Final Proof Part 6

"That's a proper question, of course; a very proper question, and I'll answer it. But I must tell you a secret, so you may understand it. You see in this business we depend a good deal on the recommendation of the attending physician. Some doctors are real professional, and recommend a man on his merits. Others are different. They expect a commission.

Surprises you, don't it? But it's done every day in this town. The doctor can't save his patient, and the patient dies. Then he tells the sorrowing friends that such and such an undertaker is the proper party to hide away the result of his failure; failure to cure, of course. In due time he gets his little check, ten per cent. of the funeral bill.

This seems like wandering away from the point, but I am coming back to it. This commission arrangement naturally keeps me on the books of certain doctors, and vicy versy it keeps them on mine. So, working for certain doctors, it follows that I work for a certain set of people. Now I've a Catholic doctor on my books, and it happens that the cemetery where that church buries is in a lonesome place; just the spot for a grave-robber to work undisturbed, especially if the watchman out there should happen to be fond of his tipple, which I tell you, again in confidence, that he is. Now, then, it has happened more than once, though it has been kept quiet, that a grave filled up one afternoon would be empty the next morning. At least the body would be gone. Of course they wouldn't take the coffin, as they'd be likely to be caught getting rid of it. You see, a coffin ain't exactly regular household furniture. If they have time they fill the grave again, but often enough they're too anxious to get away, because, of course, the watchman might not be drunk. Well, these things being kept secret, but still pretty well known in the congregation, told in whispers, I might say, a sort of demand sprung up for a style of coffin that a grave-robber couldn't open,--a sort of coffin with a combination lock, as it were."

"You don't mean to say--" began Mr. Barnes, greatly interested at last in the old man's rather lengthy speech. He was interrupted by the undertaker, who again chuckled as he exclaimed:

"Don't I? Well, I do, though. Of course I don't mean there's really a combination lock. That would never do. We often have to open the coffin for a friend who wants to see the dead face again, or for folks that come to the funeral late. It's funny, when you come to think of it, how folks will be late to funerals. As they only have this last visit to make, you'd think they'd make it a point to be on time and not delay the funeral. But about the way I fasten a coffin. If any grave-robber tackles one of my coffins without knowing the trick, he'd be astonished, I tell you. I often think of it and laugh. You see, there's a dozen screws and they look just like ordinary screws. But if you work them all out with a screw-driver, your coffin lid is just as tight as ever. You see, it's this way. The real screw works with a reverse thread, and is hollow on the top. Now I have a screw-driver that is really a screw.

When the screw-threaded end of this is screwed into the hollow end of the coffin-bolt, as soon as it is in tight it begins to unscrew the bolt. To put the bolt in, in the first place, I first screw it tight on to my screw-driver, and then drive it in, turning backwards, and as soon as it is tight my screw-driver begins to unscrew and so comes out. Then I drop in my dummy screw, and just turn it down to fill the hole. Now the dummy screw and the reverse thread of the real bolt is a puzzle for a grave-robber, and anyway he couldn't solve it without one of my own tools."

Mr. Barnes reflected deeply upon this as a most important statement. If Mr. Quadrant's coffin was thus fastened, no one could have opened it without the necessary knowledge and the special screw-driver. He recalled that the butler had told him that one of Mr. Berial's men had been at the house after the departure of the others. This man was therefore in the position to have opened the coffin, supposing that he had had one of the screw-drivers. Of this it would be well to learn.

"I suppose," said Mr. Barnes, "that the coffin in which you placed Mr.

Quadrant was fastened in this fashion?"

"Yes; and I put the lid on and fastened it myself."

"What, then, did you do with the screw-driver? You might have left it at the house."

"I might have, but I didn't. No; I'm not getting up a combination and then leaving the key around loose. No, sir; there's only one of those screw-drivers, and I take care of it myself. I'll show it to you."

The old man went to a drawer, which he unlocked, and brought back the tool.

"You see what it is," he continued--"double-ended. This end is just the common every-day screw-driver. That is for the dummies that fill up the hollow ends after the bolts are sent home. The other end, you see, looks just like an ordinary screw with straight sides. There's a shoulder to keep it from jamming. Now that's the only one of those, and I keep it locked in that drawer with a Yale lock, and the key is always in my pocket. No; I guess that coffin wasn't opened after I shut it."

Mr. Barnes examined the tool closely, and formed his own conclusions, which he thought best to keep to himself.

"Yes," said he aloud; "it does seem as though the mistake must be in the identification."

"What did I tell you?" exclaimed Mr. Berial, delighted at thinking that he had convinced the detective. "Oh, I guess I know my business."

"I was told at the house," said Mr. Barnes, "that when you left, after closing the coffin, one of your men stayed behind. Why was that?"

"Oh, I was hungry and anxious to get back for dinner. One of my men, Jack, I brought away with me, because I had to send him up to another place to get some final directions for another funeral. The other man stayed behind to straighten up the place and bring off our things in the wagon."

"Who was this man? What is his name?"

"Jerry, we called him. I don't know his last name."

"I would like to have a talk with him. Can I see him?"

"I am afraid not. He isn't working with me any more."

"How was that?"

"He left, that's all. Threw up his job."

"When was that?"

"This morning."

"This morning?"

"Yes; just as soon as I got here, about eight o'clock."

Mr. Barnes wondered whether there was any connection between this man's giving up his position, and the account of the discoveries in regard to Mr. Quadrant's body which the morning papers had published.

VI

"Mr. Berial," said Mr. Barnes after a few moments' thought, "I wish you would let me have a little talk with your man--Jack, I think you called him. And I would like to speak to him alone if you don't mind. I feel that I must find this other fellow, Jerry, and perhaps Jack may be able to give me some information as to his home, unless you can yourself tell me where he lives."

"No; I know nothing about him," said Mr. Berial. "Of course you can speak to Jack. I'll call him in here and I'll be off to attend to some business. That will leave you alone with him."

Jack, when he came in, proved to be a character. Mr. Barnes soon discovered that he had little faith in the good intentions of any one in the world except himself. He evidently was one of those men who go through life with a grievance, feeling that all people have in some way contributed to their misfortune.

"Your name is Jack," said Mr. Barnes; "Jack what?"

"Jacka.s.s, you might say," answered the fellow, with a coa.r.s.e attempt at wit.

"And why, pray?"

"Well, a jacka.s.s works like a slave, don't he? And what does he get out of it? Lots of blows, plenty of cuss words, and a little fodder. It's the same with yours truly."

"Very well, my man, have your joke. But now tell me your name. I am a detective."

"The devil a much I care for that. I ain't got nothin' to hide. My name's Randal, if you must have it. Jack Randal."

"Very good. Now I want to ask you a few questions about the funeral of Mr. Quadrant."

"Ask away. n.o.body's stoppin' you."

"You a.s.sisted in preparing the body for the coffin, I think?"

"Yes, and helped to put him in it."

"Have you any idea how he got out of it again?" asked Mr. Barnes suddenly.

"Nit. Leastways, not any worth mentionin', since I can't prove what I might think."

"But I should like to know what you think, anyway," persisted the detective.

"Well, I think he was took out," said Randal with a hoa.r.s.e laugh.

"Then you do not believe that he was cremated?"

"Cremated? Not on your life. If he was made into ashes, would he turn up again a floater and drift onto the marble at the Morgue? I don't think."

"But how could the body have gotten out of the coffin?"