Part 9 (2/2)

”I think the ident.i.ty of the man is established,” he said. ”What number of hat do you wear, Mr.

Blakeley?”

”Seven and a quarter,” I replied.

”Well, it's only piling up evidence,” he said cheerfully. ”On the night of the murder you wore light gray silk underclothing, with the second b.u.t.ton of the s.h.i.+rt missing. Your hat had 'L. B.' in gilt letters inside, and there was a very minute hole in the toe of one black sock.”

”Hush,” McKnight protested. ”If word gets to Mrs. Klopton that Mr. Blakeley was wrecked, or robbed, or whatever it was, with a b.u.t.ton missing and a hole in one sock, she'll retire to the Old Ladies'

Home. I've heard her threaten it.”

Mr. Hotchkiss was without a sense of humor. He regarded McKnight gravely and went on: ”I've been up in the room where the man lay while he was unable to get away, and there is nothing there. But I found what may be a possible clue in the dust heap.

”Mrs. Carter tells me that in unpacking his grip the other day she took out of the coat of the pajamas some pieces of a telegram. As I figure it, the pajamas were his own. He probably had them on when he effected the exchange.”

I nodded a.s.sent. All I had retained of my own clothing was the suit of pajamas I was wearing and my bath-robe.

”Therefore the telegram was his, not yours. I have pieces here, but some are missing. I am not discouraged, however.”

He spread out some bits of yellow paper, and we bent over them curiously. It was something like this: Man with p- Get- Br- We spelled it out slowly.

”Now,” Hotchkiss announced, ”I make it something like this: The 'p.-' is one of two things, pistol - you remember the little pearl-handled affair belonging to the murdered man - or it is pocket-book. I am inclined to the latter view, as the pocket-book had been disturbed and the pistol had not.”

I took the piece of paper from the table and scrawled four words on it.

”Now,” I said, rearranging them, ”it happens, Mr. Hotchkiss, that I found one of these pieces of the telegram on the train. I thought it had been dropped by some one else, you see, but that's immaterial.

Arranged this way it almost makes sense. Fill out that 'p.-' with the rest of the word, as I imagine it, and it makes 'papers,' and add this sc.r.a.p and you have: ”'Man with papers (in) lower ten, car seven. Get (them).'

McKnight slapped Hotchkiss on the back. ”You're a trump,” he said. ”Br- is Bronson, of course. It's almost too easy. You see, Mr. Blakeley here engaged lower ten, but found it occupied by the man who was later murdered there. The man who did the thing was a friend of Bronson's, evidently, and in trying to get the papers we have the motive for the crime.”

”There are still some things to be explained.” Mr. Hotchkiss wiped his gla.s.ses and put them on. ”For one thing, Mr. Blakeley, I am puzzled by that bit of chain.”

I did not glance at McKnight. I felt that the hand, with which I was gathering up the bits of torn paper were shaking. It seemed to me that this astute little man was going to drag in the girl in spite of me.

CHAPTER XVIII A NEW WORLD

Hotchkiss jotted down the bits of telegram and rose.

”Well,” he said, ”we've done something. We've found where the murderer left the train, we know what day he went to Baltimore, and, most important of all, we have a motive for the crime.

”It seems the irony of fate,” said McKnight, getting up, ”that a man should kill another man for certain papers he is supposed to be carrying, find he hasn't got them after all, decide to throw suspicion on another man by changing berths and getting out, bag and baggage, and then, by the merest fluke of chance, take with him, in the valise he changed for his own, the very notes he was after. It was a bit of luck for him.”

”Then why,” put in Hotchkiss doubtfully, ”why did he collapse when he heard of the wreck? And what about the telephone message the station agent sent? You remember they tried to countermand it, and with some excitement.”

”We will ask him those questions when we get him,” McKnight said. We were on the unrailed front porch by that time, and Hotchkiss had put away his notebook. The mother of the twins followed us to the steps.

”Dear me,” she exclaimed volubly, ”and to think I was forgetting to tell you! I put the young man to bed with a spice poultice on his ankle: my mother always was a firm believer in spice poultices. It's wonderful what they will do in croup! And then I took the children and went down to see the wreck. It was Sunday, and the mister had gone to church; hasn't missed a day since he took the pledge nine years ago. And on the way I met two people, a man and a woman. They looked half dead, so I sent them right here for breakfast and some soap and water. I always say soap is better than liquor after a shock.”

Hotchkiss was listening absently: McKnight was whistling under his breath, staring down across the field to where a break in the woods showed a half dozen telegraph poles, the line of the railroad.

”It must have been twelve o'clock when we got back; I wanted the children to see everything, because it isn't likely they'll ever see another wreck like that. Rows of - ”

”About twelve o'clock,” I broke in, ”and what then?”

”The young man up-stairs was awake,” she went on, ”and hammering at his door like all possessed.

And it was locked on the outside!” She paused to enjoy her sensation.

”I would like to see that lock,” Hotchkiss said promptly, but for some reason the woman demurred.

”I will bring the key down,” she said and disappeared. When she returned she held out an ordinary door key of the cheapest variety.

”We had to break the lock,” she volunteered, ”and the key didn't turn up for two days. Then one of the twins found the turkey gobbler trying to swallow it. It has been washed since,” she hastened to a.s.sure Hotchkiss, who showed an inclination to drop it.

”You don't think he locked the door himself and threw the key out of the window?” the little man asked.

”The windows are covered with mosquito netting, nailed on. The mister blamed it on the children, and it might have been Obadiah. He's the quiet kind, and you never know what he's about.”

”He's about to strangle, isn't he,” McKnight remarked lazily, ”or is that Obadiah?”

Mrs. Carter picked the boy up and inverted him, talking amiably all the time. ”He's always doing it,”

she said, giving him a shake. ”Whenever we miss anything we look to see if Obadiah's black in the face.”

She gave him another shake, and the quarter I had given him shot out as if blown from a gun. Then we prepared to go back to the station.

>From where I stood I could look into the cheery farm kitchen, where Alison West and I had eaten our al fres...o...b..eakfast. I looked at the table with mixed emotions, and then, gradually, the meaning of something on it penetrated my mind. Still in its papers, evidently just opened, was a hat box, andprotruding over the edge of the box was a streamer of vivid green ribbon.

On the plea that I wished to ask Mrs. Carter a few more questions, I let the others go on. I watched them down the flagstone walk; saw McKnight stop and examine the gate-posts and saw, too, the quick glance he threw back at the house. Then I turned to Mrs. Carter.

”I would like to speak to the young lady up-stairs,” I said.

She threw up her hands with a quick gesture of surrender. ”I've done all I could,” she exclaimed.

”She won't like it very well, but - she's in the room over the parlor.”

I went eagerly up the ladder-like stairs, to the rag-carpeted hall. Two doors were open, showing interiors of four poster beds and high bureaus. The door of the room over the parlor was almost closed. I hesitated in the hallway: after all, what right had I to intrude on her? But she settled my difficulty by throwing open the door and facing me.

”I - I beg your pardon, Miss West,” I stammered. ”It has just occurred to me that I am unpardonably rude. I saw the hat down-stairs and I - I guessed - ”

”The hat!” she said. ”I might have known. Does Richey know I am here?”

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