Kitobni o'qish: «Ralph Raymond's Heir»

CHAPTER I.
THE MYSTERIOUS CUSTOMER

A man of middle age, muffled up in an overcoat, got out of a Third Avenue car, just opposite a small drug shop. Quickly glancing up and down the street with a furtive look, as if he wished to avoid recognition from any passerby who might know him, he entered the shop.

It was a small shop, not more than twelve feet wide by eighteen deep. The only person in attendance was a young man approaching thirty years of age, his eyes and hair very light, and his features small and insignificant. He was the druggist's clerk, working on a small salary of ten dollars a week, and his name was James Cromwell.

He came forward as the person first named entered the shop.

"How can I serve you, sir?" he inquired in a respectful voice.

The person addressed drew from his pocket a piece of paper on which a name was inscribed.

"I want that," he said; "do you happen to have it?"

The shopman's face was tinged with a slight color as he read the name inscribed on the paper.

"You are aware, I suppose, that this is a subtle poison?" he said, interrogatively.

"Yes," said the other, in a tone of outward composure, "so I understand from the friend who desired me to procure it for him. Have you it, or shall I have to go elsewhere?"

"Yes; we happen to have it by the merest chance, although it is rather a rare drug in the materia medica. I will get it for you at once."

The customer's face assumed an air of satisfaction as the clerk spoke, and he sat down on a stool in front of the counter.

James Cromwell quickly placed a small parcel in his hands, and the customer, drawing out a pocketbook, which appeared to be well-filled, paid for his purchase.

He then walked out of the shop, and to the corner of the street, where he waited for an uptown car. As he left the shop, a ragged boy of ten, with a sharp, weazened face entered.

"I want an ounce of carmels," he said.

"Wait a minute; do you want to earn a quarter?" demanded the shopman, abruptly.

"I reckon I do," answered the urchin.

"Then you must follow the gentleman who just went out of the shop: find out where he lives, and what his name is. Come out, and I will point him out to you."

Just outside of the door, James Cromwell cast his eyes up the street and saw his late customer in the act of jumping on board a Fourth Avenue car.

"There he is," he said, hastily pointing him out to the boy. "You will have to ride, too. Can you catch that car?"

"I've got no money," said the boy.

"Here's a quarter. Now run."

"But I'm to have a quarter besides?"

"Yes, yes. Make haste."

The boy ran forward, and succeeded in overtaking the car and clambering on board.

"Look here, young chap," said the conductor, suspiciously, "have you got any money to pay your fare?"

"Yes, I have," said the boy. "Don't you be afraid, old hoss."

"Show your money, then."

The boy produced the quarter which had just been given him.

"You're richer than I supposed," said the conductor. "Here's your change."

The boy put back the twenty-two cents remaining in the pocket of his ragged pants, and began to look about him for the passenger whom he was required to track. The latter was seated on the left hand side, four seats from the door.

"I wonder why I'm to foller him about," said the boy to himself. "Maybe he's run off without paying his bill. Anyway, it's nothing to me as long as I earn a quarter. It'll pay me into the Old Bowery to-night."

And the boy began to indulge in pleasing anticipations of the enjoyment he would receive from witnessing the great spectacle of the "Avenger of Blood," which was having a successful run at the favorite theatre with boys of his class.

Before proceeding, I may mention that the boy referred to was known as Hake, a name whose derivation I have been unable to learn. He had been a street vagrant for half his life, and was precocious in his knowledge of metropolitan life in its lowest phases.

If the gentleman whom he was employed to watch noticed the ragged boy, he hadn't the remotest suspicion that there was the least connection between them, or that his being there had anything to do with his own presence in the car. He took out a paper from his pocket and began to read.

"I wonder how far I've got to go," thought Hake. "If it's far I'll have to ride back, and that'll take three cents more."

He reflected, however, that nineteen cents would remain, and he would besides have the quarter which had been promised him.

"I can go to the theatre, and get a bully dinner, besides," he reflected, complacently.

The car rapidly proceeded uptown, passing Union Square and the Everett House at the corner of Seventeenth Street. Two blocks farther, and the passenger first introduced rose from his seat.

"Next corner," he said to the conductor.

The latter pulled the strap and the car stopped.

The gentleman got out, and turned westward up Twenty-ninth Street.

Hake scrambled out also, and followed him up the street. He crossed Madison Avenue, Fifth Avenue, and did not pause till he had reached a handsome house between Seventh and Eighth avenues. Before this time he had thrown open the coat in which he had been muffled, for the weather was not inclement, appearing to feel that there was now no further need of concealment.

He ascended the steps of the house, and rang the bell.

The door was opened directly by a servant, and he entered.

Scarcely had the door closed when Hake also ascended the steps and looked at the door-plate. The name was there, but unfortunately for Hake, he had not received even an elementary education, and could not read. This was rather inconvenient, as it stood in the way of his obtaining the information he desired.

Looking about him, he saw a schoolboy of his own age passing.

"Look here," he said, "what's that name up there on that door?"

"Can't you read?"

"I left my spectacles at home," said Hake, "and I can't read without 'em."

"It's Paul Morton, then, if you want to know," said the boy, curtly.

"Paul Morton," repeated Hake to himself. "All right!"

But he was not quite sure whether he had not been deceived. So he went to the basement door, and rang.

"What's wanted?" said the servant, curtly.

"Does Paul Morton live here?" asked Hake.

"You might say Mr. Paul Morton while you're about it," said the servant. "Yes, he lives here, and what do you want with him?"

"I was sent here," said Hake with no particular regard for truth, "by a man as said Mr. Morton was a good man, and would give me some clothes."

"Then you won't get them here," said the girl, and the door was slammed in the boy's face.

"I've found out his name now," said Hake, "sure," and he repeated it over to himself until he was certain he could remember it. He retraced his steps to Fourth Avenue, and jumped on board a returning car, and was ere long landed at the druggist's shop.

"Well," said James Cromwell, looking up, "did you do as I told you?"

"Yes," said Hake.

"What did you find out?"

"His name is Paul Morton."

"Where does he live?"

"At No. – West Twenty-ninth Street."

"What sort of house is it?"

"A nice one."

"Are you sure you made no mistake?"

"Yes, it's all right. I want my quarter."

"Here it is."

The boy took the money and scrambled off, well content with the results of his expedition; his mind intent upon the play he was to see in the evening.

"Paul Morton!" mused the clerk, thoughtfully. "I must put that name down. The knowledge may come in use some day. I hope some time or other I shall not be starving on ten dollars a week. It may be that my rise in the world will come through this same Paul Morton. Who can tell?"

CHAPTER II.
THE HOUSE IN TWENTY-NINTH STREET

The house in Twenty-ninth Street was a solid and substantial one which could only be occupied by a man of wealth. It was handsomely furnished, and all the appointments were such as to confirm the impression that its occupant was, to say the least, in easy circumstances financially. But it happens oftentimes that outward impressions are very far from correct. It was a fact that Paul Morton, who had lived here for ten years, was on the verge of ruin, and knew very well that unless some help should come he would be compelled to leave his fine residence and sink into poverty and obscurity.

He was a downtown merchant, but lured by the hope of large gains, had indulged in outside speculations which had sapped the springs of his prosperity and brought him face to face with ruin.

Just at this juncture, on reaching home one day, jaded and anxious, he found that a guest had arrived whom they had not seen for years. Ralph Raymond was his cousin, and of about the same age as himself. As boys they had been sworn friends and comrades, and each had promised the other that if he died first without family ties, he would leave to the survivor his entire property, whatever it might amount to.

When they became young men, Paul Morton remained in New York, but Ralph went, after a few years, to China, where he had spent his subsequent life with brief intervals, as a successful merchant. Paul Morton heard from time to time of his success, and that he had accumulated a fortune, and the thought occurred to him, for earlier generous feelings had been swallowed up in the greed of gain, "If he only dies first, I shall be greatly the gainer."

When he met his friend, he found him greatly changed. He was thin, sallow, and to outward appearance hadn't long to live.

"You find me greatly changed, Paul, do you not?" said Ralph Raymond.

"Yes, you are changed, of course, for I have not seen you for twenty years," was the reply.

"But I am looking very ill, am I not?"

"You are not looking well; but perhaps it is the change of climate."

"It is something more than that," said Ralph, shaking his head. "Old friend, I feel that I have not many months to live. I have within my frame the seeds of a fatal disease, which I cannot much longer stave off. I feel its insidious approaches, and I know that my weakened vital powers cannot much longer resist them. I have one favor to ask."

"What is it?"

"May I spend the short remainder of my life in your house? I shrink from going among strangers. It will be a great relief to me if I can feel that I am in the house of my old friend when the solemn messenger arrives."

"Surely," said Paul Morton, "I hope you are mistaken in your gloomy prognostications; but, however that may be, you shall be welcome here so long as it pleases you to stay."

"Thank you; I was sure you would consent. As to my being mistaken, that is hardly possible. This time next year I shall not be numbered among the living."

Looking at his thin face and attenuated frame, Paul Morton felt that his words were probably correct, and his heart glowed with exultation as he felt that Ralph Raymond was without family ties, and that at his death, which would soon happen, in all probability his large fortune, one hundred thousand dollars at least, would become his. This would relieve him of all his embarrassments, give him a firm financial standing.

Shortly after Ralph Raymond was confined to his bed by sickness. The physician who was called spoke ambiguously. He might die suddenly, or he might linger for a year. Days and weeks passed, and still he remained in about the same condition, so that the last seemed likely to be the correct prediction.

In the meanwhile, Paul Morton's affairs had become more and more embarrassed. He had plunged into speculations from which he did not see the way out. He perceived his mistake, but too late. Nothing was left but for him to float with the tide, and be borne where it might carry him.

He did not doubt that at the death of his guest, his large property would be his. Indeed, a casual remark of Ralph Raymond's had confirmed him in the impression. As time wore on, and his pecuniary difficulties increased, he began to long for his friend's death.

"A few months more or less of life would be of little importance to him," he thought, "while to me it is of incalculable importance to come into his estate as soon as possible."

The more he thought of it the more frequently the suggestion was forced upon him that his friend's early death was most desirable. At length, as he was in a book store on Nassau Street one day, he picked up an old medical work, in which there was one division which treated of poisons. One was mentioned, of a subtle character, whose agency was difficult of detection. It did not accomplish its purpose at once, but required some days.

Paul Morton bought this book, and when he reached home he locked it up securely in a drawer accessible only to himself.

We have now brought up the story to the point where the first chapter commences.

The poison which he sought in the small shop on the Bowery was the same whose effects he had seen described in the volume he had purchased in Nassau Street. He had an object in going to an obscure shop, as he would be less likely to be known, and such a purchase would be very apt to attract notice. But it was only by chance that he succeeded. In most shops of such humble pretensions such an article would not be found, but it so happened that some had been ordered by a chemist a year before, and the druggist, thinking it possible he might have a call for it, had ordered some to keep in his stock.

When Paul Morton reached home, he went up to his friend's chamber.

Ralph Raymond was lying stretched out upon the bed, looking quite sick; but not so sick as at times during his illness.

"How do you feel, Ralph?" said his false friend, bending over him.

"I am feeling more comfortable to-day, Paul," he said.

"Perhaps you will recover yet."

"No, I have no expectation of that; but I may be spared longer than I supposed possible."

"I certainly hope so," said Paul Morton; but there was a false ring in his voice, though the sick man, who had no doubt of his sincere friendship, was far enough from detecting this.

"I know you do," said Ralph.

"What medicines are you taking now?" inquired Paul Morton.

"There is a bottle of cordial; I take a wineglass of it once an hour."

Paul Morton took up the bottle and gazed at it thoughtfully.

"Is your nurse attentive?" he asked.

"Yes, I have no fault to find with her."

"Where is she now?"

"She just went down to prepare my dinner."

"When did you take your cordial last?"

"About an hour since."

"Then it is time to take it again."

"Yes, I suppose so; but I presume a few minutes later will make no difference."

"It is better to be regular about it. As the nurse is away I will give it to you."

"Thank you."

"I must go to the window, to see how much to pour out. How much do you usually take?"

"A wine-glass two-thirds full."

Paul Morton took the bottle and the glass to the window. As he stood there he was out of the observation of the patient. He poured out the required quantity of the cordial into the glass; but after doing so, he slyly added a small quantity of powder from a paper which he drew from his vest pocket. He put the paper back, and reappeared at the bedside holding the glass in his hand.

"I think I have poured out the right quantity," he said; but his voice was constrained, and there was a pallor about his face.

The sick man noticed nothing of this. He took the cup and drained it of its contents, as a matter of course.

"Thank you, Paul," he said.

Paul Morton could not find anything to say in reply to the thanks which fell upon his soul like a mockery.

He took the glass from the trembling hand of the sick man, and looked into it to see if in the depths there might be any tell-tale trace of the powder which he had dropped into it; but he could see nothing.

"Well, I must leave you for a time. Perhaps you can sleep," he said.

"Perhaps so; I will try," was the answer.

Paul Morton left the sick chamber, and shut himself up in his own room. He wanted to screen himself from the sight of all, for he knew that he had taken the fatal step, and that already, in deed, as well as in heart, he was a murderer!

CHAPTER III.
AN UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY

The next day Ralph Raymond's unfavorable symptoms had returned, and he was pronounced worse by the physician. Yet the change was not sufficiently marked to excite suspicion. It was supposed that his constitution had not vitality enough to rally against the steady approaches of the disease under which he was laboring.

Paul Morton read from the old medical book which he had picked up in Nassau Street, and which, as we know, had given him the first suggestion of the horrible crime which he had determined upon, the following words:

"The patient has been known to recover where but one dose of this poison has been administered, but should it have been given on two successive days, there is little or no chance that he will survive. Yet, so slow is its operation, that after the second time of administering, it is not impossible that he may survive several days. Cases have been known where the period has extended to a week, but of the final fatal result there can be no question."

"I must go through it again," muttered Paul Morton to himself. "It will not do to fail. While I am about it, I must make a sure thing of it."

He accordingly sought the bedside of the sick man on the next day, about the same time as before. He had watched till he saw the nurse go down to prepare the patient's dinner.

"How are you feeling, to-day?" he inquired, in apparent anxiety.

"Worse, my friend," said the sick man, feebly.

"But yesterday you said you were better, did you not?"

"Yes, I felt better then, but to-day I have a dull throbbing pain here," and he pointed to his breast.

"Did you not sleep well?"

"Yes, better than usual."

Paul Morton knew that this was the effect of the poison, for it had been referred to in the book.

"I wonder, then, you do not feel better," he said. "I supposed sleep always had a salutary effect."

"It has not had in my case. No, my friend, I feel convinced that I have not many days to live."

"I hope you are wrong. What can I do for you? Shall I not give you your cordial as I did yesterday?"

"Yes, if you like."

Again Paul Morton poured out the cordial, and again, as on the day previous, he filliped into the glass a minute portion of the powder.

The sick man drank it.

"I don't know what it is," he said, "but it does not taste as it used to."

Paul Morton turned pale, but he rallied at once.

"Your sickness, doubtless, affects your sense of taste," he said. "It is very often the case in sickness, even of a lighter character than yours."

"Very likely you are right."

"Can I do anything more for you?" asked Paul Morton, who was now anxious to get away from the presence of his victim. Strange thoughts came over him when he felt that he had taken a decisive step, which now could not be recalled. He had administered the poisonous powder for the second time, and, according to the medical authority which we have already quoted, there was no longer any help for the sick man, his victim. He might live two, three or four days, possibly a week, though this was not probable in the case of one whose constitution was enfeebled by a lingering malady, but his doom was sure.

But he was as truly a murderer as if he had approached him with a loaded pistol, and discharged it full at his temple. Twenty-four hours had made him such. But he did not realize this. He said to himself, "He was sure to die; this act of mine has only hastened the event a little. After all, it may be merciful, for it can hardly be desirable for him to linger in his present condition."

With this miserable casuistry he strove to palliate the treachery and crime which he had just committed, not against a foe who had done him harm, but against his early friend, for whom he had always professed the strongest affection. And all this for the sake of a little dross!

"There is something I want to tell you, Paul," said the sick man, turning his head on the pillow by an effort, "something which will, perhaps, surprise you, and after that I shall have a favor to ask of you. Will you grant it?"

"Yes," said Paul Morton, "I will grant it. Speak on."

His curiosity was not a little excited by what he had heard. He drew a chair to the bedside, and sat down.

"I am ready to hear what you have to say, Ralph," he said.

"You suppose, and the world supposes that I have never married," the sick man commenced.

Paul Morton started, and he awaited nervously what was to follow.

"The world is right, is it not?" he said hastily.

"No, the world is wrong. Sixteen years ago I married a portionless girl. For reasons which it is unnecessary now to mention, my marriage was not made public, but it was strictly legal. My young wife lived less than two years, but ere she died she gave me a son."

"Is he still living?" asked Paul Morton, in a hoarse voice.

"Yes, he still lives."

"Then," thought Paul, with a sense of bitter disappointment, "all my labor has been for naught. This boy will inherit Raymond's fortune, and his death will be of no benefit to me."

"Where is the boy now?" he asked.

"He is at a boarding-school on the Hudson. He was early educated abroad, but for two years he has been at Dr Tower's boarding-school, about forty miles from New York."

"Does he know anything of his parentage?"

"Yes, I went to see him before I came last to your house. Besides, I have thought it well to communicate all the facts in the case to Dr. Tower as it was possible, that I might die suddenly, and his testimony might be required to substantiate my son's claims to my estates."

"What is your son's name?" asked Paul Morton, rousing a little from the stupor into which the information had thrown him.

"Robert Raymond. It was the name of my wife's only brother, who had died young, and as I had no particular preference, I allowed her to name him."

"Is he in good health?"

"Yes; happily he has not inherited my constitution. He seems healthy and likely to live long. But I am sorry that he will be left so alone in the world, as he must be by my death. This brings me to the favor I was about to ask of you. In my will I have appointed you the guardian of my boy, who is now between fourteen and fifteen. I think it will not occasion you much trouble. My property, which I have put into solid securities, will amount to one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Of course, therefore, there will be no occasion for stinting him. I desire him to have the best advantages. As for you, my old friend, as a slight compensation for the trouble you will take, and as a proof of my affection, I authorize you to appropriate to your own use, during my son's minority, one-half of the income of the property and pay his expenses out of the other half. What there may be over can be added to the principal."

"But suppose—though, if the boy is as healthy as you say, there is little fear of that—suppose Robert should die before attaining his majority."

"Should that event happen, and, as you say, it is possible, I desire that the property should go without reserve to you. I have so provided in my will."

A flush of gratification mantled the cheek of Paul Morton, as he heard this statement. "All is not lost," he thought. "The boy may die and then–"

This is what he thought, but he said:

"Ralph, you are too kind and generous. It is my earnest hope that such a contingency may never occur."

"I am sure of that. I have perfect confidence in you, and I know you will be kind to my boy. He may be here to-morrow morning."

"Here to-morrow morning!" ejaculated Paul Morton, in surprise.

"Yes. I requested the nurse to write to him yesterday afternoon, in my name, to come at once. As I have but a short time to live, I wish to have him with me during the short remainder of my life—that is, if it will not be inconvenient to you to have him in the house."

"Certainly not, I shall be glad to have him come," said Paul Morton, absently.

"I begin to feel drowsy. I will try to sleep," said the sick man.

"Then I will leave you. I hope you may awake refreshed."

Paul Morton walked out of the sick-room with his eyes bent upon the floor. He wanted to think over this new and unexpected turn of affairs.