The Red Seal
learns that Turnbull has been caught after midnight in the house of his
sweetheart--”
“D--mn you!” Kent sprang for the detective's throat. “Cut out your
abominable insinuations. Miss McIntyre shall not be insulted.”
“I'm not insulting her,” gasped Ferguson, half strangled. “Let go,
Mr. Kent. I'm only telling you what that half crazy partner of yours,
Rochester, was probably thinking in the police court. Let go, I say.”
Clymer aided the detective in freeing himself. “Sit down, Kent,” he said
sternly. “Ferguson meant no offense. Go ahead, man, and tell us the rest
of your theories.”
It was some minutes, however, before the detective had collected
sufficient breath to answer intelligently.
“I size it up this way,” he began with a resentful glance at Kent who
had dropped back in his chair again. “Rochester knew his friend had
heart disease and that his sudden death would be attributed to it--so he
took a sporting chance and administered a fatal dose of aconitine.”
“How was it done?” asked Clymer.
“Just slipped the poison into the glass of water he handed to Turnbull
in the court room,” explained Ferguson, and glanced in triumph at Kent.
“Neat, wasn't it?”
Kent regarded the detective, his mind in a whirl. His theory was
certainly plausible, but--“Have you other evidence to prove, your
theory?” he asked.
“Yes.” Ferguson checked off his points on his fingers. “Remember
how insistent Mr. Rochester was that Turnbull had died from angina
pectoris?”
“I do,” acknowledged Clymer, deeply interested. “Continue, Ferguson.”
The detective needed no second bidding.
“Another point,” he began. “There never would have been a post-mortem
examination if Miss Helen McIntyre hadn't asked for it. She knew of
the ill-feeling between the men and suspected foul play on Rochester's
part.”
“Wait,” commanded Kent. “Has Miss McIntyre substantiated that
statement?”
“Not yet,” admitted Ferguson. “I stopped at her house, but the butler
said the young ladies had retired and could not see any one.” Kent, who
had called there on the way to keep his dinner engagement with Clymer,
had been met with the same statement, to his bitter disappointment. He
most earnestly desired to see the twins and to see them together, to
make one more effort to induce them to confide in him; for that they had
some secret trouble he was convinced; he longed to be of aid, but his
hands were tied through lack of information.
“Don't imply motives to Miss McIntyre's act until you have verified
them, Ferguson,” he cautioned. “Go on with your theories.”
“One moment,” Clymer broke into the conversation. “Did Rochester tell
you, Ferguson, that he had recognized Turnbull in his burglar disguise?”
“No, sir; I never had an opportunity to ask him, for he disappeared
Tuesday night and has not been seen or heard of since,” Ferguson
rejoined.
“Hold on,” Kent checked him with an impatient gesture. “I had a telegram
from Rochester this morning, stating he was in Cleveland.”
“I didn't forget about the telegram,” retorted Ferguson. “It was to
consult you about that, that I hunted you up to-night. That telegram was
bogus.”
“What!” Kent half rose from his chair.
“Yes. After the inquest I called Cleveland on the long distance, talked
with the City Club officials and with Police Headquarters; all declared
that Rochester was not there, and no trace could be found of his having
ever arrived in the city.”
Clymer laid down his half smoked cigar and stared at the detective.
“You think then that Rochester has bolted?” he asked.
“It looks that way,” insisted Ferguson. “How about it, Mr. Kent?” The
question was put with a touch of arrogance.
Kent did not reply immediately. Every fact that Ferguson had brought out
fitted the situation, and Rochester's disappearance added color to the
detective's charges. Why was he hiding unless from guilty motives, and
where had he gone? Kent shook a bewildered head.
“It is plausible,” he conceded, “but, after all, only circumstantial
evidence.”
“Well, circumstantial evidence is good enough for me to work on,”
retorted Ferguson. “On discovering that the telegram from Cleveland was
a hoax, I concluded Rochester might be lurking around Washington and
so sent a description of him to the different precincts and secured a
search warrant.”
“You did?”
“Yes. Armed with it I visited Mr. Rochester's apartment, but couldn't
find a clew to his present whereabouts,” admitted Ferguson. “So then I
went to your office, Mr. Kent, and ransacked the firm's safe.”
“Confound you!” Kent leaned forward in his wrath and shook his fist at
the detective. “What right had you to do such a thing?”
“The search warrant covered it,” explained Ferguson. “I could look
through your safe, Mr. Kent, because Rochester was your senior partner
and you shared the office together; I was within the law.”
“Perhaps you were,” Kent controlled his anger with an effort. “But I had
told you I did not know Rochester's whereabouts before I showed you the
Cleveland telegram, which you claim is bogus.”
“It's bogus, all right,” insisted the detective. “I thought it
just possible I might find some paper which would give me a clew to
Rochester's hiding place, so I went through the safe.”
“How did you get it open?” asked Kent.
“I found it open.”
Kent leapt to his feet. “You--found--it open!”--he stammered. “Why,
man, I locked that safe securely just before I left the office at six
o'clock.”
“Sure?”
“Absolutely certain.”
“Were you alone?”
“Yes, all alone. Sylvester left at five o'clock”
“Who knew the combination of the safe?”
“Only Rochester and I.”
It was Ferguson's turn to spring up “By--!” he exclaimed. “I thought
the electric bulbs in the office felt warm, as if they had recently been
burning--Rochester must have been there just before me.”
“It would seem that Rochester is still in the city,” remarked Clymer.
“Do you know, Kent, whether he had his office keys with him?”
“I presume so,” Kent slipped his hand inside his pocket and took out a
bunch of keys. “He left these duplicates in his desk at the office.”
“Sure they are duplicates?” questioned Ferguson, and Kent flushed.
“I know they are,” he retorted. “Rochester had them made over a year ago
as a matter of convenience, for he was always forgetting his keys, and
kept these at our office.”
“He's a queer cuss,” was the detective's only comment and Clymer broke
into the conversation.
“Did you find any address or paper in the safe which might prove a clew,
Ferguson?” he inquired.
“Nothing, not even a scrap of paper,” and the detective's tone was glum.
“Did the safe look as if its contents had been tumbled about?” asked
Kent.
“No, everything seemed in order.” Ferguson thrust his hand inside his
coat pocket. “There was one envelope in the right hand compartment which
puzzled me--”
“Hold on--was that compartment also unlocked?” asked Kent.
“It was,” not giving Kent time to speak again Ferguson continued his
remarks. “As this was unaddressed I brought it to you, Mr. Kent, to ask
if it was your personal property”--he drew out the white envelope which
Helen McIntyre had brought Kent that morning and turned it over so that
both men could see the large red seal bearing the letter “B.”
“It is my property,” asserted Kent instantly.
“Would you mind opening it?” asked Ferguson.
“I would, most certainly; it relates to my personal affairs.”
Ferguson looked a trifle non-plussed. “Would you mind telling me its
contents, Mr. Kent?” he asked persuasively.
Kent regarded the detective squarely. He could not betray Helen, the
envelope might contain harmless nonsense, but she had placed it in
his safe-keeping--no, confound it, she had left it in the safe for
Rochester--and Rochester was apparently a fugitive from justice, while
circumstantial evidence pointed to his having poisoned Helen's lover,
Jimmie...
“If you must know, Ferguson,” Kent spoke with deliberation. “They are
old love letters of mine.”
Clymer glanced down at the envelope which the detective still held, the
red seal making a distinct blotch of color on the white, glazed surface.
“Ah, Kent,” he said in amusement. “So rumor is right in predicting your
engagement to Barbara McIntyre. Good luck to you!”
Through the open doorway to the dining room where the dancing had ceased
for the moment, came a soft laugh and Mrs. Brewster looked in at them.
McIntyre, standing like her shadow, gazed in curiosity over her shoulder
at the three men.
“How jolly to find you,” cooed Mrs. Brewster. “And what a charming
retreat! It's much too nice to be occupied by men, only.” She inclined
her head in a little gracious bow to Ferguson and stepped inside.
“Have my chair,” suggested Clymer hospitably as the pretty widow raised
her lorgnette and scanned the Oriental hangings and lamps, and lastly,
the white envelope which lay on the table, red seal uppermost, where
Ferguson had placed it on her entrance.
“Are your daughters here, Colonel McIntyre?” asked Kent as he took a
step toward the table. McIntyre's answer was drowned in an outburst of
cheering in the dining room and the rush of many feet. On common impulse
Kent and the others turned toward the doorway and looked inside the
dining room. Two officers of the French High Commission were being held
on the shoulders of comrades and were delivering, as best they could
amidst cheers and applause, their farewell to hospitable Washington.
As his companions brushed by him to join the gay throng in the center of
the room, Kent turned back to pick up the envelope he had left lying on
the table. It was gone.
In feverish haste Kent looked under the table, under the chairs, the
lounge and its cushions, behind the draperies, and even under the rugs
which covered the floor of the porch, and then rose and stared into the
dining room. Which one of his companions had taken the envelope?
Outside the porch the beautiful trumpet vine, its sturdy trunk and thick
branches reaching almost to the roof of the club building, rustled as
in a high wind, and the branches swayed this way and that as a figure
climbed swiftly down from the porch until, reaching the fence separating
the club property from its neighbor's, the man swung across it, no mean
athletic feet, and taking advantage of each sheltering shadow, darted
into the alley and from there down silent, deserted Nineteenth Street.
CHAPTER XI. HALF A TRUTH
Dancing was being resumed in the dining room as Kent appeared again
in the doorway and he made his way as quickly as possible among the
couples, going into all the rooms on that floor, but nowhere could
he find Detective Ferguson. On emerging from the drawing room, he
encountered the steward returning from downstairs.
“Have you seen Mr. Clymer?” he asked hurriedly.
“Yes, Mr. Kent; he just left the club, taking Detective Ferguson
with him in his motor. Is there anything I can do?” added the steward
observing Kent's agitation.
“No, no, thanks. Say, where is Colonel McIntyre?” Kent gave up further
pursuit of the detective, he could find him later at Headquarters. The
steward looked among the dancers. “I don't see him,” he said, “But
there is Mrs. Brewster dancing in the front room; the Colonel must be
somewhere around. If I meet him, Mr. Kent, shall I tell him you are
looking for him?”
“I will be greatly obliged if you will do so,” replied Kent, and
straightening his tie, he went in quest of the pretty widow. He had
found her a merry chatter-box in the past, possibly he could gain
valuable information from her. He found Mrs. Brewster just completing
her dance with a fine looking Italian officer whose broad breast bore
many military decorations.
“Dance the encore with me”--Kent could be very persuasive when he