The Red Seal
“Wasn't Mr. Turnbull an official of this bank, Mr. Clymer?”
“Yes, our cashier.”
“Were his affairs involved?”
“Not in the least,” Clymer spoke with emphasis. “A most honorable
fellow, Jimmie Turnbull; his murder was a shocking affair.”
“Have the police found any motive for the crime, Kent?” asked Taylor.
“I believe not.”
Harding, who had been ruminating in silence, leaned forward, his
expression alight with a sudden idea.
“Could it be that Turnbull found out that Rochester was passing forged
checks, and Rochester insured his silence by poisoning him?” he asked.
Clymer and Kent exchanged glances, as Kent's thoughts reverted to the
forged letter presented by Turnbull to the bank's treasurer, whereby he
had been given McIntyre's valuable negotiable securities. Could it
be that Rochester had written the letter, given it to his room-mate,
Turnbull, and the latter, thinking it genuine, had secured the McIntyre
securities and handed them over to Rochester? The idea took Kent's
breath away; and yet, the more he contemplated it, the more feasible it
appeared.
“What's the date on those checks?” demanded Kent.
“Tuesday of this week--the day Jimmie Turnbull died.” Clymer turned them
over. “They are drawn payable to cash, and bear no endorsement, which
shows Rochester must have presented them himself.”
Harding and Taylor glanced significantly at each other, but neither
spoke. Suddenly Kent pushed back his chair and rose without ceremony.
“Don't go, Kent.” Clymer took up some papers. “There's a matter--”
“It will keep.” Kent's mouth was set and determined. “I give you my word
of honor that all Rochester's honest debts will be paid by the firm if
necessary; I will obligate myself to that extent,” he paused. “As for
you fellows,” turning to Harding and Taylor who had also risen. “Give me
twenty-four hours--”
“What for?” they chorused.
“To locate Philip Rochester,” and waiting for no answer Kent bolted out
of the office.
CHAPTER XV. WHEN THE LIGHT FAILED
The city lights were springing up block after block along Pennsylvania
Avenue as Detective Ferguson left that busy thoroughfare and hurried to
the Saratoga. He stepped inside the lobby of the apartment house a full
minute before his appointment with its manager, and went at once to look
him up. Before he could carry out his purpose he was joined by Harry
Kent.
“Finley had to go out,” the latter explained. “I told him I would go up
to Rochester's apartment with you.” Ferguson thoughtfully caressed his
clean-shaven jaw for a second, then came to a rapid decision.
“Lead the way, sir,” he said. “I'll follow.” Kent found him a silent
companion while in the elevator and when walking down the corridor to
Rochester's apartment, but once inside the living room, with the outer
door tightly closed, Ferguson tossed down his hat and his whole demeanor
changed.
“Sit down, Mr. Kent.” He selected a chair near Rochester's desk for
himself, as Kent found another. “Let's thrash this thing out; are you
working with me or against me?”
“Why do you ask?” Kent's surprise at the question was evident.
“Because every time I arrange to examine this apartment or inquire into
Rochester's whereabouts you show up.” Ferguson's small eyes were trying
to out-stare Kent, but the latter's clear gaze did not drop before his.
“Are you aiding Philip Rochester in his efforts to elude arrest?”
“I am not,” declared Kent emphatically. “What prompts the question?”
“The fact that you are Rochester's partner,” Ferguson pointed out; his
manner was still stiff. “It would be only natural for you to help him
disappear out of friendship, or”--with a sidelong glance--“from a desire
to hush up a scandal.”
“On the contrary I want Rochester found and every bit of evidence
against him sifted out and aired,” retorted Kent. “Two heads are better
than one, Ferguson; let us work together. Rochester must be located
within the next twenty-four hours.”
Ferguson debated a moment, but Kent's speech as well as his manner
indicated his sincerity, and the detective shook off his suspicions.
“Have you had any further news of your partner?” he asked.
“No; that is”--recalling the scene in the bank early that
afternoon--“nothing that relates to Rochester's present whereabouts.
Now, Ferguson, to put your charges against Rochester in concrete form,
you believe that he was insanely jealous of Jimmie Turnbull, that he
recognized him in the Police Court in his burglar disguise, slipped a
dose of aconitine in a glass of water which Turnbull drank, and after
declaring that his friend had died from angina pectoris, disappeared. Is
that all the case you have against him?”
“At present, yes,” admitted the detective cautiously.
“All circumstantial evidence--”
“But it will hold in court--”
“Ah, will it?” questioned Kent. “There's one big flaw in your case,
Ferguson; the poison used to kill Turnbull.”
“Aconitine?”
“Exactly. Your theory is that Rochester slipped the poison in the
glass of water on recognizing Turnbull in the police court; now, it is
stretching probability to suppose that Rochester, a strong healthy man,
was carrying that drug around in his vest pocket.”
Ferguson sat forward in his chair, his eyes glittering. “Do you mean
to say that you think the murder of Turnbull was premeditated and not
committed on the spur of the moment?” he asked.
“The fact that aconitine was used convinces me of that,” answered Kent.
Ferguson thought a moment. “If that is the case,” he said, grudgingly,
“it sort of squashes the charge against Philip Rochester.”
“It would seem to,” agreed Kent. “But every shred of evidence I find
points to Rochester as the guilty man.”
Ferguson edged his chair forward. “What have you discovered?” he
demanded eagerly.
“This,” Kent spoke with increased earnestness. “That Philip Rochester is
apparently a bankrupt, that he has over-drawn his private account at the
Metropolis Trust Company, and withdrawn our partnership funds from the
same bank.”
“Your partnership funds!” echoed the detective, eyeing Kent sharply.
“How did you come to let him do that?”
“I was not aware that he had done so until Mr. Clymer told me of the
transaction this afternoon,” answered Kent.
“You did not know”--Ferguson looked at him in dawning comprehension.
“You mean Rochester absconded with the funds?”
“Some one forged my name to checks drawn on the firm's account,” Kent
continued. “I understood they were made payable to cash and presented by
Rochester on the day of Turnbull's death.”
Ferguson whistled as a slight vent to his feelings. “So you suspect
Rochester of being a forger?” Kent made no reply, and he added; after
a moment's deliberation, “What bearing has this discovery on
Turnbull's death, aside from Rochester's need of funds to make a clean
disappearance?”
“If it is true that Rochester was financially embarrassed and forged
checks on the Metropolis Trust Company, it establishes another motive
for the killing of Turnbull,” argued Kent. “Turnbull was cashier of that
bank.”
“I see; he may have discovered the forgeries--but hold on.” Ferguson
checked his rapid speech. “When were these forged checks presented at
the bank?”
“Tuesday afternoon.”
Ferguson's face fell. “Pshaw! man; that was after Turnbull's death--how
could he detect the forgeries?”
Kent did not reply at once; instead, he glanced keenly about the living
room. The detective had only switched on one of the reading lamps and
the greater part was in shadow. It was a pleasant and home-like room,
and Kent was conscious of a keener pang for the loss of Jimmie Turnbull
and the disappearance of Philip Rochester, as he gazed around. The
lawyer and the bank cashier had been, until that winter, congenial
comrades, sharing their business success and their apartment in complete
accord; and now a shadow as black as that enveloping the unlighted
apartment hung over their good names, threatening one or the other with
the charge of forgery and of murder. Kent sighed and turned back to the
silent detective.
“I can best answer your question by telling you that the day after
Jimmie Turnbull died Mr. Clymer sent for me,” he began. “I found Colonel
McIntyre with him and was told that the Colonel had lost valuable
securities left at the bank. These securities had been given by the
treasurer of the bank to Jimmie Turnbull when he presented a letter from
Colonel McIntyre instructing the bank to surrender the securities to
Jimmie.”
“Well?” questioned Ferguson. “Go on, sir.”
“That letter was a forgery.” Kent sat back and watched the detective's
rapidly changing expression. “And no trace has been found of the
Colonel's securities, last known to be in the possession of Turnbull.”
“Great heavens!” ejaculated Ferguson. “Which was the forger--Turnbull or Rochester?”
Kent shook a puzzled head. “That is for us to discover,” he said
soberly. “Colonel McIntyre contends that Turnbull forged the letter
and stole the securities, then fearing his guilt would become known,
committed still another crime--that of suicide, he could have swallowed
a dose of aconitine while at the police court.”
“Well, I'll be--blessed!” ejaculated Ferguson. “But if he was the forger
how does that square with Rochester's peculiar behavior? The checks
bearing your forged signatures were presented, mind you, by Rochester
after Turnbull's death?”
“It doesn't square,” acknowledged Kent frankly. “There is this to be
said for Turnbull: he was the soul of honor, his affairs were found to
be in excellent condition, he was drawing a good salary, his investments
paying well--he did not need to acquire securities or money by resorting
to forgery.”
“Whereas Philip Rochester was on the point of bankruptcy,” remarked
Ferguson. “Do you suppose he forged Colonel McIntyre's letter and
gave it to Turnbull, and the latter got the securities from the bank
treasurer and handed them over to Rochester in good faith, supposing his
room-mate would give the papers to Colonel McIntyre?”
Kent nodded in agreement. “It looks that way to me,” he said gloomily.
“Philip Rochester stood well in the community, his law practice is
large and lucrative, and if it had not been for his periods of idleness
and--and”--hesitating--“passion for good living, he would never have run
into debt.”
“But he got there.” Ferguson's laugh was contemptuous. “A desperate man
will do anything, Mr. Kent.”
“I know,” Kent looked dubious. “I would believe him guilty if it were
not for the use of aconitine--that shows premeditation on the part of
the murderer.”
“And why shouldn't Rochester plan Turnbull's murder ahead of the scene
in the police court?” argued Ferguson. “Wasn't he living in deadly fear
of exposure? If he did not commit the murder, why did he run away? And
if he is innocent, why doesn't he come forward and prove it?”
“He may not know that he is suspected of the crime,” retorted Kent,
rising. “It is for us to find Rochester, and I suggest that we search
this apartment thoroughly.”
“I have already done so,” objected Ferguson. “And there wasn't the
faintest clew to his hiding place.”
“For all that I am not satisfied.” Kent walked over and switched on
another light. “When I came here on Wednesday night I had a tussle with
some man, but he escaped in the dark without my seeing him. I believe he
was Rochester.”
“You are probably right.” Ferguson crossed the room. “And if he came
back once, he may return again. Come ahead,” and he plunged into the
first bedroom. The two men subjected each room to an exhaustive search,
but their labors were their only reward; except for an accumulation
of dust, the apartment was undisturbed. They had reached the
kitchenette-pantry when the gong over their heads sounded loudly, and