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

“My dear sir, this is incomprehensible. I never had the pleasure of meeting you before, and, as I have to attend a very important meeting of the directors of my bank I must beg to be excused. If you really are the chief of police, I think, instead of wasting your time with reputable business men, you could better afford to devote a little of your leisure to finding the murderer of my dear old friend, Lawrence Marchburn.”

“You were acquainted with Mr. Marchburn?”

“Sir, I decline to submit to this impertinence any longer. If you attempt to stop me further I shall call an officer.”

“I think not,” said Walton, with a smile. “You are going with me to headquarters, or I will accompany you to your bank; which do you prefer?”

“In two minutes I could show you what a fool you are making of yourself; but I prefer to teach you a lesson. I submit to this indignity in the interest of good government.”

“All right, Marsh; I see you are the same old Chesterfield,—just as smooth as ever. You’ve no objection if we ride, I suppose?” and Walton hailed a passing cab. As they jogged up town both men remained silent. Turning a corner, the cab gave a sudden lurch, the superintendent’s hand in some mysterious manner caught in his prisoner’s whiskers, and they came away from his face. The two men looked one another squarely in the eye. Marsh was the first to speak. “You’re a nervy one, superintendent,” he said. “What do you want me for? I’m living straight.”

“I’m glad to hear it, but I want to have a quiet little talk with you; besides, I heard you were dead.”

Marsh smiled. The loss of his whiskers showed him to be a man of about forty, with a firm jaw, a keen blue eye, and a high forehead. “I wish to God I was dead,” he said. “When a man tries to live straight he gets snagged and is disgraced.”

The cab drew up at the big building on Mulberry Street, and the superintendent, pushing his prisoner before him, led the way to his private room. “Now, Marsh, you say you have been living straight. Prove it and I’ll release you.”

The man eyed his captor sullenly. “Not till I’ve seen a lawyer,” he said.

Walton touched an electric button. “Lock this man up,” he said to the officer who appeared. As Marsh was led away the chief pushed another button. “Bring me,” he said to the messenger, “Convictions, letter M, ’84.”

Hastily turning the pages, Walton read: “Marsh, John, alias Gentleman John, generally known as Chesterfield, because of his manners and politeness, born at Sodaville, Mich. All round crook; specialty, counterfeiting United States notes. One of the most dangerous men in his line. Convicted of counterfeiting and sentenced to Albany for five years in 1870; sent to Jackson, Mich., for three years for forgery in 1878; last conviction, Joliet, counterfeiting, 1884, five years. See page 756.” Turning to the page indicated, Walton read: “Escaped from Joliet and committed suicide.”

“So he didn’t commit suicide,” mused the chief. “Well, I always had my doubts about it. I have an idea he had a hand in this counterfeiting business, and if that’s so it’s a pretty good morning’s work—almost as good as finding the Marchburn woman. I had better let Brixton know about this; it may give him a pointer.”

A clerk brought in a telegram and handed it to the superintendent. Walton read:

“SODAVILLE, MICH., Jan. 24.—Can you mail me at once portrait of Chesterfield Marsh, escaped Joliet, and committed suicide about 1884?

“RICHARDSON.”

“By Jove,” said the superintendent, “that’s curious. I wonder what he’s struck now. Well, I guess I’ll hang onto Chesterfield for a few days, anyway.” Then he telephoned to Brixton, who was now working night and day on the counterfeit money case, which divided public attention with the Marchburn mystery. To the police these cases had proved two of the most remarkable criminal problems they had ever been called upon to solve. Congress had added to the excitement by adopting the recommendation of the Secretary of the Treasury and offering a reward of fifty thousand dollars for the arrest and conviction of the counterfeiters.

Brixton came in dejectedly in answer to the summons. To Walton, who was an old friend, he admitted that he was beaten.

“Brace up, old man,” said Walton; “I’ve got something good for you,” and he at once told him of the arrest of Marsh and Richardson’s telegram.

A gleam of excitement blazed from the secret service man’s eyes. He jumped from his chair and paced the room a couple of times before he could control himself; then, leaning over his friend’s desk, he talked rapidly. “By jove, Walton, you’ve got our man. There is only one man in the country who could have done the job, and that’s Marsh. I have thought about him a dozen times since I’ve been at work on the case, but always supposed him to be dead. What a confounded idiot I am not to have investigated that suicide story; yet I never had reason to doubt it.”

Both men felt certain that they were at last hot on the right trail, and that Marsh was still engaged in his old business of counterfeiting. While discussing the next move to be made Brixton suddenly said: “What does Richardson’s telegram mean?”

The words produced a peculiar effect upon Walton, which was reflected in Brixton’s face. Both men scrutinized each other for a brief space of time without speaking. It was as if they were grappling with the same thought, and yet both were afraid to frame in words what was passing through their minds. It was Walton who at last broke the silence and in a nervous sort of way said:—

“That is absurd.”

“What is?”

“What you are thinking about.”

It was curious that neither man had openly expressed his thoughts, and yet each knew what was in the other’s mind just as well as if the words had been uttered.

“I don’t know about that. Of course it looks ridiculous to commence with, but not any more so than that West Virginia case.”

“I don’t remember that,” said Walton.

“It was one of my most interesting jobs. For months we had been trying to break up a gang of counterfeiters working in West Virginia, and had failed, just as in the present instance. The thing looked pretty bad, and the merchants of the State were so worked up about the ‘queer’ that a bill was introduced in the legislature authorizing the governor to employ private detectives, as the government secret service men had shown their incompetence. Before the bill was acted upon we arrested some of the gang, and on the day when the bill came up for action we obtained conclusive evidence that the member of the legislature who introduced the bill was the brains of the gang. I went to the capitol and listened to this man’s speech in support of his measure, and after the bill had passed I arrested him and found in his pockets some of the money made by his gang. I sent him over the road.”

“You think, then,” said Walton, “that Marchburn had some connection with the counterfeiting gang.”

“I do.”

“Did Marsh murder Marchburn?”

“I don’t know about that. I rather think not, because Chesterfield, from what we know about him, is a coward and not the man to kill; but he probably knows who did. There’s a connection between the murder and the counterfeiting, and when we pull the right string both knots will come untied.”

Walton told his associate of his theory as to the murderer being a woman.

Brixton doubted it. “But it’s of no consequence,” he said. “Whoever fired the shot was a member of the gang; Marchburn knew him and expected him to call that evening. When we land our man we shall have the murderer and the counterfeiter as well.”

How was Marsh to be made to confess? Numerous plans were discussed and rejected. Finally Brixton made this suggestion: “Make Chesterfield understand that he is suspected of the murder and that you have the dots on him. You’ll have to sweat him and put him through the third degree. Don’t say a word about the counterfeiting. When he’s charged with the murder, and things begin to look black, he will squeal to save his neck. He’ll give his pals away dead sure and tell all he knows about the counterfeiting. I believe the scheme will work.”

Walton agreed with him and proceeded without delay in putting his prisoner through the sweating process. Early in the morning he had read the papers in his cell, and a detective who secretly watched him noticed that he devoured every line printed about the Marchburn murder. Later, the superintendent had him brought to his office and there subjected him to a rigorous cross-examination, and no man knew better than he how to worm the truth out of a criminal. But in Marsh he found more than a match. He either dodged every question or else declined to answer, and neither threats nor promises elicited anything of importance. For more than an hour the man submitted to being worried by his inquisitor, when at last he said:

“Chief, what are you trying to make against me?”

Walton had not taxed him with the murder, as he hoped his prisoner would make some incautious admission which would tell him what he wanted to find out. But Marsh’s question seemed to have made the time ripe for the great stroke. Looking him steadily in the eye, the chief said: “For the murder of Lawrence Marchburn.”

The prisoner gave a short, nervous laugh. “You’re clean off,” he said. “I didn’t murder him and I had nothing to do with it; but I know the man who did.”

Walton had counted upon his declaration producing a confession, or at least some signs of weakness, but this answer astounded him.

The man never flinched. “It’s God’s truth. I can tell you who committed the murder,” he repeated.

“Very well; who did it?”

But Marsh was too old a bird to be caught with chaff. “What do I get if I tell?” he asked.

“I think they would like to have you back in Joliet,” the chief answered, “and that means five years to commence with. If you give me the name of the man, and it is proven that you had nothing to do with the murder, I will see that you are not troubled.”

Marsh appeared to be thinking deeply. “Shall I have to appear as a witness?” he asked.

“Not unless it is necessary; I won’t put you on the stand if I can make the case without you.”

“Will you release me as soon as you are satisfied you have the right man?”

“Yes.”

“Then arrest Frank Richald, who was Mr. Marchburn’s stenographer. He’s your man.”

“How do you know?”

“I won’t tell; but see if I am not right.”

Walton ordered Marsh back to his cell, somewhat puzzled by the result of the interview. He did not believe all that Marsh had told him; but the mention of Richald’s name indicated that he was getting down to the man’s confederates. There was only one thing to do. The superintendent ordered Johnson to arrest Richald. He took his arrest quietly. Brought before Walton, he said, without waiting to be questioned: “I am innocent; but circumstances are against me.”

With a quick, sudden movement, Walton seized hold of the corner of the skirt of Richald’s brown overcoat and intently examined a dark spot on the front. “Marchburn’s blood,” he said tersely.

“I know it,” was all the prisoner said.

“Why did you murder him?” asked Walton.

“I did not murder him,” he said firmly. “When I reached the office on the night of the murder Mr. Marchburn was lying dead on his desk. I was stunned and horrified. I know now I should have given the alarm; but there were so many strange things in connection with my being there at that hour that I foolishly imagined my safety lay in flight. Some of Mr. Marchburn’s blood was on my hand, and I bound my handkerchief around it to escape observation. To avoid meeting any one I started to walk down the stairs; then I was afraid the janitor might see me and think it strange I was walking, so I called the elevator on the floor below our office and rode down.”

“What brought you back to the office that evening?” Walton asked.

“That I cannot tell you.”

Walton ordered the young man to a cell.

Next day the papers told of the arrest. They also added something about the man who stood charged with the crime. Richald was the son of a once former wealthy New York merchant, whom every one respected. At his death it was found that his estate was badly involved, and all that was left to his widow and his two children was a small estate. On the interest of this Mrs. Richald lived, her son contributing generously of his wages to her support. Two years before the murder Frank had secured a position with the Bank Note Company as Mr. Marchburn’s stenographer.

Walton now bent all his energies to securing a fuller confession from his prisoner, to ascertaining what had become of the pistol, and the motive for the crime. His best men were set to work raking over nearly every hour of Richald’s past life. Meanwhile, at the earnest request of Brixton, Walton had decided to hold onto Marsh. Walton was pretty well convinced that, while Marsh did not commit the murder, he had some connection with it, and was not going to let that elusive individual get out of his clutches so long as there was a possibility of proving it. Brixton, on his side, was certain that Marsh was in some way implicated in the counterfeiting, and proposed to keep his eye upon him until he could charge him with the crime or bring it home to some one else. The capture of Marsh seemed like a lucky find.

On the morning of the second day after Richald’s appearance in court a carriage drew up in front of the police headquarters, from which a stately looking elderly gentleman and a tall young woman alighted. The gentleman asked to see the superintendent. Walton did not need to look at the card to know his caller, Phineas Yarrow, one of the noted lawyers of the city.

The woman was dressed all in black, and was so slight that she seemed unusually tall when standing alone. She remained closely veiled.

“This young lady is a friend of Mr. Richald’s,” said the lawyer. “She is very anxious to speak with the prisoner. I am willing to vouch for all she says or does.”

Walton shot a keen glance at the girl. “This is rather unusual,” he said; “but I will accede to your request, provided, of course, the interview takes place in my presence.”

Shortly afterward Richald entered the room, and as he caught sight of the girl he trembled and appeared dazed. For a moment she hesitated, then, with a cry which touched the hearts of the older men, she rapidly crossed the room, threw her arms about the young man’s neck, and kissed him passionately.

Whether they were sweetheart and lover, husband and wife, or brother and sister, Walton had no means for knowing; but that the girl played an important part in the case he felt certain. Hurriedly writing a line, he handed it to an officer, and from that time Frank Richald’s visitor was under the shadow of the law.

For several minutes the prisoner and his visitor conversed in anxious whispers; then, going to the lawyer, the young woman said: “After you have shown me to the carriage Mr. Richald has something important to say to you. He will tell you everything.”

“Now tell me all,” said the lawyer, seating himself by the side of Richald. In eager whispers he told his story. When he had finished the old lawyer paced up and down the room, showing that he was laboring under intense excitement. Stopping suddenly, he said: “You must repeat this to the superintendent, here and now.”

Without hesitating, Richald in a firm voice commenced his recital—Yarrow an excited listener, and the superintendent coolly indifferent; but Richald had spoken for only a few moments when Walton’s studied indifference gave way and he was soon closely following every word. When the young man had finished the superintendent leaned across his desk, and, clasping his hand, said, “I believe you.”

“But there is no time to be lost,” he continued. Pushing several of the electric buttons on his desk, he gave his orders to the officers who appeared. Then, turning, he said, “Mr. Yarrow, will you come back at six o’clock this evening? And, Mr. Richald, I shall still have to subject you to my hospitality.”

That evening the lawyer once more entered the superintendent’s room. He found Walton and Richald busily engaged in conversation, and with them was Brixton. “Now we will get to business,” said the superintendent, seating himself at his desk.

Into this company Marsh was called. “In the first place,” said the superintendent, “it may be well to explain that Lawrence Marchburn and the prisoner were brothers.” Turning to Marsh, he said, “Now tell us your story.”

“You know all about me, superintendent,” the man commenced, and his eyes were fixed upon Walton, as if he alone were present, “and that I have always been a counterfeiter and a crook. I went crooked very young. My father was a man of considerable means, and my brother Lawrence, who was always of a jealous and grasping disposition, worked upon him so that he refused to have anything to do with me. When he died he left all his money to Lawrence and cut me off without a penny. When I escaped from Joliet I determined to make a last appeal to my brother for help. I reached his house late one night and he received me in his library. At first he told me never to enter his house again, but during our conversation he changed his mind, and after he had given me food he said:

“‘Jack, they tell me you are one of the cleverest counterfeiters in the country.’

“I answered that I believed I had that unenviable reputation.

“‘Then here’s a scheme. I’m in a pretty tight hole. I have lost a good deal of money lately in speculation, and I have used some belonging to an estate. I am going to start a factory to make counterfeits. I shall have an office in New York and a factory in New Jersey, where we can work undisturbed and everything will look straight. I have money enough to start the factory and buy all the machinery. After a year we can retire with two fortunes and become respectable. If you have any scruples of conscience I’ll pay your fare back to Joliet.’

“Of course I consented. There was nothing else I could do.

“I fell in love with and married the daughter of my landlady, and when the baby came she was the happiest woman in the world, and I—” Marsh passed his hand across his face and there was a catch in his voice which showed the struggle he was making to remain calm.

“Well, I was determined to quit the whole business and live straight. I told this to Lawrence, and that I wanted my share of the money he was keeping for me. We had a dispute, but settled it by my agreeing to remain another six months.

“Just before the time was up he went to my wife and told her I was an escaped convict, but that he was trying to get things fixed so I need not fear arrest. He warned her not to allow me to go away, as that would be dangerous. She told me all. Then I resolved to end the matter at once. When he next came to the factory he told me that Richald, his stenographer, had discovered what we were doing, and would give the snap away. He said something must be done to close Richald’s mouth until he could close up the factory and clear out. He pretended to be fully as frightened as I was, and I was badly scared, for I did not at last want to be lagged. So I agreed to do whatever he thought best.

“He sent for me to come to New York. It had been arranged that I should go to his office, knock three times on the door, and if the clerks were all gone my brother would open it. After he had done so, he said, in the most cold-blooded way, that Richald would be there in a quarter of an hour; that we must get him to go to the factory, and on the way there, in a lonely spot, shoot him. He would make it appear that Richald had stolen some bonds, and when his body was found it would look like suicide. I told him that, whatever had been my past life, _I_ would not commit murder. He cursed me for a coward, and said he would have me sent back to jail. I defied and left him.”