Rensselaer Journal, Volume 10, Number 41, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 March 1901 — THE IVORY QUEEN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE IVORY QUEEN

A Detective Story Of a Chicago Suburb. The Murder at The Grange and How Its Mystery Wsc Solved by Darrent the Amer* lean Lecoq.

BY NORMAN HURST.

Copyvight, 1899, by the American Press Association.

(continued.) “Do you mean to tell me you’ve had a detea’ive here before me?” “Yes; this morning.” “From Chicago?” “Yes.” “How do you know?” “He said so. ” “Oh! He said so, did he, Mr. Dobson, and you believed him? Did you ask him for his authority?” “No.” “Then you are a fool! Wake up, man, wakeup! Rouse yourself! What was he like ? What did he do ? What did he say? Where is he?” shouted Darrent in short, snappy sentences like pistol shots. “How do I know where he is? He came this morning and said he’d just arrived by train from Chicago and had driven over. ’ ’ “What time was that?” “Ten. ” “Then how the deuce could he come from Chicago?” “I never thought of that.” “No, of course you didn’t, Mr. Dobson. Goon.” “He said he’d come to look into the murder, so I took him up to The Grange and told him all about it.” “Well, is that all?” “I showed him the knife.” “Which, of course, you let him take away. ’ ’ “No, I didn’t. He didn’t ask for it.” “Oh! That’s a relief anyhow. Then he didn’t take anything away? “Yes, he did. ” “What?” “Some chessmen. ” “Chessmen ?” “Yes; a set of carved Indian chessmen—horses and elephants and things. He said that he had an idea they had something to do with the murder.” “A set of carved chessmen —ivory, I suppose?” “Yes.” “Anything else? “Nothing.” “You’re sure he took nothing else?” “Certain.” “Very well, Mr. Dobson. I shall report your idiocy to your mayor,” Darrent remarks as he finishes writing in his pocketbook and rises from his seat. “What the deuce,” he mutters to himself, “did he take a set of chessmen for and leave the knife, and who the dickens is he?” “Do you want to know anything else?” Dobson sulkily asks as he relights his pipe, which he has let go out during the cross examination. “Yes; give me the name and particulars about every one related to or friendly with the dead man. Any spns?” “No; at least I don’t know. Perhaps he is his son. You never know. Old Marsden always said he adopted him. I don’t believe it.”

“Never mind what you believe, Mr. ■ Dobson. I’m asking for facts. Well, I who is it?” t “Astray Marsden. ” “Astray—curious name.” | “Yes; old Marsden said he was a . stray when he found him, and he stuck to the name. It was his joke.” “I see. Where is this Astray?” “Quarreled with old Marsden a couple of years ago and went abroad. ” “Oh! Never been seen in Norcombe since, eh?” Dobson hesitates under the keen eyes of the detective, who, it seems to him, is reading his inmost thoughts. It will be no good trying to keep anything from Herbert Darrent, so he suddenly blurts out, “Came back on the night of the murder. ’ ’ “I see,” says Darrent, again writing in his pocketbook. “What tame?” “I saw him about half past 10.” “Did he seem strange in his manner at all?” “Not particularly; only a hit excited.” “Did he mention old Marsden?” “No.” “Where did you meet him ?” “At the corner of the road that branches off to The Grange.” “How was he dressed?” “Long overcoat and soft hat.” “Was it snowing then?” “No; didn’t commence-till 11.” “Right. Thank you, Mr. Dobson. Now, do you know any one else connected w y ith old Marsden either here or at Barnstaple?” “Only one or two distant relatives and acquaintances. ’ ’ “Very well. You can employ the rest of your evening by making me a complete list of them, and say all you know about them. Have it ready by the first

thing in the morning, please. That’s all. I shall have a good deal more to ask you tomorrow. Good night. ’ ’ “Good night. Oh—er—l say, Mr.— er”— “Darr ent.” “Er—Mr. Darrent. Don’t you think that the sheriff may find it worth while to offer a reward pretty soon?” It is the second time that Dobson has mentioned the chance of a reward being offered, and Darrent pauses for a moment, then suddenly confronts him. “Now, look here, Dobson,” he says gently, “you’re simply playing the fool, and you’ve given the whole game away. Twice you’ve asked after a reward. That means j know something more than you have t- >ld me and expect to be paid for your knowledge. Well, you’re wrong. You won’t be. You ought to know even if a reward is offered it is not paid to those in the service, whose duty is to do their duty. Come, now, Dobson. Own up all you know and not half of it.” “I know nothing except what I‘ve told you.” “Very well, then, Mr. Dobson, you’ll never get any promotion from your mayor or any reward, which your soul so hankers after. ’ ’ “Then you will never know.” “Ha, ha! I’ve got you! So you do know who committed the murder! Very well, Mr. Dobson,- very well. You are what the law calls an accessory after the fact. It’s a very unenviable position, Mr. Dobson. Goodnight!” “Half a minute.” “Good night. I think an accessory after the facts gets about ten years.” “Stop!” “Well?” “I’ll tell you all I know.” “That’s better. I would rather reward than punish. Now show your sense by telling me everything you know, every iota, and your mayor may probably look over ycur indiscretion and remember you when the proper time comes. ” Without answering, Dobson goes over to a desk, unlocks it and, taking out a stained and crumpled sheet of paper, hands it to Darrent. “That’s the murderer,” he remarks as the detective takes the sheet. Darrent carefully examines the paper —a sheet of note paper stained with one or two nasty smears—and then, in almost illegible writing:

And there it ceased, as the pen had evidently fallen from the dying fingers and had rolled across the sheet, leaving blots in its track. “Where was this?” “Crumpled up in Marsden’s hand.” “Murdered by Astra”— “By Astray, don’t you see? He had not strength to finish it. The ‘y’ is missing. ’ ’ “Hum! So Astray Marsden is the murderer, and you intended to hold this for the reward or else blackmail Astray Marsden, eh?” “I put it by and forgot it.” “That’s a lie, Dobson,” he answers as he carefully folds the paper and places is in his pocketbook. “You could not have forgotten it in a couple of days. Have you shown it to any one?” Dobson shifts uneasily and tries to avoid the fixed gaze of the detective. “Well, answer up.” ‘ ‘Only to young Marsden—to Astray. ’ ’ “When and "where?” “The day after the murder, at the Palace hotel, where he had put up. ” “Well, what did he do?” “Said he’d come round and see me later. ’ ’ “Well, did he?” “No; he skipped.” “I see. Well, Mr. Dobson, whether he committed the murder or not, I should advise you to be very careful, my friend. You may find that you’ve got yourself into serious trouble. Tomorrow morning I go over The Grange. I shan’t want you. Send your patrolman to meet me there at 9. Don’t forget. Good night. ’ ’ Darrent turns on his heel and leaves Mr. Dobson to his own reflections, which, to judge from that gentleman’s expression of countenance as he moodily pulls at his pipe as he sits before the fire, aro not of a very enviable description. In the short walk frem the police station to the Palace hotel Herbert Darrent marshals his facts. The old man, .reputed a miser, murdered, the footprints in the snow leading one way only; the return of Astray Marsden on the fatal night; the mysterious visitor of the morning, claiming to be a detective, who had taken merely a set of ivory chessmen, when one would have assumed that the weapon with which the deed was done w’ould have been the first consideration. That factor in itself was a problem. Then there was the writing of the dead man that seemed to reveal the name of the murderer at once and to make all clear. That paper accused the man who two years ago quarreled with old Marsden, the man who only returned to Norcombe on the night of the murder and had since fled—Astray Marsden. Herbert Darrent felt that indeed all his art would be needed in this investigation, for he knew better than any one that the cases that seemed to be over before they had really commenced very often proved to be almost unsolvable mysteries. I [TO BE CONTINUED.)

"That’s the murderer,” he remarks as the detective takes the sheet.