The Craig Kennedy Scientific Detective MEGAPACK ®. Brander Matthews
“It looks to me more like a case of apoplexy.”
“What shall we do?” asked Winters. “Far from clearing anything up, this complicates it.”
“Where’s Muller?” asked Kennedy. “Does he know? Perhaps he can shed some light on it.”
The clang of an ambulance bell outside told that the aid summoned by Winters had arrived.
We left the body in charge of the surgeon and of a policeman who arrived about the same time, and followed Winters.
Muller lived in a cheap boarding house in a shabbily respectable street downtown, and without announcing ourselves we climbed the stairs to his room. He looked up surprised but not disconcerted as we entered.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Muller,” shot out Winters, “we have just found Mr. Schloss dead!”
“D-dead!” he stammered.
The man seemed speechless with horror.
“Yes, and with his grips packed as if to run away.”
Muller looked dazedly from one of us to the other, but shut up like a clam.
“I think you had better come along with us as a material witness,” burst out Winters roughly.
Kennedy said nothing, leaving that sort of third degree work to the detective. But he was not idle, as Winters tried to extract more than the monosyllables, “I don’t know,” in answer to every inquiry of Muller about his employer’s life and business.
A low exclamation from Craig attracted my attention from Winters. In a corner he had discovered a small box and had opened it. Inside was a dry battery and a most peculiar instrument, something like a little flat telephone transmitter yet attached by wires to earpieces that fitted over the head after the manner of those of a wireless detector.
“What’s this?” asked Kennedy, dangling it before Muller.
He looked at it phlegmatically. “A deaf instrument I have been working on,” replied the jeweler. “My hearing is getting poor.”
Kennedy looked hastily from the instrument to the man.
“I think I’ll take it along with us,” he said quietly.
Winters, true to his instincts, had been searching Muller in the meantime. Besides the various assortment that a man carries in his pockets usually, including pens, pencils, notebooks, a watch, a handkerchief, a bunch of keys, one of which was large enough to open a castle, there was a bunch of blank and unissued pawn-tickets bearing the name, “Stein’s One Per Cent. a Month Loans,” and an address on the Bowery.
Was Muller the “fence” we were seeking, or only a tool for the “fence” higher up? Who was this Stein?
What it all meant I could only guess. It was a far cry from the wealth of Diamond Lane to a dingy Bowery pawnshop, even though pawnbroking at one per cent. a month—and more, on the side—pays. I knew, too, that diamonds are hoarded on the East Side as nowhere else in the world, outside of India. It was no uncommon thing, I had heard, for a pawnbroker whose shop seemed dirty and greasy to the casual visitor to have stored away in his vault gems running into the hundreds of thousands of dollars.
“Mrs. Moulton must know of this,” remarked Kennedy. “Winters, you and Jameson bring Muller along. I am going up to the Deluxe.”
I must say that I was surprised at finding Mrs. Moulton there. Outside the suite Winters and I waited with the unresisting Muller, while Kennedy entered. But through the door which he left ajar I could hear what passed.
“Mrs. Moulton,” he began, “something terrible has happened—”
He broke off, and I gathered that her pale face and agitated manner told him that she knew already.
“Where is Mr. Moulton?” he went on, changing his question.
“Mr. Moulton is at his office,” she answered tremulously. “He telephoned while I was out that he had to work tonight. Oh, Mr. Kennedy—he knows—he knows. I know it. He has avoided me ever since I missed the replica from-”
“Sh!” cautioned Craig. He had risen and gone to the door.
“Winters,” he whispered, “I want you to go down to Lynn Moulton’s office. Meanwhile Jameson can take care of Muller. I am going over to that place of Stein’s presently. Bring Moulton up there. You will wait here, Walter, for the present,” he nodded.
He returned to the room where I could hear her crying softly.
“Now, Mrs. Moulton,” he said gently, “I’m afraid I must trouble you to go with me. I am going over to a pawnbroker’s on the Bowery.”
“The Bowery?” she repeated, with a genuinely surprised shudder. “Oh, no, Mr. Kennedy. Don’t ask me to go anywhere tonight. I am— I am in no condition to go anywhere—to do anything—I—”
“But you must,” said Kennedy in a low voice.
“I can’t. Oh—have mercy on me. I am terribly upset. You—”
“It is your duty to go, Mrs. Moulton,” he repeated.
“I don’t understand.” she murmured. “A pawnbroker’s?”
“Come,” urged Kennedy, not harshly but firmly, then, as she held back, added, playing a trump card, “We must work quickly. In his hands we found the fragments of a torn dress. When the police—”
She uttered a shriek. A glance had told her, if she had deceived herself before, that Kennedy knew her secret.
Antoinette Moulton was standing before him, talking rapidly.
“Some one has told Lynn. I know it. There is nothing now that I can conceal. If you had come half an hour later you would not have found me. He had written to Mr. Schloss, threatening him that if he did not leave the country he would shoot him at sight. Mr. Schloss showed me the letter.
“It had come to this. I must either elope with Schloss, or lose his aid. The thought of either was unendurable. I hated him—yet was dependent on him.
“Tonight I met him, in his empty apartment, alone. I knew that he had what was left of his money with him, that everything was packed up. I went prepared. I would not elope. My plan was no less than to make him pay the balance on the necklace that he had lost—or to murder him.
“I carried a new pistol in my muff, one which Lynn had just bought. I don’t know how I did it. I was desperate.
“He told me he loved me, that Lynn did not, never had—that Lynn had married me only to show off his wealth and diamonds, to give him a social! position—that I was merely a—a piece of property—a dummy.
“He tried to kiss me. It was revolting. I struggled away from him.
“And in the struggle, the revolver fell from my muff and exploded on the floor.
“At once he was aflame with suspicion.
“‘So—it’s murder you want!’ he shouted. ‘Well, murder it shall be!’
“I saw death in his eye as he seized my arm. I was defenseless now. The old passion came over him. Before he killed—he—would have his way with me.
“I screamed. With a wild effort I twisted away from him.
“He raised his hand to strike me, I saw his eyes, glassy. Then he sank back—fell to the floor—dead of apoplexy—dead of his furious emotions.
“I fled.
“And now you have found me.”
She had turned, hastily, to leave the room. Kennedy blocked the door.
“Mrs. Moulton,” he said firmly, “listen to me. What was the first question you asked me? ‘Can I trust you?’