The Black Cat, Vol. I, No. 6, March 1896

She waited a moment, and then replied firmly:

“No; there’s no one else.”

A moment later Cutting joined them in response to Richards’ summons. As he stood before the fire, pulling on his gloves, he looked at each good-humoredly, and said: “I’m awfully glad that you have become better acquainted; but I hope you haven’t been engaged in the pleasing occupation of damning a mutual friend. I see you’ve made friends with General, also, Miss Howland,” he concluded. For the dog stood beside the girl, watching and waiting for a caress.

“Yes,” she replied; “General and I are the best of friends,” and she leaned over and softly patted the handsome head. “And General’s master and I are going to be, too, are we not, Mr. Richards?”

“Yes, we are going to be—that is, I hope so,” Richards said slowly.

The next moment the door closed, and she was gone. And Richards picked up a pipe, and lit it, and, turning to the dog, thoughtfully remarked:

“And so endeth the first lesson.”

* * * * *

Of course it’s obvious. Love does not need to be diagramed. And, of course, a year later, when the big brownstone had its awning, and its carpeted steps, and its music, and its flowers, all was quite as it should be. And of course their friends heard the Mendelssohn march, and threw rice, and wished them joy. And Bob Cutting was best man? Of course not. And did the Mother Grundies shrug their white shoulders, and say: “What a beautiful bride! but I wonder how she could have done it; they say she was engaged to another?” Of course they did. And that is love, and about the way it generally turns out. Of course.

[Illustration]

The Marchburn Mystery.

BY A. MAURICE LOW.

As Walter Brixton, chief of United States secret service agents in New York City, stepped off the Washington Limited in the Jersey City depot, the newsboys were calling, “Extra, extra, all about the murder; extra!” Brixton bought a paper. As he settled himself in the “L” car he read, under flaming head-lines, the following account, written in the short, paragraphic style which usually denotes that “copy” has been prepared in a newspaper office in a rush:

“Shortly after six o’clock this evening, Bridget Martin, one of the cleaners employed in the Empire Building, discovered the dead body of Lawrence Marchburn in his private office.

“The screams of the frightened woman brought to her assistance the janitor and some of the tenants, although nearly all of them had left the building for the day.

“A hasty examination showed that Mr. Marchburn had been shot.

“When found he was sitting at his desk, his head dropped forward and resting on his left arm, his hand clutching the receiver of the telephone with the death grip. This would seem to indicate that Mr. Marchburn had been shot in the very act of using the telephone, which was affixed to his desk. The body was still warm, but life was quite extinct.

“The murder must have been committed within an hour of the time of discovery.

“A small wound just above the heart indicated that death had probably been instantaneous.

“The police were immediately notified, and an officer appeared upon the scene. He questioned the janitor and his assistants, but learned nothing additional to the above facts. A search was made for the pistol, but it could not be found, which proves conclusively that it is a case of murder and not suicide.

“None of the persons had heard the sound of a pistol shot, but the woman, Martin, said she heard shortly after five o’clock what sounded like the violent slamming of a door. At that time she was on the seventh floor, and paid no attention to the noise. Mr. Marchburn’s office was on the eleventh floor.

“At this time the police have not the slightest clue on which to proceed. At the central telephone station no one remembers having been asked to connect 1611 Courtland, which was Marchburn’s number. As no record is kept of the thousands of daily calls, the telephone office can throw no light on the murder. There is no known motive for the crime, as Mr. Marchburn was not supposed to have an enemy, and was highly respected in business and social circles. The inquest to-morrow is expected to throw some light upon the awful crime.

“Mr. Marchburn was president of the International Bank Note and Engraving Company, whose offices are on the eleventh story of the Empire Building, their factory being in New Jersey.

“He came to New York about five years ago from the West, and started the Bank Note Company, which has been remarkably successful. He was a member of the Central League, the Cosmopolitan, and the Hudson Bay Clubs.

“Deceased was a director in the Seventeenth National Bank and other financial institutions, and was a member of the Jackson Avenue Presbyterian Church. He leaves a daughter, his only child, and, his wife having died several years ago, the sole heir to his vast wealth, which is estimated at millions.”

Like all detectives, Brixton was interested in any story of crime; but just now a case of his own engrossed the larger part of his attention. For some months past the country had been flooded with counterfeit notes, and, although the entire secret service force and the police of all the leading cities had been hunting the counterfeiters, they had made little progress. The bills were so nearly perfect, they so closely copied the genuine article, both as to the work of the engraver and the paper upon which they were printed, that only an expert was able to discriminate between them. People began to be thoroughly alarmed. Many got rid of their paper money as quickly as possible, and exchanged it for gold and silver so as to avoid risk. The newspapers denounced the Secretary of the Treasury for not being able to capture the criminals.

The newspapers next morning contained long accounts of the murder of Mr. Marchburn; but they were able to add little to the reports printed in the extras of the evening before. The murder of a wealthy business man in practically broad daylight, in a building on one of the most frequented streets of the city, caused a tremendous sensation, and in business circles the tragedy was more eagerly discussed than the course of the market. The coroner’s inquest brought out these facts:

Mr. Marchburn had spent the day at the factory, and returned to his office about five o’clock. The clerks had not expected him back that evening, and some of them had left. To his chief clerk he said he had stopped in on his way up town to fetch some papers which he wanted to look over at his house, and that while in the office he would write some personal letters. No one need wait for him, as he would latch the outer door after him. Then Mr. Marchburn threw open his desk, the chief clerk wished him good-evening, and in a few minutes, except for the president, the offices appeared to be vacant.

It was explained to the jury that the company occupied five rooms, all of which opened into the main corridor. Mr. Marchburn’s private room was at the extreme end of the suite. The company employed seven clerks, two of them girls. One of the girls and Mr. Marchburn’s private secretary had left before the return of that gentleman, and the other clerks testified that no stranger was in any of the rooms when they left. The last persons to leave were John Rogers, the chief clerk, and the cashier, William Harding. Rogers swore that while he was waiting for Harding to close the safe Mr. Marchburn came into the general office from his room, and asked if a certain account had been paid. Both men were positive that nobody could have been secreted in the rooms at that time, and at the close of the short conversation Mr. Marchburn again said “Good-night,” and returned to his room. Rogers put down the spring latch and tried the door from the outside. It was safely locked. They walked across the hall to the elevator, and while waiting for the car met the janitor, who inquired if the offices were empty. Rogers told him that Mr. Marchburn was in his room and would be busy for a short time.

The janitor told a straight enough story. After leaving Rogers and Harding he had worked on the other side of the building, and then went to the first floor. He was on the third story at the time when Bridget Martin’s screams alarmed him, and he hastily ran to the elevator and told the conductor to take him upstairs. At that time he did not know whence the outcry proceeded, but as the elevator went rushing up some one shouted that Mr. Marchburn had been hurt. When he reached the eleventh story and entered the company’s rooms he found the Martin woman and three or four other persons, tenants of the building. His evidence as to the finding of the body was merely corroborative of that of the other witnesses.

There are four elevators in the Empire Building. The conductor of No. 4 elevator, Richard Wright, testified as follows: “I have been employed only two days at the Empire Building. It is the rule to close down two of the elevators at half past five; at six o’clock the third is closed, and the other half an hour later. I am ‘late man’ this week. Just as six o’clock was striking and elevator No. 3 was making its last downward trip, the annunciator in my car dropped for the tenth story. I ran my car up and took in a young man. I do not remember to have seen him before. He stepped into the car, and as I pulled the rope to go down I noticed that he had a handkerchief wrapped round his right hand and he was holding it with his left, as though it hurt him. I said to him: ‘Have you hurt your hand?’ He replied: ‘Yes, I squeezed it in the door.’

“I looked at his hand again and noticed that there was blood upon the handkerchief, and I said: ‘It’s bleeding.’ The young fellow looked dreadfully scared, and I thought he was going to drop, but he said something I couldn’t hear, and as soon as the car stopped he walked away quickly.”

This testimony produced a profound sensation, and every eye was turned upon Wright.

“Why did you not mention this circumstance to the police last night?” asked the coroner.

Wright shifted about uneasily and said: “When I heard the screams upstairs and was told that Mr. Marchburn had been murdered I was scared half out of my life and clean forgot all about it until I got home. It was then too late to tell any one, and I thought I would wait until I came here.”

“Can you describe this man?” asked a juror.

“He was a young fellow; I should think about twenty-four. I didn’t notice his face particularly, except when I told him his hand was bloody, and then I saw how white he looked. I never should have thought much of it if it hadn’t been for the murder.”

“How was he dressed?”

“He had on a brown overcoat; but I don’t remember anything else.”

That was all the light Wright could throw upon the affair. Coroner and jurymen plied him with questions; but he could tell them nothing. He did not know the color of the man’s eyes, whether he wore a beard, what kind of hat he wore; in fact, he could furnish nothing which would serve as an identification. He thought he might know the man if he were to see him again; but he was not absolutely sure as to that. There was no reason to think that Wright was not telling the truth, and it was almost impossible that he could have committed the murder, but the jury, in rendering their verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown, censured Wright for having remained silent for more than twelve hours, and the coroner privately suggested to the police that they keep an eye upon Wright.

As soon as the verdict had been rendered, Detective Sergeants Johnson and Richardson, who had been detailed by Superintendent of Police Walton to attend the inquest, reported to him for further instructions. They briefly repeated the testimony and especially the startling evidence of Wright. When they had finished the chief said:

“What do you make of it?”

“The man in the brown overcoat is the murderer,” said Johnson.

“The man in the brown overcoat had nothing to do with it; but Wright knows a great deal more than he has told,” was Richardson’s analysis.

Walton looked out of the window a couple of minutes without speaking. “The person who committed the murder,” he said, as if he were talking to himself more than to his listeners, and without looking at either, “was expected to call at the office that evening by Marchburn, who came back about the time the clerks were preparing to leave, on purpose to keep his appointment. All the doors were locked. Either the visitor must have had a duplicate key, or else Marchburn left one of the doors open, or they had a private signal. Any one of a dozen persons might have been able to open the door with a duplicate key; but I don’t see anything to point in that direction. Marchburn would hardly be likely to leave the door open for his expected visitor, so it is evident the doors were kept locked, and when the prearranged signal was given Marchburn opened the door to his murderer. Who was the murderer and what was the motive? It was not money, because no valuables were taken, and the clerks say that neither papers nor anything else were disturbed. The murder was either the result of a sudden burst of passion, or else it was premeditated, and something forced the murderer to do then what had long been contemplated. There was a very strong motive. Find the motive and you find the—”

“The murderer,” interrupted Richardson.

“The murderess,” continued the chief as calmly as if he had not heard the interruption.

“A woman?” cried his listeners simultaneously.

“Certainly, a woman; it is a woman’s crime. From the time when Rogers and Harding left until the discovery of the body was a scant hour. To avoid all possible risks of interruption, Marchburn did not arrange the interview until after five, so that between that hour and six he was shot. At six he was dead, and the doctor testified he must have been dead between fifteen and thirty minutes when he was called in. So that fixes the time of the shooting between half past five and six. Marchburn expected a woman to call upon him that night, because he would not have made such careful preparations for secrecy if his visitor had been a man. He did not want his clerks to see his caller. The time between her calling and the shooting was too short for them to have quarreled; but it was long enough for her to have made her demand and to have been refused by Marchburn. Then she shot him.”

“But the young man in the brown overcoat?” asked Johnson.

“If the coroner had the slightest sense,” sneered the chief, “he would have asked Wright if the ‘young man’ looked as if ‘he’ were disguised, and Wright’s answer would have shown whether he is merely a thick-skulled idiot or whether he has a hand in this affair. But I’m glad the question was not asked, as the woman will think her disguise has shielded her. But Wright has given himself away by his answers. He says ‘the young man’ had a handkerchief wrapped around his right hand, and was holding it with his left, as if it hurt him. Isn’t that a woman’s attitude? A man would have shoved his hand in his pocket and held it there—at any rate, until he was in the street, where no one would have noticed it or paid any attention to him. But the woman doesn’t know how to use her pockets; her hand hurts her, and she holds it out in full view, instead of hiding it, as a man would have done. I’ll stake my reputation that the young man in the brown overcoat is a woman, and that the woman is the murderer of Mr. Marchburn.”

The superintendent rapidly outlined his plans. “I want you,” he said to Richardson, “to look up Marchburn’s past record in the West. Look for the woman there, or for the chapter in his life in which the woman figures. It’s there, although it may be difficult to find. Johnson, you look up his record from the time he came to New York to the day of his death. See if there is any woman entanglement here. Keep your eye upon Wright. I can’t quite size that man up. Look for the brown overcoat. Now, Richardson, you’d better start right in, and wire me just as soon as you strike anything.”

In a few moments Johnson went back. “There is one thing I don’t understand,” he said. “Why did the woman get in the elevator at the tenth instead of the eleventh story?”

“Easy enough to explain, and another indication that we are dealing with a woman and not a man. When she left the office her natural impulse was to walk down the stairs, to avoid meeting any one, instead of courting observation, as a man would have done under the circumstances. She walked down one flight; she heard the cleaners moving about and dreaded meeting them, and rang for the elevator as being less dangerous. Remember we are dealing with a woman of no ordinary caliber,—one who is not a seasoned criminal, and who thinks quickly.”

From Johnson’s report next morning the superintendent learned that Marchburn had moved to New York from the West five years before his murder; that his only child, Lucille, was twenty years old; that father and daughter were very much attached to one another. Marchburn’s tastes were all domestic; he seldom stayed out late at night, unless in company with his daughter; he was a regular church attendant, and contributed liberally to its support and to charities. His business was extremely profitable, his fortune being considered very large.

Walton read the report through and felt annoyed. It was not what he wanted. He felt that he was right in charging a woman with the crime; but how was he to find a woman who left no traces behind her? Besides, the papers were growing impatient, clamoring for an arrest, and indulging in satirical flings at the impotence of the police. Suddenly an idea occurred to him. “I ought to have thought of that before,” he said to himself. “Rogers or Harding might know,” and the superintendent, once more the cold, impassive man of affairs, walked quietly out of his office.

Superintendent Walton went briskly down town, thinking deeply as he walked, and yet noticing everything that went on around him. As he turned the corner of Silver Lane his eye fell upon a portly, well-groomed man who was walking in front of him. Walton was noted for never forgetting a man or woman he had once known, and there was something about this man which seemed familiar. Quickening his pace a little, the detective pushed ahead until he came opposite a money-changer’s window, and appeared to be intently gazing at the piles of gold and silver; but out of the corner of one of his eyes he was carefully watching for the man whom he hoped would soon pass. The superintendent looked up and saw a well-preserved man of about sixty, with florid complexion and carefully trimmed whiskers. He looked like any one of hundreds of prosperous business men. Still trying to fit the face to a name, Walton followed the man into Wall Street, and as he passed the sub-treasury he saw Brixton coming down the steps. The sight of the government agent was like a flash in the dark, and the object he was groping for was instantly made plain. The superintendent determined to take desperate chances. “By gad,” he muttered, “I’ll risk it. If he’s the man his voice will give him away.” Quickening his walk, he stepped up to the man, and, tapping him on the shoulder, said very quietly:

“I want you, John Marsh.”

With perfect composure he began, “Excuse me, sir, I do not know you—” but in the first three words his deep voice broke into a theatrical falsetto.

Walton smiled triumphantly. “Perhaps not; but I know you, Marsh,” he said, with his hand still on the man’s arm.

“This is the second time you have called me by that name. My name is not Marsh. Pardon me if I say good-morning,” said the other in perfectly modulated tones, and made a movement as if to continue on his way.

But Walton was not to be shaken off so lightly. “Wait a minute,” he said, and his voice was as pleasant and his manner as polite as that of the man whom he was addressing. “Perhaps when I tell you that I am Superintendent of Police Walton, who was chief of the detective bureau when we last met, you may remember me.”