The Darrow Enigma by Melvin L. Severy (brene brown rising strong txt) 📕

exception of the little finger, are to be found unmistakable signs

of the habit of biting the nails, - see, here are the hang-nails,

- but, strange to say, the nail of the little finger has been

spared, and suffered to grow to an unusual length. I ask myself why

this particular nail has been so favoured, and can only answer,

‘because it has some peculiar use.’ It is clear this is not the hand

of a manual labourer; the joints are too small, the fingers too

delicate, the texture of the skin, which is clearly visible, much too

fine - in short, wouldn’t it pass anywhere for a woman’s hand? Say a

woman who bit her nails. If it were really such there would be a

pair of feminine feet also to be concealed, and boards would do it

very nicely - but this is all guesswork, and must not be allowed to

affect any subsequent conclusions. If you will excuse me a few

minutes I will use the microscope a little on the sill of the east

window before we are interrupted by our friends the officers, who

will be sure to be here soon.”

While Maitland was thus engaged I did all in my power to distract

Gwen’s attention, as much as possible, from her father’s body.

Whenever she regarded it, the same intense and set expression

overspread her countenance as that which at first had alarmed me.

I was glad when Maitland returned from the window and began mixing

some of the chemicals I had brought him, for Gwen invariably

followed all his movements, as if her very existence depended upon

her letting nothing escape her. Maitland, who had asked me for a

prescription blank, now dipped it in the chemicals he had mixed

and, this accomplished, put the paper in his microscope box to dry.

“I have something here,” ,he said, “which I desire to photograph

quite as much as this room and some of its larger objects,” and he

pinned a tiny, crumpled mass against the wall, and made an exposure

of it in that condition. “Do you know what this is?” he said, as

he carefully smoothed it out for another picture. “I haven’t the

slightest idea,” I said. “It is plain enough under the microscope,”

he continued, placing it upon the slide, and adjusting the focus.

“Would you like to examine it, Miss Darrow?” Gwen had scarcely put

her eye to the instrument before she exclaimed: “Why, it’s a piece

of thin outside bark from a twig of alder.” Maitland’s face was a

study… “Would you mind telling me,” he said deliberately, “how

you found that out so quickly?” She hesitated a moment, and then

said methodically, pointing toward the water, “I know the alder well

- our boat is moored near a clump of them.” “You are a keen

observer,” he replied, as he took the prepared paper from his box

and spread the film of bark upon it to take a blue print of it.

“There is one other object upon the sill which, unfortunately, I

cannot take away with me,” he continued, “but shall have to content

myself with photographing. I refer to a sinuous line made in the

paint, while green, and looking as if a short piece of rope, or,

more properly, rubber tubing, since there is no rope-like texture

visible, had been dropped upon it, and hastily removed - but see,

here are Osborne and Allen looking for all the world as if they

were prepared to demonstrate a fourth dimension of space. Now we

shall see the suicide theory proved - to their own satisfaction, at

least. But, whatever they say, don’t forget we are to keep our own

work to ourselves.”

The two officers were alone. had apparently decided to work

by himself. This did not in the least surprise me, since I could

easily see that he had nothing to gain by working with these two

officers.

“We’ve solved the matter,” was the first thing Osborne said after

passing the time of day. “Indeed?” replied Maitland in a tone which

was decidedly ambiguous; “you make it suicide, I suppose?” “That’s

just what we make it,” returned the other. “We hadn’t much doubt of

it last night, but there were some things, such as the motive, for

example, not quite clear to us; but it is all as plain as daylight

now.”

“And what says ?” asked Maitland.

Mr. Osborne burst into a loud guffaw.

“Oho, but that’s good! What says ? I say, Allen, Maitland

wants to know what ‘Frenchy’ says,” and the pair laughed boisterously.

“It’s plain enough you don’t know ,” he continued, addressing

Maitland. “He’s tighter ‘n any champagne bottle you ever saw. The

corkscrew ain’t invented that ‘11 draw a word out of . You

saw him making notes here last night. Well, the chances are that if

this were a murder case, which it isn’t, you’d see no more of M.

Godin till he bobbed up some day, perhaps on the other side of the

earth, with a pair of twisters on the culprit. He’s a ‘wiz,’ is M.

Godin. What does he think? He knows what he thinks, and he’s the

only individual on the planet that enjoys that distinction. I say,

Allen, do you pump ‘Frenchy’ for the gentleman’s enlightenment,” and

again the pair laughed long and heartily.

“Well, then,” said Maitland, “since we can’t have ‘s views

we shall have to content ourselves with those of your more confiding

selves. Let’s hear all about the suicide theory.”

“I think,” said Osborne in an undertone, “you had better ask Miss

Darrow to withdraw for a few moments, as there are some details

likely to pain her.” This suggestion was intended only for Maitland,

but the officer, used to talking in the open air, spoke so loudly

that we all overheard him. “I thank you for your consideration,”

Gwen said to him, “but I would much prefer to remain. There can be

nothing connected with this matter which I cannot bear to hear, or

should not know. Pray proceed.”

Osborne, anxious to narrate his triumph, needed no further urging.

“We felt sure,” he began, “that it was a case of suicide, but were

perplexed to know why Mr. Darrow should wish to make it appear a

murder. Of course, we thought he might wish to spare his daughter

the shame such an act would visit upon her, but when this was

exchanged for the horrible notoriety of murder, the motive didn’t

seem quite sufficient, so we looked for a stronger one - and found

it.” “Ah! you are getting interesting,” Maitland observed.

Osborne cast a furtive glance at Gwen, and then continued: “We

learned on inquiry that certain recent investments of Mr. Darrow’s

had turned out badly. In addition to this he had been dealing

somewhat extensively in certain electric and sugar stocks, and when

the recent financial crash came, he found himself unable to cover

his margins, and was so swept clean of everything. Nor is this all;

he had lost a considerable sum of money in yet another way - just

how my informant would not disclose - and all of these losses

combined made his speedy failure inevitable. Under such conditions

many another man has committed suicide, unable to face financial

ruin. But this man had a daughter to consider, and, as I have

already said, he would wish to spare her the disgrace which the

taking of his own life would visit upon her, and, more than all,

would desire that she should not be left penniless. The creditors

would make away with his estate, and his daughter be left a beggar.

We could see but one way of his preventing this, and that was to

insure his life in his daughter’s favour. We instituted inquiries

at the insurance offices, and found that less than a month ago he

had taken out policies in various companies aggregating nearly

fifty thousand dollars, whereas, up to that time, he had been

carrying only two thousand dollars insurance. Why this sudden and

tremendous increase? Clearly to provide for his daughter after

his act should have deprived her of his own watchful care. And now

we can plainly see why he wished his suicide to pass for murder.

He had been insured but a month, and immediate ruin stared him in

the face. His death must be consummated at once, and yet, by

our law, a man who takes his life before the payment of his second

annual insurance premium relieves the company issuing his policy of

all liability thereunder, and robs his beneficiary of the fund

intended for her. Here, then, is a sufficient motive, and nothing

more is required to make the whole case perfectly clear. Of course,

it would be a little more complete if we could find the weapon, but

even without it, there can be no doubt, in the light of our work,

that John Darrow took his own life with the intentions, and for the

purposes, I have already set forth.”

“Upon my soul, gentlemen,” exclaimed Maitland, “you have reasoned

that out well! Did you carefully read the copies of the various

policies when interrogating the companies insuring Mr. Darrow?”

“Hardly,” Osborne replied. “We learned from the officials all we

needed to know, and didn’t waste any time in gratifying idle

curiosity.” A long-drawn “hm-m” was the only reply Maitland

vouchsafed to this. “We regret,” said Osborne, addressing Gwen,

“that our duty, which has compelled us to establish the truth in

this matter, has been the means of depriving you of the insurance

money which your father intended for you.” Gwen bowed, and a slight

enigmatical smile played for a moment about her lips, but she made

no other reply, and, as neither Maitland nor I encouraged

conversation, the two officers wished us a good-morning, and left

the house without further remark.

“I wish to ask you a few questions,” Maitland said to Gwen as soon

as the door had closed behind Osborne and his companion, ‘and I beg

you will remember that in doing so, however personal my inquiries

may seem, they have but one object in view - the solution of this

mystery.” “I have already had good proof of your singleness of

purpose,” she replied. “Only too gladly will I give you any

information in my possession. Until this assassin is found, and my

father’s good name freed from the obloquy which has been cast upon

it, my existence will be but a blank, - yes, worse, it will be an

unceasing torment; for I know my father’s spirit - if the dead have

power to return to this earth - can never rest with this weight of

shame upon it.” As she spoke these words the depth of grief she had

hitherto so well concealed became visible for a moment, and her whole

frame shook as the expression of her emotion reacted upon her. The

next instant she regained her old composure, and said calmly:

“You see I have every reason to shed whatever light I can upon this

dark subject.”

“Please, then, to answer my questions methodically, and do not permit

yourself to reason why I have asked them. What was your father’s age?”

“Sixty-two.”

“Did he drink?”

“No.”

“Did he play cards?”

“Yes.”

“Poker?”

“Yes, and several other games.”

“Was he as fond of them as of croquet?”

“No; nothing pleased him as croquet did - nothing, unless it were

chess.”

“Hum! Do you play chess?”

“Yes; I played a good deal with father.”

“What kind of a game did he play?”

“I do not understand you. He played a good game; my father did not