The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [5096]
Hotchkiss was leaning forward now, his eyes narrowed, his thin lips drawn to a line.
"Are you left-handed, Mr. Sullivan?" he asked.
Sullivan stopped in surprise.
"No," he said gruffly. "Can't do anything with my left hand." Hotchkiss subsided, crestfallen but alert. "I tore up that cursed telegram, but I was afraid to throw the scraps away. Then I looked around for lower ten. It was almost exactly across--my berth was lower seven, and it was, of course, a bit of exceptional luck for me that the car was number seven."
"Did you tell your sister of the telegram from Bronson?" I asked.
"No. It would do no good, and she was in a bad way without that to make her worse."
"Your sister was killed, think." The shorter detective took a small package from his pocket and held it in his hand, snapping the rubber band which held it.
"Yes, she was killed," Sullivan said soberly. "What I say now can do her no harm."
He stopped to push back the heavy hair which dropped over his forehead, and went on more connectedly.
"It was late, after midnight, and we went at once to our berths. I undressed, and then I lay there for an hour, wondering how I was going to get the notes. Some one in lower nine was restless and wide awake, but finally became quiet.
"The man in ten was sleeping heavily. I could hear his breathing, and it seemed to be only a question of getting across and behind the curtains of his berth without being seen. After that, it was a mere matter of quiet searching.
"The car became very still. I was about to try for the other berth, when some one brushed softly past, and I lay back again.
"Finally, however, when things had been quiet for a time, I got up, and after looking along the aisle, I slipped behind the curtains of lower ten. You understand, Mr. Blakeley, that I thought you were in lower ten, with the notes."
I nodded curtly.
"I'm not trying to defend myself," he went on. "I was ready to steal the notes--I had to. But murder!"
He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
"Well, I slipped across and behind the curtains. It was very still. The man in ten didn't move, although my heart was thumping until I thought he would hear it.
"I felt around cautiously. It was perfectly dark, and I came across a bit of chain, about as long as my finger. It seemed a queer thing to find there, and it was sticky, too."
He shuddered, and I could see Alison's hands clenching and unclenching with the strain.
"All at once it struck me that the man was strangely silent, and I think I lost my nerve. Anyhow, I drew the curtains open a little, and let the light fall on my hands. They were red, blood-red."
He leaned one hand on the back of the chair, and was silent for a moment, as though he lived over again the awful events of that more than awful night.
The stout detective had let his cigar go out; he was still drawing at it nervously. Richey had picked up a paper-weight and was tossing it from hand to hand; when it slipped and fell to the floor, a startled shudder passed through the room.
"There was something glittering in there," Sullivan resumed, "and on impulse I picked it up. Then I dropped the curtains and stumbled back to my own berth."
"Where you wiped your hands on the bed-clothing and stuck the dirk into the pillow." Hotchkiss was seeing his carefully built structure crumbling to pieces, and he looked chagrined.
"I suppose I did--I'm not very clear about what happened then. But when I rallied a little I saw a Russia leather wallet lying in the aisle almost at my feet, and, like a fool, I stuck it, with the bit of chain, into my bag.
"I sat there, shivering, for what seemed hours. It was still perfectly quiet, except for some one snoring. I thought that would drive me crazy.
"The more I thought of it the worse things looked. The telegram was the first thing against me--it would put the police on my track at once, when it was discovered that the man in lower ten had been killed.
"Then I remembered