All the others of the party were of like opinion. None would admit being near Brayden, and it was the belief of all that he had lingered behind, respecting the evident desire of the inspectors to confer in private.
“Wuz all of you inspectin’ gents together when you heered Sam yell out?” the sheriff asked.
“All of us,” Berry declared. “I am very certain we were all in a group, and Brayden was alone about fifteen feet away. Perhaps twenty feet away.”
That was a good break for which Garth silently thanked the engineer. Unquestionably, his lagging behind with Brayden had not been noticed by any other member of the party. He was safe — let the damned sub-engineer testify himself black in the face, if he would, that somebody had pushed his chief over. He, Herb Garth, was safe!
V
“Well adjourn this here inquiry,” the coroner stated finally, “an’ re-convene in Springfield day after to-morrer. Thar’s got to be some investigatin’ done, an’ that’ll take time. All of us knows John Talbot, him bein’ raised hereabouts, an’ we knows he’s reliable. In th’ meantime, all of you gents bein’ well knowed to me, I’ll release you on your own words to hold yoreselves ready in Springfield for th’ investigation. This here session stands adjourned.”
On the day the coroner’s inquiry was slated to be held, the Springfield newspapers greatly pleased Herb Garth by coming out in a full expose of the cheating at the dam, and of the financial bankruptcy of Sam Brayden, who had done the cheating.
Suicide. Everybody agreed that Brayden, to escape the consequences of his crookedness, had leaped to his death on purpose.
“Things couldn’t have worked out better!” Garth exulted. “Nothing like being wise enough and quick enough to grab your opportunity when it presents itself, Herb, my lad! Sam, the poor rat, was always getting fooled by one of the impersonators — but not me! I know Old Man Opportunity by sight. No fake could impose on me!”
Garth was feeling very proud of himself, very safe and happy, when into the offices of the Big Rock Dam Company, in the late afternoon of the day for the coroner’s jury to decide its case, walked a small, unimportant looking man in middle life. He introduced himself to the assembled members of the inspection board, who at the time were whiling away the time playing poker, wondering why they had not yet been called to attend the coroner’s investigation.
“Inspector Radway, attached to the United States Commissioner’s office, Springfield,” he told them shortly. “I have with me a finger-print expert and I wish to take the prints of all of you gentlemen. Please get ready.”
“Say, what is all this?” Garth demanded arrogantly. “Are we thugs and murderers, to be subjected to humiliation like this—”
“That will be all from you, please,” Inspector Radway broke in, and he seemed to somehow have lost his look of insignificance. His eyes held a hard glare, and his voice was brittle. “Those of you who do not comply of your own volition will be arrested and forced to do so. Choose.”
Needless to say the finger-print man had no further trouble. After he had gone into an adjoining room with his sets of prints, Inspector Radway seated himself at a window, lit a cigar, and paid no further attention to the others in the room. Half an hour passed thus, and the inspector was called into the room with the finger-print man. When he returned he was briskly ready for business.
“On last Sunday night, at about the hour of midnight, Miss Gayle Crawford, secretary to Sam Brayden, came to my house and placed two letters in my hands. One was sealed, addressed to me. The other was unsealed, addressed to Miss Crawford. I shall read the latter letter first, as it is very explanatory.”
He took the letter from his pocket and read it aloud.
It ran:
Dear Miss Crawford:
If you have not received a message from me, either by phone or telegraph, before twelve o’clock Sunday night, please go at once and place the sealed letter accompanying this to you into the hands of the addressee.
(Signed)
The inspector paused briefly, then returned to the subject.
“Miss Crawford did not hear from Sam Brayden directly, but she had the news of his death late that night. She came and gave me the letter addressed to me. I shall read it.”
He took a second letter from his pocket, reading it aloud also.
Dear Radway:
You will find, in the lower right-hand drawer of my desk at the office, a partly emptied bottle of whisky and a whisky glass, both wrapped in tissue paper. Please have your expert go over both glass and bottle for finger-prints. You will find two sets on the bottle — mine and those of another. But one set will appear on the glass, and they will be those of the second man who handled the bottle. Then check those prints with the ones you have on record of Horace K. Bootan, the archswindler you Feds have been wanting so long.
The second set of prints are those of the man calling himself Herbert T. Garth.
(Signed)
Garth, rigid as sculptured stone, stared straight before him, across the desk and into the pale eyes of the inspector. He felt that the eyes of every other person in the room were upon him. Presently he relaxed, smiled, and took out a cigar.
“And, Mr. Inspector, were you foolish enough to swallow all that?” he asked lightly.
“Quit stalling, Bootan!” Radway snapped. “Your finger-prints, just taken, check with those on the bottle and glass, and they, in their turn, check with those of Horace K. Bootan — probably the rottenest swindler of recent times. You’re Bootan — and you can’t get away from it!”
Garth smiled. “Well, if the fingerprints say so, far be it from my intention to dispute with science,” he said, lighting a cigar. “What of it? A couple of years at Atlanta — then the free air again. Not so bad, eh, inspector?”
He was thinking of the million and more he had salted away, and of what life could still give him after his term should end. Well, they had him dead to rights as Bootan — but, and here he chuckled inwardly, he had them dead to rights in the murder of Sam Brayden. Let them pin that on him if they could!
“I am thinking, Bootan,” Radway said icily, “that the Federal prison at Atlanta will not be contaminated by having you as a guest this trip — or any other. The commissioner has decided to let you go to the State.”
The door of an adjoining office opened, and Sheriff Joe Storey, of Taney County, walked in. He said nothing, but placed a tissue-wrapped article on the desk in front of Radway. Then he seated himself beside the door into the corridor, his hard eyes fixed unwaveringly upon Garth’s puzzled face.
Radway unwrapped the article and exposed a nickeled badge to the eager eyes of those around the desk. The lettering on the badge read:
“This is the badge that Sam Brayden wore when he plunged to his death off the top of the dam last Sunday,” Radway’s cold voice announced. “When I got that letter of Sam’s I set my men to work at this end, and then hustled down to Big Rock and viewed the body, taking our fingerprint man with me to see what we could find.”
He paused, glanced sharply at Garth’s now pasty, puzzled face, then went on.
“Cook, our expert, noticed some smudges on the shining surface of Brayden’s badge,” he explained. “He got a good set of prints from it at once. The sheriff had already informed us that Sam had busily polished the badge just before starting on the trip which was to prove fatal to him. Sam, it seems, had a habit of absent-mindedly polishing the badge.”