Read Ebook: The silver blade: The true chronicle of a double mystery by Walk Charles Edmonds Wenzell A B Albert Beck Illustrator

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Ebook has 1133 lines and 51041 words, and 23 pages

paper he had found in the Westbrook ash-hopper, handed it to her.

"This is all that remains of a letter received by General Westbrook day before yesterday, and burnt by him some time during the same night. I was searching for something altogether different--a writing upon which he was engaged shortly before his death--and was led to this.

"The newspapers, as you know, made the most of the 'Paquita' on the dagger-handle; you are familiar with the unknown and mysterious se?orita of the press, betrayed and revengeful, striking from the grave through the medium of Doctor Westbrook's paper-knife; but in reality she is not only unknown, but there is not the slightest evidence that any such person ever existed. I could imagine a secret enemy of the General's choosing that name behind which to mask his identity, especially at a time when it is fresh in everybody's mind; yet the fact that the letter itself is written in Spanish is strongly against this idea. That letter was concluded in such a manner that the signature was an important part of the context."

"You have heard the story of the dagger, have you not?"

"Yes. But the truth is far from being so romantic; it is quite sordid, in fact."

"The truth? I fail to understand."

"Yes. You know that we police in the different cities all over the civilized world work together to a certain extent, and assist each other whenever we can; complete and systematic records are kept of each detail--no matter how unimportant or trivial it may seem--of every matter coming to us in an official way, and those records are always at the disposal of the police in any city.

"I dislike spoiling the pretty romance of the dagger," with an apologetic smile; "but the facts are these: A Mexican girl, of the peon class, went to Mexico City some six or seven years ago from the United States. She was accompanied by her brother, also an ignorant and extremely dirty peon--what we call a 'greaser' here. They had no money, apparently were animated by no greater desire to acquire any than usually inspires the average peon, and they lived in a hovel in the poorest quarter of the capital. Now, if it hadn't been for that rather remarkable dagger they would have been forgotten long ago. They were both dead within a month after their arrival,--smallpox. She killed herself during delirium; he died a few days later in a pest-camp. It is sordid enough, you see. It is that very unusual weapon alone that has saved them from oblivion. How did they come by it? It is impossible to say--stole it, probably; but if so, it has been advertised enough of late, in all conscience, to attract its owner if he be alive anywhere on the face of the earth. But there are enterprising newspapers also in the City of Mexico, and enterprising dealers in curios; so there you have the genesis of the story of the Doctor's paper-knife. So much for it.... Now then, question one: Did you ever hear of any other Paquita?"

Charlotte's answer was a decided negative. "If you are trying to establish such a person as ever having been a living reality, and as ever having had interests involved with the past of the Westbrook family, I believe it will lead to nothing; unless--unless--"

"Well?"

"Well, unless it can be found in General Westbrook's life in Mexico. But think of his character, his integrity, his extraordinary family pride--are they not incompatible with the existence of such a secret?"

Converse nodded. "And I might add," he said, "that here again the pretty complete facts do not warrant the slightest ground for such a theory."

"But--" Charlotte hesitated, "what has all this to do with a friend in trouble?"

"Patience, please; I shall get to that in good time. I want you to know certain facts first, for without this preamble the name will occasion a shock that all the after-assurance and reasoning may not remove. You must be prepared for the name before I blurt it out."

"Very well, I am resigned," she returned with a faint smile. Since her return to the porch all the brightness had left her face and eyes; the caller noted that she looked no more down the roadway toward the city, and even her smile was colorless and without the least spark of animation. "May I ask you a question?" she concluded.

"Certainly, Miss Fairchild; certainly."

"How about that man--the Mexican--Vargas? Even though I know but little of these dreadful affairs, I have thought a great deal. And that man: what do you know of him?"

"I am glad you asked this question, because it touches upon a point about which I wish to speak fully."

The Captain then recounted Vargas's testimony at the first inquest, adding that it had since been fully corroborated and amplified by exhaustive inquiries in Mexico.

"But still," continued the speaker, "there is a point where Se?or Vargas comes into our mystery. He is shrewd and aggressive, and has more than doubled his wealth since taking up his residence in Mexico. He has only one relative--a niece. She is merely a child who has spent all her life in a convent; as commonplace, as ignorant of the world, and as innocent as only such a child--and especially a Spanish child--could possibly be. Bear in mind, Miss Fairchild, that these are established facts. I am relating them as briefly as possible; but they are necessary in leading up to my next question. Here is a point I wish you also to remember; you will see why as I proceed. A year or two ago Vargas purchased a hacienda from the administrators of the estate of one Don Juan del Castillo, which he so lavishly remodelled that it is now a veritable palace. Don Juan had been a very wealthy man at one time, having a vast estate; but his decease disclosed the fact that his affairs were in a chaotic condition, and that he was practically bankrupt. This man had never married, and all the formalities, besides a diligent search, failed to bring forward any authentic heirs. In short, none have ever appeared.

"These facts concerning Don Juan are interesting for four reasons: first, the banking house of De Sanchez and De Sanchez--of which General Westbrook was at that time a partner--was administrator of the Castillo estate; second, last night and shortly before his death, the General was engaged in the compilation of a document headed 'Memorandum of Castillo Estate,' which document was taken from his desk before the officers arrived; third, that while the county records have been carefully searched for the purpose of ascertaining if any of these foreigners had ever held any property interests here, it was not until a day or two ago that a single thing was found to justify the trouble. What that was is queer enough.

"In November, eighteen fifty-nine, a mortgage was filed for record by one John S. Castle."

"Castle!" Charlotte became suddenly alert.

"Ah, I see the name is not unfamiliar to you; but let me finish. The property mortgaged, among other parcels of realty, included your old family homestead. Of course the mortgager was your father. Now, with the name of John S. Castle to guide us through the index to the mortgage records, we find the next item of interest just three years later--namely, in November, eighteen sixty-two--when the mortgage was renewed. In another three years--that is, in November sixty-five--it was again renewed; then, in November, eighteen sixty-eight, an assignment of mortgage was filed, transferring this particular one to William Slade, senior, your old overseer. Here John S. Castle disappears for good and all; what followed concerning the mortgage is irrelevant; but the point I wish to make is, that the name John S. Castle is the English equivalent of Juan S. Castillo. This is the fourth reason why Vargas interests me. I have been unable to find any other trace of Castle. And now, can all this be mere coincidence?

"My next question to you is: Have you any knowledge of Castle, or Slade, or is there any event in your family history that may by any chance throw light into these dark places? Or could either your mother or Mr. Clay do so?"

"Mr. Converse, this is all so marvellous that I am a little bewildered. I never should have imagined that these dreadful tragedies could involve so much. How ever in the world did you discover so many details? But I am unable to tell you much. As to mamma, I cannot say. Her memory, of course--such as it is, Mr. Converse--goes back farther than mine. But Clay--I am certain he could be of no assistance; he is always impatient of dwelling upon our more prosperous days; mamma, at times, is rather inclined to--to--well, to contrast our present circumstances with what they were before papa died, and Clay invariably leaves the room on such occasions. John S. Castle was always considered a fiction in our family, behind which the elder Slade masked his treachery; or, perhaps, it is more exact to say that he came to be regarded as a fiction. It is very certain that he never appeared at all. Slade, senior, in his younger days was of a roving disposition. During the Mexican War he enlisted in the army, I believe, and was with General Scott in Mexico. He learned to speak the Spanish language, I know; and that might explain John S. Castle; they actually may have met in Mexico."

"That is true; it may be merely one more of the coincidences, signifying nothing at all. But I am not of a disposition to dismiss them thus." He fell into a thoughtful silence, from which he roused himself presently to say:

"It has occurred to me, Miss Fairchild,--to digress a moment,--that all these details of the man Castle, and the manner in which his name was utilized by the elder Slade, might hide some sort of chicanery. Everything about that old mortgage may not have been perfectly straight and aboveboard; and if that is the case--why, there is no telling what interest may be due you out of the property. Some of it is very valuable now, and the matter is worth looking into."

"Indeed?" returned Charlotte, without interest. "To find a fortune for us would be a strange ending of a search for the assassin of a man so completely a stranger."

"Oh, I merely mentioned it as a result of my delving into musty records. I do not wish to inspire any hopes that may be disappointed."

"Truly," with more warmth, "I thank you. My lack of enthusiasm arose from the impossibility of inspiring any such hope at all. I shall tell Clay, though, what you have just told me. Should we be entitled to any such interest, he would assuredly exert an effort to regain it."

He bowed a dismissal of the topic.

"But now, Miss Fairchild, does it not occur to you as a bit remarkable that out of all the developments not one circumstance has appeared tending to throw any light on the mysterious Paquita?"

Of a sudden she threw the back of one slender hand to her lips--obviously a characteristic gesture; her look assumed an expression of startled surprise. Charlotte's customary repose of manner was so placid that the involuntary movement was doubly impressive and significant.

"Ah," said Converse, quietly, "something has recurred to you."

"That is true," she at last returned, "and perhaps I should not have mentioned it. But you certainly have enlisted my sympathies, even though I might have no personal interest in these tragedies; and God knows I am anxious enough to see Clay, Mobley, all my friends freed of this wretched nightmare. What struck me so abruptly was this: ever since Joyce's trip to Mexico, and the presentation of the dagger paper-knife to Mobley, he has playfully addressed his sister as 'Paquita.' I had forgotten it; but the nickname spread among her intimates, and she subscribed her letters to them usually in that way. The name appealed to her, and I suppose I have notes now from Joyce signed 'Paquita.'"

"This is certainly very interesting," said he with marked gravity; and Charlotte continued with increased animation:

"It just occurred to me that the circumstance may have become known to some one who has used it with a special significance, at present unknown to you."

"Possibly. But I was not thinking of it in that way."

Although she waited, he vouchsafed no further explanation. Instead, he remained, for possibly a minute, in quiet reflection; then turning to Charlotte, he asked in a matter-of-fact way:

"Do you think you could lay your hand upon any of those notes? I should like to have a glimpse of Miss Joyce's penmanship."

She brightened as at a sudden pleasant thought. "If so, they are in my escritoire. Just a moment, please." She glided into the house and returned in a few moments with a half-dozen or so heavy, cream-tinted envelopes. Without comment she handed them to Converse, eyeing him expectantly as he took up one at random.

It was inscribed, "Miss Susan Sunshine,"--evidently a playful sobriquet designating Charlotte,--and a bit of violet-hued wax bore the Westbrook crest. He merely glanced at the legible and flowing characters; noted that, as it bore no stamp, it had obviously been delivered by private messenger, and then shook his head. "I have never seen that handwriting before," was his only spoken observation as he handed the parcel back to Charlotte. It is impossible that she could have imagined the feeling of anticipation, almost if not quite anxious in its intensity, that stirred within him in the face of the rapidly forming pattern into which immediate events were patently shaping themselves.

But the curiosity now animating her had not yet been satisfied. "Look at this," she persisted, hastily selecting another envelope from the lot. "I have read of marvellous feats of a detective reading a person's entire life from a scrap of that person's chirography. I have a curiosity to know what you make of this."

"I have read of such things, too," with a little laugh; "but I am afraid they are mostly confined to fiction. Still a fragment of one's handwriting is often a great aid in--" He stopped, and his brow shot into a pucker as his glance fell upon the envelope now in his hand. "This is by another hand," he concluded, sharply.

"You are correct; yet--yet--"

He glanced up quickly, giving Charlotte a rapier-like look. "Miss Westbrook wrote it?" he completed her sentence.

She nodded brightly.

"Then she is--" He searched his memory for a word which the District Attorney had suggested to him on a similar occasion; and as Mr. Mountjoy supplied it then, so did Charlotte now.

"Ambidextrous," said she. "Her left hand is reserved for the 'Susan Sunshine' letters and all such whimsical correspondence, while this last is her individual handwriting. Equal facility in the use of either hand is a hereditary Westbrook trait."

He remained still so long that she began to manifest some impatience. "You attach no importance to it, do you?" she asked with some misgiving.

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