The Red Seal [54]
of Turnbull," argued Kent. "Turnbull was cashier of that bank."
"I see; he may have discovered the forgeries - but hold on." Ferguson checked his rapid speech. "When were these forged checks presented at the bank?"
"Tuesday afternoon."
Ferguson's face fell. "Pshaw! man; that was after Turnbull's death - how could he detect the forgeries?"
Kent did not reply at once; instead, he glanced keenly about the living room. The detective had only switched on one of the reading lamps and the greater part was in shadow. It was a pleasant and home-like room, and Kent was conscious of a keener pang for the loss of Jimmie Turnbull and the disappearance of Philip Rochester, as he gazed around. The lawyer and the bank cashier had been, until that winter, congenial comrades, sharing their business success and their apartment in complete accord; and now a shadow as black as that enveloping the unlighted apartment hung over their good names, threatening one or the other with the charge of forgery and of murder. Kent sighed and turned back to the silent detective.
"I can best answer your question by telling you that the day after Jimmie Turnbull died Mr. Clymer sent for me," he began. "I found Colonel McIntyre with him and was told that the Colonel had lost valuable securities left at the bank. These securities had been given by the treasurer of the bank to Jimmie Turnbull when he presented a letter from Colonel McIntyre instructing the bank to surrender the securities to Jimmie."
"Well?" questioned Ferguson. "Go on, sir."
"That letter was a forgery." Kent sat back and watched the detective's rapidly changing expression. "And no trace has been found of the Colonel's securities, last known to be in the possession of Turnbull."
"Great heavens!" ejaculated Ferguson.
"Which was the forger - Turnbull or Rochester?"
Kent shook a puzzled head. "That is for us to discover," he said soberly. "Colonel McIntyre contends that Turnbull forged the letter and stole the securities, then fearing his guilt would become known, committed still another crime - that of suicide, he could have swallowed a dose of aconitine while at the police court."
"Well, I'll be - blessed!" ejaculated Ferguson. "But if he was the forger how does that square with Rochester's peculiar behavior? The checks bearing your forged signatures were presented, mind you, by Rochester after Turnbull's death?"
"It doesn't square," acknowledged Kent frankly. "There is this to be said for Turnbull: he was the soul of honor, his affairs were found to be in excellent condition, he was drawing a good salary, his investments paying well - he did not need to acquire securities or money by resorting to forgery."
"Whereas Philip Rochester was on the point of bankruptcy," remarked Ferguson. "Do you suppose he forged Colonel McIntyre's letter and gave it to Turnbull, and the latter got the securities from the bank treasurer and handed them over to Rochester in good faith, supposing his room-mate would give the papers to Colonel McIntyre?"
Kent nodded in agreement. "It looks that way to me," he said gloomily. "Philip Rochester stood well in the community, his law practice is large and lucrative, and if it had not been for his periods of idleness and - and" - hesitating - "passion for good living, he would never have run into debt."
"But he got there." Ferguson's laugh was contemptuous. "A desperate man will do anything, Mr. Kent."
"I know," Kent looked dubious. "I would believe him guilty if it were not for the use of aconitine - that shows premeditation on the part of the murderer."
"And why shouldn't Rochester plan Turnbull's murder ahead of the scene in the police court?" argued Ferguson. "Wasn't he living in deadly fear of exposure? If he did not commit the murder, why did he run away? And if he is innocent, why doesn't he come forward and prove it?"
"He may not know that he is suspected of the crime," retorted Kent, rising. "It is for us to find Rochester, and I suggest that we search this apartment thoroughly."
"I have
"I see; he may have discovered the forgeries - but hold on." Ferguson checked his rapid speech. "When were these forged checks presented at the bank?"
"Tuesday afternoon."
Ferguson's face fell. "Pshaw! man; that was after Turnbull's death - how could he detect the forgeries?"
Kent did not reply at once; instead, he glanced keenly about the living room. The detective had only switched on one of the reading lamps and the greater part was in shadow. It was a pleasant and home-like room, and Kent was conscious of a keener pang for the loss of Jimmie Turnbull and the disappearance of Philip Rochester, as he gazed around. The lawyer and the bank cashier had been, until that winter, congenial comrades, sharing their business success and their apartment in complete accord; and now a shadow as black as that enveloping the unlighted apartment hung over their good names, threatening one or the other with the charge of forgery and of murder. Kent sighed and turned back to the silent detective.
"I can best answer your question by telling you that the day after Jimmie Turnbull died Mr. Clymer sent for me," he began. "I found Colonel McIntyre with him and was told that the Colonel had lost valuable securities left at the bank. These securities had been given by the treasurer of the bank to Jimmie Turnbull when he presented a letter from Colonel McIntyre instructing the bank to surrender the securities to Jimmie."
"Well?" questioned Ferguson. "Go on, sir."
"That letter was a forgery." Kent sat back and watched the detective's rapidly changing expression. "And no trace has been found of the Colonel's securities, last known to be in the possession of Turnbull."
"Great heavens!" ejaculated Ferguson.
"Which was the forger - Turnbull or Rochester?"
Kent shook a puzzled head. "That is for us to discover," he said soberly. "Colonel McIntyre contends that Turnbull forged the letter and stole the securities, then fearing his guilt would become known, committed still another crime - that of suicide, he could have swallowed a dose of aconitine while at the police court."
"Well, I'll be - blessed!" ejaculated Ferguson. "But if he was the forger how does that square with Rochester's peculiar behavior? The checks bearing your forged signatures were presented, mind you, by Rochester after Turnbull's death?"
"It doesn't square," acknowledged Kent frankly. "There is this to be said for Turnbull: he was the soul of honor, his affairs were found to be in excellent condition, he was drawing a good salary, his investments paying well - he did not need to acquire securities or money by resorting to forgery."
"Whereas Philip Rochester was on the point of bankruptcy," remarked Ferguson. "Do you suppose he forged Colonel McIntyre's letter and gave it to Turnbull, and the latter got the securities from the bank treasurer and handed them over to Rochester in good faith, supposing his room-mate would give the papers to Colonel McIntyre?"
Kent nodded in agreement. "It looks that way to me," he said gloomily. "Philip Rochester stood well in the community, his law practice is large and lucrative, and if it had not been for his periods of idleness and - and" - hesitating - "passion for good living, he would never have run into debt."
"But he got there." Ferguson's laugh was contemptuous. "A desperate man will do anything, Mr. Kent."
"I know," Kent looked dubious. "I would believe him guilty if it were not for the use of aconitine - that shows premeditation on the part of the murderer."
"And why shouldn't Rochester plan Turnbull's murder ahead of the scene in the police court?" argued Ferguson. "Wasn't he living in deadly fear of exposure? If he did not commit the murder, why did he run away? And if he is innocent, why doesn't he come forward and prove it?"
"He may not know that he is suspected of the crime," retorted Kent, rising. "It is for us to find Rochester, and I suggest that we search this apartment thoroughly."
"I have