Agatha Webb (11 page)

"It is the saddest thing I ever heard of," said he. "These men
must have been driven wild by misery. This room is sumptuous in
comparison to the ones at the back; and as for the pantry, there
is not even a scrap there a mouse could eat. I struck a match and
glanced into the flour barrel. It looked as if it had been licked.
I declare, it makes a fellow feel sick."

The constable, with a shudder, withdrew towards the door.

"The atmosphere here is stifling," said he. "I must have a breath
of out-door air."

But he was not destined to any such immediate relief. As he moved
down the hall the form of a man darkened the doorway and he heard
an anxious voice exclaim:

"Ah, Mr. Fenton, is that you? I have been looking for you
everywhere."

It was Sweetwater, the young man who had previously shown so much
anxiety to be of service to the coroner.

Mr. Fenton looked displeased.

"And how came you to find me here?" he asked.

"Oh, some men saw you take this road, and I guessed the rest."

"Oh, ah, very good. And what do you want, Sweetwater?"

The young man, who was glowing with pride and all alive with an
enthusiasm which he had kept suppressed for hours, slipped up to
the constable and whispered in his ear: "I have made a discovery,
sir. I know you will excuse the presumption, but I couldn't bring
myself to keep quiet and follow in that other fellow's wake. I had
to make investigations on my own account, and—and"—stammering in
his eagerness "they have been successful, sir. I have found out
who was the murderer of Agatha Webb."

The constable, compassionating the disappointment in store for
him, shook his head, with a solemn look toward the room from which
he had just emerged. "You are late, Sweetwater," said he. "We have
found him out ourselves, and he lies there, dead."

It was dark where they stood and Sweetwater's back was to the
moonlight, so that the blank look which must have crossed his face
at this announcement was lost upon the constable. But his
consternation was evident from the way he thrust out either hand
to steady himself against the walls of the narrow passageway, and
Mr. Fenton was not at all surprised to hear him stammer out:

"Dead! He! Whom do you mean by he, Mr. Fenton?"

"The man in whose house we now are," returned the other. "Is there
anyone else who can be suspected of this crime?"

Sweetwater gave a gulp that seemed to restore him to himself.

"There are two men living here, both very good men, I have heard.
Which of them do you mean, and why do you think that either John
or James Zabel killed Agatha Webb?"

For reply Mr. Fenton drew him toward the room in which such a
great heart-tragedy had taken place.

"Look," said he, "and see what can happen in a Christian land, in
the midst of Christian people living not fifty rods away. These
men are dead, Sweetwater, dead from hunger. The loaf of bread you
see there came too late. It was bought with a twenty-dollar bill,
taken from Agatha Webb's cupboard drawer."

Sweetwater, to whom the whole scene seemed like some horrible
nightmare, stared at the figure of James lying on the floor, and
then at the figure of John seated at the table, as if his mind had
failed to take in the constable's words.

"Dead!" he murmured. "Dead! John and James Zabel. What will happen
next? Is the town under a curse?" And he fell on his knees before
the prostrate form of James, only to start up again as he saw the
eyes of Knapp resting on him.

"Ah," he muttered, "the detective!" And after giving the man from
Boston a close look he turned toward Mr. Fenton.

"You said something about this good old man having killed Agatha
Webb. What was it? I was too dazed to take it in."

Mr. Fenton, not understanding the young man's eagerness, but
willing enough to enlighten him as to the situation, told him what
reasons there were for ascribing the crime in the Webb cottage to
the mad need of these starving men. Sweetwater listened with open
eyes and confused bearing, only controlling himself when his eyes
by chance fell upon the quiet figure of the detective, now moving
softly to and fro through the room.

"But why murder when he could have had his loaf for the asking?"
remonstrated Sweetwater. "Agatha Webb would have gone without a
meal any time to feed a wandering tramp; how much more to supply
the necessities of two of her oldest and dearest friends!"

"Yes," remarked Fenton, "but you forget or perhaps never knew that
the master passion of these men was pride. James Zabel ask for
bread! I can much sooner imagine him stealing it; yes, or striking
a blow for it, so that the blow shut forever the eyes that saw him
do it."

"You don't believe your own words, Mr. Fenton. How can you?"
Sweetwater's hand was on the breast of the accused man as he
spoke, and his manner was almost solemn. "You must not take it for
granted," he went on, his green eyes twinkling with a curious
light, "that all wisdom comes from Boston. We in Sutherlandtown
have some sparks of it, if they have not yet been recognised. You
are satisfied"—here he addressed himself to Knapp—"that the blow
which killed Agatha Webb was struck by this respectable old man?"

Knapp smiled as if a child had asked him this question; but he
answered him good-humouredly enough.

"You see the dagger lying here with which the deed was done, and
you see the bread that was bought from Loton with a twenty-dollar
bill of Agatha Webb's money. In these you can read my answer."

"Good evidence," acknowledged Sweetwater—"very good evidence,
especially when we remember that Mr. Crane met an old man rushing
from her gateway with something glittering in his hand. I never
was so beat in my life, and yet—and yet—if I could have a few
minutes of quiet thought all by myself I am certain I could show
you that there is more to this matter than you think. Indeed, I
know that there is, but I do not like to give my reasons till I
have conquered the difficulties presented by these men having had
the twenty-dollar bill."

"What fellow is this?" suddenly broke in Knapp.

"A fiddler, a nobody," quietly whispered Mr. Fenton in his ear.

Sweetwater heard him and changed in a twinkling from the
uncertain, half-baffled, wholly humble person they had just seen,
to a man with a purpose strong enough to make him hold up his head
with the best.

"I am a musician," he admitted, "and I play on the violin for
money whenever the occasion offers, something which you will yet
congratulate yourselves upon if you wish to reach the root of this
mysterious and dastardly crime. But that I am a nobody I deny, and
I even dare to hope that you will agree with me in this estimate
of myself before this very night is over. Only give me an
opportunity for considering this subject, and the permission to
walk for a few minutes about this house."

"That is my prerogative," protested the detective firmly, but
without any display of feeling. "I am the man employed to pick up
whatever clews the place may present."

"Have you picked up all that are to be found in this room?" asked
Sweetwater calmly.

Knapp shrugged his shoulders. He was very well satisfied with
himself.

"Then give me a chance," prayed Sweetwater. "Mr. Fenton," he urged
more earnestly, "I am not the fool you take me for. I feel, I
know, I have a genius for this kind of thing, and though I am not
prepossessing to look at, and though I do play the fiddle, I swear
there are depths to this affair which none of you have as yet
sounded. Sirs, where are the nine hundred and eighty dollars in
bills which go to make up the clean thousand that was taken from
the small drawer at the back of Agatha Webb's cupboard?"

"They are in some secret hiding-place, no doubt, which we will
presently come upon as we go through the house," answered Knapp.

"Umph! Then I advise you to put your hand on them as soon as
possible," retorted Sweetwater. "I will confine myself to going
over the ground you have already investigated." And with a sudden
ignoring of the others' presence, which could only have sprung
from an intense egotism or from an overwhelming belief in his own
theory, he began an investigation of the room that threw the
other's more commonplace efforts entirely in the shade.

Knapp, with a slight compression of his lips, which was the sole
expression of anger he ever allowed himself, took up his hat and
made his bow to Mr. Fenton.

"I see," said he, "that the sympathy of those present is with
local talent. Let local talent work, then, sir, and when you feel
the need of a man of training and experience, send to the tavern
on the docks, where I will be found till I am notified that my
services are no longer required."

"No, no!" protested Mr. Fenton. "This boy's enthusiasm will soon
evaporate. Let him fuss away if he will. His petty business need
not interrupt us."

"But he understands himself," whispered Knapp. "I should think he
had been on our own force for years."

"All the more reason to see what he's up to. Wait, if only to
satisfy your curiosity. I shan't let many minutes go by before I
pull him up."

Knapp, who was really of a cold and unimpressionable temperament,
refrained from further argument, and confined himself to watching
the young man, whose movements seemed to fascinate him.

"Astonishing!" Mr. Fenton heard him mutter to himself. "He's more
like an eel than a man." And indeed the way Sweetwater wound
himself out and in through that room, seeing everything that came
under his eye, was a sight well worth any professional's
attention. Pausing before the dead man on the floor, he held the
lantern close to the white, worn face. "Ha!" said he, picking
something from the long beard, "here's a crumb of that same bread.
Did you see that, Mr. Knapp?"

The question was so sudden and so sharp that the detective came
near replying to it; but he bethought himself, and said nothing.

"That settles which of the two gnawed the loaf," continued
Sweetwater.

The next minute he was hovering over the still more pathetic
figure of John, sitting in the chair.

"Sad! Sad!" he murmured.

Suddenly he laid his finger on a small rent in the old man's faded
vest. "You saw this, of course," said he, with a quick glance over
his shoulder at the silent detective.

No answer, as before.

"It's a new slit," declared the officious youth, looking closer,
"and—yes—there's blood on its edges. Here, take the lantern, Mr.
Fenton, I must see how the skin looks underneath. Oh, gentlemen,
no shirt! The poorest dockhand has a shirt! Brocaded vest and no
shirt; but he's past our pity now. Ah, only a bruise over the
heart. Sirs, what did you make out of this?"

As none of them had even seen it, Knapp was not the only one to
remain silent.

"Shall I tell you what I make out of it?" said the lad, rising
hurriedly from the floor, which he had as hurriedly examined.
"This old man has tried to take his life with the dagger already
wet with the blood of Agatha Webb. But his arm was too feeble. The
point only pierced the vest, wiping off a little blood in its
passage, then the weapon fell from his hand and struck the floor,
as you will see by the fresh dent in the old board I am standing
on. Have you anything to say against these simple deductions?"

Again the detective opened his lips and might have spoken, but
Sweetwater gave him no chance.

"Where is the letter he was writing?" he demanded. "Have any of
you seen any paper lying about here?"

"He was not writing," objected Knapp; "he was reading; reading in
that old Bible you see there."

Sweetwater caught up the book, looked it over, and laid it down,
with that same curious twinkle of his eye they had noted in him
before.

"He was writing," he insisted. "See, here is his pencil." And he
showed them the battered end of a small lead-pencil lying on the
edge of his chair.

"Writing at some time," admitted Knapp.

"Writing just before the deed," insisted Sweetwater. "Look at the
fingers of his right hand. They have not moved since the pencil
fell out of them."

"The letter, or whatever it was, shall be looked for," declared
the constable.

Sweetwater bowed, his eyes roving restlessly into every nook and
corner of the room.

"James was the stronger of the two," he remarked; "yet there is no
evidence that he made any attempt at suicide."

"How do you know that it was suicide John attempted?" asked
someone. "Why might not the dagger have fallen from James's hand
in an effort to kill his brother?"

"Because the dent in the floor would have been to the right of the
chair instead of to the left," he returned. "Besides, James's hand
would not have failed so utterly, since he had strength to pick up
the weapon afterward and lay it where you found it."

"True, we found it lying on the table," observed Abel, scratching
his head in forced admiration of his old schoolmate.

"All easy, very easy," Sweetwater remarked, seeing the wonder in
every eye. "Matters like those are for a child's reading, but what
is difficult, and what I find hard to come by, is how the twenty-
dollar bill got into the old man's hand. He found it here, but
how—"

"Found it here? How do you know that?"

"Gentlemen, that is a point I will make clear to you later, when I
have laid my hand on a certain clew I am anxiously seeking. You
know this is new work for me and I have to advance warily. Did any
of you gentlemen, when you came into this room, detect the
faintest odour of any kind of perfume?"

"Perfume?" echoed Abel, with a glance about the musty apartment.
"Rats, rather."

Sweetwater shook his head with a discouraged air, but suddenly
brightened, and stepping quickly across the floor, paused at one
of the windows. It was that one in which the shade had been drawn.