Carolyn Wells - The Mark of Cain

Further questions brought nothing definite from Stryker, and he was succeeded by two of the maids. These frightened creatures were even less communicative, and it was with a sigh of relief that Coroner Berg gave up all attempt to learn anything from the household, and called on Judge Hoyt, feeling sure that now he would, at least, get intelligent testimony.

The Judge was too well known to be questioned as to his identity and the coroner proceeded to ask concerning his relations with the deceased.

“Lifelong friends, almost,” replied Hoyt. “We were at college together and have been more or less associated ever since. Unfortunately, I was out of town yesterday, or I might know more of Mr. Trowbridge’s movements. For I had expected to see him at his office, but was prevented by an unexpected call to Philadelphia. I wrote to Mr. Trowbridge that I could not see him until evening, and as the Philadelphia matter was connected with his business, I telegraphed from there that I would call at his house last evening, and give him my report.”

“And then Miss Trowbridge telephoned you?” observed the coroner, who had heard this before.

“Yes, and I came right up here, and was here when the police telephoned of their discovery.”

“Then as you can tell us nothing of yesterday’s events, can you throw any light on the case by anything you know of Mr. Trowbridge’s affairs in general? Had he any enemies, or any quarrel of importance?”

“No, I am sure he had no quarrel with any one who would go so far as to kill him. It seems to me it must have been the work of some of those Camorra societies.”

“Why would they attack him?”

“Only for purposes of robbery, I should say. But the dagger implies or may imply an Italian, for American citizens do not go around with such weapons.”

“That is true. And there may have been robbery of some valuables that we do not know of. But do you think, Judge Hoyt, that the Camorra is such a desperate menace? Are not fears of it exaggerated and unfounded?”

“There is a great deal of the real thing, Mr. Berg. When you consider that there are a million and a half Italians in America and six hundred thousand of them are in New York City, it is not surprising that many of their secret societies are represented here. Therefore, it seems to me, that circumstances point to a crime of this sort, whether for robbery or whether at the hire of some superior criminal.”

“It is certainly possible that if Mr. Trowbridge was desired dead by some enemy in his own rank of life, the actual deed might have been committed by a hired crook, whether of an Italian society or of a New York gang. And the fact of the information first coming from an Italian woman, gives plausibility to the foreign theory.”

“It may be, and if so, it may prove a very difficult matter to discover the truth.”

“You are right, Judge, and so far we have but the slightest shreds of evidence to work on. The articles found in the pockets of Mr. Trowbridge give absolutely no clues toward detection.”

At this, Pinckney pricked up his ears. Surely there must be a hint here, if one were but bright enough to see it.

All the others present, as well as the young reporter, looked on with eager interest as the contents of the pockets were exhibited.

There were a great many articles, but all were just what might be looked for in the pockets of a well-to-do business man.

Several letters, cards, memoranda and telegrams. The usual knife, bunch of keys, pencil, watch and money. Also a small pair of folding scissors and a couple of handkerchiefs.

In a gold locket was a portrait of Mrs. Black, but there was no other jewelry.

“Perhaps some jewelry was taken,” suggested a juryman, but both Avice and Mrs. Black were sure that Mr. Trowbridge had on none.

He was wearing a bow tie, and a soft shirt with its own buttons, the report informed them, so there was no occasion for studs or pin.

The letters were read, as of possible interest. There were two or three bills for personal matters. There was the letter Judge Hoyt himself had told of sending to announce his trip to Philadelphia. There was also a telegram from the Judge in Philadelphia saying,

Peddie agrees. Everything O. K. See you tonight.

All of these roused little or no interest. Judge Hoyt explained that Peddie was the man with whom he was making a deal with a real estate corporation for Mr. Trowbridge, and that the matter had been successfully put through to a conclusion.

But next was shown a letter so old that it was in worn creases and fairly dropping apart. It had evidently been carried in the pocket for years. Gingerly unfolding it, Coroner Berg read a note from Professor Meredith that was angry, even vituperative. The bone of contention was the classification of a certain kind of beetle, and the letter implied that Mr. Trowbridge was ignorant and stubborn in his opinions and his method of expressing them. There was no threat of any sort, merely a scathing diatribe of less than a page in length. But it was quite evident that it had hurt Rowland Trowbridge severely, as its date proved that he had carried it around for two years.

And there was another old letter. This was from Justice Greer and was a blast on some old political matter. Here again, a strong enmity was shown, but nothing that could be construed as an intimation of revenge or even retaliation.

Still there were the two letters from decided enemies, and they must be looked into.

Avice, in her own heart, was sure they meant nothing serious. Her uncle had held these two grudges a long time, but she didn’t think any recent or desperate matter had ensued.

Some newspaper clippings, most of them concerning Natural History, and a few elaborate recipes for cooking, completed the collection found in the pockets.

“Nothing in the least indicative, unless it might be those two old letters,” commented the coroner.

Pinckney was disappointed. He had hoped for some clue that he could trace. Like Avice, he thought little of the old letters. Those two eminent citizens were most unlikely to murder a colleague, or even to employ a rogue to do it for them. To his mind, there was nothing enlightening in all the inquest so far. Indeed, he had almost no use for the Black Hand theory. It didn’t seem convincing to him. He thought something would yet come out to give them a direction in which to look, or else the truth would never be discovered.

And then there was a commotion in the hall, and an officer came in bringing with him a big, husky-looking Swede, and a pale blue-eyed little woman.

“This is Clem Sandstrom,” the officer informed the coroner. “And this is his wife. You can get their stories best from them.”

The big foreigner was very ill at ease. He shuffled about, and when told where to sit, he dropped into the chair with his stolid countenance expressing an awed fear.

The woman was more composed, but seemed overwhelmed at the unaccustomed splendor of her surroundings. She gazed at the pictures and statues with round, wide eyes, and glanced timidly at Avice, as if the girl might resent her presence there.

“What is your name?” asked Berg of the big Swede.

“Clem Sandstrom, Ay bane a Swede, but Ay bane by America already two years.”

“Where do you live and what do you do?”

“Ay live up in the Bronnix, and Ay work at the digging.”

“Digging? Where?”

“Any digging Ay can get. Ay bane good digger.”

“Well, never mind the quality of your digging. What do you know of this murder of Mr. Trowbridge?”

“Last night, Ay bane goon home, through Van Coortlandt Park wood, and Ay heerd a man groan like he was dying. Ay went to him, and Ay lift his head, but he was nigh about gone then. Ay try to hold up his head, but it drop back and he say, a few words and he fall back dead.”