The Marathon Mystery/Part 4/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II
Treasure Trove!
IT seemed that my sudden abstraction had offended Cecily more deeply than I imagined, for when I knocked at her door next evening, she told me curtly that she was not feeling well and intended going early to bed. So I went back to my room, rather glad of the chance of an evening to myself.
Besides, Cecily was a good deal like a highly flavoured dish—to be fully enjoyed only at intervals. And, too, there was only one point as yet unsettled—where she and Tremaine had been the night of the murder. That, I felt, could be cleared up without much difficulty the first time she received me, which would probably be not later than tomorrow. I had a premonition that that line of inquiry, too, would lead nowhere—that Cecily would prove, by a word, that neither she nor Tremaine had been anywhere near the Marathon at the hour of the crime. In any event I had plenty of time, and I could spend this evening very profitably in weighing and classifying my discoveries; in getting a fresh start.
As I opened my door, I noticed it scraped on the carpet, and an examination showed me that the carpet had come loose along the sill. I stepped to the speaking tube and blew down it.
“Hello!” called up a voice in a moment.
“Is that you, Higgins?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is Mr. Lester. Come up after a while, will you? I’ve a little job up here I want you to do.”
“All right, sir; will half an hour do?”
“Oh, yes; any time this evening.”
I got out pipe, tobacco, and matches and sat down in my most comfortable chair. I was no longer so discouraged as I had been the evening before. On the whole, I told myself, I had progressed — I had succeeded in forging the chain more tightly about Tremaine, in strengthening it in many places. I could show certainly:
1. — That he knew Thompson and had lied about it.
2. — That he apparently hated him.
3. — That he had come to New York on the same boat with him, and probably on the same errand.
4. — That Thompson had joined him as soon as released from jail.
On paper, I had to admit, the chain appeared a good deal weaker than I had thought it. There were many gaps — indeed, now that I looked at it, it seemed to consist largely of gaps. Objections to the theory of Tremaine’s guilt loomed larger and larger. One of the weightiest was Miss Croydon’s attitude toward him — that seemed unexplainable. The man she described as the murderer was quite unlike Tremaine in appearance. Was she, then, shielding him? But why should she do that? Above all, if he were guilty of such a crime, would she have consented to his admission to the Delroy family? And again, if she feared him, why not denounce him to the police, or at least threaten to do so? That would remove him from her path once and forever.
This last question seemed so unanswerable that I paused to look at it again, for it was evident that one really insuperable objection must invalidate the whole theory. By the commission of a crime, especially of a crime so serious as this one, would he not place himself as much in Miss Croydon’s power as she could possibly be in his? If she were still in his power, then, he had committed no crime; and if he had committed no crime, why, of course, he had not killed Thompson. But in that case, who had? Where had that diamond come from?
I knocked out my pipe and filled it again. I felt a good deal as though I was wandering around and around in a maze; I was getting a little dizzy.
If Tremaine had not killed Thompson, I asked myself again, who had? Not Miss Croydon! To suppose that a delicately reared girl would smash a man over the head with a piece of pipe was to descend to the ridiculous. Yet if he had attacked her, she might have nerved herself to do it. But that was absurd, too, since, admittedly, she had a pistol in her pocket and was not afraid to use it. Who else, then? Jimmy the Dude? But he had already proved an alibi; besides, a motive was wanting.
Then I thought of Cecily. Could she have been the assassin? Certainly it was not impossible; that last savage act, that shooting of an unconscious man, fitted in, somehow, with my estimate of her character. She might have done that. But why should Miss Croydon seek to shield her? Was it Cecily who possessed the secret? Was there some connection between them? I remembered the other famous case in which I had been engaged—must I look for the same solution here? Was there a blood relationship between Cecily and Miss Croydon? Clearly, such a thing was possible; I even fancied that one, knowing them both, might be able to detect a subtle resemblance. I closed my eyes and endeavoured to recall the features of Miss Croydon’s portrait; her face had much in common with Cecily’s. Both were dark, both were…
A knock at the door brought me out of my thoughts. I opened it and found the janitor standing there.
“It’s nothing very much, Higgins,” I said, “but I thought you’d better fix it before it got any worse. The carpet has come loose here along the door. Three or four tacks are all it needs.”
He stepped over the threshold and looked at it.
“All right, sir,” he said. “I’ll fix it in th’ mornin’. Them fellers what put th’ carpet down didn’t half do their work. I tacked a loose place down over there by th’ wall jest afore you moved in.”
“Where was it?” I asked as calmly as I could.
“Right here by this angle,” he said, indicating the place with his foot. “I think maybe I’d better go all around th’ walls t’-morrer.”
“Perhaps it would be best,” I said; “thank you,” and I closed the door upon him.
The next instant I was down on my hands and knees tearing away the carpet, my blood singing in my ears. I had found them—the clippings—it was here they must be hidden; but for those chance tacks driven by the janitor, Tremaine would have had possession of them long ago, and perhaps we should never have penetrated the mystery of Thompson’s death. Now, it would be laid bare before us—the whole secret! What a little thing it was that had saved us!
I had the carpet loose—I turned it back, and there they lay, that little roll of clippings, just as they had been taken from Thompson’s pocket-book. They were to tell us the whole story—we could not again be led astray. I was quite calm again. I picked them up carefully and laid them on my desk. Then I washed my hands and filled my pipe. There was a certain exquisite pleasure in holding myself back from them, in tantalising myself, in deferring for a moment or two the revelation which was to come.
But at last I sat down and spread them out on the desk before me. There were twelve of them, some only a few lines in length, others of half a column. Of one there were four copies, but of the others only one apiece. They were tattered and stained from long carrying; some were in English and some were in French, and they were dated from places as far apart as Dieppe, New York, Sydney.
I piled them carefully beside me and started hopefully on the task of deciphering them—of piecing together the story they had to tell me. But the farther I proceeded, the more my spirits fell: for they told no story, they seemed to have no relation to each other—no common thread. Apparently, they had been gathered aimlessly at haphazard to satisfy the whim of the moment. One chronicled a wreck at sea; another, a bank robbery; a third, an escape from prison; a fourth was merely a marriage notice; a fifth told of a row in a sailors’ dive, and so on down the list They were about different people—friends of Thompson’s, perhaps; none of them had any connection with Tremaine; they told no story, furnished no clew, shed not a ray of light on the mystery—they were absolutely worthless.
I laid them down in despair. Yet if they were worthless, why had Miss Croydon taken them? Why had Tremaine sought for them? Were they mistaken, too? Had they imagined the clippings told a secret which in fact they did not tell? But perhaps they did tell it—perhaps I had overlooked it. They must have some connection with the tragedy? Why could I not perceive it?
I ran through them feverishly again, but with no better result. At last I laid them down and took up my pipe. I must submit them to a keener brain than mine. If Godfrey were only here…
I heard a step come down the hall, stop at my door. Someone knocked.
I hastily stuffed the clippings into my pocket and opened the door. But it was not Tremaine who stood there—it was Godfrey.
“Well, of all things!” I cried. “I was just wishing for you. Come in.”
With that quiet smile of his, he stepped over the threshold.
“That must mean you’ve got some new problem to solve,” he said, still smiling.
“I have; the worst yet; impenetrable as the countenance of the Sphinx. But first give me your coat and hat.”
They were dripping with water, and for the first time I heard the rain beating savagely against the windows.
“I happened to be across the street talking with Simmonds,” he said, “and I thought I’d run over and see you a moment.”
“When did you get back from Washington?”
“Just this evening, and I’ve got to put in to-morrow at Boston, worse luck!”
I handed him a cigar and took one myself. I confess that the match with which I lighted it was not wholly steady.
“Come,” said Godfrey, smiling in sympathy with my excitement, “what’s the great discovery? Some news from the house-party?”
“No; I haven’t heard a word from the house-party.”
“What is it, then? Out with it.”
“Godfrey,” I cried, “I’ve found the clippings!” and I plunged my hand into my pocket and drew them forth.
He was out of his seat in an instant.
“The clippings! Not the ones”
“The very ones!” I nodded triumphantly.
“Let me see them; but wait,” and he held himself back. “I confess you surprised me, Lester—I wasn’t expecting such a bomb. This is great luck. Where did you find them?”
I told him of Higgins’s chance remark that had put me on the track, and in the same breath related what Cecily had told me of Tremaine and his encounter with his zombi.
“Good boy!” Godfrey commended when I had finished. “You’re worth all the rest of us put together. You see, we’re beginning to get the threads in hand. Now bring the clippings over here to the desk under the light.”
I laid them on the desk and he sat down before it.
“But here,” he said, starting up again, “you’ll want to see them, too”
“No, no,” I protested. “Sit down. I have seen them,” and then suddenly I remembered how I had been disappointed. They contained no secret, they gave us no clew…
“So,” he said, sitting down again; “so you’re in the secret, then?”
“I’ve looked them over,” I repeated despondently, “but I’m not in the secret. They don’t tell any secret, or anything else that concerns this case. I don’t believe they’ll help us a bit, Godfrey. They’re about everything under the sun but the one thing we’re interested in.”
I went back to my chair and applied myself to my cigar; I hardly dared look at Godfrey, his disappointment would be so intense. A silence of three or four minutes followed, broken only by the rustling of paper and the howling of the wind about the building.
Then I glanced at Godfrey. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were beaming with triumph…
“What!” I cried, starting up, “do you think”
He looked up with a little nod.
“Yes,” he said; “they tell us the whole story, Lester.”