The Marathon Mystery/Part 1/Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII

A Glimpse at a Skeleton

GODFREY smoked for a moment in silence. The story he had just heard needed digestion. It shed a new light upon the problem—a light at the same time illuminating and confusing—a light, indeed, which served only to disclose new depths of mystery. So Miss Croydon’s story had been true in another particular. Her sister had been cognisant of her errand; she had not approved of it; she had tried to hold her back; but the stronger nature had overridden the weaker one. The elder woman had tried to shield the younger one, had even lied for her—she had known then, that the errand was one that could not be explained; she, with her experience of the world, had realised, perhaps more strongly than her sister, its compromising nature. What was the secret which those papers guarded?

Drysdale hitched impatiently in his chair.

“Out with it, Jim.” he said. “Don’t try to soften it—I can stand it, I guess. The only thing I can’t stand is this suspense.”

“I’m not going to soften it,” Godfrey assured him, and he rapidly outlined the tragedy of the evening, while his companion listened with horrified attention. Godfrey watched him as he sat staring into the fire with haggard face.

“Don’t make it blacker than it is, Jack,” he said, at last “Personally, I don’t believe they’ve got the right man, but I’m sure of one thing—Miss Croydon had no hand in it.”

“Oh, I know she didn’t!” Drysdale burst out “It isn’t that. Don’t you see—it isn’t that! But what took her to that house? Why should she go there alone, at night, to meet a drunken brute? Answer me that, Jim Godfrey. I don’t care a hang for all the rest.”

Godfrey’s face hardened as he turned back to the fire. That was the very question to which he himself had been striving vainly all the evening to find an answer.

“Of course, Jack,” he said slowly, “I can’t tell you just what her whole purpose was. I don’t know the secret of the papers she hoped to get—it’s a family secret—and none of our business. But one thing’s certain—whatever it is, there’s no cause for you to worry about it.”

“And why not?”

“Why, don’t you see, Jack? If Mrs. Delroy knew her sister’s errand, it could have been no questionable one—no vulgar intrigue—nothing that would touch her in any degrading way—probably nothing that would touch her personally at all. One doesn’t confide things of that sort to one’s sister, nor ask advice about them. To be sure, she didn’t heed the advice; but at the very worst, all she’s been guilty of is an indiscretion. That, I think, any man would be glad to forgive.”

Drysdale drew a deep breath of relief.

“Of course,” he assented quickly.

“And that,” continued Godfrey earnestly, “is all you need to know. I believe she tells the exact truth when she says she tried to save Thompson’s life. Therefore, you may go back to her tomorrow without the need of asking a single question. Depend upon it, she’ll explain it all in time. Show her now that you trust her—that’s the least you can do—yes, and the most you can do to help her.”

“I will,” agreed Drysdale instantly. “You’ve taken a great load off my heart, old man.”

“You hadn’t faith enough. Why, one needs only to look at her to see that she’s above suspicion. I don’t think you quite appreciate her. Most men would be glad to get a woman like that on any terms.”

Drysdale sat for a moment staring into the fire.

“I do appreciate her,” he said slowly, “through and through. I’m appalled at the wonder of it, sometimes, that she should really care for a fellow like me. I’m not worthy——”

Godfrey was walking nervously about the room.

“No, you’re not,” he broke in abruptly. “Mighty few men would be. Luckily, women don’t stop to look at that side of it. Besides, she’ll help you, if you really try to live up to her——”

“I intend to,” said Drysdale humbly.

Godfrey started to say something more, then shook himself impatiently.

“Her appearance will help her,” he added in another tone, “when she’s called before the coroner—she’ll impress the jury in just the right way.”

Drysdale got up quickly.

“She’ll have to appear before the coroner?”

“Of course—she’s practically the only witness. Your place is with her—more especially since you say Delroy himself is out of town.”

“Thank you,” and Drysdale took up his hat. “You’ve helped me a lot,” and with another warm hand-clasp, he was gone.

Godfrey turned back into the room and sat down again before the fire. Drysdale’s story had, indeed, furnished him with new food for thought. So it was a family secret that Grace Croydon was guarding. She had spoken the truth—she had scorned to lie. A secret that affected the family honour. That was conceivable—it furnished the only possible solution of the mystery. He felt that he could reconstruct the drama with some degree of plausibility. He smiled grimly as he drew a pad of paper toward him and got out his pencil. Like all good tragedies, it should be in five acts.

Act I.

The Croydon family possesses a skeleton, and one Thompson holds the key to the closet in the shape of certain papers. He threatens to use them, to display the skeleton to the world. He writes to Miss Croydon, or perhaps to Mrs. Delroy, demanding a price for his papers. Mrs. Delroy is for letting him do his worst; Miss Croydon, less sensible (also perhaps more sensitive), is for trying to buy him off. She overrides her sister, makes an appointment with Thompson, disregarding the risk she runs of compromising herself. (The skeleton, then, must be a particularly grisly one!)

Act II.

Miss Croydon goes to the appointment alone, but with the precaution of taking a pistol with her. (Query—Was she accustomed to using a pistol?) She is admitted by Thompson, who has barely awakened from a drunken sleep! A ten-minute parley follows, during which he states his demands. She, perhaps, finds them excessive, impossible to comply with, and tells him so. He grows angry, abusive, perhaps attempts some violence. She produces her pistol, and at that moment a man steals behind him from the inner room and strikes him down. Then, standing over him, he deliberately shoots him through the heart. Miss Croydon, perceiving his intention, instinctively raises her own pistol and fires at him. The shots are simultaneous, which explains the single loud report heard by the janitor. The murderer calmly opens the door and escapes.

Act III.

Mrs. Delroy is at her library window, anxiously awaiting her sister’s return. She has been absent much longer than she expected to be, and Mrs. Delroy is growing alarmed. Enter Jack Drysdale, the sister’s affianced. Mrs. Delroy tries desperately to get rid of him, even lies to do so, in the effort to prevent the discovery of her sister’s absence. As he is about to go, Miss Croydon returns, sees her sister, and tells her that the interview has led to Thompson’s death. Mrs. Delroy jumps to the conclusion that her sister has herself committed the crime and collapses. Miss Croydon then, for the first time, seeing Drysdale, warns him that she is compromised. Exit. Drysdale rushes off in search of an explanation. (That Mrs. Delroy should for an instant believe her sister guilty of such a crime argues that the skeleton is so horridly repulsive that only Thompson’s death could bury it effectually—which, of course, is plausible, since he doubtless knew the contents of the papers.)

“There,” said Godfrey, laying down his pencil, “after the recognised fashion, three acts are devoted to deepening the complications; two must now be devoted to clearing them away. That’s the work for the future. Let us see what we have to do.”

He took up the pencil again and turned to a new sheet.

1.—To establish the identity of the murdered man. This may be done by a more careful examination of his belongings. The callosities on his hands, his weather-beaten face, the cut of his clothes all indicate that he was a sailor. I should say that he had seen better days, but had been brought down in the world by drink. (Note—In the morning, send a man along the water-front with his photograph.)

2.—To disinter the skeleton. This, of course, will render necessary an examination of the history of the Croydons, and should not be difficult. (Note—Ask Delaney to look up the family.)

3.—To discover the murderer.

“This last,” continued Godfrey, gazing contemplatively at his paper, “is, of course, the most important; indeed, it is the object of the other two. Now, let us see what we know about this mysterious individual,” and he turned another page.

1.—He must have been in apartment fourteen before Miss Croydon’s arrival, otherwise he could not have gained access to the bedroom unseen. (This shuts out Jimmy the Dude.)

2.—Therefore he was a friend or at least an acquaintance of Thompson’s, since it is impossible that he could have been there without Thompson’s knowledge.

3.—But if Thompson consented to his overhearing the interview, he must have expected some help from him.

4.—Yet he was not in the apartment at seven o’clock when Higgins put Thompson to bed.

5.—But Higgins says that no one entered after that except Miss Croydon. (Higgins may, of course, be mistaken.)

6.—Something which occurs during the interview arouses the unknown’s anger. He picks up a piece of pipe (we must discover where he got it) and steals out upon Thompson and knocks him down. If it was merely to protect Miss Croydon, that would have sufficed, but instead he coolly draws a pistol and kills his victim. Then, knowing that the noise would attract the janitor, he steps into the hall, hides somewhere, and, as Higgins rushes into the room, walks down the stair and escapes.

7.—We have Miss Croydon’s description of him.

Godfrey looked at his notes musingly.

“It’s a tangled web.” he said, at last. “A tangled web—there’s lots of threads that need straightening out. But, except for that first point, it’s not to be denied that Jimmy the Dude fits in with all the particulars. He was an acquaintance of Thompson, perhaps a friend; if he stole the key, he could have entered the rooms at any time; he’s certainly capable of killing a man, upon provocation. But the mystery is—what could the provocation have been? To protect Miss Croydon? But then, why kill Thompson? That shooting of an unconscious man argues a ferocity scarcely human. Robbery? But Jimmy nor any other sane person would deliberately murder a man under the eyes of a witness. Well, tomorrow will tell the story—to-day, rather. If Miss Croydon identifies him, that settles it—but I’ve a feeling that it will be a long time before I can fill in the rest of the drama. However, I’ll keep these notes.”

He was whistling softly to himself as he tore the sheets from the pad. Somehow, the case no longer harried and perplexed him as it had from the moment he recognised Miss Croydon, cowering against the wall in suite fourteen; a curious load was lifted from him; she was not guilty, she had committed at most only an indiscretion; she was free from stain. The thought pleased him, elated him. He would lead the pack far away from her—the papers, the suspicious public. She should emerge unsmirched, even in the least degree. He folded the sheets and docketed them:

THE MARATHON MYSTERY,

a tragedy in five acts.

Then he placed them carefully in a file case. They were to confront him, before long, as an evidence of his own insufficiency—so far from having witnessed three acts of the tragedy, it was merely the prologue which had been enacted before him.