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  “Yes; and I put the lid on and fastened it myself.”

  “What, then, did you do with the screw-driver? You might have left it at the house.”

  “I might have, but I didn’t. No; I’m not getting up a combination and then leaving the key around loose. No, sir; there’s only one of those screw-drivers, and I take care of it myself. I’ll show it to you.”

  The old man went to a drawer, which he unlocked, and brought back the tool.

  “You see what it is,” he continued—“double-ended. This end is just the common every-day screw-driver. That is for the dummies that fill up the hollow ends after the bolts are sent home. The other end, you see, looks just like an ordinary screw with straight sides. There’s a shoulder to keep it from jamming. Now that’s the only one of those, and I keep it locked in that drawer with a Yale lock, and the key is always in my pocket. No; I guess that coffin wasn’t opened after I shut it.”

  Mr. Barnes examined the tool closely, and formed his own conclusions, which he thought best to keep to himself.

  “Yes,” said he aloud; “it does seem as though the mistake must be in the identification.”

  “What did I tell you?” exclaimed Mr. Berial, delighted at thinking that he had convinced the detective. “Oh, I guess I know my business.”

  “I was told at the house,” said Mr. Barnes, “that when you left, after closing the coffin, one of your men stayed behind. Why was that?”

  “Oh, I was hungry and anxious to get back for dinner. One of my men, Jack, I brought away with me, because I had to send him up to another place to get some final directions for another funeral. The other man stayed behind to straighten up the place and bring off our things in the wagon.”

  “Who was this man? What is his name?”

  “Jerry, we called him. I don’t know his last name.”

  “I would like to have a talk with him. Can I see him?”

  “I am afraid not. He isn’t working with me any more.”

  “How was that?”

  “He left, that’s all. Threw up his job.”

  “When was that?”

  “This morning.”

  “This morning?”

  “Yes; just as soon as I got here, about eight o’clock.”

  Mr. Barnes wondered whether there was any connection between this man’s giving up his position, and the account of the discoveries in regard to Mr. Quadrant’s body which the morning papers had published.

  VI

  “Mr. Berial,” said Mr. Barnes after a few moments’ thought, “I wish you would let me have a little talk with your man—Jack, I think you called him. And I would like to speak to him alone if you don’t mind. I feel that I must find this other fellow, Jerry, and perhaps Jack may be able to give me some information as to his home, unless you can yourself tell me where he lives.”

  “No; I know nothing about him,” said Mr. Berial. “Of course you can speak to Jack. I’ll call him in here and I’ll be off to attend to some business. That will leave you alone with him.”

  Jack, when he came in, proved to be a character. Mr. Barnes soon discovered that he had little faith in the good intentions of any one in the world except himself. He evidently was one of those men who go through life with a grievance, feeling that all people have in some way contributed to their misfortune.

  “Your name is Jack,” said Mr. Barnes; “Jack what?”

  “Jackass, you might say,” answered the fellow, with a coarse attempt at wit.

  “And why, pray?”

  “Well, a jackass works like a slave, don’t he? And what does he get out of it? Lots of blows, plenty of cuss words, and a little fodder. It’s the same with yours truly.”

  “Very well, my man, have your joke. But now tell me your name. I am a detective.”

  “The devil a much I care for that. I ain’t got nothin’ to hide. My name’s Randal, if you must have it. Jack Randal.”

  “Very good. Now I want to ask you a few questions about the funeral of Mr. Quadrant.”

  “Ask away. Nobody’s stoppin’ you.”

  “You assisted in preparing the body for the coffin, I think?”

  “Yes, and helped to put him in it.”

  “Have you any idea how he got out of it again?” asked Mr. Barnes suddenly.

  “Nit. Leastways, not any worth mentionin’, since I can’t prove what I might think.”

  “But I should like to know what you think, anyway,” persisted the detective.

  “Well, I think he was took out,” said Randal with a hoarse laugh.

  “Then you do not believe that he was cremated?”

  “Cremated? Not on your life. If he was made into ashes, would he turn up again a floater and drift onto the marble at the Morgue? I don’t think.”

  “But how could the body have gotten out of the coffin?”

  “He couldn’t. I never saw a stiff do that, except once, at an Irish wake, and that fellow wasn’t dead. No, the dead don’t walk. Not these days. I tell you, he was took out of the box. That’s as plain as your nose, not meanin’ to be personal.”

  “Come, come, you have said all that before. What I want to know is, how you think he could have been taken out of the coffin.”

  “Lifted out, I reckon.”

  Mr. Barnes saw that nothing would be gained by getting angry, though the fellow’s persistent flippancy annoyed him extremely. He thought best to appear satisfied with his answers, and to endeavor to get his information by slow degrees, since he could not get it more directly.

  “Were you present when the coffin lid was fastened?”

  “Yes; the boss did that.”

  “How was it fastened? With the usual style of screws?”

  “Oh, no! We used the boss’s patent screw, warranted to keep the corpse securely in his grave. Once stowed away in the boss’s patent screw-top casket, no ghost gets back to trouble the long-suffering family.”

  “You know all about these patent coffin-screws?”

  “Why, sure. Ain’t I been working with old Berial these three years?”

  “Does Mr. Berial always screw on the coffin lids himself?”

  “Yes; he’s stuck on it.”

  “He keeps the screw-driver in his own possession?”

  “So he thinks.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Mr. Barnes, immediately attentive.

  “Just what I say. Old Berial thinks he’s got the only screw-driver.”

  “But you know that there is another?”

  “Who says so? I don’t know anything of the sort.”

  “Why, then, do you cast a doubt upon the matter by saying that Mr. Berial thinks he has the only one?”

  “Because I do doubt it, that’s all.”

  “Why do you doubt it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A fellow can’t always account for what he thinks, can he?”

  “You must have some reason for thinking there may be a duplicate of that screw-driver.”

  “Well, what if I have?”

  “I would like to know it.”

  “No doubt! But it ain’t right to cast suspicions when you can’t prove a thing, is it?”

  “Perhaps others may find the proof.”

  “Just so. People in your trade are pretty good at that, I reckon.”

  “Good at what?”

  “Proving things that don’t exist.”

  “But if your suspicion is groundless, there can be no harm in telling it to me.”

  “Oh, there’s grounds enough for what I think. Look here, suppose a case. Suppose a party, a young female party, dies. Suppose her folks think they’d like to have her hands crossed on her breast. Suppose a man, me, for instance, helps the boss fix up that young party with her hands crossed, and suppose there’s a handsome shiner, a fust-water diamond, on one finger.
Suppose we screw down that coffin lid tight at night, and the boss carts off his pet screw-driver. Then suppose next day, when he opens that coffin for the visitors to have a last look at the young person, that the other man, meanin’ me, happens to notice that the shiner is missin’. If no other person notices it, that’s because they’re too busy grievin’. But that’s the boss’s luck, I say. The diamond’s gone, just the same, ain’t it? Now, you wouldn’t want to claim that the young person come out of that patent box and give that diamond away in the night, would you? If she come out at all, I should say it was in the form of a ghost, and I never heard of ghosts wearin’ diamonds, or givin’ away finger rings. Did you?”

  “Do you mean to say that such a thing as this has occurred?”

  “Oh, I ain’t sayin’ a word. I don’t make no accusations. You can draw your own conclusions. But in a case like that you would think there was more than one of them screw-drivers, now, wouldn’t you?”

  “I certainly should, unless we imagined that Mr. Berial himself returned to the house and stole the ring. But that, of course, is impossible.”

  “Is it?”

  “Why, would you think that Mr. Berial would steal?”

  “Who knows? We’re all honest, till we’re caught.”

  “Tell me this. If Mr. Berial keeps that screw-driver always in his own possession, how could any one have a duplicate of it made?”

  “Dead easy. If you can’t see that, you’re as soft as the old man.”

  “Perhaps I am. But tell me how it could be done.”

  “Why, just see. That tool is double-ended. But one end is just a common, ordinary screw-driver. You don’t need to imitate that. The other end is just a screw that fits into the thread at the end of the bolts. Now old Berial keeps his precious screw-driver locked up, but the bolts lay around by the gross. Any man about the place could take one and have a screw cut to fit it, and there you are.”

  This was an important point, and Mr. Barnes was glad to have drawn it out. It now became only too plain that the patented device was no hindrance to any one knowing of it, and especially to one who had access to the bolts. This made it the more necessary to find the man Jerry.

  “There was another man besides yourself who assisted at the Quadrant funeral, was there not?” asked Mr. Barnes.

  “There was another man, but he didn’t assist much. He was no good.”

  “What was this man’s name?”

  “That’s why I say he’s no good. He called himself Jerry Morton, but it didn’t take me long to find out that his name was really Jerry Morgan. Now a man with two names is usually a crook, to my way of thinkin’.”

  “He gave up his job here this morning, did he not?”

  “Did he?”

  “Yes. Can you tell why he should have done so? Was he not well enough paid?”

  “Too well, I take it. He got the same money I do, and I done twice as much work. So he’s chucked it, has he? Well, I shouldn’t wonder if there was good reason.”

  “What reason?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. That story about old Quadrant floatin’ back was in the papers to-day, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. There you are.”

  “You mean that this man Morgan might have had a hand in that?”

  “Oh, he had a hand in it all right. So did I and the boss, for that matter. But the boss and me left him screwed tight in his box, and Jerry he was left behind to pick up, as it were. And he had the wagon too. Altogether, I should say he had the chance if anybody. But mind you, I ain’t makin’ no accusations.”

  “Then, if Jerry did this, he must have had a duplicate screw-driver?”

  “You’re improvin’, you are. You begin to see things. But I never seen him with no screw-driver, remember that.”

  “Was he in Mr. Berial’s employment at the time of the other affair?”

  “What other affair?”

  “The case of the young lady from whose finger the diamond ring was stolen.”

  “Oh, that. Why, he might have been, of course, but then, you know, we was only supposin’ a case there. We didn’t say that was a real affair.” Randal laughed mockingly.

  “Have you any idea as to where I could find this man Morgan?”

  “I don’t think you will find him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Skipped, I guess. He wouldn’t chuck this job just to take a holiday.”

  “Do you know where he lived?”

  “Eleventh Avenue near Fifty-fourth Street. I don’t know the number, but it was over the butcher shop.”

  “If this man Morgan did this thing, can you imagine why he did it?”

  “For pay; you can bet on that. Morgan ain’t the man as would take a risk like that for the fun of the thing.”

  “But how could he hope to be paid for such an act?”

  “Oh, he wouldn’t hope. You don’t know Jerry. He’d be paid, part in advance anyway, and balance on demand.”

  “But who would pay him, and with what object?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. But let me tell you something. Them brothers weren’t all so lovin’ to one another as the outside world thinks. In the fust place, as I gathered by listenin’ to the talk of the servants, the one they called Amos didn’t waste no love on the dead one, though I guess the other one, Mark, liked him some. I think he liked the widow even better.” Here he laughed. “Now the dead man wanted to be cremated—that is, he said so before he was dead. The widow didn’t relish the idea, but she ain’t strong-minded enough to push her views. Now we’ll suppose a case again. I like that style, it don’t commit you to anything. Well, suppose this fellow Mark thinks he’ll get into the good graces of the widow by hindering the cremation. He stands out agin’ it. Amos he says the old fellow wanted to be burned, and let him burn. ‘He’ll burn in hell, anyway.’ That nice, sweet remark he did make, I’ll tell you that much. Then the brothers they quarrel. And a right good row they did have, so I hear. Now we’ll suppose again. Why couldn’t our friend, Mr. Mark, have got up this scheme to stop the cremation?”

  Mr. Barnes was startled to hear this man suggest exactly what Mark himself had hinted at. Could it be only a coincidence or was it really the solution of the mystery? But if so, what of the body that was really cremated? But then again the only evidence in his possession on that point was the bare statement in the note received from Mr. Mitchel. Two constructions could be placed upon that note. First, it might have been honestly written by Mr. Mitchel, who really believed what he wrote, though, smart as he was, he might have been mistaken. Secondly, the note might merely have been written to send Mr. Barnes off on a wrong clue, thus leaving Mr. Mitchel a chance to follow up the right one. Resuming his conversation with Randal, Mr. Barnes said:

  “Then you imagine that Mr. Mark Quadrant hired this man Morgan to take away the body and hide it until after the funeral?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. All I’ll say is, I don’t think Jerry would be too good for a little job like that. Say, you’re not a bad sort, as detectives go. I don’t mind givin’ you a tip.”

  “I am much obliged, I am sure,” said Mr. Barnes, smiling at the fellow’s presumption.

  “Don’t mention it. I make no charge. But see. Have you looked at the corpse at the Morgue?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Well, I stopped in this morning and had a peep at him. I guess it’s Quadrant all right.”

  “Have you any special way of knowing that?”

  “Well, when the boss was injectin’ the embalmin’ fluid, he stuck the needle in the wrong place first, and had to put it in again. That made two holes. They’re both there. You might wonder why we embalmed a body that was to be cremated. You see, we didn’t know the family wasn’t going to let him be seen, and we was makin’ him look natural.”

  “And you are sure th
ere are two punctures in the body at the Morgue?”

  “Dead sure. That’s a joke. But that ain’t the tip I want to give you. This is another case of diamond rings.”

  “You mean that there were diamond rings left on the hand when the body was placed in the coffin?”

  “One solitaire; a jim dandy. And likewise a ruby, set deep like a carbuncle, I think they call them other red stones. Then on the little finger of the other hand there was a solid gold ring, with a flat top to it, and a letter ‘Q’ in it, made of little diamonds. Them rings never reached the Morgue.”

  “But even so, that does not prove that they were taken by the man who removed the corpse from the coffin. They might have been taken by those who found the body in the river.”

  “Nit. Haven’t you read the papers? Boys found it, but they called in the police to get it out of the water. Since then the police has been in charge. Now I ain’t got none too good an opinion of the police myself, but they don’t rob the dead. They squeeze the livin’, all right, but not the dead. Put that down. You can believe, if you like, that Jerry carted that body off to the river and dumped it in, diamond rings and all. But as I said before, you don’t know Jerry. No, sir, if I was you, I’d find them rings, and find out how they got there. And maybe I can help you there, too,—that is, if you’ll make it worth my while.”

  Mr. Barnes understood the hint and responded promptly:

  “Here is a five-dollar bill,” said he. “And if you really tell me anything that aids me in finding the rings, I will give you ten more.”

  “That’s the talk,” said Randal, taking the money. “Well, it’s this way. You’ll find that crooks, like other fly birds, has regular haunts. Now I happen to know that Jerry spouted his watch, a silver affair, but a good timer, once, and I take it he’d carry the rings where he’s known, ’specially as I’m pretty sure the pawnbroker ain’t over inquisitive about where folks gets the things they borrow on. If I was you, I’d try the shop on Eleventh Avenue by Fiftieth Street. It don’t look like a rich place, but that kind don’t want to attract too much attention.”

  “I will go there. I have no doubt that if he took the rings we will find them at that place. One thing more. How was Mr. Quadrant dressed when you placed him in the coffin? The newspapers make no mention of the clothing found on him.”