The Tragedy of Z Read Online Free PDF Page A

other side of town!”
    District Attorney John Hume, it appeared, was only too eager to accept the services of a man whose life had been spent in the investigation of murders. Everything, reported Mr. Clay wearily, was being left untouched for father’s inspection. The district attorney urged that the Inspector come to the scene of the crime as soon as possible.
    â€œI’ll drive you over,” said Jeremy quickly. “Half a minute,” and he disappeared in the darkness to bring the car around.
    â€œOf course, I’m going along,” I said. “You know what Mr. Lane said, father.”
    â€œWell, I wouldn’t blame Hume for kicking you out,” grumbled father. “A murder’s no place for a young girl. I don’t know——”
    â€œReady!” sang out Jeremy, and the car slipped up in the driveway. He seemed surprised to see me jump into the rear of the limousine with father, but offered no objection. Mr. Clay waved us off; he had an aversion, he said tightly, to blood.
    Darkness engulfed us as the car shot on to the road, and Jeremy sent it roaring down the hill. I twisted about and looked behind. Far up, against blackish clouds, shone the lights of Algonquin Prison. Why I should have thought of the prison at that moment when we were speeding toward the scene of a crime which only a free man could have committed, I do not know; but it depressed me, and I shivered and snuggled closer to father’s great shoulder. Jeremy said nothing; his eyes were intent on the road.
    We accomplished the journey in what must have been a phenomenally short time; but to me it was interminable. I was experiencing an unpleasant sense of impending events.… It seemed hours before we dashed through two iron gates and screamed to a stop before a large ornate mansion blazing with lights.
    There were automobiles all about, and the dark grounds were crawling with troopers and police. The front door gaped open. Leaning against the jamb stood a quiet man with his hands in his pockets. Everyone was quiet, as quiet as he; there was no conversation, no casual human noises of any kind. Crickets chirped cheerfully about the house, and that was all.
    Every detail of that night stands out in memory. To father it was the old ugly story, but to me it was raw with horror and—I confess—a morbid interest. How did a dead man look? I had never seen a dead man. I had seen my mother dead, but she had been so peaceful, so amiably smiling. This dead man would be a monster, I was sure; he would be grimacing with horror, and there would be nightmares of blood.…
    I found myself standing in a large study, bright with many lamps, and filled with men. I got a vague impression of men with cameras, men with little camel’s-hair brushes, men who poked among books, men who did nothing at all. But the actuality, the reality was a solitary figure. Of all those present he was the most serene, the least concerned. He was a big beefy fellow with an unhandsome obesity; he was in his shirtsleeves, and the sleeves were rolled up above his elbows leaving his powerful hairy forearms bare. On his feet were old and roomy carpet-slippers. On his broad, coarse features sat a rather annoyed, not unpleasant expression.
    Someone’s heavy voice growled: “Have a look at him, Inspector.”
    Through the dancing haze before my eyes I looked, and looked, and thought that it was indecent for a dead man, a murdered man, to sit so quietly and uncernedly while all the world scuttled about his room, invading his privacy, raping his books, photographing his desk, smearing his furniture with powdered aluminum, brutally searching his papers.… This was Senator Joel Fawcett, the late Senator Fawcett.
    The haze wavered a little, and my eyes riveted on that white shirt-front. Senator Fawcett was seated behind a cluttered desk; his thick torso was pressed against the edge, and his head was cocked a bit to one side in