Part 10
“You know we loved each other, and we ran away; she, and I, and the six months’ old kid,” he went on. “You know how she died: killed in the C. & O. wreck two hours out of Chicago, two hours after we started--and the kid under her body, alive! I guess that’s what woke me up. All I thought about after that was making money for the kid. I put her with good people, and I didn’t tell them who she was, or who I was. When she got old enough to understand, I adopted her legally. But she never knew who her father and mother were. I couldn’t tell her about the drunken sot that died in the Chicago alcoholic ward. A thing like that would have spoiled her.
“She was born with music in her. I kept her away from me and the people that knew me. I sent her abroad. And to-night was her try-out! I wanted to see if she could face the lights, because I wouldn’t have her laughed at by the highbrows if she couldn’t make good. And she did! God, how they went wild! I wouldn’t tell a soul that she was my adopted daughter--until to-morrow. Now----” He fingered his whisky glass with twitching hands.
Theodore Rogers, whose heart was reputed to be of stone, felt a lump in his throat. He pushed his gloves from the table, so in bending he would get the needed instant to hide his feelings. Something made him jerk up his head! He saw----
The roar of the pistol in his ears deafened him. He cried out as the long-barrelled gun recoiled across the table and struck him, butt foremost, on the chest. His glass was crashed to a hundred pieces as the pistol fell on the table before him. The white shirt front of Cartwright was black, a small circle of fire glowed in the linen; on his face was an awful look of horror as his head pitched forward on his arms.
And then Rogers understood what his eyes had first seen; the picture that had lasted but the hundredth part of a second, perhaps, but which would be graven on his mind for a lifetime.
He had seen the pistol against Cartwright’s heart, _with nothing to hold it there_; the recoil of the explosion had driven it across the table before it fell, _because no human hand had grasped it; no finger had pulled the trigger_!
III.
In the darkness of his library Thornley Colton paced back and forth. The cigarette-end glowed and died as he puffed thoughtfully. Each detail of the girl’s murder at the theatre, described to him by the excited Sydney, while panic had raged above them and below them in the playhouse the night before, was being visualized by the wonderful brain that so unerringly found logic in seeming absurdity; explanation in apparent impossibility--because that brain had never been tricked by seeing eyes.
The murder of the girl had moved him mightily; the stilling forever of that wonderful music seemed more a crime against the world than against an individual. And as he paced the curtained room the mosaics of detail became a complete picture, and he knew--_knew_--that the man who had left their box so hurriedly the night before; the man whom Sydney had _seen_ fire the shot, was guiltless of the murder!
He turned to face the door as hurried footsteps proclaimed to his trained, supersensitive ears that Sydney Thames was approaching.
“Cartwright has been murdered!” cried the red-cheeked secretary breathlessly. “It happened too late for the morning papers, but The Fee got some early extras of the evening editions with full details.”
“Where? How?” asked Colton.
“In an up-town rathskeller. He was shot by Theodore Rogers, the lawyer.”
“He was not,” corrected the blind man quietly.
“How did you hear of it?” demanded Sydney, in surprise.
“This is the first intimation I had of such a thing, but your statement was just a little too positive; your voice told me that _you_ believe Rogers guilty because of the utter impossibility of the story he must have given the police.”
Sydney flushed. “But his story is crazy, insane!” he insisted.
“Perhaps if I heard it----” suggested Colton.
Excitedly, with utter disbelief in his voice, Sydney Thames told of the unheld pistol Rogers swore he saw; of its firing with no finger near the trigger; of its recoil, and fall.
“Of course the police arrested him,” continued Sydney. “Cartwright held a lot of Rogers’s paper. That’s the motive. They’ve got a clear case, as clear as the one against the love-crazed kid who shot the violinist.”
“Just as clear,” echoed Colton slowly. Then: “But haven’t you withheld the fact that the pistols used in both murders are exactly alike?”
“How--did you know--that?” gasped Sydney. Many times he had heard the blind man make such amazing statements, but they always startled him.
“Because both crimes were committed by the same man in the same way!”
“But Nelson, the kid who shot the girl, was locked up in a cell,” protested Thames.
“Exactly,” admitted the blind man. “But he killed Cartwright as surely as he murdered the girl.”
It was several seconds before the meaning of that sentence struck Sydney. “He shot that girl in the back!” rebelled Thames. “I saw his face over the flash of the pistol. Even he admits that no one else could have fired it, because it fell on his toe!”
“Rogers swears that no one did fire the bullet which killed Cartwright,” reminded Colton. “And the pistol fell on the table in front of him.”
“That’s impossible,” asserted Thames emphatically. “Some one must have held the gun. Some one must have pulled the trigger. There can be no explanation of what he says he saw. The days of ghosts and black magic have passed.”
“But not the days of black murder,” retorted Colton. “There is no black art, ghosts, or hypnotism in the murders of last night. The method is unique, that’s all.”
He picked up the slim, hollow stick he always carried. “I’m going to find that murderer,” he said. “A man who could kill a girl like that is either a fiend or a hideous blunderer. I think it’s the latter. Will you call the machine?”
The big automobile was always ready for instant service, day or night, and ten minutes later they were on their way down town. Beside the driver, eager-eyed, joyful, was The Fee. Colton had promised to let him help on the case, and the boy’s cup of happiness was full. The Fee had but two heroes: Thornley Colton in real life; Nick Carter in his favourite fiction.
“We’ll go to police head-quarters first,” decided Colton. “The prisoners will be there this morning, and I’d like to question Rogers.” Then he got from Sydney all the details the papers had given of Cartwright’s murder.
The Fee found a friendly doorman when they reached police head-quarters and prepared to have the time of his life. Colton’s card secured them grudging admittance to the office of the chief of detectives. The chief, like his men, had all the professional’s scorn for the amateur, but he knew the blind man, with his wide acquaintance with influential people, was not a person to antagonize. And the police had found Rogers a different proposition from the youth whose infatuation had led him to the dark box and the murder charge. The lawyer was well known, and his story demanded respect despite the utter impossibility of the thing he described. Of course, the barman and the waiter had been arrested as witnesses, but they had not seen the actual shooting. The barman had been dozing, and the waiter had been busy in a front booth. The shot had aroused them.
“Going to give us some more pointers?” asked the chief tolerantly, when he had shaken hands with Colton and nodded curtly to Sydney.
“I’d like to look into that double-murder case a bit,” confessed the problemist, paying no attention to the tone.
“You mean the two murders committed last night,” corrected the chief gruntingly. “Nothing to ’em. We’ve got the goods on young Nelson. Twenty people in the three front rows saw him do it. And Rogers’s fool story is enough to hang any man.” The real detective’s scorn for the criminal whose methods are crude came to his voice. “He might have got away with a suicide story--Cartwright was all broken up about the girl--but Rogers swears it wasn’t suicide, because the manager’s hands were not near the pistol when it was fired. He says Cartwright’s look was one of horror, as if he’d seen his end coming, and couldn’t get away from it.”
“He did see his death coming,” put in Colton quietly; “and I think that during the last instant he lived he realized at whose hand it came.”
“You think he got wise to Rogers at the end, eh?” guessed the chief.
“No!” The negative was sharp. “Rogers had no more to do with the murder than you or I. Cartwright was killed by a man who had been planning the murder for years; the death of the girl was a terrible mistake.”
The chief jumped from his chair. “What do you know?” he demanded.
“Nothing--definitely. With a little help from you I think I can show you the real murderer.”
“You can’t show me any murderer but Rogers and Nelson,” snapped the chief, with an air of finality. “Because you can’t convince me or anybody else that a man could see what Rogers says he saw. A pistol with no hand near it. It’s impossible! It’s dam’ foolishness!” He snorted.
Unconsciously Sydney Thames found himself nodding confirmation. That was the whole thing: an impossibility. No one had been near Cartwright but Rogers. The girl had been shot in the back, and no one could have been behind her but Nelson. This last Sydney knew, and had seen.
“Let me see the pistols which killed Cartwright and the girl, and I’ll convince you that the same man murdered both,” offered Colton.
“Duplicate guns aren’t so rare,” instantly resented the chief. This man was practically telling him that he didn’t know his business!
“Those two pistols--and others that may be in the possession of the murderer--are the only ones of their kind in the world!”
“Look at ’em, then.” The chief grabbed them from his desk. “They’re a standard German make, single-shot target pistols, blued steel, with barrels six inches long, numbered and sold all over Europe.”
Colton took the two pistols, and Sydney drew his chair closer to see.
“In the first place,” began the blind man, as his thin, supersensitive fingers examined one gun, while the other lay on his knees, “murderers don’t usually have this kind of pistol. They can’t be carried in any ordinary pocket, and”--his forefinger-tip rested over the shallow slot near the muzzle--“you never before saw target pistols without front sights!”
“Took ’em off so they wouldn’t catch in the pocket,” grunted the chief knowingly.
Colton’s lips curved in a smile. “An ingenious theory,” he grunted. “Have you one to fit the banged-up appearance of these butts?” He held out the pistol and indicated the nicks and scratches.
“Been used to hammer nails,” declared the chief, exaggerated weariness in his voice. “Gun owners use ’em that way sometimes, like a woman uses a hairbrush. Nothing to that.”
“Yes there is! No gun owner in the world ever drove a nail by holding a gun vertically, hand on the barrel, and pounding it up and down like a pile driver! See, the hard usage doesn’t show on the bottom of the butt, as it would have done had the pistol been swung as a hammer. The dents and scratches are all on the outside edge!”
The chief took the extended gun. The sarcastic smile on his lips faded as he tried the two ways of holding it. The blind man was right! No driving of nails could have made nicks and scratches where they were on this pistol! “What’s that got to do with the murder?” he growled.
“Everything,” answered the problemist shortly. He took the other pistol on his palm. “Didn’t it strike you that these were two finely balanced pistols, even for target use?” Before the chief could reply Colton shot another inquiry: “Didn’t you wonder at the fact that both triggers had been filed to a hair so that the slightest jar would cause the hammer to fall? See!” He cocked the pistol and jammed the muzzle against the chief’s desk. The hammer choked down sharply. He tried it again, this time jamming the butt down on a chair arm. Once more the hammer snapped on the empty chamber.
The chief’s jaw dropped. “That’s how those nicks were made!” he ejaculated, shocked from his supercilious attitude. The lightning-like questions, the proving of fact after fact by Colton, had disconcerted him. In ten minutes the man who was sightless had shown him details that neither his keen eyes nor the eyes of his hundred men had seen, and Colton had made of those details startling, vivid possibilities.
“May I speak to Mr. Rogers?” Colton asked the question quietly, simply, but under his voice was a subtle note that was dominantly compelling; a note that had made bigger and stronger men than the chief of the New York detective bureau bow to his wishes.
“That’s all very interesting stuff,” began the chief pompously, “but Rogers is the man who shot Cartwright, and we know that Cartwright held a dozen thousand dollars’s worth of his paper.”
The door opened to admit an attaché, and Sydney hid a grin with his hand. He had seen the chief press the call button even before he began to speak.
“Bring Rogers here,” grunted the head of the detective bureau.
The lawyer came in a moment later, and the two men who accompanied him were curtly ordered out. The strong face of the prisoner was marred by lines indicating loss of sleep; his lips were shut grimly, a scowl creased his forehead, his eyes, sharp and piercing, were fixed on the chief.
“This is Mr. Colton, Rogers,” introduced the detective shortly. “He’s got a sort of a theory on the Cartwright murder.”
“If it’s the right one he’ll save you a lot of trouble,” snapped the lawyer ungraciously. He turned to Colton. “I’ve heard of your work on the Villers case.” His tone was almost amiable; then into it came dull wonder. “But that was simplicity itself beside this. I saw that revolver before the shot was fired, unsupported by human hands, against Jim Cartwright’s shirt front. It must have flown there on invisible wings!”
The chief grunted sarcastically, as he had grunted at each repetition of that unvarying statement.
Thornley Colton, tapping his foot lightly with his thin stick, looked up. “That is just what it did do!” he said. The three men stared blankly. The blind man continued: “According to the newspapers, Mr. Rogers, you said that something caused you to jerk up your head in time to see that picture. Do you know what it was?”
“I do not.” Rogers shook his head. “I can only describe it as some inner impulse.”
“Wasn’t it”--Thornley Colton’s tone was impressive--“wasn’t it a shadow, a swift-passing shadow, your eyes saw on the floor?”
Rogers leaped to his feet. “By Heaven, it was!” he shouted. “I remember now!” His voice trembled with excitement. “I had lowered my head, and across the streak of light between the seat edge and table flew a shadow--like a bird passing overhead.” He stopped suddenly, the bewildered look on his face telling the sudden realization of his words. “How could you know that?” he burst out.
“The human brain is a curious thing,” explained the blind man slowly. “It unconsciously records impressions the eyes give, but they are instantly forgotten--because the giving is so automatic--until something recalls them. Without sight I have been compelled to figure all things in my brain. Even the steps that you take without seeing must be mentally visualized by me. I knew it _must_ have been a shadow that caused you to look up. To you it was merely one of the thousand unconscious-conscious things your eyes see during the day which are locked up in the brain until some outside influence brings them back.”
“You can solve this thing!” Rogers shot out the words as if he had just made a wonderful discovery. The blind man’s conscious power in himself had won the confidence of the lawyer; made him realize that there was some logical explanation for the thing which his eyes had seen, and which his reason refused to accept. He forgot that he was a prisoner formally charged with murder, he paced the room nervously. And the chief, scowling down at his desk, was silent. “If you can find the man who killed Jim Cartwright!” The excitement died from Roger’s voice, a new tone came. “I knew him for thirty years, yet I never knew him until last night!”
“I want to bring to justice the man that could kill a girl whose soul held the music of Miss Reynolds’s.” There was unconscious rebuke in the problemist’s voice. All his powers he had brought to avenge the innocent girl; but he knew his efforts must be concentrated on the Cartwright murder because that was the key, the only key that would lead to the murderer.
“The love-crazed kid did that! He----” Rogers stopped, his eyes saw the two pistols side by side on the commissioner’s desk. Instantly his keen brain recognised the significance. “They’re the same!” he exclaimed.
“What were Cartwright’s relations with Miss Reynolds?” It was a command, as Colton put it. Rogers lifted his eyes from the two pistols.
“You wrong Jim Cartwright,” he said quietly. “You’ve accepted the general opinion of him; the opinion he never cared enough about to refute. He wasn’t an angel, but he wasn’t the devil a thousand jealousies have painted him. I’m going to tell you the story he told me last night.” And he did, with all the deep feeling of his friendship, splendidly, simply.
As the men listened they understood the tragedy of Cartwright’s love for the woman who had been killed in the first moments of her new-found happiness--and his; of the little girl he had taken from her dead mother’s arms to work for, to protect, to give the happiness the mother had been denied--only to see her foully murdered when her cup of joy had but just been filled. The fiendishness of it held them spell-bound. The two beings that Cartwright had loved had been snatched from him, and he had been killed, knowing in the last instant of his life that the real murderer of the girl was not even suspected, could not be suspected, because of the devilish ingenuity of his crime.
“Kelly, the drunken magician, is the man who killed Cartwright!” ejaculated the chief.
Rogers was startled for a moment, but Colton, with an inscrutable smile on his thin lips, put a question:
“The father of the girl is dead, isn’t he?”
Rogers glanced at the blind man in surprise. “Yes,” he admitted. “He died in the alcoholic ward of a Chicago hospital three months after his wife was killed. He was buried in the potters’ field.”
“Where did you find that out?” scowlingly demanded the chief.
“That I didn’t proves the fact,” answered the blind man crisply. “If Cartwright hadn’t known he was dead you’d have heard of him before. Do you want me to go on?” he asked.
“Might as well,” granted the chief. “Maybe this is your lucky day.”
“Then I’d like to ask a few questions of the boy who was arrested as Miss Reynolds’s murderer.”
The chief gave the order, but there was a light of triumphant anticipation in his eyes as he waited. Unlike the murderer of Cartwright, there was nothing mysterious in the killing of the girl, despite the clever efforts of the blind man to prove differently. A score of persons had seen the flash of the pistol from the rear of the box. His men had examined the velvet-hung wall toward which the girl’s back had been, and there was not a break in it, not a crack.
When the boy--he was little more--was led in by two detectives there came a look of pity to the faces of Sydney and Rogers. He staggered to a chair when the men released his arms. His lips were purple and torn where Cartwright had beaten him to the floor the night before. A haunting look of terror was in his eyes; his face was pasty white.
“I didn’t do it! I didn’t! I didn’t!” he whispered hoarsely, when he had wet his dry lips to make even the whisper possible.
Colton put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I know you didn’t,” he said, and there was a world of sympathy in his voice. A new look came to the boy’s eyes, a trembling hand sought that of the blind man.
“I loved her and she loved me,” he said chokingly. “We were going to be married--but that Cartwright----” Shrill vehemence came to the tone, and he stopped.
Colton’s hand quieted him. “Listen closely now, Mr. Nelson, and tell me if this is what happened: You groped your way to the box with your right hand on the wall. You felt the black velvet hangings, stopped, and the pistol went off while your right hand was stretched above you, on the hangings, and you were facing the door that led back off the stage.”
“I remember that!” interjected Sydney. “His left side was towards Cartwright and the girl!”
“Yet you said that the pistol flash crossed his body.”
“It did!” broke in the boy. “It was not twelve inches ahead of me! My right foot was extended to take another step, and the pistol fell on my toe!”
Colton turned to the three listening men. “To have fired that shot he would have had to double his left arm behind him and have shot around his body--a physical impossibility, even with a long-barrelled pistol.” He placed his hand gently on the boy’s shoulder once more. “Go outside to the men who brought you in,” he said. “You will be free in a few hours.”
Silently the boy obeyed. When Colton faced them again there was a curious expression on his face; the expression of a man who has seen a thoughtless boy destroy a priceless work of art by his clumsiness.
“He killed that girl as surely as if he had placed the pistol at her back,” he said sadly. “Yet he is as innocent of her murder as a child unborn!”
Eager questions, demands for an explanation of that cryptic remark, were fairly hurled at the blind man by the excited Rogers. What did he mean? How could the boy have killed Miss Reynolds and not be guilty of her murder? How had she been killed? By whom? Sydney Thames forbore the questions he knew would not be answered. The chief scowled down at the two pistols, silent, thoughtful. Colton’s statement regarding the firing of the pistol across the boy’s body had struck him like a dash of cold water. It was true! The boy could not have fired the shot that killed the girl! Once more the blind man’s unerring instinct for truth had torn down the case he and his men had been building for hours. In less than five minutes the sightless problemist had proved a fact that twenty pairs of eyes had failed to see.
“Where are the two men who were arrested in the rathskeller?” asked Colton curtly, utterly ignoring the questions.
“Bailed by their boss,” answered the chief. “They can only establish details anyway.”
“I want to interview at least one of them,” declared Colton. “I also want to visit the rathskeller. Can Mr. Rogers go, in your company, of course?”
“Yes.” The chief took the responsibility unhesitatingly. He realized that he must see the thing through now.
“Is your machine down here? I want to send my boy on an errand with mine.”
“Outside, waiting.” The chief took his hat and coat from the tree. “I’ll go with Rogers while he gets his,” he added, as he opened the door.
The blind man hurried out, feet unerringly retracing the steps his brain had registered when they entered. The red-haired boy ran from the group of detectives he had been entertaining.
“Shrimp!” The blind man used the name he always called the boy, and took him aside. He whispered instructions, thrust two or three bills into the other’s hand. The youngster darted for the machine, and jumped up beside the driver as the chief and Rogers came from the front door.
In silence the quartet climbed into the car; in silence they made the journey to the rathskeller, where James Cartwright had been shot a few hours before. The waiter who had been on duty early in the morning was again on hand, heavy-eyed. The barman was at his home.
“Where’s the booth you occupied?” asked Colton of Rogers, when the chief had established their identity with the nervous proprietor.
The lawyer went to it, stopped at the table, and stared down at the dark stain that could not be removed.