Back Aa

Ashton-Kirk, Investigator

<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> <h3>STILLMAN ASKS QUESTIONS</h3> It wanted a few minutes of three o'clock when Ashton-Kirk, still accompanied by the curious Pendleton, walked into the outer room of the coroner's suite. "Mr. Stillman will be here at any moment now," said Curran. Then lowering his voice and making a short little gesture from the elbow, he added: "These people are the ones he wanted to see." As he and Pendleton sat down, Ashton-Kirk looked at the persons referred to. The first was a thin, wiry little woman, unmistakably Irish, cleanly dressed and with sharp, inquisitive eyes. Engaged in a low-pitched conversation with her was a thick-necked German, heavy of paunch and with a fat, red face. The third was a spectacled young Jew, poring over a huge volume which he seemed to have brought with him. He had a tremendous head of curling black hair; his clothing was shabby. There was a rapt expression upon his face; plainly nothing existed for him at that moment outside the pages of his book. After a brief space, the coroner came in, "Ah, how do you do, gentlemen," greeted he. He was good-natured and strove to be easy; but his natural nervousness clung to him. "I am glad to see you." He looked at Curran and nodded at the three inquiringly. "Yes, sir," replied the clerk; "these are the parties." "Then we will get down to business." He opened a door and entered an inner room. "Will you come in?" he asked of Ashton-Kirk and Pendleton. They followed him at once; and Curran, addressing the little Irishwoman, said: "Now, Mrs. Dwyer, this way, please." She arose briskly and also entered the inner room. Stillman seated himself at a desk and carefully perched his glasses upon his nose. "I perhaps take more trouble than is customary in these cases," he said to Ashton-Kirk. "It is usual to hear statements, I believe, only when they are proffered as testimony at the inquest. But it seems to me that the office should be carried on in a more thorough way. Preparation, I think, is necessary to get at the facts." Then he faced the woman who had taken a chair beside the desk. "Your full name, please," said he. "Honora Dwyer. I'm a widow with four children; I live at 71 Cormant Street, an' me husban' has been dead these three years," declared she, in a breath. Stillman smiled. "You don't believe in keeping anything back, Mrs. Dwyer, I can see that," said he. "And a very good trait it is." He leaned back in his swivel chair and looked at her through the glasses. "You are the person who discovered the body of Mr. Hume, are you not?" "Yes, sir, I were," replied Mrs. Dwyer; "and God spare me such another sight." "Tell us about it," said the coroner. "I work as scrub woman for a good many in Christie Place an' the immejeat neighborhood," said Mrs. Dwyer, genteelly. "But I always gets to Mr. Hume's first." "You are quite sure you found the street door locked?" "Yes, sir." "And you noticed nothing unusual about the place?" "Only the open door to the store room, sir. Mr. Hume was always particular about closing up, sir. For a man who was in the habit of taking a sup of drink, sir, I'll say he was very particular." "When you noticed the door being open you went in at once, I suppose?" "No, sir; I did not. After I got me water, I set down on the top step to get me breath. When I saw the door stan'nin' open, thinks I to meself, thinks I; 'Mr. Hume is up early this mornin'.' But everything was quiet as the grave," in a hushed dramatic tone. "Sorra the sound did I hear. So I gets up and goes in. And in the front room I sees him lyin'. Mr. Hume was never a handsome man, sir; and he'd gained nothing in looks by the end he'd met with. God save us, how I ever got out into the street, I'll never know." She rocked to and fro and fanned herself with her apron. "It must have been a very severe shock, Mrs. Dwyer," agreed the coroner. "Now," after a pause, "do you know anything—however slight, mind you—that would seem to point to who did this thing?" Mrs. Dwyer shook her head. "Me acquaintance with Mr. Hume was a business one only, sir," she said. "I never set foot into his place further than the hall except on the days when I went to get me pay—and this morning, save us from harm!" "You know nothing of his friends then—of his habits?" "There is the Jew boy, outside there, that worked for him. He's a nice, good mannered little felly, and is the only person I ever see in the office when I went there, barrin' the boss himself. As for Mr. Hume's habits, I can say only what everybody knows. He were drunk when he engaged me, and he were drunk the last time I seen him alive." "That will be all, Mrs. Dwyer," said Stillman. "Thank you. Curran, I'll see the young man next." As Curran and Mrs. Dwyer went out the young coroner turned to his two visitors. "I am still assured that we have the motive for the crime in the attempt to steal the painting," he said. "But it will do no harm to get all the light we can upon every side of the matter. The smallest clue," importantly, "may prove of the utmost value at the inquest." Ashton-Kirk smilingly nodded his entire assent to this. Then Curran showed in the clerk. The young man still carried the thick volume and, when he sat down, laid it upon a corner of Stillman's desk. Its back was turned toward Ashton-Kirk and he noted that it was a work on anatomy such as first-year medical students use. "What is your name, please?" asked the coroner. "Isidore Brolatsky," replied the young man. "You are, or were, employed by Mr. Hume?" "As a clerk, yes, sir. I've been with him for some years." Brolatsky spoke with scarcely a trace of accent. "He didn't pay much, but then there wasn't much to do, and I had plenty of time to study." "Ah," said Stillman, encouragingly. "To study, eh?" "Yes. I've taken up medicine. There's a college up town that has night classes. I have been attending the lectures there and reading during the day. There's a big chance for physicians who can speak Yiddish. Not only to make money, but to do good." "I see." The coroner regarded him reflectively for a moment. "Now, Mr. Brolatsky, having worked for Hume for some years, you must have picked up some details as to his business and himself. Suppose you tell us all you know about both." The dark face of Brolatsky became thoughtful. "Mr. Hume was a hard man to get along with," he said. "He seemed ready to quarrel at any time with anybody. I don't recall a customer ever coming into the store that he didn't have some kind of trouble with before they went out. But he had a great knowledge of the things he dealt in. People came from far and near to get his opinion on items in their collections. His fees," with appreciation, "were large. "But there is one thing that I noticed about him. While he knew all about objects of art, he did not seem to care for them. He had no love for his trade, no sympathy, I may say, for the collectors who came to him. I wouldn't be going far from the truth if I said that he thought them all fools for paying their money for such things. And I know that he mocked them." "Humph!" Stillman looked at Ashton-Kirk, with surprise upon his face. "That seems odd. Men usually go into Hume's business through love of it." He turned once more to Brolatsky. "And he had no hobby of his own, no collection that he fancied more than another?" Brolatsky nodded amusedly. "Yes," he replied. "I was just coming to that. He did have a collection that he called his own. And he never sold an item from it as long as I was with him. Indeed, I think if anybody had offered to buy, he would have come to blows with him." Ashton-Kirk bent forward. For the first time since entering the room, he spoke. "And what was the nature of that collection?" he inquired eagerly. "Portraits," answered Isidore Brolatsky. "Prints, lithographs, mezzo-tints, engravings, paintings, it made no difference. And all of the same person. He had hundreds, I guess, and every one of them was of General Wayne." Ashton-Kirk leaned back in his chair with a faint breath of triumph. "When a portrait of General Wayne was offered him," continued Brolatsky, "he never haggled over it. He paid the price asked and seemed quite delighted to get it. It was a standing joke in the trade that if you wanted to get even with Mr. Hume for driving a hard bargain with you, all you had to do was to offer him a portrait of General Wayne. I never saw him refuse one. Even if he had dozens of duplicates, which often happened; still he'd buy." A look of great acuteness had settled upon the face of the young coroner. "There is a painting at one side of the show room," said he. "It is under a large green curtain. Is that of General Wayne?" "It is," replied the clerk. "And I believe that he valued it more than anything else that he owned." Stillman laughed with pleasure. "Now," said he to his visitors, "we are getting at it, indeed. Someone probably knew of the value he attached to this painting and planned to steal it, perhaps for a ransom. Hume has been suspected of doing this sort of thing himself before now. He was supposed to have engaged someone to do the actual work, I believe, as in the case of the Whistler portrait of the Duchess of Winterton. Suppose this someone," and Stillman rapped his knuckles upon the edge of the desk excitedly, "took the notion to go into the picture stealing business of his own account. Hume himself with his much prized portrait of General Wayne was ready at hand—and so," with a sweeping gesture, "what has happened, has happened." Pendleton, much impressed, looked at Ashton-Kirk. But the latter's thoughts seemed far away; his eyes were fixed upon the wall; his expression was of delighted anticipation. Stillman also noticed this non-attention to his reasoning, and a little wrinkle of discontent appeared between his brows. So he turned his gaze upon Brolatsky and spoke rather sharply. "Now, as to Mr. Hume's intimates? What do you know of them?" Isidore Brolatsky shifted in his chair; his long fingers began to drum upon his knees. "I have known of the matter of the Whistler portrait," said he, "but I never knew anything more about it than what I read in the newspapers. It happened before my time." "I'm not accusing you," said Stillman. "I'm asking you about Hume's friends." The clerk considered. "There was no one that I ever saw or heard of that you could call his friend, exactly," said he at length. "He made game of people too much to have any I guess." "Had he no associates—no one with whom he spent his time?" Brolatsky shook his head. "Perhaps so; but then I was only in Christie Place during business hours. I have heard that he frequently went out at night; but where I do not know." "Was there no one who came to visit him while you were there during the day. No one whom he spoke of in an intimate way?" Again the clerk shook his head. Stillman began to appear nonplussed. He looked at the other, pondering and frowning through his glasses. "Who came most frequently to the store?" he inquired finally. "Why, I think Antonio Spatola," said Brolatsky. "Was he a customer?" The clerk smiled. "Oh, no. He's a street musician. You may have seen him often about the city. He plays the violin and carries some trained cockatoos upon a perch." "What was the nature of his business at Hume's?" "If there was anything that Mr. Hume liked better than strong drink," said the clerk, "it was music. Antonio Spatola would come and play to him for hours at a time." "A lover of music who could stand the playing of a street musician for hours!" cried Stillman. "That's astonishing." "But," protested Brolatsky, "Spatola is a splendid musician. He's studied his instrument under the greatest masters in Paris, Rome and other European cities. He has played in the finest orchestras. But he never could keep a position because of his temper. He's told me himself that when aroused he doesn't know what he is doing." "I understand," said the coroner. "What sort of relations existed between Hume and Spatola outside the music? Were they friendly?" "No, sir. I might say just the reverse. For hours, sometimes, Mr. Hume would lie back in his chair with his eyes closed listening to the violin. Then, perhaps, he'd get up suddenly, throw Antonio a dollar or so and tell him to get out. Or maybe he'd begin to jeer at him. Antonio had an ambition to become a concert violinist. Ole Bull and Kubelik had made great successes, he said; and so, why not he? "This was usually the point Mr. Hume would take up in mocking him. He'd call him a curbstone fiddler, and say that he ought to be playing at barn dances and Italian christenings instead of aspiring to the platform. Spatola would get frantic with rage, and fairly scream his resentment at these times. "Often Mr. Hume would have him bring his trained cockatoos. And while he was making them go through their tricks, Mr. Hume would call him a mountebank, a side show fakir and other things, and tell him that he ought to stick to that as a business, for he could make a living at it, where he would starve as a violinist. I've often seen Antonio go out trembling and white at the lips with rage. Several times he's tried to injure Mr. Hume—once he took out a knife." "Hah!" said the coroner. "That was the time Mr. Hume called him 'Mad Anthony.' I also remember that Mr. Hume pulled aside the curtain and showed him the large painting of General Wayne, laughing and telling him that that was another Mad Anthony. He was so successful that day in arousing Spatola, that always after that, when he was drunk, he'd call the Italian 'Mad Anthony' and it never failed to infuriate him. "Do you know where this man Spatola lives?" "In Christie Place, sir; just about half a dozen doors from the store. I believe he rents a garret there, or something." Stillman seemed struck by this. "In view of the fact that the building was entered by way of the scuttle," said he to Ashton-Kirk, "I consider that a most interesting piece of information." "It may indeed prove so," was the non-committal reply. Once more the discontented crease showed itself upon the coroner's forehead; and again as he turned to Brolatsky, his voice rose sharply. "Next to Antonio Spatola, who came most to Hume's place while you were there?" "The next most frequent caller," returned the clerk, "was Mr. Allan Morris." Ashton-Kirk, glancing at Pendleton, saw him start. "And who," queried the coroner, "is Mr. Allan Morris?" "At first I took him to be a customer," replied Brolatsky. "And perhaps he was. He talked a great deal at times about engraved gems and would look at lists and works upon the subject. But somehow I got the notion that that was not just what he came for." "What caused you to think that?" asked the coroner. "His manner, partly, and then the fact that there seemed something between Mr. Hume and him—something that I never understood. Mr. Morris was another one that the boss used to make game of. Not so much as he would Spatola, but still a good bit. Mr. Morris always took it with a show of good temper; but underneath I could see that he too was sometimes furious." "About what did Hume deride him?" "That's what I never could quite make out. It always seemed as though it was something that Mr. Morris wanted. At first I got the notion that it was something that he wanted to buy and which Mr. Hume refused to sell; but later I changed my mind. There seemed to be more to it than appeared on the top. Both were very secretive about it." "I understand." Stillman's face wore a puzzled expression; it was as though this latter development worried him. But in a few moments he went on: "Do you know where this man Morris is to be found?" "Oh, yes. He's quite well known. Has an office in the Blake Building, and is employed just now, so I've heard, by the Navy Department." "You have visited Christie Place to-day?" "Yes, sir." "Did the police have you look about?" "Yes, sir. And so far as I can see, nothing has been taken." "The weapon that Hume was killed with, now. Do you know anything about it—did it belong to the store?" "The bayonet? No, sir." "Are you sure of that?" earnestly. "Positive. It was my duty to keep a complete list of everything we had in stock. We had other sorts of arms, but no such thing as a bayonet." There were a few more questions, but as they drew out nothing of interest, Stillman signified to Brolatsky that the interview was at an end. "Now, you will go with Mr. Curran to police headquarters on the next floor," said he, "and tell them what you have told me about this Antonio Spatola." Then he opened the door and stepped out. "Curran," they heard him say, importantly. "I want you to—" then the door closed, cutting the sentence short. Pendleton gazed fixedly at Ashton-Kirk. "I say," said he, "I'm not up in this sort of thing at all. I've been putting two and two together, and it's led me into a deuce of a state." Ashton-Kirk looked at him inquiringly; there was expectancy in the investigator's eyes, but he said nothing. "Perhaps you'll think that I'm all kinds of a fool," continued Pendleton, "and maybe I am. But here are the things that I'm trying to marshall in order. I'll take them just as they happened." He held up one hand and with the other began to check off the counts upon his fingers. "Yesterday you have a visit—a visit of a professional nature—from Edyth Vale. Last night she strangely disappears for a time. At a most unconventional hour this morning I find you at her door. Then I learn that you are on your way to look into the details of a murder that you had just heard of—somehow. Now I hear that Allan Morris, Edyth's fiancé, has been, in rather an odd way, upon familiar terms with the murdered man." He paused as he checked this last count, still regarding his friend fixedly. "I don't claim," he went on, after a moment, "that these things have anything to do with each other. But, somehow, they've got together in my mind, and I can't—" Here the door re-opened and Stillman entered, followed by the big German. "Just take a chair, Mr. Berg," said the coroner, seating himself at the desk and affixing his eyeglasses. The German lowered his form into the chair indicated and folded his fat hands across his monstrous paunch. "Your name in full—is what?" asked Stillman with formality. "Franz Berg. I sell me delicatessen at 478 Christie Place. I haf been there for fifteen years." "You were acquainted with the murdered man?" The delicatessen dealer unfolded his hands and waved them significantly. "I was aguainted with him—yes. But I was not friendly with him—no. He is dead, ain't it? Und it's not right to say someding about the dead. But he was no friend of mine." "I understand. But tell me, Mr. Berg, how late do you keep your place open?" "In the summertime—seven o'clock. But after dose theaters open, I stays me on the chob till twelve, or later somedimes. There is one—two—three what you call burlesque places, right by me; and no sooner do they close up, than right away those actor peoples come to buy. I do a goot business, so I keep open." "Then you were there until midnight last night?" "More later than that yet." "Was there any movement of any sort about Hume's place? Did you see or hear anything?" The great red face of Berg took on a solemn look. "It is maybe not ride that I should say somedings," complained he. "But if the law will not excuse me, I will say it, if it makes some more trouble or not." "It is vitally necessary," stated the young coroner, firmly, "that you tell me everything you know about this matter." "Well," said the delicatessen dealer, reluctantly, "last night as I stood by my window looking oudside on the street, I see me that Italian feller go by und turn in at the side door; a second lader I hear him go up the steps to Hume's place." "What Italian fellow do you refer to?" "He lifs close by me, a few doors away. His name is Spatola, und he plays the violin the gurb-stones beside." "What time was it that you saw him?" "Maybe elefen o'clock. I am not sure. But it was just a little while before I got me the rush of customers from the theaters." "Did you notice his manner? Was there anything unusual in his looks?" "I had me only a glimbs of him. He looked about the same as effer. He was in a hurry, for it rained a liddle; und under his coat yet he carried his fiddle." "If it was under his coat, how do you know it was his fiddle?" The German scratched his head in a reflective way. "I don't know it," said he at last. "But he somedimes takes his instrument inside there, und I just get the notion that it was so. Yes?" "When did he come out?" The man shook his head. "I don'd know," he said. "Do you mean that you saw no one come out?" "No; I did see someone come out. But first I see me someone else go in." "Ah! And who was that?" "I don't know his name; but I had seen him often before. He is a kind of svell feller. He had a cane und plendy of style." "And later you saw someone come out. Now, your use of the word 'someone' leads me to think that you do not know whether it was Spatola or the stranger." "I don'd," said Berg. "I was busy then. I just heard me someone rush down the stairs, making plendy noise, und I heard that drunken Hume lift up a window, stick out his head and call some names after him. My customers laugh und think it's a joke; but I am ashamed such a disgracefulness to have around my business yet." "If Hume called after the person who left," said Stillman, acutely, to Ashton-Kirk, "that eliminates one of the callers. It proves that Hume was still alive after the man had gone." "That is undoubtedly a fact," replied the investigator. Stillman turned upon Berg with dignity. "Surely you must have noticed the man if all that uproar attended his exit. You must have detected enough to mark a difference between an exceptionally well-dressed man and an Italian street musician." Berg shook his big head. "It was aboud twelve o'clock in the night-dime, und my customers besides I had to pay some attention to," stated he. The coroner was baffled by the man's positiveness. "Well," said he, resignedly. "What else did you see?" Berg shook his head once more. "Nothing else. Putty soon I closed up and went home." Then a flash of recollection came into his dull face. "As I went down the street I saw some lights in Hume's windows. One of them windows was open—maybe the one he sticked his head out of to call the man names—und I could hear him laughing like he used to do when he was trying to make a jackass of some peoples." The coroner pondered. At length he said: "This object that Spatola carried under his coat, now. Could it have been a bayonet?" "No, no," said Berg with conviction. "It vos too big. It vos bigger as a half dozen bayonets already." This seemed the limit of Berg's knowledge of the night's happenings; a few more questions and then Stillman dismissed him. The door had hardly closed when the telephone rang. After a few words, the coroner hung up the receiver and turned to his visitors. "I think," said he, with a smile of satisfaction, "that I've made the police department sit up a little. They talked to all three of these people before I had them, and didn't seem to get enough to make a beginning. But just now," and the smile grew wider, "I've heard that Osborne is on his way to arrest Antonio Spatola." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.