CHAPTER III
THE WOUNDED HAND
"He was killed!" repeated Godfrey, with conviction; and, at thewords, we drew together a little, with a shiver of repulsion. Deathis awesome enough at any time; suicide adds to its horror; murdergives it the final touch.
So we all stood silent, staring as though fascinated at the handwhich Simmonds held up to us; at those tiny wounds, encircled bydiscoloured flesh and with a sinister dash of clotted blood runningaway from them. Then Goldberger, taking a deep breath, voiced thethought which had sprung into my own brain.
"Why, it looks like a snake-bite!" he said, his voice sharp withastonishment.
And, indeed, it did. Those two tiny incisions, scarcely half an inchapart, might well have been made by a serpent's fangs.
The quick glance which all of us cast about the room was, of course,as involuntary as the chill which ran up our spines; yet Godfrey andI--yes, and Simmonds--had the excuse that, once upon a time, we hadhad an encounter with a deadly snake which none of us was likely everto forget. We all smiled a little sheepishly as we caught eachother's eyes.
"No, I don't think it was a snake," said Godfrey, and again bentclose above the hand. "Smell it, Mr. Goldberger," he added.
The coroner put his nose close to the hand and sniffed.
"Bitter almonds!" he said.
"Which means prussic acid," said Godfrey, "and not snake poison." Hefell silent a moment, his eyes on the swollen hand. The rest of usstared at it too; and I suppose all the others were labouring as Iwas with the effort to find some thread of theory amid this chaos."It might, of course, have been self-inflicted," Godfrey added, quiteto himself.
Goldberger sneered a little. No doubt he found theincomprehensibility of the problem rather trying to his temper.
"A man doesn't usually commit suicide by sticking himself in the handwith a fork," he said.
"No," agreed Godfrey, blandly; "but I would point out that we don'tknow as yet that it _is_ a case of suicide; and I'm quite sure that,whatever it may be, it isn't usual."
Goldberger's sneer deepened.
"Did any reporter for the _Record_ ever find a case that _was_usual?" he queried.
It was a shrewd thrust, and one that Godfrey might well have wincedunder. For the _Record_ theory was that nothing was news unless itwas strange and startling, and the inevitable result was that the_Record_ reporters endeavoured to make everything strange andstartling, to play up the outre details at the expense of the rest ofthe story, and even, I fear, to invent such details when noneexisted.
Godfrey himself had been accused more than once of a too-luxuriantimagination. It was, perhaps, a realisation of this which hadpersuaded him, years before, to quit the detective force and takeservice with the _Record_. What might have been a weakness in thefirst position, was a mighty asset in the latter one, and he had wonan immense success.
Please understand that I set this down in no spirit of criticism. Ihad known Godfrey rather intimately ever since the days when we werethrown together in solving the Holladay case, and I admired sincerelyhis ready wit, his quick insight, and his unshakable aplomb. He usedhis imagination in a way which often caused me to reflect that thepolice would be far more efficient if they possessed a dash of thesame quality; and I had noticed that they were usually glad of hisassistance, while his former connection with the force and hiscareful maintenance of the friendships formed at that time gave himan entree to places denied to less-fortunate reporters. I had neverknown him to do a dishonourable thing--to fight for a cause hethought unjust, to print a fact given to him in confidence, or tomake a statement which he knew to be untrue. Moreover, a lively senseof humour made him an admirable companion, and it was this quality,perhaps, which enabled him to receive Goldberger's thrust with agood-natured smile.
"We've got our living to make, you know," he said. "We make it ashonestly as we can. What do _you_ think, Simmonds?"
"I think," said Simmonds, who, if he possessed an imagination, neverpermitted it to be suspected, "that those little cuts on the hand aremerely an accident. They might have been caused in half a dozen ways.Maybe he hit his hand on something when he fell; maybe he jabbed iton a buckle; maybe he had a boil on his hand and lanced it with hisknife."
"What killed him, then?" Godfrey demanded.
"Poison--and it's in his stomach. We'll find it there."
"How about the odour?" Godfrey persisted.
"He spilled some of the poison on his hand as he lifted it to hismouth. Maybe he had those cuts on his hand and the poison inflamedthem. Or maybe he's got some kind of blood disease."
Goldberger nodded his approval, and Godfrey smiled as he looked athim.
"It's easy to find explanations, isn't it?" he queried.
"It's a blamed sight easier to find a natural and simpleexplanation," retorted Goldberger hotly, "than it is to find anunnatural and far-fetched one--such as how one man could kill anotherby scratching him on the hand. I suppose you think this fellow wasmurdered? That's what you said a minute ago."
"Perhaps I was a little hasty," Godfrey admitted, and I suspectedthat, whatever his thoughts, he had made up his mind to keep them tohimself. "I'm not going to theorise until I've got something to startwith. The facts seem to point to suicide; but if he swallowed prussicacid, where's the bottle? He didn't swallow that too, did he?"
"Maybe we'll find it in his clothes," suggested Simmonds.
Thus reminded, Goldberger fell to work looking through the dead man'spockets. The clothes were of a cheap material and not very new, sothat, in life, he must have presented an appearance somewhat shabby.There was a purse in the inside coat pocket containing two bills, onefor ten dollars and one for five, and there were two or three dollarsin silver and four five-centime pieces in a small coin purse which hecarried in his trousers' pocket. The larger purse had four or fivecalling cards in one of its compartments, each bearing a differentname, none of them his. On the back of one of them, Vantine's addresswas written in pencil.
There were no letters, no papers, no written documents of any kind inthe pockets, the remainder of whose contents consisted of such oddsand ends as any man might carry about with him--a cheap watch, apen-knife, a half-empty packet of French tobacco, a sheaf ofcigarette paper, four or five keys on a ring, a silk handkerchief,and perhaps some other articles which I have forgotten--but not athing to assist in establishing his identity.
"We'll have to cable over to Paris," remarked Simmonds. "He's French,all right--that silk handkerchief proves it."
"Yes--and his best girl proves it, too," put in Godfrey.
"His best girl?"
For answer, Godfrey held up the watch, which he had been examining.He had opened the case, and inside it was a photograph--thephotograph of a woman with bold, dark eyes and full lips and ovalface--a face so typically French that it was not to be mistaken.
"A lady's-maid, I should say," added Godfrey, looking at it again."Rather good-looking at one time, but past her first youth, and socompelled perhaps to bestow her affections on a man a little beneathher--no doubt compelled also to contribute to his support in order toretain him. A woman with many pasts and no future--"
"Oh, come," broke in Goldberger impatiently, "keep your second-handepigrams for the _Record_. What we want are facts."
Godfrey flushed a little at the words and laid down the watch.
"There is one fact which you have apparently overlooked," he saidquietly, "but it proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that this fellowdidn't drift in here by accident. He came here of intention, and theintention wasn't to kill himself, either."
"How do you know that?" demanded Goldberger, incredulously.
Godfrey picked up the purse, opened it, and took out one of thecards.
"By this," he said, and held it up. "You have already seen what iswritten on the back of it--Mr. Vantine's name and the number of thishouse. That proves, doesn't it, that this fellow came to New Yorkexpressly to see Mr. Vantine?"
"Perhaps you think Mr. Vant
ine killed him," suggested Goldberger,sarcastically.
"No," said Godfrey; "he didn't have time. You understand, Mr.Vantine," he added, smiling at that gentleman, who was listening toall this with perplexed countenance, "we are simply talking now aboutpossibilities. You couldn't possibly have killed this fellow becauseLester has testified that he was with you constantly from the momentthis man entered the house until his body was found, with theexception of the few seconds which elapsed between the time youentered this room and the time he joined you here, summoned by yourcry. So you are out of the running."
"Thanks," said Vantine, drily.
"I suppose, then, you think it was Parks," said Goldberger.
"It may quite possibly have been Parks," agreed Godfrey, gravely.
"Nonsense!" broke in Vantine, impatiently. "Parks is as straight as astring--he's been with me for eight years."
"Of course it's nonsense," assented Goldberger. "It's nonsense to saythat he was killed by anybody. He killed himself. We'll learn thecause when we identify him--jealousy maybe, or maybe just hard luck--he doesn't look affluent."
"I'll cable to Paris," said Simmonds. "If he belongs there, we'll soonfind out who he is."
"You'd better call an ambulance and have him taken to the morgue,"went on Goldberger. "Somebody may identify him there. There'll be acrowd to-morrow, for, of course, the papers will be full of thisaffair--"
"The _Record_, at least, will have a very full account," Godfreyassured him.
"And I'll call the inquest for the day after," Goldberger continued."I'll send my physician down to make a post-mortem right away. Ifthere's any poison in this fellow's stomach, we'll find it."
Godfrey did not speak; but I knew what was in his mind. He wasthinking that, if such poison existed, the vessel which had containedit had not yet been found. The same thought, no doubt, occurred toSimmonds, for, after ordering the policeman in the hall to call theambulance, he returned and began a careful search of the room, usinghis electric torch to illumine every shadowed corner. Godfrey devotedhimself to a similar search; but both were without result. ThenGodfrey made a minute inspection of the injured hand, whileGoldberger looked on with ill-concealed impatience; and finally hemoved toward the door.
"I think I'll be going," he said. "But I'm interested in what yourphysician will find, Mr. Coroner."
"He'll find poison, all right," asserted Goldberger, with decision.
"Perhaps he will," admitted Godfrey. "Strange things happen in thisworld. Will you be at home to-night, Lester?"
"Yes, I expect to be," I answered.
"You're still at the Marathon?"
"Yes," I said; "suite fourteen."
"Perhaps I'll drop around to see you," he said, and a moment later weheard the door close behind him as Parks let him out.
"Godfrey's a good man," said Goldberger, "but he's too romantic. Helooks for a mystery in every crime, whereas most crimes are merelyplain, downright brutalities. Take this case. Here's a man killshimself, and Godfrey wants us to believe that death resulted from ascratch on the hand. Why, there's no poison on earth would kill a manas quick as that--for he must have dropped dead before he could getout of the room to summon help. If it was prussic acid, he swallowedit. Remember, he wasn't in this room more than fifteen or twentyminutes, and he was quite dead when Mr. Vantine found him. Men don'tdie as easily as all that--not from a scratch on the hand. They don'tdie easily at all. It's astonishing how much it takes to kill a man--how the spirit, or whatever you choose to call it, clings tolife."
"How do you explain the address on the card, Mr. Goldberger?" Iasked.
"My theory is that this fellow really had some business with Mr.Vantine; probably he wanted to borrow some money, or ask for help;and then, while he was waiting, he suddenly gave the thing up andkilled himself. The address has no bearing whatever, that I can see,on the question of suicide. And I'll say this, Mr. Lester, if thisisn't suicide, it's the strangest case I ever had anything to dowith."
"Yes," I agreed, "if it isn't suicide, we come to a blank wall rightaway."
"That's it," and Goldberger nodded emphatically. "Here's theambulance," he added, as the bell rang.
The bearers entered with the stretcher, placed the body on it, andcarried it away. Goldberger paused to gather up the articles he hadtaken from the dead man's pockets.
"You gentlemen will have to give your testimony at the inquest," hesaid. "So will Parks and Rogers. It will be day after to-morrow,probably at ten o'clock, but I'll notify you of the hour."
"Very well," I said; "we'll be there," and Goldberger bade usgood-bye, and left the house. "And now," I added, to Vantine, "I mustbe getting back to the office. They'll be asking the police to lookfor me next. Man alive!" and I glanced at my watch, "it's after fouro'clock."
"Too late for the office," said Vantine. "Better come upstairs andhave a drink. Besides, I want to talk with you."
"At least, I'll let them know I'm still alive," I said, and I calledup the office and allayed any anxiety that may have been felt thereconcerning me. I must admit that it did not seem acute.
"I feel the need of a bracer after all this excitement," Vantineremarked, as he opened the cellarette. "Help yourself. I dare sayyou're used to this sort of thing--"
"Finding dead men lying around?" I queried, with a smile. "No--it'snot so common as you seem to think."
"Tell me, Lester," and he looked at me earnestly, "do you think thatpoor devil came in here just to get a chance to kill himselfquietly?"
"No, I don't," I said.
"Then what did he come in for?"
"I think Goldberger's theory a pretty good one--that he had heard ofyou as a generous fellow and came in here to ask help; and while hewas waiting, suddenly gave it up--"
"And killed himself?" Vantine completed.
I hesitated. I was astonished to find, at the back of my mind, agrowing doubt.
"See here, Lester," Vantine demanded, "if he didn't kill himself,what happened to him?"
"Heaven only knows," I answered, in despair. "I've been asking myselfthe same question, without finding a reasonable answer to it. As Isaid to Goldberger, it's a blank wall. But if anybody can see throughit, Jim Godfrey can."
Vantine seemed deeply perturbed. He took a turn or two up and downthe room, then stopped in front of me and looked me earnestly in theeye.
"Tell me, Lester," he said, "do you believe that theory of Godfrey's--that that insignificant wound on the hand caused death?"
"It seems absurd, doesn't it? But Godfrey is a sort of genius atdivining such things."
"Then you _do_ believe it?"
I asked myself the same question before I answered.
"Yes, I do," I said, finally.
Vantine walked up and down the room again, his eyes on the floor, hisbrows contracted.
"Lester," he said, at last, "I have a queer feeling that the businesswhich brought this man here in some way concerned the Boule cabinet Iwas telling you about. Perhaps it belonged to him."
"Hardly," I protested, recalling his shabby appearance.
"At any rate, I remember, as I was looking at his card, that somesuch thought occurred to me. It was for that reason I told Parks toask him to wait."
"It's possible, of course," I admitted. "But that wouldn't explainhis excitement. And that reminds me," I added, "I haven't sent offthat cable."
"Any time to-night will do. It will be delivered in the morning. Butyou haven't seen the cabinet yet. Come down and look at it."
He led the way down the stair. Parks met us in the lower hall.
"There's a delegation of reporters outside, sir," he said. "They saythey've got to see you."
Vantine made a movement of impatience.
"Tell them," he said, "that I positively refuse to see them or toallow my servants to see them. Let them get their information fromthe police."
"Very well, sir," said Parks, and turned away grinning.
Vantine passed on through the ante-room in which we had found th
ebody of the unfortunate Frenchman, and into the room beyond. Five orsix pieces of furniture, evidently just unpacked, stood there, but,ignorant as I am of such things, he did not have to point out to methe Boule cabinet. It dominated the room, much as Madame deMontespan, no doubt, dominated the court at Versailles.
I looked at it for some moments, for it was certainly a beautifulpiece of work, with a wealth of inlay and incrustation little shortof marvellous. But I may as well say here that I never reallyappreciated it. The florid style of the Fourteenth and FifteenthLouis is not at all to my taste; and I am too little of a connoisseurto admire a beauty which has no personal appeal for me. So I amafraid that Vantine found me a little cold.
Certainly there was nothing cold about the way he regarded it. Hiseyes gleamed with a strange fire as he looked at it; he ran hisfingers over the inlay with a touch almost reverent; he pulled outfor me the little drawers with much the same air that another friendof mine takes down his Kilmarnock Burns from his bookshelves; hepointed out to me the grace of its curves in the same tone that oneuses to discuss the masterpiece of a great artist. And then, findingno echo to his enthusiasm, he suddenly stopped.
"You don't seem to care for it," he said, looking at me.
"That's my fault and not the fault of the cabinet," I pointed out."I'm not educated up to it; I'm too little of an artist, perhaps."
He was flushed, as a man might be should another make a disparagingremark about his wife, and he led the way from the room at once.
"Remember, Lester," he said, a little sternly, pausing with his handon the front door, "there is to be no foolishness about securing thatcabinet for me. Don't you let it get away. I'm in deadly earnest."
"I won't let it get away," I promised. "Perhaps it's just as well I'mnot over-enthusiastic about it."
"Let me know as soon as you have any news," he said, and opened thedoor for me.
I had intended walking home, but as I turned up the Avenue, I metsweeping down it a flood of girls just released from the workshops ofthe neighbourhood. I struggled against it for a few moments, thengave it up, hailed a cab, and settled back against the cushions witha sigh of relief. I was glad to be out of Vantine's house; somethingthere oppressed me and left me ill at ease. Was Vantine quite normal,I wondered? Could any man be normal who was willing to pay a hundredthousand dollars for a piece of furniture? Especially a man who couldnot afford such extravagance? I knew the size of Vantine's fortune;it was large, but a hundred thousand dollars represented more than ayear's income. And then I smiled to myself. Of course Vantine hadbeen merely jesting when he named that limit. The cabinet could bebought for a tenth of it, at the most. And, still smiling, I left thecab, paid the driver, and mounted to my rooms.