The Spruce Street Tragedy

"Hark! I thought I heard the outside door open and shut."

"No, it was nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure, Seth."

"What time is it now, Spicer?"

"Half-past seven."

"Half-past seven, and George not here yet!"

"He don't seem to have shown up, that's a fact."

"What can be keeping the fellow?"

"There you've got me, Seth. He's usually prompt enough, you know."

"That's so, old man; but I tell you what, if we're going to take hold of this case at all, we ought to be getting to work."

"I fully agree with you, and am most anxious not to lose the next Eastern-bound train."

"Confound it. I wish George would come. I don't want the regular men to get in ahead of us."

"It isn't that that I care so much about," said Old Spicer, quietly; "but I do hate to see a good case all muddled up."

"And so do I," exclaimed Stricket. "It makes me mad even now when I think of the way they managed such splendid cases as the Jennie Cramer, Rose Ambler, and half a dozen others like them."

"Did you hear who was going over to Stony Creek this morning?"

"Only Willett, so far as I could learn; and perhaps Medical Examiner Gaylord, of Branford."

"Well, I--"

"Hark! what's that? The outside door this time, eh?"

"You're right; he's come at last. Yes, that's George Morgan's footstep." Then, as some one knocked at the door of the room, "Come in, George," and a young man of some twenty-six or twenty-seven years entered.

"I'm glad to see you, George," continued the old detective, as the new-comer sank wearily into an arm-chair; "but I should have been better pleased to have welcomed you half an hour earlier."

"Yes," exclaimed Seth Stricket, quickly; "for goodness' sake, what's kept you, George?"

"My excuse for not being on time is a good one," responded George Morgan, gravely. "If it were not so, I think you both know me well enough to believe I wouldn't have occasion to offer any."

"I am sure of that," nodded Old Spicer.

"And so am I," added Seth; "but let's hear it all the same."

"Well, you know it was agreed among us, before we parted last night, that I should see Chief Bollmann before joining you this morning."

"Yes, that was the arrangement," assented Old Spicer.

"Of course, he wouldn't be at his office in the police building as early as six o'clock."

"Not likely," laughed Stricket.

"So, knowing that," continued George, "I started at once for his residence, No. 40 Sylvan Avenue."

His two listeners nodded.

"I went out George Street, expecting to turn off either before, or at least when, I reached York, but was so busy with my own thoughts that I had crossed York and was well on toward Spruce before I knew it."

"Well?"

"When I came to myself and saw where I was, I turned into Spruce Street, and walked toward Oak."

"For Heaven's sake, George," exclaimed Stricket, impatiently, "where are you driving to? Do get to Sylvan Avenue some time this morning."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Seth," replied the young man, with a grave smile; "but I am getting to the meat of my story, and to my excuse, pretty fast now."

"Let's have it then."

"Do you remember what used to be, and what is still called by some, the Turn Hall, on Spruce Street?"

"I do, very well," said Stricket. "The property belongs to old Mother Ernst, and she keeps a saloon-a fearfully low place-in the basement."

"You're right in one particular, Seth; it's low enough, in all conscience-clean under ground."

"I've heard of the woman," said Old Spicer. "She lives and sleeps in that low basement; in fact, it is said, she hardly ever shows herself above ground nowadays."

"That's true," affirmed Stricket; "she's seventy-two or -three years old, and she's lived in that damp basement so long, she's got the rheumatism the worst way, so that she can hardly waddle-has to use a cane."

"Well," continued George, "a milk-wagon was standing in front of the house, and just as I arrived abreast of the place, the milkman, Julius Smith, of East Haven, came rushing up the outside basement steps, his face as white as a sheet, his eyes bulging from their sockets, and his hair, so far as I could see it, fairly standing on end.

"'I say, my man, what's the matter with you?' I demanded, seizing him by the arm, and giving him a shake to start up his ideas a little.

"'Matter? matter?' he gasped; 'matter enough-murder's the matter!'

"'What's that?' I demanded, sternly; 'what's that you say, sir?'

"'I say the old woman lies murdered on a lounge, in her saloon down there,' and he pointed down the stone steps.

"'What! Mrs. Ernst murdered?' exclaimed a voice at my side.

"I looked round, and saw that we had been joined by Henry M. Cohen, the watchmaker; and in less than a minute more there were at least a dozen people about us."

"You went into the house, of course, George?" said Old Spicer, inquiringly.

"Yes; the milkman, Cohen, and I entered the room where the dead body was stretched on the sofa."

"You got a good look at it, then, before it was disturbed?"

"Yes, when we first entered the old woman was lying on her left side, with her face to the wall."

"Had she been dead long, do you think?"

"Some hours, I should say-five or six, at least."

"Why do you think so?"

"I felt of her limbs; they were as cold as a stone."

"Had she been shot or stabbed?"

"Neither. Suffocated or chloroformed, it seemed to me."

"Was she bound and gagged?"

"Yes, sir; her hands were tied together at the wrists with an ordinary pocket handkerchief. Her heavy woolen-stockinged feet were also tied together; another handkerchief encircled her shins. Around her throat and head was wrapped a sheet. That part of it which encircled the neck made a bandage so tight that it must have stopped her breathing soon after it was put into use. Her mouth was partially filled with another handkerchief."

"Hum," mused Old Spicer, "the murderers were well supplied with handkerchiefs, it seems."

"Yes, sir; and of this last one-the gag-I shall have more to say by and by. The ends of it so fell across her breast that, I should think, in her desperate struggle to breathe, she had probably forced the larger part of the handkerchief from her mouth."

"Were there no signs of blood?"

"There were a few drops on this very handkerchief, evidently from her nose; and I thought I discovered a bruise and a little blood on the back of her head."

"Then there had been something of a scuffle?"

"Well, as to that I can't exactly say. A superficial examination of the hands and head of the dead woman revealed no other signs indicative of a struggle or blows. Even at her throat, where generally, you know, finger-nail imprints are to be found on a person who has been strangled to death, there were no such confirmatory evidences of a struggle."

"How was she dressed, George?" asked Stricket.

"The clothes she had on," Cohen said, "were those she usually appeared in when at home."

"Were they disarranged in any way?"

"That portion of her attire that covered her breast had been torn apart, and a search made presumably for a pocket-book or a roll of bank bills which was believed to be secreted there."

"Ah-ha!" exclaimed Stricket, "the job must have been done by some one who knew the old woman, for there's where she always carried a good share of her money."

"That's not conclusive," said Old Spicer, with a shake of the head. "It's a well-known fact that many women carry their purses under the bosom of their dress."

"Yes," said George, "I've had occasion to notice that myself."

"Well," said Stricket, who was very much interested, "go on. What else did you notice?"

"I saw one of her great heavy black slippers on the floor at the foot of the sofa; the mate was on the right foot. On the sofa, alongside the dead body, was a black walking-stick."

"Ah!" said Stricket, "that has been her constant companion for the past fifteen years. Without it she couldn't have hobbled across her saloon."

"Were the rooms themselves very much disturbed?" asked Old Spicer.

"If the whole basement and its contents had been lifted right up and then scattered by a cyclone it could not have been in a more confused condition. I tell you, gentlemen, a house and its contents were never more thoroughly ransacked. Why, the solitary bedroom, where Cohen said Mrs. Ernst had slept for the past quarter of a century, was actually turned inside out. The bedtick was ripped open, and what it inclosed had been very industriously examined.

"The murderer or murderers made pretty thorough work of it, eh?" said Stricket, inquiringly.

"Of the bed?"

"Yes."

"From the way they went through it, Seth, I have precious little doubt they had good reason to believe the old woman had a big pile of money hid in the stuffing of that ticking."

"Oh-ho! and do you think they found it?"

"They may have found some, but not enough to satisfy them."

"How do you know that?"

"From the way they went at the rest of the furniture. For instance, one of those queer, old-fashioned bureaus, such as the hunter for the antique delights to discover, stood in the bedroom. Every drawer of it had been rifled, and the various articles, none of which appeared to be very valuable, strewed the floor.

"Any other piece of furniture that seemed to be a receptacle for hidden wealth of the occupant of the basement was completely overhauled. In the front room not a box, or a bundle, or a drawer, or a pail, or a corner was overlooked by the greedy eyes of the criminals. They meant business, I can tell you."

"Were any of the regular authorities on the ground before you came away?" asked Old Spicer, suddenly.

"Yes, the coroner, a police captain, and two or three detectives were there."

"Have they any idea who did the deed?"

"Not the slightest; they are completely at sea."

"Have you formed any theory yourself, George?"

"Well, to confess the truth, I have, sir."

"Let's hear it."

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I should like to hear your opinion before I venture to express mine."

Old Spicer was silent for a moment, then he abruptly exclaimed:

"I should like to visit the scene of this tragedy. Suppose we go to Spruce Street at once, gentlemen."

"What! and give up the Stony Creek affair?" exclaimed Stricket, in astonishment.

"Not necessarily," was the reply.

"But I don't understand, Mark."

"I have an idea," rejoined Old Spicer, quietly, "that in this instance, the shortest road to Stony Creek lies through Spruce Street."

"Thunder!" ejaculated George Morgan, "I believe you are right."

"Come, then, let us be off at once," and a moment later the three detectives left the house.

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