The Diamond Coterie Part 46

"It's Lamotte's landau," said the lawyer, peeping out from the shelter of his verandah; "it's Lamotte's carriage, and it's Lamotte himself; I would like to see how he looks, just for one moment; but it's too wet, and I must go tell the old woman how her favorite doctor faces the situation."

A few moments after the landau had deposited Jasper Lamotte at the gate of the vacant lot, a pedestrian, striding swiftly along, as if eager to be upon the scene and sate his curiosity, came in among the group of men that, all day long, had hovered about the cellar.

"What's a going on here?" he demanded of the first man upon whom his glance fell, "an--accident?"

"Good Lord!" exclaimed the man, who was one of Old Forty Rod's customers; "where have _you_ come from that you don't know a man has been killed!"

"Killed!"

"Yes, murdered! stabbed last night and buried in this old cellar."

"Heavens, man! was--was he a citizen?"

"Well, I should say! and a rum chap, too. Why, you are a stranger to these parts if you don't know John Burrill."

"Never heard of him in my life, old Top," replied the stranger. "I _don't_ live in these parts."

The man drew back a little, and seeing this, the stranger came closer and laid one hand familiarly upon his arm, at the same time leaning nearer, and saying in a loud whisper:

"Any of the stiff's friends in this gang?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Any of the stiff's friends in this gang?"]

The satellite of "Old Forty," who had at first seemed somewhat disposed to resent too much familiarity on the part of the stranger, turned toward him, drew closer, and allowed his features to relax into a grin of friendliness. He had not been so fortunate as to receive a morning dram, and the breath of the stranger had wafted to his nostrils the beloved, delicious odor of "whisky killers."

"Hus.h.!.+" he whispered confidentially, "that man over there the tall, good-looking one with the whiskers, d'ye mind--"

"Yes, yes! high toned bloke?"

"Exactly; that's the dead man's father-in-law."

"Father-in-law, eh!"

"Yes, and that young chap beside him, the pale, handsome one, that's his son."

"Whose son?"

"The tall man's son; Frank Lamotte's his name."

"You don't say; good-looking duffer! Found the a.s.sa.s.sin?"

"Not exactly, but they say--"

"Look here, pard, this sniffs of romance; now I'm gone on romance in real life; just let's step back among these cedars, and out of the crowd, where I can give you a pull at my brandy flask, and you can tell me all the particulars."

And the jaunty young man tapped his breast suggestively and winked knowingly down at his new found friend.

"Agreed," said the man, eagerly, and turning at once toward the nearest clump of trees.

"I may as well say that my name is Smith," said the stranger, as he pa.s.sed over his brandy flask. "Now then, pard, fire ahead, and don't forget when you get thirsty to notify Smith, the book peddler."

The man began his story, and the book peddler stood with ear attentive to the tale, and eye fixed upon Jasper Lamotte.

CHAPTER XXIX.

OPENLY ACCUSED.

It is three o'clock. The rain has ceased falling, but the sky is still gray and threatening. The wind howls dismally among the old trees that surround John Burrill's shallow grave, and its weird wail, combined with the rattle and creak of the branches, and the drip, drip of water, dropping from the many crevices into the old cellar, unite to form a fitting requiem for an occasion so strange, so uncanny.

Down in the cellar, standing ankle deep in the mud and slime, are the "good men and true," who have been summoned by Justice, to decide upon the manner in which John Burrill met his death. There, too, is the mayor, dignified, grave, and important. The officers of the law are there, and close behind the coroner stand the Lamottes, father and son.

A little farther back are grouped the witnesses. Those of the morning, the two masons, Mr. O'Meara, Dr. Heath,--they are all there except the first and surest one, Prince. There are the men who were Burrill's companions of the night before, reluctant witnesses, ferreted out through the officiousness of one of the saloon habitues, and fearing, a little, to relate their part in the evening's programme, each eager to lighten his own burden of the responsibility at the expense of his comrades in the plot. There are three women and one man, all eye-witnesses to the first meeting between John Burrill and Doctor Heath in Nance Burrill's cottage, and there is Nance Burrill herself. The women stand a little aloof, upon a few boards that have been thrown carelessly down for their comfort. And Nance Burrill talks loudly, and cries as bitterly as if the dead man had been her life's comfort, not its curse.

And there, too, is Raymond Vandyck. He stands aloof from them all, stands near the ghastly thing that once, not long ago, came between him and all his happiness. There is a strange look in his blue eyes, as they rest upon the lifeless form, from which the coverings have been removed, but which still lies in the shallow place scooped out for it by the hands that struck it from among the living. Under the eyes of them all the dirt has been removed from the broad breast, and two gaping wounds are disclosed; cuts, deep and wide, are made with some broad, heavy weapon, of the dagger species.

When they have all, in turn, examined the body, as it lies, it is lifted out carefully, and placed upon a litter, in the midst of the group, and then all turn their eyes from the shallow grave to the new resting place of its late occupant.

Not all; Raymond Vandyck, still gazing as if fascinated by that hollowed-out bit of earth, starts forward suddenly, then draws shudderingly back, and points to something that lies almost imbedded in the soft soil. Somebody comes forward, examines, and then draws from out the grave, where it has lain, directly under the body, a knife--a knife of peculiar shape and workmans.h.i.+p--a long, keen, _surgeon's knife_! There are dark stains upon the blade and handle; and a murmur of horror runs through the crowd as it is held aloft to their view.

Raymond Vandyck draws instinctively away from the grave now, and from the man who still holds the knife; and in so doing he comes nearer the group of women, and catches a sentence that falls from the lips of Nance Burrill.

Suddenly his face flames into anger, and he strides across to where Mr.

O'Meara stands.

"O'Meara, what is this that I hear; have they dared accuse Heath?"

"Don't you know, Vandyck?"

"No; I have heard nothing, save the fact of the murder; the coroner's summons found me at home."

"Heath will be accused, I think."

Raymond Vandyck turns and goes over to Clifford Heath; without uttering a word, he links his arm within that of the suspected man, and standing thus, listens to the opening of the trial.

The only sign of recognition he receives is a slight pressure of the arm upon which his hand rests; but before Clifford Heath's eyes, just for the moment, there swims a suspicious moisture.

Above them, crowding close about the cellar walls, is a motley throng, curious, eager, expectant; among the faces peering down may be seen that of the portly gentleman; his diamond pin glistening as he turns this way and that; his great coat blown back by the gusts of wind, and a natty umbrella clutched firmly in his plump, gloved hand. Not far distant is private detective Belknap, looking as curious as any, and still nearer the cellar's edge is the rakish book-peddler, supported by his now admiring friend of the morning, who has warmed into a hearty interest in "that fine young fellow, Smith," under the exhilarating influence of the "fine young fellow's" brandy flask.

Dodging about among the spectators, too, is the boy George, who has abandoned his tray of pretty wares, and is making his holiday a feast of horrors.

And now all ears are strained to hear the statements of the various witnesses in this strange case.

Frank Lamotte is the first. He is pale and nervous, and he avoids the eyes of all save the ones whom he addresses. Doctor Heath keeps two steady, searching orbs fixed upon his face, but can draw to himself no responsive glance. Frank testifies as follows:

John Burrill had left Mapleton the evening before at an early hour, not later than eight o'clock. Witness had seen little of him during the day.

Deceased was in a state of semi-intoxication when last he saw him. That was at six o'clock, or near that time. No, he did not know the destination of deceased. They seldom went out together. Did not know if Burrill had any enemies. Was not much in his confidence.