Ashton-Kirk, Investigator Part 21

"It ain't there," answered Sime. "He said he'd come back, so I didn't put it down."

"Was it Christie Place?"

Sime pointed at Ashton-Kirk with his pencil.

"You've got it," said he. "That was it, sure enough."

"And you think the man was an Italian?"

"Well, he talked and looked like one. Rather well educated too, I think."

Ashton-Kirk thanked the clerk, and the now beaming Mr. Bernstine, and with Pendleton left the place.

"Well," said Pendleton, as they climbed into the car, "this about fixes the thing, doesn't it? The musician, Antonio Spatola, is the guilty man, beyond a doubt."

The investigator settled back after giving the chauffeur his next stop.

"Beyond a doubt," said he, "is rather an extreme expression. The fact that the bayonet was purchased by an Italian who gave his address as Christie Place is not enough to convict Spatola. All sorts of people live in that street, and there are perhaps other Italians among them."

Pendleton called out to the chauffeur to stop.

"We'll settle that at once," said he. "Spatola's picture is in the papers. We'll ask the clerk if it is that of the man to whom he sold the weapon."

But Ashton-Kirk restrained him.

"I thought of the published portraits while Sime was speaking," said he. "And I also thought that it was very fortunate that neither he nor his employer were readers of the newspapers."

"How do you know that they are not?"

"If they had read to-day's issues they would have at once connected the Italian who purchased the bayonet with the one who is said to have used it--wouldn't they; especially as both Italians lived on the same street? Bernstine and Sime said nothing because they suspect nothing.

And, as I have said, this is fortunate, because, suspecting nothing, they will continue," with a smile, "to say nothing. If the police or reporters got this, they'd swoop down on the trail and perhaps spoil everything!"

"But Bernstine or his clerk will hear of the matter sooner or later,"

complained Pendleton. "And the police and reporters will then get in on the thing anyhow."

"But there will be a delay," said his friend. "And that may be what we need just now. Perhaps a few hours will mean success. You can never tell. The best that we could get by explaining matters to Sime would be a positive identification of Spatola, or the reverse. And we can get that from him at any time. So you see, we lose nothing by waiting."

"I guess that's so," Pendleton acknowledged, and again the car started forward. At the huge entrance to a railroad station they drew up once more.

Within, Ashton-Kirk inquired for the General Pa.s.senger Agent and was directed to the ninth floor. The agent was a slim little man with huge whiskers of snowy whiteness, and a most dignified manner.

"Oh, yes," he said, after glancing at the investigator's card. "I have heard of you, of course. Who," with a little bow, "has not? Indeed, if I remember aright, this road had the honor to employ you a few years ago in a matter necessitating some little delicacy of handling. Am I not right?"

"And I think it was you," said Ashton-Kirk, smoothly, "who provided me with some very clearly cut facts which were of considerable service."

The little General Pa.s.senger Agent looked pleased and smoothed his beautiful whiskers softly.

"I was most happy," said he.

"Just now," said Ashton-Kirk, "I am engaged in a matter of some consequence, and once more you can be of a.s.sistance to me."

"Sit down," invited the other, readily. "Sit down, and command me."

Both Pendleton and the investigator sat down. The latter said to the pa.s.senger agent:

"I understand that every railroad has a system by which it can tell which conductor has punched a ticket."

"Oh, yes. A very simple one. You see the hole left by each punch is different. One will cut a perfectly round hole, another will be square, still another will be a triangle, and so on, indefinitely."

From his card case, Ashton-Kirk produced the small red particle which he had found upon the desk of the murdered man.

"Here is a fragment cut from a ticket," he said. "It is shaped like a keystone. I should like to know, if you can tell me, what train is taken out by the conductor who uses the keystone punch."

The agent touched a signal and picked up the end of a tube.

"The head ticket counter," said he. "At once." Then he laid down the tube and continued to his visitors. "He is the man who can supply that sort of information instantly."

The ticket counter was a heavy-set young man, in spectacles and with his hair much rumpled. He peered curiously at the strangers.

"Does any conductor on our lines use a punch which cuts out a keystone?" inquired the General Pa.s.senger Agent.

"Yes, Purvis," replied the heavy young man. "Runs the Hammondsville local."

"I am obliged to you both," said Ashton-Kirk. "This little hint may be immensely valuable to me. And now," to the agent, "if I could have a moment with Conductor Purvis, I would be more grateful to you than ever."

"His train is out in the shed now," said the ticket counter, looking at his watch. "Leaves in eight minutes."

"I'm sorry that I can't have him up here for you," said the pa.s.senger agent. "Just now that is impossible. But," inquiringly, "couldn't you speak to him down on the platform?"

"Of course," replied Ashton-Kirk.

He and Pendleton arose; the little man with the large white whiskers was thanked once more, as was the heavy young man with the rumpled hair.

"You'll find the Hammondsville train at Gate E," the latter informed them.

Then the two shot down to the platform level and made their way toward Gate E.

CHAPTER XI

PENDLETON IS VASTLY ENLIGHTENED

The Hammondsville local was taking on its pa.s.sengers. It was a sooty train, made up of three coaches and a combination baggage and smoking car. The gateman pointed out its conductor, inside, and the two approached him.

He was a spare, elderly man with a wrinkled, shrewd face, and a short, pointed manner of speech.