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Diamond Cross Mystery

<h2 id="id00696" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER VI</h2> <h5 id="id00697">GRAFTON'S SEARCH</h5> The funeral of Mrs. Darcy had been held, attended, as might be supposed, by a large throng of the merely curious, as well as by some of her distant kinsfolk, for she had few near ones. One of the relatives was summoned to take charge of the store and her other business affairs, for, a formal charge of murder having been made against him, James Darcy was not permitted to attend the final services, nor have anything more to do with the jewelry establishment. Harry King, now painfully sober, was likewise held in jail, bail being fixed, because of his uncertain character, at such a high figure that he could not secure it. The police had been busy, the prosecutor's detectives also, but, so far, the arrest of Darcy and King had been the only ones made. Singa Phut, whose watch was found clasped in the dead woman's hand, had been closely questioned, but had established a perfect alibi. And the testimony as to this came, not from persons of his own nationality, but from business men and others, whose words could not be doubted. So, in the opinion of the authorities, he was not worth considering further. He admitted having left his watch at the shop to be repaired, some days before the murder, and had not called at the store since, except on the morning of the crime, and some time after its discovery, to get his timepiece, which, of course, he was not then allowed to take. Darcy had been formally charged with the crime of murder by the police captain in whose precinct the happening occurred, and, no bail being permissible in murder cases, he must, perforce, remain locked up until his indictment and trial. He was transferred from the witness room of police headquarters, the day of the funeral, to the less pleasant jail, and put in a cell, as were the other unfortunates of that institution. Jay Kenneth, Darcy's lawyer, a young member of the bar, but enthusiastic and a hard worker, had made a formal entry of a plea of not guilty for his client, when the latter had been arraigned before the upper court, and had asked for a speedy trial. And so, after the first few days of wonder and surmise and of speculation as to whether Darcy or King might have committed the crime, or perhaps some desperate burglar, the Darcy case was crowded off the front page of the newspapers to give way to items of more or less local interest in Colchester. Up and down the narrow cell paced James Darcy. His head was bowed, but at times he raised it to look out through the barred door. All his eyes encountered, though, was the white-washed wall opposite him—a bare, white and glaring wall that made his eyes burn—a wall that seemed to shut out hope itself—as if it were not enough that it had been at the very bottom of Pandora's box. Up and down, down and up, now pausing to take his hands from their strained position clasped behind his back that they might grasp the cold bars of his cell door—slim white hands that had set many a gleaming jewel in burnished gold or cold, glittering platinum, that it might grace the person of some sweet woman. And now those white fingers grasped cold steel, and a keeper, passing up and down on his half-hourly rounds, wondered, grimly, if they had been stained with the blood of Mrs. Darcy. But though the wall blocked his vision, Darcy saw through and beyond it. He saw the glittering showcases in the store, with their arrays of cut glass and silver. He saw the gleaming jewels in the safe. He saw, too, the stained and keen paper knife which the drunken King had swaggered in to claim that gray morning. He saw the red spot on the floor—the spot which, even now, in spite of many scrubbings, was visible to the men and women who, now that the store was opened for business again, walked in to select some piece of gold or silver, some jewel for their own adornment or that of another. And the gray-haired woman, whose pride it had been to display her beautiful wares to her friends and others, was all alone in a grave far up on the hill—a hill which looked down on Colchester—which looked down on the very store itself. All of this James Darcy saw, and more. There was a brisker step along the flagged corridor in front of the cells of "murderers' row." Half a dozen men, and one woman, against whom such a charge had been made—Darcy among them—looked up with an interest they had not shown before. Did it mean a visitor for any of them? Did it mean their lawyer was coming to bid them cheer up, or to tell them it looked black for their chances? The step was that of the keeper of the outer gate—the larger and more massively barred gate which gave entrance to the anteroom where, on visiting days, even those charged with the highest degree of crime were permitted to see their friends, relatives or counsel. "Some one to see you, Darcy!" called the keeper. There was the clang of the lock mechanism, and the door swung open. Darcy's eyes brightened, those of the others in the same tier of cells with him which, for the moment had lighted up, grew dull again. "My lawyer?" asked Darcy. "Yes. And there's a lady with him." "A lady?" "Yes. Come on!" Darcy caught sight of Amy before she saw him, for he approached from behind a line of other prisoners exercising in the space before their cells. She was with Kenneth. "Amy!" exclaimed Darcy, as he was allowed to step out into the anteroom, closely followed by a keeper, while a detective from the prosecutor's office stood near. "Amy!" and his eyes flowed. "Jimmie boy!" To the eternal credit of the keeper and the detective be it said that, at this moment, they found something of great interest in the calendar that hung on the opposite wall, while Kenneth talked earnestly with the warden. And the prisoners beyond the barred door were too busy with their exercise to look around. "Jimmie boy!" "Amy! You—you don't—" "Of course I don't! Didn't I tell you so in my letter?" "Yes, but—" "Now, that isn't the way to talk, especially when I have come to bring you good news." "Good news? You mean your father—" "Oh, it isn't about dad! I told you he was as firm a believer in you as I am—that he said he'd 'go the limit,' if you know what that means, to get you free. Jimmie boy, when dad likes a person he likes him!" "I hope his daughter does the same." "Don't you know—Jimmie boy?" The warden, the detective, the keeper and the lawyer—all now seemed interested in that prosaic calendar. Amy had had but little chance to speak to Darcy since, his arrest. In police headquarters he was kept in seclusion except as to his lawyer, and events had followed one another so rapidly that there had been no other opportunity until now, though the girl had sent him a hasty note in which she said she knew he was innocent and that everything possible was being done for him. "And now, Jimmie, for the good news. I have engaged the best detective in this country for you," and she beckoned to the lawyer to come forward. "The best detective?" "Yes. You need one as well as a lawyer. They're going to work together—aren't you, Mr. Kenneth?" "Indeed a detective can help us best at this stage of the game, I think, Mr. Darcy," was the lawyer's answer. "I can look after the court proceedings, when it comes time for them, but what we want most is evidence tending to show that some one else, and not you, committed this crime." "As, most assuredly was the case!" and for the first time in days Darcy's voice had its old ring and vigor in it. "Of course, Jimmie boy," murmured Amy. "Now let me tell you all about it. They say I can't stay very long, so I'll have to talk fast, and you must listen—mostly. Now what do you say to—Colonel Ashley?" and Amy looked triumphantly at her lover. "Colonel Ashley?" "Yes. As the detective who is going to help prove you innocent by discovering the real—ugh! I hate to say it—murderer?" "Why, Colonel Ashley is one of the greatest detectives in the United States—at least, he used to be. He must be pretty old now." "I know he is—but not too old to take hold. Now when he comes—" "But, Amy, my dear! You can't get him! Why, he's not only one of the highest-priced detectives in the country, but he's retired I've read, and I doubt if he'd take a case—" "He's going to take your case, Jimmie boy!" and Amy smiled. "But how—how—" "I think we'll have to give Miss Mason credit for a whole lot in this matter," broke in Kenneth. "She surprised me when she told me. And I want to say that when the colonel gets going we'll have you out of here in short order, Mr. Darcy!" "But I don't understand—" "That's what I came to tell you about, Jimmie boy! Now just keep quiet and listen!" Thereupon Amy went on to relate all that had happened when she sought out the fisherman at the trout brook—how she had been cared for by him and Shag after her faint, and how, after some persuasion, the great detective had agreed to take up the matter of seeking out the real murderer of Mrs. Darcy. "He came here under a different name," Amy continued, "for he did not want to be bothered with work. But Tom—he's the little jockey dad got a place for as train-boy—met him on the express and learned that the colonel was the great detective. Then Tom came and told me when he read of your—of your—" "Oh, say arrest, Amy! I'm getting hardened to it by now." "Well, then, your—arrest. I hate the word! Tom came and told me and said we must get Colonel Brentnall at once. That was the name he used, but, now he has consented to take your case, he's Colonel Ashley again." "And what am I to do, Amy?" "Just what he tells you—nothing more or less. Tell him everything from the beginning to the end. All about your quarrel with Mrs. Darcy—I read in the papers you had one. Was that so?" "Yes, and, I am sorry to say, it was partly about you." "I don't mind, Jimmie boy. I know it couldn't have been very bad." "It wasn't. She—well, she sneered at you for thinking of marrying me—a poor man—and—" "As if money counted, Jimmie boy!" cried the girl fondly. "I know. But it angered me, I admit. However, nothing more came of that. And as for her finding fault with me about my electric lathe, and about the money she owed me—well, that was a sort of periodic disagreement." "Tell the colonel all about it." "I will. And are you sure your father—" "Dad's with me in this—with me and you! He'd have come to see you himself to-day, but I said I wanted to see you first. He'll be along soon. So you see, Jimmie boy, things aren't so bad as they seem, though I hate it that you should be in this horrible place." "It is horrible, Amy. But now that I know you—you haven't given me up—" "Don't dare say such a thing, Jimmie boy!" and the girl's eyes sparkled with a new light. "Well, it won't be so horrible from now on. And is the colonel really going to take my case?" "Really and truly! I told him he had to if he wanted to fish in dad's trout stream," and she laughed—a strange sound in that gloomy place. Then they talked about many things. James Darcy had read much of Colonel Ashley's achievements in detective work, and the very magic of the name was enough to give a prisoner courage. Soon it was time to leave, after Kenneth had conferred briefly with his client. The prisoner went back to his little cell with a happier look on his face than when he had left it. As for Colonel Ashley, after he had revived Amy from her faint at the stream, he had told Shag to take apart the fishing rod. "For, Shag, I guess I won't be needing it for a week or so," said the old detective, and there was a mingling of two emotions in his voice. "Uh, ah!" murmured Shag, as, carefully, he put away the delicate rod and reel. "It's either fishin' or detectin' wif de colonel, dat's whut it suah am! Fishin' or detectin'! De colonel ain't one dat kin carry watermelons on bof shoulders!" Returning from his fishing trip with the one, lone specimen, Colonel Ashley, having escorted Amy Mason to her automobile, went back to the hotel with Shag. "I might have known how it would be, Shag," he remarked, almost mournfully. "I might have known I'd run into something when I came here for rest." "Dat's right, Colonel. Yo' suah might! But who does yo' s'pect did dish yeah killin'?" "It's too early yet to tell, Shag, and you know I don't make any predictions. I want to get a few more facts." This the colonel proceeded to do. First having had himself accredited as working in Darcy's behalf by being introduced by the accused man's lawyer, the detective paid a visit to the jewelry store. The place was in charge of Thomas Kettridge, a half uncle to Mrs. Darcy. The place had been opened for business again after the funeral, and customers came in, carefully avoiding the place where a dark stain could be seen in the floor—a stain made all the more conspicuous because of the light-colored boards about it. The colonel made a careful examination of the premises, and had described to him the exact position of the body, being told all that went on that tragic morning. It was after this, and following some busy hours spent in various parts of the city, that the defective sent to one of his trusted men in New York this telegram: "Spotty Morgan's vacation is over. Have him spend a few days with you until I can invite him to my country place." "I hate to do it, after what he did for me," mused the colonel with a sigh. "But business is business from now on. I'm officially in the case, and I wasn't before." Having sent the somewhat cryptic message, the old detective sat in his room and took from his pocket a little green book. "Well, old friend, I guess I'm not going to have much use for you from now on," he remarked dolefully. He glanced to where his rods and flies were gathering dust. "Nor you, either," he went on. "Now for a last glimpse—" He opened the book and read: "And now I shall tell you that the fishing with a natural fly is excellent and affords much pleasure." "It won't do!" ejaculated the colonel as he closed the book and threw it aside. One matter puzzled the colonel as well as the other detectives. There was no sign of the jewelry store having been entered from the outside, so that if a stranger had come in he must have done so when the doors were unlocked or made a false key, or else he had forced a passage so skilfully as to leave not a sign. Of course this was possible, and it added to the inference of some that a burglar, used to such work, had entered the place, and, being detected at work by Mrs. Darcy, had killed her. However, there was not so much as a cuff button missing, as far as could be learned after the contents of the store had been checked up, though of course an intruder might have been frightened off before he had taken anything. Many of Darcy's friends could not help but admit that appearances were against him. He and his cousin had quarreled, somewhat bitterly, over money, and about his refusal to give up work on his electric lathe. There was also King's testimony about words over Amy, though Darcy contended that this talk was nothing more than his relative had indulged in before regarding the unsuitableness of the match. Darcy admitted resenting his cousin's imputation. All this Colonel Ashley had taken into consideration before he sent the telegram. And, having done that, and having had a talk with Darcy at the jail, as well as a consultation with the lawyer, having visited Harry King and seen Singa Phut, the detective paid another visit to the jewelry shop. "And what can I do for you to-day, Colonel?" asked Mr. Kettridge, who, by this time, had the business running smoothly again. "Have you gotten any further into the mystery?" "Not as far as I would like to get. I'm going to browse about here a bit, if you have no objection." "Not at all. Make yourself at home." "I will. First, I'd like to see that statue—the one of the hunter, with which it is supposed Mrs. Darcy was struck." "Oh, that is at the prosecutor's office—that and Harry King's unfortunate paper knife." "So they are. I had forgotten. Well, I'll look about a bit then. Don't pay any attention to me. I'll go and come as I please." And so he went, seemingly rather idly about the jewelry store, looking and listening. It was not until the third day of his surveillance, during which passage of time he had waited anxiously for a message from New York without getting it, that the colonel felt his patience was about to be rewarded. The detective was a fisherman in more ways than one. Trade had been rather brisk in the shop—possibly because of gruesome curiosity—when, one afternoon, a man entered who seemed to know several in the place. Yet he did not talk with them, beyond a mere passing of the time of day, but went about nervously from showcase to counter and repeated the journey. When Mr. Kettridge asked him at what he desired to look he replied there was nothing in particular—that he had in mind a gift, but, as yet, had decided on nothing. "Look about as you please," was the courteous invitation he received, and the man availed himself of it. Of medium build, yet with the appearance of having lived more in the open than does the average man, his face had, yet, a strange pallor not in keeping with his robust frame. And his manner was certainly nervous. "Now what," mused the colonel to himself, "is he fishing for?" That day there was more than the usual number of people in the store—many of them undoubtedly curiosity seekers, who came into price certain articles ostensibly, but who, really, wanted to stare at the place where the bloodstains had been scrubbed away. And at this spot the robust man stared longer than did some of the others, the colonel thought. Did he hope that some spirit of the poor, murdered woman might still be lingering there, to whisper to him what he sought to learn? "Who is that man?" asked Colonel Ashley of Mr. Kettridge, who had often come to the shop during the holiday seasons to help Mrs. Darcy. "Oh, that's Mr. Grafton." "Mr. Grafton? Who is he?" "Aaron Grafton, one of Colchester's best and wealthiest citizens. He owns the Emporium." "That big department store?" "Yes. He has built it up from a small establishment. I have known him a number of years, and he knew Mrs. Darcy quite well. He often has purchased diamonds here, though he is not married, and I don't know that he is engaged—rather late in life, too, for him to be considering that." "Oh, well, you never can tell," and the colonel smiled. "So that is Aaron Grafton!" he mused. "Well, Mr. Grafton, in spite of the well known reputation you bear, I think you will stand a little watching. I must not neglect the smallest clew in a case like this. Yes, decidedly, I think you will bear watching!" For at that moment the merchant, after another round of the store, seeking for something it seemed he could not find, turned and hurried out, a much-troubled look on his face. Colonel Ashley followed. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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