Cumberland made a deprecatory gesture. He spoke in a tone of the utmost sincerity.
“No one more than myself pities that unfortunate young man. If there is anything I can tell you or do that will aid him in any way, come to me at any time of the day or night and as often as you choose.”
I turned toward Mountfort to see how he was impressed by our host’s generous speech and I was amazed to see him grinning almost malevolently.
“Then why, Mr. Cumberland,” he asked in a voice barely above a whisper, “did you purchase so many eggs on the afternoon of March 29?”
“Eggs!” Cumberland cried quite rightfully startled out of his habitual calm; “what in heaven’s name do you mean?”
Mountfort drew a memorandum book from his pocket and with exasperating slowness turned the pages until he found the notation he was seeking.
“On March 29,” he read at length, “from Simon Greene, grocer, at four-thirty in the afternoon you purchased a dozen eggs which you carried home yourself.”
Graham Cumberland settled back in his chair and regarded Mountfort with an amused smile.
“We’ll grant that astounding fact,” he said good-humoredly, “but what has a quite ordinary household purchase of mine to do with Robert Marsh’s death?”
“But it wasn’t an ordinary household purchase. You see, just the day before your cook had purchased her usual weekly amount of three dozen.”
Cumberland shook his head and regarded my friend with a puzzled expression.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t quite see what you are driving at. Are you suggesting that I am extravagant in the matter of buying eggs? Or is it that you think eggs are bad—”
“No, no!” Mountfort broke in, “not bad. I think that they are the best thing in the world for a man who has just taken a huge dose of corrosive sublimate.”
Cumberland literally sprang from his chair. He towered over Mountfort and for an instant I thought he was going to strike my friend. Then he fairly shouted:
“What do you mean, you infernal fool!”
“I mean, Cumberland,” Mountfort answered with a deadly calm, “that when you poisoned Robert Marsh, in order to direct suspicion away from yourself you too drank of the deadly wine. But you had an antidote in the form of the whites of a dozen eggs ready to hand; you lived while Marsh died.”
Cumberland made a gesture of disgust and turned away.
“You’re mad, man — stark, raving mad,” he said contemptuously.
“Your plan was very clever,” Mountfort continued, “and had it not been for an accidental word from Tom here and a moment of inspiration that came to me when I needed it most, you would never have been found out. Grayson would have hanged for the murder you committed.
“It is probable that you wanted Marsh out of the way because you knew that while he was alive you would never be able to make the changes in the bank that would cover up your irregularities. Ha! You didn’t think I knew about the bank? As a matter of fact, I didn’t. I merely guessed, but the expression that crossed your face just then showed me that my guess was a good one.
“But to continue. You emptied your decanter of all but two glasses of wine and to this wine you added enough corrosive sublimate to kill a man. Then you arranged the seating of your guests on the tragic night so that Grayson, who was known to hate Marsh, would be near the wine and therefore the logical person to pour it when you called for it. He did pour it and Marsh died. Then everyone believed that he, Grayson, must have poisoned Marsh’s glass, since you yourself had drunk from the same decanter and suffered no bad effects. That was because no one had seen you rush to your bathroom after your guests had gone and drink down the whites of eggs that saved your life.”
“But do you think you can make a jury believe that silly yam?” Cumberland snarled.
“Yes. You see, I am able to show them the bottle in which the poison came and bring before them a druggist from a town fifty miles away who will swear that on the 26th of March he sold you a quantity of corrosive sublimate on the excuse that you wanted to kill an ailing dog.”
At Mountfort’s last statement, Cumberland straightened himself, and wheeling, dashed into his bedroom. Before either Mountfort or I could reach the door it was slammed to and bolted. Then as we pounded on its panels, we heard the sharp crack of a pistol shot. Mountfort stepped back and said:
“There, Tom, was Cumberland’s confession to the murder of Robert Marsh.”
III
Later that night after the authorities had taken charge in Cumberland’s house and Mountfort and I had made our depositions before the District Attorney, my friend told me how he had discovered Cumberland’s guilt.
“I deserve no credit, Tom,” he said modestly. “When I was in a highly keyed-up state, open to every sort of influence, you gave me a hint. I followed it — that was all.”
“I gave you a hint!” I repeated in amazement.
Mountfort nodded.
“Sounds silly, I know,” he continued, “but it’s a fact that from your using the word ‘antidote’ in something you were saying came the idea that set me on the right track. Remember, I was searching madly for someone besides Grayson who might have poisoned Marsh. Until you used that word it seemed impossible that anyone else could have done so, since all the witnesses agreed that only he had touched the decanter from which two glasses were served — one harmless, which went to Cumberland, and the other deadly. Then came my inspiration. You said ‘antidote’ and as suddenly as lightning illumines a dark sky my mind was lighted.
“I saw as in a vision how a man could poison another and keep himself from suspicion by taking some of the poison himself; saving himself from its deadly effects by taking an antidote already prepared. I left you and rushed to the library, where I read that the best antidote for corrosive sublimate was a mixture of the whites of eggs. The man toward whom my suspicions were now directed was, of course, Cumberland, since the poisoned wine came from his decanter and he was the man who had taken the other glass of wine poured by the innocent Grayson. I made the rounds of the groceries and dairies until I found the store where he had purchased a dozen eggs on the day of the murder. Then, hoping to find something else that might incriminate him, I went snooping around his house. And there, back of his bam in a pile of refuse, I found the parts of a broken bottle that had once contained corrosive sublimate. One of the pieces bore the druggist’s label. I wired to him and in less than an hour had a reply that proved to me that my case against Cumberland was complete. I found you and brought you to his house so that I might have a witness when I accused him. And that is all!”
The Man Who Was Two
by Harold Ward
I
To The Governor and Members of The Board of Pardons:
Some six years ago, according to the Daily Press, Captain John Conners of the Detective Bureau of the New York City Police Department was killed in a wreck of the Oscaloosa Limited between Chicago, Illinois, and Clinton, Iowa. His body, horribly mangled and disfigured beyond recognition, was shipped home, where it was buried with all the honors due a man of his position.
In view of the fact that his was the only body not positively identified, together with the further fact that he was a personal friend of the conductor, one James Barley, who testified at the inquest that he had talked with Conners not over five minutes before the wreck, his family and friends accepted the remains without question.