The Gold Bag | Page 7

things.
I felt there would be difficulty in ingratiating myself at all, but I felt
sure that subterfuge would not help me, so I spoke directly
"You are the coachman of the late Mr. Crawford?"
"Yes, sir."
I hadn't really expected more than this in words, but his tone was so
decidedly uninviting of further conversation that I almost concluded to
say nothing more. But the drive promised to be a fairly long one, so I

made another effort.
"As the detective on this case, I wish to hear the story of it as soon as I
can. Perhaps you can give me a brief outline of what happened."
It was perhaps my straightforward manner, and my quite apparent
assumption of his intelligence, that made the man relax a little and
reply in a more conversational tone.
"We're forbidden to chatter, sir," he said, "but, bein' as you're the
detective, I s'pose there's no harm. But it's little we know, after all. The
master was well and sound last evenin', and this mornin' he was found
dead in his own office-chair."
"You mean a private office in his home?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. Crawford went to his office in New York 'most every day,
but days when he didn't go, and evenin's and Sundays, he was much in
his office at home, sir."
"Who discovered the tragedy?"
"I don't rightly know, sir, if it was Louis, his valet, or Lambert, the
butler, but it was one or t'other, sir."
"Or both together?" I suggested.
"Yes, sir; or both together."
"Is any one suspected of the crime?"
The man hesitated a moment, and looked as if uncertain what to reply,
then, as he set his jaw squarely, he said:
"Not as I knows on, sir."
"Tell me something of the town," I observed next, feeling that it was
better to ask no more vital questions of a servant.
We were driving along streets of great beauty. Large and handsome
dwellings, each set in the midst of extensive and finely-kept grounds,
met the view on either aide. Elaborate entrances opened the way to
wide sweeps of driveway circling green velvety lawns adorned with
occasional shrubs or flower-beds. The avenues were wide, and
bordered with trees carefully set out and properly trimmed. The streets
were in fine condition, and everything betokened a community, not
only wealthy, but intelligent and public-spirited. Surely West Sedgwick
was a delightful location for the homes of wealthy New York business
men.
"Well, sir," said the coachman, with unconcealed pride, "Mr. Crawford
was the head of everything in the place. His is the handsomest house

and the grandest grounds. Everybody respected him and looked up to
him. He hadn't an enemy in the world."
This was an opening for further conjecture as to the murderer, and I
said: "But the man who killed him must have been his enemy:"
"Yes, sir; but I mean no enemy that anybody knew of. It must have
been some burglar or intruder."
Though I wanted to learn such facts as the coachman might know, his
opinions did not interest me, and I again turned my attention to the
beautiful residences we were passing.
"That place over there," the man went on, pointing with his whip, "is
Mr. Philip Crawford's house - the brother of my master, sir. Them red
towers, sticking up through the trees, is the house of Mr. Lemuel Porter,
a great friend of both the Crawford brothers. Next, on the left, is the
home of Horace Hamilton, the great electrician. Oh, Sedgwick is full of
well-known men, sir, but Joseph Crawford was king of this town.
Nobody'll deny that."
I knew of Mr. Crawford's high standing in the city, and now, learning
of his local preeminence, I began to think I was about to engage in what
would probably be a very important case.

II
THE CRAWFORD HOUSE
"Here we are, sir," said the driver, as we turned in at a fine stone
gateway. "This is the Joseph Crawford place."
He spoke with a sort of reverent pride, and I afterward learned that his
devotion to his late master was truly exceptional.
This probably prejudiced him in favor of the Crawford place and all its
appurtenances, for, to me, the estate was not so magnificent as some of
the others we had passed. And yet, though not so large, I soon realized
that every detail of art or architecture was perfect in its way, and that it
was really a gem of a country home to which I had been brought.
We drove along a curving road to the house, passing well-arranged
flower beds, and many valuable trees and shrubs. Reaching the porte
cochere the driver stopped, and the groom sprang down to hand me out.
As might be expected, many people