The Mark of Cain

As a result, one morning when she went to see Alvin Duane with, what she felt sure he must call real evidence, he was very much interested indeed.

“I hunted and hunted all through my uncle’s desk,” she said, fairly quivering with excitement, “and at last I was rewarded by finding this. It was tucked away in a pigeon-hole, and is evidently unfinished.”

She gave Mr. Duane a slip of paper with a few typewritten words on it. The paper was torn and a little soiled, but perfectly legible. “Should I ever be found dead by some alien hand,” the paper read, “do not try to track down my murderer. I do not anticipate this event, but should it occur, it will be the work of John Hemingway. Do not search for him; he cannot be found. But his motive is a just one, and if – ”

The writing ended abruptly, as if the writer had been interrupted and had never finished the tale.

“Who is John Hemingway?” asked Duane.

“I have no idea,” said Avice; “I never heard uncle speak of him. But there can be no doubt of the authenticity, as this is the writing of my uncle’s typewriter. I recognize the type.”

“Show me where you found it, Miss Trowbridge,” and going home with the girl, Duane examined the desk where she said she found the paper.

“I wonder it was overlooked so long,” he mused.

“No one has thought to go through the desk so thoroughly as I did,” she returned, with a wistful look in her eyes. “Will it save Kane?”

“It may go far toward it,” was the reply; “we must hunt up this man.”

“But my uncle says distinctly not to do that.”

“Such instructions cannot be regarded. In a case like this, he must be found.”

But no trace of the man named Hemingway could be discovered. However, the fact of the message having been written turned the tide of suspicion away from Landon to a degree, and to the best men of the force was assigned the task of discovering the identity or getting some knowledge of Hemingway.

It was a few days later that Judge Hoyt had a caller at his office. A card was brought in, on which, in straggling letters, he read:

“Terence McGuire.”

“That Fibsy!” he said, smiling at the card. “Show him in.”

So in walked Fibsy, into the office of the great lawyer, with an air of self-respect if not self-assurance.

“Judge Hoyt,” he began, without greeting; “I want to talk to you.”

“Very well, Terence, talk ahead.”

“But I want you to listen to what I say, ’thout makin’ fun o’ me. Will you?”

“Yes, I promise you that. But, I must tell you, I am a busy man, and I can’t spare much time this morning.”

“I know it, Judge; I haven’t been with Mr. Trowbridge five years fer nothin’! I know all about business.”

“You know a lot, then.”

“I mean, I know how busy a boss is, an’ how he hates to see anybuddy, ’cept by appointment, an’ all that. Yes, I’ve kep’ up with the guv’nor’s ideas, an’ I’m not the fool I look!”

Fibsy glanced up, as if surprised not to hear some humorous or sarcastic reply to this speech, but Judge Hoyt nodded, as if to a more self-evident observation.

“You see I’m aimin’ to be a big man, myself.”

“Ah, a lawyer?”

“No, sir; I’m goin’ to be a detective! I’ve got a notion to it an’ I’m goin’ to work at it till I succeed. But that’s what I came to see you about. You know this here Trowbridge murder case?”

“Yes, I know it.”

“Well, you know that feller Landon ain’t guilty.”

“Indeed, this is important information. Are you sure?”

“Now you’re makin’ fun o’ me. Well, I can’t blame you, I s’pose I am only a kid, and an ignerant one at that. But, Judge, I’ve found clues. I found ’em up on the ground, right near where they found the guv’nor’s body.”

“And what are your clues?”

“Well, when I told that Pinckney reporter about ’em, he snorted. Promise me you won’t do that, sir.”

“I promise not to snort,” said Hoyt, gravely. “Now, go ahead.”

“Well, sir, I found a button and a hunk o’ dirt.” It was with some little difficulty that the lawyer kept his promise. Though he might have used a more graceful term, he certainly felt like “snorting.” However, he only said, gravely, “What sort of a button?”

“A suspender button,” said Fibsy. And immediately he observed to himself, “Gee! I wonder why I lied then! Guess I’m born that way.”

But for some reason, he did not correct his mis-statement, and say truly, that it was a shoe button.

“Yes,” said Hoyt; “and the mud? What was the interest of that?”

“Well, you see, sir, it had a mark in it.”

“What sort of a mark?”

“The print of a boot heel.” And again Fibsy communed with himself. “Done it again!” he observed, in silent soliloquy. “Well, when I lie, onexpected, like that, I’m always glad afterward!”

Surely, the boy was well named! He had gone to Mr. Hoyt, fully intending to tell him of his “clues” and he had falsified in both instances.

Judge Hoyt was as attentive and considerate in manner as if talking to an equal.

“I know Terence,” he said, “that in the detective stories you are doubtless fond of, the eagle eyed sleuth sees a footprint, and immediately described the villain at full length. But I have never yet seen a footprint that amounted to anything as proof. Why, ninety-nine men out of a hundred would fit into the same footprint. Or, heelprint, I believe you said. Which, of course, would be even less distinctive.”

Fibsy looked at the speaker in genuine admiration. “That’s just true, sir!” he cried, eagerly. “The stories are full of footprints, but I’ve tracked out lots of ’em and I never found a good one yet.”

“Just what do you mean by ‘tracked them out’?”

“Why, I’ve watched by chance of a rainy day, when lots of men track mud into the outer office, and afterward, I fit my own shoe to ’em an’ by jiminy, sir, it fits inter every bloomin’ track!”

Hoyt looked interested. “You have gone into the subject carefully, almost scientifically.”

“Well, I’ve read such rediklus tales of such things, I wanted to see for myself. You know, I’m goin’ to be a detective.”