The Gold Bag

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THE GOLD BAG

by CAROLYN WELLS

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE CRIME IN WEST SEDGWICK

II. THE CRAWFORD HOUSE

III. THE CORONER'S JURY

IV. THE INQUEST

V. FLORENCE LLOYD

VI. THE GOLD BAG

VII. YELLOW ROSES

VIII. FURTHER INQUIRY

IX. THE TWELFTH ROSE

X. THE WILL

XI. LOUIS'S STORY

XII. LOUIS'S CONFESSION

XIII. MISS LLOYD'S CONFIDENCE

XIV. MR. PORTER'S VIEWS.

XV. THE PHOTOGRAPH EXPLAINED

XVI. A CALL ON MRS. PURVIS

XVII. THE OWNER OF THE GOLD BAG

XVIII. IN MR. GOODRICH'S OFFICE

XIX. THE MIDNIGHT TRAIN

XX. FLEMING STONE

XXI. THE DISCLOSURE

THE GOLD BAG

I

THE CRIME IN WEST SEDGWICK

Though a young detective, I am not entirely an inexperienced one,
and I have several fairly successful investigations to my credit
on the records of the Central Office.

The Chief said to me one day: "Burroughs, if there's a mystery to
be unravelled; I'd rather put it in your hands than to trust it
to any other man on the force.

"Because," he went on, "you go about it scientifically, and you
never jump at conclusions, or accept them, until they're
indubitably warranted."

I declared myself duly grateful for the Chief's kind words, but I
was secretly a bit chagrined. A detective's ambition is to be,
considered capable of jumping at conclusions, only the
conclusions must always prove to be correct ones.

But though I am an earnest and painstaking worker, though my
habits are methodical and systematic, and though I am
indefatigably patient and persevering, I can never make those
brilliant deductions from seemingly unimportant clues that
Fleming Stone can. He holds that it is nothing but observation
and logical inference, but to me it is little short of
clairvoyance.

The smallest detail in the way of evidence immediately connotes
in his mind some important fact that is indisputable, but which
would never have occurred to me. I suppose this is largely a
natural bent of his brain, for I have not yet been able to
achieve it, either by study or experience.

Of course I can deduce some facts, and my colleagues often say I
am rather clever at it, but they don't know Fleming Stone as well
as I do, and don't realize that by comparison with his talent
mine is insignificant.

And so, it is both by way of entertainment, and in hope of
learning from him, that I am with him whenever possible, and
often ask him to "deduce" for me, even at risk of boring him, as,
unless he is in the right mood, my requests sometimes do.

I met him accidentally one morning when we both chanced to go
into a basement of the Metropolis Hotel in New York to have our
shoes shined.

It was about half-past nine, and as I like to get to my office by
ten o'clock, I looked forward to a pleasant half-hour's chat with
him. While waiting our turn to get a chair, we stood talking,
and, seeing a pair of shoes standing on a table, evidently there
to be cleaned, I said banteringly:

"Now, I suppose, Stone, from looking at those shoes, you can
deduce all there is to know about the owner of them."

I remember that Sherlock Holmes wrote once, "From a drop of
water, a logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a
Niagara without having seen or heard of one or the other," but
when I heard Fleming Stone's reply to my half-laughing challenge,
I felt that he had outdone the mythical logician. With a mild
twinkle in his eye, but with a perfectly grave face, he said
slowly

"Those shoes belong to a young man, five feet eight inches high.
He does not live in New York, but is here to visit his
sweetheart. She lives in Brooklyn, is five feet nine inches
tall, and is deaf in her left ear. They went to the theatre last
night, and neither was in evening dress."

"Oh, pshaw!" said I, "as you are acquainted with this man, and
know how he spent last evening, your relation of the story
doesn't interest me."

"I don't know him," Stone returned; "I've no idea what his name
is, I've never seen him, and except what I can read from these
shoes I know nothing about him."

I stared at him incredulously, as I always did when confronted by
his astonishing "deductions," and simply said

"Tell this little Missourian all about it."

"It did sound well, reeled off like that, didn't it?" he
observed, chuckling more at my air of eager curiosity than at his
own achievement. "But it's absurdly easy, after all. He is a
young man because his shoes are in the very latest, extreme, not
exclusive style. He is five feet eight, because the size of his
foot goes with that height of man, which, by the way, is the
height of nine out of ten men, any way. He doesn't live in New
York or he wouldn't be stopping at a hotel. Besides, he would be
down-town at this hour, attending to business."

"Unless he has freak business hours, as you and I do," I put in.

"Yes, that might be. But I still hold that he doesn't live in
New York, or he couldn't be staying at this Broadway hotel
overnight, and sending his shoes down to be shined at half-past
nine in the morning. His sweetheart is five feet nine, for that
is the height of a tall girl. I know she is tall, for she wears
a long skirt. Short girls wear short skirts, which make them
look shorter still, and tall girls wear very long skirts, which
make them look taller."

"Why do they do that?" I inquired, greatly interested.

"I don't know. You'll have to ask that of some one wiser than I.
But I know it's a fact. A girl wouldn't be considered really
tall if less than five feet nine. So I know that's her height.
She is his sweetheart, for no man would go from New York to
Brooklyn and bring a lady over here to the theatre, and then take
her home, and return to New York in the early hours of the
morning, if he were not in love with her. I know she lives in
Brooklyn, for the paper says there was a heavy shower there last
night, while I know no rain fell in New York. I know that they
were out in that rain, for her long skirt became muddy, and in
turn muddied the whole upper of his left shoe. The fact that
only the left shoe is so soiled proves that he walked only at her
right side, showing that she must be deaf in her left ear, or he
would have walked part of the time on that side. I know that
they went to the theatre in New York, because he is still
sleeping at this hour, and has sent his boots down to be cleaned,
instead of coming down with them on his feet to be shined here.
If he had been merely calling on the girl in Brooklyn, he would
have been home early, for they do not sit up late in that
borough. I know they went to the theatre, instead of to the
opera or a ball, for they did not go in a cab, otherwise her
skirt would not have become muddied. This, too, shows that she
wore a cloth skirt, and as his shoes are not patent leathers, it
is clear that neither was in evening dress."

I didn't try to get a verification of Fleming Stone's assertions;
I didn't want any. Scores of times I had known him to make
similar deductions and in cases where we afterward learned the
facts, he was invariably correct. So, though we didn't follow up
this matter, I was sure he was right, and, even if he hadn't
been, it would not have weighed heavily against his large
proportion of proved successes.

We separated then, as we took chairs at some distance from each
other, and, with a sigh of regret that I could never hope to go
far along the line in which Stone showed such proficiency, I
began to read my morning paper.

Fleming Stone left the place before I did, nodding a good-by as
he passed me, and a moment after, my own foot-gear being in
proper condition, I, too, went out, and went straight to my
office.

As I walked the short distance, my mind dwelt on Stone's
quick-witted work. Again I wished that I possessed the kind of
intelligence that makes that sort of thing so easy. Although
unusual, it is, after all, a trait of many minds, though often,
perhaps, unrecognized and undeveloped by its owner. I dare say
it lies dormant in men who have never had occasion to realize its
value. Indeed, it is of no continuous value to anyone but a
detective, and nine detectives out of ten do not possess it.

So I walked along, envying my friend Stone his gift, and reached
my office just at ten o'clock as was my almost invariable habit.

"Hurry up, Mr. Burroughs!" cried my office-boy, as I opened the
door. "You're wanted on the telephone."

Though a respectful and well-mannered boy, some excitement had
made him a trifle unceremonious, and I looked at him curiously as
I took up the receiver.

But with the first words I heard, the office-boy was forgotten,
and my own nerves received a shock as I listened to the message.
It was from the Detective Bureau with which I was connected, and
the superintendent himself was directing me to go at once to West
Sedgwick, where a terrible crime had just been discovered.

"Killed!" I exclaimed; "Joseph Crawford?"

"Yes; murdered in his home in West Sedgwick. The coroner
telephoned to send a detective at once and we want you to go."

"Of course I'll go. Do you know any more details?"

"No; only that he was shot during the night and 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 of a servant.

We were driving along streets of great beauty. Large and
handsome dwellings, each set in the midst of extensive and
finely-kept grounds, met the view on either aide. Elaborate
entrances opened the way to wide sweeps of driveway circling
green velvety lawns adorned with occasional shrubs or
flower-beds. The avenues were wide, and bordered with trees
carefully set out and properly trimmed. The streets were in fine
condition, and everything betokened a community, not only
wealthy, but intelligent and public-spirited. Surely West
Sedgwick was a delightful location for the homes of wealthy New
York business men.

"Well, sir," said the coachman, with unconcealed pride, "Mr.
Crawford was the head of everything in the place. His is the
handsomest house and the grandest grounds. Everybody respected
him and looked up to him. He hadn't an enemy in the world."

This was an opening for further conjecture as to the murderer,
and I said: "But the man who killed him must have been his
enemy."

"Yes, sir; but I mean no enemy that anybody knew of. It must
have been some burglar or intruder."

Though I wanted to learn such facts as the coachman might know,
his opinions did not interest me, and I again turned my attention
to the beautiful residences we were passing.

"That place over there," the man went on, pointing with his whip,
"is Mr. Philip Crawford's house--the brother of my master, sir.
Them red towers, sticking up through the trees, is the house of
Mr. Lemuel Porter, a great friend of both the Crawford brothers.
Next, on the left, is the home of Horace Hamilton, the great
electrician. Oh, Sedgwick is full of well-known men, sir, but
Joseph Crawford was king of this town. Nobody'll deny that."

I knew of Mr. Crawford's high standing in the city, and now,
learning of his local preeminence, I began to think I was about
to engage in what would probably be a very important case.

II

THE CRAWFORD HOUSE

"Here we are, sir," said the driver, as we turned in at a fine
stone gateway. "This is the Joseph Crawford place."

He spoke with a sort of reverent pride, and I afterward learned
that his devotion to his late master was truly exceptional.

This probably prejudiced him in favor of the Crawford place and
all its appurtenances, for, to me, the estate was not so
magnificent as some of the others we had passed. And yet, though
not so large, I soon realized that every detail of art or
architecture was perfect in its way, and that it was really a gem
of a country home to which I had been brought.

We drove along a curving road to the house, passing well-arranged
flower beds, and many valuable trees and shrubs. Reaching the
porte cochere the driver stopped, and the groom sprang down to
hand me out.

As might be expected, many people were about. Men stood talking
in groups on the veranda, while messengers were seen hastily
coming or going through the open front doors.

A waiting servant in the hall at once ushered me into a large
room.

The effect of the interior of the house impressed me pleasantly.
As I passed through the wide hall and into the drawing-room, I
was conscious of an atmosphere of wealth tempered by good taste
and judgment.

The drawing-room was elaborate, though not ostentatious, and
seemed well adapted as a social setting for Joseph Crawford and
his family. It should have been inhabited by men and women in
gala dress and with smiling society manners.

It was therefore a jarring note when I perceived its only
occupant to be a commonplace looking man, in an ill-cut and
ill-fitting business suit. He came forward to greet me, and his
manner was a trifle pompous as he announced, "My name is Monroe,
and I am the coroner. You, I think, are Mr. Burroughs, from New
York."

It was probably not intentional, and may have been my
imagination, but his tone seemed to me amusingly patronizing.

"Yes, I am Mr. Burroughs," I said, and I looked at Mr. Monroe
with what I hoped was an expression that would assure him that
our stations were at least equal.

I fear I impressed him but slightly, for he went on to tell me
that he knew of my reputation as a clever detective, and had
especially desired my attendance on this case. This sentiment
was well enough, but he still kept up his air and tone of
patronage, which however amused more than irritated me.

I knew the man by hearsay, though we had never met before; and I
knew that he was of a nature to be pleased with his own
prominence as coroner, especially in the case of so important a
man as Joseph Crawford.

So I made allowance for this harmless conceit on his part, and
was even willing to cater to it a little by way of pleasing him.
He seemed to me a man, honest, but slow of thought; rather
practical and serious, and though overvaluing his own importance,
yet not opinionated or stubborn.

"Mr. Burroughs," he said, "I'm very glad you could get here so
promptly; for the case seems to me a mysterious one, and the
value of immediate investigation cannot be overestimated."

"I quite agree with you," I returned. "And now will you tell me
the principal facts, as you know them, or will you depute some
one else to do so?"

"I am even now getting a jury together," he said, "and so you
will be able to hear all that the witnesses may say in their
presence. In the meantime, if you wish to visit the scene of the
crime, Mr. Parmalee will take you there."

At the sound of his name, Mr. Parmalee stepped forward and was
introduced to me. He proved to be a local detective, a young man
who always attended Coroner Monroe on occasions like the present;
but who, owing to the rarity of such occasions in West Sedgwick,
had had little experience in criminal investigation.

He was a young man of the type often seen among Americans. He
was very fair, with a pink complexion, thin, yellow hair and weak
eyes. His manner was nervously alert, and though he often began
to speak with an air of positiveness, he frequently seemed to
weaken, and wound up his sentences in a floundering uncertainty.

He seemed to be in no way jealous of my presence there, and
indeed spoke to me with an air of comradeship.

Doubtless I was unreasonable, but I secretly resented this.
However I did not show my resentment and endeavored to treat Mr.
Parmalee as a friend and co-worker.

The coroner had left us together, and we stood in the
drawing-room, talking, or rather he talked and I listened. Upon
acquaintance he seemed to grow more attractive. He was impulsive
and jumped at conclusions, but he seemed to have ideas, though
they were rarely definitely expressed.

He told me as much as he knew of the details of the affair and
proposed that we go directly to the scene of the crime.

As this was what I was impatient to do, I consented.

"You see, it's this way," he said, in a confidential whisper, as
we traversed the long hall: "there is no doubt in any one's mind
as to who committed the murder, but no name has been mentioned
yet, and nobody wants to be the first to say that name. It'll
come out at the inquest, of course, and then--"

"But," I interrupted, "if the identity of the murderer is so
certain, why did they send for me in such haste?"

"Oh, that was the coroner's doing. He's a bit inclined to the
spectacular, is Monroe, and he wants to make the whole affair as
important as possible."

"But surely, Mr. Parmalee, if you are certain of the criminal it
is very absurd for me to take up the case at all."

"Oh, well, Mr. Burroughs, as I say, no name has been spoken yet.
And, too, a big case like this ought to have a city detective on
it. Even if you only corroborate what we all feel sure of, it
will prove to the public mind that it must be so."

"Tell me then, who is your suspect?"

"Oh, no, since you are here you had better investigate with an
unprejudiced mind. Though you cannot help arriving at the
inevitable conclusion."

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