Chapter VIII: Cherchez La Femme

The exterior of No. 18 Ash Lane did not present an inviting appearance. It was a dingy, battered, and weather-worn brick structure, marking a remote epoch in the past; and besides Mr. Converse, it contained one other tenant, a little old man whose entire body was so twisted and contorted into deformity by rheumatism, that one wondered what incentive could prevail upon him to move.

A sign above the double door conveyed to the casual wayfarer the information that the busy, cheerful cripple's name was "A. Follett." Long before the remainder of the legend--"Dealer in Scrap Iron, Brass, Copper, Castings, and All Sorts of Junk"--could be deciphered, the stranger was aware of the business conducted here; for as far as the eye could penetrate into the recesses of the lower floor, it was met by a conglomeration of cast-off material which promised insanity to anybody rash enough to attempt its assortment and classification.

Close by the double entrance a gate in a high board fence gave access to the yard. Through this each day passed the peripatetic collectors of such refuse as Mr. Follett dealt in, and their burdens were disposed of by a black Hercules--Mr. Follett's back and legs and arms--who answered to the name of Joe.

The Captain's daily associates would have been quite staggered had they known that the cheerful, grizzled, and battered dealer in junk was his closest friend and his only confidant, and that he discussed all his most perplexing problems with Mr. Follett. Mr. Converse, however, had demonstrated more than once that his confidence was not misplaced; that his friend's judgment, shrewd insight, and discretion were of a value not to be expressed by words. In Mr. Converse's sailor days the two had been companions on many a memorable voyage, and each was as comprehensive of the other's silences as if they had been filling the moments with golden speech.

On the Monday night subsequent to the inquest and one week after that event, the two are sitting in the snug front room upstairs, and it is Mr. Follett who first speaks.

"So, John," he remarks, "the newspapers have something to stir up the interest in your dead Mexican man." He laughed softly and waved his pipe with a feeble gesture toward the Captain. "But I'm thinkin' it won't hurry you up none to crowd the canvas on you."

"You are thinking of the reward?" queried Mr. Converse.

The other nodded and continued: "Twenty thousand dollars is a heap o' money, John; many men would do murder over an' over again for it. Sometimes I can't believe that these ideas o' rewardin' an' punishin' are right. No matter how high the reward, nor how hard the punishment, some people will do wrong in the face o' one an' in spite o' the other.... Twenty thousand American, is it?"

"Yes; and we are to draw on the De Sanchez estate through the Mexican consul for expenses necessary to pursuing the investigation."

Mr. Follett expressed his wonder in a prolonged whistle.

"John, this is what you will have when you run down the murderer. Then you can retire. Then you can get that little cottage an' all them flowers you sometimes talk about: funny idea for an old sailor man." He changed the trend of his talk abruptly, and added, with a more serious note: "We must increase the reward for that woman. Everything centres an' circles about her, an' that's what discourages me. When you get clear o' the harbor on a cruise o' this kind, it's like tryin' to navigate without chart or compass, an' the stars all hid, to have a woman mixed in it to the extent that this one seems to be. Make it a hundred--two hundred--dollars; but find that woman."

"Abram, you are right," Mr. Converse rejoined, with unusual warmth. "I am no nearer to laying my finger upon her than I was the day of the murder. As you say, we must find the woman; everything hinges upon her. But look you, Abram, we, every one of us, missed a very fine point at the inquest that now is as plain as the nose on your face."

Mr. Follett unconsciously and thoughtfully fell to rubbing that member, while he attended to his friend's words.

"What was it Howard Lynden was afraid of betraying?" continued Mr. Converse, warming to his subject. "What was it Mr. Ferdinand Howe was afraid of betraying? What worried Doctor Westbrook?" He stared hard at Mr. Follett, and answered the questions himself. "It's just this: they have reason to suspect that the woman is mixed up some way in the matter; but how? They asserted under oath that no woman was present; did they one and all perjure themselves? I don't believe it."

The listener nodded gravely to signify that he was following the argument, but offered no interruption.

"No; I believe that every man Jack of them told all he knew of the affair. Doctor Westbrook would not lie; I don't think under the circumstances Howe would, and Lynden--well, he just couldn't. Any woman that you might name will not supply an adequate reason for them all to unite in an oath of falsehood."

"Yet," observed Mr. Follett, "it is the woman, and we must look for the one least likely to have been there."

"Exactly. And they are banded together to shield her name. We failed to hit upon the right question, or to put it in the proper way, so leaving them an opportunity for evasion without downright falsehood.

"Again, Abram, would these complications involve the woman or some one else? Are they shielding her for her sake or their own? If you could answer me those questions, Abram, I could tell you the rest. Where is the Mexican woman now, who smokes a cigarette while she waits for her victim? That's Merkel's idea. Poppycock! There's no Mexican woman on the face of the earth that all of those men would be so anxious to shield."

"John, there's one thing about this here female that you haven't considered yet," began Abram Follett. "She may know nothin' about the murder; she may only have showed a common weakness o' the sex by bein' where she had no business; she may be in the same boat with those three men, an' they are simply a-tryin' to save her from fallin' overboard, thinkin' she couldn't throw any light on how Mr. de Sanchez came to be a dead man all of a sudden, but could get herself in a pretty bad fix. They are not the best judges, o' course; but if there's anything in that 'nonymous letter you got about her, why, there's somebody else knows who she is, an' it's some one who could be made to tell.

"Now then, John, listen to me a bit: there's only one other person we know o' havin' been on that floor at the time o' the killin'--Bill Slade; an' I know two or three things about him--though I've never sot eyes on the man that I know of--that might interest you. First, his father, before the war, was the Fairchild overseer; secondly, Bill Slade himself is to-day the owner o' the old Fairchild homestead. What we don't know that might show how they're all tangled up together--if they really are--might be a hull lot.... Truth can't be downed, John, but it sometimes has a mighty hard time a-gettin' up to where it can be seen an' recognized. Oftener than not we don't want to recognize it; we just hand it a rap over the head by way o' conveyin' the information that it mustn't get too conspicuous."

"There's a good deal about Slade that is hard to understand; I'll think it over." The Captain was still looking hard at Mr. Follett.

"Another thing, John: that letter gives me the idea everything ain't a-goin' smooth with them people; there's a conflictin' interest somewhere, you mark my words. They ain't just plain common folks, either, that we have to do with; not the kind that goes about their business peacefully an' ca'mly, day after day, under the heft of a secret o' this kind; especially when so many shares it."

"Speaking of Slade," said Mr. Converse, abruptly breaking the current of the conversation, "reminds me of something odd. I don't know that you have ever heard of it, but there is a peculiarity about Slade and General Westbrook that is the foundation of a joke of long standing at the General's expense, although they are few enough who would have the hardihood to take that liberty with him to his face.

"It seems that always when Slade and the General meet, wherever it may be--on the street, at the bank, in offices or business houses,--the former is possessed of some powerful emotion. He steps to one side, oblivious of everything besides General Westbrook, at whom he stares as though he were quite overcome by his greatness. At the same time Slade is continually mumbling unintelligibly to himself. After a bit he seems to realize his queer actions, and recovers himself all at once with a sheepish look around, as if to see whether anybody has been observing him; and if General Westbrook has not already departed, Slade blurts out a confused apology and hurries away. It's queer enough in that dried-up little man; for he bears the reputation of a miser, is as sour as vinegar, lives to himself in a little cubbyhole of a room, and hasn't, I suppose, one intimate friend in the world. People will say, 'Slade? Why, yes, I know old Slade. Who don't?' Yet the truth is that nobody really does know him. He's simply a machine, and as long as he works smoothly and in good order he's taken for granted, like the Lee monument or the changes of the moon.

"Anyhow, the General accepts it all seriously, as a tribute from an inferior to his own high mightiness, and he unbends to the old codger quite graciously--for him. Whatever it is Slade has in mind, or what he mutters to himself, no one seems to know; but 'Slade's Blessing' has come to be a by-word in the city.

"Now then, on the night of the eleventh--last Wednesday night--the headquarters man, Adams, who is watching Vargas, made a report in which 'Slade's Blessing' figures in rather a curious and incomprehensible manner. It appears that Slade went to the La Salle House, apparently looking for some one; Vargas was sitting in the rotunda, smoking, when all at once who should come in but General Westbrook. Slade was then standing right by Vargas's chair, when he caught sight of the General, and the old scene began. Westbrook came directly up to Vargas and spoke in an absent-minded way to Slade, who made his usual embarrassed exit. Now, Vargas did not show that he had noticed this incident--which should have been strange and novel to him--and there may not be any connection between it and what followed, but the next morning Vargas called on Slade at the Guaranty Trust Company's offices. He remained only a few minutes; but he called again shortly before five o'clock the same evening, and accompanied Slade to the latter's room, where he remained with the abstracter until nearly seven o'clock."

"Belay a moment, John. Did the two know each other before?"

"Oh, no; not at all."

Mr. Follett nodded, and his friend continued:

"Vargas went to Slade's lodging again the next day, and again on Friday--each time at five o'clock,--and remained from an hour and a half to two hours. It's pretty clear that the first visit to Slade at the office was merely to make an appointment, and that the others followed therefrom. But what does it mean? Has Vargas begun a little detective work on his own account? This question is prompted by what followed at the La Salle House between General Westbrook and Vargas on Wednesday night after Slade had left them.

"The General approached and made himself known to Vargas. You know they had met only casually--at the inquest--and the meeting Wednesday night appeared no more than a refreshing of each other's memory. Yet when General Westbrook departed he seemed to be greatly disturbed--so much so that Adams says he had half a mind to follow him. It is true that the two conversed some time, but nothing appeared which would account for the General's agitation; the talk seemed to be merely chatty, pleasant, marked by smiles, and all that. It did not seem to occur to Adams that a man might 'smile, and smile, and be a villain' still; and, after all, it may be that the matter has to do with some property titles. But why enlist the services of Señor Vargas, a stranger? I thought that Vargas himself might be interested in some realty here; but I've had that looked up, and his name does not appear of record anywhere in the county. In this connection I have been having the records carefully gone over to see if any of these people are mixed up by some old deal. The result has been somewhat queer; but we'll pass that up for the present."

"It's no easy matter just a-sortin' out the known facts, is it?" observed Mr. Follett.

The Captain shook his head. "But to sum up, Abram," he added, "we have a number of people connected by a lot of little circumstances, which, at the present moment, have mighty wide gaps between, and seem to point to nothing."

"I tell ye, John, a thing that's standin' stronger in my mind than all else comes from what you've just told me, an' from what I've told you about this man Slade.

"You know, before the war, old Bill Slade, the father, was the Fairchild overseer. I've heard the son's story, an' it appears that he was always little an' mean an' picayunish--not the kind that could do any big dirty thing; just little an' sneakin'. But old Bill was ambitious for his boy, who was just a young feller at the end o' the war, an' he charted out a course for young Bill that pointed from the Fairchild plantation straight to the United States Supreme Court; but he failed to mark off all the rocks an' shoals, an' the set o' the currents; he knew little o' the craft's qualities that was to make the voyage; an' the consequence is, that young Bill landed high an' dry right where he is to-day. He never drank, as I've often heard, nor chewed nor smoked, nor he never fought, nor did anything else to show that he had any good red blood in him--just natcherally unable to do anything good or bad." Mr. Follett abruptly altered his tone. "Has there been anything betwixt him and the Fairchilds since, besides him now ownin' their old home an' lettin' it go to rack an' ruin?" he asked.

"That's being gone into now. Nothing has been turned up so far that sheds any light upon the problem of the murder."

Mr. Converse's reply was thoughtful; his companion's run of talk seemed more to be a harmonious accompaniment to his own reflections than a source either of information or available ideas. Yet he listened patiently, self-contained and reserved, his occasional responses showing that he was following the other's words.

"Another point, John," Mr. Follett went on. "From what you've told me o' this Mr. Vargas, he seems to be a man who looks pretty sharp to his own affairs without botherin' himself about other people's. You know, meddlin' with other folks' business is the surest sign that you can't 'tend to your own. That don't seem to be his style, so you can be pretty sure that him mixin' himself in this matter on another tack has somethin' important behind it."

Here, quite naturally enough, fell one of the familiar, pleasant silences that characterized the friendship between these two men. The Captain's manner soon began to reveal an impatience. He smoked innumerable pipes of tobacco--not in his usual steady way, but alternating between fits of puffing like an engine for a space, and then permitting the fire in the bowl to die out. Several times he rose and walked slowly to and fro the length of the room, his hands clasped behind him, his eyes unseeing--oblivious of everything but the problem upon which his tenacious mind was fastened. Once or twice he paused at the window and looked out into the darkness.

All these evidences of extreme mental effort were to the still, crippled figure in the big chair so many indications that the Captain had seized upon an idea that he was revolving to a definite end. Neither by word nor gesture would Mr. Follett break in upon these cogitations until the other saw fit to enlighten him. The issue would be yielded in good time, and he awaited it in silent, patient eagerness.

Once Mr. Converse threw one of the windows wide open, and the sudden in-rush of cool night air began rapidly to dissipate the smoke which hung in well-defined strata of blue. The stillness of the night was unbroken by any sound, until presently, many blocks away, could be heard the faint clatter of a galloping horse. As with all distant sounds in a sleeping city, it would now and then become completely extinguished behind some intervening wall or building, only to burst forth again with added clamor.

How often are the greatest crises ushered in by the most trivial of incidents! Mr. Converse was only dimly aware of the beating hoofs, and his train of thought was not at all interrupted by any reflection that horse and rider might portend aught for him; then the circumstance was entirely forgotten as the Federal Building clock boomed forth one loud, deep-throated stroke that rang high on the night: one o'clock.

The vibrations were still trembling audibly when he turned of a sudden from the window.

"Abram, I have it," he announced in a tone of finality. "I know how to find Fairchild."

Whatever Mr. Follett might have responded was never uttered; for all at once the thud of hoofs became loud and insistent. The rider was evidently in Ash Lane now, and approaching at a pace that would soon bring him opposite No. 18.

"Listen!" whispered Mr. Converse; and both waited in tense expectation while the wild rider drew nearer and nearer.

The horse was pulled up to a sharp standstill immediately below, just as Converse turned to the window once more. In the light which fell from the lamp behind him he could make out the faint glint of brass buttons and the brighter reflection from a nickel-plated star: the rider was an officer of the mounted force. What errand required such speed, and at such an hour?

"Is it you, Captain Converse?" the rider began, breathlessly. "You are to come to headquarters right away."

"What is it?" demanded the Captain.

"The Old Man told me to say it was a new development in the De Sanchez case; he sent me himself. McCaleb came in off his beat half an hour or so ago, and he looked as though he'd been seeing ghosts. Whatever it is, he brought in the news, and it must be mighty important to rout the Old Man out at this hour." "The Old Man," be it known, was the Chief of Police.

"Very well, Harrison, I'll be along at once." The messenger wheeled his blowing horse and disappeared into the night again.

Converse was not long in following. As he left the room Mr. Follett cried cheerfully after him, "Sail, ho!" The latter was accustomed to these unceremonious interruptions of their post-prandial communions, and he forbore any display of curiosity.

But if Mr. Follett's figurative farewell was a prognostication that the voyage of discovery was no longer to be conducted in unknown seas, or, to drop metaphor altogether, that some fact had come to light which promised explanation of the mystery, he was scarcely a true prophet. This the Captain had presented to him in a startling manner almost as soon as he entered the Chief's private office. He was impressed at once by that official's unusual agitation and the white, excited countenance of the young officer who stood by his desk, nervously and alternately mopping his brow and the inside of his helmet.

The Chief glared at Converse as though the Captain himself had been guilty of some unusual offence.

"Another murder, Converse!" he cried, with unsteady articulation. "Good Lord, what kind of a force have I got under me, anyhow? McCaleb, here, has just brought in a most astounding report. I don't know which way to turn; I feel--"

"May I inquire who has been murdered?" said Converse, quietly.

"General Westbrook!" thundered the Chief, banging his fist down on the desk; "one of our very best citizens is the victim of a dastardly assassination!"