The brand of Cain by Ward Sterling. Doctor Andrews, the physician who had
been called in by the coroner, gave as his opinion that Waldo Fellows had
met death shortly after midnight. The conditions of the body, he said,
proved his contention. Then, too, the fact that the blood with which
the sheets had been smeared had dried and hardened caused him to stick to his
statement. Yet Orville Hitchins, Fellow's secretary, swore that his employer had been
alive and well at two o'clock in the morning. Hitchins stated that he had
been summoned by Fellows at one o'clock and requested to drive to Amboy, two
miles away for some bromide. Mister Fellows had been extremely nervous of late and
found himself unable to sleep. Finding that he had no bromide, a drug
that he was accustomed to taking, he had awakened the secretary. Hitchins asserted
that he had taken the light car, made the trip and returned just before
the clock struck. Two. Fellows had taken a dose of the drug,
and Hitchins had again retired. Henry Phelps, the drug clerk, verified Hitchin's
statement as to the purchase of the bromide, while Landis, the chauffeur,
told of getting out the light car for the secretary, who had driven it
himself. In spite of this, Doctor Andrews stuck to his statement that the
murdered man had been dead at least ten hours when he made his examination.
Swinson, the valet, had discovered the murder when he went to awaken his
master at eight o'clock. It was nearly ten o'clock when Coroner Stevenson arrived,
accompanied by doctor Andrews and Bram Dwyer, the New York detective, who,
with myself, was spending a few days vacation in the little village. The
prominence of the murdered man, coupled with the fact that the detective and Stevenson
were old friends, caused the New Yorker to interest himself in the case at
the latter's request. Fellows was a gentleman farmer, a man worth several million
dollars made in Wall Street, who tired of the life in the city,
had purchased Samoset Farms just at the edge of Amboy Township, and after stocking
it with the finest blooded cattle and horses that money could buy, had settled
down to a life of rustic bliss. As time passed, he had added
to his acreage by purchasing adjoining farms, until half the township was his.
He had erected a mansion around which he had built smaller homes for his employees.
These, with the great barns, sheds for the machinery, dairy and
offices, made Samoset farms almost town. Such a man, as Waldo Fellows,
sat down in the midst of a rural community is bound to be sought
out by his fellow man. Twice he had reluctantly allowed himself to represent his
district in the state legislature. The governor's chair could have been his for the
asking. His fellow townsmen loved him for the nobility of his character. Yet
he had enemies by the score, many of them the small landowners whose farms
surrounded his. For the man who does things on a big scale is certain
sooner or later to tramp on the toes of others. But who among those
he had offended hated him to the extent of taking his life. Two Fellows
was murdered in bed, apparently in cold blood, for there was no evidence
of a struggle of any kind. Nothing in the room had been disturbed,
so far as could be retained, nothing of value had been taken. The
fact that the bedding was not must led to the belief that the murderer had
struck while his victim was asleep. None of the servants or Missus Fellows,
who slept just across the hall, had heard any noise, save when Hitchins
returned from the drug store with the drug which Fellows had requested. Missus Fellows
had called over the trancem to Hitchins to ask what was the matter, and
he had told her of his employer's sleeplessness. The bottle of bromide, with
a small quantity gone, was found on the table beside the bed. Bromide
seldom acts inside half to three quarters of an hour. Hence, assuming that
Hitchins had told the truth, and everything pointed to his having done so,
Fellows must, if he was killed in his sleep, have met death not
early than three o'clock. Yet the blood which had flowed from the wound,
the condition of the body, everything led a cool conservative medical man to declare
that death was struck at least three hours earlier, nor could his testimony be
shaken. There were twelve servants who slept in the house, all occupying the
upper floor, with the exception of Hitchins, Marie, missus Fellow's maid,
and Sweenson, the valet. Watson, the butler and general man about the
house, was the last person to bed, and according to his own statement,
the first up in the morning, he had personally locked all the doors
and windows on the first floor. They were all locked when he made his
rounds in the morning. Hitchins, in going to the drug store, had
left the house by the side door. This he had left unlocked, re
locking it upon his return. This led to the assumption on the part of
some of the officials that the murderer had entered the place by that door during
the secretary's absence, hiding until his return, and after Fellows was asleep,
had struck the fatal blow and escaped by the same door, springing the lock
after him. There was no other way of looking at the matter unless one
went on the theory that the deed had been committed by one of the servants
or Missus Fellows, and the latter was unthinkable. While the servants, all
of them had been in fellows employ for years and were known to be absolutely
loyal. Of course, the window of the sleeping rooms on the second floor
were open. A man of agility might have gained an entrance in this way,
but luckily there had been a slight rainfall earlier in the evening, and
as a result the ground was in a condition to take impressions easily. The
coroner and the sheriff made a thorough search for marks of a letter or footprints,
but were positive that there was none beneath any of the windows, and
there was always to be considered the lack of motive. Aside from the farmers
who were jealous of the big landowner, there was no one known to hold
a grudge against him. My friend Dwyer declined to assist the officials in their
hunt for footprints, contenting himself to dawdle around the house as if greatly bored
by the whole affair. Conversant as I am with his methods, I admit
that this surprised me, for he is usually personified when there is some perplexing
problem to be untangled. Eventually, however, the officials, nonplussed, were
forced to turn to him for advice. He answered with a shrug of his
shoulders, absolutely refusing to be drawn into a discussion of the case. Following
the time worn methods, the sheriff called all the servants together and examined them,
elictiting no more information than had already been gained. It was at this
point that Dwyer, who had been listening to the questioning without comment, offered
a suggestion. There is a band of gypsies camped a few miles the other
side of town. He remarked, quietly. There chief is old father Lipke,
a friend of mine. The old fellow knows his business from the ground
up, fortune telling, mind reading and all of that sort of stuff.
In fact, he's assisted me on more than one occasion. I know that
you'll laugh at me for the suggestion, but let me bring him here.
I'll guarantee that he'll have the murderer by the heels inside of half an hour.
How he does it, I can't pretend, and to know it's positively
uncanny the way he pulls off his stunts. But if it's results you want,
then Lipkey is your man. The sheriff sneered Coroner Stevenson, in spite
of his friendship, for the detective suppressed a smile with difficulty. You don't
want us to think you believe this rot, do you? Brahm? He
inquired. My friend shrugged his shoulders again. You asked for my opinion,
he answered, I'll give it to you. I'll take a chance on Father
Lipkey. In fact, as I have stated I have many a time,
the man has powers beyond the understanding of men like us. But of course
it's up to you and the sheriff. Three darkness had fallen when Dwyer and
the coroner again drove up to the fellow's home, accompanied by Father Lipke.
The gypsy member of his race was Lipkey, a wrinkled little figure far past
the age allotted to man, but in spite of his years, he carried
himself like a youth of twenty, and his black, beady eyes glittered like
those of a boy as he prepared the stage for the affair, his huge
brass ear rings rattling like castanets as he hurried here and there. The spot
selected by the Coroner, upon the advice of Dwyer, for the test of
Lipky's power was the huge living room on the lower floor. The servants were
ordered to carry out all of the furniture, with the exception of the chairs,
which were arranged along the wall. Then every member of the household,
with the exception of the widow, was ordered to be present. The old
man mumbled to himself, drew a large circle on the floor in the center
of the room with a piece of charcoal, after which he commanded us to
seat ourselves just outside eyed the circular mark, warning us, under penalty of
death, not to enter the circle unless commended to do so by him.
His next act was to produce a braser, which he lighted and placed in
the center of the circle. By its side, he placed a small vessel
containing water. The lights were then turned out for an instant, we were
in darkness. Then the brazier flamed up, filling the room with an unearthly
blue, greenish sort of glare. Chanting to himself, the old man threw
a pinch of powder onto the flames. At intervals, the light would turn
for a second into a vivid red, then die away again to the dull,
sickly bluish green. Suddenly, he seated himself cross legged at the side
of the brazier and bowed his head, closing his eyes as if in prayer.
He mumbled to himself in an unintelligible jargon. I confess to a feeling
of nervousness. I could tell from the expression on their faces that the others
were the same. The tension was becoming almost unbearable when the old man slowly
raised himself to a standing position, and, seizing the vessel of water,
sprinkled it on the floor inside the circle, being extremely careful that not a
single drop fell outside the mark. I must protect you from the powers of
evil, he exclaimed. Keeping carefully inside the mark, he made the rounds,
touching each of us lightly on the forehead, making on each of us
the sign of the Cross, in the name of the Father, Son and
Holy Ghost. I heard him mumble to himself. Reseating himself on the floor,
he again bowed his head, and once more his lips moved, as
if in prayer. Suddenly he fell over and for several minutes writhed about as
if in terrific pain. I leapt to my feet to assist him, but
the strong hand of bram Dwire held me back. Remember, he shouted.
The old man commanded us, regardless of what happened, not to cross the
line. After three or four minutes, the spasm ceased, and the gipsy,
seemingly none the worse for his experience, arose and addressed us, my
friends. He commenced in his halting broken English, you have asked me here
to use my arts in the detection of one who has committed a crime,
the crime of murder. I have done my best inside this circle. I
have wrestled with the powers of darkness and the spirits of light. I know
not which one of you committed this foul deed. No one knows save God.
Yet, he who has created all things, will not allow the crime
of murder to pass unnoticed. Therefore, I say unto you this, If
he who has committed this murder is in this room, there will appear upon
his forehead the sign of the Cross, the mark that God placed upon Cain.
This alone, I can do more than that. I am not allowed,
for my powers are limited. He signaled for Dwyer to turn on the
lights. An instant later, we were blinking at the unaccustomed brightness. The
old man seized the brazier and held it close to the face of each of
us, gazing into our eyes as if seeking to read there the secret he
was bent upon obtaining. Then there came a shriek, a gasp of astonishment,
of horror, a cry. I turned my head, my eyes,
following the gaze of the others. Upon the forehead of Hitchens was the sign
of the cross. For a second there was silence, cold, oppressive silence.
The secretary gazed from one to another of us mutely, questioningly. Then
his eyes sought the mirror above the fireplace. Afterward I recalled that Dwyer had
seated him in front of the glass. His face became drawn. The sweat
stood out on his forehead in great beads. Slowly, as if stunned,
his fingers sought the accursed mark upon his forehead. He spat upon his hands
and rubbed the spittle against the spot, as if to erase it. He
held the tips of his fingers in front of his eyes, surveying them thoughtfully,
dazed. Then, without warning, he dropped to his knees, his
arms outstretched toward the swarthy man within the circle. I did it, I
did it, he shrieked. Four. No. I never met Lipke until
yesterday. Dwyer chuckled to us, as two hours later, Hitchin safely lodged
in jail. He sat with the coroner, the sheriff, and myself in
the former's parlor and went over the various phases of the case. I'm a
fairly good judge of character, and when I noticed him begging on Main Street
yesterday, I immediately placed the old fellow as being far above the average of
his class mentally, and capable of playing almost any part he might be called
upon to take. I realized far better than the rest of you that the
murderer was too clever to be captured unless some subterfuge was used. And when
you appeal to me, Stevenson, my thought reverted at once to the old
man. A falsehood or two in the interest of justice, is, in
my opinion, perfectly a lie. And that I was correct in my estimate
is proved by what happened. What appealed to me from the very start was
the apparent lack of motive. Had we been able to supply a motive,
we might have been able to lay our hands on the man who struck the
blow. But in the absence of one, it became necessary to try some
radical step. To imagine that one of the farmers hereabouts would become jealous enough
to strike Fellows down was absurd, and granting that some of them might have
the nerve, they lacked the imagination to pull off so mysterious a crime.
I was confident in my own mind that Hitchins was the guilty party. Why
because he was the only man who had the opportunity to kill Fellows. But
on the other hand, his frank statements apparently eliminated him from the suspects.
Let us analyze the affair a trifle deeper. Doctor Andrews swears that Fellows was
killed shortly after midnight. We now know that he was correct, But Hitchins
bobs up with the story of being in conversation with the murdered man at two
o'clock. He was able to prove his statements by two reputable and disinterested witnesses,
Landis the chauffeur and Phelps, the drug clerk. Therefore, my conclusion
was that either Hitchins was lying or that the physician was wrong. But my
experience has taught me that medical men are, as a general rule, cold
blooded. That is, they figure things out with mathematical accuracy, and by
the law of averages they are right. Ninety nine times out of one hundred.
Therefore Hitchins was lying, but so far as we knew, there was
no motive. Now, the average man has deep within him a streak of
superstition and a fear of whatever he does not understand. Therefore I took the
indolent attitude before the servants, finally working things up to a climax so that
they expected wonderful things from the gypsy whom I had touted so highly. As
soon as you gave your permission, I hunted up the old man, whose
name, by the way, is not Lipky but Rodrigo. For ten dollars.
He agreed to play the part the way I told him to, and
that he sustained my estimate of him. I believe you will all agree.
I spent the afternoon in coaching him. I felt that in case Hitchins did
not confess, we would have lost nothing. But I was betting on the
superstitious streak in his makeup and won out. We all know what his motive
was. He had been systematically robbing his employer for years. Fellows had become
suspicious last night notified the secretary that they would go over the books together today.
Hitchins waited until his employer was sleeping, then entered the room by means
of a key that he had secured possession of, struck the fatal blow,
then went through the mummery of going to the village after the bromide, thus
providing himself with an almost perfect alibi. With Fellows dead, he figured that
as confidential man, he would be retained for a year or two to come,
finally reaching the point where he could get his hands on a large sum
of money and make his escape before his defalcations were discovered. But rumbled the
sheriff. I'm still in the dark as to how the gipsy caused the black
cross to appear on his forehead just by mumbling a few prayers. Those people
know a lot of black art that we more civilized people will never be able
to understand. Grinned I furnished the black art myself, he answered. It
cost me ten cents at the drug store. The old man made the cross
on Hitchin's forehead. First, if you will recall the affair, he had
just dipped his hand into a vessel of what looked like water. He only
pretended to dip his hand into it when he anointed the rest of you.
The heat of the brazier brought out the mark, or started it when he
held it up and pretended to peer into your faces. What was it?
Merely a ten percent solution of ammonium chloride, the same stuff from which invisible
ink is made. The old man's skin being dark, it didn't come out
on his hand as it did on Hitchin's forehead. And that's the whole story,
The end of the Brand of Cain by Ward Sterling