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

“Now,” said the superintendent, turning to Richald, “will you tell your story?”

“Two years ago,” began Richald, who was trembling with excitement, caused by Marsh’s recital, “I was engaged as stenographer by Mr. Marchburn, and shortly after became engaged to his daughter, the young lady who was here to-day. A few months ago we were secretly married, and about that time I accidentally overheard a conversation between Mr. Marchburn and his brother, which put me in possession of the colossal plot to swindle the government. I was in doubt as to my duty in the matter, but finally concluded to tell Mr. Marchburn what I knew. He declared that Marsh was the real head of the conspiracy, but, owing to circumstances, he had been unable to extricate himself from his clutches; he would, however, close up the factory as soon as possible. On the day of the murder Mr. Marchburn made an appointment for me at his office. Before leaving for New Jersey he handed me a package which he said contained several thousand dollars in negotiable securities, which he intended to have taken to his bank, but had forgotten to do so, and requested that I bring it back to the office later.

“I was a few minutes late in keeping my appointment, and when I entered Mr. Marchburn’s room I found him dead. It flashed across my mind that I might be accused of the murder; that it would be difficult for me to account for the securities, and in explaining my presence in the office I should have to reveal the conspiracy, which, for the sake of Mr. Marchburn’s daughter, I was reluctant to do. Yielding to a sudden impulse, I left the office, without raising an alarm. And—”

Just then an electric bell rang and the superintendent put his ear to a tube that hung above his chair. As he listened his face flushed. He looked up and, with an accent of conviction that caused Marsh to move uneasily in his chair, exclaimed: “Gentlemen, at last the missing link is at hand!”

The next moment the door was thrown open and an officer ushered in a middle-aged man with a traveling-bag in his hand. Stooping over the superintendent’s chair, the officer engaged him in a whispered conversation. As he proceeded, a look of triumph shone in the superintendent’s eyes. Swinging around suddenly in his chair toward Marsh, he asked abruptly: “Marsh, did you ever see this man before?” For several moments the prisoner, with eager curiosity, eyed the new-comer from head to foot. Then, turning to the superintendent, he said, with attempted composure, but with that tell-tale falsetto break in his voice, “No, I never saw him—”

“That’s the man!” cried the stranger, advancing and pointing excitedly to the prisoner. “I could tell his voice among a million.” Then, turning to Walton, he continued breathlessly, “Mr. Superintendent, on the evening of the murder I was in my insurance office in Temple Court. I had just been called to the bedside of my sick wife in Florida and rang up the sleeping-car office in Jersey City to engage a berth. I couldn’t get the connection, as the wires were crossed. I rang again and again, but, instead of getting a reply from the central office, I heard a violent quarrel going on between two men. One of them threatened to call the police, and the other shouted, ‘If you do that I’ll shoot you.’ Indeed, I did hear what sounded like the muffled report of a pistol. At that moment I was connected by the central office, and thought no more of the matter until I was seated in the cars an hour later. Then, in recalling the affair, it occurred to me that possibly I had overheard a scrap of a theatrical rehearsal, because the voice of the man who threatened to shoot had a stagy sort of falsetto break in it. And it wasn’t until I was overtaken three days ago by New York papers containing full accounts of the Marchburn murder that I knew that I held the clue to the mystery. An hour later I was on the way to New York and came directly here from the train.

“Gentlemen,” said the stranger, pausing impressively and pointing to the cowering figure of the prisoner, “that is the man whose voice I heard over the telephone. I heard him speak. I heard him threaten. I heard him rush across the floor. I heard him fire the fatal shot. It was he who murdered Lawrence Marchburn!”

Four months later the jury gave the same verdict.

[Illustration]

Their Colonial Villa.

BY CHARLES BARNARD.

The right to dramatize is reserved by the author.

“It is very inconvenient to be obliged to live in one place all the time. If we had two houses, we could spend part of the time in one and part of the time in the other.”

Young Mrs. Arburton was one of those fortunate brides who are able to set up housekeeping immediately on the return from the wedding journey. Young Mr. Arburton thought it best to build or buy a small house and to furnish and occupy it as soon as possible.

“Of course, my love, I see how important it is that the house should be close down by the river bank near your office, so that you can come home to lunch, and I do so enjoy seeing the steamboats pass on the river.”

“Good idea. I must be handy to business.”

“And at the same time, you must see, John, that I’ve always lived at the court end of the town, on the bluff overlooking the river and near the shops and the homes of the best people. That’s why I think it would be so nice if we could have two houses, one down by the river near your office, and one in town, on the Heights and near the churches and all the nice people. We could live every other week in each house.”

They were staying at her mother’s on the Heights, pending the purchase or erection of the new house. Mrs. Arburton had advanced this happy thought of having two homes at the breakfast table. The idea pleased her mother greatly, and she remarked to her son-in-law that, in her opinion, it was an excellent arrangement. She would gladly live in the uptown house and take care of it while they were spending the week in the other house down by the river.

“My love, we must do it. We never need move anything, for you could keep a suit of clothes in each house. I’m sure I shall never be happy to live down on the riverside. There’s really nobody living there, and still I never, never can be happy if you are not able to come home to lunch.”

Young Mr. Arburton quite agreed with his wife and her mother. It would be very desirable to live on the bluff, two hundred feet above the river, and very desirable to live immediately below, down by the boat landing and near the office. It would be very convenient to live in two places at the same time. How to do it was the problem.

Immediately after breakfast young Mr. Arburton started off to business. To reach the lower level of the city, where his office and his great lumber yards stood close by the river, and almost immediately under the lofty bluff on which the new or upper town was built, he was obliged to take a trolley car that slid swiftly down a long iron viaduct or inclined plane. There had been at one time, before the days of the trolley, a more direct, but much slower method of reaching the lower town. This was a sort of huge hoist or elevator, upon which the horse-cars were slowly dragged up and down by means of a cable. At present, this route was seldom used, as it was, in the opinion of the general public, altogether too dilatory transit.

Business was quiet that day, and Mr. Arburton had ample opportunity to consider the problem of keeping house in two places at the same time. He felt sure he must gratify his wife’s natural desire to live in town, and he was equally sure he must reside in the immediate neighborhood of his yard and its great interests. It was very like the ancient question as to what would happen if a body, moving with perfectly irresistible momentum, were to meet a perfectly immovable body.

He returned home that night quite radiant. He had solved the question.

“It is all right, my love. It can be done.”

“Oh! I felt sure you would see that my idea was admirable. Which house shall you build first—the one on the Heights or the house down by the river?”

“Both can be built at the same time.”

“Well, dear, of course, you see the house up here in this fashionable quarter must lie much larger and nicer than the house down by those horrid lumber yards. I shan’t mind if the lower house is a plain little box. No one will ever call there, and any simple, inexpensive, wooden cottage will answer. Besides, while we are staying down there I shall not receive at all, and I shall have my cards marked with our uptown address.”

“Very well,” remarked Mr. Arburton; “I’ll see the architect. I dare say it can be fixed.”

Mrs. Arburton and her mother were delighted, and when Mr. Arburton suggested that he wished the new house—

“You mean the new houses, dear.”

“We’ll waive that—it’s only a detail—our future domiciles are to be a surprise.”

“How lovely in you, dear. You mean you intend to build and furnish them complete without letting me see them?”

“That’s about the idea. Leave it all to me.”

“Then, my love, mother and I will visit Aunt Sarah in New York for a month.”

Mr. Arburton was hardly prepared for this. To lose his young wife for two months was not a wholly pleasant prospect. However, he expressed himself as resigned; for he would be very busy building and furnishing the new house.

“You mean our new houses, dear. I declare it is an inspiration. We can spend every other week in society and have the other week to rest in peace and be by ourselves, quite out of the world.”

The next day young Mrs. Arburton and her mother started for New York, and young Mr. Arburton went to the office of the defunct horse railroad company to see about a house lot, it being reported that they had real estate to sell—cheap.

Thirty-two days later young Mrs. Arburton and her mother returned. It was dark when they arrived, and of course they went at once to their former home. Naturally the return of the young wife had a most happy effect upon the young husband. He was lively, was merry, and seemed to be immensely amused over the prospect of moving at once into the new house.

“Is it all done?” cried both ladies, “and so soon?”

“Oh, it don’t take long to knock up a house in these days. We can move in to-night. Everything is ready for you.”

“Which house shall we live in first?”

“Take your choice.”

“Then I’ll spend the first week in the uptown house.”

“All right. I thought so. As soon as you have had supper we’ll go over there.”

“Is it far from here?”

“No. Only a short walk. I thought you might like to be near your mother.”

“My love, you are an angel!”

This remark clearly indicated an unstable frame of mind, and further reports of the conversation may be cheerfully omitted.

About nine o’clock the young couple started, satchels in hand, to take possession of their new home on the Heights. Mrs. Arburton was charmed. It was just what she wanted, a pretty two-story colonial villa at the end of a broad avenue, and close to the edge of the bluff overlooking the river. The parlor was small, but exquisite, the dining-room cozy, the kitchen perfection.

“Oh, and the view from the chamber window! Isn’t it grand? Why, the house must be on the very edge of the bluff. My love, you have made me perfectly happy. It is such a pretty house, and right in the very best neighborhood.”

The next morning, immediately after breakfast, Mr. Arburton remarked that he would come home to lunch.

“Oh, no, dear. I wouldn’t think of it. It’s too far to come way up here just for lunch. I’ll put up a little basket for you.”

“It will not take me two minutes to run over here from the office. I’ll come home at noon.”

This he said as they stood at the kitchen door.

“What on earth are you talking about—”

She would have said more, but just at that moment her husband opened the back door and stepped out into the dusty road that led to his lumber yard. Mrs. Arburton stood by the door, looking up and down the commonplace road, at the towering piles of lumber across the way, at the tall stacks of a passing steamboat, just visible over the lumber heaps.

She kissed her husband in a mechanical way, and then closed the door and went to her chamber and sat down by the window. Clearly this was the lower town. There had been some mistake. She finished her morning household duties and dressed to go out. Leaving the house by the most convenient way, she crossed the street, and, turning back, looked at the house. It was a plain, three-story wooden house, and in every way suitable for such a commonplace business neighborhood.

“I must have been dreaming about that colonial villa. I’ll go and call on mother.”

She took the trolley car up the great incline to the upper town and went to her mother’s house. The moment she arrived her mother began to ask about the new house.

“Oh, it’s just a plain, three-story, wooden affair down by the lumber yard.”

“I thought you were to occupy the uptown house first.”

“Yes, I thought so, too; but we stayed last night in the lower town.”

Promptly at noon, just as the big whistle roared its hoarse summons to rest, Mrs. Arburton returned to her humble dwelling in the lower town. Lunch was served at once, and then her husband returned to business, leaving his wife alone in the new house. She explored it thoroughly, and felt sure that the parlor and dining-room were the same as she had dreamed about the night before. At six o’clock Mr. Arburton returned to dinner, and after that he proposed that they make a few calls on friends in the upper town.

“Oh, no, not to-night. It’s too far and we shall be so late getting back again.”

“Nonsense, my dear. Put on your things and I’ll be ready in two minutes.”

Five minutes later young Mrs. Arburton appeared arrayed in her best.

“I suppose the nearest way is to go out the back door.”

“What’s the use of a front door if we do not use it?” said her husband. So saying, he opened the front door and led her out into the brilliantly lighted avenue in the upper town.

Mrs. Arburton was perplexed. She took her husband’s arm and walked on for a few steps in silence. Then she stopped and looked back at the house. It was the colonial villa of her dream. Was it a dream? She wanted to ask questions, but wisely said nothing. The young couple spent the evening in calling, and then returned to their home.

Early the next morning Mrs. Arburton drew up the curtains of her room and looked out. There, far below, were the river and the lower town. It was not a dream.

Then for a week nothing in particular happened. Mrs. Arburton was entirely happy in her charming colonial villa. Her mother called and admired everything.

“I suppose next week you will bury yourselves in the lower town. Of course your other house cannot be equal to this lovely place.”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. I haven’t seen it yet.”

“Why, my child, you told me it was a plain three-story affair. You said you stayed there that first night.”

“Did I? I must have been dreaming.”

The next morning young Mrs. Arburton began to wonder if her mind had given way. She was awakened by the hoarse boom of the lumber yard whistle. She drew up her curtain and pulled it down, again quickly. The street was full of teams. She pinched her arm. She looked at the mantel clock. No; she was awake. Being a wise woman, she said nothing, and after breakfast she bade her husband good-by at the back door.

“I’ll run over to lunch, dear.”

“Very well, Mr. Arburton.”

He looked at her with a peculiar smile.

“What’s the matter, love? Are you offended?”

“Oh, dear, no! I’m a little—a little confused, that’s all. I’ll go and call on mother. I’ll feel better—for a walk.”

“Yes, do. Take the trolley back to town.”

She did, and the moment she reached the broad avenues of the upper city she left the car and stood irresolute on the sidewalk.

“I wish I had been more observing. Let me see. There was a row of trees on each side, and the houses were all of Milwaukee brick.”

She wandered up and down several streets and avenues looking for the colonial villa.

“It was so stupid in me not to know the street and number of our own house. If I knew that I could ask a policeman. I declare, I was never so turned round in my life. This looks like the neighborhood—and yet—”

She gave it up in despair and took the trolley back to her home in the lower town. Then for several days nothing happened. Mrs. Arburton tried to be happy and failed miserably. Her husband, of course, observed it, and said at the dinner table:

“My love, I fear you do not enjoy being down here among these lumber yards and shops. After dinner we’ll go up town.”

She was delighted. When she reached the Heights she would ask him to take her to the other house. Immediately after dinner she went to her room to put on her hat. When she came down again she found her husband calmly reading in the drawing-room.

“I thought we were going to the Heights, dear.”

He looked up in some surprise, and, instead of replying, asked if she wished to go out.

“Yes. I do. I—I want to go to mother’s.”

“Certainly, my love. I’ll go with you.”

A moment later he was ready, and calmly opened the front door and led her out into the broad, familiar avenue in the upper town.

She stood bewildered on the stoop, and looked at the street, at the lemon-colored houses opposite, and at the colonial villa behind her.

“What are you waiting for, dear?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering where we live.”

“Why, how absent you are, dear. This is our uptown house.”

It was all right. The other house was the dream. They spent a pleasant evening with her mother, and then they returned home. It was indeed all right, and just as it should be. She had certainly eaten something that was not best for her, or she would not have dreamed three times about the house by the river. Under the assurance of a stable residence in one place Mrs. Arburton’s spirits rose, and her health visibly improved. She resolved never to mention her absurd dream about the other house. She felt sure that it had never been built—and yet! Oh! she would not think about it any more. She would enjoy the happy present in her lovely colonial villa in the fashionable quarter of the town.

Mr. Arburton never came home to lunch now. He started off very early every morning, and was always late to dinner. It was not in young Mrs. Arburton’s nature to ignore this long.

“My love,” she said one stormy night when he came home tired, cold, and hungry, “My love, if the other house is finished we might go there and stay till this stormy weather is over. I miss you dreadfully at lunch, and it’s such a pity to let you travel so far in the rain.”

“All right, my dear. It would be better to go back again.”

“Back again!” Then it was not a dream.

The next morning young Mrs. Arburton was convinced that her mind was entirely unhinged. She did not dare to mention it to her husband. She went about her morning duties mechanically. They were in the lower town house. She knew the smell of the lumber yards only too well.

The thing was unbearable. She would settle the matter or perish in the attempt. The moment her husband had gone to his office she put on her things, took the trolley, and went up to the Heights. She found the avenue without the slightest difficulty. The colonial villa had totally disappeared. She asked a policeman if he had seen a white villa in the neighborhood. The man grinned broadly and said he guessed it was off duty.

She turned away indignant. What did the insolent creature mean? Nothing was to be gained by waiting there, and she took the trolley back home. On reaching the lower town she lost her way for the first time in her life. She wandered past several lumber yards, looking for that three-story house, and could not find it. Once she felt sure she had reached the spot—the house was not there. Thoroughly alarmed at what she regarded as her serious mental condition, she went at once to her husband’s office.