The Mark of Cain

“Sorry,” said Pinckney, grinning at him. “Then I suppose we’ll have to call in somebody else. Of course, he won’t do as well as you, but if you’ve decided to throw the case over, why – ”

“Aw, can the guyin’!” and with a red, angry face, Fibsy jumped up and fairly ran out of the room and out of the house.

“Now you’ve made him mad,” said Avice, “and we’ll never know what he found in the way of clues.”

“He said, a shoe button, and some mud! We could hardly expect much from those treasures.”

Then Judge Hoyt came. His calls were frequent, and he continually tried to persuade Avice to announce their engagement. But the girl was perverse and said she must first solve the mystery of her uncle’s death. The judge was always willing to listen to her latest theories, but though he never said so, Avice felt pretty certain that he did not suspect the Swede.

She told him of Fibsy’s finds, and he said curiously, “What did he mean by mud?”

“He didn’t say mud,” corrected Avice, “he said dirt I think he meant soil or earth.”

“How would that be a clue? Any one can get some soil from the place, if they don’t take too much. A few square feet might be valuable.”

“Why pay any attention to that rubbishy boy?” exclaimed Pinckney. “Why not get a worth-while detective, and let him detect?”

“Yes, that’s the thing to do,” agreed Hoyt. “Duane stands well in the profession.”

“Alvin Duane! just the man,” and Pinckney looked enthusiastic. “But he’s a bit expensive.”

“Never mind that,” cried Avice; “I must find uncle’s murderer at any cost!”

“Then let’s have Duane,” and Judge Hoyt reached for the telephone book.

Meantime the administrators of law and justice were pursuing the uneven tenor of their way, hoping to reach their goal, though by a tortuous route.

“It’s a mighty queer thing,” said District Attorney Whiting, “I’m dead sure the western chap killed his uncle; we’ve even got his uncle’s word for it, and yet I can’t fasten it on him.”

“But,” said the chief of police to whom this observation was addressed, “aren’t you basing your conviction on that curious coincidence of names, Cain and Kane? To my mind that’s no proof at all.”

“Well, it is to me. Here’s your man named Kane. He’s mad at his victim. He goes to the place where the old man is. And as he kills him, the old man says, ‘Kane killed me.’ What more do you want? Only, as I say, we’ve got to have some more definite proof, and we can’t get it.”

“Then you can’t convict your man. I admit it’s in keeping with that young fellow’s western ways to kill his uncle after a money quarrel, but you must get more direct evidence than you’ve dug up yet.”

“And yet there’s no one else to suspect. No name has been breathed as a possible suspect; the idea of a highway robber is not tenable, for the watch and money and jewelry were untouched.”

“What about the Swede?”

“Nothing doing. If he had killed the man, he certainly would have done it for robbery? What else? And then he would not have come forward and told of the dying words. No, the Swede is innocent. There’s nobody to suspect but Landon, and we must get further proofs.”

The District Attorney worked hard to get his further proof. But though his sleuths searched the woods for clues, none were found. They had the bare fact that the dying man had denounced his slayer, but no corroboration of the murderer’s identity, and the neighborhood of the crime was scoured for other witnesses without success.

The district attorney had never really thought the Swede committed the murder. A grilling third degree had failed to bring confession and daily developments of Sandstrom’s behavior made it seem more and more improbable that he was the criminal.

And so Whiting had come to suspect Kane Landon, and had kept him under careful watch of detectives ever since the murder, in hope of finding some further and more definite evidence against him.

But there were no results and at last the district attorney began to despair of unraveling the mystery.

And then Groot made a discovery.

“That Stryker,” he said, bursting in upon Whiting in great excitement, “that butler, – he’s your man! I thought so all along!”

“Why didn’t you say so?” asked the other.

“Never mind chaffing, you listen. That Stryker, he’s been taking out a big insurance. A paid-up policy, of, – I don’t remember how much. But he had to plank down between eight and nine hundred dollars cash to get it. And he used his bequest from old Trowbridge to do it!”

“Well?”

“Well, here’s the point. You know how those premiums work. After Stryker is sixty years and six months old, he can’t get insured at all, – in that company any way, and at those rates.”

“Well?”

“Well, and Friend Stryker reaches his age limit next week!”

“You’re sure of this?”

“Sure, I’m sure! I got it from the agent Stryker dealt with. The old fellow has been fussing over that insurance off and on for years; and now, just at the last minute, a man up and dies who leaves him enough money to get his insurance. Is it a coincidence?”

“At any rate we must look into it,” said Whiting, gravely. “What have you done?”

“Done? I’ve just found this out! Now’s the time to begin doing. I’ll search his rooms first, I think, and see if I can nail any sort of evidence. And by the way, on the day of the murder, it was Stryker’s day out, and he’s never given any definite or satisfactory account of how he spent the afternoon. For one thing, he wasn’t definitely asked, for nobody thought much about him, but now I’ll hunt up straws, to see how the wind blows.”

Groot went off on his straw hunt, and as it turned out, found far more decided proof of the wind’s direction than straws.

Inspector Collins and he came back together with their news.

“It’s Stryker, all right,” said Collins to the district attorney; “the handkerchief is his.”

“The handkerchief his?”

“Yes, we found others in his dresser just like it. It’s a peculiar border, quite unmistakable, and the size and textures are the same. Oh, it’s his handkerchief, for sure. And Sandstrom found it, just as he said, and he was scared out of his wits, – remember he saw the police there with the body, – so he hid the handkerchief, and was afraid even to wash it.”

“What’d he take it for?”

“Plain theft. Thought he’d make that much. Same way he took the milk bottle. Say, maybe Stryker laid a trap for Mr. Trowbridge, and maybe somebody else did tell him of it, over the telephone, as a warning!”

“Arrest Stryker as soon as possible,” said Whiting, “perhaps we’d better let the Swede go.”

“Sure let him go. He won’t make any trouble. I’ve got to know him pretty well, and I sort of like him.” Groot’s shrewd, old face showed a gleam of pity and sympathy for the wronged prisoner. “But how could we know it was Stryker’s handkerchief?”

“Where can we find him? Is he at home?”

“Guess he is now,” returned the detective. “They expected him in about five o’clock. I’ll go to the house myself, and a couple of chaps with the bracelets can hang around outside till I call ’em.”

At the Trowbridge house, Groot was admitted as usual. His visits had been rather frequent ever since the crime, but as he had done nothing definite, the family paid little attention to him.

He asked for Avice, and found her, with Judge Hoyt, in the library.