Having possessed himself of all the facts the local detectives were able to give, Nick Carter had dinner and then went to his rooms to await reports from Chick and Patsy. Chick was the first to present himself.
"I suppose you have heard about the finding of the bank-note?" began Chick. "Well, there is this in addition: I found a negro—a wharf porter—who says that on the afternoon preceding the murder he had that note in his hands."
"Who gave it to him?"
"A dark-faced man of about thirty. The man wanted the negro to go into a grocery near the wharf and get the note changed. In explanation he said he owed the grocer a bill and wasn't ready to pay it. Otherwise he would go himself. The negro went to the store, but the grocer was short of small bills and so the note did not change hands."
"How does the negro know it is the same note?"
"By the number. He was afraid it was counterfeit and scrutinized it carefully."
"Had the negro ever seen the dark-faced man before?"
"No. He was a stranger."
[118]
"How was he dressed?"
"In a business suit of speckled brown. Derby hat. He wore a black mustache and had a diamond in his shirt-front. That's all the description the negro could give."
"Did you make any other discoveries?"
"Yes, one more, and an important one, Nick. There's a man on L Street, near the river, who knows something. The negro saw him talking with the dark-faced fellow some fifteen minutes before the note-changing proposition was broached. The negro has just returned from a day's absence from town, and that's why his story has not yet reached the ears of the Washington sleuths."
"What is the name of the man who lives on L Street?"
"Prosper Craven. He is a man of family: used to keep the grocery and has some money, though he is far from rich."
"What is his reputation? Did you learn?"
"His reputation is good. But he is a silent, reserved man and does not mingle much among his neighbors."
"I must see him at once. Meanwhile, wire Chief Wittman at San Francisco, asking him if he knows anything of one Arthur Mannion, giving description."
"What's your idea?"
"I'll tell you later. It is in the hatching process. It may be a chicken, it may be a duck."
Chick grinned. "I'll wait serenely," he said, "for I know that the result won't show that you are a goose."
Prosper Craven lived in a small brick house near the[119] car-line. He was a sad-faced man of fifty years, with light-blue eyes, which blinked continually, as if the sight were defective. His nose was long and sharp, his mouth wide and his chin narrow and non-aggressive. Nick sized him up when he came to the door as secretive, obstinate, and weak in judgment. Not a man of force. He might err through weakness, but his aspirations were in the line of good. Corner him and it would be hard to tell what he would do.
After stating that he had important business to transact, the detective was invited into the house.
"Mr. Craven," Nick began, "a murder has been committed and every good citizen is expected to furnish information, if he have any, that will assist the officers in the search for the murderer. On the afternoon preceding the death of James Playfair you conversed with a dark-faced young man near this house. What is that young man's name?"
A troubled look came into Craven's face. He tapped the floor nervously with his foot.
"You don't suspect him, do you?" he asked, in affected surprise.
"You have not answered my question," returned Nick sharply. "What is the man's name?"
A pause, and then the answer: "Arthur Mannion."
"I thought so." Craven showed astonishment. His eyes blinked with unusual rapidity. "Now," continued Nick, in a tone which made the ex-grocer shiver, "what[120] do you know of Mannion? What was your business with him?"
Craven's sallow face flushed. "I shall have to consult my attorney before answering your questions," he said, slowly and painfully. "I shall be guided entirely by his advice. He may advise me not to tell you anything."
"Not if what you know has any bearing on the murder?"
Craven did not reply. His expression was enigmatical.
"Don't you know." said Nick, "that Mannion is the stepson of James Playfair?"
"I know that, certainly; but that fact has no bearing on the matter about which you have interrogated me."
Nick Carter vented his dissatisfaction at the man's words and attitude by these strongly spoken remarks: "See here, Mr. Craven, you are acting very queerly. You are concealing something at a time when it is necessary, for the proper solution of this mysterious murder, that every act and circumstance that may have the slightest bearing upon the matter, as connected either with the words or movements of any suspected party, or those of other parties having relation, remote or otherwise, with Playfair's affairs, should be made known. You are a stranger to me, and yet, from your countenance, I think I have derived a sufficient knowledge of your character to say that I do not believe your concealment of any facts which you may have discovered arises from an unworthy motive. On the contrary, I am satisfied that[121] you are acting from what you consider the best of motives. But this is a case in which personal feelings, a regard for the feelings of others"—with a keen glance at Craven's face, which flushed slightly under the scrutiny—"should give way before the graver public interest and the stern demands of justice."
"I thank you for your good opinion, sir," returned Craven, with emotion, "but my position is so peculiar, there are so many things to be taken into account, that, at this moment, I cannot see my way clear to a full explanation. My attorney must be the judge as to what I shall say."
"Very well," said Nick coolly. "I can say no more than that in refusing to explain you will be taking a rather risky course."
"I am ready to take the consequences."
Craven's eyes, blinking, strayed from the detective's countenance to the ceiling. His mouth twitched slightly and he crossed and recrossed his legs nervously.
There was a short silence. Nick, not yet prepared to give up the quest for information, finally said:
"Mr. Craven, as a man of the world, as an honest man, as a detective anxious to serve the cause of justice, I believe it will be best, in spite of what you have said, that we come to a thorough understanding. I have the reputation of being a man of honor. In my possession are secrets sufficient, were they once made public property, to upheave society from San Francisco to Skowhegan. A layman, like yourself, is not a proper judge, in[122] my opinion, of what is relevant and what irrelevant in matters pertaining to cases which may be tried in court. And, in any case, I cannot proceed with celerity if I am to be hampered at the outset by what I conceive to be unwise concealment of facts. Justice strongly suggests that you tell me everything. Let me be the judge of what is material and what immaterial to the issues, resting assured all the while that no confidence which does not touch pointedly upon this case shall ever be violated."
"I will think over the matter," said Craven slowly, "and give you my decision later. Will that suffice?"
Nick conned the obstinate face, and then said: "It will have to, I suppose."
When the detective left the house it was with the determination to have Craven's movements watched while his reticence continued.
At the inquest, that evening, the surgeon who conducted the autopsy was first examined. He had found all the organs in a healthy condition, and his opinion was that death had resulted from strangulation.
For reasons which the chief of the secret service men approved, Nick Carter did not give Craven's name to the coroner. The inquest, it was certain, could not, with positiveness, name the murderer, and, therefore, the main purpose of the official proceeding was carried out and in a satisfactory way. The verdict was that a mu............