The House Opposite: A Mystery

“Mrs. Atkins,” said the detective, earnestly, “I do not think that you realise certain facts. A man has been murdered who has been identified, rightly or wrongly, with your visitor. Now, no one saw your friend leave the building, and it is our business to ascertain that he did so. Can you tell us what became of him?”

A hunted expression came into her eyes, but she answered in a steady voice: “My friend left me at a little after eleven; he was going to take the midnight train to Boston.” She paused. “His name is Allan Brown—there, now!”

“Thank you, madam, and what is Mr. Brown’s address in Boston?”

“I don’t know.”

“What was his address in New York?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Was he in any business?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, sullenly, with a glance at the door.

“Mrs. Atkins, you seem singularly ignorant about your friend,—your old friend.”

“Well, I hadn’t seen him for some years. He’s a stranger in the city.”

“Where is his home?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, impatiently.

“Are you a New Yorker, Mrs. Atkins?” inquired the detective.

“No.”

“Ah, I thought not! And where do you come from?”

“Chicago.”

“Chicago? Indeed! I’ve been there some myself,” Mr. Merritt continued, in a conversational tone. “Nice place. How long is it since you left there?”

“Six months,” she answered, curtly.

“So it was in Chicago you knew your friend?”

“Yes,” she admitted, with a slight start.

“And you are sure he didn’t belong there?”

“Yes; but look here: why are you asking such a lot of questions about him? I’ve told you his name and where he’s gone to, and if you can’t find him that’s your lookout.”

“The consequences of our not being able to find him would be much more serious for you than for me,” remarked Mr. Merritt, quietly.

“Now, Mrs. Atkins,” resumed the Coroner, “can you say in what particular Mr. Brown differs from this dead man?”

“Oh, they’re a good deal alike,” she replied, fluently,—but I noticed that she did not look in the direction of the corpse,—“only Mr. Brown’s younger, and not so heavy, and his nose is different. Still, the man does resemble Mr. Brown surprisingly. It gave me quite a shock when I first saw him.” It certainly had, only I wondered if that were the true explanation.

“Please tell us what you did yesterday.”

“I went out in the morning and I came home at about half-past five.”

“What were you doing during all that time?”

“Oh, several things; I called on some friends and did some errands.”

“Your husband has been out of town, I hear?”

“Yes.”

“When did he leave the city?”

“On Tuesday morning.”

“When did he return?”

“Last night.”

“At what time?”

“Half-past one.”

“Where did he come from?”

“Boston.”

“But surely the Boston train gets in a good deal earlier than that!” the Coroner exclaimed.

“Yes, there had been a delay owing to a slight accident on the line,” she reluctantly explained.

“Is Mr. Atkins often away?”

“Yes; he’s out of town every week or so, on business.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Atkins, that is all,” the Coroner concluded, politely. But the lady was not so easily appeased, and flounced out of the room without deigning to glance at any of us.

The detective slipped out after her—to call the maids, as he explained, but it was five or six minutes before he returned with the waitress.

After answering several unimportant questions, the girl was asked whether she had ever seen the deceased before. “No, sir,” she replied, promptly.

“Did anyone call on your mistress on Tuesday evening?”

“I can’t say, sir; I was out.”

“At what time did you go out?”

“At about a quarter to eight, sir.”