THE SILVER BLADE

THE TRUE CHRONICLE OF A DOUBLE MYSTERY

BY

CHARLES EDMONDS WALK

WITH FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR BY A. B. WENZELL

CHICAGO A. C. McCLURG & CO. 1908

COPYRIGHT A. C. McCLURG & Co. 1906 Published March 18, 1908 Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, Eng. All Rights Reserved.

The Lakeside Press R. R. DONNELLY & SONS COMPANY CHICAGO

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BROTHER GEORGE EDWARD WALK WHOSE INTEREST IN THE GROWTH OF THIS STORY WAS NOT THE LEAST INCENTIVE TO ITS COMPLETION

CONTENTS

BOOK I. A DUPLEX PROBLEM

CHAPTER

I. Exit Señor de Sanchez II. The First Problem Develops III. A Search for Clues IV. Mr. Converse Appears as Chorus V. A Telegram from Mexico VI. The Inquest VII. The Verdict VIII. Cherchez la Femme IX. The Second Problem X. Footprints XI. A Burnt Fragment XII. A Door is Opened

BOOK II. CHARLOTTE FAIRCHILD

I. Miss Charlotte Waits in the Hall II. Miss Charlotte Entertains a Caller III. "Paquita—What Do You Spell?" IV. Miss Charlotte Becomes a Factor V. A Decision and a Letter VI. Faint Rays from Strange Sources VII. A Voice in the Night VIII. The Coroner's Coup IX. The Light Brightens—and Dims

BOOK III. SLADE'S BLESSING

I. Opening Ways II. Fairchild Redivivus III. "The Thunderbolt Has Fallen" IV. Some Loose Ends V. Mr. Slade Resigns VI. An Arrest VII. "Slade's Blessing"

BOOK IV. THE DANCER AND THE MOUNTEBANK

I. "That Is Paquita" II. The Serpent Strikes III. Which Is the Last

ILLUSTRATIONS

"Good God, Mobley! Did you do this?" ... Frontispiece

Captain Converse was endowed with the impassiveness of an Indian, nor could one imagine him agitated in any circumstances

Joyce was herself a mystery, an enigma, as inscrutable as "Paquita"

Mr. Mountjoy's thin, handsome features were saved from asceticism only by the lines of humor about his eyes

At times Charlotte became beautiful; a warm tide of color mounted to her cheeks; her head became regally erect

LIST OF CHARACTERS

GEN. PEYTON WESTBROOK, a gentleman of the Old South. MRS. WESTBROOK, his wife. DR. MOBLEY WESTBROOK, their son. JOYCE, Mobley's sister. MRS. ELINOR FAIRCHILD, a widow of fallen fortunes. CLAY, her son. "MISS CHARLOTTE," Clay's sister. JOHN CONVERSE, Captain of Detectives. MR. MOUNTJOY, the District Attorney. MR. MERKEL, the Coroner. J. HOWARD LYNDEN, a cotton-broker. SENOR JUAN DE VARGAS Y ESCOLADO, otherwise known as Señor Vargas, a Mexican capitalist. WILLIAM SLADE, an abstracter of titles. ABRAM FOLLETT, a dealer in worn-out utilities. ROBERT NETTLETON, a lawyer. FERDINAND HOWE, a banker. HARRY MCCALEB } SEPTIMUS ADAMS } serving under Capt. Converse. SAM } JOE } faithful servants. MELISSA } POLLY ANN } THE PLACE: A City in the South. TIME: The Present.

BOOK I. A DUPLEX PROBLEM

Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? —MACBETH.

THE SILVER BLADE

BOOK I—A DUPLEX PROBLEM

CHAPTER I EXIT SEÑOR DE SANCHEZ

About six o'clock on an evening in the early part of a recent November, the drowsy quiet sometimes pervading police headquarters was rudely broken by the precipitate entrance of a young man, who made his way hurriedly to the door marked, in neat gilt letters, "CHIEF OF POLICE."

In addition to the reserve squad, whose vigil never ends, many other officers were present in the lazy transition stage between going on and going off duty. The attention of them all was immediately attracted to the stranger, and held by his extraordinary manner, from the instant he became visible in the flickering gas-lights until he finally disappeared.

In the first place, he was not such a one as usually comes to the city-hall basement, either voluntarily or when haled hither by one of the law's myrmidons; for he was fashionably, even fastidiously, attired, with a marked preciosity of manner which would have been even more noticeable under ordinary conditions.

But it was not over any idiosyncrasy of apparel or customary detail of personality that the aroused curiosity of the officers lingered. Inured as they were to uncommon and surprising events, they were nevertheless startled by this young man's advent, and greatly interested in his extreme discomposure. It was obvious to the most casual glance that he was the victim of a fright so potent that it possessed him to the complete exclusion of every other feeling, made him oblivious of the scrutiny to which he was subjected, and drove him blindly to the commission of some idea fixed by the terror which mastered him. And there was one other still more powerful emotion depicted in his pallid, twitching countenance: a horror unspeakable.

Looking neither to the right nor the left, the stranger walked directly to the Chief of Police just as that official was in the act of closing and locking his office door for the night. The latter looked up inquiringly, and, struck at once by the young man's appearance, asked with sudden sharpness:

"What's the matter? What has happened?"

The young man, his wild regard fastened on the Chief, tried to answer; but he was incapable of speech, and the effort resulted only in a queer, gasping sound.

With the directness of a man accustomed to prompt action, the Chief of Police opened his door once more, and guided the young man into the smaller room beyond. The visitor, dazed by his emotions and unable to respond to any suggestion less forceful than the actual pressure of the persuasive hand on his arm, probably would have remained indefinitely motionless on the threshold before any customary invitation to enter.

The Chief struck a match and ignited a gas-jet above a big roll-top desk. The action, simple in itself, seemed to loose the young man's faculty of speech; just as the official turned, he darted suddenly forward, grasped the other's arm, and began incontinently:

"Murder! Murder has been done!" The words had the effect of a cry, although uttered in a hoarse whisper.

"Murder, I tell you. Come with me at once; don't delay." He shook the Chief's arm excitedly, and strove to draw him toward the door.

"Hurry! Hurry! For God's sake, hurry!"

The Chief of Police easily disengaged his imprisoned arm.

"There, there .... sit down there," said he, in a tone he might have used to calm a terrified child. "You are upset. Sit there awhile and try to collect yourself. Come; make an effort. Pull yourself together and tell me about it."

"But the murderer!" the young man went on, still with high excitement, but unconsciously sinking back into the chair under the gentle pressure of the Chief's hand. "The murderer will escape! Great Heavens, man! even now he may be assaulting the doctor—Mobley—do you hear me?—he may have killed him! Send officers—go yourself—anything but to sit here idle. Come!" He made as if to rise again; but the other pressed him back.

"Steady," said the Chief quietly. "Mobley? Do you mean Doctor Mobley Westbrook? Has he been murdered?"

"No-no-no," in a burst of exasperation. "It was—it was—I mean—good God, what do I mean? It—it happened in his office."

The Chief regarded him for a moment with eyes that were mere pin-points of light.

"You are Mr. J. Howard Lynden, are you not?" he presently asked. The other nodded a quick affirmative. "I thought so," he continued. "Who is the murderer? Who has been murdered?—or has any murder been done? You don't make yourself clear."

Lynden twisted nervously upon his chair. "Heavens! you do not doubt me?" he cried. "Why, Mobley's office is like a shambles. It's horrible!—horrible! Mobley—Doctor Westbrook, that is—was standing right over the dying man with—with—" He checked himself abruptly, as an expression of horror deepened in his pale countenance.

Since the introduction of Doctor Mobley Westbrook's name, the Chief of Police was paying closer attention to the incoherent recital; he regarded the young man gravely, and evidently concluded that the situation was serious enough to warrant some initiative on his own part. He was accustomed to panic-stricken people who intruded thus unceremoniously upon him, and experience had taught him that, oftener than not, the circumstances were far from warranting the excitement.

Concerning his present visitor, he was aware, in a general way, that the young man was well known about town, the inheritor of a considerable fortune from his father, and that his name figured prominently as a leader of cotillons, on the links of the Country Club, and among the names of the many others who formed the society set of the city.

But all these qualifications did not supply the force so conspicuously absent from Mr. Lynden's personality, lacking which his perturbation was not very impressive. He was not at all bad looking: he was even handsome in a way; but the Chief of Police, as he looked, could not help remarking that a more resolute man would have been less the slave of his emotions in a situation like the present. While the young man sat drumming with nervous fingers on the arms of his chair, the Chief pressed a button beneath his desk, whereupon the door was almost immediately opened by an officer, who, without entering, respectfully awaited his superior's commands.

To him the Chief said, "If Converse is in, tell him to come to my office;" and as the door closed, "I want Captain Converse to hear this," he explained to Lynden; "it seems to be a matter for his department."

The two had not long to wait. A man entered, cast a piercing glance at the visitor, and took his stand at a corner of the roll-top desk, waiting with an air of deferential attention. He was a man of physique so immense—with such a breadth of shoulders and absence of neck—that his more than average height was much disguised. Above all, he was one whose appearance must attract attention in any gathering of his kind; for even as Lynden seemed to lack those desirable traits, so force and resolution flowed from this man's rugged personality, making their influence felt subtly and insistently. His air of quiet composure was evocative of confidence. Endowed with the impassiveness of an Indian, one could hardly imagine him excited or agitated in any circumstances.

The Chief recognized his presence with a brief nod, and at once addressed Lynden:

"Repeat what you have told me; see if you can't make it plainer."

The visitor recounted the bare facts in a more connected manner. "But I was so shocked," he supplemented, "that I am afraid I can't make myself intelligible. The facts explain nothing to my mind further than that an atrocious murder has been committed, that the victim is still lying in Doctor Westbrook's office, and that no one seems to know who is responsible for the deed."

"You say the man was stabbed?" queried the Chief.

"Yes," was the reply; "stabbed in the throat."

"But I fail to understand," the Chief frowned. "Do you mean to say that a man was stabbed in the presence of Doctor Westbrook, and that he knows nothing about it?"

"No—no. It seems to have occurred in the hall just outside Mobley's door; the man fell through the door into the office, Mobley said. I don't know—I am so confused." Which last statement he confirmed by at once becoming involved in a wild incoherency of utterance.

After he had quieted somewhat, he sat trembling for a moment, suddenly bursting forth again:

"Wait!" he cried, his face lighting. "I forgot to say there was another man present in Doctor Westbrook's office—a stranger to me. I never saw him before."

"And he?"

"Just like Mobley and myself, he appeared to be overcome by the shocking occurrence."

The Chief of Police plainly showed his perplexity. "According to your statement—the man who was killed—will you repeat his name?"

"De Sanchez. General Westbrook's friend, Alberto de Sanchez."

"According to your statement he was bleeding profusely. Had the weapon been withdrawn from the wound?"

The young man evinced unaccountable hesitancy. He moved uneasily, and glanced from his questioner to the impassive figure standing at a corner of the desk. This man, called Converse, had taken no part in the talk; he stood silent and motionless, seemingly paying no heed to what was going forward; but now he shot a swift glance at Lynden, whose nervousness measurably increased. That look was remarkable in a way: the eyes, steely gray, were in themselves without expression; they failed, however, to veil an intentness and concentration of mind which disclosed beyond a doubt that their owner was abnormally alive to every detail of speech and manner; they could not hide a power of will lying behind their quick regard, which mocked deception, and Mr. Lynden shuddered. Instantly the brief glance was withdrawn; but the young man, if such had been his intention, attempted no liberties with the truth. The confusion with which he now spoke, however, suggested strongly that the thought had entered his mind, although he may not have entertained it there.

"I—I—I would rather that you, or some officer, accompany me to Mobley's office," he faltered. "I consider it rather unfair, in my condition, to press me further. I wouldn't for the world present anything in a false light. I feel that the situation is not only serious, but extremely delicate."

"It is that," the Chief agreed, emphatically. "For that very reason you must tell all you know. Now, why should you hesitate in regard to the weapon? Come now, what about it?"

"Well, sir, I answer you under protest; remember, I did not see the blow struck."

"Sure?"

The young man nearly sprang from his chair. The interruption, a penetrating, sibilant bullet of speech, came from the massive figure of Mr. Converse; again that shrewd regard was fastened on him, and the sweat started from his brow.

"No!" he cried, explosively; "I did not. By George, how nervous I am!—but I think half-truths should not be told. No one is less capable of perpetrating such a deed than Mobley Westbrook. Why, you know the man!" He appealed with feverish eagerness to the two figures now sternly confronting him. "Every one knows Mobley Westbrook's character; would he do such a thing?"

"But come to the point—come to the point, man!" the Chief demanded, rapping sharply upon the desk with his knuckles. "What of the weapon—was it a knife—sword—axe—hatchet? Where was it?"

"Well, Mobley had some kind of a—blade, a—dagger in his hand; but—"

"Ah! And standing over a man whose very life-blood is ebbing away beneath his eyes!" The Chief's manner was politely ironical, and struck the young man cold. "You must admit that you portray an astonishing set of circumstances to surround a man not only innocent but ignorant of an offence," concluded the official, pointedly.

Lynden indeed started from his chair. "I knew it! I knew it!" cried he, wildly. "I knew you would put such a construction upon my words; now, damn it! I'll not say another word. Go—go! Go and see for yourselves how wrong you are!"

The Chief of Police ignored this vehement advice. Instead, he curtly admonished Lynden to remain a few moments where he was; and leaving the wretched news-bearer alone with his own reflections, he and Converse withdrew from the room.

After a minute or two the Chief returned. "I have sent for a carriage," said he. "As soon as it arrives I must request you to accompany Captain Converse to Doctor Westbrook's offices; are you willing to do that?" He awaited the reply with an interest mingled with doubt of what its probable tenor might be; when the young man acquiesced with an alacrity and relief obviously sincere, his doubt merely grew. He contemplated Lynden an instant longer, and with a curt nod, seated himself at his desk again.

Almost at once, however, the large figure of the Captain—or plain Mr. Converse, as he much preferred to be known—appeared in the doorway.

"Come!" he whispered; and the whisper rasped upon Lynden's nerves. Confound the man! was he afraid he would betray some momentous secret, so that he did not talk like other people? Nevertheless, he arose and followed him,—under the heavy stone arches, shrouded with gloom in the flickering gas-light, out into the cool night air and into a waiting hack. Two other men followed close behind, and entered a second hack; immediately the two vehicles, one behind the other, were going at full speed in the direction of Doctor Westbrook's offices.

Under the soothing influence of rubber tires spinning easily over the smooth asphalt, the young man was fast regaining his lost composure. He was so rapt in his own thoughts that for a time he quite forgot his still companion, and presently he laughed—mirthlessly, but a laugh signifying sudden relief. Quite as suddenly it was checked, as he met the inquiring, probing glance of his vis-à-vis.

"It is astonishing that I never thought of it before," he explained, in an embarrassed way. "That other man—the stranger—can set Mobley right in an instant. Do you think Doctor Westbrook could have done it?"

Immediately he regretted the question, for it entailed hearkening to that uncomfortable hissing voice. It was Mr. Converse's misfortune that, properly speaking, he had no voice at all. His entire speech was a series of sibilant utterances, wonderfully distinct and possessed of remarkable carrying power when one considered their quality. It is likely that he was sensitive about his vocal defect, since he was known as a silent, taciturn man among his confrères. On certain rare occasions, however,—under, for example, the spur of an inflexible purpose or the influence of a sympathetic nature,—it was also known that he could wax eloquent; his forceful individuality supplied, in a large measure, the place of a normal, flexible voice.

The head of the detective department might have been anywhere between forty and sixty years of age, so far as one could gather from his huge frame and stolid countenance. His hair was gray, and thinning slightly at the temples; but behind his illegible exterior there reposed a vigor and a reserve of power—revealed now and then, as in the lightning-like glance cast at Lynden in the Chief's office—which could not be reconciled with age. He was, in fact, fifty-two.

His face was full and round, smooth-shaven, expressionless—such a visage as one associates with some old sea-dog; a countenance that has long been subjected to the hardening processes of wind and weather. As the young man waited for a reply, the immovable features underwent a curious change; the mouth gradually assumed a pucker, as though the facial muscles were inelastic and unused to such exercise; his right eyebrow lifted, which, as the other remained motionless, was made all the more noticeable,—the effect being an expression of inquiry and speculation that seemed ludicrously out of place. Lynden became familiar with this queer transformation later on; he learned to associate it with the futility of seeking to penetrate the wall of reserve which ever surrounded this unusual man, and perceived that it came and went as a sort of involuntary warning to place least trust in his frankest confidences. Now it introduced the response to his question, "Do you think Doctor Westbrook could have done it?"

"The Doctor is a strong, vigorous man, isn't he? I don't see why he couldn't."

"My dear sir," Lynden anxiously expostulated, "you don't know Mobley Westbrook, or you never could entertain such a thought."

"Pardon me," said Mr. Converse, carelessly, "the thought seems to be your own; I was simply giving you the first fact that occurred to me, to justify your opinion. I have formed none myself."

"You interpret my words strangely."

"No; your silence."

The young man, with another shudder, drew back to the corner of the vehicle farthest from his companion.