However, all readers - sooner or later - find for themselves a literary genre that is fundamentally different from all others. The Red Seal by Natalie Sumner Lincoln (ink book reader .TXT) 📖
- Author: Natalie Sumner Lincoln
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Penfield did not immediately continue his examination, but when he did so his manner was stern.
“Doctor, what in your opinion caused Mr. Turnbull’s death?”
“Judging superficially - I made no thorough examination,” Stone explained parenthetically, “I should say that Mr. Rochester was right when he stated that Turnbull died from an acute attack of angina pectoris.”
“How did Mr. Rochester come to make that assertion and where?”
“Immediately after Turnbull’s death,” replied Stone. “Mr. Rochester, who shared his apartment, defended him in court. Mr. Rochester was aware that Turnbull suffered from the disease, and Mr. Clymer, who was present, also knew it.”
“And what is your opinion, doctor?” questioned Penfield.
Stone hesitated. “There was a distinct odor of amyl nitrite noticeable when I went to Turnbull’s aid, and I concluded then that he had some heart trouble and had inhaled the drug to ward off an attack. It bears out Mr. Rochester’s theory of death from angina pectoris.”
“I see. Thank you, doctor. Please wait with the other witnesses; we may call you again,” and with a sigh the busy physician resigned himself to spending another hour in the room reserved for the witnesses.
The next to take the witness stand was Deputy Marshal Grant. His testimony was short and concise, - and his description of the scene in the police court preceding Turnbull’s death was listened to with deep attention by every one.
“Did the prisoner show any symptoms of illness before his heart attack?” asked Penfield.
“Not exactly illness,” replied Grant slowly. “I noticed he didn’t move very quickly; sort of shambled, as if he was weak in his legs. I’ve seen ‘drunk and disorderlies’ act just that way, and paid no particular attention to him. He did ask for a drink of water just after he returned to the cage.”
“Did you give it to him?”
“No, an attendant gave the glass to Mr. Rochester who handed it to Mr. Turnbull.”
Penfield regarded Grant in silence for a minute. “That is all,” he announced, and with a polite bow the deputy marshal withdrew.
Detective Ferguson recognized Kent as he passed up the room to the platform and gave him a slight bow and smile, but the smile had disappeared when, at the coroner’s request, he told of his arrival just after the discovery of the burglar’s identity.
“I searched the cage where the prisoner had been seated and found this handkerchief,” he went on to say. “It had been dropped by Turnbull and was saturated with amyl nitrite. I had it examined by a chemist, who said that this amyl nitrite was given to patients with heart trouble in little pearl capsules to be crushed in handkerchiefs and the fumes inhaled.
“The chemist also told me that” - the detective spoke with impressive seriousness, “judging from the number of particles of capsules adhering to the linen, more than one capsule had been crushed by Turnbull. Here is the handkerchief,” and he laid it on the table with great care.
Kent’s heart sank; the moment he had dreaded all that long afternoon had come. Penfield inspected the handkerchief with interest, and then passed it to the jurors, cautioning them to handle it carefully.
“I note,” he stated, turning again to Detective Ferguson, “that it is a woman’s handkerchief.”
“It is,” replied Ferguson. “And embroidered in one corner is the initial ‘B.’”
Penfield ran his fingers through his gray hair. “You may go, Ferguson,” he said, and beckoned to the morgue master. “Ask Miss Barbara McIntyre to return.”
The girl was quick in answering the summons. Kent, more and more worried, was watching the scene with painful attention.
“Did Mr. Turnbull have one of your handkerchiefs?” asked Penfield.
Her surprise at the question was manifest in her manner.
“He might have,” she said. “I have a dreadful habit of dropping my handkerchiefs around.”
“Did you miss one after his visit to your house on Monday night?”
“Miss McIntyre,” Penfield took up the handkerchief which the foreman replaced on his desk a moment before, and holding it with care extended it toward the girl. “Is this your handkerchief?”
She inspected the handkerchief and the initial with curiosity, but with nothing more, Kent was convinced, and in his relief was almost guilty of disturbing the decorum of the inquest with a shout of joy.
“It is not my handkerchief,” she stated clearly.
Penfield replaced the handkerchief on the table with the same care he had picked it up, and turned again to her.
“Thank you, Miss McIntyre; I won’t detain you longer. Logan,” to the morgue master, “ask Dr. Stone to step here.”
Almost immediately Stone reentered the room and hurried to the platform.
“Would two or more capsules of amyl nitrite constitute a lethal dose?” asked Penfield.
“They would be very apt to finish a feeble heart,” replied Stone. “Three capsules, if inhaled deeply would certainly kill a healthy person.”
Penfield showed the handkerchief to the physician. “Can a chemist tell, from the particles clinging to this handkerchief, how many capsules have been used?”
“I should say he could.” Stone looked grave as he inspected the linen, taking careful note of the letter “B” in one corner of the handkerchief. “But there is this to be considered - Turnbull may not have crushed those capsules all at the same time.”
“What do you mean?”
“He may have felt an attack coming on earlier in the evening and used a capsule, and in the police court used the same handkerchief in the same manner.”
“I see,” Penfield nodded. “The point is cleverly taken.”
Kent silently agreed with the coroner. The next instant Stone was excused, and after a slight pause the deputy coroner, Dr. Mayo, left his table and his notes and occupied the witness chair, after first being sworn. The preliminaries did not consume much time, and Penfield’s manner was brisk as he addressed his assistant.
“Did you make a post-mortem examination of Turnbull?” he asked.
“I did, sir, in the presence of the morgue master and Dr. McLane.” Dr. Mayo displayed an anatomical chart, drawing his pencil down it as he talked. “We found from the condition of the heart that the deceased had suffered from angina pectoris” - he paused and spoke more slowly - “in examining the gastric contents we found the presence of aconitine.”
“Aconitine?” questioned Penfield, and the reporters, scenting the sensational, leaned forward eagerly so as not to miss the deputy coroner’s answer.
“Aconitine, an active poison,” he explained. “It is the alkaloid of aconite, and generally fatal in its results.”
The large building of the popular Club de Vingt, or as one Washingtonian put it, the “Club De Vin,” which had sprung into existence in the National Capital during the war, was ablaze with light and Benjamin Clymer, sitting at a small table in one corner of the dining-room, wished most heartily that it had been less crowded. Many dinner-parties were being given that night, and it was only by dint of perseverance and a Treasury note that he had finally induced the head waiter to put in an extra table for him and his guest, Harry Kent. Kent had been very late and, to add to his short-comings, had been silent, not to say morose, during dinner. Clymer heaved a sigh of relief when the table was cleared and coffee and cigars placed before them.
Kent roused himself from his abstraction. “We cannot talk here,” he said, looking at the gay diners who surrounded them. “And I have several important matters to discuss with you, Mr. Clymer.”
His remark was overheard by their waiter, and he stopped pouring out Kent’s coffee.
“There is a small smoking room to the right of the dining room,” he suggested. “I passed there but a moment ago and it was not occupied. If you desire, sir, I will serve coffee there.”
“An excellent idea.” Clymer rose quickly and he and Kent followed the waiter to the inclosed porch which had been converted into an attractive lounging room for the club members. It was much cooler than the overheated dining room, and Kent was grateful for the subdued light given out by the artistically shaded lamps with which it was furnished. There was silence while the waiter with deft fingers arranged the coffee and cigars on a wicker table; then receiving Clymer’s generous tip with a word of thanks, the man departed.
Kent wheeled his chair around so as to face his companion and still have a side view of the dining room, where tables were being rapidly removed for the dance which followed dinners on Thursday nights. Clymer selected a cigar with care and, leaning back in his chair until the wicker creaked under his weight, he waited patiently for Kent to speak. It was fully five minutes before Kent addressed him.
“So James Turnbull was poisoned after all,” he commented. “A week ago I would have sworn that Jimmie hadn’t an enemy in the world.”
“Ah, but he had; and a very bitter vindictive enemy, if the evidence given at the coroner’s inquest this afternoon is to be believed,” replied Clymer seriously. “The case is remarkably puzzling.”
“It is.” Kent bit savagely at his cigar as a slight vent to his feelings. “‘Killed by a dose of aconitine by a person or persons unknown,’ was the jury’s verdict, and a nice tangle they have left me to ferret out.”
“You?”
“Yes. I’m going to solve this mystery if it is a possible thing.” Kent’s tone was grim. “And Colonel McIntyre only gave me until Saturday night to work in.”
Clymer eyed him in surprise. “McIntyre desires to get back his lost securities; judging from his comments after the inquest, he is not particularly interested in who killed Turnbull.”
“But I am,” exclaimed Kent. “The more I think of it, the more convinced I am that the forged letter, with the subsequent disappearance of McIntyre’s securities has some connection with Jimmie’s untimely death, be it murder or suicide.”
“Suicide?” Clymer’ s raised eyebrows indicated his surprise.
“Yes,” shortly. “Aconitine would have killed just as surely if swallowed with suicidal intent as if administered with murderous design.”
A pause followed which neither man seemed anxious to break, then Kent turned to the banker, and the latter noticed the haggard lines in his face.
“Listen to me, Mr. Clymer,” he began. “My instinct tells me that Jimmie Turnbull never forged that letter or stole McIntyre’s securities, but I admit that everything points to his guilt, even his death.”
“How so?”
“Because the theft of the securities supplies a motive for his suicide - fear of exposure and imprisonment,” argued Kent. “But there is no motive, so far as I can see, for Jimmie’s murder. Men don’t kill each other without a motive. “There is homicidal mania,” suggested Clymer.
“But not in this case,” retorted Kent. “We are sane men and it is up to us to find out if Jimmie died by his own hand or was killed by some unknown enemy.”
“Rest easy, Mr. Kent,” said a voice from the doorway and Kent, who had turned his back in that direction the better to talk to Clymer, whirled around and found Detective Ferguson regarding him just inside the threshold. “Mr. Turnbull’s enemy is not unknown and will soon be under arrest.”
“Who is he?” demanded Clymer and Kent simultaneously.
“Philip Rochester.”
Clymer was the first to recover from his astonishment. “Oh, get out!” he exclaimed incredulously. “Why, Rochester was Turnbull’s most intimate friend.”
“Until they fell in love with the same girl,” answered Ferguson succinctly, taking possession of the only other chair the porch boasted. “One quarrel led to another and then Rochester did for him. Oh, it dove-tails nicely; motive, jealous anger; opportunity, recognition in court of Turnbull disguised as a burglar, at the same time Rochester
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