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Updated: May 31, 2025
"I am Detective-Lieutenant Britz," the visitor said in even tones. "Sit down, Collins!" Collins obeyed. Not voluntarily, but because he was unable to resist the domination of the detective's will. Also, a terrible fear had gripped his heart, producing a terror that sobered him and gave him command of all his faculties. "Who are these men?" inquired Britz, nodding toward Cooper and Fanwell.
"Chief, no one has ever disputed that you know your business," said Britz in frank sincerity. "Our methods may differ, but in the end we usually reach the same goal. So go right ahead as though I were out of the case." Before leaving Manning's office, Britz sent for Greig and inquired whether it was Officer Muldoon who had taken Beard to the Tombs. "Yes," replied Greig.
When you survey the entire case, you cannot escape the conviction that Whitmore met his death at the hands of one of them." "But man alive," broke in the chief, "what evidence have you? Why, you're further away from the solution of the crime than when you started." "Not at all!" Britz assured him. "We're going to solve the case to-morrow morning, in this very room."
"Said a relative had left him a fortune and he was going on a long trip for his health." Britz proceeded to enlighten the district attorney as to the real reason for the deputy's departure. He related all the circumstances that led up to the substitution of prisoners, Wells listening with growing amazement.
I gave the papers to him without any struggle really, sir, if I'd met you I should have given them to you." Britz thrust the butler back into the cell and closed the door. "Won't you please let me go?" pleaded the prisoner, clutching frantically at the bar. "I haven't done anything." Unheedful of the man's appeal, the detective ascended the iron stairs and hastened into his private office.
There was something compelling about her, something in her pale, distraught face that commanded the respectful surrender of the crowd. They made a passage for her, through which she passed hurriedly. "Mrs. Collins Ward's sister!" said Britz aloud. The words penetrated the serried ranks of creditors like an electric spark. Instantly their attitude changed.
I notified the post office people down in New York and he was taken there for trial." "Well, what happened?" Britz asked. "The newspapers didn't seem to take much notice of the case," replied the postmaster regretfully. "A paragraph or two was all they gave it. A week ago the fellow pleaded guilty and was sentenced to two years and six months in the Atlanta prison."
And yet, if they didn't see him enter or leave and didn't hear a shot, how the devil did the assassin get in and out?" Britz smiled indulgently on his chief. "When I have examined an enlarged photograph of Whitmore's wound and studied the report of the autopsy, I'll answer your question. That part of the mystery gives me no concern. It solves itself.
At the Tombs Britz held a brief conversation with the warden, after which he was conducted to a cell at the end of a tier, behind the barred door of which Beard must receive all his visitors save his lawyer. The detective seated himself on a small, round wooden stool, hidden from view by the heavy iron door of the cell.
Yet all those clerks maintain that no one has been in here and that they heard no shot, although the door stood open all the while the merchant was in the office. Somebody has secreted the pistol with which the shooting was done and it might be well to search all the clerks." "That would be a useless procedure," replied Britz. "There is no conspiracy of silence.
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