The Soul Scar
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“It’s the most perplexing case I’ve been up against, Kennedy, for a long time.”
Doctor Leslie, now medical adviser to the district attorney, had dropped in at the laboratory, and to tell the truth, I was glad of the interruption. For from a retort Craig was evolving an olfactory offense which was particularly annoying to me, especially as I was struggling with an article on art for The Star. The things were incongruous, and the article suffered.
“A case?” repeated Craig, mechanically. “Here..stick your foot up. That’s fine,” he added, as he scraped the sole and heel of Leslie’s shoe, while Leslie fidgeted impatiently. “This is new.”
Apparently Leslie’s case was forgotten before it was begun.
“You know,” Craig went on, eagerly, “the use of all these new leather substitutes is opening a new field for detectives in the study of foot marks. I’ve just been analyzing the composition of some of the products. I’ll soon be able to identify them all. A case, you say...eh?”
“Yes. You know the lawyer, Vail Wilford? Well, they found him in his office this morning dead...the lights on; a suicide...that is, it looked like a suicide at first. I don’t know. The thing’s a mystery to me.”
“Oh...a suicide?” Craig frowned, as though such a thing was entirely too trivial to interrupt his analysis of rubber heels.
“He left this letter...to his wife,” persisted Leslie.
We read the note,
Honora,
Don’t think I am a coward to do this, but things cannot go on as they have been going. It is no use. I cannot work it out. This is the only way. So I shall drop out. You will find my will in the safe. Good-bye forever. Vail. The peculiarly pungent smell of burning rubber had by this time completely filled the laboratory. It was stifling, sickening.
“There...you made me forget that test, with your confounded suicide,” reproached Craig. “That sample’s ruined.”
“Glad of it,” I snorted. “Now I won’t need a gas-mask.”
However, in curiosity I looked at the note again. It was, strangely enough, written on a typewriter.
“Hm!” exclaimed Craig, with mild interest. “Suicides don't usually write on typewriters. A hasty scrawl...that’s what you usually find.”
“But Wilford was an unusual man,” I suggested. “You might look for almost anything from Wilford.”
I read the note again. And as I did so I asked myself whether it was a suicide note, after all. To me, now, it seemed too calmly composed and written for that, as Craig had suggested.
I knew Wilford as a lawyer, still comparatively young and well known almost to the point of notoriety, for of late he had taken many society divorce cases. Altogether, his office had become a sort of fashionable court of domestic relations.
“Here’s the strange thing,” hastened Leslie, taking advantage of Craig’s momentary interest before he could return to another retort laden with some new material. “We found in the office, on the desk, two glasses. In one there seemed to be traces of nothing at all...but in the other I have discovered decided traces of atropin.”
“That looks promising,” remarked Craig, his analysis now entirely forgotten.
“That’s why I decided to call you in. Will you help me?”
“Craig,” I interrupted, “I don’t know much about Vail Wilford, but he has had such an unsavory reputation that...well, I’d hesitate. I’ve always considered him a sort of society rat.”
“What difference does that make, Walter?” argued Craig, turning on me suddenly. “If a crime has been committed, I must get at it. It is my duty...even if the man is a rat, as you call him. Besides, this promises to be a very interesting case. Where is the body?” he asked, abruptly, in as matter-of-fact a tone as if it had been a wrecked car towed to a garage.
“Removed to his apartment on the Drive,” replied Doctor Leslie, now much encouraged and not concealing it. “I’ve just come from the place. That was where I saw Honora Wilford.”
“How did Mrs. Wilford take it?” asked Craig. “Has she been told all this yet?”
“Not about the atropin, I think. That’s just what I wanted to tell you about. She was grief-stricken, of course. But she did not faint or do anything like that.”
“Then what was it?” hastened Craig, impatiently.
“When we told her,” replied Leslie, “she exclaimed. “I knew it! I knew it!” She stood at the side of the bed where the body had been placed. “I felt it!” she cried. “Only the other night I had such a horrible dream. I dreamed I saw him in a terrific struggle. I could not make out who or what it was with which he struggled. I tried to run to him. But something seemed to hold me back. I could not move. Then the scene shifted...like a motion picture. I saw a funeral procession and in the coffin I could see as though by a second sight, a face...his face! Oh, it was a warning to me...to him!”
“I tried to calm her,” went on Leslie. “But it was of no use. She kept crying out, “It has come true...-just as I saw in the dream. I feared it...even when I knew it was only a dream.” Strange, don’t you think, Kennedy?”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” asked Craig, impatiently.
“Didn’t have a chance. You were studying my rubber heels.”
“Well...what then? Is there anything else?”
“I questioned her,” went on Leslie. “I asked her about her dreams. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘often I have had the dream of that funeral procession and always I saw the same face...Vail’s! Oh, it is horrible...horrible!”
Craig was studying Leslie now keenly, though he said nothing.
“There’s another thing, too,” added Leslie, eagerly. “Although Mrs. Wilford seems to be perfectly normal, still I have learned that she was suffering from the usual society complaint...nervousness...nervous breakdown. She had been treated for some time by Doctor Lathrop...you know, the society physician they all run to?”
Craig nodded.
Doctor Leslie, now medical adviser to the district attorney, had dropped in at the laboratory, and to tell the truth, I was glad of the interruption. For from a retort Craig was evolving an olfactory offense which was particularly annoying to me, especially as I was struggling with an article on art for The Star. The things were incongruous, and the article suffered.
“A case?” repeated Craig, mechanically. “Here..stick your foot up. That’s fine,” he added, as he scraped the sole and heel of Leslie’s shoe, while Leslie fidgeted impatiently. “This is new.”
Apparently Leslie’s case was forgotten before it was begun.
“You know,” Craig went on, eagerly, “the use of all these new leather substitutes is opening a new field for detectives in the study of foot marks. I’ve just been analyzing the composition of some of the products. I’ll soon be able to identify them all. A case, you say...eh?”
“Yes. You know the lawyer, Vail Wilford? Well, they found him in his office this morning dead...the lights on; a suicide...that is, it looked like a suicide at first. I don’t know. The thing’s a mystery to me.”
“Oh...a suicide?” Craig frowned, as though such a thing was entirely too trivial to interrupt his analysis of rubber heels.
“He left this letter...to his wife,” persisted Leslie.
We read the note,
Honora,
Don’t think I am a coward to do this, but things cannot go on as they have been going. It is no use. I cannot work it out. This is the only way. So I shall drop out. You will find my will in the safe. Good-bye forever. Vail. The peculiarly pungent smell of burning rubber had by this time completely filled the laboratory. It was stifling, sickening.
“There...you made me forget that test, with your confounded suicide,” reproached Craig. “That sample’s ruined.”
“Glad of it,” I snorted. “Now I won’t need a gas-mask.”
However, in curiosity I looked at the note again. It was, strangely enough, written on a typewriter.
“Hm!” exclaimed Craig, with mild interest. “Suicides don't usually write on typewriters. A hasty scrawl...that’s what you usually find.”
“But Wilford was an unusual man,” I suggested. “You might look for almost anything from Wilford.”
I read the note again. And as I did so I asked myself whether it was a suicide note, after all. To me, now, it seemed too calmly composed and written for that, as Craig had suggested.
I knew Wilford as a lawyer, still comparatively young and well known almost to the point of notoriety, for of late he had taken many society divorce cases. Altogether, his office had become a sort of fashionable court of domestic relations.
“Here’s the strange thing,” hastened Leslie, taking advantage of Craig’s momentary interest before he could return to another retort laden with some new material. “We found in the office, on the desk, two glasses. In one there seemed to be traces of nothing at all...but in the other I have discovered decided traces of atropin.”
“That looks promising,” remarked Craig, his analysis now entirely forgotten.
“That’s why I decided to call you in. Will you help me?”
“Craig,” I interrupted, “I don’t know much about Vail Wilford, but he has had such an unsavory reputation that...well, I’d hesitate. I’ve always considered him a sort of society rat.”
“What difference does that make, Walter?” argued Craig, turning on me suddenly. “If a crime has been committed, I must get at it. It is my duty...even if the man is a rat, as you call him. Besides, this promises to be a very interesting case. Where is the body?” he asked, abruptly, in as matter-of-fact a tone as if it had been a wrecked car towed to a garage.
“Removed to his apartment on the Drive,” replied Doctor Leslie, now much encouraged and not concealing it. “I’ve just come from the place. That was where I saw Honora Wilford.”
“How did Mrs. Wilford take it?” asked Craig. “Has she been told all this yet?”
“Not about the atropin, I think. That’s just what I wanted to tell you about. She was grief-stricken, of course. But she did not faint or do anything like that.”
“Then what was it?” hastened Craig, impatiently.
“When we told her,” replied Leslie, “she exclaimed. “I knew it! I knew it!” She stood at the side of the bed where the body had been placed. “I felt it!” she cried. “Only the other night I had such a horrible dream. I dreamed I saw him in a terrific struggle. I could not make out who or what it was with which he struggled. I tried to run to him. But something seemed to hold me back. I could not move. Then the scene shifted...like a motion picture. I saw a funeral procession and in the coffin I could see as though by a second sight, a face...his face! Oh, it was a warning to me...to him!”
“I tried to calm her,” went on Leslie. “But it was of no use. She kept crying out, “It has come true...-just as I saw in the dream. I feared it...even when I knew it was only a dream.” Strange, don’t you think, Kennedy?”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” asked Craig, impatiently.
“Didn’t have a chance. You were studying my rubber heels.”
“Well...what then? Is there anything else?”
“I questioned her,” went on Leslie. “I asked her about her dreams. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘often I have had the dream of that funeral procession and always I saw the same face...Vail’s! Oh, it is horrible...horrible!”
Craig was studying Leslie now keenly, though he said nothing.
“There’s another thing, too,” added Leslie, eagerly. “Although Mrs. Wilford seems to be perfectly normal, still I have learned that she was suffering from the usual society complaint...nervousness...nervous breakdown. She had been treated for some time by Doctor Lathrop...you know, the society physician they all run to?”
Craig nodded.