The Twenty-Six Clues/Chapter 13

by Isabel Ostrander

 

CHAPTER XIII

The Black Wallet

WHEN Calvin Norwood returned he found McCarty still seated by the bed and Victor Marchal sleeping deeply.

"The fever is broken, I think, sir. His forehead is cool and damp," announced McCarty in a cautious whisper. "I managed to get a dose of that medicine down him about an hour ago like you told me, and he's been lying there like a child ever since."

"Good! He will rest quietly now for an hour or two at least." Norwood turned again to the door. "Come downstairs and we can talk."

With a relieved glance at the unconscious man, McCarty followed his host from the room and down to the library. That silent hour which had ensued since the astounding revelations had reached his ears had brought a swift inspiration and a plan which he meant to put into immediate execution. He was no diplomatist, however, and while he cast about in his mind for a way to broach his subject, Norwood interrupted his train of thought.

"How was he, McCarty, before you gave him the medicine? Pretty bad, eh?" He spoke perfunctorily, but his eyes gleamed with unconcealed anxiety behind their huge-rimmed glasses.

"Yes, sir. He wandered some, like anybody does in a fever," McCarty admitted. "He wasn't what you'd call violent, though. I've seen them when they'd want to throw themselves out of bed entirely."

"Did he talk much? What did he say?" His eagerness betrayed itself now in his tone and McCarty responded with deliberation.

"Well, the half of it was French, Mr. Norwood, and that let me out. For the rest, one minute, he'd be thinking he was back fighting in the war again, and the next he'd be puzzling his poor sick brains about the murder, but 'twas all in a jumble, like, and you could hardly make head or tail of it. Do you think he'll be all right now the fever's broke?"

"Unless he's in for a complete nervous breakdown." Norwood moved somewhat impatiently in his chair. "But tell me what he said about the murder. Did he allude to last night?"

"Not in so many words. I don't remember rightly just what he said, sir, it was all so mixed up, but he seemed to be wondering who could have done the murder and once he said something about how kind she'd been to him, mentioning no names," McCarty lied blandly. "I'm thinking the war is on his mind as much as the murder, if you ask me."

"Hah!" Norwood emitted a snort of evident satisfaction and relief. "I'm glad the poor fellow has turned the corner, anyway. Now, if Mr. Terhune and Inspector Druet will leave him alone and not excite him with their fool tests and questions, he may pull himself together in a few days. I appreciate your remaining with him to-day, McCarty. I knew you were too sensible to take any stock in the ravings of a sick man, but I wouldn't say as much for those who are conducting the case. We were shadowed even at the funeral and I don't mind telling you that I'm getting confoundedly tired of it!"

"So it's all over, sir; the funeral?" McCarty asked. "How is Mr. Jarvis taking it?"

"He bore up splendidly, considering the frightful strain he is under. The crowd was terrific; there was a mob of morbid sight-seers extending for a solid block or more, and the police had difficulty in forcing a way through for the funeral cortège. Poor Evelyn; poor child! Well, it is over and now we must bend all our energies to finding the wretch who brought this terrible thing upon us. I've dabbled in crime mysteries for years, as you know, but somehow I cannot take hold of this, I cannot grasp it. The blow struck home too closely for me to get the right perspective on it, if you know what I mean. Joan says it is a judgment upon us—having poor Evelyn's body found here—for maintaining that collection of crime relics. She always hated it and could never be induced to enter the museum."

"It's a wonderful collection you've made, though, Mr. Norwood." McCarty seized artfully upon his opportunity. "There's none other like it in the country, and you're the envy of the whole department."

Norwood's slight dapper figure straightened and he stroked his pointed beard complacently.

"It contains a bit of evidence of almost every known form of crime," he remarked. "I started it many years ago, with a small bottle of poison tablets which, labeled 'saccharin,' had lain upon a certain lady's boudoir table in full view for days while the authorities searched far and wide for her rival's murderer. I have added other relics to it as time went on and opportunity offered until I flatter myself that it is a fairly complete collection."

"It is that!" McCarty agreed heartily. "But you've not found much to add to it lately, sir, have you?"

"Indeed, yes. It has been greatly augmented within the last year or so," replied the other. "The rope with which old Ogilvy was hung by his own valet, who afterward cut him down and gave the alarm of suicide; the germs of typhoid by means of which the notorious Doctor Venner disposed of his invalid wife's rich relations, the furrier's knife which figured in the Rankin case, and many more came to me through various channels. When we were so tragically interrupted the other evening I was on the point of showing them to you."

"Couldn't you——" McCarty hesitated. "Would you feel like showing a few of them to me now, sir, and telling me their history? I suppose after what's happened you'll want to fight shy of the museum for a while, but I've a tremendous interest in it. Many's the time in days gone that I heard of your collection but never did I think I'd see it with my own two eyes."

"I promised Joan that the museum would be kept locked until her marriage next month." Norwood hesitated. "She vowed that unless I gave her my word she would not remain under my roof; she feels a nervous horror of the whole thing, you see. However, she won't be home for an hour or so yet—I persuaded her to allow Vivaseur to take her for a short run out into the country in his car after the funeral for she has been cooped up for days, crying her eyes out and I don't want her ill on my hands, too. I'll be glad to show you a thing or two which will interest you, McCarty, and I assure you that in spite of what has occurred I feel no qualms about entering the museum where the result of my life work is stored. Come along."

As they passed down the hall McCarty asked suddenly:

"Did you come across that missing finger-print photograph yet, sir; the one of Mrs. Jarvis' impressions?"

"No. It slipped my mind completely and I forgot to ask Victor about it," his host admitted. "However, as I told you, it can only be mislaid."

He produced his key and opened the door and together they stepped into the room. The pale wintry rays of the westering sun slanted obliquely in at the tall windows, gleaming mistily on the glass tops of the cases already veiled with a film of dust and a stale, musty odor prevailed, as of an apartment long untenanted.

"Phew! The room was aired thoroughly on Saturday, But it is stuffy in here already," Norwood advanced and opened one of the windows wide, then turned and took from its hook upon the wall a length of knotted rope. "This is the Ogilvy noose. The valet had cleverly fabricated a lot of circumstantial evidence to convey verisimilitude to the suicide theory, but he made one fatal error; the peculiar formation of the knot proved conclusively that the aged millionaire could not have adjusted it himself. Moreover it has a certain odd twist, as you can see, which was found to be the species of knot used in staking down balloons prior to an ascension, and investigation disclosed the fact that early in life the valet had been an exhibitor at county fairs; a parachute jumper. A nice bit of detail, wasn't it?"

"It was that!" McCarty examined the rope with an air of absorbed professional interest and handed it back. "How long have you had it here, sir?"

"Since the conclusion of the trial, eighteen months ago," Norwood responded. "Here are some of Doctor Venner's typhoid germs which were found secreted in his bathroom after the fourth mysteriously coincidental death from that disease in his household in as many months. He had placed the germs in the water cooler and his insistence upon having that article installed directed the first suspicion against him. A friend in the District Attorney's office who knows of my hobby procured the specimen for me last summer. This is the furrier's knife of which I told you. I do not believe that an implement with a keener blade than than this exists. It was sewn into the ermine collar of an evening coat designed for Mrs. Judson Grey in such a manner that the point would penetrate the fur and pierce the neck near the jugular vein when the garment was fastened. A sudden death in the family sent Mrs. Grey into mourning, however, and she gave the coat, unworn, to her niece. The unfortunate girl died in a taxi on her way to the theatre, as you may remember, and the ensuing investigation placed the blame on the establishment which had made the coat, but it is very generally surmised who the real culprit is."

"It's a wicked-looking knife, and no mistake," commented McCarty. "Did you add it to your collection lately, Mr. Norwood?"

"About two months ago. This five-dollar gold piece is one of those made by the Delmore counterfeiting gang. It came into my possession purely by chance."

"When was this, sir?"

"In October." Norwood looked his surprise at the persistency of the question. "Why are you so interested in the dates, McCarty?"

"Because I know you've no time to be showing me all your collection now, Mr. Norwood, and the relics you've got just lately are what I'd rather know about than those of cases long past and gone. There was one thing you mentioned last Friday night whilst we were all having dinner with you." McCarty paused and then added: "You were going to show it to us, you said, sir, but instead we came on the murder. I don't recall what it was exactly but 'twas something you told us held the only clue to a mystery that had set New York by the ears a good while ago. You'd only got it within a few days——"

"Of course! The Hoyos wallet!" Norwood's face lighted eagerly and he turned to a tall cabinet against the side wall between the fireplace and the corner where stood the case of finger-prints, "It has not entered my mind since the discovery of poor Evelyn's body. You remember the affair, don't you? It was a nine days' wonder a decade ago. Hoyos was a foreigner of somewhat obscure antecedents but supposed wealth who was breaking into society of a sort by means of Wall Street. There were rumors of wild parties on his yacht and one night he disappeared from on board; weeks later his body was found in the river, fearfully mutilated, and the case was never cleared up. But where can the wallet be? I was sure that I put it here."

While he talked Norwood's slim, nervous fingers had been running over the assortment of documents and note books with which the narrow shelves were filled and now he stood back gazing in perplexity about him.

"Perhaps Captain Marchal has moved it?" suggested McCarty.

"No. He didn't know where I had placed it and he never touches this cabinet, for its contents are of no use to him in cataloguing the collection. He cannot see to read the notes and other papers, you know, and these blank books are filled with my own private memoranda of the different cases in which I have specialized. No one ever touches them but myself. I cannot understand it!"

"Maybe you put it somewhere else yourself, sir, by mistake." McCarty had approached and stood looking over the other's shoulder. "What did the wallet look like?"

"It was the usual-sized bill folder, of very fine grained black seal worn brown at the edges, and contained two letters——" Norwood broke off. "What can have happened to it? I know I did not touch it after I put it away here last Tuesday afternoon; I never mislay anything and I had no occasion to open this cabinet again until Friday, just before I went to Professor Parlowe's. Then I came to get out some data on a recent poisoning case that I wanted to discuss with him, and the wallet was here. I distinctly remember seeing it, for an idea came to me to take it along and show it to the Professor; I decided not to do so, because he is only interested in poisoning cases—he is an eminent toxicologist, you know—and when he is engrossed in an experiment he resents bitterly the introduction of any other topic. I closed the door of the cabinet but did not lock it; in fact the key is still here in the lock as you can see for yourself, McCarty. Someone must have taken it out during the excitement following the discovery of the murder! But who would have any interest in it? The case has been shelved and forgotten, even by the authorities."

"If you are sure it has been taken, sir, whoever did it must have known where to look," observed McCarty. "Did you show the wallet to anyone after you got it or tell them where you had put it?"

"No, but anyone familiar with the museum and my method of arranging its contents knows that I keep all documents and papers here." Norwood ran his fingers through his hair. "But what am I saying? What possible object could anyone I know have in taking it? Of course, it being a wallet, someone who had access here may have though that it contained money and may have appropriated it. It could have been seen through the glass door and the key was there in the lock."

"Who could have got in here?" McCarty asked. His eyes had narrowed swiftly and there was a note of suppressed eagerness in his tone which the other was too engrossed in his fresh problem to be cognizant of. "Didn't you say Captain Marchal was with you in here that afternoon just before you left to call on your friend the professor? Didn't Captain Marchal come back after you'd gone to put away some notes he'd been copying?"

"Not copying. Victor cannot see to read notes, you must remember," Norwood replied testily. "I said he had transcribed them. During the last month, while he was familiarizing himself with the use of the typewriter I went ahead with my own preparation of a monograph on the various objects in my collection and talked my subject-matter into a dictagraph for Victor to transcribe in his leisure moments. The dictagraph is in the library beside his typewriter and the cylindrical records for it are kept in the drawer of that cabinet over there. He took a record or two to work on while I was away that afternoon and the papers he put back were those upon which he had typed what the machine had dictated to him. When I spoke of anyone who might have access here I was thinking of strangers; those detectives from Headquarters or the Homicide Bureau or the men who came with the Chief Medical Examiner to take the body away."

"You'll not be finding any of them monkeying with petty larceny!" remonstrated McCarty loyally. "Who knew that you had the wallet, anyway, Mr. Norwood? Who did you tell?"

"No one. That is, only a few of my most intimate circle," the other amended. "I wasn't sure of obtaining it until it was actually in my hands. The woman had been dickering with me for her price, but I was afraid until the last moment that she would back out of her bargain."

"What woman?"

"The one in whose possession the wallet had been all these years; a former stewardess, I believe, on Hoyos' yacht."

"And you got the wallet from her last Tuesday?" A swift memory of what the butler had told him darted across McCarty's mind. "Did she bring it to you late in the afternoon? Was it her you were talking to in the parlor and could not be disturbed when Mrs. Jarvis called to tell you about the experiment the professor was going to make on Friday?"

"Yes. How did you know?" Norwood paused and then added impatiently: "That has nothing to do with the disappearance of the wallet, however. I shall make a thorough search for it to-morrow, and question Victor as soon as he recovers, but I am convinced that it has been taken!"

"You said that you told a few people about it, sir? Who were they?" McCarty persisted, his breath quickening a trifle in spite of his effort to appear calmly indifferent "Did you write to anybody about it?"

"Only my niece, Joan, and that was a week before the wallet actually came into my possession; when the woman first approached me with her offer to sell it, in fact. Victor knew about it, of course, and Billings may have heard us discussing it at the table. But this is absurd! He has a superstitious horror of the museum and couldn't be induced to come in here on a wager. Besides, the wallet and its contents would be of no use to him." Norwood hesitated. "I cannot think——"

"Did you speak of the wallet to the Jarvises?" McCarty interrupted suddenly.

"I may have done so. Yes, I believe that I did." Norwood's tone was constrained.

"Before the woman brought it to you or after, sir?"

"Afterwards. That is, I—I think it was. I cannot remember exactly." There was a furtive reluctance in his reply which did not escape McCarty's ear, and he asked quickly:

"Wasn't it at that dinner party you told them of it? The dinner they gave in their own home on Wednesday evening?"

"It may have been. Yes, I am under the impression that it was." Norwood's perturbation was manifest and he added nervously. "However, that is beside the point. You are probably right, McCarty. A thing like that doesn't disappear by itself and no one would have the slightest reason for removing it. I must have mislaid it in the excitement following the murder——"

"Mr. Norwood." McCarty faced him and gazed steadily into his shifting eyes. "When you told the Jarvises about getting this wallet and the letters or whatever was in it did the rest of the people who were there at the dinner hear it too?"

"Naturally, since I told of it at the table," Norwood responded in unguarded haste. "Nobody was particularly interested, however, beyond mere idle curiosity about an old, forgotten case. I don't remember discussing it with anyone else, and if I did it doesn't matter, McCarty. Now that I think it over I can see that I must have mislaid it myself. I will doubtless find it to-morrow."

He closed the cabinet door and turned with an air of finality as if to lead the way from the museum, but McCarty lingered.

"What was in those letters, sir, that were in the wallet? You said yourself that they were the only real clue to the mystery of how the man came to his death. Who wrote them?"

"I don't know!" Norwood wheeled about irascibly. "The woman who sold them to me claimed that they were written by someone who had good reason to want Hoyos out of the way, but naturally she would not disclose their contents until I had paid for them. I was obliged to take them blindly at her valuation and trust to luck that I had not been swindled."

"But you read them after, sir!" McCarty exclaimed. "You must know what was in them! You couldn't have put them away with never a look after being so anxious to get them and paying out good money——"

"I was called away," Norwood demurred hurriedly. "I—I did glance over them the next day, but the ink had faded and the writing was almost illegible. It would have been necessary to study them under a magnifying glass, and I hadn't time then. That was Wednesday, you see, and on the following day something or other occurred which put them out of my mind. I did not think of them again until the wallet caught my eye when I went to get the memorandum to take with me to Professor Parlowe's. For all I know they may have been a mere fraud and the woman an impostor. People know my weakness and have tried to swindle me before this. I—I haven't the least idea what the letters contained or who is supposed to have written them."

He raised his eyes defiantly to meet McCarty's steady gaze and read there the futility of his attempt at evasion. He had lied and the other knew it. A dull, mottled red crept into his cheeks, but with a shrug he turned once more and led the way to the door and this time McCarty followed in silence.