The Diamond Cross Mystery Part 1

The Diamond Cross Mystery.

by Chester K. Steele.

CHAPTER I

THE TICKING WATCH

There was only one sound which broke the intense stillness of the jewelry shop on that fateful April morning. That sound was the ticking of the watch in the hand of the dead woman.

Outside, the rain was falling. Not a heavy downpour which splashed cheerfully on umbrellas and formed swollen streams in the gutters, whence they rushed toward the sewer basins, carrying with them an acc.u.mulation of sticks, leaves and dirt. Not a windy, gusty rain, that made a man glad to get indoors near a genial fire, with his pipe and a book.

It was a drizzle; a steady, persistent drizzle, which a half-hearted wind blew this way and that, as though neither element cared much for the task in hand--that of thoroughly soaking the particular part of the universe in the neighborhood of Colchester and taking its own time in which to do it.

Early in the unequal contest the sun had given up its effort to pierce through the leaden clouds, and had taken its beams to other places--to busy cities, to smiling country villages and farms. Above, around, below, on all sides, soaking through and through, drizzling it, soaking it, sprinkling it, half-hiding it in fog and mist, the rain enveloped Colchester--a sodden, damp garment.

Early paper boys slunk along the slippery streets, trying to protect their limp wares from becoming mere blotters. The gongs of the few trolley cars that were sent out to take the early toilers to their tasks rang as though covered with a blanket of fog. The thud of the feet of the milkmen's horses was m.u.f.fled, and the rattle of bottles seemed to come from afar off, as though over some misty lake.

James Darcy, s.h.i.+vering as he arose, silently protesting, from his warm bed, pulled on his garments audibly grumbling, the grumble becoming a voiced protest as he shuffled in his slippers along the corridor above the jewelry shop and went down the private stairs into the main sales-room.

The electric light in front of the ma.s.sive safe seemed to lear at him with a bleared eye like that of a toper, who, having spent the night in convivial company, found himself, most unaccountably, on his own doorstep in the gray dawn.

"Raining!" murmured James Darcy, as he reached over to switch on the light above the little table where he set precious stones into gold and platinum of rare and beautiful designs. "Raining and cold! I wish the steam was on."

The fog from outside seemed to have penetrated into the jewelry shop.

It swirled about the gleaming showcases, reflected from the cut gla.s.s, danced away from the silver cups, broke into points of light from the times of forks, became broad splotches on the blades of knives, and, perchance, made its way through the cracks into the safe, where it bathed the diamonds, the rubies, the sapphires, the aqua marines, the pearls, the jades, and the bloodstones in a white mist. The bloodstones--

Strange that James Darcy should have thought of them as he looked at the rain outside, heard its drip, drip, drip on the windows, and saw the fog and swirls of mist inside and without the store. Strange and--

First, as he gazed at the prostrate body--the horrid red blotch like a gay ribbon in the white hair--he thought the small, insistent sound which seemed to fill the room was the beating of her heart. Then, as he listened, his ears attuned with fear, he knew it was the ticking of the watch in the hand of the dead woman.

James Darcy rubbed his eyes, as though to clear them from the fog. He rubbed them again--he pa.s.sed his hand before his face as if cobwebs had drifted there--he touched his ears, which seemed not a part of himself.

"Tick-tick! Tick-tick! Tick-tick!"

The sound seemed to grow louder. It was not her heart!

"h.e.l.lo! Come here, somebody! Amelia! what's the matter? Sallie!

Sallie Page! Wake up! h.e.l.lo, somebody! She's dead! Killed! There's been a murder! I must get the police!"

James Darcy started to cross the room to reach and fling open the front door leading to the street, that he might call the alarm to others than the deaf cook, who had not yet come downstairs. Mrs. Darcy's maid had gone away the previous evening, and was not expected in until noon. It was too early for any of the jewelry clerks to report. Yet Darcy felt he must have some one with him.

To cross the store to reach the door meant stepping over the body--the grotesquely twisted body, with the white, upturned face and the little spot of red, near where the silver comb had fallen from the silvered hair. And so Darcy changed his mind--he ran to the side door, fumbled with the lock, flung back the portal, and then rushed out in the rain and drizzle, the fog streaming after mm as he parted the mist like long, white streamers of ribbon, such as they suspend at the door for the very young or the aged.

"h.e.l.lo! h.e.l.lo!" shouted Darcy into the silent rain and mist of the early morning street, now deserted save for himself.

The glistening asphalt, the gleaming trolley rails, the dark and damp buildings seemed to echo back his words.

"h.e.l.lo! h.e.l.lo!"

"Police!" voiced James Darcy. "There's been a murder!"

"A murder!" echoed the mist.

There was silence after this, and Darcy looked up and down the street.

Not a person--not a vehicle--was in sight. No one looked from the stores or houses on either side or across from the jewelry shop.

Then a rattling milk wagon swung around the corner. It was followed by another.

"h.e.l.lo! h.e.l.lo! there--you!" called Darcy hoa.r.s.ely.

"What's the matter?" asked the first man, as he swung down from his vehicle with a wire carrier filled with bottles in his hand.

"Somebody's been hurt--killed--a relative of mine! I want to tell the police. It's in that jewelry store," and he pointed back toward it, for he had run down the street a little way.

"Oh, I see! Darcy's! She's killed you say?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Accident?"

"I don't know. Looks to me more like murder!"

The milkman whistled, set his collection of bottles back in his wagon, and hurried with Darcy toward the store. The other man, bringing his rattling vehicle to a stop, followed.

"Where is she?" whispered Casey, as soon as he reached the side of his business rival, Tremlain.

"On the floor--right in the middle--between the showcases," answered Darcy, and he, too, whispered. It seemed the right thing to do.

"There--see her!"

He pointed a trembling finger.

"Lord! Her head's smashed!" exclaimed Casey. "Look at the blood!"

"I--I don't want to look at it," murmured Darcy, faintly.

"Hark!" cautioned Tremlain. "What's that noise?"

They all listened--they all heard it.

"It's a watch ticking," answered Darcy. "First I thought it was her heart beating--it sounded so. But it's only a watch."

"Maybe so," a.s.sented Casey. "We'd better make sure before we telephone for the police. She may only have fallen and cut her head."

"You--you go and see," suggested Tremlain. "I--I don't like to go near her--I never could bear the sight of dead folks--not even my own father. You look!"

Casey hesitated a moment, and then stepped closer to the body. He leaned over it and put the backs of his hard fingers on the white, wrinkled and shrunken cheeks. They were cold and wax-like to his touch.

"She's dead," he whispered softly. "Better get the police right away."