Part 46 (1/2)
”It's Lamotte's landau,” said the lawyer, peeping out from the shelter of his verandah; ”it's Lamotte's carriage, and it's Lamotte himself; I would like to see how he looks, just for one moment; but it's too wet, and I must go tell the old woman how her favorite doctor faces the situation.”
A few moments after the landau had deposited Jasper Lamotte at the gate of the vacant lot, a pedestrian, striding swiftly along, as if eager to be upon the scene and sate his curiosity, came in among the group of men that, all day long, had hovered about the cellar.
”What's a going on here?” he demanded of the first man upon whom his glance fell, ”an--accident?”
”Good Lord!” exclaimed the man, who was one of Old Forty Rod's customers; ”where have _you_ come from that you don't know a man has been killed!”
”Killed!”
”Yes, murdered! stabbed last night and buried in this old cellar.”
”Heavens, man! was--was he a citizen?”
”Well, I should say! and a rum chap, too. Why, you are a stranger to these parts if you don't know John Burrill.”
”Never heard of him in my life, old Top,” replied the stranger. ”I _don't_ live in these parts.”
The man drew back a little, and seeing this, the stranger came closer and laid one hand familiarly upon his arm, at the same time leaning nearer, and saying in a loud whisper:
”Any of the stiff's friends in this gang?”
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”Any of the stiff's friends in this gang?”]
The satellite of ”Old Forty,” who had at first seemed somewhat disposed to resent too much familiarity on the part of the stranger, turned toward him, drew closer, and allowed his features to relax into a grin of friendliness. He had not been so fortunate as to receive a morning dram, and the breath of the stranger had wafted to his nostrils the beloved, delicious odor of ”whisky killers.”
”Hus.h.!.+” he whispered confidentially, ”that man over there the tall, good-looking one with the whiskers, d'ye mind--”
”Yes, yes! high toned bloke?”
”Exactly; that's the dead man's father-in-law.”
”Father-in-law, eh!”
”Yes, and that young chap beside him, the pale, handsome one, that's his son.”
”Whose son?”
”The tall man's son; Frank Lamotte's his name.”
”You don't say; good-looking duffer! Found the a.s.sa.s.sin?”
”Not exactly, but they say--”
”Look here, pard, this sniffs of romance; now I'm gone on romance in real life; just let's step back among these cedars, and out of the crowd, where I can give you a pull at my brandy flask, and you can tell me all the particulars.”
And the jaunty young man tapped his breast suggestively and winked knowingly down at his new found friend.
”Agreed,” said the man, eagerly, and turning at once toward the nearest clump of trees.
”I may as well say that my name is Smith,” said the stranger, as he pa.s.sed over his brandy flask. ”Now then, pard, fire ahead, and don't forget when you get thirsty to notify Smith, the book peddler.”