The Mark of Cain

“How do I know what he meant? I ain’t a mind-reader! I tell you what he said, – I can’t make up a meanin’ for it too. And I ain’t got a right to tell this much. I don’t want to get nobody in trouble.”

The girl was almost in tears now, but whether the sympathy was for herself or another was an open question.

“You have heard, Miss Wilkinson, of testimony that means to be true, but is – er – inexact.” The coroner smiled a trifle, as if thus atoning for his own late slip. “Therefore, I beg that you will do your utmost to remember exactly what that message was.”

“I do, ’cause I thought it was such a funny one. The man said, ‘you’d better come, he’s set a trap for you.’ And Mr. Trowbridge says ‘I can’t go today, I’ve got an engagement’ And the other man said, ‘Oh, c’mon. It’s a lovely day, and I’ll give you some stephanotis.’”

“Stephanotis!”

“Yes, sir, I remembered that, ’cause it’s my fav’rite puffume.”

“Was Mr. Trowbridge in the habit of using perfumery?” asked Berg of Avice.

“Never,” she replied, looking at the blonde witness with scorn.

“I don’t care,” Miss Wilkinson persisted, doggedly; “I know he said that, for I had a bottle of stephanotis one Christmas, and I never smelled anything so good. And then he said something about the Caribbean Sea – ”

“Now, Miss Wilkinson, I’m afraid you’re romancing a little,” and the coroner looked at her in reproof.

“I’m telling you what I heard. If you don’t want to hear it, I’ll stop.”

“We want to hear it, if it’s true, not otherwise. Are you sure this man said these absurd things?”

“They weren’t absurd, leastways, Mr. Trowbridge didn’t think so. I know that, ’cause he was pleasant and polite, and when the man said he’d give him some stephanotis Mr. Trowbridge said, right off, he’d go.”

“Go to the Caribbean Sea with him?”

“I don’t know whether he meant that or not. I didn’t catch on to what he said about that, but I heard Caribbean Sea all right.”

“Do you know where that sea is?”

“No, sir. But I studied it in my geography at school, I forget where it is, but I remember the name.”

“Well it’s between – er – that is, it’s somewhere near South America, and the – well, it’s down that way. Did this man speaking sound like a foreigner?”

“N – no, not exactly.”

“Like an American?”

“Yes, – I think so.”

“Explain your hesitation.”

“Well,” said the girl, desperately, “he sounded like he was trying to sort of disguise his voice, – if you know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean. How did you know it was a disguised voice?”

“It was sort of high and then sort of low as if making believe somebody else.”

“You’re a very observing young woman. I thought you didn’t listen to telephone conversations of your employer.”

“Well, I just happened to hear this one. And it was so – so queer, I kind of kept on listenin’ for a few minutes.”

“It may be fortunate that you did, as your report is interesting. Now, can you remember any more, any other words or sentences?”

“No sir. There was a little more but I didn’t catch it. They seemed to know what they was talkin’ about, but most anybody else wouldn’t. But I’m dead sure about the puffumery and the Sea.”

“Those are certainly queer words to connect with this case. But maybe the message you tell of was not the one that called Mr. Trowbridge to the Park.”

“Maybe not, sir.”

“It might have been a friend warning him of the trap set for him, and urging him to go south to escape it.”

“Maybe sir.”

“These things must be carefully looked into. We must get the number of the telephone call and trace it.”

“Can’t be done,” said Detective Groot, who being a taciturn man listened carefully and said little. “I’ve tried too many times to trace a call to hold out any hopes of this. If it came from a big exchange it might be barely possible to trace it; but if from a private wire or a public booth, or from lots of such places you’ll never find it. Never in the world.”

“Is it then so difficult to trace a telephone call?” asked one of the jury. “I didn’t know it.”

“Yes, sir,” repeated Groot. “Why there was a big case in New York years ago, where they made the telephone company trace a call and it cost the company thousands of dollars. After that they tore up their slips. But then again, you might happen to find out what you want. But not at all likely, no, not a bit likely.”

Avice looked at the speaker thoughtfully. The night before she had asked the number of a call and received it at once. But, she remembered, she asked a few moments after the call was made, and of the same operator. Her thoughts wandered back to that call made by Eleanor Black, and again she felt that impression of something sly about the woman. And to think, she had the number of that call, and could easily find out who it summoned. But all such things must wait till this investigation of the present was over. She looked at Mrs. Black.

The handsome widow wore her usual sphinx-like expression and she was gazing steadily at Kane Landon. Avice thought she detected a look in the dark eyes as of a special, even intimate interest in the young man. She had no reason to think they were acquaintances, yet she couldn’t help thinking they appeared so. At any rate, Eleanor Black was paying little or no attention to the proceedings of the inquest. But Avice remembered she had expressed a distaste and aversion to detectives and all their works. Surely, the girl thought, she could not have cared very much for Uncle Rowly, if she doesn’t feel most intense interest in running the murderer to ground.

She turned again toward the coroner to hear him saying:

“And then, Miss Wilkinson, after this mysterious message, did Mr. Trowbridge leave the office at once?”

“Yes sir. Grabbed his hat and scooted right off. Said he wouldn’t be back all afternoon.”

“And you did not recognize the voice as any that you had ever heard?”

“No, sir.”

“And you gathered nothing from the conversation that gave you any hint of who the speaker might be?”

Whether it was the sharp eye of Mr. Berg compelling her, or a latent regard for the truth, the yellow-haired girl, for some reason, stammered out, “Well, sir, whoever it was, called Mr. Trowbridge ‘uncle.’”

Again one of those silences that seemed to shriek aloud in denunciation of the only man present who would be supposed to call Mr. Trowbridge “uncle.”

Berg turned toward Kane Landon. For a moment the two looked at each other, and then the younger man’s eyes fell. He seemed for an instant on the verge of collapse, and then, with an evident effort, drew himself up and faced the assembly.

“You are all convinced that I am the slayer of my uncle,” he said almost musingly; “well, arrest me, then. It is your duty.”

His hearers were amazed. Such brazen effrontery could expect no leniency. And too, what loop-hole of escape did the suspect have? Motive, opportunity, circumstantial evidence, all went to prove his guilt. True, no one had seen him do the deed; true, he had not himself confessed the crime; but how could his guilt be doubted in view of all the incrimination as testified by witnesses?