The Winning Clue Part 20

Miss Kelly, answering their ring, told them Mr. Withers had gone to the railroad station to meet Mr. Braceway.

"Then, too," she added, "Miss Fulton's father is due on the nine o'clock train. Mr. Withers may stop down town to meet him."

"I'd forgotten about that," said Bristow. "We'll have to ask your help."

He handed her the fragment of chain. "Will you be so kind as to take that back to Miss Fulton and ask her whether she recognizes it, whether she can identify it?"

Miss Kelly complied with the request at once.

She returned in a few moments.

"Miss Fulton," she reported, handing the links back to Bristow, "says this is a part of the chain Mrs. Withers wore round her neck night before last. She wore a lavalliere; it had two emeralds and eighteen rather small diamonds."

"Good!" exclaimed Greenleaf, glancing at the lame man. "I guess that fixes Perry."

"Undoubtedly," Bristow a.s.sented; and spoke to Miss Kelly: "I beg your pardon, but is Miss Fulton up this morning, or will she be up later?"

"She's dressing now. She wants to be up to meet her father."

"In that case, I'll wait until later. What I would like to have is a complete, detailed description of all of Mrs. Withers' jewelry. I wish you'd mention that to her, will you?"

Greenleaf was anxious to return to his office.

"This last piece of evidence," he said, "ought to go to the coroner's jury. It clinches the case against Perry. Here's the whole business in a nutsh.e.l.l: the b.u.t.tons missing from his blouse, one found in Number Five, the other in your bungalow; Miss Hardesty's having seen him the night of the murder; the ease with which he undoubtedly got the kitchen key from Lucy Thomas; the imprint of his rubber-soled shoe on the porch; the finding of this piece of gold chain; and his failure to establish an alibi. It's more than enough to have him held for the grand jury--it's murder in the first degree."

Bristow went back to his porch. Looking down to his left and through the trees, he commanded a view of Freeman Avenue.

"When I see an automobile flash past that spot," he decided, "I'll hurry down to Number Five. I want to be there to witness the meeting between Miss Fulton and her father. It may be possible that, when this scandal--whatever it was--was about to break concerning Mrs. Withers, this family was lucky enough to have a negro hauled up as the murderer.

In any event, it's up to me to keep track of the relations between Fulton, his daughter, Withers, and Morley. The psychology of the situation now is as important as any material evidence."

He did not have long to wait. At a quarter past nine he caught a glimpse of a big car speeding out Freeman Avenue. He sprang to his feet, hurried down to No. 5, rang the bell, and was inside the living room by the time the machine had climbed up Manniston Road and deposited in front of the door its one pa.s.senger. He was a man of sixty-five or sixty-seven years of age, very white of hair, very erect of figure.

Bristow did not have time or need to formulate an excuse for his presence before Mr. Fulton rushed up the steps to meet Maria. As she came from the direction of the bedrooms to greet him, her expression had in it reluctance, timidity even.

The father and daughter met in the centre of the living room. Bristow, stationed near the corner by the door, could see their faces. He watched them with attention strained to the utmost.

In the eyes of Maria there was a great fear mingled with a look of pleading. The old man's face was deep-lined; under his eyes were dark pouches; and his lips were tightly compressed, as if he sought to prevent his bursting into condemnation.

With a little catch in her voice, Maria cried out, "Father!" and stood watching him.

For a moment the old man's eyes were dreary with accusation. Bristow had never seen an emotion mirrored so clearly, so indisputably, in anybody's eyes. It was a speaking, thundering light, he thought.

The father, without opening his mouth, plainly said to the girl:

"At last, you've killed her! It's all your fault. You've killed her."

Bristow read that as easily as if it had been held before him in printed words. So, apparently, did Miss Fulton. The pleading expression left her face, and, in place of it, was only a flouris.h.i.+ng, lively fear.

But Fulton put out his arms and gathered her into them, took hold of her mechanically, displaying neither fondness nor a desire to comfort and soothe.

Bristow quietly left the room and returned to his porch.

"Her father," he a.n.a.lyzed what he had seen, "blames her for the tragedy--possibly believes her guilty of the actual murder. Why? This is a new angle--brand new."

He went in and called up Greenleaf, only to be told that the chief had left word he was to be found at the Brevord Hotel. Telephoning there, he got him on the wire.

"Neither Withers nor Braceway came up here with old Mr. Fulton," he began.

"I know," put in the chief. "I'm down here to meet Braceway now. He and Withers are in conference. Braceway doesn't want to go to the inquest.

I'm to take him by the undertaker's to look at the body, and then he wants to run up to see you. Says he won't learn anything important at the inquest; he'd rather talk to you."

"All right," returned Bristow. "That suits me perfectly. When will he be here?"

"In half an hour, I suppose. And I'll run up as soon as the inquest is over."

"I wonder," Bristow communed again with himself, "whether this Braceway is on the level, whether Withers is on the level. What's their game--to find the real murderer or to shut up a family scandal?"

The scandal theory bothered him. He saw no way of getting at it.

In less than an hour he and Braceway were shaking hands on the porch of No. 9. Bristow, studying him rapidly, motioned him to a chair.

Here was no ordinary police-detective type. This man had neither square-toed shoes, nor a bull neck, nor coa.r.s.eness of feature. About thirty-six years old, he was unusually slender, and straight as a dart, a peculiar and restless gracefulness characterizing all his movements. He seemed fairly to exude energy. He was keyed up to lightning-like motion.

He gave the impression of having a brain that worked with the precision and force of some great machine, a machine that never missed fire.

From the toes of his highly polished tan shoes to the sheen of his blond hair and the crown of his n.o.bby straw hat, he looked like a well dressed and prosperous professional man. His dark gray suit with a thin thread of pale green in it, his silver-gray necktie, the gloves he carried in his left hand, every detail of his appearance marked him, first as a "snappy dresser," and second as a highly efficient man.

While they exchanged casual greetings, Braceway lit a cigarette and spun the match, with a droning sound, far out from the porch. He did this, as he did everything else, with a "flaire," with that indefinable something which marks every man who has a strong personality. There was in all his bearing a dash, an electric emphasis.

"What do you think, Mr. Bristow?" He got down to business at once. "Did this negro Perry kill Mrs. Withers?"

Braceway blew out a big cloud of smoke and looked intently at his new acquaintance.

"I've talked to Greenleaf," he supplemented. "I suppose he gave me all the facts you've collected. But Greenleaf--you know what I mean," he waved his cigarette hand expressively; "I wouldn't say he had extraordinary powers of divination. He's a good fellow, and all that, but--what do you think?"

"On the evidence alone, so far," Bristow answered with an appreciative, warming smile, "I'd say Perry committed the crime."

"Oh; yes, sure." He moved quickly in his chair. "On the evidence, but there are other things, other factors. What do you think?"

"I'm afraid that's my trouble," Bristow told him. "I've been thinking so much that I'm somewhat muddled. But I believe there may be something more than a negro's greed back of this thing."

"Now you're speaking mouthfuls," Braceway said, smiling brightly. "Tell me about it."

Bristow told him--about Withers' peculiar behaviour; the whole case against Perry; the illusive personage with the chestnut beard and gold tooth; Morley's suspicious story and actions; and, lastly, Maria Fulton's highly puzzling narrative of what she had seen and not seen in connection with the murder.

Braceway listened with complete absorption, in a way that showed he was photographing each incident and statement on his brain.

"Now," he began with almost explosive suddenness, "let's get this straight. I want to work with you, if you'll let me." He paused long enough for Bristow to nod a pleased a.s.sent. "And I believe there's something back of this crime that n.o.body has yet put his finger on. Mr.

Withers believes it. Don't make any mistake about that. Withers is as anxious to get the real criminal as you and I are."

"Let me understand," Bristow said in his turn. "Do you propose that we work on the case with the supposition that Withers is in no way responsible for any part of the tragedy?"