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Brand of Silence, The

<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> <h3>PUZZLED</h3> Once more Prale was taken to the room in which he had first waited—the room with the barred windows. This time the watching detective was missing. When Jim Farland entered, he found Prale pacing back and forth from one corner to the other. He was trying to think out his problem, wondering what it all meant, why the witnesses had lied, and what would be the outcome. Farland rushed into the room, grasped Prale by the hand, led him across from the door, and forced him into a chair. This done, the loyal detective sat down facing him. "Now let us have it from beginning to end!" Farland commanded. "I don't want you to leave out a thing. I want to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible." Sidney Prale started at the beginning and talked rapidly, setting forth all the facts, while Jim Farland sat back in his chair and watched him. Now and then he frowned as if displeased at the recital. "Well, there is something rotten," he said, when Prale had concluded his statement. "I want you to know, Sid, that I believe you. You're not the sort of man to kill a fellow like Rufus Shepley over a little spat. I believe your story about this Murk, too. But why should everybody have it in for you?" "I haven't the slightest idea," Prale answered. "I must, indeed, have some powerful enemies, but I cannot imagine who they are, and I know of no reason why they should be against me. I'm simply up in the air." "You keep right on trying to figure it out," Farland advised him. "You might think of something in time that will give me a start in my work." "Why did the banker and hotel manager lie?" Prale asked. "Why did the clothing-store man and the barber lie? Why did George Lerton declare that he did not see me and speak to me last night? And how did my fountain pen get into Shepley's room?" "Huh! When we know a few of those things, we'll know enough to wipe this charge away from your name," Jim Farland told him. "It's my job to answer those little questions for you. And now—you want a lawyer, I suppose?" "Yes. Can you suggest one?" "The greatest criminal lawyer in town is named Coadley. I'll send him right up here after I explain about this case to him. Thank Heaven, you have plenty of money! A poor man in a fix like this would be on his way to the electric chair. Coadley can fix you up, if anybody can. He can make a sinner look like a saint." "But I'm not guilty!" "I understand that, Sid, but it doesn't hurt an innocent man to have the best attorney he can get. I'll send you Coadley. Give me a note to that fellow Murk, for I may want him to help me. Sure he's loyal to you?" "I never saw him until last night, but I'd bank on him," said Prale. "He'll stand by us!" "Fair enough! You write that note right now, and try to get out on bail. Tell Coadley to get busy on that right away. Get out under police supervision, under guard—any way—but get out!" Jim Farland hurried away, and Sidney Prale was conducted through dark corridors to a cell, where he had the experience of hearing a door clang shut behind him and the bolts shot. Prale never had expected to get into jail when he was worth a million dollars, and most certainly he never had expected to face a charge of murder. He was allowed to send out for some luncheon, and it was more than an hour before Coadley, the attorney, arrived. Prale was taken into the consultation room. He liked Coadley, and he liked the way in which Coadley regarded him before he spoke. "I believe that you are innocent," the lawyer said. "The job will be to make other people think that way," Prale said, with a laugh. The attorney's words had been like a ray of hope to him. "Did Jim Farland tell you the story?" "Yes. I'll try to get you out on bail, or get you out in some manner," Coadley said. "This appears to be a peculiar case. It is not only the charge of murder; it is the fact that several men told falsehoods about you. You haven't an idea who your enemies are?" "Not the slightest." "I'm glad that Jim Farland is working on this case for you, Mr. Prale. He is a good man, and I may need a lot of help. I'll get my own investigators busy right away, too, and we'll coöperate with Jim Farland. You go back to your cell and take it easy. I'll get you out before night, if I can." Lawyer Coadley was a shrewd man, and his methods were the delight of other attorneys and jurists. He lost no time when he was confronted with a case that held unusual interest. Within an hour he was in court, acting as if fighting mad. Had a reputable citizen any rights, he demanded? Were the police to be allowed to throw an innocent man into jail simply because there had been a crime committed and somebody had to be accused? His client did not care for an examination at this time, he said. Arraignment and a plea of not guilty were all right, however. Sidney Prale was arraigned, and the plea of not guilty was made and entered. Then Coadley began his fight to have Prale admitted to bail. The district attorney opposed it, of course, since that was his business. The judge listened to the statement of the captain of detectives. He heard Coadley say that his client could put up cash bail in any amount, and was willing to abide by any provisions. Finally the judge freed Prale on cash bail of fifty thousand dollars, but designated that the bail could be recalled at any time, and that he was to be in the custody of a member of the police department continually. Coadley agreed, and left the jail with his client, a detective going with them to stand guard. The detective had explicit orders. He was not to annoy Sidney Prale. He was to withdraw out of earshot when Prale talked with his attorney or anybody else with whom he wished to converse privately. He was to allow Prale to come and go as he wished, except that Prale was not to be allowed to leave the limits of the city. If he attempted that, he was to be put under arrest immediately and taken to the nearest police station. Prale read the newspapers as he rode to the hotel with Coadley and the detective. The story of the crime was in all of them, the tale of his quarrel with Rufus Shepley and of the finding of the fountain pen, and the inevitable statement that the police were on the track of more and better evidence. Prale expected to be ordered out of the hotel, but he was not, the management stipulating only that he should not use the public dining room. He went up to the suite, to find Murk there, sitting in front of a window and glaring down at the street. A cot was moved in for the use of the detective. Coadley held another conference with Prale, and then left to get busy on the case. Murk regarded the detective with scorn, until Prale explained the situation to him. After that, there was a sort of armed neutrality between them. Murk had no special liking for detectives, and he was the sort of man detectives do not like. Presently Jim Farland arrived. "Well, Sid, Coadley got you out of jail and home before I could get here, did he?" Farland said. "I suppose I'll not need that note of yours now. Is this Mr. Murk?" "It is," Prale said. "Murk, meet Jim Farland. He's a detective friend of mine." "Gosh, Mr. Prale, ain't there anybody but cops in this town?" Murk asked. "Jim is a private cop, and he has a job now to get me out of this scrape," said Prale. "He's a friend of mine, I said." "I guess that makes it different," was Murk's only comment. "Oh, we'll get along all right," Farland put in. "I'm going to need you in my business, Murk. I've told the folks at police headquarters that I'd be responsible for you, so we can work together without being pestered. Understand?" Murk grinned at him. "You just show me how to help get Mr. Prale out of this mess, and I'll sure help," he said. Farland turned toward the police detective. "Go out into the hall and take a walk," he suggested. "Mr. Prale will give you a couple of cigars." The detective took the cigars and went out into the hall, smiling. He had no fear of Sidney Prale slipping down a fire escape, or anything like that. Jim Farland was responsible, and Jim Farland was known to the force as a man who felt his responsibilities. "Now we'll get busy and dig to the bottom of this mess," Farland said. "Been thinking it over, Sid? Know any reason why anybody should be out after you?" "I can't think of a thing," Prale replied. "I suppose I made a few business enemies down in Honduras, but none powerful enough to cause me all this trouble. I can't understand it, Jim. It must be something big to cause all those men to lie as they did." "Maybe it is, and maybe it is very simple when we get right down to it," Farland said. "I've started right in to work it out. Let me see those notes and messages you received." Prale got them from the dresser drawer and handed them to Farland. The detective looked them over, even going as far as to use a magnifying glass. "Don't laugh!" Farland said. "A lot of folks make fun of the fiction detective who goes around with a magnifying glass in one hand, but, believe me, a good glass shows up a lot of things. It isn't showing up anything here, though. Where do you suppose these things came from?" "I don't know," said Prale. "Got the first one on the ship, did you?" "The first two. One was pinned to the pillow in my stateroom, and the second was pasted on the end of my suit case as I was landing. The mucilage was still wet." "Didn't suspect anybody?" "I didn't think much about it at first," said Prale. "I thought it was a joke, or that somebody was making a mistake." "Sid, have you told me everything?" Prale remembered Kate Gilbert and flushed. "I see that you haven't," Farland said. "Out with it! Some little thing may give me the start I am looking for." Prale told about Kate Gilbert, about the piece of paper she had dropped as she got into the limousine, about the peculiar way she acted toward him, and the attitude of Marie, the misnamed maid. "Um!" Farland grunted. "We had one thing lacking in this case—and we have that. The woman!" "But I only met her down there and danced with her twice." "Don't know anything about her, I suppose?" "Not a thing. It was understood that she belonged to a wealthy New York family and was traveling for the benefit of her health. At least, that was the rumor." "I know of a lot of wealthy families in this town, but I never heard of a Kate Gilbert," Farland said. "I think I'll make a little investigation." "But why on earth should she be taking a hand in my affairs?" Prale wanted to know. "Why should you be accused of murder? Why should men tell lies about you?" Farland asked. "Excuse me for a time; I'm going down to the hotel office to find out a few things." Farland hurried away, and the police detective entered the suite again and made himself comfortable. Jim Farland went directly to the office of the hotel and looked at a city directory. He found no Kate Gilbert listed, except a seamstress who resided in Brooklyn. The telephone directory gave him no help. But that was not conclusive, of course. A thousand Kate Gilberts might be living in New York, in apartments or at hotels, without having a private telephone. "Have to get a line on that girl!" Farland told himself. "She's got something to do with this. I'll bet my reputation on it." Jim Farland went to the smoking room and sat down in a corner. He tried to think it out, groped for a starting point. He considered all the persons connected with the case, one at a time. Farland knew that Sidney Prale had told the truth. Why, then, had George Lerton told a falsehood about meeting Prale and talking to him, when the truth would have helped to establish an alibi? Why had the clothing merchant and the barber lied? "I suppose I'll have to use stern methods," Farland told himself. "Old police stuff, I suppose. Well, I'm the man that can do it, take it from me!" He went up to Prale's suite again. "Can't find out anything about that woman," he reported. "And I want to get in touch with her. Keep your eyes peeled for her, Sid, and arrange for me to catch sight of her, if you can. Now you'd better take a little rest. You've been through an experience to-day. I'm going out to get busy, and I'm going to take Murk with me." "What for?" Murk demanded. "You're going to help me, old boy." "Me work with a cop?" Murk exclaimed. "To help Mr. Prale." "Well, that's different," Murk said. "Wait until I get my hat." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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