"If they had destroyed that one it would have had some meaning to me,"commented Pendleton. "But, as it is, I hardly think I follow you."
"The meaning that I find,"replied Ashton-Kirk, "lies in the fact that the pictures violently used were those of General Wayne only. Mark that fact. That they were deliberately selected for destruction is beyond question."
"How do you make that out?"
"It is simple. If this were a mere random stripping of the room of its pictures, all would have suffered. Look,"indicating a spot in the wall, "here is a place where the plaster is broken. A hook had been driven here to hold one of the portraits; and the breaking of the plaster shows that some determination was required to tear the picture down. Yet—next this—is an engraving of an old mansion which remains untouched. The next four again were portraits of the General, and all have been demolished."
Pendleton nodded.
"That's true,"said he. "Whoever did this was after the Revolutionary hero alone. But why?"
Ashton-Kirk smiled.
"We'll look into matters a little further,"said he. "Perhaps there are facts to be gathered that will shed some light upon the things that we have already seen."
They repassed through the other rooms; with his hand upon the frame of the door leading to the show room, Ashton-Kirk paused.
"Better brace yourself for rather a shocking sight,"said he to his friend.
"Go on,"said Pendleton, quietly.
CHAPTER IV
STILLMAN'S THEORY
There were four good-sized windows in the show room, all overlooking the street. It was a large, square place, and, as Miss Vale had said, literally stuffed with odd carvings, pottery of a most freakish sort, and weird bric-a-brac. Two large modern safes stood at one side, behind a long show case spread with ancient coins. At the end of this case was a carpeted space, railed in and furnished with a great flat-topped desk. Upon the floor at the foot of the desk, and with three separate streams of blood creeping away from it, lay the huddled, ghastly figure of a man.
Pendleton, though he had been warned, felt his breath catch and his skin grow cold and damp.
"Heavens!"said he, under his breath. "It's the man whose picture we saw inside there on the wall."
Even the shock of death could not, so it seemed, drive the sneer from the thick lips; mockery was frozen in the dead eyes.
"What a beast he must have been,"went on Pendleton. "Like a satyr. I don't think I ever saw just that type of face before."
Ashton-Kirk was bending over the body; suddenly he raised himself.
"There is a heavy bruise on the forehead,"said he. "He was felled first; then bayoneted."
"Bayoneted!"Pendleton peered at the body.
"There it is, sticking from his chest."Ashton-Kirk drew aside the breast of the dead man's coat and his companion caught sight of a bronze hilt. The broad, sword-like blade had been driven completely home.
"If we attempted to move the body,"said the investigator, "I should not be surprised if we found it pinned to the floor. It took brawn to give that stroke; the man who dealt it made sure of the job."
With soft, quick steps he crossed the room. The doors of the safes were locked.
"If the purpose was robbery,"said Ashton-Kirk, "the criminal evidently knew where to look for the most portable and valuable articles. There seems to be no indication of anything having been tampered—"He stopped short, his eyes upon a huge vellum covered tome which lay open upon the floor. He whistled softly between his teeth. "General Wayne once more!"he said.
The volume, as far as Pendleton could see, was a sort of scrap book in which had been fastened a great number of prints. Upon the two pages that they could see, six prints had been affixed by the corners. Of these, four had been torn out and lay upon the floor.
"Gambetta and John Bright have been spared,"said Ashton-Kirk, pointing at the book, "but,"and he gathered up the fragments of the mishandled prints, "upon Mad Anthony they laid violent hands four separate times."
Pendleton wrinkled his brow.
"Now what the deuce can it mean,"he asked, vexedly. "Not only what did the fellow mean who did this, but what did he mean,"pointing at the dead man, "by having so many portraits of General Wayne?"
"I think something might be found to point the way if we could only look for it,"said Ashton-Kirk, his face alight with eagerness. "But we'll have to await the coroner's people."
"When will they come?"
The investigator shrugged his shoulders.
"Probably not for hours,"he answered. "However, as the coroner himself appears to be new in the office, he may be more anxious to get his work over with than the usual official. In the mean time we'd better go down and have a talk with Osborne. If I remain here I'll succumb to temptation, go rummaging about and so get myself into trouble."
He turned the knob of the door with the ground glass panel; but it was fast. They passed into the store room, and so out into the hall.
"Any signs of the people from the coroner's office?"asked Ashton-Kirk of the policeman who stood there.
"Someone just drove up a minute ago,"answered the man. "I hear him down there talking to Osborne now."
Ashton-Kirk was about to go down when there came a tramping on the stairs. The big figure of the headquarters detective was first; after him came a nervous, important looking young man and a stolid-faced old one.
With a large gesture Osborne laid his hand upon Ashton-Kirk's shoulder.
"Mr. Stillman,"said he to the nervous looking young man, "this is Mr. Ashton-Kirk. I guess you've heard of him."
The important manner of the young coroner visibly increased as he held out his hand.
"I have heard of you frequently, sir,"he stated, firmly, "and I am quite delighted to meet you. More especially, sir, at a time like this."
"A very nasty looking affair,"returned the investigator. "Osborne has been good enough to let me glance about,"in explanation.
"I trust,"said Stillman, "that you have disturbed nothing."
"Except for gathering up a few scattered pictures in the bedroom, we have done nothing but look,"assured Ashton-Kirk.
"I find that the exact conditions must remain if we are to secure even a fairly good idea of the crime's environments,"stated Stillman, nervously. "It is a thing that I insist upon from the police in every instance."
"Sure, sure,"said Osborne. "Headquarters does its best never to make trouble for you, Mr. Stillman."
The nervous young coroner seemed to be relieved to hear this. He waved his hand in a gesture that might have meant anything and turned to the stolid looking, elderly man who accompanied them. They conversed for a few moments; the stolid man seemed to be explaining something carefully, to which Stillman listened with the utmost attention. Osborne bent his head toward Ashton-Kirk.
"The old party is a left-over in the coroner's office, of many years' standing,"said the detective. "He knows the ropes and puts the newly elected ones on to the points of the game."
Stillman finally turned; there was an added importance in his manner, and his nervousness had also increased.
"Mr. Osborne,"said he, "please let us have what facts the police have gathered."
"That won't take long,"said Osborne. "Just before daylight—three o'clock, I think she said—the woman whom Hume employed to scrub the passage-way and stairs got here. She has almost a