The Red Seal, Natalie Sumner Lincoln [books for men to read .TXT] 📗
- Author: Natalie Sumner Lincoln
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McIntyre, who had been swinging his walking stick from one hand to the other in marked impatience, turned to Kent, his manner more conciliatory.
“Pleasant quarters you have,” he remarked. “Does Rochester share his room with you?”
“No, Colonel, his is across the anteroom where you waited a few minutes ago,” explained Kent as he accompanied his visitors to the door. “This is my office.”
“Ah, yes, I thought as much on seeing only one desk,” McIntyre’s manner grew more cordial. “Does Rochester’s furniture duplicate yours, safe and all?”
“Safe - no, he has none; that is the firm’s safe.” Kent was becoming restless under so many personal questions. “Good-by, Mr. Clymer.”
“Don’t forget to-night at eight,” the banker reminded him before stepping into the corridor. “We’ll dine at the Club de Vingt. Come along, McIntyre.”
Sylvester stopped Kent on his way back to his office and handed him the neatly typewritten copies of his brief, and with a word of thanks the lawyer went over to his desk and, gathering such papers as he required at the court house, he thrust them and the brief into his leather bag, but instead of hurrying on his way, he stood still to consider the events of the morning.
Helen McIntyre, during their interview, had not responded to his appeal for her confidence, nor vouchsafed any reason for her belief that Jimmie Turnbull had been the victim of foul play. And Colonel McIntyre had given him only until Saturday night to solve the problem! Kent’s overwrought feelings found vent in an emphatic oath.
“Excuse me,” exclaimed Sylvester mildly from the doorway. “I knocked and understood you to say come in.
“Well, what is it?” Kent’s nerves were getting a bit raw; a glance at his watch showed him he had a slender margin only in which to reach the court house in time for his appointment. Not even waiting for the clerk’s reply he snatched up his brief case and made for the private door leading into the corridor. But he was destined not to get away without another interruption.
As Sylvester was hastily explaining, “Two gentlemen to see you, Mr. Kent,” the clerk was thrust aside and Detective Ferguson entered, accompanied by a deputy marshal.
“Sorry to detain you, Mr. Kent,” exclaimed the detective. “I came to tell you that Coroner Penfield has just called an inquest for this afternoon to inquire into Jimmie Turnbull’s death. Where’s your partner, Mr. Rochester?” looking around inquiringly.
“In Cleveland. Won’t I do?” replied Kent, his appointment forgotten in the news that Ferguson had just given him.
“No, we didn’t come for legal advice,” Ferguson smiled; then grew serious. “What’s Mr. Rochester’s address?”
Kent walked over to his desk and picked up the telegram. “The City Club, Cleveland,” he stated.
“Thanks,” Ferguson jotted down the address in his notebook. “Jones, here,” placing his hand on his companion, “came to serve Mr. Rochester with a subpoena; he’s wanted at the Turnbull inquest as a material witness.”
Coroner Penfield adjusted his eyeglasses and scanned the spectators gathered for the Turnbull inquest. The room was crowded with both men and women, the latter predominating, and the coroner decided that, while some had come from a personal interest in the dead man, the majority had been attracted by morbid curiosity. There was a stir among the spectators as an inner door opened and the jury, led by the morgue master filed into the room and took their places. Coroner Penfield rose and addressed the foreman.
“Have you viewed the body?” he inquired.
“Yes, doctor,” and the man sat down.
Coroner Penfield then concisely stated the reason for the inquest and summoned Officer O’Ryan to the witness stand. The policeman stood, cap in hand, while being sworn by the morgue master, and then took his place on the platform in the chair reserved for the witnesses.
His answer to Coroner Penfield’s questions relative to his name, residence in Washington, and length of service in the city Police Force were given with brevity and a rich Irish brogue.
“Where were you on Tuesday morning at about five o’clock?” asked Penfield, first consulting some memoranda on his desk.
“On my way home,” explained O’Ryan. My relief had just come.”
“Does your beat take in the McIntyre residence? “
“It does, sir.”
“Did you observe any one loitering in the vicinity of the residence prior to five o’clock, Tuesday morning?”
“No, sir. It was only when the lady called to me that I was attracted to the house.”
“Did she state what was the matter?”
“Yes, sir. She said that she had locked a burglar in a closet, and to come and get him, and I did so,” and O’Ryan expanded his chest with an air of satisfaction as be glanced about the morgue.
“Did the burglar resist arrest?”
“No, sir; he came very peaceably and not a word out of him.”
“Had you any idea that the burglar was not what he seemed?”
“Devil an idea, begging your pardon - O’Ryan remembered hastily where he was. “The burglar looked the part he was masquerading, and his make-up was perfect,” ended O’Ryan with relish. “Never gave me a hint he was a gentleman and a bank cashier in disguise.”
Kent, who had arrived at the morgue a few minutes before the policeman commenced his testimony, smiled in spite of himself. He was feeling exceedingly low spirited, and had come to the inquest with inward foreboding as to its result. On what developed there, he Was convinced, hung Jimmie Turnbull’s good name. After his interview with Detective Ferguson that morning, he had wired Philip Rochester to return to Washington at once. He had requested an immediate reply, and had fully expected to find a telegram at his office when he stopped there on his way to the morgue, but none had come.
“Whom did you see in the McIntyre house?” the coroner asked O’Ryan.
“No one sir, except the burglar and Miss McIntyre.”
“Did you find any doors or windows unlocked?”
“No, sir; I never looked to see.”
“Why not?”
“Because the young lady said that she had been over the house and everything was then fastened.” O’Ryan looked anxiously at the coroner. Would he make him out derelict in his duty? It would seriously affect his standing on the Force. “I took Miss McIntyre’s word for the house, for I had the burglar safe under arrest.”
“How did Miss McIntyre appear?”
“Appear? Sure, she looked very sweet in her blue wrapper and her hair down her back,” answered O’Ryan with emphasis.
“She was not fully dressed then?”
“No, sir.”
“Was Miss McIntyre composed in manner or did she appear frightened?” asked Penfield. It was one of the questions which Kent had expected, and he waited with intense interest for the policeman’s reply.
“She was very pale and - and breathless like.” O’Ryan flapped his arms about vaguely in his endeavor to demonstrate his meaning. “She kept begging me to hurry and get the burglar out of the house, and after telling her that she would have to appear in the Police Court first thing that morning, I went off with the prisoner.”
“Were there lights in the house?” questioned Penfield.
“Only dim ones in the halls and two bulbs turned on in the library; it’s a big room though, and they hardly made any light at all,” explained O’Ryan; he was particular as to details. “I used handcuffs on the prisoner, thinking maybe he’d give me the slip in the dim light, but there was no fight or flight in him.”
“Did he talk to you on the way to the station house?”
“No, sir; and at the station he was just as quiet, only answered the questions the desk sergeant put to him, and that was all,” stated 0’ Ryan.
Penfield laid down his memorandum pad. “All right, O’Ryan; you may retire,” and at the words the policeman left the platform and the room. He was followed by the police sergeant who had been on desk duty at the Eighth Precinct on Tuesday morning. His testimony simply corroborated O’Ryan’s statement that the prisoner had done and said nothing which would indicate that he was other than he seemed - a housebreaker.
Coroner Penfield paused before calling the next witness and drank a glass of ice water; the weather had turned unseasonably hot, and the room in which inquests were held, was stifling, in spite of the long opened windows at either end.
“Call Miss Helen McIntyre,” Penfield said to the morgue master, and the latter crossed to the door leading to the room where sat the witnesses. There was instant craning of necks to catch a glimpse of the society girl about whom, with her twin sister, so much interest centered.
Helen was extremely pale as she advanced up the room, but Kent, watching her closely, was relieved to see none of the nervousness which had been so marked at their interview that morning. She was dressed with fastidious taste, and as she mounted the platform after the morgue master had administered the oath, Coroner Penfield rose and, with a polite gesture, indicated the chair she was to occupy.
“I am Helen McIntyre,” she announced c1ear1y. “Daughter of Colonel Charles McIntyre.”
“Tell us the circumstances attending the arrest of James Turnbull, alias John Smith, in your house on Tuesday morning, Miss McIntyre,” directed the coroner, seating himself at his table, on which were writing materials.
“I was sitting up to let in my sister, who had gone to a dance,” she began, “and fearing I would fall asleep I went down into the library, intending to sit in one of the window recesses and watch for her arrival. As I entered the library I saw a figure steal across the room and disappear inside a closet. I was very frightened, but had sense enough left to cross softly to the closet and lock the door.” She paused in her rapid recital and drew a long breath, then continued more slowly:
“I hurried to the window and across the street I saw a policeman standing under a lamp-post. It took but a minute to call him. The policeman opened the closet door, put handcuffs on Mr. Turnbull and took him away.”
Coroner Penfield, as well as the jurors, followed her statement with absorbed attention. At its end he threw down his pencil and spoke briefly to the deputy coroner, who had been busily engaged in taking notes of the inquest, and then he turned to Helen.
“You heard no sound before entering the library?”
“No one walking about the house?” he persisted.
“No.” She followed the negative with a short explanation. “I lay down on my bed soon after dinner, not feeling very well, and slept through the early hours of the night.”
“At what hour did you wake up?”
“About four o’clock, or a little after.”
“Then you were awake an hour before you discovered the supposed burglar in your library?”
“Y-yes,” Helen’s hesitation was faint. “About that length of time.”
“And you heard no unusual sounds in that hour’s interval?”
“I heard nothing” - her manner was slightly defiant and Kent’s heart sank; if he had only thought to warn her not to antagonize the coroner.
“Where were you during that hour?”
“Lying down,” promptly. “Then, afraid I would drop off to sleep again, I went downstairs.”
Coroner Penfield consulted his notes before asking another question.
“Who lives in your house beside you and your twin sister?” he asked.
“My father, Colonel McIntyre; our house guest, Mrs. Louis C. Brewster, and five servants,” she replied. “Grimes, the butler; Martha, our maid; Jane, the chambermaid; Hope, our cook; and Thomas, our second man; the chauffeur, Harris, the scullery maid, and the laundress do not stay at night.”
“Who were at home beside yourself on Monday night and early Tuesday morning?”
“My father and
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