The Gold Bag

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 the 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. “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 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 a tinier powder puff; a couple of small hair-pins, a newspaper clipping, and a few silver coins were all that rewarded my trouble.