The Spruce Street Tragedy; or, Old Spicer Handles a Double Mystery. Cobb Irvin Shrewsbury

she had on," Cohen said, "were those she usually appeared in when at home."

      "Were they disarranged in any way?"

      "That portion of her attire that covered her breast had been torn apart, and a search made presumably for a pocket-book or a roll of bank bills which was believed to be secreted there."

      "Ah-ha!" exclaimed Stricket, "the job must have been done by some one who knew the old woman, for there's where she always carried a good share of her money."

      "That's not conclusive," said Old Spicer, with a shake of the head. "It's a well-known fact that many women carry their purses under the bosom of their dress."

      "Yes," said George, "I've had occasion to notice that myself."

      "Well," said Stricket, who was very much interested, "go on. What else did you notice?"

      "I saw one of her great heavy black slippers on the floor at the foot of the sofa; the mate was on the right foot. On the sofa, alongside the dead body, was a black walking-stick."

      "Ah!" said Stricket, "that has been her constant companion for the past fifteen years. Without it she couldn't have hobbled across her saloon."

      "Were the rooms themselves very much disturbed?" asked Old Spicer.

      "If the whole basement and its contents had been lifted right up and then scattered by a cyclone it could not have been in a more confused condition. I tell you, gentlemen, a house and its contents were never more thoroughly ransacked. Why, the solitary bedroom, where Cohen said Mrs. Ernst had slept for the past quarter of a century, was actually turned inside out. The bedtick was ripped open, and what it inclosed had been very industriously examined.

      "The murderer or murderers made pretty thorough work of it, eh?" said Stricket, inquiringly.

      "Of the bed?"

      "Yes."

      "From the way they went through it, Seth, I have precious little doubt they had good reason to believe the old woman had a big pile of money hid in the stuffing of that ticking."

      "Oh-ho! and do you think they found it?"

      "They may have found some, but not enough to satisfy them."

      "How do you know that?"

      "From the way they went at the rest of the furniture. For instance, one of those queer, old-fashioned bureaus, such as the hunter for the antique delights to discover, stood in the bedroom. Every drawer of it had been rifled, and the various articles, none of which appeared to be very valuable, strewed the floor.

      "Any other piece of furniture that seemed to be a receptacle for hidden wealth of the occupant of the basement was completely overhauled. In the front room not a box, or a bundle, or a drawer, or a pail, or a corner was overlooked by the greedy eyes of the criminals. They meant business, I can tell you."

      "Were any of the regular authorities on the ground before you came away?" asked Old Spicer, suddenly.

      "Yes, the coroner, a police captain, and two or three detectives were there."

      "Have they any idea who did the deed?"

      "Not the slightest; they are completely at sea."

      "Have you formed any theory yourself, George?"

      "Well, to confess the truth, I have, sir."

      "Let's hear it."

      "I beg your pardon, sir, but I should like to hear your opinion before I venture to express mine."

      Old Spicer was silent for a moment, then he abruptly exclaimed:

      "I should like to visit the scene of this tragedy. Suppose we go to Spruce Street at once, gentlemen."

      "What! and give up the Stony Creek affair?" exclaimed Stricket, in astonishment.

      "Not necessarily," was the reply.

      "But I don't understand, Mark."

      "I have an idea," rejoined Old Spicer, quietly, "that in this instance, the shortest road to Stony Creek lies through Spruce Street."

      "Thunder!" ejaculated George Morgan, "I believe you are right."

      "Come, then, let us be off at once," and a moment later the three detectives left the house.

      CHAPTER II.

      OLD SPICER VISITS THE SCENE OF THE MURDER

      The conversation related in the preceding chapter had occurred in the back parlor of Old Spicer's residence in Home Place.

      The great detective, who had now owned and occupied this house for some time, had fitted it up to suit his own fancy and convenience.

      He resided there alone – that is, so far as family was concerned, for Mrs. Hettie Catlin, the widow of Frederic Catlin, was still his housekeeper, and they kept one servant-of-all-work, a middle-aged woman, upon whom the detective could thoroughly rely.

      The back parlor looked out upon a small garden, and this room Old Spicer had chosen for his sanctum sanctorum, and furnished it accordingly.

      It would have been a feast, even for the great Lecoq, to have been able to pay a visit to this retreat. The wonders and trophies it contained were legion, and furnished a history in epitome of all the cases Old Spicer had ever had a hand in.

      Naturally the old man loved this room, and spent as much of his time in it as possible.

      He had many friends, but few intimates. Those few, however, he delighted to receive within the sacred precincts of the back parlor, and for this reason George Morgan, his adopted son, had recently purchased a beautiful residence on Academy Street, the garden of which ran down to and adjoined the old detective's little yard, and between which the means of communication was a gate in the garden fence.

      Seth Stricket, too, had taken up his residence in the neighborhood, having moved into a pretty cottage on Green Street, and thus Old Spicer had his two most reliable assistants close at hand.

      On reaching the sidewalk the trio passed out of Home Place, crossed Olive Street, entered Court, and keeping on, soon arrived at the police building.

      Here they stopped, and entering the office, made such inquiries of the officer in charge as Spicer deemed expedient.

      Chief Bollmann was not there, neither were any of the prominent members of the detective force; they were over in Spruce Street and otherwheres, working on the new murder case.

      Old Spicer determined to lose no more time; so, leaving the headquarters of the police, he and his friends walked to Church Street, where they hailed a carriage, and were swiftly driven to the dead woman's house.

      George Morgan led the way down the blue stone steps to the basement, where the murder had been committed, and Old Spicer at once began to examine the place where the widow had made her home for so many years.

      The building was quite a large one, and, as he knew, had been, in the early history of the Turn Verein in the city, a meeting place for that body.

      It was two stories high above the basement, and divided into six tenements, all of which were occupied.

      But it was the basement itself that interested Old Spicer most, and as he wandered about it he was forced to admit that it was a veritable Chinese puzzle.

      The main apartment was, of course, the barroom, where for years Mrs. Ernst, and two of her three husbands before her, had sold beer and liquor.

      The chief informed Spicer that up to the present year the widow had carried on the saloon business there under the usual authority. She had not, however, he said, renewed her license for the present year, although she expected to do so before the summer season set in. She was a dispenser, since her license expired, of temperance drinks ostensibly.

      Old Spicer and those with him, in looking over the premises, soon discovered conclusive proof that she did not strictly interpret the license law. Ale barrels, beer kegs, and demijohns for whisky and other fiery liquors were scattered through the basement.

      In the rear of the barroom was the bedroom. There were many more rooms in the basement. Fourteen inside doors led into the