The Gold Bag. Wells Carolyn

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СКАЧАТЬ Hall was what may be termed the average type of young American citizens. He was fairly good-looking, fairly well-groomed, and so far as I could judge from his demeanor, fairly well-bred. His dark hair was commonplace, and parted on the side, while his small, carefully arranged mustache was commonplace also. He looked exactly what he was, the trusted secretary of a financial magnate, and he seemed to me a man whose dress, manner, and speech would always be made appropriate to the occasion or situation. In fact, so thoroughly did he exhibit just such a demeanor as suited a confidential secretary at the inquest of his murdered employer, that I involuntarily thought what a fine undertaker he would have made. For, in my experience, no class of men so perfectly adapt themselves to varying atmospheres as undertakers.

      Philip Crawford and his son, an athletic looking young chap, were also in this group. Young Crawford inherited to a degree the fine appearance of his father and uncle, and bade fair to become the same kind of a first-class American citizen as they.

      Behind these people, the ones most nearly interested in the procedure, were gathered the several servants of the house.

      Lambert, the butler, was first interviewed.

      The man was a somewhat pompous, middle-aged Englishman, and though of stolid appearance, his face showed what might perhaps be described as an intelligent stupidity.

      After a few formal questions as to his position in the household, the coroner asked him to tell his own story of the early morning.

      In a more clear and concise way than I should have thought the man capable of, he detailed his discovery of his master’s body.

      “I came down-stairs at seven this morning,” he said, “as I always do. I opened the house, I saw the cook a few moments about matters pertaining to breakfast, and I attended to my usual duties. At about half-past seven I went to Mr. Crawford’s office, to set it in order for the day, and as I opened the door I saw him sitting in his chair. At first I thought he’d dropped asleep there, and been there all night, then in a moment I saw what had happened.”

      “Well, what did you do next?” asked the coroner, as the man paused.

      “I went in search of Louis, Mr. Crawford’s valet. He was just coming down the stairs. He looked surprised, for he said Mr. Crawford was not in his room, and his bed hadn’t been slept in.”

      “Did he seem alarmed?”

      “No, sir. Not knowing what I knew, he didn’t seemed alarmed. But he seemed agitated, for of course it was most unusual not finding Mr. Crawford in his own room.”

      “How did Louis show his agitation?” broke in Mr. Orville.

      “Well, sir, perhaps he wasn’t to say agitated,—he looked more blank, yes, as you might say, blank.”

      “Was he trembling?” persisted Mr. Orville, “was he pale?” and the coroner frowned slightly at this juror’s repeated inquisitiveness.

      “Louis is always pale,” returned the butler, seeming to make an effort to speak the exact truth.

      “Then of course you couldn’t judge of his knowledge of the matter,” Mr. Orville said, with an air of one saying something of importance.

      “He had no knowledge of the matter, if you mean Mr. Crawford’s death,” said Lambert, looking disturbed and a little bewildered.

      “Tell your own story, Lambert,” said Coroner Monroe, rather crisply. “We’ll hear what Louis has to say later.”

      “Well, sir, then I took Louis to the office, and we both saw the—the accident, and we wondered what to do. I was for telephoning right off to Doctor Fairchild, but Louis said first we’d better tell Miss Florence about it.”

      “And did you?”

      “We went out in the hall, and just then Elsa, Miss Lloyd’s maid, was on the stairs. So we told her, and told her to tell Miss Lloyd, and ask her for orders. Well, her orders was for us to call up Doctor Fairchild, and so we did. He came as soon as he could, and he’s been in charge ever since, sir.”

      “A straightforward story, clearly told,” observed the coroner, and then he called upon Louis, the valet. This witness, a young Frenchman, was far more nervous and excited than the calm-mannered butler, but the gist of his story corroborated Lambert’s.

      Asked if he was not called upon to attend his master at bedtime, he replied,

      “Non, M’sieu; when Monsieur Crawford sat late in his library, or his office, he dismiss me and say I may go to bed, or whatever I like. Almost alway he tell me that.”

      “And he told you this last night?”

      “But yes. When I lay out his clothes for dinner, he then tell me so.”

      Although the man seemed sure enough of his statements he was evidently troubled in his mind. It might have been merely that his French nature was more excitable than the stolid indifference of the English butler. But at the same time I couldn’t help feeling that the man had not told all he knew. This was merely surmise on my part, and I could not persuade myself that there was enough ground for it to call it even an intuition. So I concluded it best to ask no questions of the valet at present, but to look into his case later.

      Parmalee, however, seemed to have concluded differently. He looked at Louis with an intent gaze as he said, “Had your master said or done anything recently to make you think he was despondent or troubled in any way?”

      “No, sir,” said the man; but the answer was not spontaneous, and Louis’s eyes rolled around with an expression of fear. I was watching him closely myself, and I could not help seeing that against his will his glance sought always Florence Lloyd, and though he quickly averted it, he was unable to refrain from furtive, fleeting looks in her direction.

      “Do you know anything more of this matter than you have told us?” inquired the coroner of the witness.

      “No, sir,” replied Louis, and this time he spoke as with more certainty. “After Lambert and I came out of Mr. Crawford’s office, we did just exactly as Lambert has tell you.”

      “That’s all, Louis.... But, Lambert, one other matter. Tell us all you know of Mr. Joseph Crawford’s movements last evening.”

      “He was at dinner, as usual, sir,” said the butler, in his monotonous drawl. “There were no guests, only the family. After dinner Mr. Crawford went out for a time. He returned about nine o’clock. I saw him come in, with his own key, and I saw him go to his office. Soon after Mr. Porter called.”

      “Mr. Lemuel Porter?” asked the coroner.

      “Yes, sir,” said the butler; and Mr. Porter, who was one of the jurors, gravely nodded his head in acquiescence.

      “He stayed until about ten, I should say,” went on the butler, and again Mr. Porter gave an affirmative nod. “I let him out myself,” went on Lambert, “and soon after that I went to the library to see if Mr. Crawford had any orders for me. He told me of some household matters he wished me to attend to to-day, and then he said he would sit up for some time longer, and I might go to bed if I liked. A very kind and considerate man, sir, was Mr. Crawford.”

      “And did you then go to bed?”

      “Yes, sir. I locked up all the house, except the office. Mr. Crawford always locks those windows himself, when he sits up late. The ladies СКАЧАТЬ