The Brand of Cain

0:00the brand of came by a ward sterling. Dr. Andrews, the physician who had been called in by the coroner, gave as his opinion that Waldo Fellows had met death shortly after midnight. The conditions of the body, he said, proved his contention. Then, too, the fact that the blood with which the sheets had been smeared had dried and hardened and caused him to stick to his statement. Yet Orville Hitchens, fellow secretary, swore that his employer had been alive and well at two o'clock in the morning. Hitchens stated that he had been summoned by Fellows at one o'clock and requested to drive to Amboy, two miles away, for some bromine. Mr. Fellows had been extremely nervous of late and found himself unable to sleep, finding that he had no bromide, a drug that he was accustomed to taking. He had awakened the secretary.

1:02Hitchens asserted that he had taken the light car, made the trip, and returned just before the clock struck two. Fellows had taken a dose of the drug, and Hitchens had again retired. Henry Phelps, the drug clerk, verified Hitchens' statement, as to the purchase of the bromide, while Landis Sashofar told of getting out the light car for the secretary, who had driven it himself. In spite of this, Dr. Andrews stuck to his statement that the murdered man had been dead at least ten hours when he made his examination. Swenson, the valet, had discovered the murder when he went to awaken his master at eight o'clock. It was nearly ten o'clock when coroner Stevenson arrived, accompanied by Dr. Andrews, and Bram Dwyer, the New York detective, who, with myself, was spending a few days' vacation in the little village.

2:02The prominence of the murdered man, coupled with the fact that the detective and Stevenson were old friends, caused the New Yorker to interest himself in the case at the letters request. Fellows was a gentleman farmer, a man worth several million dollars, made in Wall Street, who, tired of the life in the city, had purchased semi-set farms just at the edge of Amboi Township, and, after stocking it with the finest blooded cattle and horses that money could buy, had settled down to a life of rustic bliss. As time passed, he had added to his acreage by purchasing adjoining farms until half the township was his. He had erected a mansion around which he had built smaller homes for his employees. These, with the great barns, sheds for the machinery, dairy and offices, made semi-set farms almost a small town. Such a man as Waldo Fellows set down in the midst of a rural community, he is bound to be

3:06sought out by his fellow man. Twice he had reluctantly allowed himself to represent his district in the state legislature. The governor's chair could have been his for the asking. His fellow townsman loved him for the nobility of his character. Yet he had enemies by the score. Many of them, the small landowners, whose farms surrounded his. For the man who does things on a big scale, his certain sooner or later, to trample on the toes of others. But who among those he had offended hated him to the extent of taking his life? Two. Fellows was murdered in bed, apparently in cold blood, for there was no evidence of a struggle of any kind. Nothing in the room had been disturbed. So far as could be ascertained, nothing of value had been taken. The fact that the bedding was not must led to the belief that the murderer had struck

4:08while his victim was asleep. None of the servants or Mrs. Fellows, who slept just across the hall, had heard any noise saved when Hitchens returned from the drugstore with the drug which Fellows had requested. Mrs. Fellows had called over the transum to Hitchens to ask what was the matter, and he had told her of his employer's sleeplessness. The bottle of bromide, with a small quantity gone, was found on the table beside the bed. bromides seldom acts inside half to three-quarters of an hour. Hence, assuming that Hitchens had told the truth, and everything pointed to his having done so, Fellows must, if he was killed in his sleep, have met death not earlier than three o'clock. Let the blood which had flowed from the wound, the condition of the body, everything, led a cool, conservative medical man to declare that death was struck at least three hours

5:14earlier. Nor could his testimony be shaken. There were twelve servants who slept in the house, all occupying the upper floor, with the exception of Hitchens, Marie, Mrs. Fellows made, and Swellson the valet. Watson, the butler and general man about the house, was the last person to bed, and according to his own statement the first up in the morning. He had personally locked all the doors and windows on the first floor. They were all locked when he made his rounds in the morning. In going to the drugstore had left the house by the side door. This he had left unlocked, re-locking it upon his return. This led to the assumption on the part of some of the officials that the murderer had entered the place by that door during the secretary's absence. Heiding until his return, and after Fellows was asleep, had struck the fatal blow, and escaped

6:18by the same door, springing the lock after him. There was no other way of looking at the matter unless one went on the theory that the deed had been committed by one of the servants, or Mrs. Fellows. And the ladder was unthinkable, while the servants, all of them, had been in Fellows' employ for years, and were known to be absolutely loyal. Of course the window of the sleeping-rooms on the second floor were open, a man of agility might have gained an entrance in this way. But luckily there had been a slight rainfall earlier in the evening, and as a result the ground was in a condition to take impressions easily. The corner and the sheriff made a thorough search for marks of a ladder or footprints, but were positive that there was none beneath any of the windows. And there was always to be considered the lack of motive. Aside from the farmers who were jealous of the big landowner, there was no one known

7:21to hold a grudge against him. My friend Wire declined to assist the officials in their hunt for footprints, contending himself to duttle around the house as if greatly bored by the whole affair. Conversed as I am with his methods, I admit that this surprised me, for he is usually personified when there is some perplexing problem to be untangled. Luckily however, the officials, non-plussed, were forced to turn to him for advice. He answered with a shrug of his shoulders, absolutely refusing to be drawn into a discussion of the case. Following the time-worn methods the sheriff called all the servants together and examined them, a listening no more information than had already been gained. It was at this point that Dwire, who had been listening to the questioning without comment, ordered a suggestion. There is a band of gypsies camped a few miles the other side of town, he remarked quietly.

8:26Their chief is old father Lipke, a friend of mine. The old fellow knows his business from the ground up, fortune-telling, mind-reading, and all of that sort of stuff. In fact, he has assisted me on more than one occasion. I know that you'll laugh at me for the suggestion, but let me bring him here. I'll guarantee that he'll have the murderer by the heels, inside of half an hour. How he does it I can't pretend to know. It's positively uncanny the way he pulls off his stunts. But if it's results you want, then Lipke is your man. The sheriff sneered. Coroner Stevenson, in spite of his friendship for the detective, suppressed a smile with difficulty. You don't want us to think you believe this rot, do you braim? He inquired. My friend shrugged his shoulders again.

9:28You asked for my opinion, he answered. I'll give it to you. I'll take a chance on Father Lipke. In fact, as I have stated, I have, many a time. The man has powers beyond the understanding of men like us. But, of course, it's up to you in the sheriff. Three. Gartness had fallen when Dwyer and the coroner again drove up to the fellow's home, accompanied by Father Lipke, the gypsy. A typical member of his race was Lipke, a wrinkled little figure far past the age allotted to man. But in spite of his years he carried himself like a youth of twenty, and his black, beady eyes glittered like those of a boy, as he prepared the stage for the affair, his huge brass earring rattling like castonets, as he hurried here and there. The spot selected by the coroner, upon the advice of Dwyer, for the test of Lipke's power,

10:31was the huge living room on the lower floor. The servants were ordered to carry out all of the furniture, with the exception of the chairs, which were arranged along the wall. Then every member of the household, with the exception of the widow, was ordered to be present. The old man mumbled to himself. Drew a large circle on the floor in the center of the room with a piece of charcoal, after which he commanded us to seat ourselves just outside the circular mark, warning us, under penalty of death, not to enter the circle, unless commended to do so by him. His next act was to produce a brazer, which he lighted and placed in the center of the circle. By its side he placed a small vessel containing water. The lights were then turned out. For an instant we were in darkness. Then the brazer flamed up, filling the room with an unearthly blue greenish sort of glare.

11:34Chanting to himself, the old man threw a pinch of powder onto the flames at intervals. The light would turn for a second into a vivid red. Then die away again to the dull, sickly, bluish green. Suddenly he seated himself cross-legged at the side of the brazer, and bowed his head. Seeing his eyes as if in prayer he mumbled to himself in an unintelligible jargon. I confessed to a feeling of nervousness. I could tell from the expression on their faces that the others were the same. The attention was becoming almost unbearable when the old man slowly raised himself to a standing position, and, seizing the vessel of water, sprinkled it on the floor inside the circle, being extremely careful that not a single drop fell outside the mark. I must protect you from the powers of evil, he exclaimed.

12:35Keeping carefully inside the mark, he made the rounds, touching each of us lightly on the forehead, making on each of us the sign of the cross. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, I heard him mumble to himself. When he was seated himself on the floor he again bowed his head, and once more his lips moved as if in prayer. Suddenly he fell over, and for several minutes ride the bout as if in terrific pain. I leapt to my feet to assist him, but the strong hand of brammed wire held me back. Remember, he shouted, the old man commanded us, regardless of what happened, not to cross the line. After three or four minutes the spasm ceased, and the gypsy seemingly none the worse for his experience arose and addressed us. My friends, he commenced in his halting broken English.

13:35You have asked me here to use my arts in the detection of one who has committed a crime, the crime of murder. I have done my best. I have this circle I have wrestled with the powers of darkness, and the spirits of light. I know not which one of you committed this foul deed. No one knows, save God. Yet he who has created all things will not allow the crime of murder to pass unnoticed. Therefore I say unto you this. If he who has committed this murder is in this room, there will appear upon his forehead the sign of the cross, the mark that God placed upon can. This alone I can do. More than that I am not allowed for my powers are limited. He signaled for Dwyer to turn on the lights. An instant later we were blinking at the unaccustomed brightness. The old man seized the brazier and held it close to the face of each of us, gazing

14:41into our eyes as if seeking to read there the secret he was bent upon obtaining. Then there came a shriek, a gasp of astonishment, of horror, of cry. I turned my head, my eyes following the gaze of the others. Upon the forehead of Hitchens was the sign of the cross. For a second there was silence, cold, oppressive silence. The secretary gazed from one to another of us mutely, questioningly. Then his eyes sought the mirror above the fireplace. Afterward I recalled that Dwyer had seated him in front of the glass. His face became drawn, the sweat stood out on his forehead in great beads. Slowly as if stunned his fingers sought the accursed mark upon his forehead. He spat upon his hands and rubbed the spittle against the spot as if to erase it.

15:43He held the tips of his fingers in front of his eyes, surveying them thoughtfully, dazed. Then without warning he dropped to his knees, his arms outstretched toward the swarthy man within the circle. I did it! I did it!" he shrieked. Four No, I never met Lipke until yesterday, Dwyer chuckled to us as two hours later, Hitchens safely lodged in jail. He sat with the coroner, the sheriff, and myself, in the former's parlour, and went over the various phases of the case. I'm a fairly good judge of character, and when I noticed him begging on Main Street yesterday, I immediately placed the old fellow as being far above the average of his class mentally, and capable of playing almost any part he might be called upon to take. I realized far better than the rest of you that the murderer was too clever to be captured

16:45unless some subterfuge was used, and when you appealed to me, Stevenson, my thought reverted at once to the old man. A falsehood are too, in the interest of justice is, in my opinion, perfectly allowable, and that I was correct in my estimate is proved by what happened. What appealed to me from the very start was the apparent lack of motive. Had we been able to supply a motive, we might have been able to lay our hands on the man who struck the blow, but in the absence of one it became necessary to try some radical step. To imagine that one of the farmers hereabouts would become jealous enough to strike fellows down was absurd, and, granting that some of them might have the nerve, they lacked the imagination to pull off so mysterious a crime. I was confident in my own mind that Hitchens was a guilty party. Why? Because he was the

17:47only man who had the opportunity to kill fellows. But, on the other hand, his frank statements apparently eliminated him from the suspects. Let us analyze the affair a trifle deeper. Dr. Andrew swears that fellows was killed shortly after midnight. We now know that he was correct. But Hitchens bubs up with the story of being in conversation with the murdered man at two o'clock. He was able to prove his statements by two reputable and disinterested witnesses. Landess, the chauffeur, and felps the drug clerk. Therefore, my conclusion was that either Hitchens was lying, or that the physician was wrong. But my experience has taught me that medical men are, as a general rule, cold-blooded. That is, they figure things out with mathematical accuracy, and, by the law of averages, they

18:47are right ninety-nine times out of a hundred. Therefore, Hitchens was lying. But so far as we knew there was no motive. Now, the average man has deep within him a streak of superstition and a fear of whatever he does not understand. Therefore, I took the indolent attitude before the servants, finally working things up to a climax so that they expected wonderful things from the gypsy whom I had touted so highly. As soon as you gave your permission, I hunted up the old man, whose name, by the way, is not Lipke, but Rod Rigo. For ten dollars he agreed to play the part the way I told him to, and that he sustained my estimate of him, I believe you will all agree. I spent the afternoon in coaching him. I felt that, in case Hitchens did not confess, we would have lost nothing. But I was betting on the superstitious streak in his makeup, and one out. We all know what his motive was. He had been systematically

19:55robbing his employer for years. Fellows had become suspicious, and last night notified the secretary that they would go over the books together today. Hitchens waited until his employer was sleeping. Then entered the room by means of a key that he had secured possession of, struck the fatal blow, then went through the memory of going to the village after the bromide, thus providing himself with an almost perfect alibi. With Fellows dead, he figured that, as confidential man, he would be retained for a year or two to come. Finally reaching the point where he could get his hands on a large sum of money and make his escape before his defalcations were discovered. But, rumble the sheriff, I am still in the dark as to how the gypsy caused the black cross to appear on his forehead just by mumbling a few prayers. Those people know a lot of black art that we more civilized people will never be able to understand. Dwyer Grand

21:01I furnished the black art myself, he answered. It cost me ten cents at the drugstore. The old man made the cross on Hitchens forehead first, if you will recall the affair. He had just dipped his hand into a vessel of what looked like water. He only pretended to dip his hand into it when he anointed the rest of you. The heat of the brazer brought out the mark, or started it when he held it up and pretended to peer into your faces. What was it? merely a ten percent solution of ammonium chloride, the same stuff from which invisible ink is made. The old man's skin being dark, he didn't come out on his hand as he did on Hitchens forehead. And that's the whole story. The end of The Brand of Cain by Ward Sterling.