The Crooked Cross - Kostenloses Hörbuch

Chapter IX.
In Which Bartley Arrives

The girl's question had been asked in a laughing voice and her eyes had danced as she spoke to the chief. But the rather curt reply of the police officer and the tone of seriousness in his voice caused the smile to slowly fade from her face. For a moment she looked at him, and then in a trembling voice asked:

“Why—what is the matter?”

The other girls had crowded around. Their eyes were bright with wonder, curious to know what was the trouble. The chief gave them an uncertain look, then said that there was not much the matter, but he wished to speak to the secretary alone. Reluctantly they started toward the cottages, casting back many wondering glances. As they reached the piazza of the central cottage they broke into excited conversation.

He turned to the secretary, who stood, with a grave face, in front of him. Just what was in his mind regarding the girl would have been rather hard to say. But I knew he was remembering the statement of the housekeeper—that she had said Warren ought to be killed. Yet, as I looked at the beautiful girl before us, with the bathing suit showing every line of her figure, I decided that though she might have made the statement it had meant nothing. Her face was frank and the gaze which she gave us both was fearless.

“Florence,” said the chief slowly, “Mr. Warren was found dead the evening you left.”

Her eyes opened wide in astonishment and she gasped:

“Dead?”

He nodded gravely, then added: “Worse—murdered.”

The girl's face whitened, and then slowly the color flushed back into her cheeks until they were a vivid red. For a moment she looked at us as if not believing what had been said. Then slowly she went to a near-by box and sank down upon it. There was no doubt she was surprised and also horrified at the news she had heard.

As she did not speak, the chief nervously shifted his weight and threw a puzzled glance in my direction. Purposely I turned my eyes away, and in a moment, in an embarrassed voice, he said:

“You see, Florence, it's a bit awkward. You went away from Mr. Warren's very suddenly.”

For the first time the girl showed a bit of temper, as though it had just dawned upon her that the chief would not have taken the long trip from the village just to tell her Mr. Warren was dead. She spoke in a voice a little nervous and at the same time sharp.

“Well, Suppose I did; that's my business, is it not?”

The chief shook his head. “I am afraid not,” was the slow response. “In a sense it's mine—now. You see the remark you made to Mr. Warren's housekeeper made it necessary to find you.”

She looked at him as if not understanding and then half stammered: “What remark?”

“That Mr. Warren ought to be killed,” was the cold reply.

As if realizing the seriousness of the chief's tone, the girl's face went very white. Slowly her fingers opened and closed; her eyes studied the water for a moment as if she was trying to fix in her mind the distant shore. Then she slowly raised her head and in a look which included us both said:

“I did say that. But it was a very silly thing to say and it meant nothing. Mr. Warren was alive when I left him and, of course, I know nothing about his death.”

As the girl hesitated, the chief broke in:

“I am not saying you did know anything about his death. I only want to make you see how you placed yourself in a bad position by going away and by the remark you made. Why did you say it?”

The secretary gave a half laugh, though there was a tone of disgust in it.

“It's all very simple. Mr. Warren was a very hard man to work with. He was rushing his book and I was working from ten to twelve hours a day. He paid pretty well, of course, but once in a while he would get mad and then he would sure bawl me out. The afternoon I left we had a little disagreement.”

“What over?” was my question.

The girl gave me a surprised look. Remembering that he had not given my name, the chief introduced me as a friend of Carter's. Then the secretary replied:

“Two things. Mr. Warren had reached the place where he was dictating a chapter about the social and marriage customs of the natives of China.” She paused, half blushed and went on:

“It was pretty frank, that chapter. Finally, he decided I should copy some pages from a book he had. He got the book from one of the cases—a case he kept always locked. It was a pretty rotten book—so rotten that I kicked a bit about copying the two pages. And then he flared up and said that if I did not care to do his work I could quit. And I got mad, and”—she laughed a bit sheepishly—“I guess it was the warm day got us both; anyway I got mad and left. I went to the house, and when I was packing my grip, the more I thought of it the madder I got. That's why I said the foolish thing I did to the housekeeper.”

A cold flurry of wind came sweeping across the lake, and I saw the girl shiver. It was getting late in the afternoon. As I pulled out my watch to see the time, the chief said the girl had better dress, and that we would take her back to the village. As she seemed a little startled at this remark, he told her she was the only person who could tell us if anything had been taken from Warren's library. This seemed to relieve her a good deal, for there was little doubt in my mind that she thought the chief was going to arrest her. Saying she would be ready in a few moments, she rose to her feet and went slowly to the cottage.

When she was out of hearing the chief turned to me:

“Mr. Pelt, I guess there is no doubt that girl is telling the truth.”

I assured him it was my own idea. I added that as Warren had not been killed until several hours after she had left his grounds it would be absurd to even think she knew anything about the murder. With a little grunt of approval, the chief studied the water for a while and we then turned to go to the car.

We had to wait a few moments and when the secretary rejoined us she was followed by the other girls of the camp. She had changed into a light summer dress and as I saw her coming across the tall grass, I thought again what a beautiful girl she was. The girls crowded around the car as she took her seat behind me, but they said little. I could tell by their serious faces that she had told them of the death of Mr. Warren and that they were not overpleased at the chief taking her away. They all kissed her in turn, after the manner girls have in saying good-by, and as we went around the bend in the road our last sight was of their waving hands.

It was a silent ride to town—no one doing any talking. For my part, it took all my skill to keep the car on the road. It was with an inward sigh of relief that I felt the firm concrete under the wheels when we struck the main highway. Just as we were coming into town the chief turned to tell the girl that he would drop her off at her aunt's. And as we pulled up in front of the white cottage he warned her not to talk to any one and told her to be at his office by seven.

I dropped the chief at the police station. As he climbed from the car, he stood a moment on the sidewalk to say that he wanted me to go with him that evening to Warren's. He was going to take the secretary and have her tell him if anything had been disturbed. So saying I would meet him at the summer house around seven-thirty, I drove away.

As I parked the car in front of Carter's garage Trouble gave one quick leap over the side and went on a run up the steps to the veranda—barking at the top of his lungs. I saw him jump at the figure of a man who half rose from a chair, give one sudden, joyful bark, then run to the grass, only to leap back to the veranda. Wondering what had excited him, I got out of the car and started for the house. And as I went up the veranda steps, who should rise out of a chair and come over to greet me but Bartley.

That I was surprised to see him was putting it mildly. If I thought of him I pictured his sitting in the hot courtroom in New York awaiting his chance to testify. But here he was, very cool in his summer suit, and with a little smile of welcome playing around his fine lips. I rushed to his side and poured out my surprise.

He laughed, saying that he had managed to get away this morning. And then, as we both seated ourselves my eyes went wandering around for Carter. Seeing my glance, Bartley told me that Carter had been called down to the city two hours before by an urgent telegram from his chief. The two men, much to their mutual surprise, had met at the station and Carter had begged that Bartley stay at his house until he returned. He expected to be back in two days.

Just as he finished saying this, Ranville came out of the house. He and Bartley had met several times before and I knew they both had a great admiration for the other's ability. They joked a few minutes, and as the housekeeper came to the door to announce dinner, I hurried to my room for a quick wash.

Dinner turned out to be a lively meal. Under Bartley's conversation Ranville warmed up far more than I had seen before and the two men laughed and joked at many of the experiences about which they spoke. There was a decided contrast between them. Bartley's hair, which had also started to turn white, gave his fine face a very intellectual appearance. Ranville was far the more nervous of the two, and his rather thin face did not break into a smile as often as Bartley's.

For a time they talked of various places in Europe where they had spent vacations. Then they mentioned mutual acquaintances among the police officials of the Continent; and this naturally led to the murder of Warren.

Bartley informed us he had read all the papers had said about the crime, adding that as he did not know anything else, he had not formed an opinion. He remarked that though all he had talked with at the club were shocked at the sudden death of the scientist, their greatest concern was over what would be done regarding his book. And then with a laugh he said:

“You may be surprised, Ranville, to know there are a good many people in this country who think that Warren's taking off was an act of God.”

The Englishman gave him a look to see if he was serious, then asked what he meant. Bartley half laughed as he replied:

“Really, it's not laughable, Ranville, for it is a state of mind which ought to have passed out in the Dark Ages. But there are certain rabid, fanatical groups which say in their weekly publications that God punished Warren because of his stand on evolution.”

The eyes of the Scotland Yard Inspector gazed in a blank manner across the table. I could see he did not understand what Bartley was driving at. In a moment he asked:

“What do you mean?”

Bartley's voice became serious. “You, perhaps, do not understand just how extensive is the battle being waged in this country against science. Little theological leaders, without any knowledge of life or modern thought, have been stirring up their followers in a movement which is called ‘Fundamentalism.’ It is an appeal to all the bigotry which lies in the heart of uneducated people. Of course it is also a fear—a fear of knowledge. But in this campaign there have been many bitter things said. They are even trying to have science outlawed by law. One religious weekly said to-day, in a veiled editorial, that the taking off of Warren at the time he was going to give his new proofs of evolution to the world was an act of God.”

Ranville shrugged his shoulders as though the whole thing was beyond his comprehension and, in fact, said as much. Bartley agreed with him. He added, such a thing was not understandable to any educated person but admitted rather gravely that the educated people were more or less outnumbered in our country.

As there came a pause in the conversation I remembered that Carter had wired Washington regarding the Chinaman who had visited us. I turned to Ranville to ask if there had been a reply. He shook his head, replying that nothing had arrived. As Bartley did not understand what we were talking about, I informed him, and he asked us what had been the substance of the oriental's conversation. We told him how he claimed to have found Warren dead with the dagger still in the wound. He said nothing until we had finished, then asked:

“What did he say was his object in calling on Warren?”

“Some silly story about a box with the ashes of Buddha in it,” drawled Ranville. “A yarn about Buddha's body being burned when he died, and the ashes being buried in seven places. Said Warren walked away with one of the boxes of ashes.”

I saw a smile creep over Bartley's face as he asked:

“Just what was his story.”

The Englishman dropped two lumps of sugar into his coffee and, taking his spoon, stirred it slowly; then he replied:

“He said that when Buddha was dead they burned his body and then divided the ashes into seven piles. Buried them in seven different places. That's about what he told us; seemed a silly yarn to me.”

“Well, Ranville,” replied Bartley, “it is all true. Tradition said that the ashes of the great religious teacher were placed in seven boxes and that seven shrines were erected. Up until a few years ago the scholars rather doubted the entire story; but they dug into one of the reputed shrines in India a while ago and found a box of gold and rare wood. It contained ashes and a fragment of bone. They are pretty sure it contained Buddha's ashes.”

“That's what he said,” commented Ranville. “And then he went on to tell us Warren had picked up one of those boxes in China. He wanted him to give it back. Chinese were all heated up over it, or something of that sort.”

“He said that Warren found one of them in China?” was Bartley's question, and because of the surprise in his tone we both looked at him.

“That's what he said,” retorted Ranville; “why?”

There was a slight frown on Bartley's face and, pushing aside his coffee cup, he lighted a long thin cigar. Then he turned to the Englishman.

“Why,” he said, “simply this, Ranville. There were seven reputed shrines of Buddha. Not all of them are known. But the seven shrines in which were buried a portion of his ashes were in India. There was not one in China. And—”

Ranville was always unruffled and I had failed to see him excited. Even the discovery of Warren's body had not caused any apparent show of emotion. But at Bartley's remark he gave a sudden start and I saw his lips tighten. He turned quickly to say:

“Then when he said that he lied.”

Bartley was thoughtful a moment, replying slowly:

“If he told you Warren returned from China with a box containing part of the ashes of Buddha he must have lied. At the present time the scholars almost all agree that the discovery made by digging into the shrine in India I told you of is true. That is, they accept the tradition that the ashes of Buddha were divided into seven parts and buried in seven places. They go further and say that the box they found no doubt contains the ashes of the great teacher—part of them. But so far as I know there has never been any other box of ashes discovered; and it is absurd to say that Warren found them in China, for the ashes were all buried in India. When he said that, he must have lied, or else—”

“He was too smooth an article to be mistaken,” was my comment, to which Ranville nodded his assent.

“No doubt,” was Bartley's retort. “But there is one thing sure; he did not tell you the real reason for his visit to Warren's library.”

“I doubt if he told the truth regarding finding the body,” was my contribution.

“You know,” broke in Ranville, “we people at Scotland Yard are often accused of being slow. But there is one thing sure. We would have locked that Chinaman up and kept him for a while. His story sounded good. But at the same time he was the last person who went to the library around the time of the murder. And thinking it over now, there is another thing I want to know. He said the door was open and he walked in. If that's true, who closed it afterward? And what's more, who took the knife from the body? That was a silly thing to do after the murderer went away.”

Bartley gave him a long look and slowly repeated the word, silly, then became silent. Ranville and I entered into an argument as to whether the man had gone to the chief of police, as we suggested, and told him the story. Ranville had just said he would wager the chief had not seen him when the word “chief” made me give a quick look at my watch and remember that I was to meet him at Warren's library at seven-thirty. One glance told me it was now fifteen minutes past the hour. I arose with a sudden exclamation.

As I pushed back my chair, both men looked at me in surprise. In a few words I told where I was going, and Bartley at once suggested that he would go with us, to which the Englishman added his assent. We found our hats, went out on the lawn and, finding the Airedale running back and forth, locked him in the garage. The next moment we were in the car and a second later drove out of the yard.