The Red Seal, Natalie Sumner Lincoln [books for men to read .TXT] 📗

CHAPTER XV WHEN THE LIGHT FAILED

The city lights were springing up block T after block along Pennsylvania Avenue as Detective Ferguson left that busy thoroughfare and hurried to the Saratoga. He stepped inside the lobby of the apartment house a full minute before his appointment with its manager, and went at once to look him up. Before he could carry out his purpose he was joined by Harry Kent.

“Finley had to go out,” the latter explained.

“I told him I would go up to Rochester’s apartment with you.”

Ferguson thoughtfully caressed his clean-shaven jaw for a second, then came to a rapid decision.

“Lead the way, sir,” he said. “I’ll follow.” Kent found him a silent companion while in the elevator and when walking down the corridor to Rochester’s apartment, but once inside the living room, with the outer door tightly closed, Ferguson tossed down his hat and his whole demeanor changed.

“Sit down, Mr. Kent.” He selected a chair near Rochester’s desk for himself, as Kent found another. “Let’s thrash this thing out; are you working with me or against me?”

“Why do you ask?” Kent’s surprise at the question was evident.

“Because every time I arrange to examine this apartment or inquire into Rochester’s whereabouts you show up.” Ferguson’s small eyes were trying to out-stare Kent, but the latter’s clear gaze did not drop before his. “Are you aiding Philip Rochester in his efforts to elude arrest?”

“I am not,” declared Kent emphatically. “What prompts the question?”

“The fact that you are Rochester’s partner,” Ferguson pointed out; his manner was still stiff. “It would be only natural for you to help him disappear out of friendship, or” - with a sidelong glance - “from a desire to hush up a scandal.”

“On the contrary I want Rochester found and every bit of evidence against him sifted out and aired,” retorted Kent. “Two heads are better than one, Ferguson; let us work together. Rochester must be located within the next twenty-four hours.”

Ferguson debated a moment, but Kent’s speech as well as his manner indicated his sincerity, and the detective shook off his suspicions. “Have you had any further news of your partner?” he asked.

“No; that is” - recalling the scene in the bank early that afternoon -” nothing that relates to Rochester’s present whereabouts. Now, Ferguson, to put your charges against Rochester in concrete form, you believe that he was insanely jealous of Jimmie Turnbull, that he recognized him in the Police Court in his burglar disguise, slipped a dose of aconitine in a glass of water which Turnbull drank, and after declaring that his friend had died from angina pectoris, disappeared. Is that all the case you have against him?”

“At present, yes,” admitted the detective cautiously.

“All circumstantial evidence -”

“But it will hold in court -”

“Ah, will it?” questioned Kent. “There’s one big flaw in your case, Ferguson; the poison used to kill Turnbull.”

“Aconitine?”

“Exactly. Your theory is that Rochester slipped the poison in the glass of water on recognizing Turnbull in the police court; now, it is stretching probability to suppose that Rochester, a strong healthy man, was carrying that drug around in his vest pocket.”

Ferguson sat forward in his chair, his eyes glittering. “Do you mean to say that you think the murder of Turnbull was premeditated and not committed on the spur of the moment?” he asked.

“The fact that aconitine was used convinces me of that,” answered Kent.

Ferguson thought a moment. “If that is the case,” he said, grudgingly, “it sort of squashes the charge against Philip Rochester.”

“It would seem to,” agreed Kent. “But every shred of evidence I find points to Rochester as the guilty man.”

Ferguson edged his chair forward. “What have you discovered?” he demanded eagerly.

“This,” Kent spoke with increased earnestness. “That Philip Rochester is apparently a bankrupt, that he has over-drawn his private account at the Metropolis Trust Company, and withdrawn our partnership funds from the same bank.”

“Your partnership funds!” echoed the detective, eyeing Kent sharply. “How did you come to let him do that?”

“I was not aware that he had done so until Mr. Clymer told me of the transaction this afternoon,” answered Kent.

“You did not know” - Ferguson looked at him in dawning comprehension. “You mean Rochester absconded with the funds?”

“Some one forged my name to checks drawn on the firm’s account,” Kent continued. “I understood they were made payable to cash and presented by Rochester on the day of Turnbull’s death.”

Ferguson whistled as a slight vent to his feelings. “So you suspect Rochester of being a forger?” Kent made no reply, and he added; after a moment’s deliberation, “What bearing has this discovery on Turnbull’s death, aside from Rochester’s need of funds to make a clean disappearance?”

“If it is true that Rochester was financially embarrassed and forged checks on the Metropolis Trust Company, it establishes another motive for the killing of Turnbull,” argued Kent. “Turnbull was cashier of that bank.”

“I see; he may have discovered the forgeries - but hold on.” Ferguson checked his rapid speech. “When were these forged checks presented at the bank?”

“Tuesday afternoon.”

Ferguson’s face fell. “Pshaw! man; that was after Turnbull’s death - how could he detect the forgeries?”

Kent did not reply at once; instead, he glanced keenly about the living room. The detective had only switched on one of the reading lamps and the greater part was in shadow. It was a pleasant and home-like room, and Kent was conscious of a keener pang for the loss of Jimmie Turnbull and the disappearance of Philip Rochester, as he gazed around. The lawyer and the bank cashier had been, until that winter, congenial comrades, sharing their business success and their apartment in complete accord; and now a shadow as black as that enveloping the unlighted apartment hung over their good names, threatening one or the other with the charge of forgery and of murder. Kent sighed and turned back to the silent detective.

“I can best answer your question by telling you that the day after Jimmie Turnbull died Mr. Clymer sent for me,” he began. “I found Colonel McIntyre with him and was told that the Colonel had lost valuable securities left at the bank. These securities had been given by the treasurer of the bank to Jimmie Turnbull when he presented a letter from Colonel McIntyre instructing the bank to surrender the securities to Jimmie.”

“Well?” questioned Ferguson. “Go on, sir.”

“That letter was a forgery.” Kent sat back and watched the detective’s rapidly changing expression. “And no trace has been found of the Colonel’s securities, last known to be in the possession of Turnbull.”

“Great heavens!” ejaculated Ferguson.

“Which was the forger - Turnbull or Rochester?”

Kent shook a puzzled head. “That is for us to discover,” he said soberly. “Colonel McIntyre contends that Turnbull forged the letter and stole the securities, then fearing his guilt would become known, committed still another crime - that of suicide, he could have swallowed a dose of aconitine while at the police court.”

“Well, I’ll be - blessed!” ejaculated Ferguson. “But if he was the forger how does that square with Rochester’s peculiar behavior? The checks bearing your forged signatures were presented, mind you, by Rochester after Turnbull’s death?”

“It doesn’t square,” acknowledged Kent frankly. “There is this to be said for Turnbull: he was the soul of honor, his affairs were found to be in excellent condition, he was drawing a good salary, his investments paying well - he did not need to acquire securities or money by resorting to forgery.”

“Whereas Philip Rochester was on the point of bankruptcy,” remarked Ferguson. “Do you suppose he forged Colonel McIntyre’s letter and gave it to Turnbull, and the latter got the securities from the bank treasurer and handed them over to Rochester in good faith, supposing his roommate would give the papers to Colonel McIntyre?”

Kent nodded in agreement. “It looks that way to me,” he said gloomily. “Philip Rochester stood well in the community, his law practice is large and lucrative, and if it had not been for his periods of idleness and - and” - hesitating - “passion for good living, he would never have run into debt.”

“But he got there.” Ferguson’s laugh was contemptuous. “A desperate man will do anything, Mr. Kent.”

“I know,” Kent looked dubious. “I would believe him guilty if it were not for the use of aconitine - that shows premeditation on the part of the murderer.”

“And why shouldn’t Rochester plan Turnbull’s murder ahead of the scene in the police court?” argued Ferguson. “Wasn’t he living in deadly fear of exposure? If he did not commit the murder, why did he run away? And if he is innocent, why doesn’t he come forward and prove it?”

“He may not know that he is suspected of the crime,” retorted Kent, rising. “It is for us to find Rochester, and I suggest that we search this apartment thoroughly.”

“I have already done so,” objected Ferguson. “And there wasn’t the faintest clew to his hiding place.”

“For all that I am not satisfied.” Kent walked over and switched on another light. “When I came here on Wednesday night I had a tussle with some man, but he escaped in the dark without my seeing him. I believe he was Rochester.”

“You are probably right.” Ferguson crossed