The Gold Bag. Wells Carolyn

the body found this morning. Mr. Crawford was a big man, you know. Go right off, Mr. Burroughs; we want you to lose no time.”

      Yes; I knew Joseph Crawford by name, though not personally, and I knew he was a big man in the business world, and his sudden death would mean excitement in Wall Street matters. Of his home, or home-life, I knew nothing.

      “I’ll go right off,” I assured the Chief, and turned away from the telephone to find Donovan, the office-boy, already looking up trains in a timetable.

      “Good boy, Don,” said I approvingly; “what’s the next train to West Sedgwick, and how long does it take to get there?”

      “You kin s’lect the ten-twenty, Mr. Burruz, if you whirl over in a taxi an’ shoot the tunnel,” said Donovan, who was rather a graphic conversationalist. “That’ll spill you out at West Sedgwick ‘bout quarter of ‘leven. Was he moidered, Mr. Burruz?”

      “So they tell me, Don. His death will mean something in financial circles.”

      “Yessir. He was a big plute. Here’s your time-table, Mr. Burruz. When’ll you be back?”

      “Don’t know, Don. You look after things.”

      “Sure! everything’ll be took care of. Lemme know your orders when you have ‘em.”

      By means of the taxi Don had called and the tunnel route as he had suggested, I caught the train, satisfied that I had obeyed the Chief’s orders to lose no time.

      Lose no time indeed! I was more anxious than any one else could possibly be to reach the scene of the crime before significant clues were obliterated or destroyed by bungling investigators. I had had experience with the police of suburban towns, and I well knew their two principal types. Either they were of a pompous, dignified demeanor, which covered a bewildered ignorance, or else they were overzealous and worked with a misdirected energy that made serious trouble for an intelligent detective. Of course, of the two kinds I preferred the former, but the danger was that I should encounter both.

      On my way I diverted my mind, and so partly forgot my impatience, by endeavoring to “deduce” the station or occupation of my fellow passengers.

      Opposite me in the tunnel train sat a mild-faced gentleman, and from the general, appearance of his head and hat I concluded he was a clergyman. I studied him unostentatiously and tried to find some indication of the denomination he might belong to, or the character of his congregation, but as I watched, I saw him draw a sporting paper from his pocket, and turning his hand, a hitherto unseen diamond flashed brilliantly from his little finger. I hastily, revised my judgment, and turning slightly observed the man who sat next me. Determined to draw only logical inferences, I scrutinized his coat, that garment being usually highly suggestive to our best regulated detectives. I noticed that while the left sleeve was unworn and in good condition, the right sleeve was frayed at the inside edge, and excessively smooth and shiny on the inner forearm. Also the top button of the coat was very much worn, and the next one slightly.

      “A-ha!” said I to myself, “I’ve nailed you, my friend. You’re a desk-clerk, and you write all day long, standing at a desk. The worn top button rubs against your desk as you stand, which it would not do were you seated.”

      With a pardonable curiosity to learn if I were right, I opened conversation with the young man. He was not unwilling to respond, and after a few questions I learned, to my chagrin, that he was a photographer. Alas for my deductions! But surely, Fleming Stone himself would not have guessed a photographer from a worn and shiny coat-sleeve. At the risk of being rudely personal, I made some reference to fashions in coats. The young man smiled and remarked incidentally, that owing to certain circumstances he was at the moment wearing his brother’s coat.

      “And is your brother a desk clerk?” inquired I almost involuntarily:

      He gave me a surprised glance, but answered courteously enough, “Yes;” and the conversation flagged.

      Exultantly I thought that my deduction, though rather an obvious one, was right; but after another furtive glance at the young man, I realized that Stone would have known he was wearing another’s coat, for it was the most glaring misfit in every way.

      Once more I tried, and directed my attention to a middle-aged, angular-looking woman, whose strong, sharp-featured face betokened a prim spinster, probably at the head of a girls’ school, or engaged in some clerical work. However, as I passed her on my way to leave the train I noticed a wedding-ring on her hand, and heard her say to her companion, “No; I think a woman’s sphere is in her own kitchen and nursery. How could I think otherwise, with my six children to bring up?” After these lamentable failures, I determined not to trust much to deduction in the case I was about to investigate, but to learn actual facts from actual evidence.

      I reached West Sedgwick, as Donovan had said, at quarter before eleven. Though I had never been there before, the place looked quite as I had imagined it. The railway station was one of those modern attractive structures of rough gray stone, with picturesque projecting roof and broad, clean platforms. A flight of stone steps led down to the roadway, and the landscape in every direction showed the well-kept roads, the well-grown trees and the carefully-tended estates of a town of suburban homes. The citizens were doubtless mainly men whose business was in New York, but who preferred not to live there.

      The superintendent must have apprised the coroner by telephone of my immediate arrival, for a village cart from the Crawford establishment was awaiting me, and a smart groom approached and asked if I were Mr. Herbert Burroughs.

      A little disappointed at having no more desirable companion on my way to the house, I climbed up beside the driver, and the groom solemnly took his place behind. Not curiosity, but a justifiable desire to learn the main facts of the case as soon as possible, led me to question the man beside me.

      I glanced at him first and saw only the usual blank countenance of the well-trained coachman.

      His face was intelligent, and his eyes alert, but his impassive expression showed his habit of controlling any indication of interest in people or things.

      I felt there would be difficulty in ingratiating myself at all, but I felt sure that subterfuge would not help me, so I spoke directly.

      “You are the coachman of the late Mr. Crawford?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      I hadn’t really expected more than this in words, but his tone was so decidedly uninviting of further conversation that I almost concluded to say nothing more. But the drive promised to be a fairly long one, so I made another effort.

      “As the detective on this case, I wish to hear the story of it as soon as I can. Perhaps you can give me a brief outline of what happened.”

      It was perhaps my straightforward manner, and my quite apparent assumption of his intelligence, that made the man relax a little and reply in a more conversational tone.

      “We’re forbidden to chatter, sir,” he said, “but, bein’ as you’re the detective, I s’pose there’s no harm. But it’s little we know, after all. The master was well and sound last evenin’, and this mornin’ he was found dead in his own office-chair.”

      “You mean a private office in his home?”

      “Yes, sir. Mr. Crawford went to his office in New York ‘most every day, but days when he didn’t go, and evenin’s and Sundays, he was much in his office at home, sir.”

      “Who discovered the tragedy?”

      “I don’t rightly know, sir, if it was Louis, his valet, or Lambert, the butler, but it was one or t’other, sir.”

      “Or both together?” I suggested.

      “Yes, sir; or both together.”

      “Is any one suspected of the crime?”

      The man hesitated a moment, and looked as if uncertain what to reply, then, as he set his jaw squarely, he said:

      “Not as I knows on, sir.”

      “Tell me something of the town,” I observed next, feeling that it was better to ask no more vital questions