The mysterious Highwayman by Sergeant Ryan, the inspector in charge of the Detective Bureau
at Police Headquarters, was talking to half a dozen reporters and at the same
time was exchanging a dress coat for one of dark blue, which was not
part of a uniform, though suggestive of it. I don't know any more
about this case than you do, he was saying, I've been to the
theater and was eating supper afterward when I got word of it. The report
that came to me was that a man named Prescott Carroll had been arrested for
the murder of Oliver Brundage. Oli Brundage, you all know him, the
reporters nodded. The name and fame of Ali Brundage were quite familiar to them.
He was a young man of good family, a bachelor, a clubman
who managed to move in the highest society without any visible means of support.
They also knew Carroll, who had gone out of journalism into literature eight or
ten years before, and had won a certain measure of recognition. The arrest
was made by a patrolman and detective Hinds of my staff, continued the inspector.
It seems Carroll knocked Brundage down with a sand club or something of that
kind, and was going through his pockets. It was on West seventy eighth
Street, just opposite the new Church. The prisoner was taken to the station
house, but I sent word to have him brought down here. Brundage's body
is at the station now, that's all I know. The reporters exchanged glances,
then one of them asked, what's this about a millionaire's pocketbook being found
in Carroll's pocket. I heard a rumor to that effect, said the inspector,
but I am not prepared to a answer any questions. Isn't it a
fact, queried one of the reporters, that there have been a good many
hold ups in the neighborhood, and that your man Hindes was up there.
On that account, there have been some wild stories in the newspapers. The
inspector began, but checked himself as he perceived a lieutenant entering by the door
on the left. The lieutenant executed a sort of military salute and departed without
having opened his mouth. You boys will have to get out of here now,
said the inspector. I'll see you later. The reporters filed out like
so many pall bearers. Every one of them looked at his watch. Though
there was a clock in plain sight on the wall. It was half past
one in the morning, and minutes were precious. No one remained in the
room except the chief and the man in the dark gray suit, who sat
against the wall opposite the door where the lieutenant had appeared. You know him,
Carter, don't you, asked the inspector three years ago, replied the
detective. I knew him as a brilliant and promising fellow, but he passed
out of my sight. Writer, eh, I've read one of his stories.
It was good too. Why the devil should he have done this thing?
Carter answered only with a gesture. The inspector glanced quickly toward the door,
then, leaning forward in his chair, with his right elbow on the
desk and his open hand against the side of his face, he waited in
the shadow. The brim of Carter's hat was nearly level with his eyes,
and as the principal source of light was a cluster of lamps against the wall
and almost directly over his head, his countenance was scarcely visible. The door
at the left swung open, and two officers appeared with the prisoner between them.
They paused an instant so that the man seemed to come along into the
white glare of light and oppressive silence. He was tall and of strong frame,
but excessively thin. He had wavy, dark brown hair, a high
forehead painfully wrinkled above the bridge of the nose, pale blue eyes with that
faded look that one sees in the eyes of tired women, a light mustache,
and a well molded but rather weak chin with a dimple in it.
He wore a shabby black overcoat above what seemed to be expensive and fashionable evening
dress. Carter, who remembered Preston Carroll as he had been, was shocked
at the change in him. He seemed to have lived a dozen years between
twenty nine and thirty two. There was a straight backed wooden chair, which,
standing alone in the middle of the big and bare room, had a
singular effect of isolation. Carol looked at it, perceived that it was for
him, and sat down with a shutter. At that moment, Hines,
the headquarters man who had assisted in the arrest, appeared at the door.
While Carter crossing the room, whispered to one of the policemen, who immediately
went out. Well, said the inspector, addressing Hines at ten minutes past
twelve, responded the officer. I was going west along seventy eighth Street toward
Berkeley Avenue. There was an apartment house on the southeast corner with an alley
behind it, which runs half way down the block and then turns into the
avenue. There's an iron fence with a gate on each end. Close by
this fence, where there wasn't much light, I saw this man stooping over
a body that lay on the sidewalk. I ran up, and at the
same time patrolman Bruce came from the direction of the avenue. We had the
man between us, and when he saw that he surrendered. He seemed to
be dazed, and we couldn't get him to say anything to us. I
recognized the man on the ground as Oliver Brundage. He was alive then,
but unconscious. He died before the ambulance came. There was no weapon.
Brundage was killed by striking his head in falling. We had the body taken
to the station house and took this man there. He talked to himself on
the way, he said, don't worry, don't worry. I'll be all
right. It's the best thing that could have happened. He admitted having killed
Brundage, and that is all we could get out of him. The inspector
turned to Carroll and asked him whether he had anything to say, warning him,
in accordance with the law, that whatever he said could be used against
him on the trial. He remained silent for perhaps half a minute, during
which interval Hines laid upon the inspector's desk a package containing all that had been
taken from the prisoner when he was searched at the station house. Denial is
useless, said Carroll. At last, I was taken in the act.
His manner was indefinably strange. If one may attempt description, it was more
like an invalid's than a criminal's. This man, of cultured mind and delicately
sensitive nature, seemed to feel neither remorse nor shame. There was evidence of
considerable anxiety, but this state was repeatedly interrupted by involuntary outbursts of reassurance,
almost of satisfaction. What was your motive, asked the inspector. Robbery replied,
the prisoner cheerfully. I was driven to it by poverty. The inspector
looked hastily at Carter, who returned the glance meaningly. Both men perceived that
the prisoner's answer was a lie, and that it covered a mystery. This
case, which on a casual view seemed so clear, being the arrest of
a highway robber beside the body of his victim, became at once to those
experienced men, a problem for close and rigid investigation. I thought you were
successful in your profession, said the inspector. I might have been, was
the reply. But I had bad luck and many burdens. There were people
dependent upon me. I never worried about myself. I suppose nobody does.
It was about others. He became excited as he spoke, and his self
control slipped away. It was obvious that he did not mean to tell his
story, but that it told itself, just as the first words he had
uttered in the room had overridden his will. It appeared that he had been
married five years before, and that his wife had almost immediately begun to lose
her sight as the result of a malady. Rare and little understood gradually with
that steady debilitation which nature commands and human torturers vainly strived to imitate. The
shadows had closed around her. Carol had beggared himself with doctors. He had
become a borrower under the pressure of need that could not be postponed. His
friends had turned from him, and some of them, for the sake of
spite that grows out of money, had raised up other enemies when their own
power to injure him had seemed inadequate. Meanwhile, his strength had declined,
and his imagination, too much occupied with images of his own increasing sorrow,
had ceased to suggest the pictures which his art required. His earnings had decreased
as his needs grew. He had labored under that enormous disadvantage of visible misfortune.
He became the lame wolf which the pack rends. Throughout the latter part
of this wretched period, his sister and his brother's widow, with two children,
had been dependent upon him. His wife at last had gone to a
private hospital, where the charges were excessive and the benefits few. The wonder
was that the men had not gone mad laboring with a brain so clogged with
miserable thoughts. Yet he did not seem to be insane, though surely on
the break of it, neither Carter nor the inspector interrupted Carol's recital, which
he himself finally broke off with an exclamation of despair. You see, I
can't help telling this, he said, though upon my soul, I did
not mean to do it. The inspector glanced at Carter and touched his forehead.
Unperceived by Carrol, the detective made a negative sign. We'll see what
we have here, said the inspector, opening the packet which Hines had brought.
It contained a few trifles, separately wrapped because they were obviously the prisoners,
and the things that he was supposed to have taken from Brundage. The
latter consisted of a handkerchief, some letters, a cigarette case, a card
case, and several keys. Another handkerchief, a woman's and small coin to
the value of sixty four cents were marked as having been found in Brundage's pocket
by the police. Then you got no money at all, said the inspector.
I got a pocket book, said Carroll, with hesitation. Do you
mean to say that that you got this from Brundage? Demanded the inspector,
holding up the wallet certainly, answered Carroll, but he did not meet the
eye of the questioner. Do you know whose pocketbook it is? They told
me at the station house, said Carol, faintly that it was Stanton Ripley's.
Stanton Ripley was a young man about town, possessed of great wealth and
a barnful of wild oats. The pocketbook bore his initials and the crest of
his family in gold and enamel. It was a plain, light Russian leather
book, of the sort that folds in the middle, with one large compartment
on each side. Carter received it from the chief's hand and discovered that it
contained three thousand and ten dollars, one one thousand dollars bill, four of
five hundred dollars, and two of five dollars, all new they found in
the prisoner's coat tail pocket, said the chief. Were you aware, he
continued, addressing Carol, that this was in Brundage's possession when you attacked him.
Carol pondered upon this question, I couldn't have known that, he said.
At last, in a faint voice. Carter observed that he had taken
hold of the sides of his chair, as if to keep from falling out
of it, and that a bluish pallor had overspread his face. He is
there anything I can do for you, asked the detective kindly. Could I
have something to eat? Said the prisoner in an embarrassed tone. Of course,
if it's too much trouble. I have already set out for some supper
for you, said Carter, looking closely at him. It occurred to me
that you might like it. I wonder it hasn't come before this. Carol
expressed his gratitude, and while he was doing so, a policeman entered with
several packages. The detective drew up a small table and set forth a bottle
of milk and a loaf of bread, at sight of which the prisoner's eyes
shone. Behind him, the policeman was opening a box from which he took
a steak and potatoes on a wooden plate, and a knife and fork.
He held up the knife and looked inquiringly at Carter, who nodded, and
the utensils were laid upon the table. The prisoner ate well. Many times
he spoke aloud in praise of the food, clearly not meaning to do so,
for he always checked himself with shame. Now, he said, at
last, I feel first rate. Heavens. The exclamation came suddenly. Carrol
half rose and then sank back. He pressed his hand across his forehead,
which had become wet in an instant. My wife and my sister, he
cried, How shall I tell them? I'm afraid that the newspapers will anticipate
you unless you telegraph, said Carter. He took a pad of blanks and
a pencil from the inspector's desk and laid them before Carol, who, after
many attempts, wrote this message. Be prepared for very bad news, yet
all for the best. Don't try to understand, don't come here, We'll
send money. He puzzled a long time over the last sentence, and finally
let it stand. The message was addressed to his sister, missus Hilda Carroll,
in a small town in Massachusetts. At the bottom, he wrote a
request to repeat the telegram to his wife in care of the physician in charge
of the hospital where she then was. Carter gave the telegram with money for
its transmission to one of the policemen, who went out with it immediately.
The inspector, meanwhile, was answering a call upon the telephone which stood on
his desk. He received a long report at the close of which he ordered
that the prisoner should be taken into the adjoining room. Nick, he said,
as soon as they were alone, I've just got word from the man
who was sent to Ripley's rooms when the pocketbook was found on Carrol Ripley has
just come home with a bad wound in the head. He seems to have
been wandering around the streets dazed for quite a long time. He was at
his club until eleven o'clock. Then he started out for a walk on Fifth
Avenue, alongside the park at sixty third Street. He saw a man step
out from behind a tree. As he turned to face the fellow, he
got a wrap on the left side of his head, and the next thing
he remembers, he was on the other side of the park way up at
eighty first Street, and it was more than two hours later where he'd been
in the meantime, he didn't know his pocketbook was gone and his watch nothing
else was taken. He said. He probably could not identify his assailant,
though the man looked familiar, he knew Carrol very well. They were in
college together. He lent him some money a year or so ago. Then
they had a falling out, and he hasn't seen Carrol since he didn't think
it was Carroll who assaulted him. What do you make out of this,
Well, it seems somewhat extraordinary, said the detective, that a man on
the verge of starvation should not have used one of those five dollar bills to
buy a meal. It occurs to me that we haven't found Ripley's watch,
and I am also puzzled to know why a man who had made a haul
of three thousand dollars should take the desperate chance of assaulting Brundage, who is
well known never to have any money. Perhaps Carol didn't know him, suggested
the inspector. It's as bad one way or another, replied the detective.
He wouldn't have risked three thousand dollars and his liberty on the chance of what
might be in the stranger's pockets. However we might ask him about it.
Carrol was brought back into the room and was informed of what had been learned
about Ripley. He made a strong effort to cover his emotions, but Carter
was of the opinion that for some mysterious reason. The prisoner was not only
surprised but pleased. It is true, he said, I did not take
the pocketbook from Brundage. I took it from Ripley, where demanded the inspector,
who had not mentioned the place designated by Ripley in Central Park, was
the reply, I followed him from his club. At this point the pri
showed his first disinclination to answer questions, yet he consented to hear a few
from Carter, and this exchange resulted. Were you acquainted with Brundage? I
knew him by sight and by reputation. When did you see him this evening
when he turned out of the avenue on to seventy eighth Street Did you recognize
him? Yes? Did you speak to him before attacking him? No?
Where did you get the dress suit? Ripley gave it to me a year
and a half ago when he got me to go to dinner at a club.
Do you mean that he bought it for you? No, it was
his. He had just had it made. It was one of his freaks
to give it to me. What is that stain? It was a reddish
mark, as if from a blow with a rusty iron bar, and it
extended across the the back of the overcoat about the waistline. The garment was
lying on a chair. Carol looked at the stain with mild surprise and said
he did not know what it was. Your dress coat was torn in the
struggle with brundage, I suppose, said the detective, indicating a ripped seam
at the back of the left shoulder and some further damage here and there.
Carol nodded. You had your overcoat on when you were arrested, didn't you.
Yes, I just slipped it on after the struggle. Why didn't you
run through the alley when you saw the policeman coming. I didn't know there
was any gate in the fence, replied the prisoner. This closed the examination
and Carrol was assigned to a cell. It is a singular coincidence, said
the detective, that I happened to be very familiar with the spot where this
arrest was made. I waited there some hours on a recent evening. The
gate in the fence could not be overlooked by anyone, and just within it
there is a rusty iron bar extending from the gate post to the side of
the house. From the appearance of the mark on Carol's coat, I should
say that he had leaned against that bar. I came very near to doing
it myself, so Carol had a neat way of escape and didn't take it.
The inspector drummed with his fingers on his desk and gently whistled a little
tune for a case. It opens with a confession. He said, at
last, this is a beautiful muddle to begin with. The man is such
a purposeless liar. I would hardly say that rejoined Carter. He knows what
he is about. A liar. He certainly is one of the most perverse
and incalculable that I have ever encountered. But his statements held to a clear
view. Obviously he is willing to say anything which will tend to show that
he attacked Brundage for the purpose of robbing him. Now, of course,
this crime is not robbery, though Carroll tried to give that color to it,
and on a hasty inspiration too, or he would not have committed the
absurdity of taking the man's handkerchief to say nothing about this rubbish of cigarette and
card cases. You mean that he killed Brundage for some other reason, asked
the inspector, did you observe the weather, rejoined Carter with a smile.
It has been snowing a little, and the pavements are a mess. Carol's
coat shows a considerable struggle, and by all the evidence, the two men
must have fallen to the ground, one gripping the other's throat. It was
then that Brundage's head struck the projection and the iron fence, but the assailant
could not have immediately known the result. Without doubt, they rolled there together
in the dirt. Yet there isn't a mark on Carroll's knees. That is
so. But the elbow and left sleeve of the coat are soiled, not
the overcoat. He taken that off. It is all very singular, said
the detective. I am being gradually led toward a remarkable conclusion, but I
am not ready to talk about it yet. I suggest that we put the
whole thing off until tomorrow. The case is in your hands, said the
inspector, if you will be kind enough to take charge of it. On
the following day, the detective called upon Stanton Ripley at his rooms, which
have sometimes been mentioned in print as the most luxurious bachelor apartments in New York.
Ripley was under a doctor's care, but had almost ceased to require it.
He had a contusion on the left side of his head behind the ear,
but was suffering principally from the mental strain the result of his adventure of
the previous night. It was necessary to avoid exciting him, and the detective
proceeded with the utmost caution. Ripley declared positively that his assailant was not Carroll,
and after an hour of shrewd questioning, he admitted his belief that it
was Brundage. Then he seemed to regret having made the statement, and he
concluded by asserting his ignorance of the highwayman's identity. It became necessary, therefore,
to trace Brundage's movements on the previous evening, and this proved to be
easy. From nine o'clock until a few minutes before his death. Brundage had
been in the apartments of a young widow, a Missus Haskell, who lived
with her mother and sister in that building on Berkeley Avenue, behind which ran
the alley that has been referred to. There had been three other guests,
a man and two women, and Brundage had put them into a cab just
before going to meet his fate. It had, unfortunately been his intention to
walk across to his home, which was on Central Park West. This negated
the idea that Carroll could have found Ripley's pocket book in Brundage's pocket, But
where had he obtained it? Since Ripley was sure he was not the robber,
and what motive could have induced Carroll to play his singular part in this
affair, A study of the locality could not fail to raise the presumption that
Carroll had been lying in wait for Brundage. The spot was well chosen,
Yet Carroll was unknown to the Haskells and could hardly have had any means of
knowing where Brundage would spend the evening. Indeed, all the evidence that Carter
could collect seemed to show that Carroll and Brundage had no common interests and no
possible grounds for animosity. There were rumors of ill feeling between Ripley and Brundage
on account of the fascinating Missus Haskell, at whose home both were frequent visitors.
But even upon the wild supposition that Ripley had been sufficiently jealous to employ
Carroll as his bravo, he would hardly have paid him with a watch and
pocket book, nor would Carroll have collected his price with the aid of a
sand club. The newspapers saw in Carroll a mysterious highwayman. They exaggerated one
or two small robberies in the neighborhood into a great list of desperate crimes,
and the young author was pictured as one of the famous degenerates of the age.
But the real puzzle of the case remained unanswered. Nobody could account for
Carroll's retention of that pocket book, for his senseless risk in attacking Brundage while
carrying so great a plunder from another crime, for his failure to take an
easy chance of escape. In the evening, Carter called at the headquarters and
found Carrol's sister, his sister in law, and the latter's two children.
Though women had come to the city with a vague idea that their presence was
required, and without enough money to take them back again, they and the
children were in tears, and the scene was intensely distressing. It became positively
harrowing when the inspector yielded to their entreaties and summoned the prisoner from his cell.
Somewhat to Carter's surprise, the man was greatly improved in appearance. His
bearing was marked by a sad serenity. He beheld the tears and accepted the
reproaches of the women with perfect composure, and it was only when they spoke
of their immediate need of money that he showed any considerable anxiety. He referred
them to a lawyer whom he had retained during the day, saying that he
would probably assist them. Otherwise, he said nothing to them except vaguely reassuring
words, and though they said they would come again on the following day,
a suggestion which the inspector did not see fit to contradict, Carroll bade them
farewell with an air of finality. When the prisoner had been removed, Carter
inquired about his lawyer and learned that a corporation attorney, practically unknown in criminal
courts, had been retained. Carroll had given the name an address, and
the attorney had been summoned to the best of by judgment, said the inspector.
He had never seen the prisoner before. Carroll was arraigned and waived examination
as you know. Of course, during the evening Carter obtained a bit of
evidence not altogether unimportant. He had appeared that when Ripley left his club on
the night of the crime, a man answering Carroll's description, who had been
loitering for more than an hour in the neighborhood, had followed him. Two
cabmen were the witnesses on this point. They were perfectly confident, but they
said that Ripley had gone to fifty ninth Street instead of Fifth Avenue. Carter
called upon Ripley in regard to this contradiction, and was informed that the young
man had walked a little way up fifty ninth Street, but had returned.
He had not seen Carroll following him. About noon the next day, Carter
called upon the inspector, who began conversation by stating that he had been devoting
a good deal of thought to the Brundage case. And you have evolved a
theory, said the detective, with a smile. Shall I tell you what
it is? The inspector shut one eye and scrutinized Carter closely out of the
other. Go ahead, confound you, he said, you'll tell me what
it is, and then you'll show me why it isn't good for anything.
On the contrary, replied the detective, it is very near the truth.
In fact, there can hardly be two theories in this affair. I happened
to know that one of your men compared the stain on Carrol's overcoat with the
iron bar I spoke of as to hype from the ground, general appearance,
et cetera. The conclusion that Carol knew about the gate and the way of
escaping through the alley is thus verified. Why didn't he run? The obvious
explanation is that he remained to cover the retreat of someone else, precisely,
said the inspector. If the snow hadn't melted so soon, we would have
found tracks. You believe, continued Carter, that this young man, in
his half crazed desperation, had formed an alliance with some thug. That it
was the thug who attacked Ripley. That the ease with which Ripley was disposed
of sent them both on a mad career of depredation, with the intent of
doing one big night's work and then quitting the town. Well, something of
that sort, admitted the inspector. Then it is the pal who has engaged
this lawyer and has supplied Carroll's relatives with money. Have they got some platty,
replied the detective, And they have gone back to Massachusetts, and I
can tell you something more agreeable. Two of the leading medical experts in this
city have taken an interest in missus Carroll, who, by the way,
is a very charming woman whose needs, but never her importunities, have burdened
our friend, For she is different from the others. Have you seen her?
Yes, this forenoon. She does not yet know of her husband's misfortune.
It was deemed unwise to tell her. But would you believe it?
Those experts, who were so much interested by the accounts of her case published
yesterday in connection with this affair, tell me that she has a good chance
of recovery, that the treatment hitherto has been all wrong, and that she
may fully regain her sight. I'm glad of that, said the inspector.
The experts are great men, said Carter, But they are not philanthropists.
They are sure of their money. By the way, have you seen Carol
today? Yes? And the change in the man is wonderful. Upon my
word, he has gained pounds of flesh, and he looks positively handsome.
His mind is relieved, responded Carter. You remember how he never worries about
himself. That is the truest words he spoke to us. Worry for others
has driven him half crazy money worry, and now it is over. He
sees the electric chair before him and is cheerful. I was near forgetting,
he continued, after a brief pause, that I have recovered Ripley's watch.
Some of my men searched the west side of the park from seventy seventh Street
northward this morning, and they found it where somebody had thrown it over a
wall. A portrait on the inside of the case at the back has been
scratched with a knife, but the job was done in the dark. The
face is still recognizable. It is missus Haskell's. Why in blazes, my
friend, it is clear as a bell match it with my discovery that Carroll's
coat showed every mark of a fight with brundage, in which singularly enough,
his nether garment seemed not to have shared. Do you mean that he changed
coats with the real assailant? Gasped the inspector, beyond a doubt, the
inspector sprang up and seized his hat from the rack on the wall. Let's
go down to the tombs, he said, Carroll, is there in a
private room of the famous prison. The prisoner in the Brandage murder case brought
from his cell. He knew not why found the inspector and the detective waiting
for him. Mister Carroll said, Carter kindly, the cat out of the
bag. The prisoner started violently, and his face flushed. You were in
desperate straits, the detective continued. You knew not where to turn for help.
You had quarreled with Ripley, who once had befriended you, and yet
in your emergency you could think of no one else. You dressed as well
as you could in a suit that he had given you, and yet when
you came to the club, your shabby overcoat kept you from asking for the
man you wished to see. When he came out, you followed him,
hesitating to speak, for miles along the street in the winter night. You
kept him in sight, while he, with a foolish burden of jealousy on
his mind, did not see you. At the corner of Berkeley Avenue in
seventy eighth street. He stopped presently, he turned back, and you stepped
within the iron gate to let him pass. Then Brundage appeared. Before you
realized what was happening. The sharp struggle was over. Ripley had gratified his
jealousy far more fully than he had planned to do. Brundage lay dead on
the sidewalk, and Ripley, bending over him, groaned in agony. A
sudden, grotesque and terrible thought leapt into your mind to exchange burdens with Ripley,
to take his deadly sin and give him your care that would rest so
lightly on this crisis. With what insane relief he accepted your offer, what
promises he made in those few thrilling moments. We can readily imagine he had
taken off his overcoat that he might be more free to punish his rival.
His clothes showed the struggle, as your two suits were identical. The change
in coats was a natural suggestion. The purse with the money was forgotten,
but Ripley, after he had escaped through the alley, remembered it, and
his story of robbery was the only invention that could meet the situation. The
rest comes naturally, including your queer lawyer that Ripley recommended. Curse you,
cried Carroll, leaping to his feet. You have ruined me in return.
Let me promise my help, said Carter. I pity you. Driven mad
by cares as you have been. There is no reason in the world why
you cannot bear your burdens when you have had rest with an easy mind.
I can promise it to you. Carroll sank back into a chair and began
to weep hysterically. The inspector viewed him with professional self control, yet with
some signs of sympathy. Shall I send a man for Ripley, he whispered.
I have attended to that, responded the detective. He is on his
way to headquarters by this time. Manslaughter, I suppose, muttered the detective.
I'll bet a hat he doesn't get over five years. The end of
The Murderous Highwayman by Sergeant Ryan