Speaker 1: 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