Speaker 1: 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