The House of Rogues

Taranaki Daily News, 28 June 1934, Page 15

The House of Rogues

(By

Christopher B. Booth)

(Author of “The Man from Lazy River,” “The Porcelain Mask” etc,)

CHAPTER 15 (Continued).

“If they was ever in there,” grunted the sheriff suspiciously. “We only got your word for it that they was put there in the first place —and I guess you got plenty reason for lyin’.” Bob Dolliver blinked at the yawning emptiness of the desk drawer. “They’re gone!” he said again. “Yes, I expected they would be,” J.B. said quietly; “I certainly did not expect anything else.” “But you don’t understand!” protested Bob. “The drawer was locked—and only Mr. Strawn and I had keys for it!” His face went a shade more pale as he realized the construction that was likely to be placed upon this circumstance. ' “Great God!” he cried. “You don’t believe me; you don’t think that I—that I took the plates?” “Of course you did!” retorted the sheriff with a snort. “Any dang fool could see that. You took ’em tryin’ to make out that it was this here threefingered man done the murder.” “I always keep my mind open,” said J. 8., “I never accuse a man until I have the evidence. Three things are possible; that Dolliver is lying, that Strawn himself removed the plates or that some other person took them after unlocking the drawer with the dead man’s key.” “Aw, J. 8.,” protested Tommy Oliver, “that last one won’t swallow. The murderer wouldn’t have relocked the drawer; he wouldn’t have dared take the time to do that. That’s rot!” “Perhaps it is, lad,” admitted Baskerville. “I’ll admit that it doesn’t sound reasonable.”

e “And if I had taken the plates,” cried Dolliver, seizing upon an argument for his own defence, “if I had taken the plates in an effort to make it appear that they had been stolen, would I have relocked the drawer? Wouldn’t I have left it wide open?”

“Mebbe you would and then mebbe you wouldn’t,” said the sheriff. “Folks do queer things when they’re all excited.”

Baskerville’s attention returned to the gun which he still held in his hand by the barrel; apparently he had no futher interest in the mystery of the locked drawer —at least not for the present.

“Tommy,” he said quietly, “I wish that you would go down stairs and tell Jaggers, the butler, that he’s wanted up here.” Tommy Oliver knew that J.B. had discovered something, that the gun had given a clue other than the fingerprints, and that this clue in some way involved Jaggers. Although he longed to ask questions, he knew that the quickest way to know the answer was to fetch the butler, so he scurried to the door and hurried into the hall and down the stairs.

The sheriff plainly nettled, turned indignantly upon Baskerville. “Ain’t I in charge of this case?” he demanded pettishly. “If there’s any sendin* to be done, I’ll do it. Why are you sendin’ for this Jaggers feller anyhow?”

“Perhaps I should have had you execute the order, Sheriff,” J.B. answered pleasantly, “but I don’t think any harm has been done. Let’s not quarrel about such a trifle.” He turned to Bob Dolliver. “Do you happen to know Jaggers’ first name?” Bob shook his head.

“No, I don’t believe I do; I never heard him called by any name other than Jaggers. Mr. Strawn paid his wages in cash and for that reason I have never had occasion to write the butler's name on a cheque. He was employed as a watchman by the real estate firm from whom Mr. Strawn bought the house, and Mr. Strawn let him stay on as a butler.”

“What’s Jaggers’ first name to do with this business?” Edwards insisted. “You ain’t got no right keepin’ me in the dark.”

Baskerville toyed with the gun absent-

ly. “You’ll not be in the dark much longer, Sheriff,” he said. “I think you’ll understand, too, one reason for Jaggers’ extreme nervousness. Just how much there is behind it I dont know. The sheriff muttered fumingly and gave J.B. a glare of malignant dislike. There fell a brief silence while they awaited the butler; a moment later the man appeared in the doorway, his massive head bobbling jerkily, his normally protruding eyes about to drop clear of their sockets.

“You—you sent for me?” he quavered, his gaze lifting for a furtive moment toward the sheriff.

Baskerville stood by the desk, the pistol for the purpose of the moment concealed from view. * “I sent for you Jaggers,” he said. ‘I wanted to ask you what is your first name.” “My—my first name?” gulped the butler.

“Exactly, Jaggers, your given name. Perhaps it’s George?” The butler stared, startled and let his head jerk forward in a silent confirmation of this guess. “All right, George Jaggers,” said Baskerville, moving the gun into sight. “I want you to tell us how this pistol of yours got into the study. He took a step forward and held the weapon in "front of the man’s horrified gaze. Jaggers staggered back with such violence that his head cracked noisily against the wall. “My-my gun?” he cried hoarsely. “You—you must be mistaken, sir; it—-

it isn’t my gun. I’ll take an oath on it, sir, that it isn’t my gun. I—l never saw it before.” But his face gave the lie to his denial. “It’s no use, Jaggers,” Baskerville said sternly. “You’re forgetting that quite a long time ago, so long that the knife scratches are almost too faint to be seen—you scratched your initials on this gun. Here they are. G. J. on one of the butt-plates. And this is the gun that killed John Strawn!” A terrible scream rose from Jaggers’ throat, and rang wildly through the gloomy house; it must have chilled the blood of those three women downstairs, their nerves already strained to the breaking point; the man’s tstate was almost pitiful and his lips moved soundlessly as he tried to speak.

Sheriff Edwards reached to the sagging pocket of his coat, dragging forth a pair of rusty handcuffs. “You’re under arrest!” he shouted. “You’re under arrest, Jaggers for the murder of John Strawn!” 1 Jaggers quailed but found voice. “No!” he shrieked. “No! I’ll tell the truth. I—l was afraid to tell the truth. I was lyin’, about the gun. . It’s mine. But I didn’t kill him; I swear to you that I didn’t kill him. Someone took my gun; someone killed Mr. Strawn—with my gun!” " ■ • _ ' “Swearin’ seems to ■ be your long suit,” roared the sheriff. “It was your gun an’ you’re the man. Stick out your hands an’ let me put these irons on you.” But the handcuffs had rusted shut and refused to open. “Just a minute, Sheriff,” interposed Baskerville. “It will do no harm to let Jaggers make a statement. Go ahead and talk; we’re willing to hear what you’ve got to say.” CHAPTER 16. “What’s the use wastin’ any time listenin’ to more of the man’s lies?” demanded Sheriff Edwards who had finally managed to get the handcuffs open, and was fretful at the delay of getting them onto Jagger’s wrists. “I ain’t goin’ to believe his trumped-up yam an’ that ends it. He admits it’s his gun that killed Strawn: that’s enough for me. If this three-fingered man had anything to do with it, him an’ Jaggers was in cahoots. The only thing I want to hear is a confession.”

“Let the man talk,” Jasper Baskerville insisted quietly, and gave Jaggers a nod of encouragement. The terror stricken butler tried to calm himself and only partly succeeded. Except for the support of the wall against which he leaned he might have collapsed to the floor.

“There—there ain’t much more that I can tell you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know. I don’t know who took the gun. I’d bought it two years ago when I first got the job as caretaker here; I—l’d forgot about scratchin’ my initials on it. “When the shot was fired I didn't know it was my gun. that the murder had been done with. When I looked in the door an’ saw Mr. Strawn all stretched out with the blood oozin’ down the side of his face—” A shudder shook h;s body. “ —I saw the gun lyin’ on the floor. It —it looked like mine- blit I wasn’t sure until —until" I went back up to my room and found it gone from the drawer where I’d been keepin’ it. Then —I was scared, mighty scared. I was watchin’ for a chance to - take it an’ hide it but I didn’t get. a'chance.- Thit —that’s all.” ' '

His voice came to a dull, flat halt as he realized that the evidence was against him and that there was no hope. .. .. “Likely story, ain’t it?” sneered the sheriff and he made a move, as if to snap on the handcuffs, but Baskerville wanted to ask other questions, and staged him with a lift of a hand. . ;. “I don’t see how Jaggers would have had a chance to do it,” ' spoke tip Boh Dolliver. “As I told you downstairs .1 don’t see how it would be physically possible for Jaggers to have fired the shot and gotten back to the third floor without my having seen him.” “If I was you,” said the sheriff meaningly, “I wouldn’t be too blame anxious about gettin’ J aggers off. You got some little explain’ to do your own sejf.” “Jaggens,” demanded Baskerville, “didn’t you turn this gun of yours over to the three-fingered man?” . ■ “Heaven help me, no?” cried the butler. “I—l’ve told you 1 the truth about tire three-fingered man, how he slipped me a tenner to let him have a peep inside the house while Mr. Strawn was gone to the village. I didn’t ever see the man before an’ I ain’t seen him since. That’s the truth.”

“You’ve done time, eh, Jaggers?” The butler gave a start and his jaw sagged. “I see that I hit it right. What were you sent up for, Jaggers? ’ “You—you ain’t goin’ to hold that

against me?” whimpered the butler. “I’ve been goin’ straight, I have, an’—” “What were you sent up for?” insisted

Baskerville. “Murder!” barked Sheriff Edwards. “I’ll bet a cookie that he was sent up for murder! He’s up to his old tricks! Fresh terror seized the butler and a wailing moan burst through his twitching lips. “I ain't got a chance, not a chance. You’ll send me to the chair, but I didn’t kill him. No matter what you do to me, I didn’t kill Mr. Strawn.”

(To be continued.)