AT THE CLUB DE VINGT
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 Ihave 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 over-heated 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 learns that Turnbull has been caught after midnight in the house of his sweetheart -""D - mn you!" Kent sprang for the detective's throat."Cut out your abominable insinuations.Miss McIntyre shall not be insulted.""I'm not insulting her," gasped Ferguson, half strangled."Let go, Mr.Kent.I'm only telling you what that half crazy partner of yours, Rochester, was probably thinking in the police court.Let go, I say."Clymer aided the detective in freeing himself."Sit down, Kent,"he said sternly."Ferguson meant no offense.Go ahead, man, and tell us the rest of your theories."It was some minutes, however, before the detective had collected sufficient breath to answer intelligently.
