Evening Republican, Volume 15, Number 171, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 July 1911 — Under the Rose [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Under the Rose

Passages /rom the Case-Book of Inspector FINNEY VALENTINE, Investigator Extraordinary

The Strange Dilemma of Stephen Dawlish

By FREDERIC REDDALE

(Copyright by W. G. Chapman)

it was after eight of an evening in mld-October, and long past the usual hour for closing hiF'office in the Flatiron building, Finney Valentine was there alone, finishing up some wit details demanding per* sonal attention.. Suddenly the desk ’phone at his elbow tinkled Insistently. An agitated male voice at the other end of the line began to (peak the instant connection was 4k lablished. “Inspector Valentine—this is Dawlish—Steve Dawlish—you remember? Say, inspector, I’m in a devil of a hole—just killed a man-7said he was Miss Williston’s first husband —remember that case? Well, he tried to blackmail me—our wedding comes off in three days—yes—l hit him—only once, but that was enough. Say, inspector, can’t you come out here right away? Why, I’m at Ldcust Valley—you know my place—there’s a late train at nine-thirty, get you here by eleven—you can? That’s good—l’ll have a motor at the station to meet you. Don’t fall me. I’m In an awful mess! Thanks —good-by J’ Valentine’s face was grave as he hung up the receiver and looked at his watch; there would just be time to run uptown and pack a bag before catching the 9:30 North Shore train over the Long Island railroad. Stephen Dawlish he remembered as one of an unusually bright bunch of newspaper boys who had sometimes pestered the life out of him in that grim stone pile in Mulberry street. But for some years they had not met—partly on account of the Inspector’s retirement, and also because Dawlish had come into property and was now a man of leisure, spending some months of every year at his country place in Locust Valley. And now that the broken thread of acquaintanceship had been re-united Ay this urgent call for help, Finney Valentine recalled an exceedingly tragflc episode in which Stephen Dawlish had been an unwilling actor. Half a decade earlier, dating from this October night, certain fashionable and financial circles of Uptown and downtown Manhattan had been agog over the rather meteoric rise of a young southerner, Yancey Daubeny, who in a breezy and masterful manner had stormed the city. While more or less of a plunger on the “street,” he was believed to have made considerable money. His brokers were Mortimer Williston T & Co.— a very conservative and wealthy, concern—and it was through the senior member of the firm that he met Grace Williston, an only daughter, heiress to her widowed father’s million?. With the same insouciant and dashing ways that had heralded his advent in Wall street the young southerner laid siege to the heart of Grace Williston. In person he was ipost attractive—emphatically a woman’s man; tall, blond, wide-shouldered, rather burly in voice and build, both of which traits one forgot wnen that one happened to be a beautiful woman whom Daubeny was anxious to please. Then his tones became caressing, and his strength somehow seemed to assume a protecting, almost chivalrous character. Yancey Daubeny became a social favorite everywhere; he was a lavish spender, yet not a spendthrift, since he knew how to get dollar for dollar. His ancestry was supposed to be of the bluest blood south of Mason and Dixou’s line —that is, by his own account —and he claimed relationship with half a dozen families of illustrious name. In short, Yancey Daubeny became a distinguished and popular member of the southern colony in New York. Grace Williston was admired as much for her beauty as for her sweet girlishness; that she would one day be extremely wealthy was also no drawback. Of admirers she had a score, of whom Stephen Dawlish seemed to be the most favored until the advent of Yancey Daubeny. But the southerner soon usurped the place of first favorite; Dawlish proposed and and was gently rejected; three months later the betrothal of Grace Williston and Daubeny was announced; everybody said it was a love match—in which for once everybody was right so far as the girl was concerned. On a rare June morning they were married at Grace church, and Immediately after the wedding breakfast the couple planned to sail for Europe on a six months’ bridal trip. But at the foot of the gang-plank, while Mortimer Williston was in the act of saying farewell, a brace of secret service men tapped Daubeny on the shoulder, snapped the handcuffs on his wrists and arrested him. for forgery! At the subsequent trial it transpired that “Yancey Daubeny" was none other than ‘William or “Bill" Dabney, an old jailbird and an accomplished crook “wanted” by the police of Chicago and San Francisco. He was tried and convicted; in view of his previous record the judge imposed the full penalty, twenty years in Sing Sing. Imagine the shock and mortifies-

tlon of such a revelation to a gentlybred and high-strung girl Uke Grace Williston! She was worse than widowed without ever having been a wife. After Dabney’s trial and conviction, her father and friends urged her to take advantage of that merciful law which would almost automatically free her from such galling chains. However, Grace was a devout churchwoman, and refused to heed these entreaties, claiming \ tearfully that she had married the man “for better or worse.” She even wanted to attend the trial and subsequently visit the condemned criminal in jail; but here Mortimer Williston put his foot down flatly and carried her 1 off to Los Angeles for an indefinite stay. But she wrote several letters to the man who had so grossly deceived her. Freedom came about in an almost miraculous manner. One day - the* newspapers contained black-faced front-page articles telling of a successful breakaway and escape at Sing Sing. It seemed that a gang of men were working on the outer wall of the prison on the river side. The month was February; a dense fog hid the Hudson from shore to shore; the river was frozen to mid-channel. When the whistle blew at five o’clock three of the convict gang made a dash for liberty—“ Pete” Skent, “Skinny” Toler and “Bill” Dabney—all old-time pals find’ long-term men. Across the railroad tracks they ran, dashed down the low bank, and out on the ice. Rifle flashes stabbed the fog and bullets sang around the trio, but the case was hopeless under the conditions. It was learned afterward that the fugitives had made for the channel with the intention of swimming across to the ice on the Jersey shore. That some one had been wounded was evidenced by bloodstains on the snow; next day it was learned that Skent had been picked up by a passing tug-boat; he was shot through the back, and lived only long enough to declare almost with his dying breath that he had seen Toler and Dabney sucked under by the swiftly-flowing tide. “In that case,” said the warden, “look for their bodies in Gravesend Bay next spring.” So, accident or the justice of God had freed Grace Williston. Upon her return to New York, her beauty chastened and refined by the fires of suffering, Stephen Dawlish was one of the first to show his sympathy and appreciation. Their friendship began again where it had left off two years before; the instant that convention permitted, Dawlish proposed again and was accepted, the wedding being set for the ensuing autumn; this time the ceremony was to be very, quiet—a house wedding at "The Larches,” the Williston place at Great Neck, some ten miles from the Dawlish estate at Locust Valley, and within easy reach by motor.

So much of the story Finney Valentine recalled during the tedious jogging of the train on his way to obey the urgent summons of Steve Dawlish. From what the ex-inspector could gather from the young man's agitated fhessage it looked as though a tragedy threatened once more to mar. the life of Grace Williston —for she had resumed her maiden name on the death of Bill Dabney.

But was he dead, after all? Dawlish had distinctly mentioned the “first husband,” then "blackmail,” and "just killed a man.” Such piquant sentences were enough to scorch the wires. However, speculation was useless until all the facts were on tap. Ten minutes over the hard North Shore roads brought Finney Valentine and Stephen Dawlish face to face in the snug library of "The Boulders.” Steve was pale, nervous and on edge with excitement, pacing restlessly up and down the long low-ceiled room. “Gad! 1 thought you’d never get here!” exclaimed Dawlsh. “Sit down, man, and get a grip on yourself,” commanded Valentine. “Things may not be as bad as you imagine.” ’

“Bad! Imagine!** almost shouted the other. “They couldn’t be worse! Not that I regret putting that dirty dog out of business, but just see the hole it puts me In. I’m engaged to be married in three days from now. Suddenly that hound, her husband, remember, whom everyone supposed to be dead, turns up and threatens to stop the proceedings—as of coprse he could! So in sudden passion and disgust I kill him. Justifiable, you say. Yes, but where does that leave me? Would any woman marry the slayer of her husband, no matter how big a villain he was?" By the end of this incoherent tirade Stephen Dawlish was on his feet once more, pacing up and down the wide rug in front of the drift-wood fire. “How did it happen T' Queried Valentine. **lf lam to help you I must have the facts as they occurred, and without any'hysterics, mind you.** ' Thia little bit of sarcasm calmed the speaker; he poured himself a stiff drink of Scotch and soda, and went on more connectedly: "I was due at The Larches for dln-

ner with quite a party, and drove over in the car by rayself. At the front steps one of Williston’s men took the motor round to the garage. I lit a cigarette, being early—about seventhirty—and stood on the gravel drive admiring the night. “There’s a wide sweep of lawn and ornamental shrubbery in front of the house, and while I stood there a big sweater-clad figure wearing a cloth cap came lurching toward me from behind one of the tree clumps. As he crossed the drive I got a good look at him by the lights from the windows at my back. He came right close and said: “ ‘Guess you’re the man I’m looking so Stephen Dawlish?’ There was a nasty sneer in his voice which I didn’t like, but I kept my temper and said: “ ’That’s my name. What’s yours, and what’s your business with me here ?’ ~ - “The fellow laughed like a fiend and almost pushed his face into mine. “ ’Just two words to answer two questions,’ he growled, ‘Bill Dabney!’ “I was too astounded to speak for the moment, for Instantly I saw all the devilish complications. As though be read my thoughts he went on: “‘Guess you catch on, all right, pard. If you don’t believe me, here’s some of her letters written while I was waiting trial,’ and he half drew a small packet from his pocket. There they are, by the way, pointing to the library table. Then he went on: ‘You come across here out of those lights and I’ll talk.’ “He led the way back to the lawn and behind a clump of rbododendroms.

I following. When we were out of sight and sound from the house he turned and said:

‘“Thought I was dead, didn’t you! Well, I wasn’t, and what’s more, I ain’t! Now, I’m wise to what’s going on, Mister Stephen Dawlish. You’re welcome to my wife—l never cared a rap for her —’twas the old man’s money I wanted most —but you can’t have her unless I say so! See! I guess you do! That being so, here’s my proposition: You hand me fifty thousand before the wedding and I’ll go dead and stay dead this time! If you don’t —well you know what’ll happen!’ “For a moment the cool audacity of the proposal took my breath away. Then, too, it flashed across me that I could easily pay the money and. no one be the wiser. But also I saw just as quickly what a hell of uncertainty and constant fear I’d be letting myself in for. Such an unprincipled devil could no more keep faith than fly. These thoughts took but a second or two of time. Then my gorge rose and I sprang at him. ‘“You dirty blackmailing hound!* I shouted. My fist shot out with all my weight of body and shoulder behind it. I landed square on the point of his jaw with a squash—he was soft M putty—l heard bls teeth click and his neck snap. Then he went down in a' heap. —~- 7

"It's an awful thing to kill a man like that, Valentine, with your Hgre fist, and see him lying before you all limp and lifeless. I knew I must hide the body, but before anything else 1 wanted those letters, so I just grabbed them out of his coat Then I went up to the house. Ou the way I made a

quick resolve—rd tell Williston if I could reach him without creating a scene, and between us we might concoct some scheme for hiding the corpse. So I went round to the rear and got in by the door of the gunroom. Once Inside I sent a man for Williston. When he came I bolted the Inner door and told him just what had happened and how. 5 Of course he was dreadfully cut up to hear that Dabney hadn’t been dead after all, but I really believe the old boy was glad to know that rd done for the beggar. “ *Let’s go and have a look,’ he suggested. “So we went out together, but when we got to the clump of rbododendroms there was no sign of a body! I lit some matches and by their light we could see the impression in the dewladen grass where Dabney had fallen, but that was alt Completely mystified, we went back, Williston to join his'guests and make my excuses, I to rush back here and telephone to you. Now what do you make of it?” Before replying Valentine, who had listened impassively to the vivid narrative, carefully selected a perfecto and lit it with provoking deliberation. Then: “You’re sure you killed him?” he drawled. “Why Of course Fm sure. Didn’t I tell you I broke his neck! When I hit I hit hard.” Valentine nodded as though completely satisfied on that point. Then again: -J : “You knew Yancey Daubeny quite well, I suppose?” "Never set eyes On him, as it hap-

pened, for good and sufficient reasons which you can appreciate.” Valentine nodded again, still puffing serenely. Then a third question, indicating the' little package on the table: “Those letters are the real thing, I suppose.” “Well, I haven’t read them, of course, but I’d swear to the handwriting as being genuine.” Another and a final nod as‘Valentine rose: "You’ll put me up for the night?— thanks. Now, Steve, I’m going to bed, and you’d better do likewise. Oh, just tell your man to have the car round at six o’clock.” Dawlish was both amazed and disgusted and showed it. "Not another word tonight,” said Valentine. "I want to sleep on the matter. Tomorrow there may be some news for you—and for Miss Williston.” e And that was all he would say. Steve knew from past experience that further protest would be useless. Finney Valentine would not and could not be hurried; he worked according to his own methods and theories or not at all So he was Shown to his room, where he slept the sleep of the just until the streaks of dawn penetrated the curtains of his room. And although Dawlish was racked and tortured with anxiety—remorse for what he had done was non-exist-ent—after tossing feverishly until the stable dock chimed two—confidence in the great detective finally brought mental calm to the supposed assassin, and he slept long and late. When he awoke in response to a thunderous

knocking on his door It was nine o’clock. On descending to the morning-room a strange tableau met the astonished gaze of Stephen Dawlish. There, with his back to the fire, his coat-tails warming, stood Mortimer Williston. By the window, facing into the room, stood Finney Valentine, a grim smile on his usually immobile lips. But, wonder of wonders, as Steve’s gaze traveled from one to the other and around the room, he beheld on the further side of the room, seated uncomfortably on the edge of another chair, the bulky and burly-” form of the man he had supposedly killed twelve hours before,'Bill Dabney! Too dazed for utterance, young Dawlsh could only cross the room and silently grasp the hands of Grace and her father. But as he looked into the girl’s eyes he missed all trace of the grave concern one would naturally have looked for under the circumstances. As a last resort he turned to Finney Valentine with a question on his lips which the detective forestalled by speaking first. “Mr. Dawlish, let me make you further acquainted”—there was a stress on the word “further” —“let me make you further acquainted with Mr. ‘Skinny’ Toler, late of Sing Sing and—er—elsewhere.” "But what—” Steve was beginning when Valentine again took up the tale: “Miss Williston and Mr. Williston, will you kindly tell Mr. Dawlish whether our friend here bears any resemblance to a gentleman whom you once knew as Yancey Daubeny?”

“There’s a slight resemblance, certainly,” said Grace Williston, speaking for both, “but we neither of us ever saw him in our lives until half an hour ago!” “A rank impostor!” exclaimed Mr. Williston. .

“Are you quite satisfied, Mr. Dawlish?” inquired Valentine suavely with a grave twinkle in his eyes. But Steve was yet too astounded to speak. All he could do was to cross the room to Grace’s side and put his arm across her shoulders. “Then I guess that’ll be about all we need of you, Toler,” said Valentine, pointing to the door. "Remember what I told you—one word, one squeak, out of that rat mouth of yours, and back you go to the pen! You know me!" The jailbird slunk to the door, pulling on his greasy cap as he went. In a few seconds his giant bulk—he had been dubbed “Skinny" by his pals in pure derision—went past the window and down the drive, to pass out of this story and out of the dilemma which he had created for Stephen Dawlish. “But what’s the explanation F* insisted Steve almost as soon as the door had closed on Toler. “How did you work it out?" Finney Valentine was ever'loth to disclose bls methods either by thought or action, so the explanation which he could not in this case defer or deny was characteristically brief and terse. “The case was simple enough—there were two serious holes In your version of last night’s happenings. First, you had no actual proof that you had killed your man—the subsequent dis-

appearance of the body in so short a» time looked fishy to me. Dead men don’t get up and walk away, you know. Secondly, you bad never met Yancey Daubeny, and consequently could not recognize Bill Dabney, supposing your blackmailing visitor had been he. “I sized it up that Dabney had really been drowned, or died later, in company with his pal Toler. The latter proved to be the .correct guess, and that’s how ‘Skinny* got the letters, and also learned that you and! Dabney had never met. . So, while laying low after the escape from Sing: Sing, he plotted to blackmail ■ either Miss Williston or her father by letter, or yourself in person should a favorable opportunity' arise. That chance was provided by the announcement of your marriage to the lady. "He and two of his pals came down, here several days ago to look over the ground; they’d been putting up at a cheap roadhouse on the. Cold Spring; road. After you hit Toler last night and left him for dead his chums crept over the grass, loaded him .into a light wagon and drove away. I found their tracks this morning and traced them to Sim Teeple’s place. "I guess that when they saw me they sensed the game was up. All that was necessary was a confessionand to confront Toler with Miss. Williston. That’s all there Is to it—except, Steve, my boy, it strikes me you’re not much of a success as a< murderer —and Fm glad of it! What time do you usually have breakfast here? I’ve been, running about these beautiful roads of yours since five o’clock, first after Toler and then to fetch Miss Williston and her father, and I’m hungry enough to tackle a whale.”

“' YOU HAND ME FIELY THOUSAND BEFORE THE WEDDLNG'"