“Well,” I said, trying to speak naturally, “doesn’t that prove what I have been telling you? The man who committed the murder belonged to this berth, and made an exchange in some way after the crime. How do you know he didn’t change the tags so I would come back to this berth?” This was an inspiration; I was pleased with it. “That’s what he did, he changed the tags,” I reiterated.
There was a murmur of assent around. The doctor, who was standing beside me, put his hand on my arm. “If this gentleman committed this crime, and I for one feel sure he did not, then who is the fellow who got away? And why did he go?”
“We have only one man’s word for that,” the conductor snarled. “I’ve traveled some in these cars myself, and no one ever changed berths with me.”
Somebody on the edge of the group asserted that hereafter he would travel by daylight. I glanced up and caught the eye of the girl in blue.
“They are all mad,” she said. Her tone was low, but I heard her distinctly. “Don’t take them seriously enough to defend yourself.”
“I am glad you think I didn’t do it,” I observed meekly, over the crowd. “Nothing else is of any importance.
The conductor had pulled out his notebook again. “Your name, please,” he said gruffly.
“Lawrence Blakeley, Washington.”
“Your occupation?”
“Attorney. A member of the firm of Blakeley and McKnight.”
“Mr. Blakeley, you say you have occupied the wrong berth and have been robbed. Do you know anything of the man who did it?”
“Only from what he left behind,” I answered. “These clothes - ”
“They fit you,” he said with quick suspicion. “Isn’t that rather a coincidence? You are a large man.”
“Good Heavens,” I retorted, stung into fury, “do I look like a man who would wear this kind of a necktie? Do you suppose I carry purple and green barred silk handkerchiefs? Would any man in his senses wear a pair of shoes a full size too small?”
The conductor was inclined to hedge. “You will have to grant that I am in a peculiar position,” he said. “I have only your word as to the exchange of berths, and you understand I am merely doing my duty. Are there any clues in the pockets?”
For the second time I emptied them of their contents, which he noted. “Is that all?” he finished. “There was nothing else?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not all, sir,” broke in the porter, stepping forward. “There was a small black satchel.”
“That’s so,” I exclaimed. “I forgot the bag. I don’t even know where it is.”
The easily swayed crowd looked suspicious again. I’ve grown so accustomed to reading the faces of a jury, seeing them swing from doubt to belief, and back again to doubt, that I instinctively watch expressions. I saw that my forgetfulness had done me harm - that suspicion was roused again.
The bag was found a couple of seats away, under somebody’s raincoat - another dubious circumstance. Was I hiding it? It was brought to the berth and placed beside the conductor, who opened it at once.
It contained the usual traveling impedimenta - change of linen, collars, handkerchiefs, a bronze-green scarf, and a safety razor. But the attention of the crowd riveted itself on a flat, Russia leather wallet, around which a heavy gum band was wrapped, and which bore in gilt letters the name “Simon Harrington.”
CHAPTER VII
A FINE GOLD CHAIN
The conductor held it out to me, his face sternly accusing.
“Is this another coincidence?” he asked. “Did the man who left you his clothes and the barred silk handkerchief and the tight shoes leave you the spoil of the murder?”
The men standing around had drawn off a little, and I saw the absolute futility of any remonstrance. Have you ever seen a fly, who, in these hygienic days, finding no cobwebs to entangle him, is caught in a sheet of fly paper, finds himself more and more mired, and is finally quiet with the sticky stillness of despair?
Well, I was the fly. I had seen too much of circumstantial evidence to have any belief that the establishing of my identity would weigh much against the other incriminating details. It meant imprisonment and trial, probably, with all the notoriety and loss of practice they would entail. A man thinks quickly at a time like that. All the probable consequences of the finding of that pocketbook flashed through my mind as I extended my hand to take it. Then I drew my arm back.
“I don’t want it,” I said. “Look inside. Maybe the other man took the money and left the wallet.”
The conductor opened it, and again there was a curious surging forward of the crowd. To my intense disappointment the money was still there.
I stood blankly miserable while it was counted out - five one-hundred-dollar bills, six twenties, and some fives and ones that brought the total to six hundred and fifty dollars.
The little man with the notebook insisted on taking the numbers of the notes, to the conductor’s annoyance. It was immaterial to me: small things had lost their power to irritate. I was seeing myself in the prisoner’s box, going through all the nerve-racking routine of a trial for murder - the challenging of the jury, the endless cross-examinations, the alternate hope and fear. I believe I said before that I had no nerves, but for a few minutes that morning I was as near as a man ever comes to hysteria.
I folded my arms and gave myself a mental shake. I seemed to be the center of a hundred eyes, expressing every shade of doubt and distrust, but I tried not to flinch. Then some one created a diversion.
The amateur detective was busy again with the sealskin bag, investigating the make of the safety razor and the manufacturer’s name on the bronze-green tie. Now, however, he paused and frowned, as though some pet theory had been upset.
Then from a corner of the bag he drew out and held up for our inspection some three inches of fine gold chain, one end of which was blackened and stained with blood!
The conductor held out his hand for it, but the little man was not ready to give it up. He turned to me.
“You say no watch was left you? Was there a piece of chain like that?”
“No chain at all,” I said sulkily. “No jewelry of any kind, except plain gold buttons in the shirt I am wearing.”
“Where are your glasses?” he threw at me suddenly: instinctively my hand went to my eyes. My glasses had been gone all morning, and I had not even noticed their absence. The little man smiled cynically and held out the chain.
“I must ask you to examine this,” he insisted. “Isn’t it a part of the fine gold chain you wear over your ear?”
I didn’t want to touch the thing: the stain at the end made me shudder. But with a baker’s dozen of suspicious eyes - well, we’ll say fourteen: there were no one-eyed men - I took the fragment in the tips of my fingers and looked at it helplessly.
“Very fine chains are much alike,” I managed to say. “For all I know, this may be mine, but I don’t know how it got into that sealskin bag. I never saw the bag until this morning after daylight.”
“He admits that he had the bag,” somebody said behind me. “How did you guess that he wore glasses, anyhow?” to the amateur sleuth.
That gentleman cleared his throat. “There were two reasons,” he said, “for suspecting it. When you see a man with the lines of his face drooping, a healthy individual with a pensive eye, - suspect astigmatism. Besides, this gentleman has a pronounced line across the bridge of his nose and a mark on his ear from the chain.”
After this remarkable exhibition of the theoretical as combined with the practical, he sank into a seat near-by, and still holding the chain, sat with closed eyes and pursed lips. It was evident to all the car that the solution of the mystery was a question of moments. Once he bent forward eagerly and putting the chain on the window-sill, proceeded to go over it with a pocket magnifying glass, only to shake his head in disappointment. All the people around shook their heads too, although they had not the slightest idea what it was about.