the intent of making capital out of it
with the widow, and was based upon the theory that
Amos wished to have his brother incinerated. If
now it should transpire that after all it was Amos
who managed the affair, his motive was a higher
one, for, while appearing to carry out the wishes of
his deceased brother, he must have aimed to gratify
the widow, without admitting her to the knowledge
that his hand had gained her purpose. This was a
higher, nobler love. Was Amos Quadrant of this
noble mould? The question crossing the detective's
mind met a startling answer which prompted Mr.
Barnes to ask suddenly:
"Is it true that, speaking of this cremation, you
said: 'Let him burn; he'll burn in hell anyway'?"
Amos Quadrant flushed deeply, and his face grew
stern as he answered:
"I presume you have witnesses who heard the
words, therefore it would be futile to deny it. It
was a brutal remark, but I made it. I was exasperated
by something which Mark had said, and
replied in anger."
"It is a sound doctrine, Mr. Quadrant," said the
detective, "that words spoken in anger often more
truly represent the speaker's feelings than what he
says when his tongue is bridled."
"Well?"
"If we take this view, then it is apparent that you
did not hold a very high regard for your brother."
"That is quite true. Why should I?"
"He was your brother."
"And because of the accident of birth, I was
bound to love him? A popular fallacy, Mr. Barnes.
He was equally bound, then, to love me, but he did
not. Indeed he wronged me most grievously."
"By marrying the woman you loved?"
Mr. Barnes felt ashamed of his question, as a
surgeon often must be sorry to insert the scalpel.
To his surprise it elicited no retort. Mr. Quadrant's
reply was calmly spoken. All he said was:
"Yes, he did that."
"Did she know?" ventured the detective hesitatingly.
"No, I think not—I hope not."
There was a painful pause. Mr. Quadrant looked
down at the floor, while Mr. Barnes watched him,
trying to decide whether the man were acting a part
with intent to deceive, as he had announced that he
would not hesitate to do; or whether he were telling
the truth, in which case the nobility of his character
was brought more into perspective.
"Are you sure," said Mr. Barnes after a pause,
"that the body taken from the river was that of
your brother Rufus?"
"Why do you ask that?" said Mr. Quadrant, on
the defensive at once. "Can there be any doubt?"
"Before I reply, let me ask you another question.
Did your brother Rufus have a scar on the sole of
his foot?"
The other man started perceptibly, and paused
some time before answering. Then he asked:
"What makes you think so?"
"Mr. Mark Quadrant told me that his brother
had such a scar, caused by gashing his foot while in
swimming."
"Ah, that is your source of information. Well,
when Mark told you that his brother had met with
such an accident, he told you the truth."
"But did the accident leave a scar?" Mr.
Barnes thought he detected a carefully worded
evasive answer.
"Yes, the cut left a bad scar; one easily noticed."
"In that case I can reply to your question. If,
as you both say, your brother had a scar on the sole
of his foot, then there exists considerable doubt as
to the identification of the body which was at the
Morgue, the body which you have both accepted
and buried as being that of your relative. Mr.
Quadrant, there was no scar on that body."
"Odd, isn't it?" said Mr. Quadrant, without
any sign of surprise.
"I should say it is very odd. How do you suppose
it can be explained?"
"I do not know, and, as I have told you before,
I do not care. Quite the reverse; the less
you comprehend this case the better pleased I
shall be."
"Mr. Quadrant," said Mr. Barnes, a little nettled,
"since you so frankly admit that you wish me to
fail, why should I not believe that you are telling
me a falsehood when you state that your brother
told me the truth?"
"There is no reason that I care to advance," said
Mr. Quadrant, "why you should believe me, but if
you do not, you will go astray. I repeat, what my
brother told you is true."
It seemed to the detective that in all his varied
experience he had never met with circumstances so
exasperatingly intricate. Here was an identification
for many reasons the most reliable that he had
known, and now there appeared to be a flaw of such
a nature that it could not be set aside. If the body
was that of Mr. Quadrant, then both these men had
lied. If they told the truth, then, in spite of science,
the doctors, and the family, the identification had
been false. In that case Rufus Quadrant had been
cremated after all, and this would account for the
statement in Mr. Mitchel's note that a human body
had been incinerated. Could it be that these two
brothers were jointly implicated in a murder, and
had pretended to recognize the body at the Morgue
in order to have it buried and to cover up their
crime? It seemed incredible. Besides, the coincidence
of the external and internal diseases was too
great.
"I would like to ask you a few questions in relation
to the occurrences on the day and evening preceding
the funeral," said Mr. Barnes, pursuing the
conversation, hoping to catch from the answers
some clue that might aid him.
"Which funeral?" said Mr. Quadrant.
"The first. I have been told that you and your
brother were present when the widow last viewed
the face of her husband, and that at that time,
about five o'clock, you jointly agreed that the coffin
should not be opened again. Is this true?"
"Accurate in every detail."
"Was the coffin closed at once? That is, before
you left the room?"
"The lower part of the coffin-top was, of course,
in place and screwed fast when we entered the
room. The upper part, exposing the face, was
open. It was this that was closed in my presence."
"I would like to get the facts here very accurately,
if you are willing. You say, closed in your
presence. Do you mean merely covered, or was
the top screwed fast before you went out of the
room, and, if so, by whom?"
"Mark took our sister away, but Dr. Mortimer
and myself remained until the screws were put in.
Mr. Berial himself did that."
"Did you observe that the screws were odd?
Different from common screws?"
Mr. Barnes hoped that the other man would betray
something at this point, but he answered quite
composedly:
"I think I did at the time, but I could not describe
them to you now. I half remember that Mr.
Berial made some such comment as 'No one can get
these out again without my permission.'"
"Ah! He said that, did he? Yet some one
must have gotten those screws out, for, if your
identification was correct, your brother's body was
taken out of that casket after the undertaker had
put in those screws, which he said could not be removed
without his permission. How do you suppose
that was accomplished?"
"How should I know, Mr. Barnes, unless, indeed,
I did it myself, or instigated or connived at
the doing? In either case, do you suppose I would
give you any information on such a point?"
"Did your brother Rufus have any rings on his
fingers when placed in the coffin?" asked Mr.
Barnes, swiftly changing the subject.
"Yes—three: a diamond, a ruby, and a ring bearing
his initial set in diamonds."
"These rings were not on the body at the
Morgue."
"Neither was that scar," said Mr. Quadrant, with
a suppressed laugh.
"But this is different," said Mr. Barnes. "I
did not find the scar, but I have found the rings."
"Very clever of you, I am sure. But what does
that prove?"
"It proves that your brother's body was taken
from the coffin before the coffin was placed in the
crematory furnace."
"Illogical and inaccurate," said Mr. Quadrant.
"You prove by the recovery of the rings, merely
that the rings were taken from the coffin."
"Or, from the body after it was taken out," interjected
Mr. Barnes.
"In either case it is of no consequence. You
have rooted up a theft, that is all. Catch the thief
and jail him, if you like. I care nothing about
that. It is the affair of my brother's death and
burial that I wish to see dropped by the inquisitive
public."
"Yes, but suppose I tell you that the theory
is that the man who stole the rings was your accomplice
in the main matter? Don't you see that
when we catch him, he is apt to tell all that he
knows?"
"When you catch him? Then you have not
caught him yet. For so much I am grateful." He
did not seem to care how incriminating his words
might sound.
"One thing more, Mr. Quadrant. I understand
that you retired at about ten o'clock on that night—the
night prior to the first funeral, I mean. You
left your brother Mark down here?"
"Yes."
"Later you came downstairs again."
"You seem to be well posted as to my movements."
"Not so well as I wish to be. Will you tell me
why you came down?"
"I have not admitted that I came downstairs."
"You were seen in the hall very late at night, or
early in the morning. You took the lamp out of
the room where the casket was, and came in here
and looked at your brother, who was asleep. Then
you returned the lamp and went upstairs. Do you
admit now that you had just come downstairs?"
"I admit nothing. But to show you how little
you can prove, suppose I ask you how you know
that I had just come downstairs? Why may it not
be that I had been out of the house, and had just
come in again when your informant saw me?"
"Quite true. You might have left the house.
Perhaps it was then that the body was taken away?"
"If it was taken away, that was certainly as good
a time as any."
"What time?"
"Oh, let us say between twelve and two. Very
few people would be about the street at that hour,
and a wagon stopping before a door would attract
very little attention. Especially if it were an undertaker's
wagon."
"An undertaker's wagon?" exclaimed Mr.
Barnes, as this suggested a new possibility.
"Why, yes. If, as you say, there was an accomplice
in this case, the fellow who stole the rings, you
know, he must have been one of the undertaker's
men. If so, he would use their wagon, would he
not?"
"I think he would," said Mr. Barnes sharply.
"I thank you for the point. And now I will leave
you."
IX
Mr. Barnes walked rapidly, revolving in his
mind the new ideas which had entered it during the
past few minutes. Before this morning he had imagined
that the body of Rufus Quadrant had been
taken away between five and six o'clock, in the
undertaker's wagon. But it had never occurred to
him that this same wagon could have been driven
back to the house at any hour of the day or night,
without causing the policeman on that beat to suspect
any wrong. Thus, suddenly, an entirely new
phase had been placed upon the situation. Before,
he had been interested in knowing which man
had been left behind; whether it had been Morgan
or Randal. Now he was more anxious to know
whether the wagon had been taken again from the
stable on that night, and, if so, by whom. Consequently
he went first to the undertaker's shop, intending
to interview Mr. Berial, but that gentleman
was out. Therefore he spoke again with Randal,
who recognized him at once and greeted him cordially.
"Why, how do you do," said he. "Glad
you're round again. Anything turned up in the
Quadrant case?"
"We are getting at the truth slowly," said the
detective, watching his man closely. "I would
like to ask you to explain one or two things to me
if you can."
"Maybe I will, and maybe not. It wouldn't do
to promise to answer questions before I hear what
they are. I ain't exactly what you would call a
fool."
"Did you not tell me that it was Morgan who
was left at the house after the coffin was closed, and
that you came away with Mr. Berial?"
"Don't remember whether I told you or not.
But you've got it straight."
"But they say at the stables that it was you who
drove the wagon back there?"
"That's right, too. What of it?"
"But I understood that Morgan brought the
wagon back?"
"So he did; back here to the shop. He had to
leave all our tools and things here, you see. Then
he went off to his dinner, and I took the horse and
wagon round to the stables."
"Where do you stable?"
"Harrison's, Twenty-fourth Street, near Lex."
"Now, another matter. You told me about the
loss of those rings?"
"Yes, and I gave you the tip where you might
find them again. Did you go there?"
"Yes; you were right. The rings were pawned
exactly where you sent me."
"Oh, I don't know," said the fellow, airishly.
"I ought to be on the police force, I guess. I can
find out a few things, I think."
"It isn't hard to guess what you know," said
the detective, sharply.
"What do you mean?" Randal was on the defensive
at once.
"I mean," said Mr. Barnes, "that it was you
who pawned those rings."
"That's a lie, and you can't prove it."
"Don't be too sure of that. We have the pawn
tickets."
This shot went home. Randal looked frightened,
and was evidently confused.
"That's another lie," said he, less vigorously.
"You can't scare me. If you have got them, which
you haven't, you won't find my name on them."
"No; you used your friend Morgan's name,
which was a pretty low trick."
"Look here, you detective," said Randal blusteringly,
"I don't allow no man to abuse me. You
can't talk that way to me. All this talk of yours is
rot. That's what it is, rot!"
"Look here, Randal. Try to be sensible if you
can. I have not yet made up my mind whether
you are a scoundrel or a fool. Suppose you tell me
the truth about those tickets. It will be safest, I
assure you."
Randal looked at the detective and hesitated.
Mr. Barnes continued:
"There is no use to lie any longer. You were
shadowed, and you were seen when you tore up the
tickets. The pieces were picked up and put together,
and they call for those rings. Don't you
see we have you fast unless you can explain how
you got the tickets?"
"I guess you're givin' it to me straight," said
Randal after a long pause. "I guess I better take
your advice and let you have it right. One afternoon
I saw Morgan hide something in one of the
coffins in the shop. He tucked it away under the
satin linin'. I was curious, and I looked into it
after he'd gone that night. I found the pawn
tickets. Of course I didn't know what they were
for except that it was rings. But I guessed it was
for some stuff he'd stolen from the corpse of somebody.
For it was him took the other jewels I told
you about, and I seen him with a screw-driver the
match to the boss's. So I just slipped the tickets
in my pocket thinkin' I'd have a hold on him.
Next day I read about this man bein' found in the
river, and I stopped to the Morgue, and, just as I
thought, his rings was gone. I worried over that
for an hour or two, and then I thought I better not
keep the tickets, so I tore them up and threw them
away."
"That, you say, was the night after this affair
was published in the papers?"
"No; it was the same night."
"That is to say, the night of that day on which I
came here and had a talk with you?"
"No, it was the night before. You're thinkin'
about the mornin' papers, but I seen it first in the
afternoon papers."
This statement dispelled a doubt which had entered
the mind of the detective, who remembered
that Mr. Burrows had told him that the pawn-ticket
incident had occurred on the evening previous to
their meeting. This explanation, however, tallied
with that, and Mr. Barnes was now inclined to credit
the man's story.
"Very good," said he. "You may be telling
the truth. If you have nothing to do with this
case, you ought to be willing to give me some
assistance. Will you?"
Randal had been so thoroughly frightened that
he now seemed only too glad of the chance to win
favor in the eyes of Mr. Barnes.
"Just you tell me what you want, and I'm your
man," said he.
"I want to find out something at the stable, and
I think you can get the information for me better
than I can myself."
"I'll go with you right away. The boy can
mind the shop while we're gone. Charlie, you just
keep an eye on things till I get back, will you? I
won't be out more'n ten minutes. Come on, Mr.
Barnes, I'm with you."
On the way to the stable Mr. Barnes directed
Randal as to what he wished to learn, and then at
his suggestion waited for him in a liquor saloon near
by, while he went alone to the stable. In less than
ten minutes Randal hurried into the place, flushed
with excitement and evidently bubbling over with
importance. He drew the detective to one side and
spoke in whispers.
"Say," said he, "you're on the right tack.
The wagon was out again that night, and not on
any proper errand, neither."
"Tell me what you have learned," said Mr.
Barnes.
"Of course the night watchman ain't there now,
but Jimmy, the day superintendent, is there, and I
talked with him. He says there was some funny
business that night. First I asked him about the
wagon bein' out or not, and he slaps his hand on
his leg, and he says: 'By George!' says he, 'that's
the caper. Didn't you put that wagon in its right
place when you brung it in that afternoon?' he says
to me. 'Of course,' says I; 'where do you think
I'd put it?' 'Well,' says he, 'next mornin' it
was out in the middle of the floor, right in the way
of everything. The boys was cussin' you for your
carelessness. I wasn't sure in my own mind or I
would have spoke; but I thought I seen you shove
that wagon in its right place.' 'So I did,' says I,
'and if it was in the middle of the stable, you can
bet it was moved after I left. Now who moved
it?' 'I don't know,' says he, 'but I'll tell you
another thing what struck me as odd. I didn't
have nothin' particular to do that night, and I
dropped in for an hour or so to be sociable like with
Jack'—that's the night watchman. 'While I was
there,' he goes on, 'while I was there, who should
come in but Jerry Morgan! He didn't stop long,
but he took us over to the saloon and balled us off'—that
means he treated to drinks. 'Next day I come
round about six o'clock as usual,' says Jimmy, goin'
on, 'and there was Jack fast asleep. Now that's
the fust time that man ever dropped off while on
watch, and he's been here nigh on to five years. I
shook him and tried every way to 'waken him, but
it didn't seem to do no good. He'd kind of start
up and look about dazed, and even talk a bit, but as
soon as I'd let up, he'd drop off again. I was
makin' me a cup of coffee, and, thinkin' it might
rouse him, I made him drink some, and, do you
know, he was all right in a few minutes. At the
time I didn't think much about it, but since then
I have thought it over a good deal, and, do you
know what I think now?' 'No,' says I; 'what do
you think?' 'I think,' says he, 'I think that
Jimmy was drugged, and if he was, Jerry Morgan
done the trick when he balled us off, and you can
bet it was him took that wagon out that night.'
That's the story Jimmy tells, Mr. Barnes, and it's
a corker, ain't it?"
"It certainly is important," said Mr. Barnes.
Once more he had food for thought. This narrative
was indeed important; the drowsiness of the
watchman and his recovery after drinking coffee
suggested morphine. The detective likewise recalled
the story of the butler who claimed that he
had seen Mark Quadrant asleep while he was supposed
to be guarding the coffin. Then, too, there
was the empty paper which had once held some
powder, and which he had himself found in the
room where Mark Quadrant had slept. Had he too
been drugged? If so, the question arose, Did this
man Morgan contrive to mix the morphine with
something which he thought it probable that the one
sitting up with the corpse would drink, or had Amos
given his brother the sleeping-potion? In one case
it would follow that Morgan was the principal in
this affair, while in the other he was merely an accomplice.
If his hand alone managed all, then it
might be that he had a deeper and more potent
motive than the mere removal of the body to avoid
cremation, the latter being a motive which the detective
had throughout hesitated to adopt because
it seemed so weak. If Morgan substituted another
body for the one taken from the coffin, then the
statement of Mr. Mitchel that a body had been
cremated was no longer a discrepancy. There was
but one slightly disturbing thought. All the theorizing
in which he now indulged was based on the
assumption that Randal was not deceiving. Yet
how could he be sure of that? Tom Burrows would
have said to him: "Mr. Barnes, that fellow is lying
to you. His story may be true in all except that it
was himself and not Morgan who did these things."
For while he had thought it best to let Randal go
alone to the stable to make inquiries, this had
placed him in the position of receiving the tale at
second-hand, so that Randal might have colored it
to suit himself. For the present, he put aside these
doubts and decided to pursue this clue until he
proved it a true or false scent. He dismissed Randal
with an injunction to keep his tongue from
wagging, and proceeded to the house of the man
Morgan, regretting now that he had not done so
before.
The tenement on Eleventh Avenue was one of
those buildings occupying half a block, having stores
on the street, with narrow, dark, dismal hallways,
the staircases at the farther end being invisible from
the street door, even on the sunniest days, without
a match. Overhead, each hallway offered access to
four flats, two front and two back, the doors being
side by side. These apartments each included two
or three rooms and what by courtesy might be called
a bathroom, though few indeed of the tenants
utilized the latter for the purpose for which it had
been constructed, preferring to occupy this extra
space with such of their impedimenta as might not
be in constant use.
When one enters a place of this character asking
questions, if he addresses any of the adults he is
likely to receive scant information in reply. Either
these people do not know even the names of their
next-door neighbors, or else, knowing, they are unwilling
to take the trouble to impart the knowledge.
The children, however, and they are as numerous
as grasshoppers in a hayfield, not only know everything,
but tell what they know willingly. It is also
a noteworthy fact that amidst such squalor and filth,
with dirty face and bare legs, it is not uncommon
to find a child, especially a girl, who will give answers,
not only with extreme show of genuine intelligence,
but, as well, with a deferential though dignified
courtesy which would grace the reception-rooms of
upper Fifth Avenue.
It was from such an urchin, a girl of about twelve,
that Mr. Barnes learned that Jerry Morgan had lived
on the fifth floor back.
"But he's gone away, I guess," she added.
"Why do you think so?" asked Mr. Barnes.
"Oh, 'cause he ain't been in the saloon 'cross the
way for 'bout a week, and he didn't never miss
havin' his pint of beer every night 's long 's he 's
been here."
"Do you think I could get into his room?"
asked Mr. Barnes.
"I could get you our key, an' you could try,"
suggested the girl. "I reckon one key will open
any door in this house. It's cheaper to get locks
in a bunch that way, I guess, an' besides, poor folks
don't get robbed much anyhow, an' so they ain't
got no 'casion to lock up every time they go out.
What little they've got don't tempt the robbers, I
guess. Maybe the 'punushment fits the crime' too
quick."
"'The punishment fits the crime,' you think,"
said Mr. Barnes with a smile. "Where did you
get that from?"
"Oh, I seen the Mikado oncet," said the girl
rather proudly. "But I didn't mean what you
said; I said it fits 'too quick'; that's too snug,
you know, though sometimes it's 'quick' too.
You see, I guess they don't get enough out of flats
like these to pay for the risk."
"You are quite a philosopher," said Mr. Barnes,
approvingly. "Now run and get the key, and we
will see whether it fits or not."
She hurried upstairs, and was awaiting Mr. Barnes,
with the key in her hand, when he reached the third
landing. This she gave to him, and then followed
him up the remaining flights, where she pointed out
the door which led into Morgan's flat. The key
was not needed, as the door was not locked, and the
detective pushed it open and entered. The room
seemed bare enough, what little furniture there was
being too evidently the product of a second-hand
furniture store. There seemed little hope of finding
anything helpful to his investigation in this room, yet
the detective, with his usual thoroughness, examined
every drawer, and every corner or crevice in which
anything might have been hidden, or have been accidentally
dropped, and at last he did discover something
which more than repaid him.
In the darkest corner of the dark closet, where
perhaps it had dropped unperceived, he found an
old vest, of no value in itself. But a search of the
pockets brought an exclamation of gratification to
the detective's lips, as from one of them he drew
forth a folded paper still containing a whitish powder.
Mr. Barnes was certain that this powder was morphine,
and at length he felt his feet on solid ground
in trailing the criminal. No longer need he doubt
Randal. His story of the probable drugging of the
night watchman at the stable now became not only
credible, but probable. Thinking that he might
gain something by further questioning the girl, Mr.
Barnes said:
"Why, here is some medicine! Perhaps he was
sick and has gone away for his health."
With the keen intelligence of her class, the girl
replied:
"Some folks go away for their health without
bein' sick."
"How do you mean?"
"When it gets so it ain't healthy for them to
stay in town, you know."
"You mean for fear of the police?"
"Sure! What else?"
"But do you think that this man Morgan would
do anything that would make him afraid of meeting
a policeman?"
"Oh, I don't know. But 'birds of a feather flock
together,' you know. One of his pals was pinched,
and he's workin' for the country now, on the
Island."
"Who was that?" Mr. Barnes did not regret the
time spent in talking with this observing youngster.
"I don't know his right name. They called him
Billy the Red, over to the saloon."
Mr. Barnes started. This was a clue indeed.
This was a well-known criminal whom she had
named; one who had earned his sobriquet by killing
two men in a barroom fight, when he had been
one of the celebrated Whyo gang. If Morgan consorted
with such as he, there could be little doubt
as to his social status.
"You say Billy the Red was one of Morgan's
pals. Did he have any others that you know of?"
Mr. Barnes continued.
"Well, he used to be with him most till he went up,
but lately he's been travellin' with Tommy White."
"Where can I find him; do you know?"
"Better look him up on the Island, too, I guess.
He ain't been round here for quite some days."
"Perhaps he does not come because Morgan is
away?"
"Oh, no, that can't be, 'cause he stopped showin'
up before Morgan left. The neighbors was beginnin'
to wonder and talk, just 'bout the time Morgan
skipped. You see, Tommy White he lived right
next door, in the next flat, him and Nellie."
"Ah, he had a wife?"
"I don't know about that. She was his girl anyway,
though some thought Morgan was sweet on her too."
Mr. Barnes thought the fog was lifting.
"Where is this Nellie now?"
"You can search me! She's gone too. The
hull three has skipped out."
"What, all three at the same time?"
"No, that's the funny part of it. That's what
makes folks talk. You see, we didn't see nothin'
of Tommy White for two or three days, but Nellie
she was round all right. But when Morgan he cut
it, Nellie she lit out too."
"Let me get this right, my girl. And mind you
make no mistake, for this is important."
"I ain't makin' no mistakes, mister. I'm givin'
it to you dead right, and that's more 'n you'd get
out of anybody else in this castle. But I've got
my reasons, and," this she added with a sly wink,
"you ain't fooled me any, you know. You're a
detective, that's what you are."
"What makes you think so?"
"Oh, there ain't much to guess. People dressed
like you don't come to a place like this and nose
into another man's rooms just for amusement. Not
much they don't. It's business with you."
"Well, never mind that. Tell me, are you sure
that White disappeared first, and that the girl was
here afterwards, but that she has not been seen since
Morgan went away?"
"That's right. You got it straight the first
time. Now what do you make of it? I know my
own opinion."
"Suppose you tell me your opinion first," said
Mr. Barnes, anxious to hear her answer.
"Well," said the girl, "it's very simple, what I
think. I think Tommy's been done for."
"Done for?" Mr. Barnes comprehended her
meaning but preferred to have her speak more
plainly.
"Yes, done for, that's what I said. They've
put him out of the way, those two. And if that's
right, it's a shame, 'cause Tommy was a good fellow.
It was him took me to the theatre, that time
when I seen the Mikado."
Evidently this one visit to a theatre had been an
event in her weary little life, and the man who had
given her that bit of pleasure and had afforded her
that one glimpse of what she would have described
as the "dressed-up folks," had by that act endeared
himself to her childish heart. If he had been injured,
her little soul longed for vengeance, and she
was ready to be the instrument which might lead
Justice to her victim.
Mr. Barnes began to believe that the solution of
this mystery was near at hand. He left the building,
thanking the child for what she had told him,
and promising to find out what had become of her
friend Tommy White. Crossing the street he entered
the saloon where the girl had told him that
Morgan had been in the habit of buying his daily
pint of beer. By talking with the bartender he
hoped to elicit further information.
The gentlemanly dispenser of liquid refreshment,
whose constant boast was that he knew how to
manufacture over three hundred different mixed
drinks without using any intoxicant, stood beside
the mahogany counter, polishing up the glasses,
which he piled in an imposing pyramid on the shelf
at the back, where the display was made doubly
attractive by the plate mirror behind. His hair was
scrupulously brushed and his short white coat was
immaculately clean. Fortunately there was no one
else in the place, so that the detective was afforded
a good opportunity for free conversation. He asked
for a Manhattan cocktail, and admired the dexterity
with which the man prepared the drink. Raising it
to his lips and tasting it as a connoisseur might,
Mr. Barnes said:
"Could not be better at the Waldorf."
"Oh, I don't know," said the fellow, deprecatingly,
but pleased at the implied compliment.
"Your face is very familiar to me," said Mr.
Barnes; "have you ever met me before?"
"Never in my life," said the bartender, without
the slightest change of expression.
"That's odd," said Mr. Barnes, pursuing the point
with a purpose; "I am pretty good at faces. I seldom
forget one, and just as seldom make a mistake.
I would almost swear I have seen you before."
"I was tending bar at the Astor House for two
years. Perhaps you saw me there," suggested the
man.
"Ah, that is it," said Mr. Barnes, pretending to
accept this explanation; "I often take my luncheon
there. By the way, I suppose you are pretty well
acquainted around the neighborhood?"
"Oh, I know a few people," said the man,
cautiously.
"You know Tommy White, of course?"
"Do I?"
"Don't you?"
"I might, without knowing his name. Our customers
don't all leave their cards when they buy a
drink. I don't know your name, for instance."
"Yes, but I do not live in the neighborhood.
White must come here often."
"Well, he hasn't been in lately," said the bartender,
and then stopped short as he noted the slip
that he had made. The detective did not choose to
appear to notice it, but asked:
"That is the point. Isn't it odd that he should
have disappeared?"
"Oh, I don't know. A man can go out of town
if he wants to, I guess."
"Do you know that White went out of town?"
"No."
"Have you seen Tommy White since Jerry
Morgan skipped?"
"See here! what the devil are you asking me all
these questions for? Who are you, anyway, and
what are you after?"
"I am Jack Barnes, detective, but I'm not after
you, Joe Allen, alias Fred Martin, alias Jimmy
Smith, alias Bowery Bill, alias the Plug."
This sally left the man stolidly unmoved, but it
affected his attitude towards his questioner, nevertheless,
as he sullenly answered:
"There's nothing you can get against me, so I
don't scare even if you know me. If you don't
want me, what do you want?"
"Look here, Joe," said Mr. Barnes, in friendly,
confidential tones, "a bluff does not go with me,
and you know it never did. Now why did you not
acknowledge that you knew me when I first came
in?"
"What's the use of courtin' trouble? I wasn't
sure you'd remember my face. It's quite a time
since we met."
"True. It is five years since that Bond Street
affair, and you got three years for that, if I remember
rightly."
"Well, I served my time, didn't I? So that's
ended, ain't it?"
"Yes. But what about that little business of the
postage-stamp robbery out in Trenton?"
"Why, I didn't have no hand in that."
"Well, two of your pals did, and when they were
caught and sent up they were square enough not to
peach on you. The Mulberry Street crowd did not
know how thick you were with those boys, or you
might have got into trouble. But I knew, and you
know that I knew."
"Well, what if you did? I tell you I wasn't in
that."
"You would not like to be obliged to prove
where you were that night, would you?"
"Oh, I suppose it's always hard to prove I was
one place, when fellows like you go on the stand and
swear I was somewhere else. So, as I said before,
what's the use of courtin' trouble?"
"Now you are sensible, and as I said, I am not
after you. All I want is some information. Give
me another cocktail, and have one yourself."
"Thanks, I will. Go ahead with your catechism;
I'll answer so long as you don't try to make me
squeal on any of my friends. I'd go up before I'd
do that. And you know that."
"That's all right. I know you're square, and
that is why I feel sure you would not be mixed up
in a murder."
"Murder?"
This time the fellow was frightened. How could
he be sure that this detective was not trying to
entrap him? How could he know positively that
he had not been accused by some pal who wished
to shift responsibility from himself to another?
This is the Damocles sword that ever hangs over
the head of the wrong-doer. His most chosen
companions may either tell of what he has done,
or accuse him of crime which he has not committed.
"I am afraid so. But what are you worrying
over? Did I not tell you that you are not in it?
Listen to me, Joe. This Jerry Morgan has skipped
out of town, and it looks as though he took Tommy
White's girl Nellie with him. Now, where is
Tommy White?"
"I don't know a thing. I swear I don't."
"Yes, you do. You do not know what has become
of him, but you know something. Morgan
isn't any pal of yours, is he?"
"No."
"Very well. Then why not tell me what you
know? If he has done anything to White, he ought
not to go free, ought he? You do not stand in with
murder, do you?"
"No, I don't. But how do I know there's been
any murder?"
"You don't know it, but since I suggested it to
you, you think so. I see that in your face. Now,
what do you know?"
"Well, I don't know much, but what I know I
don't want used to make another fellow go to the
chair."
"That is no affair of yours. You are not responsible
for what the law does. Come, I have no
more time to waste. Tell me what you know, or
say right out that you will not. Then I will know
what to do."
The implied threat decided the man, and without
further attempt at evasion he said:
"Well, I suppose there ain't any use my runnin'
any risk for a man that's nothin' to me. It's this
way: Morgan's an old-time crook—I suppose you
know that?" Mr. Barnes nodded, although this
was news to him. Allen continued: "He's been
at it since he was a kid. Was in the reformatory,
and learned more there about crooked work in a
year than he would have picked up in ten outside.
He's never done time, though, since he graduated
from that institution. Learned enough, I guess, to
keep out of sight of your crowd. Two years ago
he moved into this neighborhood and since then
I've seen him in here a good deal. He took up
with Tommy White—a young fellow that would
have lived straight only he was in bad company,
and was railroaded with a gang for a job he really
had no hand in. That settled him. When he came
out of Sing Sing he wasn't likely to go for a straight
job at a dollar a day, when he could lay around idle
and pick up a good thing every now and then that
would keep him going. I guess he and Morgan
done a good many jobs together; anyway, they
never was short of money. One thing was funny
about those two—nobody ever seen them in the
daytime. They used to say they was 'workin','
but that didn't go with the crowd that hangs out
here. Neither Morgan nor White would work if
they could help it. They was just like brothers,
those two, till White took up with this girl Nellie.
I think Morgan was jealous of his luck from the
first, 'cause the girl is a peach. One of your real
blondes, without no bleachin' stuff. She's got a
skin like velvet, and hands and feet like a lady.
White soon found out that his pal was sweet on the
girl, and many a time they've rowed over her.
Finally, about two weeks ago the two of them was
in here, and they was drinkin' pretty hard and just
ready for a scrap, when the girl comes in. Morgan
goes up to her and puts his arm round her and kisses
her plump. White was mad in a minute, but he
turned on her instead of him and he says, says he:
'Nellie, I want you to hammer that duffer over the
head for doin' that,' and he picks up a beer glass
and hands it to her. Nellie she takes the glass, and
she says: 'I've heard of a kiss for a blow,' she says,
'but a blow for a kiss is a new one on me. It ain't
that way in the Bible, Tommy, so I guess if you
want any hammerin' done, you'd better do it yourself.
I'm thinkin' of joinin' the Salvation Army,
you know.' This made Morgan and the crowd
laugh, and White got fierce. He snatched the glass
out of Nellie's hand and made for Morgan. But
Morgan he ducks and lets White go by him, and he
picks up a beer glass too; then when White came
for him again he landed a terrible blow with the
glass right back of White's ear. Tommy went down
in a heap and lay on the ground quiverin'. The
whole thing happened so quick nobody could interfere.
Morgan got sober in a second, I tell you, and
he was scared. Everybody crowded round, and the
girl she was a wonder. You'd think bein' a woman
she'd cry and make a fuss? Not a bit of it. She
got some ice and put it on White's head, and threw
water in his face, and she puts her ear down to his
heart, and then she looks up after a bit, and she
says, as cool as could be: 'Boys, he's only stunned.
He'll come round all right. Some of you help get
him home, and I'll look after him. He'll sleep off
his liquor and he won't know what hurt him when
he wakes in the mornin'.' Well, Morgan and the
others they did what she said. They took White
up and carted him over to his flat, and put him to
bed. My! but he was limp, and his face was that
blue it's been before me ever since."
"Did White get over that blow?"
"That's the point. Nellie and Morgan said he
did; that he was a bit sore next day and had a
headache. That was likely enough. But when you
talked about murder a while ago, I admit I got
scared, cause White's never been seen since that
night."
"You are sure of that?"
"Dead sure. Nellie said he was gone out of
town, and the boys swallowed the story. But when
both Morgan and Nellie skipped it looked bad, and
folks began to talk. As for me, I've been nervous
for days. Why, when that body was picked out of
the river I just couldn't keep away from the Morgue.
I just had to have a peep at it. I was sure it would
be White, and that Morgan had pitched him over.
My, but wasn't I glad to see it was another man!"
Assuring Allen that his story would not be used
in any way that would bring him into conflict with
the authorities, Mr. Barnes left the saloon and went
to his office, feeling that at last this problem had
been solved. Evidently White had died of his
wound, and when Morgan learned that the coffin of
Mr. Quadrant was not to be opened before it was
consigned to the crematory, he had conceived one
of the most ingenious schemes ever devised for disposing
of a murdered body. By placing White in
the coffin and allowing his body to be incinerated,
all traces of his crime would seem to have been obliterated.
To accomplish this it was necessary to
have the use of the undertaker's wagon, and this he
had managed by drugging the watchman, as well as
Mark Quadrant. The transfer made, he was still
left with the other body, and his disposition of that
was the most ingenious part of the plan. By throwing
the corpse of Rufus Quadrant into the water he
apparently took little risk. It could not be recognized
as White of course, and if correctly identified
a mystery would be created that ought to baffle the
detectives, however clever they might be. Mr.
Barnes felt that he had been fortunate, to learn so
much from such unpromising clues.
At his office he found a telegram and a letter,
both bearing on the case. The telegram was from
Mr. Burrows, and informed him that Morgan had
been captured in Chicago, and would be in New
York on the following day. This was more than
gratifying, and Mr. Barnes mentally praised the
young detective. The letter was from Mr. Mitchel,
and read:
"Friend Barnes:
"At last I have fathomed the Quadrant mystery.
Will drop in on you about noon to-morrow and tell
you how the affair was managed. You will be surprised,
I am sure.
"Mitchel."
"Will I?" said Mr. Barnes to himself.
X
Mr. Burrows arrived at the offices of Mr. Barnes
about eleven o'clock on the following morning,
which much pleased the older detective, who wished
to have his case complete before the arrival of Mr.
Mitchel.
"Well, Tom," said Mr. Barnes, cordially, "so
you have caught your man and brought him back?"
"Did I not promise you that I would?" replied
Mr. Burrows.
"Yes, but even a cleverer man than yourself cannot
always hope to keep such a promise. Do you
know that this fellow, Morgan, is a professional crook
who has never been caught at his work before?"
"So he has told me," said Mr. Burrows, modestly
refraining from any boastfulness.
"He told you the truth in that instance, and I
trust you have also succeeded in getting a confession
from him as to his connection with this Quadrant
matter?"
"He has pretended to make a clean breast of it,
but of course we must verify his story. One cannot
place too much faith in the confessions of a crook."
"Does he admit that he took the rings?"
"Yes, it seems you were right there."
"Does he explain how and why he took the body
from the coffin?"
"On the contrary, he denies having done so."
"Then he lies," said Mr. Barnes. "I have not
been idle since you went away, but my tale will
keep. Let me hear first what Morgan's alleged confession
amounts to."
"He admits that he stole the rings. He has a
duplicate of that screw-driver of which old Berial is
so fond of bragging, and when he was left alone
with the body, he opened the coffin and took the
rings, and, in keeping with his limited standard of
morals, he offers a rather ingenious excuse for his
act."
"I should like to hear a good excuse for robbing
the dead."
"That is his point exactly. He says that as the
dead cannot own property, the dead cannot be
robbed. As the family had declared that the coffin
was not to be opened again, Morgan says he considered
the rings as practically consigned to the
furnace, and then he asks, 'What was the use of
seeing stuff like that burned up, when it was good
money to me?' It is a nice point, Mr. Barnes. If the
owner elects to throw away or destroy his property,
can we blame a man for appropriating the same?"
"We may not be able to blame him, but we certainly
have the power to punish him. The law will
not accept such sophistry as palliation for crime.
What else does the fellow admit?"
"The rest of his tale is quite interesting, and I
think would surprise you, unless, indeed, you have
discovered the truth yourself."
"I think I could make a shrewd guess," said Mr.
Barnes.
"Well, I wish you would tell me your story first.
You see, after all, I am the legally employed investigator
of this matter, and I should like to hear your
story before telling mine, that I may be absolutely
certain that your results have been arrived at by a
different line of work, though of course you understand
that I do not for a moment imagine that you
would intentionally color your story after hearing
mine."
"I understand you perfectly, Tom," said Mr.
Barnes, kindly, "and I am not at all offended.
You are right to wish to have the two stories independently
brought before your reasoning faculties.
Morgan tells you that he stole the rings in the afternoon.
Perhaps he did, and perhaps he took them
later. It does not now seem to be material. The
subsequent facts, as I deduce them from the evidence,
are as follows: Morgan had a pal, who was
sweet on a girl called Nellie. By the way, did you
get any trace of her?"
"She was with Morgan when I found him and
she has come back with us."
"Good. Very good, It seems that Morgan also
admired the girl, and that finally he and his pal had
a saloon fight over her, during which Morgan struck
the other man with a beer glass. This man fell to
the floor unconscious, and was taken to his home in
that condition. He has not been seen in the neighborhood
since. Now we come to another series of
events. Morgan admits taking the rings. Suppose
we accept his story. He then left the house and
drove the wagon back to the shop. Randal took it
from there to the stables, but later in the evening
Morgan visited the stables and induced the night
watchman to take a drink. That drink was drugged,
and the drug was morphine. The watchman slept
soundly, and there is little doubt that while thus
unconscious Morgan took the undertaker's wagon
out of the stable on some errand. There is an interesting
series of links in this chain which convicts
Morgan of using morphine to accomplish his purpose.
First, it is nearly certain that the watchman
was drugged; second, a witness will testify that he
found Mr. Mark Quadrant sound asleep, when he
was supposed to be watching the coffin; third, I
have taken from the pocket of a vest found in Morgan's
rooms a powder which a chemist declares is
morphine. Is not that fairly good evidence?"
"It is good evidence, Mr. Barnes, but it does not
prove that Morgan took that body from the coffin."
"What, then, does it show?"
"It makes him an accomplice at least. He undoubtedly
drugged the watchman and took the
wagon out of the stables, but beyond that you can
prove nothing. You have not offered any motive
that would actuate him in stealing the body."
"The motive is quite sufficient, I assure you.
His pal, whom he struck down with the beer glass,
and who has not been seen by his neighbors since
that night, must have died from the blow. It was
his body that was cremated."
Mr. Burrows shook his head, and seemed sorry to
upset the calculations of his old friend.
"I am afraid you cannot prove that," said he.
"Tell me, what was the name of this pal? Have
you learned that?"
"Yes; Tommy White."
"Do you know him by any other name?"
"No; but as he is unquestionably a crook he
probably has a dozen aliases."
"One will suffice at present. Tommy White is
none other than your disinterested informant, Jack
Randal."
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Barnes, recognizing
instantly that if this were true his whole edifice
tumbled to the ground.
"Yes. I think that Morgan has told me a clean-cut
story, though, as I said before, we must verify
it. You see, he is a crook and ready to acquire
other people's property, but I think he has a wholesome
dread of the electric chair that will keep him
out of murder. He was at one time a pal of Billy
the Red, now in Sing Sing. After that fellow was
put away he took up with Tommy White, alias Jack
Randal. Randal, it seems, induced Morgan to join
him in his nefarious schemes. The undertaker has
told you, perhaps, as he has told me, that he invented
his patent coffin because of numerous grave
robberies that had occurred in one of the cemeteries.
He little suspected that the robbers were his two
assistants. These fellows would steal from the dead,
while preparing the bodies for burial, if it seemed
safe, as, for example, was the case with Mr. Quadrant,
where it was known that the coffin was not
again to be opened. In other cases they would
visit the grave together. Sometimes they merely
appropriated what jewelry there might be, but in
not a few instances they stole the bodies as well,
disposing of them to medical students."
"What a diabolical partnership!"
"Yes, indeed. Now, coming to the saloon fight,
you are correct enough except as to the results.
White, or Randal, was unconscious during the greater
part of the night, and in the morning had but a dim
recollection of what had occurred. He understood,
however, that his injury had been the result of a
fight with Morgan, and also that the girl Nellie had
'thrown him over,' to adopt the vernacular. He
therefore left the neighborhood, and though the two
men continued to work for Berial, they did not resume
their friendship. White evidently was nursing
his grievances, and only awaited an opportunity to
make trouble for his old pal Morgan. This he
hoped to accomplish by the information which he
gave to you."
"You will hardly expect me to believe that Morgan
gave up his position and left town without some
better reason than a mere quarrel with his pal, and
a petty theft?"
"Morgan did not give up his position, nor did he
leave town of his own volition. He was sent away."
"Sent away? By whom?"
"By the principal in this case. I told you from
the first that there were two in it. He has admitted
to me what I did not know, but what I believe now
because you tell me the same story. He confesses
that he drugged the watchman at the stables and
then drove the wagon away. But he denies that he
either took Quadrant's body from the coffin, or indeed
that he drove the wagon to the Quadrant
house. In fact, he says he was paid to get the
wagon unknown to the watchman, and that he was
furnished with the powders with which he was to
drug the man."
"Am I to understand that one of the dead man's
brothers hired Morgan to do this?"
Mr. Barnes was thinking of his conversation with
Amos Quadrant, during which that gentleman had
suggested that an undertaker's wagon might approach
the house at any hour without attracting
attention. He was consequently astonished by the
younger detective's reply.
"No," said Mr. Burrows; "he does not implicate
either of the Quadrants. He declares that it
was old Berial who hired him to do his part of the
job."
XI
New possibilities crowded into the thoughts of
Mr. Barnes as he heard this unexpected statement.
Berial hired Morgan to procure the wagon! Did it
follow, then, that Berial was the principal, or was
he in turn but the tool of another? Amos Quadrant
had confessed that secretly it had not been his wish
to have his brother cremated. Yet his was the
authority which had engaged the undertaker and
directed the funeral. Had he chosen to avoid the
cremation without permitting the widow to know
that his will accomplished her wish, how easy for
him to engage the undertaker to carry out his purpose,
oddly planned as it was! How readily might
the poor undertaker have been bribed by this wealthy
man to take the risk! After all, if this were the explanation,
wherein lay the crime? By what name
would it be designated in the office of the district
attorney? Yet, even now, when all seemed known,
two unexplained facts stood out prominently. How
was it that the foot of the deceased Quadrant showed
no scar? And what of the assertion made by Mr.
Mitchel that a human body had been cremated?
Could it be that Berial, taking advantage of the opportunity
offered by his employer, had secretly disposed
of some other body, while merely supposed
to have removed Rufus Quadrant from his coffin?
If so, whose body was it that had been cremated,
and how could identification be looked for among
the ashes in the urn at the cemetery? Mr. Barnes
was chagrined to find such questions in his mind
with no answer, when Mr. Mitchel might arrive with
his promised surprise at any moment. Perhaps
Morgan was lying when he accused the undertaker.
"Have you been able yet," asked Mr. Barnes,
"to verify any part of this man's story?"
"Well, we only arrived at six this morning, but
I may say yes, I have found some corroborative
evidence."
"What?"
"I have the shroud in which Rufus Quadrant was
dressed in his coffin."
"That is important. Where did you find it?"
"In quite a suggestive place. It was locked up
in old Berial's private closet at the shop, which we
searched this morning."
"That certainly is significant. But even so, Tom,
how do we know that this Morgan, who robs the
dead and has duplicate screw-drivers for opening
patented coffin fastenings, would hesitate to place a
shroud where it would seem to substantiate his accusation
of another?"
"We do not know positively, of course. We
have not fully solved this mystery yet, Mr. Barnes."
"I fear not, Tom," said Mr. Barnes, glancing at
the clock as he heard a voice asking for him in the
adjoining office; "but here comes a man who claims
that he has done so."
Mr. Mitchel entered and saluted the two men
cordially, after receiving an introduction to the
younger.
"Well, Mr. Barnes," said Mr. Mitchel, "shall I
surprise you with my story, or have you two gentlemen
worked it all out?"
"I do not know whether you will surprise us or
not," said Mr. Barnes. "We do not claim to have
fully solved this mystery; that much we will admit
at once. But we have done a great deal of work,
and have learned facts which must in the end lead
to the truth."
"Ah, I see. You know some things, but not
all. The most important fact, of course, would be
the identity of the body which is the centre of this
mystery. Do you know that much?"
"I have no doubt that it has been correctly
identified," said Mr. Barnes, boldly, though not as
confident as he pretended. "It was the corpse of
Rufus Quadrant, of course."
"You are speaking of the body at the Morgue?"
"Certainly. What other?"
"I alluded to the body which was cremated,"
said Mr. Mitchel quietly.
"It has not been proven that any body was cremated,"
replied Mr. Barnes.
"Has it not? I think it has."
"Ah, you know that? Well, tell us. Who was
the man?"
"The man in the coffin, do you mean?"
"Yes. The man who was cremated in place of
Mr. Quadrant."
"Have you any suspicion?"
"I did have until an hour ago. I supposed that
the criminal who managed this affair had thus disposed
of the remains of a pal whom he had killed in
a saloon row—a man called Tommy White."
"No, that is wrong. The body cremated was
the corpse of a woman."
"Of a woman!" exclaimed both detectives in
concert.
"Yes, gentlemen," said Mr. Mitchel, "it was a
woman's body that was placed in the furnace. I
think, Mr. Barnes, that I suggested such a possibility
to you on the day when you first called my attention
to this affair?"
"Yes. You said it might be a woman as well as
a man. But that was merely a caution against
hastily deciding as to the sex of the victim, supposing
that a murder had been committed and the
criminal had thus proceeded to hide his crime. But
subsequent investigations have not brought to us
even a suspicion that any woman has been foully
dealt with, who could have been placed in the coffin
by any who had the opportunity."
"Which only proves," said Mr. Mitchel, "that
as usual you detectives have worked in routine
fashion, and consequently, by beginning at the
wrong end, you have not reached the goal. Now I
have reached the goal, and I venture the belief that
I have not done one half of the work that either of
you have been compelled to bestow upon your investigations."
"We cannot all be as intellectually brilliant as
yourself," said Mr. Barnes testily.
"Come, come, Mr. Barnes. No offense meant,
I assure you. I am only upholding the argument,
which I have advanced previously, that the very
routine which gentlemen of your calling feel bound
to follow often hampers if it does not hinder your
work. I am merely a tyro, but not being professionally
engaged on this case I was perhaps freer to
see things with eyes unblinded by traditional methods
of work. It is just as the onlooker often sees
an opportunity to win, which the men playing a
game of chess overlook. The player has his mind
upon many combinations and sees much that the onlooker
does not see. So here. You and Mr. Burrows
have probably discovered many things that I
do not even suspect, but it has been my luck to get
at the truth. If you care to hear it, I will describe
in detail how I worked out the problem."
"Of course we wish to hear the truth," said Mr.
Barnes reluctantly; "that is, if indeed you have
learned what it is."
"Very good. As I have said, hampered by the
seeming necessity of following your investigations
along customary lines, you probably began with the
body at the Morgue. I pursued the opposite course.
The case seemed so unique that I was convinced
that the motive would prove to be equally uncommon.
If the body at the Morgue were really that
of Mr. Quadrant, as seemed probable from the
identifications by the family and the doctor, I was
sure that it had been taken from the coffin to make
room for the corpse of another. No other motive
occurred to my mind which appeared to be adequate.
Consequently I thought that the first
essential in unravelling the mystery would be the
establishment of the fact that a human body had
been cremated, and then, if possible, to discover
the identity of that body."
"In other words, to identify the ashes of a cremated
body," interjected Mr. Barnes, with a slight
sneer.
"Just so. That in itself was a problem so novel
that it attracted my interest. It is usually considered
that cremation has the objectionable feature
that it offers a means of hiding the crime of murder.
This idea has contributed not a little to thwart those
who have endeavored to make this means of disposing
of the dead popular. Would it not be an
achievement to prove that incineration is not necessarily
a barrier against identification?"
"I should say so," said Mr. Barnes.
"So thought I, and that was the task which I set
myself. I visited the chief of the detective bureau,
and soon interested him in my theories. He even
permitted me to be present at the examination of
the ashes, which was undertaken at my suggestion,
an expert chemist and his assistant going with us.
At the cemetery the urn was brought forth and its
contents spread out on a clean marble slab. It was
not difficult to discern that a human being had been
cremated."
"Why was it not difficult?"
"When one hears of the ashes of the dead, perhaps
it is not unnatural to think of these human
ashes as similar to cigar ashes, or the ashes of a
wood fire. Where complete combustion occurs the
residue is but an impalpable powder. But this is
not commonly the result in the cremation of the
dead, or at least it does not invariably occur. It
did not in this instance, and that is the main point
for us. On the contrary, some of the bones, and
parts of others, sufficiently retained their form to
be readily distinguishable as having come from the
human skeleton."
"As I have never examined a cremated body,"
said Mr. Barnes, "I must admit that your statement
surprises me. I had supposed that all parts
of the body would be brought to a similar state.
But even if what you say is true, and granting that
from pieces of charred bone it could be demonstrated
that a human being had been burned, still I would
like you to explain how you could differentiate between
man and woman."
"Perhaps it would be difficult, or even impossible,
judging from the charred bits of skeleton alone.
But if we remember that a woman's garb is different
from the dress of a man, we might find a clue. For
example, if you saw what could unmistakably be
recognized as parts of corset steels, what would you
think?"
"Of course the deduction would be that the body
had been that of a woman, but I should think it an
odd circumstance to find that a body prepared for
burial had been corseted."
"The same thought occurred to me, and from
it I drew an important deduction, since substantiated
by facts. I concluded from the corset
steels that the body had not been prepared
for burial."
"I follow you," said Mr. Barnes, now thoroughly
interested in Mr. Mitchel's analytical method.
"You mean that this woman was placed in the
coffin clothed as she had died?"
"Practically so, but I did not decide that she had
necessarily died clothed as she was when placed in
the coffin. My conclusion was that it must have
been as essential to dispose of the clothing as of the
body. Thus the clothing would have been placed
in the coffin with her, even though perhaps not on
her."
"A good point! A good point!" nodded the
detective, approvingly.
"So, you see, the ashes of the dead had already
revealed two clues. We knew that a human being
had been cremated, and we could feel reasonably
sure, though not absolutely positive, that it had
been a woman. Next, the question arose as to
the identity. If cremation would hide that, then
the criminal might hope to escape justice by this
means."
"It seems incredible that the ashes could be
identified, unless indeed some object, provably connected
with a certain person, and which would resist
fire, had been placed in the coffin."
"No, that would not satisfy me. A false identification
could thus be planned by your thoughtful
murderer. What I sought was some means of
identifying the actual remains of a cremated body.
I have succeeded."
"You have succeeded?"
"Yes. I had a theory which has proven to be a
good one. If some of the bones of the body resist
cremation, or at least retain their form though calcined,
it should follow that the teeth, being the
most resistant bones, and, moreover, protected by
being imbedded in other bones, might well be expected
to remain intact. If not all, at least a sufficient
number of them might be found to serve the
ends of justice."
"Even if you could find the teeth with shape undisturbed,
I fail to see how you could identify the
remains by them."
"The method is as reliable as it is unique. In
these days of advanced dentistry, the people of this
country have been educated up to such an appreciation
of their dental organs that, from the highest to
the lowliest, we find the people habitually saving
their teeth by having them filled. I knew by personal
experience that it is a common practice among
dentists to register in a book of record all work done
for a patient. In these records they have blank
charts of the teeth, and on the diagram of each
tooth, as it is filled, they mark in ink the size and
position of the filling inserted. Now while the teeth
themselves might resist the heat of the furnace, retaining
their shapes, we would not expect the fillings,
whether of gold or other material, to do so.
Thus, I expected to find the teeth with cavities in
them. I did find fourteen of the teeth fairly whole,
sufficiently so that we might identify them, and
know what position in the mouth they had occupied.
No less than ten of these teeth had cavities,
which, from the regularity of their outline, it was
fair to assume had been filled. These I took to my
dentist for an opinion. He was at once interested,
because it seems that members of the dental profession
have long urged upon the police the reliance
that may be placed upon the dentist in identifying
living criminals or unknown dead bodies. He
examined the charred teeth, and taking a blank
chart of the mouth, he plotted out the size and positions
of the fillings which once had been present.
Another very interesting point was that we found
two teeth, known as the central incisor and the
cuspid (the latter commonly called the eye-tooth),
united together by a staple of platinum. This
staple had of course resisted the heat because platinum
melts at so high a temperature. My dentist
pointed out to me that this staple had been a foundation
for what he called a bridge. One end of the
staple had been forced into the root of one tooth,
the other end passing similarly into the other.
Thus the space was spanned, and an artificial tooth
had been attached to the bar, thus filling the space.
He also pointed out that the bar was covered with
a mass which was evidently the porcelain of the
tooth which had melted in the furnace."
"This is very interesting," said Mr. Barnes, "but
unless you could find the man who did that work,
you still could not identify the person cremated."
"My dentist, as I have said, made out for me a
chart of the person's mouth, which you may examine.
You will see that it is quite specific. With
that number of fillings, occupying definite positions
in special teeth, and coupled with the presence of
the tooth bridged in and the manner of making the
bridge, it would be an unexampled coincidence to
find that two persons had obtained exactly similar
dental services. Would it not?"
"That is sound reasoning," said Mr. Barnes.
"Very well. I had a statement published in the
four leading dental magazines, accompanied by a
facsimile of the chart made by my dentist, and I
solicited correspondence with any dentist who could
show a similar chart in his records."
"That was a good method, provided, of course,
the dentist who did the work subscribed to one of
these magazines."
"Of course the advertisement might not meet the
eye of the dentist who treated the dead woman, but
even though he were not a subscriber he might hear
of this matter through some acquaintance, because,
as I have said, this subject of identification through
dental work is one that widely interests the dentists.
However, success rewarded us. I received a letter
from a dentist in one of the New Jersey towns,
stating that he believed he could match my chart. I
lost no time in visiting him, and, after examining his
book, was satisfied that the person who had been
cremated that day was an elderly, eccentric woman,
named Miss Lederle, Miss Martha Lederle."
"Mr. Mitchel, you have done a remarkably clever
bit of work, and though you have succeeded where
I have failed, I must congratulate you. But tell
me, after learning the name of the woman how did
you trace her to this city?"
"I deserve no credit for that. It seems that
Miss Lederle had long had a little fleshy tumor on
the inside of her cheek, which had had an opportunity
to grow because of the loss of a tooth. Her
dentist often advised her to have it removed, lest it
might become cancerous. She put it off from time
to time, but recently it had grown more rapidly, and
at last she called on the dentist and asked him to
recommend a surgeon. He tells me that he gave
her the names of three, one residing in Newark, and
two in this city. Of the New York men, one was
Dr. Mortimer."
"By Jove! Doctor Mortimer!" exclaimed Mr.
Barnes. "I begin to see daylight. It was he who
supplied the morphine powders, then?"
"Ah, then you know so much? Yes, Dr. Mortimer
instigated the transfer of bodies. As soon as
I charged him with murder, he thought it safest to
tell me the truth and throw himself upon my
mercy."
"Upon your mercy?" said Mr. Barnes, mystified.
"Yes; the man has not committed a crime, at
least not the crime of murder. It seems that on
the afternoon of the day before that fixed for the
funeral of Mr. Quadrant, this Miss Lederle called
at his office and requested him to remove the tumor
from her cheek. He consented, and suggested the
use of cocaine to deaden the parts. The woman
insisted that she must have chloroform, and the
doctor explained that in the absence of his assistant
he would not care to undertake the administration
of an anæsthetic. But the woman was persistent;
she offered a liberal fee if the operation could be
done immediately, since it had required so much
time for her to bring her courage to the point of
having the tumor removed; then the operation itself
seemed so simple that at last the surgeon was overruled,
and proceeded. He did cause the patient to
remove her corset, and, her garments thoroughly
loosened, she was placed on the operating-table.
He says he administered very little chloroform, and
had not yet attempted to operate when the patient
exhibited dangerous symptoms. In spite of his
most untiring efforts she succumbed, and he found
himself in the dreadful position of having a patient
die under an operation, with no witnesses present.
He closed and locked his office and walked from the
house in great mental agitation. He called at the
Quadrants', and heard there that the coffin would
not again be opened. Then a great temptation
came to him. The woman had not given him her
address, nor had she stated who had sent her to Dr.
Mortimer, merely declaring that she knew him by
reputation. There was no way to communicate
with the woman's relatives except by making the
affair public. He recalled that a similar accident to
an old surgeon of long-established reputation, where
several assistants had been present, had nevertheless
ruined the man's practice. He himself was innocent
of wrong-doing, except, perhaps, that the law forbade
him to operate alone, and he saw ruin staring him
in the face, just at a time, too, when great prosperity
had appeared to be within his grasp. The undertaker,
Berial, was an old acquaintance, indebted to
him for many recommendations.
"The plan seemed more and more feasible as he
thought of it, and finally he sought out Berial, and
confided to him his secret. For a liberal fee the
undertaker agreed to dispose of the body. Dr. Mortimer
supplied him with a drug with which to
overcome the watchman at the stables, so that the
wagon could be taken out unknown. He himself
visited the Quadrant house, and, under the plea of
relieving Mark Quadrant of a headache, gave him
also a dose of morphine. At the appointed time
Berial arrived at the doctor's office and took away
the woman's body, first replacing the corset, which,
of course, they were bound to dispose of. Together
they went to the Quadrants', and there exchanged
the bodies. Subsequent events are known to you.
Thus the truth has arisen, Phœnix-like, from the
ashes of the dead. The question remaining is, what
claim has Justice upon the doctor? Gentlemen, is
it needful to disgrace that man, who really is a victim
of circumstances rather than a wrong-doer? He tells
me, Mr. Barnes, that he has not had a moment of
mental rest since you asked him whether ashes could
be proven to be the residue of a human body."
"I recall now that he started violently when I
spoke to him. Perhaps, had I been more shrewd, I
might have suspected the truth then. The difficulty
of hushing this matter up, Mr. Mitchel, seems
to be the friends and relatives of the dead woman.
How can they be appeased?"
"I will undertake that. I think the real estate
which she leaves behind will satisfy the one relative.
I have already communicated with this man,
a hard, money-grubbing old skinflint, and I think
that with the assistance of Mr. Berial we can have
one more funeral that will satisfy the curiosity of
the few neighbors."
And thus the matter was permitted to rest. There
was yet one point which puzzled Mr. Barnes, and
which never was made clear to him.
"What of the scar that I could not find on Rufus
Quadrant's foot?" he often asked himself. But as
he could not ask either of the brothers, he never got
a reply. Yet the explanation was simple. Mark
Quadrant told Mr. Barnes that his brother had such
a scar, his object being to baffle the detective by
suggesting to him a flaw in the identification. The
idea occurred to him because his brother Amos
really had such a scarred foot, and he so worded his
remark that he literally told the truth, though he
deceived Mr. Barnes. When the detective repeated
this statement to Amos, he noticed the care with
which his brother had spoken, and, in turn, he
truthfully said that his brother had spoken truthfully.
