The Marathon Mystery/Part 4/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI
Innocent or Guilty?
WE sat looking at him a moment in silence. It was evident that he was suffering some exquisite mental anguish, though I suspected, somehow, that it was not because of his imprisonment. There was something deeper than that; something that touched him more closely…
“Oh, come, Jack,” protested Godfrey, at last, “this is no time to put on the high and mighty. You don’t seem to realise what an exceedingly serious position you’re in.”
“I know one thing, Godfrey,” returned Drysdale, with a forced smile, “and that is that I didn’t kill Graham nor steal the necklace. So I know they can’t convict me.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of it; things like that happen occasionally. How did Graham get hold of that button off your raincoat?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“You wore the coat that evening?”
“Yes.”
“And the button was on it?”
“Yes—I’d have missed it, if it hadn’t been. Besides, I buttoned the coat up when I started back to the house.”
Godfrey’s face flushed and his eyes began to glisten.
“You’re sure, then, that it was on the coat when you returned to the house?”
“Why, yes,” answered Drysdale, looking at him in some astonishment, “reasonably sure.”
Godfrey fell a moment silent; then he shook his head impatiently.
“There’s another thing,” he said. “How did your pistol get out there in that boat?”
“That’s another puzzler.”
“Now see here, Jack,” continued Godfrey seriously, “there’s one thing certain—either you killed Graham or Tremaine did.”
“Tremaine?” repeated the prisoner, with tightening lips.
“Yes. Do you know of any evidence against him?”
Drysdale paused a moment, his brows knitted.
“No,” he answered positively, at last. “I don’t see how Tremaine could possibly have done it.”
“Why not?”
“Because he didn’t leave the house, so Delroy says. I know he was there when I went out, and when I came back I saw him sitting by his lighted window, writing apparently.”
“Ah!” Then after a moment, “Did you keep that journal you promised to keep?”
“Yes; you’ll find it in my room—that is”
He stopped suddenly and coloured.
“Well? Out with it.”
“I just happened to think that perhaps that damned fool of a coroner’s got it. See here, Jim, if you find it I want you to promise me one you won’t read it—not yet—it won’t help you a bit.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” retorted Godfrey grimly. “Why don’t you want me to read it?”
“The fact is,” Drysdale answered, colouring still more, “that after I got started, I—I forgot I was writing it for you”
“I see,” said Godfrey drily, as the other paused. “I’ll promise you this, Jack—I won’t read it unless I find that I can’t clear you any other way.”
Drysdale heaved a sigh of relief.
“That’s all I want,” he said. “Afterwards, perhaps, I won’t mind; but just now”
His voice trailed off, his lips trembled.
“And you’ve nothing more to tell us?”
“Not a thing.”
“Very well; we’ll go out and have a look about the place. We’ll come in again this afternoon. We’re going to clear you,” he added confidently.
We heard the jailer’s footsteps approaching along the corridor.
“I don’t doubt it,” said Drysdale, with a puzzling listlessness. “It’s very good of you both to take all this trouble.”
The jailer opened the door and we passed out.
“Do you know when the inquest will be?” Godfrey asked, as we stepped through together into the outer room.
“Yes, sir; t’-morrer mornin’. They’d have had it today, but Coroner Heffelbower hopes t’ find th’ necklace by t’-morrer.”
“Oh; so they haven’t found it, then?”
“No, sir; they searched Drysdale’s room, but it wasn’t there. Now they’re tryin’t’ figger out where he hid it.”
“Well,” observed Godfrey, “they’ll have to figure a long time, because he didn’t hide it anywhere.”
“Mebbe not, sir,” retorted the jailer, with a sceptical smile. “But appearances are dead agin him. Why, even his girl thinks he did it.”
“How do you know that?” demanded Godfrey quickly.
“When Heffelbower was bringin’ him out o’ th’ house, they met her in th’ hall, an’ she asked Drysdale what he wanted t’ do it fer, why he couldn’t awaited a while. That’s purty good evidence, I think.”
Godfrey had listened with a face hard as steel. He turned away without answering, and as we went down the street together, I saw that this new development puzzled and worried him sorely. That Miss Croydon should think Drysdale guilty, even for an instant, was inconceivable!
We made our way to the nearest hotel and engaged a trap, and while it was getting ready, ordered a light lunch. Godfrey ate in thoughtful silence; as for me, I confess that I saw little ground for that conviction he had expressed so confidently, that we could prove our client’s innocence. I was forced to admit that, to look at Drysdale, no one would believe him capable of such a crime; but then, for that matter, to look at Tremaine, who would believe him capable of it? Put the two men before a jury, and Tremaine would come off victor every time. It becomes instinctive, in time, for a lawyer to try to look at his cases with an average jury’s eyes—he must see them as those twelve men in the box will see them—and applying that method now, it was very evident to me that the chance of clearing our client was very slim indeed.
The trap came around to the door and in a moment we were off along the sandy road. The day was warm and bright, the air had the sharp salt smell of the ocean, trees and bushes were starting into life under the touch of spring. But Godfrey did not seem to notice any of these things. He kept his eyes straight ahead and his face was very stern. No doubt he was finding the problem much more difficult than he had thought.
But at last we swung down before the door at Edgemere. A man ran out to hold our horse. We asked for Mr. Delroy, and a servant who had been stationed in the vestibule took in our cards. He returned immediately and conducted us to the library. Delroy came forward to meet us, our cards in his hand, a curious look of doubt and perplexity upon his countenance.
“My dear Godfrey,” he began, “I didn’t like to refuse to see you, and yet I’ve declined to talk to reporters”
“You’re not talking to one now, Mr. Delroy,” broke in my companion. “I’ve come down purely in Drysdale’s behalf. Of course, I’ll write up the story, if I succeed in getting him off, but I’ll not use anything I learn here in that way.”
“Oh, that’s all right, then,” and Delroy breathed a sigh of relief. “Glad to see you. And you, too, Mr. Lester.”
“Mr. Lester is Drysdale’s counsel,” explained my companion. “Between us, we’re going to see that he’s cleared of this ridiculous charge.”
“Yes, I hope you will. Sit down, won’t you? Ridiculous, that’s the word for it; and yet,” he added, passing his hand before his eyes in a dazed way, “there are so many points of evidence which seem unexplainable that I’ve grown giddy thinking about them. It’s such a terrible thing—my wife is quite prostrated—even a little delirious at times; her sister is almost ill—we’ve all been terribly upset.”
“No doubt,” nodded Godfrey, his face curiously intent. “We’re not going to trouble you much now, Mr. Delroy; the only thing I should like you to do is to give us an account of all that happened that evening. I hope you will do that.”
“Yes, I’ll be glad to do that,” and he proceeded to tell in detail the story the reader already knows.
“There’s one thing,” said Godfrey, when it was ended. “Is it true that Miss Croydon seemed to believe Drysdale guilty?”
“Yes,” answered Delroy; “for an instant she did; but she explained to me afterwards that she thought it was Tremaine who had been killed.”
Godfrey’s eyes blazed with sudden interest.
“Tremaine! Then there’s been ill-feeling between them?”
“Yes—at least on Drysdale’s part. He’d conceived some absurd suspicions of Tremaine—told me I’d done wrong in inviting him here—acted rather nastily about it, in fact.”
“Thank you,” said Godfrey quietly, though his eyes were still shining. “Now I should like your permission to look over the grounds and to examine the rooms which Drysdale and Tremaine occupied.”
“Certainly,” and Delroy touched the bell. “Thomas,” he said, to the servant who entered, “you will take these gentlemen wherever they wish to go and answer any questions they may ask you.”
We went first to the boathouse and pier and looked over the scene of the tragedy. I was struck, at once, by the change in Godfrey’s demeanour; he no longer seemed either perplexed or worried; his face was shining with triumph. Evidently he had discovered a way out of the labyrinth.
To the boathouse he gave a particularly careful scrutiny, searching in every corner, apparently for some minute object which he failed to find. Out on the pier, again, he stood looking up and down with thoughtful face.
“Pshaw!” he said suddenly. “I might have known I was just wasting my time in there. Come this way, Lester.”
He hurried back through the boathouse and down to the beach. Along the edge of it he walked, scrutinising every inch of the sand. Suddenly he stooped with a little cry of triumph and caught up a small bottle. It was quite empty. He removed the cork, sniffed it, and replaced it quickly.
“Do you mean to say, Godfrey,” I demanded in astonishment, “that you have been looking for that bottle?”
“It’s precisely what I’ve been looking for,” he returned exultantly. “And I’ve learned one thing—never to mistrust a logical deduction. Now let’s go back to the house. And, Thomas,” he added to our guide, “take us back by the way that will bring us opposite the room occupied by Mr. Tremaine.”
“All right, sir,” said Thomas. “His room was right next to Mr. Drysdale’s in th’ east wing—there it is now, sir-th’ third and fourth windows from th’ end.”
“And the fifth and sixth windows belong to Mr. Drysdale’s room?”
“Yes, sir.”
A sort of balcony ran along the entire wing just beneath the windows, half-covered with creeping vines, which in summer, no doubt, completely draped it Godfrey examined it with shining eyes. Then he walked straight to the end of the building.
“Now, Lester,” he said, “I’m going to make a prediction. I predict that we’ll find the wall at the cornet freshly scratched in more than one place. Ah, now, see there.”
The marks were plain enough and the cluster of heavy vines which ran up here against the house also showed signs of abrasion.
“What would you say those marks meant, Lester?” Godfrey asked.
“I should say,” I answered, readily enough, “that someone had recently climbed up to the balcony or down from it.”
“Both ways, Lester; both up and down! Oh, this is much simpler than I’d expected! Now take us up to the rooms, Thomas.”
But in the vestibule he paused.
“Is that the rack where the coats hang, Thomas?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“And where Mr. Drysdale hung his coat that night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you happen to notice, Thomas, when he came in, whether or not the top button of his raincoat was missing?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Thomas slowly; “I thought about it afterwards, and it’s mighty funny, sir, but I’d swear he had his coat buttoned up tight around his throat. How could he a-done that if th’ top button wasn’t there?”
“How, indeed?” mused Godfrey, gazing at the rack with eyes intent.
Then they softened, brightened; his face broke into a smile.
“Of course,” he said, half to himself; “how dense of me not to have thought of it!” Now, Thomas, we’ll go upstairs.”