The Gold Bag | Page 9

such haste?"
"Oh, that was the coroner's doing. He's a bit inclined to the spectacular,

is Monroe, and he wants to make the whole affair as important as
possible."
"But surely, Mr. Parmalee, if you are certain of the criminal it is very
absurd for me to take up the case at all."
"Oh, well, Mr. Burroughs, as I say, no name has been spoken yet. And,
too, a big case like this ought to have a city detective on it. Even if you
only corroborate what we all feel sure of, it will prove to the public
mind that it must be so."
"Tell me then, who is your suspect?"
"Oh, no, since you are here you had better investigate with an
unprejudiced mind. Though you cannot help arriving at the inevitable
conclusion."
We had now reached a closed door, and, at Mr. Parmalee's tap, were
admitted by the inspector who was in charge of the room.
It was a beautiful apartment, far too rich and elaborate to be designated
by the name of "office," as it was called by every one who spoke of it;
though of course it was Mr. Crawford's office, as was shown by the
immense table-desk of dark mahogany, and all the other paraphernalia
of a banker's work-room, from ticker to typewriter.
But the decorations of walls and ceilings, the stained glass of the
windows, the pictures, rugs, and vases, all betokened luxurious tastes
that are rarely indulged in office furnishings. The room was flooded
with sunlight. Long French windows gave access to a side veranda,
which in turn led down to a beautiful terrace and formal garden. But all
these things were seen only in a hurried glance, and then my eyes fell
on the tragic figure in the desk chair.
The body had not been moved, and would not be until after the jury had
seen it, and though a ghastly sight, because of a bullet-hole in the left
temple, otherwise it looked much as Mr. Crawford must have looked in
life.
A handsome man, of large physique and strong, stern face, he must
have been surprised, and killed instantly; for surely, given the chance,
he would have lacked neither courage nor strength to grapple with an
assailant.
I felt a deep impulse of sympathy for that splendid specimen of
humanity, taken unawares, without having been given a moment in
which to fight for his life, and yet presumably seeing his murderer, as

he seemed to have been shot directly from the front.
As I looked at that noble face, serene and dignified in its death pallor, I
felt glad that my profession was such as might lead to the avenging of
such a detestable crime.
And suddenly I had a revulsion of feeling against such petty methods as
deductions from trifling clues.
Moreover I remembered my totally mistaken deductions of that very
morning. Let other detectives learn the truth by such claptrap means if
they choose. This case was too large and too serious to be allowed to
depend on surmises so liable to be mistaken. No, I would search for
real evidence, human testimony, reliable witnesses, and so thorough,
systematic, and persevering should my search be, that I would finally
meet with success.
"Here's the clue," said Parmelee's voice, as he grasped my arm and
turned me in another direction.
He pointed to a glittering article on the large desk.
It was a woman's purse, or bag, of the sort known as "gold-mesh."
Perhaps six inches square, it bulged as if overcrowded with some
feminine paraphernalia.
"It's Miss Lloyd's," went on Parmalee. "She lives here, you know - Mr.
Crawford's niece. She's lived here for years and years."
"And you suspect her?" I said, horrified.
"Well, you see, she's engaged to Gregory Hall he's Mr. Crawford's
secretary - and Mr. Crawford didn't approve of the match; and so - "
He shrugged his shoulders in a careless fashion, as if for a woman to
shoot her uncle were an everyday affair.
But I was shocked and incredulous, and said so.
"Where is Miss Lloyd?" I asked. "Does she claim ownership of this
gold bag?"
"No; of course not," returned Parmalee. "She's no fool, Florence Lloyd
isn't! She's locked in her room and won't come out. Been there all the
morning. Her maid says this isn't Miss Lloyd's bag, but of course she'd
say that."
"Well, that question ought to be easily settled. What's in the bag?"
"Look for yourself. Monroe and I ran through the stuff, but there's
nothing to say for sure whose bag it is."
I opened the pretty bauble, and let, the contents fall out on the desk.

A crumpled handkerchief, a pair of white kid gloves, a little trinket
known as a "vanity case," containing a tiny mirror and