Ashton-Kirk, Criminologist Part 10

Ashton-Kirk studied the particles clinging to the bar with much interest, an eager look in his eyes.

"It may be a coincidence," said he, "but I'm inclined to think not."

"What may be a coincidence?" asked Scanlon, as the other carefully sc.r.a.ped the particles from the grading into a compartment of a paper fold. But Ashton-Kirk made no reply except:

"Give me a 'boost' up to that window."

The big man obediently did so; on the ledge were the marks of fingers in the dust which damp had caused to stick there.

"And newly done," said Ashton-Kirk, as he dropped to the ground, a glint in his eye. "Very little dust has attached itself since they were made."

He began searching the surface of the ground under the window; finally he took a strong lens from his pocket and with increased interest resumed the inspection.

"Very likely one of the cops did this," said Scanlon. "Wanted to see if the window was fast."

Ashton-Kirk got up from his stooping position and slipped the lens back into his pocket.

"They would have tried the window from the inside in that case," said he. "It would have been easier to get at." He stood for a moment, reflecting; then he continued: "There seems to be very little more to be hoped for. Let us speak to Osborne before we go."

The big headquarters man was in the room across the hall from the one in which the crime had been committed.

"Well, all through?" he asked, genially, and with the manner of one whose position is a.s.sured.

"Yes, I think so," said Ashton-Kirk.

"We covered it all pretty well outside there," nodded Osborne, complacently, "and we got nothing from it. Depend on it, this thing was an inside job. The party that did it belonged right here in the house."

"Too bad," mused Ashton-Kirk, as he looked about the comfortable, homelike room. "Too bad! That will mean that another home is wrecked; and this one seems decidedly worth keeping together--nice etching and rugs and some very good bits of old bra.s.s." He took up a candlestick from the end of a shelf. "Here is a real old Colonial candlestick which must weigh at least five pounds."

Osborne looked at the piece, grimly.

"If Tom Burton were alive," said he, "he might be able to tell you something about the weight of such things. It was with just such another he was killed."

"Oh, indeed!" Ashton-Kirk replaced the candlestick upon the shelf and dusted his fingers with a handkerchief. "Well, we'll be running along, Osborne." They shook hands with the detective. "Sorry we hadn't any better luck."

"So am I," said Osborne, still complacently. "But it breaks that way sometimes. We can't turn up new stuff where it doesn't exist."

"True," said Ashton-Kirk, as he descended from the porch to the paved walk. "That's very true. But thank you just the same. And good-bye."

And so with Scanlon at his side, he set off at a smart pace toward the railroad station.

CHAPTER VI

ASHTON-KIRK ASKS QUESTIONS

Ashton-Kirk dismissed his car in front of a restaurant in the center of the city; he and his friend had luncheon in a quiet corner, then lighted cigars and smoked while they sipped their coffee.

"This is the second little matter I've had to put up to you," said Bat Scanlon. "I hope it won't grow into a habit."

"If it has any of the entertaining qualities of the other case," smiled the investigator, "I shall be greatly beholden to you."

Bat shook his head, and watched a cloud of white, thin smoke vanish in the air.

"That hardly seems likely," said he. "Stanwick ain't the place for mystery that Warwick Furnace was; and on the face of it, anyway, 620 Duncan Street can't touch Castle Schwartzberg for thrills. Beside that, the Campe affair[1] just sizzled with stuff, while this one, like as not, is finished already."

Ashton-Kirk smiled, and drew slowly at his cigar; this latter had a spicy tang, a flavor which suggested hot suns and heavy dews; the taste was rich, and the effect heady.

"Here is a cigar," said he, "which has all the flavor and shock of a richer looking and more suggestive leaf." He indicated the rather negative wrapper, and went on: "As you see, it hasn't any of that lush darkness which one usually a.s.sociates with potent tobacco. And all because the wrapper was grown in Pennsylvania; for a casual inspection tells nothing of the tropical growth within."

"All of which is meant to mean----?" and Bat Scanlon looked at his friend inquiringly.

"That one must not be too hasty in judging a thing by its externals. The Campe case was surrounded by a sort of natural melodrama; the gloomy hills, which appear to have impressed Miss Cavanaugh, the huge bulk of Schwartzberg Castle, the unaccountable messages, and unknown agencies all led one to expect something unusual. In this present affair, however, the stage settings are not nearly so sensational; and yet,"

here the singular eyes of the investigator were fixed upon Scanlon intently, "who knows? Unlooked-for results may not be lacking."

"Why--do you mean to say----?" Scanlon began the question in a voice pitched in the key of sudden surprise; but the other stopped him before he could finish.

"As I said a while ago, at Stanwick," remarked Ashton-Kirk, "it is not yet time to declare anything. Just now we are picking up what facts and suggestions we can; later we'll try fitting them together." He drew out his watch and looked at it. "Two-thirty," he said. "Miss Cavanaugh must have started for Stanwick before this; so suppose we go now for our call."

Scanlon made a wry face as he arose.

"I don't like calling," spoke he, "and I especially don't like this one.

When I was deputy marshall out in the Gunnison country I once made a call at the house of a gentleman who had locked himself up with a barrel of ammunition and a half dozen Winchesters, and bid defiance to the law.

It was no soft job, but I'd rather do it again, than this."

"I think you are a little thin-skinned in the matter," spoke Ashton-Kirk. "Miss Cavanaugh is extremely anxious to go further into this case, and has asked our help. As I see it we can greatly increase our chances of success by this visit; and we'll also save her the anxiety of seeing us prowling around."

It was about a half hour's walk to Nora Cavanaugh's house; and when they rang the bell the same trim maid opened the door.

"Is Miss Cavanaugh at home?" inquired Ashton-Kirk.

"No, sir," replied the maid. "She went out about a half hour ago."

"I'm sorry," said the investigator, a look of vexation upon his face.

"However, I suppose, though, it makes no difference. You recall what Miss Cavanaugh said to you when we were here yesterday."

"Oh, yes, sir; very well."

"Excellent!" said Ashton-Kirk. "And, now, we'd like to ask you a few questions, if you please."

The girl admitted them to a bright old reception room; the investigator laid his hat and stick upon a table.

"It was you who admitted Mr. Burton the last time he was here, was it not?"

"I opened the door for him, yes, sir. And he pushed by me."