A Husband by Proxy Part 44

"I think in a fifteen-cent cigar." Garrison was watching him closely while apparently toying with a pen.

"Very good," said Wicks with an air of satisfaction that was not exactly understandable. "I presume you have something to go on--something by way of evidence?"

"No," said Garrison, "unfortunately I have not. I had a second cigar which I believe was prepared with the poison, but I committed the blunder of losing it somewhere--Heaven alone knows where."

"That's devilish poor business!" cried Wicks in apparent exasperation.

"But you haven't said why you believe the man got the poison in any such manner. On what do you base your conclusions?"

"Near where the man was found dead I discovered an unsmoked cigar,"

answered Garrison, watching the effect of his words. "It contained what little of the powder the victim had not absorbed."

Wicks looked at him almost calmly.

"You've done good work," he said. "It's a pity you lost that second cigar. And, by the way, where did you get it?"

Garrison realized that, despite his intended precautions, he had gone irretrievably into disclosures that were fetching the case up to Dorothy or young Foster Durgin. In his eagerness to pursue a new theory, he had permitted Wicks to draw him farther than he had ever intended to go. There was no escape. He decided to put it through.

"I got it from a box, at the coroner's office," he admitted.

"Mr. Garrison, what do you mean by withholding all these facts?"

demanded Wicks sharply. "Where did Hardy get the box of cigars?"

Garrison would gladly have evaded this question, but he was helpless.

"They were a birthday present from his niece."

"This Miss Booth-Fairfax?"

"Yes."

"And you're in love with her!--masquerading as her husband! What do you mean by saying you've not attempted to s.h.i.+eld her?"

"Now go slow, Mr. Wicks," cautioned Garrison. "I know what I'm doing in this case. It was given to me to ferret out--and I'll go through it to the end--no matter who is found guilty."

"That's better!" said Wicks. "You don't believe it's this young woman.

Who else could have as good a motive?"

Garrison was fighting for time. A sacrifice was necessary. He utilized young Durgin, who might, after all, be guilty.

"Miss Booth, or Mrs. Fairfax, has a step-brother, by marriage," he said. "He has worked at photography. He gambles in Wall Street. He was desperate--but as yet I have no positive proof that he did this crime. I am waiting for developments--and expecting things at any moment."

"Where is the man?" said Wicks. "What's his name?"

"Foster Durgin. I'm waiting for him now. He's fifteen minutes overdue."

"Arrest him when he comes!" commanded Wicks. "Take no chances on letting him escape!"

"Perhaps that's good advice," said Garrison slowly. "I'll think it over."

"He's the only one you suspect?"

"Well, there's one more element, somewhat vague and unsubstantiated,"

admitted Garrison. "There's a man, it seems, who threatened Hardy years ago. He has followed Hardy about persistently. Hardy appeared to fear him greatly, which accounts for his ceaseless roving. This man may and may not have accomplished some long-planned revenge at Branchville. He appears to be somewhat mystical, but I felt it my business to investigate every possible clew."

"Certainly," said Wicks, whose scrutiny of Garrison's face had grown once more abnormally acute. "What's his name?"

Garrison focused his eyes on the man across the desk incisively.

"Hiram Cleave."

So far as he could see there was not so much as a flicker to show that his shot had gone home.

Wicks spoke up, no less aggressively than before.

"Where is he now?"

"No one seems to know. I hope to discover--and report."

Wicks rose and took his hat from the desk.

"Except for your negligence in appearing at the office," he said, "you have done fairly well. Shall you need any help in arresting Durgin?

If you wish it I----"

A knock on the door interrupted. A postman entered, met Garrison as he was stepping across the floor, and handed him a thin, flat parcel, crudely wrapped and tied. It was postmarked Rockdale.

Garrison knew it for the photograph--the picture of Cleave for which he had hoped and waited.

"Wait just a minute, Mr. Wicks," he said, backing toward the door with intent to keep his man from departing. "This is a letter from a friend who is helping on the case. Let me look it through. I may have more to report before you go."

Wicks sat down again.

Garrison remained by the door. He was cutting the string on the package when a second knock on the gla.s.s behind him gave him a start.

He opened the door. A small, rather smiling young man was in the hall.

"Mr. Garrison?" he said. "My name is----"

"How do you do?" Garrison interrupted loudly, having instantly recognized Foster Durgin, from a strong resemblance to his older brother, and instantly calling out: "Excuse me a moment, Mr. Wicks,"

stepped out in the hall and closed the door.

"My name is Durgin," said the visitor. "I called before----"

"I know," interrupted Garrison, moving down the hall and speaking in a voice so low he was certain Wicks could hear nothing, from behind the door, even should he try. "I've been expecting you. I want you to do something quickly, before we try to have a talk. I want you to go downstairs, ring up police headquarters and ask for a couple of officers to come as quickly as they can travel."

"What for? I don't----"

"I've got to arrest the man who murdered your uncle," said Garrison, using the most searching and startling method at command to put young Durgin to the test of guilt or innocence. "Act first and come back afterward!"