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Ashton-Kirk, Investigator

<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> <h3>THE SCHWARTZ-MICHAEL BAYONET</h3> As Ashton-Kirk and Pendleton sat in the former's library that evening after dinner, there came a knock upon the door and Fuller entered briskly. In his hand he carried a paper parcel which he laid upon a stand at the investigator's elbow. "This is the bayonet, sir," said he. "Mr. Stillman, the coroner, objected to letting me have it at first, but changed his mind after I had talked to him for a while." "Did you take the photograph to Berg in Christie Place?" "Yes, sir. He recognized it at once as that of the person in question." "And you made inquiries upon the other point?" "I did. Neither Mr. Stillman nor any of the men who removed the body of Hume have been out of town within a week. I also questioned Mr. Osborne; his answer was the same. Brolatsky's reply was similar; and he also said that Hume had not ridden on a railroad in years." "That will be all, Fuller; thank you." The brisk young man had reached the door when the investigator added: "One moment." He scribbled something upon a pad, tore off the leaf and handed it to his aid. "Look these things up at once." Fuller took the paper, glanced at it and then replied: "Very well, sir." Seated in his big chair with the jar of Greek tobacco and sheaf of brown paper wrappers before him, Ashton-Kirk did not display any haste in removing the covering from the bayonet that had let the life out of the art dealer. Rather he sank deeper into the arms of the chair; the cigarette end became gray and dead between his fingers; the strangely brilliant eyes closed as though he had fallen asleep. But Pendleton, who understood his friend's ways, knew better; the keen, swift-moving mind was but arranging the developments of the day, weighing them, giving to each its proper value. A little later and the eyes would unclose, more than likely alight with some new idea, some fresh purpose drawn from his reflections. And as Pendleton waited he, too, fell into a musing state and also began marshaling the facts as he saw them. Ashton-Kirk, during dinner, had told him those regarding the visit of Edyth Vale the day before. "Pen, you know I don't usually do this," the investigator had informed him. "But as you know so much already, and your feelings in the matter being what they are, I think it best that you should know more." And now Pendleton, as he rolled and consumed cigarette after cigarette, went over the facts as they had been laid before him. "And Morris," said he to himself, as he reached the end of his friend's recital; "now what sort of a mess has Allan Morris got himself into? And after he had got into it, why in heaven's name didn't he keep quiet about it? What good could come from Edyth's knowing it?" Then the fact that Morris had apparently tried to keep his secret from Miss Vale presented itself. But Pendleton dismissed it with contempt. "Tried!" he said to himself. "Of course; but how? By marching up and down the floor. By a great parade of tragic despair; by sighs and the wringing of his hands. I've always suspected Morris of being a bit theatrical—and now I am sure of it." He roused himself for a moment, lighted a fresh cigarette and settled back once more. "I'm not Kirk by any means," he reflected, "and this sort of thing is altogether out of my line. But it seems clear that Edyth—after leaving here yesterday—received some unexpected news. When she was here, consulting Kirk, she was, to all appearances, in a quandary—helpless. She did not know how to proceed; she understood nothing. But her darting off alone that way after midnight proves that some sort of a crisis had come up. She had heard something—more than likely through Morris. He probably," with great contempt, "became hysterical again, couldn't contain himself and blabbed everything—whatever it was." Then he burst out aloud, angrily. "She went to Hume's last night because she had reason to think Morris would be there. And if the truth were known, Morris was there." "My dear fellow," said the voice of Ashton-Kirk, "the truth, upon that particular point, at least, is known. Allan Morris was at Hume's last night. He was the man whom Berg saw enter after the musician." "How do you know?" asked Pendleton, astonished. "Fuller, with a report which he recently made upon Morris, handed me a photograph of that gentleman. While we were at dinner, Berg identified the portrait as being that of Hume's secret visitor." "I was right, then. Edyth did go there expecting to meet him—to protect him, perhaps. If you knew her as well as I do, Kirk, you'd realize that it's just the sort of thing she'd do. But," positively, "she did not find him there." "What makes you think that? There was still one of Hume's visitors left, when she got there. It may have been Morris." "It was Spatola," answered Pendleton, with conviction. "The scream of the cockatoo which came from Hume's rooms when the pistol was discharged proves it. When Spatola went in, Berg said he was carrying something under his coat. Brolatsky told the coroner this morning that the Italian sometimes brought his trained birds with him when he called at Hume's. That's what he had last night." But Ashton-Kirk shook his head. "At this time," he said, "it will scarcely do to be positive on some things. Indications are plenty, but they must be worked out. I have some theories of my own upon the very point that you have just covered, but I will not venture a decided statement until I have proven them to the limit. It's the only safe way." Pendleton discontentedly hitched forward in his chair. "I thought," said he, "that you worked entirely by putting this and that together." "That is precisely what I do," returned Ashton-Kirk. "But I have found, through experience, that there must be no loose ends left to hang. Such things are treacherous; you never know when they'll trip you up and upset all your calculations." He paused a moment and regarded his friend steadfastly. Then he continued. "But, just now, I think we had better not trouble ourselves about Edyth Vale and Allan Morris. To be sure, the latter's connection with the affair is peculiar; Miss Vale's visit to Hume's last night, the sounds which Sams heard immediately after she had gone in—her turning out of the gas and hurried flight, are also strange and significant enough. But they are perhaps the very end of the story; and it is best never to begin at the end." "Is there any way by which you can begin at what you think is the beginning?" asked the other. Ashton-Kirk took up the parcel which Fuller had laid at his elbow. "Here is one way," he answered. "Let us see where it leads us." He stripped off the wrapper, and the bayonet which had killed the numismatist was revealed, blood-clotted and ugly. Carefully the investigator examined the broad, powerful blade and heavy bronze hilt. "A Schwartz-Michael, just as I thought," he said. "The maker's name is upon it then?" said Pendleton. But the other shook his head. "No," said he. "But it happens that I have given some attention to arms, and the bayonet, though a weapon that is passing, came in for its share." He balanced the murderous-looking thing in his hand and proceeded. "There are not many types of bayonets. The first was what they called a 'Plug,' because it was made to fit into the muzzle of a flint, or match-lock. Then there was the socket bayonet, the ring bayonet and an improved weapon invented by an English officer named Chillingworth which met with much favor in the armies of Europe. But the latest development is the sword bayonet, of which this is an example. Its form is a great improvement over the older makes; it is an almost perfect side arm as well, having a cutting edge, a point, and a grip exactly like that of a sword. There are a number of makes of this type; the Schwartz-Michael is one of the least known of these. Upon its being placed on the market it was adopted by three governments—Bolivia, Servia, and Turkey—and there it stopped." He laid the weapon upon the table and settled himself back in his chair. "It struck me when I first saw the thing," he went on, "that it was a little singular that a Schwartz-Michael should even find its way into the United States. Now, it would not surprise me to find an English revolver in Patagonia, or an American rifle in Thibet, because they are universally known and used. Any one might carry them. But a bayonet is different, of course; it is a strictly military arm, and its utility is limited. That a criminal should select one with which to commit a murder is unusual; and, further; the fact that the make is one never introduced into the United States is rather remarkable." "It is—a little," agreed Pendleton. "It is a small thing, but all clews are small things. Now there are many ways in which such a weapon might find its way into the country; but I took the most likely of these as a beginning. Before I dressed for dinner, I ran over a rather complete card-index system which I maintain; and within a few minutes learned that the republic of Bolivia had, within the past year, changed both the rifle and bayonet used by its army." "Well?" asked Pendleton, with interest. "When a nation makes such a change, the discarded arms are usually bought up by some large speculator or dealer in such things. And in the course of time they find their way to the military goods dealers who exist all over the world." Here Fuller entered the room, and Ashton-Kirk turned to him inquiringly. "Well?" "In the morning Standard of April 9th," announced the young man, "I find an advertisement of Bernstine Brothers relative to a sale of condemned army equipment." "Is anything specified?" "They considered it important that high-power modern rifles were to be sold at a very small price. And they also lay some stress upon the fact that the stuff had been in use by the Bolivian army." Pendleton saw a look of satisfaction come into his friend's eyes. But there was no other evidence of anything unusual. "And now," said the investigator, quietly, "with regard to this other matter." "I find that there are two schools for mutes in this section," answered Fuller. "But both are some distance out of town." The satisfaction in Ashton-Kirk's singular eyes deepened. "Excellent," said he. "One is on the main line—Kittridge Station; the other is on the Hammondsville Branch at a place called Cordova." "Thank you," said Ashton-Kirk. And when the door had once more closed behind his aid, the investigator continued to Pendleton: "I figured upon some of the equipment reaching here. Military goods houses, such as Bernstine's, usually advertise each lot they receive; and I considered it possible that the murderer might have been attracted by this notice and procured the weapon from them. If he did, we may get some trace of him by inquiring at Bernstine's. But," flinging his arms wide and yawning as though weary of the subject, "that is work for to-morrow. To-night we will rest and prepare for what is to come. But in the meantime," arising with enthusiasm, "let me show you a first edition of the 'Knickerbocker's History of New York' which I picked up recently." He went to his book-shelves and took down two faded volumes. With eager hands Pendleton took them from him. "Original covers!" cried he. "Binding unbroken; in perfect condition inside; not a spot or a stain anywhere." Then he regarded his friend with undisguised envy. "Kirk," said he, "you're a lucky dog. You can dig up more good things than anybody else that I know." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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