The Dead Letter · Part I · Chapter 1 5 (2/3)

Desiring to secure the services of the particular detective whom Mr. Moreland had recommended, I asked the subordinate in attendance, if he could inform me where Mr. Burton was to be found.

“Burton? I don’t know of anyone of that name, I think⁠—if I may except my stage experience with Mr. Toodles,” he added, with a smile, called up by some passing vision of his last visit to the theater.

“Then there is no Mr. Burton belongs to your force?”

“Not that I am acquainted with. He may be one of us, for all that. We don’t pretend to know our own brothers here. You can ask Mr. Browne when he comes in.”

All this time the stranger by the window sat motionless, absorbed in looking upon the throng of persons and vehicles in the street beneath; and now I, having nothing else to do, regarded him. I felt a magnetism emanate from him, as from a manufactory of vital forces; I felt, instinctively, that he was possessed of an iron will and indomitable courage; I was speculating, according to my dreamy habit, upon his characteristics, when the chief appeared, and we, that is, James and myself, laid our case before him⁠—at the same time I mentioned that Mr. Moreland had desired me to ask for Mr. Burton to be detailed to aid our investigations.

“Ah! yes,” said Mr. Browne, “there are not many outsiders who know that person. He is my right hand, but I don’t let the left know what he doeth. Mr. Moreland had his services once, I remember, in tracking some burglars who had entered his banking-house. Poor young Moreland! I’ve seen him often! Shocking affair, truly. We mustn’t rest till we know more about it. I only hope we may be of service to his afflicted father. Burton is just here, fortunately,” and he beckoned to the very stranger sitting in the window, who had overheard the inquiries made for him without the slightest demonstration that such a being had any existence as far as he was concerned, and who now slowly arose, and approached us. We four went into an inner room, where we were introduced to each other, and drawing up our chairs in a close circle, we began, in low voices, the discussion of our business.

Mr. Browne was voluble when he heard that a robbery had been committed in Mr. Argyll’s house. He had no doubt, he said, that the two crimes were connected, and it would be strange, indeed, if nothing could be discovered relating to either of them. He hoped that the lesser crime would be the means of betraying the greater. He trusted the rogue, whoever he or she might be, had, in this imprudent act, done something to betray himself. He had hopes of the five-hundred dollar bill.

Mr. Burton said very little, beyond asking two or three questions; but he was a good listener. Much of the time he sat with his eyes fixed upon James, who did a good deal of the talking. I could not, for the life of me, tell whether James was conscious of those blue-gray eyes; if he was, they did not much disturb him; he made his statements in a calm and lucid manner, gazing into Mr. Burton’s face with a clear and open look. After a while, the latter began to grow uneasy; powerful as was his physical and mental frame, I saw a trembling of both; he forced himself to remain quiet in his chair⁠—but to me he had the air of a lion, who sees its prey but a little distance off, and who trembles with restraint. The light in his eye narrowed down to one gleam of concentrated fire⁠—a steely, glittering point⁠—he watched the rest of us and said little. If I had been a guilty man I should have shrunk from that observation, through the very walls, or out of a five-story window, if there had been no other way; it struck me that it would have been unbearable to any accusing conscience; but my own mind being burdened with no weightier sins than a few boyish follies⁠—saving the selfishness and earthliness which make a part of all human natures⁠—I felt quite free, breathing easily, while I noticed, with interest, the silent change going on in the detective.

More and more like a lion about to spring, he grew; but whether his prey was near at hand and visible, or far away and visible only to his mental gaze, I could not tell. I fairly jumped, when he at last rose quickly to his feet; I expected to see him bound upon some guilty ghost to us intangible, and shake it to pieces in an honest rage; but whatever was the passion within him, he controlled it, saying only, a little impatiently,

“Enough, gentlemen, we have talked enough! Browne, will you go with Mr. Argyll to the bank, and see about that money? I do not wish to be known there as belonging to your force. I will walk to his hotel with Mr. Redfield, and you can meet us there at any hour you choose to appoint.”

“It will take until teatime to attend to the bank. Say about eight o’clock, then, we will be at the⁠—”

“Metropolitan,” said I, and the quartet parted, half going up and half going down town.

On our way to the hotel we fell into an easy conversation on topics entirely removed from the one which absorbed the gravest thoughts of both. Mr. Burton did more talking now than he had done at the office, perhaps with the object of making me express myself freely; though if so, he managed with so much tact that his wish was not apparent. He had but poor success; the calamity of our house lay too heavily on me for me to forget it in an instant; but I was constantly surprised at the character of the man whose acquaintance I was making. He was intelligent, even educated, a gentleman in language and manner⁠—a quite different person, in fact, from what I had expected in a member of the detective-police.

Shut up in the private parlor which I obtained at the Metropolitan, the subject of the murder was again broached and thoroughly discussed. Mr. Burton won my confidence so inevitably that I felt no hesitation in unveiling to him the domestic hearth of Mr. Argyll, whenever the habits or circumstances of the family were consulted in their bearing upon the mystery. And when he said to me, fixing his eye upon me, but speaking gently,

“You, too, loved the young lady,”⁠—I neither blushed nor grew angry. That penetrating eye had read the secret of my heart, which had never been spoken or written, yet I did not feel outraged that he had dared to read it out to me. If he could find any matter against me in that holiest truth of my existence, he was welcome to it.

“Be it so,” I said; “that is with myself, and no one else.”

“There are others who love her,” he continued, “but there is a difference in the quality of love. There is that which sanctifies, and something, called by the same name, which is an excuse for infinite perfidy. In my experience I have found the love of woman and the love of money at the bottom of most mischief⁠—the greed of gain is by far the commonest and strongest; and when the two are combined, there is motive enough for the darkest tragedy. But you spoke of a young woman, of whom you have suspicions.”

I told Mr. Burton that in this matter I trusted to his discretion; that I had not brought it to notice before Mr. Browne, because I shrunk from the danger of fixing a ruinous suspicion upon a person who might be perfectly innocent; yet that circumstances were such as to demand investigation, which I was sure he was the person to carry on. I then gave him a careful account of everything I had seen or learned about the sewing-girl. He agreed with me that she ought to be placed under secret surveillance. I told him that the officer from Blankville would be in after tea, when we could consult together and dispose of the discussion before the arrival of James and Mr. Browne⁠—and I then rung the bell, ordering a light supper in our room.

The Blankville official had nothing to report of Miss Sullivan, except that she had not arrived either at her boardinghouse or at the shop where she was employed, and her character stood high at both places. She had been represented to him as a “strictly proper” person, very reserved, in poor health, with a sad appearance, and an excellent workwoman⁠—that no gentlemen were ever known to call to see her, and that she never went out after returning to her boardinghouse at the close of work-hours. We then requested him to say nothing about her to his brother officers, and to keep the matter from the newspapers, as we should regret doing an irreparable injury to one who might be guiltless.

It seemed as if the Fates were in favor of the guilty. Mr. Browne, punctually at eight o’clock, reported that there was none of the money paid out to James Argyll at Mr. Argyll’s order, which the bank would identify⁠—not even its own bill of five hundred dollars, which was a recent issue. They had paid out such a bill on the draft, but the number was not known to them.

“However,” said Mr. Browne, “bills of that denomination are not common, and we shall be on the lookout for them, wherever offered.”

“But even should the robber be discovered, there is no proof that it would establish any connection with the murder. It may have been a coincidence,” remarked James. “I have often noticed that one calamity is sure to be followed by another. If there is a railroad disaster, a powder-mill explosion, a steamer destroyed by fire, before the horror of the first accident has done thrilling our nerves, we are pretty certain to be startled by another catastrophe.”

“I, too,” said Mr. Burton, “have remarked the succession of events⁠—echoes, as it were, following the clap of thunder. And I have usually found that, like the echoes, there was a natural cause for them.”

James moved uneasily in his chair, arose, pulled aside the curtain, and looked out into the night. I had often noticed that he was somewhat superstitious; perhaps he saw the eyes of Henry Moreland looking down at him from the starry heights; he twitched the curtains together with a shiver, and came back to us.

“It is not impossible,” he said, keeping his face in the shadow, for he did not like us to see how the night had affected him, “that some one of the clerks in Mr. Moreland’s banking-house⁠—perhaps some trusted and responsible person⁠—was detected by Henry, in making false entries, or some other dishonesty⁠—and that to save himself the disgrace of betrayal and dismissal, he has put the discoverer out of the way. The whole business of the establishment ought to be thoroughly overhauled. It appears that Henry went directly to the cars from the office; so that if any trouble had arisen between him and one of the employees, there would have been no opportunity for his consulting his father, who was not at the place all that afternoon.”

“Your suggestion is good,” said Mr. Browne, “and must be attended to.”

“The whereabouts of every one of the employees, down to the porter, at the time of the murder, are already accounted for. They were all in the city,” said Mr. Burton, with precision.

Shortly after, the party separated for the night. An urgent invitation came from Mr. Moreland for James and myself to stop at his house during our stay in the city; but we thought it better not to disturb the quiet of the house of mourning with the business which we wished to press forward, and returned an answer to that effect. It was nearly ten o’clock when James recollected that we had not been to the offices of the daily journals with the advertisements which ought to appear in the morning. It was the work of a few minutes for me to write one out, which we then copied on three or four sheets of paper, and finding an errand-boy below, we dispatched him with two of the copies to as many journals, and ourselves hurried off with the others. I went to one establishment and my companion to another, in order to hasten proceedings, knowing that it was doubtful if we could get them inserted at that late hour. Having succeeded to my satisfaction with my own errand, I thought I would walk over to the next street and meet James, whom, having a little further than I to go, I would probably meet, returning. As I neared the building to which he had gone, and which was brilliantly lighted up for its night-work, I saw James come out on the pavement, look around him an instant, and then start off in a direction opposite to that which would lead back to Broadway and his hotel. He had not observed me, who chanced to be in shadow at the moment; and I, without any particular motive which I could analyze, started after him, thinking to overtake him and offer to join him in a walk. He went, however, at so rapid a pace, that I still remained behind. Our course lay through Nassau and Fulton Streets, to the Brooklyn ferry. I quickened my pace almost to a run, as James passed into the ferry-house, for I saw that a boat was about to start; but I had a vexatious delay in finding small change, so that I got through just in time to see the boat move off, James himself having to take a flying leap to reach it after it was under way. At that hour there was a boat only every fifteen minutes; of course I gave up the pursuit; and sitting down at the end of the bridge, I allowed the cool wind from the bay and river to blow against my hot face, while I gazed out on the dark waters, listening to their incessant moaning about the piers, and watching where they glimmered beneath the lights of the opposite shore. The blue and red lamps of the moving vessels, in my present mood, had a weird and ghastly effect; the thousands of masts of the moored shipping stood up naked against the sky, like a forest of blighted, skeleton pines. Sadness, the deepest I had ever felt in my life, fell upon me⁠—sadness too deep for any expression. The shifting water, slipping and sighing about the works of men which fretted it; the unapproachable, glittering sky; the leafless forest, the wind fresh from its ocean solitudes⁠—these partially interpreted it, but not wholly. Their soul, as far as the soul of Nature goes, was in unison with mine; but in humanity lies a still deeper deep, rises a higher height. I was as much alone as if nearly a million fellow-creatures were not so encircling me. I thought of the many tragedies over which these waters had closed; of the secrets they had hidden; of the many lives sucked under these ruthless bridges; of the dark creatures who haunted these docks at evil hours⁠—but most I thought of a distant chamber, where a girl, who yesterday was as full of love and beauty as a morning rose is full of dew and perfume⁠—whose life ran over with light⁠—whose step was imperial with the happiness of youth⁠—lay, worn and pallid, upon her weary bed, breathing sighs of endless misery. I thought of the funeral procession which tomorrow, at noon, should come by this road and travel these waters, to that garden of repose, whose white tombstones I knew, although I could not see them, gleamed now under the “cold light of stars.”

Thus I sat, wrapped in musings, until a policeman, who, it is likely, had long had his eye upon me, wondering if I were a suspicious character, called out⁠—“Take care of your legs, young man!” and I sprung to my feet, as the return boat came into her slip, drifting up and bumping sullenly against the end of the bridge where my legs had been dangling.

I waited until, among the not numerous passengers, I perceived James hurrying by, when I slipped my hand into his arm quietly, saying,

“You led me quite a race⁠—what in the world have you been across to Brooklyn for?”

He jumped at my voice and touch; then grew angry, as people are apt to do when they are startled or frightened, after the shock is over.

“What business is that of yours, sir? How dare you follow me? If you have taken upon yourself the office of spy, let me know it.”

“I beg your pardon,” I answered, withdrawing from his arm, “I walked over to the H⁠⸺ office to meet you, and saw you walk off in this direction. I had no particular object in following you, and perhaps ought not to have done it.”