The House Opposite: A Mystery
by Elizabeth Kent · English · Gutenberg #41525 · 362,743 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The House Opposite: A Mystery
Author: Elizabeth Kent
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OPPOSITE: A MYSTERY ***
The
House
Opposite
A Mystery
By
Elizabeth Kent
[Illustration]
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1903
COPYRIGHT 1902
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Published, August, 1902
Reprinted, January, 1903; March, 1903; October, 1903
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I PAGE
THROUGH MY NEIGHBOUR'S WINDOWS 1
CHAPTER II
I AM INVOLVED IN THE CASE 7
CHAPTER III
A CORONER'S INQUEST 25
CHAPTER IV
UNWILLING WITNESSES 36
CHAPTER V
MRS. ATKINS HOLDS SOMETHING BACK 49
CHAPTER VI
A LETTER AND ITS ANSWER 66
CHAPTER VII
MR. MERRITT INSTRUCTS ME 72
CHAPTER VIII
AN IDENTIFICATION 93
CHAPTER IX
I INSTRUCT MR. MERRITT 107
CHAPTER X
THE MISSING HAT 129
CHAPTER XI
MADAME ARGOT'S MAD HUSBAND 148
CHAPTER XII
A PROFESSIONAL VISIT OUT OF TOWN 160
CHAPTER XIII
MR. AND MRS. ATKINS AT HOME 179
CHAPTER XIV
MY HYSTERICAL PATIENT 198
CHAPTER XV
A SUDDEN FLIGHT 208
CHAPTER XVI
THAT TACTLESS DETECTIVE 220
CHAPTER XVII
ONE WOMAN EXONERATED 231
CHAPTER XVIII
THE TRUTH OF THE WHOLE MATTER 249
THE HOUSE OPPOSITE
CHAPTER I
THROUGH MY NEIGHBOUR'S WINDOWS
What I am about to relate occurred but a few years ago--in the summer
of '99, in fact. You may remember that the heat that year was something
fearful. Even old New Yorkers, inured by the sufferings of many summers,
were overcome by it, and everyone who could, fled from the city. On
the particular August day when this story begins, the temperature had
been even more unbearable than usual, and approaching night brought
no perceptible relief. After dining with Burton (a young doctor like
myself), we spent the evening wandering about town trying to discover
a cool spot.
At last, thoroughly exhausted by our vain search, I decided to turn in,
hoping to sleep from sheer fatigue; but one glance at my stuffy little
bedroom discouraged me. Dragging a divan before the window of the front
room, I composed myself for the night with what resignation I could
muster.
I found, however, that the light and noise from the street kept me
awake; so, giving up sleep as a bad job, I decided to try my luck on the
roof. Arming myself with a rug and a pipe, I stole softly upstairs. It
was a beautiful starlight night, and after spreading my rug against a
chimney and lighting my pipe I concluded that things really might be
worse.
Across the street loomed the great Rosemere apartment-house, and I noted
with surprise that, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour and of
the season, several lights were still burning there. From two windows
directly opposite, and on a level with me, light filtered dimly through
lowered shades, and I wondered what possible motive people could have
for shutting out the little air there was on such a night. My neighbours
must be uncommonly suspicious, I thought, to fear observation from so
unlikely a place as my roof; and yet that was the only spot from which
they could by any chance be overlooked.
The only other light in the building shone clear and unobstructed
through the open windows of the corresponding room two floors higher up.
I was too far below to be able to look into this room, but I caught a
suggestion of sumptuous satin hangings and could distinguish the tops of
heavy gilt frames and of some flowering plants and palms.
As I sat idly looking upwards at these latter windows, my attention was
suddenly arrested by the violent movement of one of the lace curtains.
It was rolled into a cord by some unseen person who was presumably on
the floor, and then dragged across the window. A dark object, which I
took to be a human head, moved up and down among the palms, one of which
fell with an audible crash. At the same moment I heard a woman's voice
raised in a cry of terror. I leaped to my feet in great excitement, but
nothing further occurred.
After a minute or so the curtain fell back into its accustomed folds,
and I distinctly saw a man moving swiftly away from the window
supporting on his shoulder a fair-haired woman. Soon afterwards the
lights in this room were extinguished, to be followed almost immediately
by the illumination of the floor above.
What I had just seen and heard would not have surprised me in a
tenement, but that such scenes could take place in a respectable house
like the Rosemere, inhabited largely by fashionable people, was indeed
startling. Who could the couple be? And what could have happened?
Had the man, coming home drunk, proceeded to beat the woman and been
partially sobered by her cry; or was the woman subject to hysteria, or
even insane? I remembered that the apartments were what are commonly
known as double-deckers. That is to say: each one contained two
floors, connected by a private staircase--the living rooms below, the
bedrooms above. So I concluded, from seeing a light in what was in all
probability a bedroom, that the struggle, or whatever the commotion had
been, was over, and that the victim and her assailant, or perhaps the
patient and her nurse, had gone quietly, and I trusted amicably, to bed.
Still ruminating over these different conjectures, I heard a
neighbouring clock strike two. I now noticed for the first time signs of
life in the lower apartment which I first mentioned; shadows, reflected
on the blinds, moved swiftly to and fro, and, growing gigantic,
vanished.
But not for long. Soon they reappeared, and the shades were at last
drawn up. I had now an unobstructed view of the room, which proved to
be a drawing-room, as I had already surmised. It was dismantled for the
summer, and the pictures and furniture were hidden under brown holland.
A man leant against the window with his head bowed down, in an attitude
expressive of complete exhaustion or of great grief. It was too dark
for me to distinguish his features; but I noticed that he was tall and
dark, with a youthful, athletic figure.
After standing there a few minutes, he turned away. His actions now
struck me as most singular. He crawled on the floor, disappeared under
sofas, and finally moved even the heavy pieces of furniture from their
places. However valuable the thing which he had evidently lost might be,
yet 2 A.M. seemed hardly the hour in which to undertake a search for it.
Meanwhile, my attention had been a good deal distracted from the man by
observing a woman in one of the bedrooms of the floor immediately above,
and consequently belonging to the same suite. When I first caught sight
of her, the room was already ablaze with light and she was standing by
the window, gazing out into the darkness. At last, as if overcome by her
emotions, she threw up her hands in a gesture of despair, and, kneeling
down with her elbows on the window sill, buried her head in her arms.
Her hair was so dark that, as she knelt there against the light, it was
undistinguishable from her black dress.
I don't know how long she stayed in this position, but the man below had
given up his search and turned out the lights long before she moved.
Finally, she rose slowly up, a tall black-robed figure, and disappeared
into the back of the room. I waited for some time hoping to see her
again, but as she remained invisible and nothing further happened, and
the approaching dawn held out hopes of a more bearable temperature
below, I decided to return to my divan; but the last thing I saw before
descending was that solitary light, keeping its silent vigil in the
great black building.
CHAPTER II
I AM INVOLVED IN THE CASE
It seemed to me that I had only just got to sleep on my divan when I was
awakened by a heavy truck lumbering by. The sun was already high in the
heavens, but on consulting my watch I found that it was only ten minutes
past six. Annoyed at having waked up so early I was just dozing off
again when my sleepy eyes saw the side door leading to the back stairs
of the Rosemere slowly open and a young man come out.
Now I do not doubt that, except for what I had seen and heard the night
before, I should not have given the fellow a thought; but the house
opposite had now become for me a very hotbed of mystery, and everything
connected with it aroused my curiosity. So I watched the young man
keenly, although he appeared to be nothing but a grocer's or baker's
boy going on his morning rounds. But looking at him again I thought him
rather old for an errand boy, for they are seldom over eighteen, while
this young fellow was twenty-five at the very least. He was tall, dark,
and clean-shaven, although not very recently so. He wore no collar, and
had on a short, black coat over which was tied a not immaculate white
apron. On his arm hung a covered basket, which, from the way he carried
it, I judged to be empty, or nearly so.
It may have been my imagination,--in fact, I am inclined to think it
was,--but it certainly seemed to me that he stole furtively from the
house and glanced apprehensively up and down the street, casting a look
in my direction. I thought that he started on encountering my eyes. Be
that as it may, he certainly drew his battered hat farther over his
face, and, with both hands in his pockets, and chewing a straw with real
or assumed carelessness, walked rapidly up town.
I now found my position by the window too noisy, so sought the quiet
and darkness of my bedroom, where I fell immediately into such a heavy
sleep that it was some time before I realised that the alarm-bell that
had been clanging intermittently through my dreams was in reality my
office-bell. Hurriedly throwing on a few clothes, I hastened to open the
door.
A negro lad stood there, literally grey with terror. His great eyes
rolled alarmingly in their sockets, and it was several minutes before I
could make out that somebody had been killed, and that my services were
required immediately.
Hastily completing my dressing, and snatching up my instrument case, I
was ready to follow him in a few moments. What was my astonishment and
horror when he led me to the Rosemere!
For a moment my heart stood still. My thoughts flew back to last night.
So this was the explanation of that scream, and I had remained silent!
Dolt, imbecile that I was! I felt positively guilty.
The large entrance hall through which I hurried was crowded with excited
people, and, as I flew up in the elevator, I tried to prepare myself for
the sight of a fair-haired girl weltering in her blood. On the landing
at which we stopped were several workmen, huddled together in a
small knot, with white, scared faces. One of the two doors which now
confronted me stood open, and I was surprised to notice that it led, not
to either of the apartments I had watched the night before, but to one
of those on the farther side of the building. Yet here, evidently, was
the corpse.
Passing through the small hall, filled with rolls of paper and pots of
paints, I entered a room immediately on my right. Here several men stood
together, gazing down at some object on the floor; but at my approach
they moved aside and disclosed--not a golden-haired woman, as I had
feared, but the body of a large man stretched out in a corner.
I was so astonished that I could not help giving vent to an exclamation
of surprise.
"Do you know the gentleman?" inquired a man, whom I afterwards
discovered to be the foreman of the workmen, with quick suspicion.
"No, indeed," I answered, as I knelt down beside the body.
A policeman stepped forward.
"Please, sir, don't disturb the corpse; the Coroner and the gen'l'man
from headquarters must see him just as he is."
I nodded assent. One glance was sufficient to show me that life had been
extinct for some time. The eyes were half open, staring stupidly before
them. The mouth had fallen apart, disclosing even, white teeth. As he
lay there on his back, with arms spread out, and his hands unclenched,
his whole attitude suggested nothing so much as a drunken stupor. He
appeared to be twenty-five or thirty years old. No wound or mark of
violence was visible. He wore a short, pointed beard, and was dressed in
a white linen shirt, a pair of evening trousers, a black satin tie, silk
socks, and patent-leather pumps. By his side lay a Tuxedo coat and a low
waistcoat. All his clothes were of fine texture, but somewhat the worse
for wear. On the other hand, the pearl studs in his shirt-bosom were
very handsome, and on his gold sleeve-links a crest was engraved.
As I said before, a glance had been enough to tell me that the man was
dead; but I was astonished to discover, on examining him more closely,
that he had been dead at least twenty-four hours; mortification had
already set in.
As I arose to my feet, I noticed a small, red-haired man, in the most
comical deshabille, regarding me with breathless anxiety.
"Well, Doc, what is it?"
"Of course, I can give no definite opinion without making a further
examination," I said, "but I am inclined to believe that our friend
succumbed to alcoholism or apoplexy; he has been dead twenty-four hours,
and probably somewhat longer."
"There, now," exclaimed the foreman; "I knew he hadn't died last night;
no, nor yistidy, neither."
"But it can't be, I tell you!" almost shrieked the little Irishman.
"Where could he have come from? Oh, Lord," he wailed, "to think that
sich a thing should have happened in this building! We only take the
most iligant people; yes, sir, and now they'll lave shure, see if they
don't. It'll give the house a bad name; and me as worked so hard to keep
it genteel."
A commotion on the landing announced the arrival of a stout, florid
individual, who turned out to be the Coroner, and a quiet, middle-aged
man in plain clothes, whom I inferred, from the respect with which he
was treated, to be no other than the "gen'l'man" from headquarters.
After looking at the corpse for some moments, the Coroner turned to us
and demanded:
"Who is this man?"
The little Irishman stepped forward. "We don't none of us know, sor."
"How came he here then?"
"The Lord only knows!"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, sor, it's this way. This apartment is being re-fixed, and five
men were working here till six o'clock yistidy evening, and when they
left they locks the door, and it has a Yale lock; and they brought me
the key and I locks it away at once; and this morning at seven they come
while I was still half asleep, having slept bad on account of the heat,
and I gets up and opens the safe myself and takes out the key and gives
it to this gintleman," pointing to the foreman; "and he come up here,
and a few minutes afterwards I hear a great hue and cry and the workmen
and elevaytor-boy come ashrieking that a body's murthered upstairs. How
the fellow got in here, unless the Divil brought him, I can't think; and
now here's the doctor that says he's been dead twenty-four hours!"
At my mention the Coroner turned towards me with a slight bow. "You are
a doctor?"
"Yes, I am Dr. Charles Fortescue, of Madison Avenue. My office is
exactly opposite; I was summoned this morning to see the corpse; I find
that the man has been dead at least twenty-four hours. I have not yet
made an examination of the body, as I did not wish to disturb it till
you"--with a bow which included his companion--"had seen it; but I am
inclined to think he died of alcoholism or apoplexy."
"Let me make you acquainted with Mr. Merritt, Dr. Fortescue," said the
Coroner, waving his hand in the direction of the gentleman referred to.
I was surprised to learn that this insignificant-looking person was
really the famous detective.
"Now, gentlemen," said Mr. Merritt, "I must request you all to leave the
room while Dr. Fortescue and I take a look round."
As soon as we were alone, the detective knelt down and proceeded to
examine the body with astonishing quickness and dexterity. Nothing
escaped him; even the darns in the socks appeared worthy of his
interest. When he had finished, he beckoned me to approach, and together
we turned the body over. As I had discovered no sign of violence, I was
about to tell him that, unless the autopsy disclosed poison, the man had
certainly died from natural causes, when Mr. Merritt pointed to a small
drop of blood at the side of his shirt front immediately above the
heart, which had escaped my observation. In the middle of this tiny spot
a puncture was visible.
We now partially disrobed the corpse, and I was stupified to find that
the deceased had indeed been assassinated, and by an instrument no
larger than a knitting-needle. In the meantime, the detective had been
carefully inspecting the clothing. There were no marks on anything
except those with which laundries insist on disfiguring our linen. In
the waistcoat pocket he found six dollars in bills and seventy-five
cents in change; also a knife; but no watch, card, or letter.
Mr. Merritt now whipped out a magnifying glass and searched everything
anew; but if he discovered any clue he kept the knowledge of it
discreetly to himself. After going over every inch of the floor and
examining the window he peered out.
"So you live there, Doctor," he remarked, with a glance opposite.
"No," I replied, "my house is further north; my office faces the other
set of apartments."
Being curious to see if we were anywhere near either of the apartments
I had watched during the night, I, too, leaned out and looked hastily
in the direction of my roof. We were exactly on a level with it, and
consequently the adjoining suite must be the one in which I had noticed
the dark-haired woman and the man whose ill-timed hunt had puzzled me so
much. Their behavior had certainly been very peculiar. Had they anything
to do with this murder, I wondered. I was startled by a soft voice at my
elbow, remarking quietly: "You seem struck by something." As I was not
anxious, at least not yet, to tell him of my experiences of the night
before, I tried to say in the most natural tone in the world: "Oh, I
was only noticing that we are exactly on a level with my roof." "I had
already observed that," he said. After a slight pause, he continued: "We
must now find out who saw the deceased enter the building, for in a
place so guarded by bell-boys, elevator-boys and night-watchmen as this
is, it seems hardly possible that he could have come in unperceived."
On entering the next room we found the Coroner deep in conversation with
the foreman. He turned abruptly to me:
"This man tells me that you uttered an exclamation of surprise on seeing
the corpse. What made you do so?"
That unlucky ejaculation! I hesitated a moment, rather at a loss to know
what to reply. Every one turned towards me, and I felt myself actually
blushing. "I was at first struck by a fancied resemblance," I at last
managed to stammer, "but on looking closer I saw I had been completely
mistaken."
"Humph," grunted the Coroner, and I was aware that every one in the
room eyed me with suspicion. "Well," he continued, still looking at me
severely, "can you tell us what the man died of?" "Yes," I answered; "he
met his death by being stabbed to the heart by a very small weapon,
possibly a stiletto, but a sharp knitting-needle, or even a hat pin,
could have caused the wound. The crime was committed while he was
unconscious, or at least semi-conscious, either from some drug or
alcohol; or he may have been asleep. He made no resistance, and in all
probability never knew he had been hurt."
There was profound silence.
"It is, then, impossible that this wound was self-inflicted," inquired
the Coroner.
"Quite impossible," I rejoined.
"So that he was presumably murdered the night before last and smuggled
into this apartment some time between six o'clock last evening and seven
o'clock this morning?" continued the Coroner. Then, turning to the
little red-headed manager, he asked:
"Now, Mr. McGorry, how is it possible for this corpse to have been
brought here? The foreman testifies that he himself locked the door in
the presence of several workmen; you tell me that the key remained in
your safe all night. Now, please explain how this body got here?"
"Lord-a-mercy, sor, you don't think as I did it!" shrieked McGorry.
"Why, sor, I never saw the man before in my life; besides, I have got a
alibi, sor; yes, sor, a alibi."
"Stop, Mr. McGorry; don't get so excited; nobody is accusing you of
anything. But if this place was locked up last night, how came the body
here this morning? The lock has not been tampered with. Was there a
duplicate key?"
"Yis, sor; but the other key was also in my safe," replied McGorry.
"Have either of these keys ever been missing?"
"Shure and they haven't been out of my keeping since the apartment was
vacated last May, until three days ago when the painters begun work
here. Since then they have had one of the keys during the day, but have
always returned it before leaving."
"Now, tell me," continued the Coroner, turning to the foreman, "has the
key been missing since you had it?"
"Not that I know of; we leave it sticking in the door all day, and only
take it out when we leave."
"So that it is possible that a person might have come to the door, taken
the key, and kept it for some hours without your noticing it?"
"Yes, sir, it's possible, but it aint likely; I haven't seen anyone pass
since I've been working here."
"Could the corpse have been brought in here any other way than through
the front door?"
"No, Mr. Coroner," a quiet voice at my side replied; "I have just
examined the fire-escape and all the windows. The fastenings have not
been tampered with, and the dust on the fire-escape shows no signs of
recent disturbance." Mr. Merritt had gone on his search so unobtrusively
that I had not noticed his absence till he reappeared, a good deal less
immaculate than before.
"Is it possible to enter this building unperceived?" the Coroner
resumed.
"I should have said not," replied McGorry; "but now everything seems
possible." Even the Coroner had to smile at his despondent tone.
"The front door is opened at seven o'clock and closed at eleven, unless
there's something special going on," McGorry continued, "and during
those hours there are always one or two boys in the hall, and often
three. After eleven the watchman opens the front door and takes the
people up in the elevaytor. No one but meself has the key to this
outside door."
"Does the watchman never leave the front hall except to take people up
in the elevator?"
"Well, I don't say niver, sor, but he's niver far off."
"Then I gather that it would be just possible for a person to get out
of this house unperceived between eleven P.M. and seven A.M., but
impossible, or nearly so, for him to enter?"
"Yes, that's so, that's what I think, sor."
"Well, what about the back door?" I asked.
"Well, the back door is opened at six and closed at tin," replied
McGorry.
"The back door is not guarded during the day, is it?" I went on,
forgetting the Coroner in my eagerness.
"Doctor," broke in the latter, "allow me to conduct this inquiry. Yes,
McGorry, who watches over that?"
"Well, sor, at present no one; there's a back elevaytor, but it don't
run in summer, as the house is almost empty."
"Then, as I understand it, any one can enter or leave the building by
the back stairs, at any time during the day, unseen, or at any rate
unnoticed; but after ten o'clock they would require the assistance of
some one in the house to let them in?"
"That's so, sor."
"Now, you are sure that the deceased was not a temporary inmate of this
building; that he wasn't staying with any of the parties who are still
here?"
"Certain, sor."
"And no one has the slightest clue to his identity?"
"No one has seen him except these gen'l'men and Jim. He's the elevaytor
boy who went for you, Doc, and he didn't say nothing about knowing him."
The Coroner paused a moment.
"What families have you at present in the building?"
"Well, sor, most of our people are out of town, having houses at
Newport, or Lenox, and thereabouts," McGorry answered, with a vague
sweep of his hand, which seemed to include all those favored regions
which lie so close together in fashionable geography. "Just now there
are only two parties in the house."
"Yes, and who are they?"
"Well, sor, there's Mr. C. H. Stuart, who occupies the ground floor
right; and Mr. and Mrs. Atkins, who have the apartments above this, only
at the other end of the building." I pricked up my ears. Atkins, then,
must be the name of the golden-haired lady and her assailant.
"Have these people been here long?"
"Mr. Stuart has been with us seven years. He is a bachelor. Mr. and Mrs.
Atkins have only been here since May; they are a newly-married couple,
I am told." And not a word of the mysterious pair I had seen in the
adjoining apartment! Was McGorry holding something back, or was he
really ignorant of their presence in the building?
"Are you sure, Mr. McGorry, that there is no one else in the house?" I
interrupted again.
"Yes, sor." Then a light broke over his face: "No, sor; you are quite
right" (I hadn't said anything). "Miss Derwent has been two nights here,
but she's off again this morning." Mr. Merritt here whispered something
to the Coroner, whereupon the latter turned to McGorry and said: "Please
see that no one leaves this building till I have seen them. I don't wish
them to be told that a murder has been committed, unless they have heard
it already, which is most probable. Just inform them that there has been
an accident, do you hear?"
"Oh, Mr. Coroner," exclaimed McGorry, turning almost as red as his hair
in his excitement; "shure and you wouldn't mix Miss Derwent up in this!
Lord, she ain't used to such scenes; she'd faint, and then her mother
would never forgive me!"
"Every one, Miss Derwent included, must view the corpse," he replied,
sternly.
"Oh, sor, but----"
"Silence!" thundered the Coroner; "the law must be obeyed."
So the manager went reluctantly out to give the desired order. On his
return, the Coroner resumed:
"Who is Miss Derwent?"
"Why Miss May Derwent," exclaimed McGorry; "she's just Miss May
Derwent." So it was the fashionable beauty I had been watching so far
into the night. Strange, and stranger!
"Miss May Derwent," McGorry continued, taking pity on our ignorance, "is
the only daughter of Mrs. Mortimer Derwent. She arrived here
unexpectedly on Tuesday. She had missed her train, she said, and came
here to pass the night."
"Did she come alone?"
"Yis, sor."
"Without even a maid?"
"Yis, sor."
"Surely that is an unusual thing for a rich young lady to do?"
"Yis, sor," replied McGorry, apologetically; "she has never done it
before. Maybe the maid was taken on by the train."
"Did Miss Derwent bring any luggage?"
"Nothing but a hand-bag, sor."
"And yet she stayed two nights! Do you know any reason for her staying
here so long?"
"No, sor, unless it was she had some shopping to do. A good many parcels
come for her yistidy afternoon."
"Have you a key to her apartment?"
"Yis, sor; when families goes away for the summer they leaves one key
with me and takes the other with them."
"Did you let Miss Derwent into her apartment, or did she have the key?"
"I let her in."
"Did anyone wait on the young lady while she was here?"
"What do you mean by that?" inquired McGorry, cautiously.
"Why, did anyone go into her place to get her meals and tidy up, etc?"
"No, sor, not that I know of."
"Doesn't it strike you as peculiar that a young lady, reared in the lap
of luxury and unaccustomed to doing the least thing for herself should
go to an apartment in which dust and dirt had been accumulating for
several months and voluntarily spend two nights there, without even a
servant to perform the necessary chores for her, mind you?"
"She went out for her meals," McGorry put in, anxiously, "and young
ladies, especially the rich ones, think roughing it a lark."
There was a slight pause.
"What servants are there in the building besides your employees, Mr.
McGorry?"
"Mr. Stuart, he keeps a man and his wife--French people they are; and
Mrs. Atkins, she keeps two girls."
The Coroner now rose, and, followed by Mr. Merritt, proceeded towards
the room where the dead man lay.
"Send up your employees, one by one, McGorry."
"Yis, sor."
On the threshold the detective paused a moment, and to my astonishment
and delight requested me to accompany them. The Coroner frowned,
evidently considering me a very unnecessary addition to the party, but
his displeasure made no difference to me; I was only too happy to be
given this opportunity of watching the drama unfold itself.
CHAPTER III
A CORONER'S INQUEST
We took our places at the foot of the corpse, with our backs to the
light and silently awaited developments. In a few minutes McGorry
returned, followed by the electrician, and during the rest of the
time remained in the room checking off the men as they came in. It is
needless for me to repeat all the testimony, as a great deal of it was
perfectly irrelevant; suffice it to say that the electrician, engineer,
and janitress all passed the ordeal without adding an iota to our
information. The watchman when called persisted, after the severest
cross-questioning, in his first assertion that neither on Wednesday
night nor last night had he seen or heard anything suspicious. The only
person he had admitted on either night was Mr. Atkins, who had returned
at about half-past one that very morning; he was sure that he had seen
no stranger leave the building.
At last Jim, the elevator boy, was called in. He appeared still very
much frightened, and only looked at the corpse with the greatest
reluctance.
"Have you ever seen this man before?" demanded the Coroner.
"No, sah," answered Jim, in a shaking voice.
"Now, my lad, take another look at him. Are you still so sure that you
have never seen him before," gently insisted Mr. Merritt; "for, you
see, we have reason to believe that you have." Jim began to tremble
violently, as he cast another glance at the dead man.
"Lord-a-massy, sah; p'raps I did, p'raps I did; I dunno, he looks some
like--not 'zactly----"
"Do you know his name?"
"No, sah."
"When did you see him last?"
"Tuesday ebenin', sah." Here the boy glanced apprehensively at McGorry.
"Come, come, my lad," the Coroner exclaimed, impatiently; "tell us all
you know about the man. The truth, now, and the whole truth, mind you;
and don't you look at any one to see how they are going to like what you
say, either."
"No, sah." Jim hesitated a moment, then burst out: "I do think as he's
the same gem'man as come to see Miss Derwent last winter, and he come to
call on her about half-past six on Tuesday."
"Miss Derwent--" exclaimed McGorry, taking a step forward.
"McGorry," said the Coroner, severely, "don't try to interfere with
justice and intimidate witnesses. Now, my boy, tell us how long did the
gentleman stay with Miss Derwent."
"Dey went out togedder 'most immedjutely, and den dey come back
togedder."
"At what time did they return?"
"Must have been 'bout eight, sah."
"Did he go upstairs with the young lady?"
"Yes, sah."
"When did he leave?"
"I can't say, sah; I didn't see him leave."
"How was that?"
"Well, you see, sah, in de summer, when de house is mos' empty, we's not
so partic'lar as we are in de winter, and we takes turn and turn about
oftener, 'specially in de ebenin'."
"I see," said the Coroner.
"An' so dat ebenin I goes off at half-past eight and Joe he run de
elevator till eleben."
"Did any one call on Miss Derwent yesterday?"
"I see nobody, sah."
"Did the young lady go out during the day?"
"Yes, sah."
"Tell us all you know of her movements."
Jim rubbed his woolly pate in some perplexity: "Well, sah, yesterday de
young lady she went out mighty early, little before eight, maybe, and
den she come back about ten; but she don't stay long; goes out again
mos' right away."
Here Jim paused, evidently searching his memory.
"'Pears to me she come in 'bout half-past twelve; at any rate 'twasn't
no later, and she goes out again immedjutely. Yes, sah, and den I seed
her come in 'bout seven, and I aint seen her again," he ended up with a
sigh of relief.
"And you are sure that she was alone each time you saw her?"
"Yes, sah. A good many parcels come for her in de afternoon," he added.
"Well, Jim," said the Coroner, "you may go now; but mind you, don't say
a word about this business to any one; do you hear? If I find out you
have been gossipping I'll know how to deal with you," and he looked
so threatening that I'm sure the unfortunate boy expected capital
punishment to follow any incautious remark.
"Pardon me," said Mr. Merritt, with a slight bow towards the Coroner,
"but I should like to ask Jim how this man was dressed when he saw him
last."
"Just so 's he is now, sah," replied Jim, pointing to the Tuxedo coat,
which had been thrown over the body.
The negro lad who next appeared, bowing and scraping, was not at all
intimidated by the scene before him, and seemed to think himself quite
the hero of the occasion.
"Your name is Joe Burr, I believe," began the Coroner, consulting a
small paper he held in his hand, "and you run the elevator here?"
"Yes, sah."
"Now look carefully at this body and tell me if you recognize it as that
of anyone you know."
The boy looked at the dead man attentively for some moments and then
answered: "Yes, sah."
"Who is he?"
"I dunno his name, sah; he wouldn't send up his card."
"Have you seen him often?"
"No, sah; just dat once."
"When was that?"
"Tuesday ebenin', sah."
"At what time?"
"It was a quarter to ten, 'zactly."
"How are you so sure of the exact time?" the Coroner asked, in some
surprise.
"'Cause I thought it mighty late to call on a lady, and so I looked at
de clock when I come down."
"Do you remember his ever calling on Miss Derwent before?"
"Why, sah, 'twasn't Miss Derwent he was calling on; 'twas Mrs. Atkins."
This was a surprise; even the detective seemed interested.
"So it was Mrs. Atkins he had been calling on," exclaimed the Coroner.
"No, sah; it were Mrs. Atkins he gwine ter call on. He only come at a
quarter to ten. He wouldn't send up his card; said he's 'spected."
"And did Mrs. Atkins receive him?"
"Yes, sah."
"Do you remember at what time he left?"
"No, sah; I didn't see him go out."
"Now, Joe, there was another gentleman calling in the building on that
evening. When did he leave?"
Joe seemed bewildered. "I didn't see no other gem'man, sah."
"Now, my lad, try and remember!"
"No, sah; I dun saw no one else. Mr. Stuart, he come in at ten----"
"No, no; it is a tall, dark gentleman, slightly resembling the corpse,
that we want to hear about."
"I see no such party, sah."
"Didn't a gentleman answering to this description call here at about
half-past six and ask for a lady?"
"I couldn't say, sah; I wa'n't in de building at dat time."
"Did you see Miss Derwent on Tuesday?"
"Yes, sah; I seen her arrive."
"Didn't you see her go out again?"
"No, sah."
"How long were you out?"
"I went out at six, sah, and stayed till eight, or maybe later."
"So you persist in saying that the only stranger you saw enter or leave
the building on Tuesday evening, was the deceased?"
"Yes, sah."
"And you are quite sure that you are not mistaken in your
identification?"
"Yes, sah; I noticed him partic'lar."
"What made you notice him particularly?"
The lad hesitated. "Out with it," said the Coroner.
"Well, sah, he seemed like he been drinking."
"How did he show it?"
"He talked loud and angry, sah."
"Do you know what he was angry about?"
"You see, sah, we have orders to ask visitors to send deir names, or
deir cards up, and to wait in de reception room till we find out if de
parties are at home, or will see dem. Well, he comes in and says very
loud, gettin' into de elevator, 'Take me up to de fifth floor,' and I
says, says I, 'Do you mean Mrs. Atkins?' and he says, 'Yes, fellow, and
be quick 'bout it.' And den I asks him to wait, and send up his card,
and he roars: 'Min' your own business, fellow; I'm 'spected.' So I gwine
take him up, and rings de bell, and he says: 'Dat's all.' But I waited
till de door opened, and there were Mrs. Atkins herself, and she didn't
say not'in', and he jus' went in."
Joe paused for breath.
"Is Mrs. Atkins in the habit of answering the door-bell herself?"
"No, sah; I neber see her do so befo'."
"Was Mr. Atkins in the house at the time?"
"No, sah; de gem'man was out of town." Another sensation!
"When did he return?"
"Some time las' night."
"Now," inquired the Coroner, "what can you tell us about Miss Derwent's
movements during the last two days?"
Joe's answers coincided, as far as they went, with Jim's statements.
"And Mrs. Atkins,--what did she do yesterday," the Coroner asked.
"Well, sah, she went out mighty early and stayed till late in de
arternoon, and when she come in she had her veil all pulled down, but
'peared to me she had been crying."
"Did she say anything?"
"No, sah."
"Now, Joe, would it have been possible on Tuesday evening for a man to
walk downstairs, and go out, without your seeing him, while you were
running the elevator?"
"Yes, sah, p'raps," the lad answered, dubiously; "but Tony, he's de hall
boy, he would 'a seen him."
"Have you told us all you know of the deceased?"
"Yes, sah."
"And you have not noticed any strangers hanging around the building
during the last few days?"
"No, sah."
"Very well, then; you may go. Send in Tony."
"Yes, sah; t'ank you, sah," and Joe bowed himself out.
A few minutes later a small darky appeared.
"Now, Tony," began the Coroner, solemnly, "look at this man carefully;
did you ever see him before?" The boy looked at the body attentively for
some time, then said: "No, sah."
"Do you mean to say that you saw no one resembling the deceased come to
this building on Tuesday evening?"
"No, sah."
"Where were you on that evening? Now, be careful what you answer."
"Well, sah, I went out 'bout half-past six to do some errands for Mr.
McGorry." McGorry nodded assent to this.
"And when did you return?"
"Guess it must have been mos' eight, sah, but I disremember, 'zactly."
"Did you see Miss Derwent either come in or go out on Tuesday evening?"
"Yes, sah, I seen her come; she had a satchel."
"But did you see her again after that?"
"No, sah."
"Mrs. Atkins--what did she do on Tuesday?"
"Dunno, sah; didn't see her go out all day."
"And yesterday, what did she do then?"
"Mrs. Atkins? She went out in de mornin' and come in in de ebenin'."
"Did you notice anything unusual about her?"
"Well, 'peared to us she'd been crying."
"Can you remember who went in or out of the building on Tuesday
evening?" the Coroner asked.
"Well, sah, near's I can say only two gem'men come in--Mr. Stuart, and a
gem'man who called on Mrs. Atkins."
"Does the corpse at all resemble that gentleman?"
"I couldn't rightly say, sah."
"Why not?"
"Well, sah, I was a-sittin' in de office when he come, an' I jus' see a
big man go past and heard him talkin' loud in de elevator."
"While Joe was upstairs what did you do?"
"I sat in de front hall, sah."
"Did you see anyone go out?"
"No, sah."
After being severely admonished not to speak of this affair to anyone,
Tony was allowed to depart.
"Now we have got through with the employees of the building," said the
Coroner, "and must begin on the families and their servants."
"Yes, Mr. Coroner, and I think I had better step up-stairs myself and
tell Mr. and Mrs. Atkins that you want to see them," said Mr. Merritt,
"and, in case the lady should be overcome by the sad news, perhaps it
would be as well for Dr. Fortescue to come along also."
I was only too delighted, of course.
CHAPTER IV
UNWILLING WITNESSES
Not waiting for the elevator, we walked up the intervening flight and
rang a bell on our right. The door was opened by a neat-looking maid,
who showed some surprise at our early call.
"Is Mr. Atkins at home?" inquired the detective.
"Yes, sir; but he is having his breakfast."
"Ah, indeed; I am sorry to disturb him," replied Mr. Merritt. "However,
it can't be helped. Will you please tell your master that two gentlemen
must see him for a few moments on important business."
"Yes, sir," and showing us into a gaudily furnished room on our left,
the girl vanished. I saw at once that this was not the scene of last
night's drama, but a smaller room adjoining the other. My observations
were almost immediately interrupted by the entrance of a young man,
whose handsome face was at that moment disfigured by a scowl.
"Mr. Atkins, I believe," said Mr. Merritt, advancing towards him with
his most conciliatory smile. Mr. Atkins nodded curtly. "It is my painful
duty," continued the detective, "to inform you that a very serious
accident has occurred in the building."
The frown slowly faded from the young man's forehead, giving place to a
look of concern. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" he exclaimed, in the most natural
manner; "what has happened? Can I do anything?"
"Well, Mr. Atkins," replied Mr. Merritt, slowly, "to tell you the truth,
a man has been killed, and as we haven't been able to find any one so
far who can identify him we are going through the formality of asking
every one in the building to take a look at the corpse, hoping to
discover somebody who knew the dead man, or at any rate can give us some
clue to his identity. Will you and Mrs. Atkins and your two servants,
therefore, kindly step down-stairs? The body is lying in the unoccupied
apartment on the next floor."
"Killed!" exclaimed young Atkins. "How dreadful! how did it happen?"
But without waiting for an answer he pulled out his watch, which he
consulted anxiously. "Pardon me, gentlemen, but I have a most important
engagement down town which it is impossible for me to postpone. My wife
is not up yet, and I really can't wait for her to get ready; but I can
go with you now, and take a look at the poor fellow on my way out. In
the meantime, Mrs. Atkins will dress as quickly as possible, and follow
with the two girls as soon as she is ready."
"All right," said Mr. Merritt; "that will do nicely. Dr. Fortescue,"
with a wave of his hand in my direction, "will stay here, and escort
Mrs. Atkins down-stairs. Ladies sometimes are overcome by the sight of
death."
"Yes, yes; and my wife is very excitable," rejoined the young man. "I am
glad Dr. Fortescue will wait and go down with her--if it isn't troubling
you too much," he added, turning towards me.
"Not at all," I replied, politely but firmly, with my eyes on Mr.
Merritt. "I shall be delighted to _return_ for Mrs. Atkins in a quarter
of an hour and escort her down-stairs."
I watched the detective keenly to see how he would take this
disregarding of his orders, but he only smiled amiably, almost
triumphantly, I thought. Mr. Atkins now left us, and I could hear him
dashing up-stairs several steps at a time. How I longed to pierce the
ceiling, and hear how he broke the news to his wife, and above all to
observe how she took it. He returned in a few minutes, and, snatching
his hat from the hall-table, prepared to follow us. On the way down he
inquired with great interest about the accident, but Merritt put him off
with evasive replies. When confronted with the dead body, he gazed at
it calmly, but with a good deal of curiosity.
"Did you know the deceased?" the Coroner asked him.
The young man shook his head. "Never saw him before." Then, looking at
the corpse more closely he exclaimed: "Why, he is a gentleman; can't you
find out who he is?"
"We haven't been able to, so far," replied the Coroner.
"How did the accident occur?"
"He was murdered."
The young man started back in horror.--"Murdered, and in this
house--How, when?"
"Presumably the night before last."
Was it my imagination, or did Mr. Atkins turn slightly pale? "Tuesday
night," he muttered. After a brief silence he turned to us, and
withdrawing his eyes from the corpse with obvious difficulty, said, in a
hearty, matter-of-fact voice: "Gentlemen, I regret that I have to leave
you. I should like to hear some more of this affair, but I suppose if
you do discover anything you will keep it pretty close?"
"You bet we'll try to," the Coroner assured him. After shaking us all
most cordially by the hand, Mr. Atkins departed, and was escorted
down-stairs by the detective, whose excessive politeness seemed to
me very suspicious. "Was he going to put a sleuth on the young man's
tracks?" I wondered.
The air in the room was heavy with the odour of death, so I stepped out
on the landing. The workmen were all talking in low tones. "I know that
Frenchman did it; I know it," I overheard one of them say. Much excited
by these words, I was just going to ask who the Frenchman was, and why
he should be suspected, when Mr. Merritt stepped out of the elevator and
rang the bell of the opposite apartment. Miss Derwent had evidently not
been far off, for the door was opened almost immediately, and a tall,
slight young figure stood on the threshold. She was dressed in a quiet
travelling suit, and a thick brown veil pulled down over her face
rendered her features, in the dim light of the landing, completely
invisible.
"Miss Derwent?" inquired Mr. Merritt. She bowed. "You have no doubt been
told," he continued, "that a very serious accident has occurred in the
building." She inclined her head slowly. "As we have been unable to
identify the corpse"--here the detective paused, but she gave no sign
and he went on--"we are asking every one in the house to take a look at
it."
Instead of answering, the girl went back into the apartment, but
returned in a minute, carrying a handbag. Stepping out on to the landing
she shut and locked the door behind her with apparent composure. As she
turned to follow the detective she asked, in a low but distinct voice:
"How did this accident occur?"
"That, we have not yet been able to ascertain," he replied, leading her
to the room where the dead lay. I hastily stepped back and resumed my
former position at the foot of the corpse. As the girl crossed the
threshold she hesitated a moment, then walked steadily in.
"Miss May Derwent, I believe?" the Coroner inquired, in his suavest
tones. Again she bowed assent.
"Please look at this man and tell me if you have ever seen him before."
Before replying, the girl slowly lifted her veil and revealed to my
astonished eyes, not only a face of very unusual beauty, but--and this
is what I found inexplicable--coils of golden hair! Where were the raven
locks I had seen only a few hours before? Had I dreamed them? But no, my
memory was too clear on this point. My surprise was so great that I am
afraid I showed it, for I caught Mr. Merritt looking at me with one of
his enigmatical smiles. Miss Derwent was excessively pale, with heavy
black rings under her eyes, but otherwise she seemed perfectly composed.
She looked at the corpse a moment, then turning towards the Coroner,
said, in a clear, steady voice: "I do not know the man."
"Have you ever seen him before?"
"No," she answered, quietly.
"Miss Derwent, pardon my questioning you still further, but I have been
told that a gentleman closely resembling the deceased called on you on
Tuesday evening. Now, do you see any resemblance between the two?"
A burning blush overspread the girl's face, and then she grew so ghastly
pale that I moved to her side, fearing she would fall.
"Mr. Coroner, can't the rest of the questions you have to ask Miss
Derwent be put to her somewhere else?" I suggested. "The atmosphere here
is intolerable."
"Certainly," he replied, with unexpected mildness.
I drew the young lady's unresisting hand through my arm and supported
her into the next room. She was trembling so violently that she would
have fallen if I had not done so, and I could see that it was only by
the greatest self-control that she kept any semblance of composure.
"Now," resumed the Coroner, "if you feel well enough, will you kindly
answer my last question?"
"The gentleman who called on me on Tuesday does not resemble the dead
man, except in so far that they both have black, pointed beards."
"At what time did your friend leave you on Tuesday evening?" was the
next question asked.
"I cannot see why the private affairs of my visitors or myself should
be pried into," she replied, haughtily. "I decline to answer."
"My dear young lady," here interposed Mr. Merritt, "you have, of
course, every right not to answer any question that you think likely to
incriminate you, but," he continued with a smile, "it is hardly possible
that anything could do that. On the other hand, it is our duty to try
and sift this matter to the bottom. You certainly will agree with the
necessity of it when I tell you that this man has been murdered!"
"Murdered!" the girl repeated, as if dazed. "Oh, no!"
"I regret to say that there is absolutely no doubt of it. Now, one of
the elevator boys has identified the corpse as that of the gentleman
who called on you the day before yesterday. I do not doubt that he was
mistaken,--in fact, I am sure of it; but as no one saw your friend leave
the building, it becomes incumbent on us to make sure that he did so. It
will save a great deal of trouble to us, and perhaps to yourself, if you
will tell us the gentleman's name and at what hour he left here."
She had covered her face with her hands, but now dropped them, and
lifting her head, faced us with an air of sudden resolution.
"Gentlemen," she began, then hesitated and looked at us each in turn,
"you can readily imagine that it will be a terrible thing for me if
my name should in any way, however indirectly, be connected with
this tragedy. But I see that it is useless to refuse to answer your
questions. It will only make you believe that I have something to
conceal. I can but ask you, you on whom I have no claim, to shield from
publicity a girl who has put herself in a terribly false position."
"Miss Derwent, I think I can assure you that we will do everything in
our power to help you. Nothing you say here shall be heard beyond these
walls unless the cause of justice demands it." The Coroner spoke with
considerable warmth. Evidently, Miss May's charms had not been without
their effect on him.
"Very well, then," said the girl, "I will answer your questions. What do
you want to know?"
"In the first place, please tell us how you came to spend two nights in
an unoccupied apartment?"
"I suppose you already know," she answered, a trifle bitterly, "that
I arrived here unexpectedly on Tuesday afternoon?" The Coroner made a
motion of assent.
"I had reached the city earlier in the day, and had meant to catch the
five o'clock train to Bar Harbor. As I had several errands to do, I
sent my maid ahead to the Grand Central Depot with orders to engage a
stateroom and check my luggage. I forgot to notice how the time was
passing till I caught sight of a clock in Madison Square pointing to
eight minutes to five. I jumped into a hansom, but got to the station
just in time to see the train steam away, with my maid hanging
distractedly out of a window." She paused a moment. "A gentleman
happened to be with me," she continued with downcast eyes, "so we
consulted together as to what I had better do. On looking up the trains
I found that I could not get back to my mother's country place till nine
o'clock that evening, and then should have to leave home again at a
frightfully early hour so as to catch the morning train to Bar Harbor.
Otherwise I should be obliged to wait over till the following afternoon
and take a long night journey by myself, which I knew my mother would
not wish me to do. Altogether, it seemed so much simpler to remain in
town if I could only find a place to go to. Suddenly, our apartment
occurred to me. Of course, I knew that the world would not approve of my
staying here alone; nevertheless, I decided to do so."
"You went out again very soon after your arrival, did you not?" asked
the Coroner.
"Yes," she answered, "as there was no way of getting any food here,
my friend" (she hesitated slightly over the last word) "had little
difficulty in persuading me to dine with him at a quiet restaurant in
the neighbourhood."
"Did the gentleman return to the Rosemere after dinner?"
"Yes."
"And did he leave you then?"
Miss Derwent hesitated a moment, then, throwing her head back she
answered proudly: "No!" But a deep crimson again suffused her cheek, and
she added almost apologetically: "It was all so unconventional that I
did not see why I should draw the line at his spending the evening with
me. He was a very intimate friend."
"Why do you use the past tense?" asked Mr. Merritt. She cast a little
frightened glance in his direction, evidently startled at being caught
up so quickly: "We--we had a very serious disagreement," she murmured.
"Was the disagreement so serious as to put an end to your friendship?"
inquired the detective.
"Yes," she replied curtly, while an angry light came into her eyes.
"At what time did the gentleman leave you?" resumed the Coroner.
"It was very late;--after eleven, I think."
"And you have not seen him again since then?"
"Certainly not," she replied.
"Why did you not carry out your first intention of leaving the city on
the following morning?"
The girl appeared slightly embarrassed as she answered: "I did not feel
like paying visits just at the moment, and besides I had not enough
money to carry me as far as Bar Harbor. My maid had most of my money,
and I was no longer willing to borrow from my visitor, as I had intended
doing."
"Excuse my questioning you still further," said the Coroner, with a
glance of admiration at the beautiful girl, who was fretting under the
examination, "but, why, then, didn't you return to your home?"
"I did not wish to do so." Then, catching Mr. Merritt's eye, she added:
"I had been a good deal upset by--by what had occurred the night before
and felt the need of a day to myself. Besides, I had some shopping to
do, and thought this a good opportunity to do it. I am going home this
morning."
"Thank you, Miss Derwent," exclaimed the Coroner, heartily; "your
explanations are perfectly satisfactory. Only you have forgotten to tell
us the gentleman's name."
"Why need you know his name?" she demanded, passionately, "you will soon
find out who this unknown man is. There must be hundreds of people in
this city who knew him. Why should I tell you the name of my visitor? I
refuse to do so."
"Miss Derwent is quite right," interposed the detective, with unexpected
decision; "once convinced that the dead man and her friend are not
identical, and the latter's name ceases to be of any importance to us."
"Quite so, quite so," the Coroner rather grudgingly assented.
"Can I go now?" she inquired.
"Certainly," said the Coroner, cordially. "Good-day, Miss."
I was just going to offer myself as an escort when Mr. Merritt stepped
quietly forward, and possessed himself of the young lady's bag. With a
distant bow, that included impartially the Coroner and myself, Miss
Derwent left the room.
"Remember Mrs. Atkins," the detective murmured as he prepared to follow
her. I nodded a curt assent. My brain was in a whirl. What was I to
believe? This beautiful, queenlike creature seemed incapable of deceit,
and yet--who were the two people I had so lately seen in her apartment?
Why had no mention been made of them? No matter; I felt my belief in the
young girl's innocence and goodness rise superior to mere facts, and
then and there vowed to become her champion should she ever need one,
which I very much feared she might. I was vaguely annoyed that the
detective should have insisted on escorting her. Had he a motive for
this, I wondered, or had he simply succumbed to her fascination, like
the rest of us? At any rate, I didn't like it, and I rang Mrs. Atkins's
bell in considerable ill humour.
CHAPTER V
MRS. ATKINS HOLDS SOMETHING BACK
"Is Mrs. Atkins ready?" I inquired of the pretty maid. Before she
had time to answer, I heard the frou-frou of silk skirts advancing
rapidly towards me. The perfume I had already noticed grew still more
overpowering, and the lady herself appeared. And an exceedingly pretty
little woman she proved to to be, too, with golden hair and cheeks that
rivalled the roses. Her large blue eyes were as innocent and, it would
be hypercritical to add, as expressionless as her sisters' of the
toy-shop. A white muslin garment, slashed in every direction to admit of
bands and frills of lace, enveloped her small person, and yards of blue
ribbon floated around her. Her tiny, dimpled fingers were covered with
glittering rings, which, however, scarcely outshone her small pink
nails. She beamed coquettishly at me, showing some very pretty, sharp
little teeth as she did so, and I found myself smiling back at her,
completely forgetting the tragic errand I had come on.
"Oh, Doctor," she cried, in a high treble voice, "isn't it dreadful!
They tell me that a poor man has been killed in the building, and I am
so terrified at having to look at him! Must I really do so?" She wrung
her hands in graceful distress.
"I'm afraid you must," I replied, smiling down at her.
"But you will go with me, won't you?" she begged.
"Certainly, dear Madam, and if your servants are also ready we had
better get it over immediately."
As the lady crossed the threshold of her apartment she tucked her hand
confidingly into my arm, as if the support of the nearest man were her
indisputable right, and, followed by the two servants, we proceeded
in this fashion down-stairs. Mr. Merritt met us on the landing, and,
signing to the two girls to wait outside, ushered us into the room where
the body lay.
As Mrs. Atkins caught sight of the dead man a great shudder shook her
whole body, and I felt the hand on my arm grow suddenly rigid. She
neither screamed nor fainted, but stood strangely still, as if turned to
stone, her eyes riveted on the corpse in a horrified stare.
"Mrs. Atkins?" inquired the Coroner.
She seemed incapable of answering him.
"Mrs. Atkins," he repeated, a little louder, "do you recognise the
deceased?"
This time she moved slightly and tried to moisten her grey lips. At
last, with a visible effort, she slowly raised her eyes and glanced
about her with fear.
"No, no," she murmured, in a hollow voice.
"Mrs. Atkins, I must request you to look at the dead man again," the
detective said, fixing his eyes on her. "One of the elevator boys has
identified the body as that of a gentleman who called on you on Tuesday
evening."
She raised her arm as if to ward off a blow, and moved slightly away
from me.
"I don't know the man," she said.
"You deny that he called on you on Tuesday evening?"
"I do," she answered, in a steady voice.
I saw that she was rapidly recovering her self-control, and I made up my
mind that I had misjudged the little woman. Under that soft, childish
exterior must lie an indomitable will.
"Do you deny that you received a man on that evening?" She glanced
hastily at each of us before answering: "No."
"Oh, you did see a gentleman? Who was he?"
She hesitated a moment: "An old friend."
"Will you kindly tell us his name?"
"No! I won't have him mixed up in this."
"Madam," said the detective, "the deceased has been murdered, and--" A
shriek interrupted him.
"Murdered! Oh, no, no," she gasped, her eyes wide with terror.
"I regret to say that there is no doubt of it."
"But when,--how?" she demanded, in a trembling voice.
"On Tuesday night."
She drew a deep breath. The horror faded slowly from her face, and
she repeated with great composure, "Oh, Tuesday night," with a slight
emphasis on the Tuesday.
The change in her was perfectly startling. She seemed calm,--almost
indifferent.
"Have you discovered how he was murdered?" she inquired.
"Yes; he was stabbed through the heart by an instrument no larger than a
knitting-needle."
"How strange," she exclaimed; "do you know who committed the crime?"
"Not yet," said the Coroner; "and now, Mrs. Atkins, I ask you again if
you are quite sure that you have never seen the deceased before?"
"Yes," she answered, firmly.
"And you are willing to testify to this effect?"
"Yes."
"You are aware that the elevator boy has positively identified the body
as that of your visitor?"
"I guess my word's as good as a nigger's," she said, with a defiant toss
of her head.
"No doubt," replied the Coroner, politely; "but if you would tell us
the name and address of your friend we could look him up and be able
to assure the police of his safety, and so save you the disagreeable
necessity of appearing in court."
"In court," she repeated, with a horrified expression. Evidently this
possibility had not occurred to her, and she glanced hurriedly around as
if contemplating immediate flight.
"Mrs. Atkins," said the detective, earnestly, "I do not think that you
realise certain facts. A man has been murdered who has been identified,
rightly or wrongly, with your visitor. Now, no one saw your friend leave
the building, and it is our business to ascertain that he did so. Can
you tell us what became of him?"
A hunted expression came into her eyes, but she answered in a steady
voice: "My friend left me at a little after eleven; he was going to take
the midnight train to Boston." She paused. "His name is Allan
Brown--there, now!"
"Thank you, madam, and what is Mr. Brown's address in Boston?"
"I don't know."
"What was his address in New York?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
"Was he in any business?"
"I don't know," she answered, sullenly, with a glance at the door.
"Mrs. Atkins, you seem singularly ignorant about your friend,--your old
friend."
"Well, I hadn't seen him for some years. He's a stranger in the city."
"Where is his home?"
"I don't know," she answered, impatiently.
"Are you a New Yorker, Mrs. Atkins?" inquired the detective.
"No."
"Ah, I thought not! And where do you come from?"
"Chicago."
"Chicago? Indeed! I've been there some myself," Mr. Merritt continued,
in a conversational tone. "Nice place. How long is it since you left
there?"
"Six months," she answered, curtly.
"So it was in Chicago you knew your friend?"
"Yes," she admitted, with a slight start.
"And you are sure he didn't belong there?"
"Yes; but look here: why are you asking such a lot of questions about
him? I've told you his name and where he's gone to, and if you can't
find him that's your lookout."
"The consequences of our not being able to find him would be much more
serious for you than for me," remarked Mr. Merritt, quietly.
"Now, Mrs. Atkins," resumed the Coroner, "can you say in what particular
Mr. Brown differs from this dead man?"
"Oh, they're a good deal alike," she replied, fluently,--but I noticed
that she did not look in the direction of the corpse,--"only Mr. Brown's
younger, and not so heavy, and his nose is different. Still, the man
does resemble Mr. Brown surprisingly. It gave me quite a shock when I
first saw him." It certainly had, only I wondered if that were the true
explanation.
"Please tell us what you did yesterday."
"I went out in the morning and I came home at about half-past five."
"What were you doing during all that time?"
"Oh, several things; I called on some friends and did some errands."
"Your husband has been out of town, I hear?"
"Yes."
"When did he leave the city?"
"On Tuesday morning."
"When did he return?"
"Last night."
"At what time?"
"Half-past one."
"Where did he come from?"
"Boston."
"But surely the Boston train gets in a good deal earlier than that!" the
Coroner exclaimed.
"Yes, there had been a delay owing to a slight accident on the line,"
she reluctantly explained.
"Is Mr. Atkins often away?"
"Yes; he's out of town every week or so, on business."
"Thank you, Mrs. Atkins, that is all," the Coroner concluded, politely.
But the lady was not so easily appeased, and flounced out of the room
without deigning to glance at any of us.
The detective slipped out after her--to call the maids, as he explained,
but it was five or six minutes before he returned with the waitress.
After answering several unimportant questions, the girl was asked
whether she had ever seen the deceased before. "No, sir," she replied,
promptly.
"Did anyone call on your mistress on Tuesday evening?"
"I can't say, sir; I was out."
"At what time did you go out?"
"At about a quarter to eight, sir."
"Where did you go to?"
"We went to a party at me sister's."
"Who do you mean by 'we'?"
"The cook and me, sir."
"Ah, the cook went out, too?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you usually go out together?"
"No, sir."
"How did it happen that you did so on Tuesday?"
"Mr. Atkins, he was away, so Mrs. Atkins she said we might both go out."
"Mr. Atkins is often away from home, isn't he?"
"Yes, sir."
"How often?"
"About once a fortnight, sir."
"Has Mrs. Atkins ever allowed you both to go out together before?"
"No, sir."
"Where does your sister live, and what is her name?"
"Mrs. Moriarty, 300 Third Avenue."
The Coroner paused to scribble down the address, then resumed:
"At what time did you get back from the party?"
The girl tugged at her dress in some embarrassment. "It might have been
after eleven," she reluctantly admitted.
"How much after--quarter past, half-past?" he suggested, as she still
hesitated.
"It was almost half-past, sir."
"And when you returned, did you see your mistress?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"Was she alone?"
"Yes, sir," the girl answered, with some surprise.
"Did you notice anything unusual about her?"
"Well, sir, she'd been crying, and I never see her cry before."
"What did Mrs. Atkins say to you?"
"She scolded us for being so late," the girl answered shamefacedly.
"Was that all she said?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where was your mistress when you saw her?"
"She was lying on the sofy in her bed-room, tired like."
"What did Mrs. Atkins do yesterday?"
"She went out after breakfast and didn't come back till nearly six."
"How did she seem when she returned?"
"She'd been crying awful, and she just lay quiet and wouldn't eat no
dinner."
"Do Mr. and Mrs. Atkins get along well together?"
"Oh, sir, they're that loving," she answered with a blush and a smile.
Again my curiosity got the better of my discretion, and I asked: "Did
you hear any strange noises during the night?"
The Coroner glared at me, but said nothing this time.
"Well," replied the girl, "me and Jane did think as we'd heard a
scream."
Ha, ha, thought I, and I saw Mr. Merritt indulge in one of his quiet
smiles.
"So you heard a scream," said the Coroner.
"I don't know for sure; I thought so."
"At what time did you hear it?"
"I don't know, sir; some time in the night."
"What did you do when you heard it?"
"Nothing, sir."
This was all that could be got out of her, so she made way for the cook,
who, after being cross-questioned at some length, did no more than
corroborate the waitress's statement, only she was more positive of
having heard the "screech" as she called it.
"Could you tell whether it was a man or woman who screamed?" inquired
the Coroner.
"It was a woman's voice, sir."
Mr. Stuart, who was next admitted, proved to be a small, middle-aged
man, extremely well groomed, and whom I recognized as one of the members
of my Club, whose name I had never known. On being asked if he had
ever seen the dead man before, he solemnly inserted a single eye-glass
into his right eye, and contemplated the corpse with the greatest
imperturbability.
"So far as I can remember, I have never seen the man before," he
answered at last. After replying satisfactorily to a few more questions,
he was allowed to retire, and his cook took his place. She was a large,
stout woman about thirty years old, with a good deal of that coarse
Southern beauty, which consists chiefly in snapping black eyes, masses
of dark hair, and good teeth. On catching sight of the corpse, she threw
up her hands and uttered a succession of squeals, which she seemed to
consider due to the horror of the occasion, and then turned serenely
towards the Coroner, and with a slight courtesy stood smilingly awaiting
his questions.
"What is your name?" he inquired.
"Jeanne Alexandrine Argot," she replied.
"You are in the employ of Mr. Stuart?"
"Yes, sar. I 'ave been with Mr. Stuah, six a years, and he tell you----"
"Please look at the deceased, and tell me if you have ever seen him
before?" the Coroner hastily interrupted.
"No, sar."
After answering a few more questions with overpowering volubility, she
withdrew, and her husband entered. He was a tall, vigorous man, with
large hawk-like eyes, apparently a good deal older than his wife. He
bowed to us all on entering, and stood respectfully near the door,
waiting to be spoken to.
"What is your name?" inquired the Coroner.
"Celestin Marie Argot."
"You work for Mr. Stuart?"
"Yes, sar; I am Meester Stuah's butlair."
"Look at this corpse, and tell me if you can identify it as that of any
one you know, or have ever seen?"
He now glanced for the first time at the body, and I thought I saw his
face contract slightly. But the expression was so fleeting that I could
not be sure of it, and when he raised his head a few moments later he
seemed perfectly composed and answered calmly: "I do not know ze man."
Apparently the Coroner was not completely satisfied, for he went on:
"You know that this man has been murdered, and that it is your duty to
give us any information that might lead to his identification. Have
you seen any suspicious persons about the building during the last few
days?"
"No, sar; nobody,"--but I thought he had hesitated an instant before
answering.
"You must see a good many people pass up and down the back stairs,"
the detective remarked; "especially in this hot weather, when you must
be obliged to leave the kitchen door open a good deal so as to get a
draught."
The man cast a hurried, and I thought an apprehensive, glance at Mr.
Merritt, and replied quickly: "Yes, sar; ze door is open almos' all ze
time, but I 'ave seen nobody."
"Nobody?" repeated the detective.
"Yes, sar," Argot asserted, still more emphatically. "No vone, excep' ze
butchair, ze bakair, and ze ozer tradesmen, of course."
"How early are you likely to open the kitchen door? To leave it open, I
mean?"
"Oh, not till eight o'clock, perhap--Madame Argot, she stay in
déshabille till zen."
"What time do you go to bed?"
"At ten o'clock generally, but some time eleven o'clock--even
midnight--it depens."
"What time did you go to bed on Tuesday?"
"At eleven, sar."
"What had you been doing during the evening?"
"I had been at a restaurant wiz some friends."
"And when did you return?"
"At about half-pas' ten."
"Did you come in the back way?"
"Yes, sar."
"How did you get in?"
"My wife, she open ze door."
"And you saw nobody as you came in?"
He paused almost imperceptibly. "No, sar," he answered. But I was now
convinced that he was holding something back.
"Very well; you can go," said the Coroner. The fellow bowed himself out
with a good deal of quiet dignity.
"I kinder fancy that man knows something he won't tell," said the
Coroner. "Now, we've seen every one but the workmen," he continued,
wearily, mopping his forehead. "I don't believe one of them knows a
thing; still, I've got to go through with it, I suppose," and going to
the door he beckoned them all in.
There were five of them, including the foreman, and they appeared to be
quiet, respectable young men. After looking at the dead man intently for
some minutes, they all asserted that they had never laid eyes on him
before.
"Now have any of you noticed during the three days you have been working
here anybody who might have taken the key, kept it for some hours, and
returned it without your noticing it?" inquired the Coroner.
"We've seen no strangers," the foreman replied, cautiously.
"Who have you seen?" The foreman was evidently prepared for this
question.
"Well, sir, we've seen altogether six people: Jim, and Joe, and Tony,
Mr. McGorry, Miss Derwent, and the Frinchman," he replied, checking
them off on his fingers.
"When did the Frenchman come up here?"
"Yistidy morning, sir; he said he come to see the decorations, and he
come again about three; but he didn't stay long. I warn't a-going to
have him hanging round here interfering!"
"Did any of his actions at the time strike you as suspicious?"
"No, sir," acknowledged the foreman.
"And Miss Derwent; when did you see her?"
"I didn't see her myself in the morning, but he"--with a nod towards one
of the men,--"he saw her look in as she was waiting for the elevator,
and in the afternoon she come right in."
"Did she say anything?"
"Yes, sir; she said the paint and papers were mighty pretty."
"When you saw Miss Derwent," said the Coroner, addressing the man whom
the foreman had pointed out, "what was she doing?"
"She was standing just inside the hall."
"Was her hand on the door knob?"
"I didn't notice, sir."
"Did the young lady say anything?"
"When she saw me a-looking at her, she just said: 'How pretty!' and went
away."
"Have any of you seen Mr. or Mrs. Atkins, or either of their girls,
since you have been working here?" They all replied in the negative.
The Coroner's physician turned up at this juncture, with many apologies
for his late arrival, so, having no further excuse for remaining, I took
my leave. The lower hall swarmed with innumerable reporters, trying to
force their way upstairs, and who were only prevented from doing so by
the infuriated McGorry and two or three stalwart policemen. On catching
sight of me they all fell upon me with one accord, and I only managed to
escape by giving them the most detailed description of the corpse and
professing complete ignorance as to everything else.
CHAPTER VI
A LETTER AND ITS ANSWER
When I got back to my diggings I was astonished to find that it was only
ten o'clock. How little time it takes to change the whole world for one!
All day long I forced myself to go about my usual work, but the thought
of May Derwent never left me.
It was the greatest relief to find that in none of the evening papers
did her name appear. How McGorry managed to conceal from the reporters
the fact that she had been in the building remains a mystery to this
day--but how thankful I was that he was able to do so! Already my
greatest preoccupation was to preserve her fair name from the least
breath of scandal. Not for an instant did I believe her to be connected
with the murder;--on the other hand, I felt equally sure that she was in
some great trouble, the nature of which I could not even guess. I longed
to protect and help her, but how was I to do so, ignorant as I was
of everything concerning her. I didn't even know where she was at
that moment. At her mother's, perhaps. But where was that? Suddenly I
remembered that my great friend, Fred Cowper, had mentioned in one of
his recent letters that Mrs. Derwent and his mother were near neighbours
in the country. To think that that lucky dog had been spending the last
month within a stone's throw, perhaps, of her house--had seen her every
day probably, and had been allowed these inestimable privileges
simply because he had broken an old leg! And I, who would gladly have
sacrificed both legs to have been in his place, was forced to remain in
New York because--forsooth!--of an apoplectic old patient--who refused
either to live or die! Well, as I couldn't go to her, it was at any rate
a comfort to be able to get news of her so easily--so seizing a pen, I
hastily scratched off the following note:
NEW YORK,
August 10, 1898.
DEAR FRED:
You know me pretty well and know therefore that I'm not a prying
sort of fellow--don't you? So that when I ask you to tell me all
you know about Miss May Derwent--I hope you will believe that I am
animated by no idle curiosity. A doctor is often forced to carry
more secrets than a family solicitor, and is as much in honor
bound. Through no fault of my own, I have come into the possession
of certain facts relating to Miss Derwent which lead me to believe
that she is in great trouble. Furthermore, I am convinced that I
could help her, were I not handicapped by my very slight personal
acquaintance with her, but more than that by my entire ignorance
regarding certain details of her life. I might as well acknowledge
that I am interested in the young lady, and am anxious to serve
her if I can. But if I am to do so, I must first find out a few
particulars of her life, and these I hope you can give me.
In the first place I want to know whether she has any young male
relative who is tall, with good figure? I remember hearing that she
is an only child, but has she no cousin with whom she is on terms
of brotherly intimacy?
Secondly, Is she engaged, or reported to be engaged, and if so, to
whom?
Thirdly, What are the names of her most favored suitors?
Fourthly, What lady does she know intimately who has very dark
hair, and is also slight and tall?
I don't need to tell you to treat this letter as absolutely
confidential, nor to assure you again that only the deepest
interest in Miss Derwent, and the conviction that she is in need
of help, induce me to pry into her affairs.
More than this I cannot tell you, so don't ask me.
Good-night, old chap! Hope your leg is getting on all right.
Affectionately yours,
CHARLES K. FORTESCUE.
HOPE FARM, BEVERLEY, L. I.,
Friday, August 11.
DEAR CHARLEY,--You may imagine how exciting I found your letter
when I tell you that I have known May Derwent since she was a tiny
tot, and that their country place is not half a mile from here. She
is exactly my sister Alice's age, and I have never known her very
well till she came out last winter, for eight years make a big
barrier between children. I like and admire May extremely, for not
only is she a very beautiful girl, but an extremely nice one, as
well. Difficult as it may be to explain certain things, I am sure
that, whatever the trouble she is in, if you knew the whole
truth, you would find it only redounded to her credit. She is an
impulsive, warm-hearted and rather tempestuous child--generous,
loyal, and truthful to a fault. I have just been discreetly
sounding Alice about her, and asked why I had not seen May since I
had been down here this time, as on former occasions she used
always to be running in and out of the house. And Alice tells me
that for the last three months May has been a changed being. From a
happy, thoughtless girl, overflowing with health and spirits, she
has become a listless, self-contained, almost morose woman. She
refuses to go anywhere, and spends most of her time either in her
own room or taking long solitary walks or rides. The doctor talks
of nervous prostration, but do you think it likely that a vigorous,
athletic young girl would develop nerves solely in consequence of a
few months' gaiety during the winter? It seems to me incredible,
and so I am forced to believe that May has something on her mind
which is reacting on her body, causing her to shun all the things
she used to delight in. Now, when a young, rich, beautiful, and
sought-after girl suddenly takes to avoiding her species, and
becomes pale and melancholy, the usual explanation is--an unhappy
love affair. And, of course, that may still turn out to be the
truth in this case; but in the meantime I have another hypothesis
to suggest, that seems to me to fit in with the known facts even
better than the other.
May Derwent is not an only child, but has, or at any rate had, a
brother about ten years older than herself who, I confess, was one
of the heroes of my childhood. Only a little older than the rest of
us boys, he was much bigger and stronger. He was the leader of all
our games, and the instigator of our most outrageous exploits. He
was the horror of all parents and the delight of all children.
Cruel, vindictive, untruthful, leaving others to pay the penalty
for his faults whenever it was possible, he was not a nice boy even
in those early days, but then he was so handsome, so bold and
unscrupulous, so inspired in devising new crimes for us to commit,
that it is hardly to be wondered at that he was at the same time
our terror and our idol. His school record was bad; his college
record was worse, till one fine day he suddenly and mysteriously
disappeared from Harvard, and has never been heard of since. What
had occurred I never could find out; that it was something very
disgraceful I am sure, for his mother, whose pride and hope he had
been, never again mentioned his name.
Now, don't you think it quite possible that he may have returned
and been bothering his sister in some way? She may be either trying
to shield him from still greater disgrace, or be endeavouring to
spare her mother the further knowledge of his misdeeds. Mind you,
these are all merely the wildest conjectures.
As for May's lovers, their name is simply legion, including young
Norman, the millionaire, Sir Arthur Trevor, Guy Weatherby and a
painter chap--Greywood, I think his name is. Mère Derwent, I
believe, favors Norman's suit, having (sensible woman!) a great
faith in American husbands, but there is a rumour that May, with
the perversity of her sex, is inclined to smile on the young
artist, who, I am told is an affected chap, just back from Paris,
without either money or talent. But no doubt he strikes her as
a more romantic lover than good old Norman, who is the best of
fellows, and absolutely eligible in every way.
Alice tells me that May has appeared quite eager for her Bar Harbor
visit, notwithstanding that she has refused all other invitations,
and Mrs. Derwent has had great hopes that the change would do her
good.
What you have told me is no small tax on my discretion, but what
you have refrained from telling taxes my curiosity far more. But
notice--I ask no questions!!
By the way, why don't you come down and spend next Sunday with us?
You might see the lovely May again,--who knows?
Affectionately yours,
FRED.
CHAPTER VII
MR. MERRITT INSTRUCTS ME
Fred's letter was a great relief to me. I had not dared to allow my
thoughts to dwell on the man whom I had seen in May Derwent's apartment
on that eventful night. The supposition, however, that it was her
brother, explained everything satisfactorily. Nothing could be more
likely than that this angel of mercy should give shelter to this
returned prodigal, and try to save him from the punishment he so richly
deserved. But what cared I what _he_ had done? She--she--was immaculate.
At the hospital that morning, I was in such good spirits that I had some
difficulty in keeping my elation within bounds. As it was, I noticed
that several nurses eyed me with suspicion.
My preoccupation about Miss Derwent's affairs had been so great
that I had hardly given a thought to the mysterious murder, and was
consequently very much surprised, on returning home that afternoon, to
find the detective patiently awaiting me.
"Well, Mr. Merritt," I exclaimed; "glad to see you; what can I do for
you? Anything wrong with your heart, or your liver, or your nerves, eh?"
"Well, Doctor, I guess my nerves are pretty near all right," he
answered, with a slow smile.
"I'm glad to hear it. Won't you sit down?"
He selected a comfortable chair, and we sat down facing each other. I
wondered what could be coming next.
"Now, Doctor," he began, in a matter-of-fact voice, "I'd like you to
tell me all you know of the murder."
He had taken me completely by surprise, but I am learning to control my
features, and flatter myself that I did not move a muscle as I quietly
replied:
"This is a very strange question, and I can only answer that I know
nothing."
"Oh, hardly as little as that," the detective rejoined, with irritating
complacency.
"Just as little as that," I asserted, with some warmth.
"Well, Doctor, if that is the case, you can no doubt explain a few
things that have been puzzling me. In the first place, will you tell me
why, if you were not expecting another victim, you showed such surprise
at the sight of the corpse? What reason could you have had for being
so deeply interested in the relative positions of your roof--not your
office, mind you, but your roof--and the room in which the body was
found, unless you had noticed something unusual from that point of
observation? Why were you so sure that the Derwent's flat was occupied,
if you had not seen some person or persons there? By the way, I noticed
that from your roof I could look directly into their windows. Again, you
betrayed great surprise when Miss Derwent lifted her veil. Why did you
do so, except that you had previously seen a very different looking
person in her apartment? And why did you select the Atkins's two
servants out of all the people in the building, to question about a
certain noise, but that you yourself had heard a scream coming from
their premises? And, lastly, you showed an unexplained interest in the
back door of the Rosemere, which is particularly suggestive in view of
the fact that this window is exactly opposite to it. I need only add
that your presence on the roof during some part of Wednesday night,
or early Thursday morning, is attested by the fact that I found some
pipe-ash near the chimney. You smoke a pipe, I see" (pointing to
a rack full of them); "your janitor does not, neither do your two
fellow-lodgers. Besides that, all the other occupants of this house are
willing to swear that they have not been on the roof recently, and those
ashes could not have been long where I found them; the wind would have
scattered them. You see, I know very little, but I know enough to be
sure that you know more."
I was perfectly dumbfounded, and gazed at the detective for some moments
without speaking.
"Well, granted that I was on the roof during a part of Wednesday night,
what of it? And if I did hear or see anything suspicious, how can you
prove it, and above all, how can you make me tell you of it?"
"I can't," rejoined Mr. Merritt, cheerfully. "I can only ask you to do
so."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I shall have to delay satisfying my curiosity till we meet in
court, but I do not doubt that my patience will then be adequately
rewarded, for a skilful lawyer will surely be able to get at many
details that would escape me, and I hardly think that you would resort
to perjury to shield two women whom I am convinced you never laid eyes
on before yesterday, and have certainly not seen since." The detective
paused.
I still hesitated, for I felt an extreme reluctance to further
compromise that poor girl by anything I might say.
"Come, Doctor," he urged, leaning forward and placing his hand on my
knee, "don't you think it would be better for all parties for you to
tell me what you know? I am as anxious to shield the innocent as you
can be. By withholding valuable information you may force me to put a
young lady through a very trying and public ordeal, which I am sure
might be easily spared her, if I only knew a few more facts of the
case."
This last argument decided me, and making a virtue of necessity I
gave him a minute account of all I had seen and heard. When I came to
describing the man's prolonged search Mr. Merritt nodded several times
with great satisfaction.
"Can't you tell me a little more how this man looked?" he eagerly
inquired. "You must have seen him pretty clearly while he was moving
around that lighted room. Had he any hair on his face?"
"Well," I confessed, "it is a funny thing, but I can't for the life of
me remember; I've tried to; sometimes I think he was clean shaven, and
again I am sure he had a small moustache."
The detective glared at me for a moment; it was difficult for him to
forgive such aggravating lack of memory. To be given such an opportunity
and to foozel it! He heaved a sigh of resignation as he inquired:
"Can you remember how he was dressed?"
"Oh, yes," I replied with alacrity, anxious to retrieve myself, "he had
on a white shirt and dark trousers, and his sleeves were rolled back."
"Did he close the windows before he left?"
"Yes, and he pulled down the blinds also."
"You are sure that you saw no one in the apartment resembling Miss
Derwent?"
"Quite sure; the woman I saw was taller and had flat, black hair."
"What do you mean by 'flat'?"
"Why, nowadays girls wear their hair loose; it bulges away from their
faces; but hers lay tight to her head in a flat, black mass," I
explained.
I then harped on the probability of the return of Miss May's prodigal
brother, and suggested the possibility that the dark-haired woman might
be his wife.
"Well, well, Doctor! This is all very interesting. The story of the
brother, especially. You see, I had already discovered that a man had
spent many hours in her apartment----"
"How did you find that out?" I interrupted.
"Oh, quite easily," rejoined the detective; "as soon as all the
excitement was over yesterday, I made McGorry open the Derwent's
apartments for me. You may imagine what a fuss he made about it. Well
anyhow he got me----"
"But why did you want to get in?" I inquired; "did you suspect her?"
"No," he replied, "I did not. But in my profession you take no chances.
Impressions, intuitions, are often of great value, only you must be
careful always to verify them. I was almost sure that the young lady was
innocent, but it was my business to prove her so. Now, it is certain
that the person, or persons, who smuggled the corpse into the room where
it was found, must, at one time or another, have had the key of that
apartment in their possession, and there are only three people whom we
know of as yet who were in a position to have had it. These three are:
Miss Derwent, the French butler, and, of course, McGorry. So far I have
not been able to connect the latter two, even in the most indirect way,
with the catastrophe. Unfortunately, that is not the case with the young
lady. One person, at least, has identified the body as that of her
visitor, and your behaviour," he added, with a smile, "led me to believe
that you suspected her of something. Not of the crime, I felt sure of
that, but of _what_, then? I determined to find out, and now that I have
done so, let me tell you that I am still convinced of her innocence."
I jumped up and shook him by the hand. "So am I, so am I," I exclaimed.
"But this is a very queer case," he continued, "and I shall need all the
assistance you can give me, if----"
"You shall have it," I broke in, enthusiastically; "anything I can do.
But tell me, first, how you found out about Miss Derwent's brother?"
"Not so fast, young man! At present, we know nothing about a brother. I
only said that I had discovered in the apartment traces of the recent
and prolonged presence of a man, and I may add of a man of some means."
"How did you find that out? Especially about his means?" I inquired,
with a smile.
"Quite easily. In the parlor, which was the first room I entered, I
noticed that every piece of furniture had been lately moved from its
place. Now, this was too heavy a job for a girl to have undertaken
single-handed. Who helped her, I wondered? Her visitor of Tuesday
evening might have been the person, but for various reasons I was
inclined to doubt it. I thought it more likely to have been the woman
whose existence your behaviour had led me to infer. I next examined the
dining-room. A few crumbs showed that it had been used, but I could find
no traces of her mysterious companion. The library had not even been
entered. On the floor above, the front bedroom alone showed signs of
recent occupation. Two crumpled sheets were still on the bed, and in the
drawers were several articles of woman's apparel. Returning to the lower
floor by the back stairs, I found myself in the kitchen. Here, in the
most unexpected place, I discovered an important clue." Mr. Merritt
paused, and looked at me with a gleam of triumph in his eye.
"Yes, yes, and what was that?" I inquired, breathlessly.
"Only the odor, the very faintest ghost of an odor, I may say, of
cigar-smoke."
"In the kitchen?" I exclaimed, incredulously.
"In the kitchen," repeated the detective. "I at once drew up the blinds,
and looked out. The window opened directly on the fire escape, with
nothing opposite but the roofs of some low houses. Pulling out my
magnifying glass, I crawled out. I soon satisfied myself that the stairs
leading up and down had not been recently used; on the other hand, I was
equally sure that someone had very lately been out on the small landing.
So I sat down there and looked about me. I could see nothing. At last,
by peering through the bars of the iron flooring, I thought I could
discern a small brown object, caught in between the slats of the landing
below. I climbed down there mighty quick, I can tell you, and in a
moment held the butt end of a cigar in my hand. It was, as I had
suspected, from the delicate odor it had left behind, one which had cost
about fifty cents. I now extended my search downward, and examined every
window-sill, every crevice, till I reached the basement, and, as a
result of my hunt, I collected five cigar stumps, all of the same
brand. From the number, I concluded that whoever had been in the
apartment had been there a considerable time. From his only smoking in
the kitchen or on the fire-escape, I gathered that he was anxious to
leave no traces of his presence; and lastly, from the quality of his
cigars, I judged him to be a man of means. So you see I had discovered,
even without your assistance, that, although Miss Derwent may have told
us the truth, she certainly had not told us all of it."
I nodded gloomily.
"What you tell me of this dark-haired woman is still more puzzling," the
detective continued. "She has covered up her tracks so well that not
only did I find no trace of her, but no one, not even yourself, saw her
either enter or leave the building. And I should never have dreamed
of her existence if I had not noticed your surprise when Miss Derwent
lifted her veil. Now, the first thing to be done is to try and find
this strange couple, and we will begin by tracing the man whom you saw
leaving the Rosemere with a market-basket. It will be easy enough to
find out if he is nothing but a local tradesman, and if he is _not_,
then in all probability he is the man we want. The detective who is
watching Miss Derwent----"
"A detective watching Miss Derwent!" I exclaimed.
"Why, yes. What did you expect? I sent one down with her to the country
yesterday."
Perhaps I ought to have been prepared for it, but the idea of a common
fellow dogging May Derwent's footsteps, was quite a shock to me, so I
inquired, with considerable ill-humor: "And what does he report?"
"Nothing much. The young lady returned to her mother, as she said she
would, and since then has kept to her room, but has refused to see a
doctor."
"Have you discovered yet who the dead man really is?" I asked, after a
slight pause.
"No," answered the detective, with a troubled look, "and I can't make it
out. Jim and Joe each persists in his own identification. I expected Jim
to weaken, he seemed so much less positive at first, but whether he has
talked himself into the belief that the corpse is that of the young
lady's visitor, or whether it really does resemble him so much as to
give the boy grounds for thinking so, I can't make out."
"I see, however, that _you_ believe the murdered man to be Mrs. Atkins's
friend, of whose history and whereabouts she was so strangely ignorant."
"Well, I don't know," the detective replied. "We have found out that an
Allan Brown did engage a berth on the midnight train to Boston."
"Really? Why, I was sure that Allan Brown was a creation of the little
lady's imagination. By the way, it is a strange coincidence that two
mysterious Allans are connected with this case."
"Yes, I have thought of that," the detective murmured; "and Allan is
no common name, either. But it is a still stranger circumstance that
neither of Allan Brown nor of the murdered man (I am now taking for
granted that they are not identical) can we discover the slightest trace
beyond the solitary fact that an upper berth on the Boston train was
bought on Tuesday afternoon, by a person giving the former's name, and
whose description applies, of course, equally to both. Mrs. Atkins
volunteers the information that Brown was a stranger in the city, and so
far I have no reason to doubt it. Now, a man who can afford to wear a
dress suit, and who is a friend of a woman like Mrs. Atkins, presumably
had fairly decent quarters while he was in town. And yet inquiries have
been made at every hotel and boarding-house, from the cheapest to the
most expensive, and not one of them knows anything of an Allan Brown,
nor do they recognize his description as applying to any of their late
guests. The deceased, of course, may have had rooms somewhere, or a
flat, or even a house, in which case it will take longer to trace him;
although even so, it is remarkable that after such wide publicity has
been given to his description, no one has come forward and reported
him as missing. The morgue has been crowded with idle sightseers, but
nobody as yet claims to have seen the victim before."
"That is queer," I assented, "especially as the dead man was in all
probability a person of some prominence. He certainly must have been
rich. The pearl studs he wore were very fine."
"Oh, those were imitation pearls," said the detective, "and I am
inclined to think that, far from being wealthy, he was, at the time of
his death, extremely badly off, although other indications point to his
having seen better days."
"Really!" I exclaimed.
"Yes; didn't you notice that his clothes, although evidently expensive,
were all decidedly shabby? That his silk socks were almost worn out;
that his pumps were down at the heel?"
"Yes, I did notice something of the kind."
"But those large imitation pearls blinded you to everything else, I
see," Mr. Merritt remarked, with a smile.
"I suppose so," I acknowledged; "they and the sleeve-links with the
crest."
"Ah, those are really interesting, and for the first time in my life I
find myself wishing that we were more careful in this country about the
use of such things. Unfortunately, we are so promiscuous and casual in
adopting any coat-of-arms that happens to strike our fancy that the
links become almost valueless as a clue. Still, I have sent one of them
to an authority in heraldry, and shall be much interested to hear what
he has to say about it. By the way, did anything else strike you as
peculiar about the corpse?"
"No," I answered, after a moment's reflection.
"It did not seem to you odd that no hat was found with the body?"
"Dear me! I never noticed that. How singular! What could have become of
it?"
"Ah, if we only knew that we should be in a fair way to solving this
mystery. For I have found out that, whereas the description of Miss
Derwent's visitor and Mrs. Atkins's friend tally on all other points,
they differ radically on this one. The former wore a panama, whereas
the latter wore an ordinary straw hat. Now, one of those hats must be
somewhere in the Rosemere, and yet I can't find it."
"Mr. Merritt," I inquired, "have you any theory as to the motive of this
murder?"
"Not as yet," he replied. "It may have been jealousy, revenge, or
a desire to be rid of a dangerous enemy, and if you had not given
it as your opinion that the man met his death while wholly or
semi-unconscious, I should have added self-defence to my list of
possibilities. The only thing I am pretty sure of is--that the motive
was not robbery."
"Look here, Mr. Merritt, I can't help wondering that, whereas you have
treated Miss Derwent with the utmost suspicion, have made a thorough
search of her apartment, and have even sent a sleuth to watch her, yet
you have shown such indifference to Mrs. Atkins's movements. Surely
suspicion points quite as strongly to her as to the young lady?"
"No, it doesn't," replied the detective. "The key! You forget the key
cannot so far be connected with her. But, may I ask, who told you that I
had neglected to make inquiries about the lady?"
"Nobody; I only inferred," I stammered.
"You were wrong," continued Mr. Merritt. "I have made every possible
inquiry about Mrs. Atkins. I have even sent a man to Chicago to find out
further particulars, although I have already collected a good deal of
interesting information about the little lady's past life."
"Really? And was there anything peculiar about it?"
"No; I can't exactly say there was. Mrs. Atkins is the only daughter of
a wealthy saloon-keeper, John Day by name, and is twenty-six years old.
Nothing is known against her except that in that city she chose her
companions from amongst a very fast crowd. There is also a rumor, which
the Chicago detective has not been able to verify, that when she was
about sixteen or seventeen years old, she eloped with an Eastern man,
from whom she was almost immediately divorced. At any rate, she has been
known for a good many years as Miss Day, and has lived at home with her
father. The memory of her marriage, if indeed she ever was married, has
grown so dim that a great many people, among whom may be numbered some
of her intimate friends, have never heard of it, and vehemently deny the
whole story. I hope, however, soon to find out the facts of the case.
Young Atkins met his wife last winter at Atlantic City, and at once fell
in love with her. His father, who is a very wealthy contractor, was
strongly opposed to the match. He was very ambitious for his son, and
thought the daughter of a saloon-keeper, whose reputation was none of
the best, was no desirable wife for his boy."
"But they married in spite of him," I said.
"Yes, and old man Atkins has become reconciled to them, and makes them a
very handsome allowance."
"How long have they been married?" I asked.
"Since the fifteenth of April," replied the detective, "and they were
not married in Chicago, but in this city. I guess the lady was not over
anxious to introduce her husband to her former pals."
"I suppose you have searched her apartment for a possible clue,--the
hat, for instance?"
"Yes, but as she has not been out since Wednesday, I have not been able
to make as thorough a search as I should like. She is a shy bird, and I
don't want to frighten her till I have a few more facts to go on. If she
thinks herself watched she may become wary, while now, I hope she will
make use of her fancied security to do something which may give us a
lead."
"Well, Mr. Merritt, I conclude from all this that, although you are
unable to trace the possession of the key to Mrs. Atkins, nevertheless,
your suspicions point towards her?"
"Certainly not. There is nothing to connect her with the tragedy, except
the fact that one negro boy identified the corpse as that of one of her
visitors. On the contrary, the more I look into this case, the less do I
see how the lady could be involved in it. Let us suppose that she did
kill the man. Where could she have secreted him during the twenty-four
hours that must have elapsed before the body was finally disposed of?
The only place of concealment on the lower floor of her apartment is a
coat closet under the stairs, and I doubt very much whether a small,
unmuscular woman like Mrs. Atkins is capable of dragging so large a man
even for a short distance."
"But," I suggested, "the murder may have been committed in the hall,
just a step from this hiding-place."
"Yes, that is, of course, possible. But there is still another
objection. The closet is so small that I do not believe a man could
be got into it without doubling him up, and of that the body shows no
signs. Besides, if Mrs. Atkins is guilty, we must believe her husband to
be her accomplice, for who else could have helped her hide her victim?
Now, you must know that the Atkins men, both father and son, bear
most excellent reputations, especially the young man, of whom every
one speaks in the highest terms, and I do not think that a person
unaccustomed to deceit could have behaved with such perfect composure
in the presence of a corpse of which he had criminal knowledge."
"But he did show some emotion," I urged.
"Oh, yes; I know what you mean,--when he learned that the man was
murdered on Tuesday night he seemed startled."
"Well, how do you account for that?"
"I don't account for it. Why, Doctor, in a case like this there are a
hundred things I can't account for. For instance, what was the cause of
Mrs. Atkins's scream? You have no idea; neither have I. Why did she show
such emotion at the sight of the corpse? I am not prepared to say. Why
did she appear so relieved when she heard that the murder occurred on
Tuesday? I can formulate no plausible explanation for it. And these are
only a few of the rocks that I am running up against all the time."
"But look here. If you really believe Miss Derwent and Mrs. Atkins both
innocent, who do you think killed the man?"
"I don't know. Oh, I am aware that the detective of fiction is always
supposed to be omniscient, but my profession, Doctor, is just like any
other. There is no hocus-pocus about it. To succeed in it requires,
in the first place, accurate and most minute powers of observation,
unlimited patience, the capacity for putting two and two together.
Add to this an unprejudiced mind, and last, but not least, respect,
amounting to reverence, for any established _fact_. Now, the only
_facts_ we have as yet gathered about this murder are: that the man was
young, dissipated, and was stabbed through the heart by some very small
instrument or weapon; that his assailant was an inmate of the Rosemere;
that the crime was committed on Tuesday night; and, lastly, that whoever
placed the body where it was found must, at one time or another, have
had the key to the outside door in his or her possession. Whatever
else we may think or believe, is purely speculative. We presume, for
instance, that the man was poor. As for the other facts we have gleaned
about the different inmates of the building, till we know which one of
them had a hand in this tragedy, we cannot consider what we have learned
about them as throwing any light on the murder. About that, as I said
before, we know mighty little, and even that little is the result of
thirty-eight hours' work, not of one man alone, but of seven or eight."
"Indeed!" I exclaimed.
"Now, both ladies deny that they knew the deceased, and perhaps they
are right. It is, of course, possible that there was a third man in
the building that evening, who was also tall, dark, and wore a pointed
beard. It is not likely, however. Such a coincidence is almost unheard
of. Still it is possible, and that possibility must be reckoned with.
Now, I must be off," said Mr. Merritt, rising abruptly from his chair,
"and if you hear any more of the young lady's movements, let me know.
There's my address. In the meantime, thank you very much for what you
have already told me." And before I could get out one of the twenty
questions that were still burning on my lips, the man was gone.
For some minutes I sat quite still, too miserable to think connectedly.
Alas! my fears had not been groundless. The poor girl was in even
greater trouble than I had supposed. I believed the detective to be a
decent chap, who would keep his mouth shut, but how dreadful to think
that her reputation depended on the discretion of any man. Should it
become known that she had received one young man alone in an empty
apartment, while another was seen there at three o'clock in the
morning, it would mean social death to her. Oh, for the right to offer
her my protection, my services!
Of course, it was now absolutely necessary to trace the man who spent
Tuesday evening with her, and to prove beyond doubt that he was still
alive. I wished that this might be done without her knowledge, so as to
spare her the shock of finding herself suspected of a crime.
Again I thought of Fred, and at once sent him a few lines, begging him
to let me know whether he or his sister knew of any friend or admirer of
Miss Derwent who resembled the enclosed description, and if either of
them did know of such a person, please to telegraph me the man's name,
and, if possible, his address. While giving no reasons for my questions,
I again enjoined the greatest secrecy.
CHAPTER VIII
AN IDENTIFICATION
TELEGRAM.
DR. CHARLES FORTESCUE,
Madison Avenue,
New York City.
SATURDAY, August 12.
Maurice Greywood. Can't find his address. May be in Directory.
FREDERIC COWPER.
Clipping from the New York _Bugle_, Sunday, August 13.
LANDLADY IDENTIFIES BODY OF THE ROSEMERE VICTIM AS THAT OF HER
VANISHED LODGER, ARTIST GREYWOOD. POLICE STILL SCEPTICAL.
Mr. Maurice Greywood, the talented young artist who returned from
Paris the beginning of last winter, has disappeared, and grave
fears for his safety are entertained. He was last seen in his
studio, 188 Washington Square, early on Tuesday, August 8th, by
Mrs. Kate Mulroy, the janitress. Ever since the young artist moved
into the building, Mrs. Mulroy has taken complete charge of his
rooms, but, owing to a disagreement which took place between them
last Tuesday, she has ceased these attentions. Yesterday evening,
while looking over a copy of the _Bugle_ of the preceding day, Mrs.
Mulroy came across the portrait of the unknown man whose murdered
body was discovered under very mysterious circumstances in an
unoccupied apartment of the Rosemere, corner of ---- Street and
Madison Avenue, on the preceding Thursday. She at once recognized
it as bearing a striking resemblance to her lodger. Thoroughly
alarmed she decided to investigate the matter. After knocking
several times at Mr. Greywood's door, without receiving an answer,
she opened it by means of a pass-key. Both the studio and bedroom
were in the greatest confusion, and from the amount of dust that
had accumulated over everything, she concluded that the premises
had not been entered for several days. Her worst fears being thus
confirmed, she hastened at once to the Morgue, and requested to see
the body of the Rosemere victim, which she immediately identified
as that of Maurice Greywood.
Strangely enough, the police throw doubts on this identification,
although they acknowledge that they have no other clue to go on.
However, Mrs. Greywood, the young man's mother, has been sent
for, and is expected to arrive to-morrow from Maine, where she is
spending the summer.
The people at the Rosemere are still foolishly trying to make a
mystery of the murder, and refuse all information [etc., etc.].
TO DR. CHARLES K. FORTESCUE FROM DR. FREDERIC COWPER, BEVERLEY, L. I.
SUNDAY EVENING, August 13th.
DEAR CHARLEY:
No sooner had I read in to-day's paper that the body found in the
Rosemere had been identified as that of Maurice Greywood, than I
knew at once why you have taken such an interest in poor May. I see
now that you have suspected from the first that the murdered man
was not unknown to her, and your last letter, describing her
"friend," proves to me beyond doubt that you were ignorant of
nothing but his name, for Greywood and no other answers exactly to
that description. How you found out what you did, I can't imagine;
but remembering that your office window commands a view of the
entrance to the building, I think it possible that you may have
seen something from that point of vantage, which enabled you to put
two and two together. But I wonder that I can feel any surprise
at your having discovered the truth, when the truth itself is
unbelievable!! May Derwent is incapable of killing any one--no
matter what provocation she may have had. She is incapable of
a dishonourable action, and above all things incapable of an
intrigue. She is purity itself. I swear it. And yet what are the
facts that confront us? A man, known to have been her professed
suitor, is found dead in a room adjoining her apartment, dead
with a wound through his heart--a wound, too, caused by a
knitting-needle or hat-pin, as you yourself testified! And before
trying to find out who killed him we must first think of some
reasonable excuse for his having been at the Rosemere at all. How
strange that he should happen to go to the building at the very
time when May (who was supposed to be on her way to Bar Harbor,
mind you!) was there also. Who was he calling on, if not on her?
Luckily, no one as yet seems to have thought of her in connection
with Greywood's death. My sister has, in fact, been wondering all
day whom he could have been visiting when he met his tragic fate.
But, sooner or later, the truth will become known, and then--? Even
in imagination I can't face that possibility.
And now, since you have discovered so much, and as I believe you
to be as anxious as I am to help this poor girl, I am going to
accede to your request and tell you all that I have been able to
find out about the sad affair. I know that I run the risk of
being misunderstood--even by you--and accused of unpardonable
indiscretion. But it seems to me that in a case like this no
ordinary rules hold good, and that in order to preserve a secret,
one has sometimes to violate a confidence.
I have discovered--but I had better begin at the beginning, and
tell you as accurately and circumstantially as possible how the
following facts became known to me, so that you may be better able
to judge of their value. Truth, after all, is no marble goddess,
unchangeable, immovable, but a very chameleon taking the colour of
her surroundings. A detached sentence, for instance, may mean
a hundred things according to the when, where, and how of its
utterance. But enough of apologies--_Qui s'excuse, s'accuse._
So here goes.
I spent the morning on our piazza, and as I lay there, listening to
the faint strains of familiar hymns which floated to me through the
open windows of our village church, I could not help thinking that
those peaceful sounds made a strange accompaniment to my gloomy and
distracted thoughts. I longed to see May and judge for myself how
things stood with her. I was therefore especially glad after the
service was over to see Mrs. Derwent turn in at our gate. She often
drops in on her way from church to chat a few minutes with my
mother. But I soon became convinced that the real object of her
visit to-day was to see me. Why, I could not guess. The dear lady,
usually so calm and dignified, positively fidgeted, and several
times forgot what she was saying, and remained for a minute or so
with her large eyes fastened silently upon me, till, noticing my
embarrassment, she recovered herself with a start and plunged into
a new topic of conversation. At last my mother, feeling herself _de
trop_, made some excuse, and went into the house. But even then
Mrs. Derwent did not immediately speak, but sat nervously clasping
and unclasping her long, narrow hands.
"Fred," she said at last, "I have known you ever since you were a
little boy, and as I am in great trouble I have come to you, hoping
that you will be able to help me."
"Dear Mrs. Derwent, you know there is nothing I would not do for
you and yours," I replied.
"It is May that I want to speak to you about; she is really very
ill, I fear."
"Indeed, I am sorry to hear it; what is the matter with her?"
"I don't know. She has not been herself for some time."
"So I hear. Do you know of any reason for her ill health?"
"She has not been exactly ill," she explained, "only out of sorts.
Yes, I'm afraid I do know why she has changed so lately."
"Really," I exclaimed, much interested.
"Yes, it has all been so unfortunate," she continued. "You know how
much admiration May received last winter; she had several excellent
offers, any one of which I should have been perfectly willing to
have her accept. Naturally, I am not anxious to have her marry, at
least not yet; for when my child leaves me, what is there left for
me in life? Still, one cannot think of that, and if she had chosen
a possible person I should gladly have given my consent. But the
only one she seemed to fancy was a most objectionable young man, an
artist; _the_ Maurice Greywood, in fact, of whose supposed murder
you no doubt read in this morning's paper."
"Yes," I admitted.
"Well, I put my foot down on that. I told her she would break my
heart if she persisted in marrying the fellow. It was really
a shock to me to find that a daughter of mine had so little
discrimination as even to like such a person; but she is young and
romantic, and the creature is handsome, and clever in a Brummagem
way. The man is a fakir, a _poseur_! I even suspect, Fred, that his
admiration for May is not quite disinterested, and that he has a
very keen eye to her supposed bank account."
"But May is such a lovely girl----"
"Oh, yes. I know all about that," interrupted Mrs. Derwent, "but in
this case '_les beaux yeux de la cassette_' count for something, I
am sure. He has absolutely no means of his own, and a profession
which may keep him in gloves and cigarettes. I hear that he is
supported by his mother and friends. Think of it! No, no, I could
not bear her to marry that sort of man. But the child, for she is
little more, took my refusal much to heart, fancied herself a
martyr no doubt, and grew so pale and thin that I consulted the
doctor here about her. He suggested nervous prostration, due to too
much excitement, and wanted her to take a rest cure. I am sure,
however, that that is all nonsense. May was simply fretting herself
sick; she _wanted_ to be ill, I think, so as to punish me for my
obduracy."
"But what, then, makes you so anxious about her now?" I inquired.
"Have any new symptoms developed?"
"Yes," and after glancing anxiously about to see whether she could
be overheard, Mrs. Derwent continued in a lower voice. "You know
that she started to go to Bar Harbor last Tuesday." I nodded.
"Well, she seemed really looking forward to her visit, and when she
left home was very affectionate to me, and more like her old self
than she had been for months. But through some carelessness she
missed her connection in town, and instead of returning here as she
ought to have done, spent two nights in our empty apartment--of all
places!! What possessed her to do such a thing I cannot find out,
and she is at present so extremely excitable that I do not dare to
insist on an explanation. When she did return here on Thursday she
told me at once about the murder and how she was made to look at
the body and to give an account of herself. Of course, we were very
much afraid that her name would get into the papers and all the
facts of her escapade become known. Through some miracle, that at
least has been spared me; but the shock of being brought into such
close contact with a mysterious crime has proved too much for
the child's nerves, and she is in such an overwrought hysterical
condition that I am seriously alarmed about her. I wanted to send
again for Dr. Bertrand. He is not very brilliant, but I thought he
might at least give her a soothing draught. She wept bitterly,
however, at the bare idea--insisted that he only made her more
nervous. I then suggested sending for our New York physician, but
she became quite violent. Really I could hardly recognise May, she
was so----so--impossible. Of course she is ill, and I now fear
seriously so."
Mrs. Derwent paused to wipe her eyes.
"When you say that she is violent and impossible, what do you mean,
exactly?"
"It is difficult to give you an idea of how she has been behaving,
Fred, but here is an instance that may show how extraordinary her
conduct has been: Her room is next to mine, and since her return
from town she has shut herself up there quite early every evening.
I know she doesn't sleep much, for I hear her moving about all
night long. When I have gone to her door, however, and asked her
what was the matter, she has answered me quite curtly, and refused
to let me in. She has not been out of the house since she came
back, but, strangely enough, I have caught her again and again
peering through the blinds of those rooms that have a view of the
road, just as if she were watching for somebody. As soon as she
sees that she is observed, she frowns and moves away. Last night I
slept very heavily, being completely worn out by all this anxiety,
and was suddenly awakened by a piercing shriek. I rushed into
May's room and found her sitting up in bed talking volubly, while
about her all the lights were blazing. 'Take him away, take him
away!' she kept repeating, and then she wailed: 'Oh, he's dead,
he's dead!' I saw at once that she was asleep and tried to rouse
her, but it was some time before I succeeded in doing so. I told
her she had been dreaming, but she showed no curiosity as to what
she might have been saying, only evincing a strong desire to be
left alone. As I was leaving the room, I noticed that the key-hole
had been carefully stopped up. I suppose she did that so as to
prevent my knowing that she kept her lights burning all night. But
why make a secret of it? That is what I can't understand! She has
had a shock, and it has probably made her afraid of the dark, which
she has never been before, and perhaps she looks upon it as a
weakness to be ashamed of. Another unfortunate thing occurred this
morning. May has lately been breakfasting in bed, but, as ill-luck
would have it, to-day she got down-stairs before I did, and was
already looking over the newspaper when I came into the room.
Suddenly she started up, her eyes wild with terror, and then with a
low cry fell fainting to the floor.
"Snatching up the paper to see what could have caused her such
agitation, I was horrified to read that the man who was found
murdered in our apartment house was now supposed to be Maurice
Greywood. Imagine my feelings! As soon as she had recovered
sufficiently to be questioned, I begged her to confide in me--her
mother. But she assured me that she had told me everything, and
that the man who had been killed was a perfect stranger to her and
not Mr. Greywood. She insists that the two do not even look very
much alike, as the deceased is much larger, coarser, and darker
than the young artist. It was, of course, the greatest relief to
know this. Had Greywood really been at the Rosemere on the evening
she spent there, I should always have believed that they had met by
appointment. 'Yes, I should; I know I should,' she repeated, as I
shook my head in dissent.
"When I was ready to go to church, I was astonished to find May
waiting for me in the hall. She was perfectly composed, but a
crimson spot burned in either cheek and her eyes were unnaturally
bright. I noticed, also, that she had taken great pains with her
appearance, and had put on one of her prettiest dresses. I could
not account in any way for the change in her behaviour. As we
neared the village, she almost took my breath away by begging me
to telegraph to Mr. Norman to ask him to come and stay with us!
'Telegraph him now!' I exclaimed. 'Yes,' she replied; 'I would like
to see him. If we telegraph immediately, he could get here by five
o'clock.' 'But why this hurry?' I asked. She flushed angrily,
and kept repeating: 'I want to see him.' 'But, my child,' I
remonstrated, 'I don't even know where Mr. Norman is. He certainly
is not in town at this time of the year.' 'Telegraph to his town
address, anyhow, and if he isn't there it doesn't matter,' she
urged.--'But, May, what is the meaning of this change? The last
time he came down here you wouldn't even see him. Do you now mean
to encourage him?' 'No, no,' she asserted. 'Then I shall certainly
not send him such a crazy message,' I said. 'If you don't, I will,'
she insisted. We were now opposite the post office. She stopped and
I saw that she was trembling, and that her eyes were full of tears.
'My darling,' I begged her, 'tell me the meaning of all this?' 'I
wish to see Mr. Norman,' is all she would say. Now, I suppose you
will think me very weak, but I sent that telegram. Fred, tell me,
do you think the child is going insane?" and the poor mother burst
into tears.
"Dear, dear lady, I am sure you are unnecessarily alarmed. If I
could see May, I could judge better."
"Yes, yes," she interrupted, eagerly, "that is what I wish. I
thought if you came to the house as a visitor you could give me
your professional opinion about May without her knowing anything
about it. The difficulty is, how can you get to us with your poor
leg?"
"Nothing easier," I assured her. "I can hobble about now on
crutches, and with a little help can get in and out of a carriage;
so I will drive over to you immediately after lunch."
"Won't you come now and lunch with us?"
"No; at lunch we should all three have to be together, and I would
rather see your daughter by herself."
"Very well, then," said Mrs. Derwent, and gathering up the folds of
her soft silk gown she left me.
Early this afternoon I drove over to their place, and found both
ladies sitting on the piazza. May greeted me very sweetly, but I at
once noticed the peculiar tension of her manner, the feverish
glitter of her eyes, the slight trembling of her lips, and did
not wonder at her mother's anxiety. After a little desultory
conversation, Mrs. Derwent left us alone. I doubt if the girl was
even aware of her departure, or of the long pause which I allowed
to follow it.
"May, Dr. Fortescue, whom you have read about in connection with
the Rosemere tragedy, is a great friend of mine." She stared at me
with horror. I felt a perfect brute, but as I believed it was for
her good I persisted: "I think he saw you when you were in town."
She staggered to her feet; I caught her to prevent her falling, and
laid her gently on a divan. "Lie still," I commanded, looking
her steadily in the eye. "Lie still, I tell you; you are in no
condition to get up. Now, listen to me, May; I know you have had a
shock, and your nerves are consequently thoroughly unstrung. Now,
do you wish to be seriously ill, or do you not?" My quiet tones
seemed to calm her. "Of course I don't want to be ill," she
murmured. "Then you must not go on as you have been doing lately.
Will you let your old playfellow doctor you a little? Will you
promise to take some medicine I am going to send you? I must tell
you that, unless you will do what I say, you will be delirious in a
few hours." I thought that argument would fetch her.
"Yes, yes," she exclaimed. "What shall I do?" and she put her hand
to her head and gazed about her helplessly.
"In the first place, you must go to bed immediately."
"I can't do that; Mr. Norman will be here in a few hours."
"Well, I can't help it. To bed you must go, and from what I hear of
that young man he will be as anxious as anybody to have you do what
is best for you."
"But--" she objected.--"There is no 'but.' Unless you at once do as
I tell you, you will be down with brain fever."
"Very well, then," she meekly replied; "I will go to bed."
"That's a good girl. You must get a long night's rest, and if you
are better in the morning I will let you see your friend. He'll
wait, you know; I don't believe he will be in any hurry to leave,
do you?" But she only frowned at my attempt at jocularity. I rang
the bell and asked the butler to call Mrs. Derwent, to whom I gave
full directions as to what I wanted done, and had the satisfaction
of seeing May go up-stairs with her mother. I waited till the
latter came down again, and then told her as gently as possible
that her daughter was on the verge of brain fever, but that I hoped
her excellent constitution might still save her from a severe
illness.
The next question was, what to do with Norman.
May's positive belief that he was coming had proved contagious, and
I found that we were both expecting him. I thought it would be best
for me to meet him at the train, tell him of May's sudden illness
and offer to put him up at our place for the night. Mrs. Derwent,
after some hesitation, agreed to this plan. Norman turned up, as I
knew he would. He is very quiet, and does not appear surprised
either at his sudden invitation or at May's illness. He also seems
to think it quite natural that he should stay in the neighbourhood
till she is able to see him. He looks far from well himself, and is
evidently worried to death about May. He has been out all the
evening, and I suspect him of having been prowling around the
Beloved's house.
Now tell me--what do you think is the meaning of all this? Is the
body Maurice Greywood's, or is it not? If it is he--who killed him
and why? If she--but I'll not believe it unless I also believe her
to have had a sudden attack of acute mania--and that, of course,
is possible, especially when we consider what a highly nervous
state she is still in.
But if the dead man was really a stranger to her, as she asserts,
why then does every mention of the murder cause her to become so
excited? Why does she appear to be for ever watching for somebody?
Why did she cry out in her sleep: "Oh, he's dead, he's dead!"?
Again, the only reasonable explanation seems to be that her mind
has become slightly unhinged. And if that is the case, what rôle
does Norman play in this tragedy, and why did she insist on his
being sent for? Above all, why does he consider it natural that she
should have done so?
Now, knowing all this, can you advise me as to what I ought to do
to help the poor girl?
I hear Norman coming in, so must end abruptly, although I have a
lot more to say.
Affectionately yours,
FRED.
CHAPTER IX
I INSTRUCT MR. MERRITT.
While these things had been happening in the country, my Sunday in town
had been almost equally eventful.
I had not been surprised on receiving Fred's telegram the evening before
to find that the name it contained was that of the young artist. Had he
not already told me that Greywood was supposed to have been the favoured
suitor? And, knowing May Derwent as I did, I had felt sure from the very
first that she must have entertained the liveliest feelings of trust and
liking--to say the least--for the man whom she permitted to visit her on
that Tuesday evening. That the cur had not known enough to respect the
privilege filled me with mingled feelings of rage and delight. Had he
not offended my divinity there would have been no chance for me, and yet
that he had dared to do so made me long to punish him.
But to do this I must first find him. His name did not appear either in
the Social Register or the Directory, but I thought that by visiting the
various studio buildings dotted over the city I should eventually find
the one in which he lived.
So I got up bright and early the following morning, determined to begin
my search at once. As I sat down to my breakfast with a hopeful heart
and an excellent appetite, I little thought what a bomb-shell was
contained in the papers lying so innocently beside my plate.
I had hardly read the terrible news before I was out of the house and
on my way to Merritt's. Luckily, I found the detective at home, calmly
eating his breakfast. He showed no signs of surprise at my early
appearance, and invited me to share his meal with simple courtesy. As
I had hurried off without stopping to eat anything, I thought that I
had better do so, although I grudged the time spent in such a trifling
pursuit, while so much hung in the balance and every minute might be
precious.
"Well, Mr. Merritt," I exclaimed, "what is this fairytale about
Greywood? I see from the papers that your people do not put much faith
in the identification."
"We do, and we don't," he answered, "but it is not proved yet, and,
while there is still some doubt about it, I thought it as well for the
gentlemen of the press to be kept guessing a little longer."
"But what do _you_ think? Surely, you do not believe the murdered man to
be Greywood?" I urged.
"Doctor, I'm afraid I do."
"You do?" I cried.
"Yes."
"But when I saw you, on Friday, you were equally sure of Miss Derwent's
innocence."
"Ah! that was Friday! Besides, I have not said that I believe the young
lady guilty; I merely say that I believe Maurice Greywood, and not Allan
Brown, to be the name of the victim."
"But, then, you must think that she killed him," I insisted.
"Not necessarily. Have you never thought of the possibility that Allan
Derwent (for we will assume that he was the man whom you saw in her
apartment) might be the murderer?"
"No," I confessed, "that had not occurred to me."
"But it ought to have, for of all the theories we have as yet
entertained, this one is by far the most probable. You see," he
continued, "you allow your judgment to be warped by your unwillingness
to associate the young lady, even indirectly, with a crime."
"Perhaps so," I acknowledged.
"Now, I must tell you that, however innocent Miss Derwent may eventually
prove to be, since my last talk with you I have become convinced that
the murder was committed in her parlour, and nowhere else." Mr. Merritt
spoke very earnestly, leaning across the table to watch the effect on me
of what he was saying.
"Ah," I exclaimed angrily, "then you deceived me----"
"Gently, gently, young man; I don't deceive anybody. I told you that I
wished the young lady well; so I do--that I believed in her innocence;
I still do so. I said that the information I had received from you
materially helped her case, which it most assuredly did. Had you
withheld certain facts it would have been my duty--my painful duty, I
acknowledge--to have arrested Miss Derwent last Saturday."
"But why?" I inquired.
"Because all the evidence pointed towards her, and because my belief in
her innocence rested on no more solid foundation than what is called
intuition, and intuition is a quicksand to build upon."
"But what was there to point to her except that a negro boy thought that
the dead man resembled Greywood?"
"Ah, you acknowledge that her visitor was Mr. Greywood?"
"Yes, I grant you that, but what of it? I am convinced he has not been
murdered."
"But why?" demanded the detective. "Now, listen to this. The body is
identified by two people as Greywood's. Greywood disappears at about
the same time that the crime was committed. We know that the corpse must
have been hidden somewhere in the Rosemere for twenty-four hours. Where
could it have been more easily secreted than in the Derwents' apartment,
into which no outsider or servant entered? And lastly, it would have
required two people to carry, even for a short distance, a body of its
size and weight; but as the young lady was not alone, but had with her
the man and woman whom you saw, this difficulty is also disposed of.
From all this, I conclude that the Derwents' flat was the scene of the
tragedy."
"But why should Greywood have been killed?" I asked. "What possible
motive could there have been?"
"Oh, it is easy enough to imagine motives, although I do not guarantee
having hit on the right one. But what do you think of this for a guess?
Miss Derwent, who knows that her brother may any day be in need of a
hiding-place, has given him the key to their back door. Coming to town,
she meets Greywood, dines with him, and invites him to spend the evening
with her (having some reason for supposing that her brother is safely
out of the way). During this visit they have a violent quarrel, and, in
the midst of it, young Derwent, who has come in through the kitchen,
suddenly appears. Let us also presume that he is intoxicated. He
discovers his sister alone with a man, who is unknown to him, and with
whom she is engaged in a bitter dispute. The instinct to protect her
rises within him. His eyes fall on a weapon, lying, let us suppose,
on the parlour table. He seizes it, and in his drunken rage, staggers
across the room and plunges it into Greywood's heart. What girl could be
placed in a more terrible position? She is naturally forced to shield
her brother. So she hits on a plan for diverting suspicion from him,
which would have been successful, if Fate had not intervened in the most
extraordinary way. You remember, that it came out that on Wednesday she
went in and out of the building very frequently. During one of these
many comings and goings, she manages to extract the key of the vacant
apartment, to have it copied, and to return it without its absence being
noticed. They then wait till the early hours of the morning before
venturing to move the body, which they carry to the place where it was
found. Unfortunately for them, they locked the dead man in, and in this
way rendered their detection much more easy. For it limited the number
of suspected persons to three--to the three people, in fact, who
could have had the key in their possession, even for a short time.
On returning to their own rooms, they discover that they have lost
something of great importance. The young man searches for it long and
vigorously. He does not find it----"
"How do you know he didn't find it?" I interrupted.
"Because _I_ found it," asserted the detective triumphantly.
"Indeed! And what was it?"
"The handle--or, to be more accurate, the head--of the fatal weapon."
"Really!" I exclaimed; "you found it? Where?"
"It had fallen in between the dead man's trousers and the folds of his
shirt."
"It must be pretty small, then."
"It is. Look at it," and he laid on the table a jewelled dagger-hilt
about an inch and a half long.
"That!" I exclaimed contemptuously; "why, that is nothing but a toy."
"Not a toy," replied Mr. Merritt, "but an ornament. A useful ornament;
for it is the head of one of those jewelled hat-pins that have been so
fashionable of late. A dagger with the hilt encrusted with precious
stones is quite a common design."
"Did you find the pin itself?" I asked.
"No, I did not," the detective answered regretfully.
"How do you account for the handle being where you found it?"
"I think that in all probability the pin was removed from the body
immediately after it had done its work, and in doing so the head was
wrenched off. During the excitement which followed no one noticed where
it fell, and its loss was not discovered till the victim had been
disposed of. Young Derwent evidently expected the place to be searched,
which accounts for the care with which he tried to remove all traces of
his presence, and his extreme anxiety to find this, which, he feared, if
discovered on the premises, might prove a sure clue. Now, that theory
hangs together pretty well, don't it?" wound up the detective.
Without answering him, I inquired: "And what do you mean to do now?"
"I'm afraid I shall have to arrest Miss Derwent, as we can find no trace
of her two companions. By the way, it is as you supposed;--the man you
saw leaving the building was no tradesman, so he is probably the person
we want. I have, therefore, given his description to the police, and
hope soon to have some news of him."
"So, Mr. Merritt, you would really arrest a girl on such flimsy
evidence, and for a crime you do not believe her to have committed?" I
inquired indignantly.
"As for the evidence, I think it is fairly complete," answered the
detective, "and I would not arrest Miss Derwent if I were not convinced
that she is implicated in this affair, and think that this is the surest
way of getting hold of the precious couple. I can't allow a criminal to
slip through my fingers for sentimental reasons, and every hour's delay
renders their escape more possible. The girl may be innocent,--I believe
she is; but that one of that trio is guilty I am perfectly sure."
"Are you, really?" I exclaimed. "Well, I am not, and, if you will listen
to me for a few minutes, I think I can easily prove to you that you are
wrong. For since Friday I, too, have thought of a new and interesting
point in connection with this case." The detective looked indulgently at
me.
"You seem to forget," I continued, "and of this fact I am quite certain,
that the victim met his death while wholly or partly unconscious."
Merritt gave a slight start, and his face fell.
"The autopsy must have been made by this time. Did not the doctor find
traces of alcohol or a drug?" I demanded.
"Yes," admitted the detective, "alcohol was found in large quantities."
"Now, Greywood had been dining quietly with a lady, and it is
inconceivable that he could have been drunk, or that, being in that
condition, she should not have noticed it, which she could not have
done--otherwise she would certainly not have allowed him to go up-stairs
with her."
"That is a good point," said the detective.
"Besides, the corpse bears every indication of prolonged dissipation.
Now, no one has hinted that Greywood drank."
"No, but he may have done so, for all that," said Mr. Merritt.
"He could not have done so to the extent of leaving such traces after
death without its being widely known," I asserted. "The dead man must
have been an habitual drunkard, remember, and that the young artist
certainly was not. No, if you persist in believing the murdered man
to be Greywood, you must also believe that Miss Derwent lured him to
her rooms, while he was so intoxicated as to be almost, if not quite
helpless, and there, either killed him herself or allowed her brother to
kill him. In the latter case, do you not think a lady's hat-pin rather a
feeble weapon for a young desperado to select? And that that description
can be applied to Allan Derwent, everything I have heard of him tends to
show.
"On the other hand, let us consider for a moment the probability of the
body being Allan Brown's. What do we find? When last seen he was already
noticeably intoxicated, and what is there more likely than that the
daughter of a saloon-keeper should have no scruples about offering him
the means of becoming still more so? And please notice another thing.
You told me yourself that Mrs. Atkins had spent the greater part of her
life among a very fast lot--so that it is perfectly natural to find a
man of the deceased's habits among her familiar associates. But what
is more unlikely than that a girl brought up as Miss Derwent has been
should go so much out of her way as to choose such a man for her friend?
And then, again, remember how the two women behaved when confronted with
the corpse.
"Miss Derwent walked calmly in and deliberately lifted her heavy veil,
which could easily have hidden from us whatever emotions she may have
felt. Lifts it, I say, before looking at the body. Does that look like
guilt? And what does Mrs. Atkins do? She shows the greatest horror and
agitation. Now, mind you, I do not infer from this that she killed the
man, but I do say that it proves that the man was no stranger to her.
And now I come to the hat-pin. You assume, because you find a certain
thing, and I saw a search carried on, that the man was looking for the
object you found. What reason have you for believing this, except that
it fits in very prettily with your theory of the crime? None. You cannot
trace the possession of such an ornament to Miss Derwent, can you?" The
detective shook his head. "Ah! I thought not. And even if you did, what
would it prove? You say yourself that the design is not an uncommon
one."
"No, but it certainly would be considered a very remarkable coincidence,
and one that would tell heavily against her," the detective replied.
"Yes, I suppose so; but we needn't cross that bridge till we come to it.
As yet, you know nothing as to the ownership of the pin. But I want to
call your attention to another point. If two people have identified the
body as the young artist, so have two others recognised it as that of
Allan Brown, and I assert that the two former are not as worthy of
credence as the two latter."
"How so," inquired Mr. Merritt.
"In the first place, Jim was much less positive as to the supposed
identity of the deceased than Joe was. You admit that; consequently, I
consider Joe's word in this case better than Jim's, and Mrs. Atkins is
certainly a more reliable witness than Mrs. Mulroy, an Irish charwoman,
with all her national love of a sensational story."
"That is all very fine," said Mr. Merritt, "but Mrs. Atkins emphatically
denied knowing the deceased."
"In words, yes; but don't you think this is one of the cases where
actions speak louder than words? By the way, I gather from your still
being willing to discuss the corpse's identity that you have not been
able to trace this mysterious Brown?"
"You are right. The only thing we have found out is, that the berth on
the Boston train which was bought in his name was never occupied."
"And yet, in the face of all this, you still think of arresting Miss
Derwent; of blighting a girl's life in such a wanton manner?"
"Doctor, you're right; I may have been hasty. Mrs. Greywood, the young
man's mother, arrives to-morrow, and her testimony will be decisive.
Should the body not be that of her son (and you have almost convinced me
that it is not), then Miss Derwent's affairs are of no further interest
to me, and who she may, or may not, entertain in her apartment it is not
my business to inquire."
After a little more desultory talk, I left him to his morning paper.
I was now more than ever determined to do a little work in his line
myself, and felt quite sure that talent of a superior order lay dormant
within me. Only the great difficulty was to know where to begin. I must
get nearer the scene of the tragedy, I concluded; I must cultivate
McGorry and be able to prowl around the Rosemere undisturbed. What a
triumph if I should discover the missing hat, for instance!
All this time I was sauntering idly up-town, and as I did so I fell in
with a stream of people coming from the Roman Catholic Cathedral.
Walking among them, I noticed a woman coming rapidly towards me, who
smiled at me encouragingly, even from quite a distance. Her face seemed
strangely familiar, although I was unable to place her. Where had I seen
those flashing black eyes before? Ah! I had it,--Mme. Argot. She was
alone, and as she came nearer I saw she not only recognised me, but that
she was intending to stop and speak to me. I was considerably surprised,
but slowed down also, and we were just opposite to each other when her
husband suddenly stepped to her side. A moment before I could have sworn
he was not in sight. It was quite uncanny. His wife started and glanced
fearfully at him, then tossing her head defiantly she swept past me with
a beaming bow. He took off his hat most respectfully, and his long
sallow face remained as expressionless as a mask. But I was sure that
his piercing black eyes looked at me with secret hostility. The whole
incident only occupied a minute, but it left a deep impression upon me,
and started me off on an entirely new train of thought. What had the
detective said? The guilty person must have been able to procure, for
some time, however short, the key to the vacant apartment. We only knew
of three people who were in a position to have done this. Miss Derwent,
the French butler--well, why not the French butler? Those eyes looked
capable of anything. I was sure that his wife was afraid of him, for I
was certain that she had meant to stop and speak to me, and had been
prevented from doing so by his sudden appearance. But what could she
have wished to say to me? And why that gleam of hatred in her husband's
eye? I felt myself so innocent towards them both. In fact, I had not
even thought of them since the eventful Thursday, and might easily have
passed her by unnoticed if she had not been so eager to attract my
attention. Well, it would be queer if I had tumbled on the solution of
the Rosemere mystery!
As I was now almost opposite my club, I decided to drop in there before
going in search of McGorry. There were hardly any people about, and when
I entered the reading-room I found that it contained but one other
person besides myself. The man was very intent upon his paper, but as I
approached he raised his head, and I at once recognised Mr. Stuart. The
very person, of all others, I most wanted to see. Fate was certainly in
a kindly mood to-day, and I determined it should not be my fault if I
did not make the most of the opportunity thus unexpectedly afforded
me. So when I caught his eye I bowed, and walked boldly up to him. He
answered my salutation politely, but coldly, and appeared anxious to
return to his reading; but I was too full of my purpose to be put off by
anything. I said: "Mr. Stuart, you have quite forgotten me, which is not
at all surprising, as I only met you once before, and that time was not
introduced to you."
He smiled distantly, and looked inquiringly at me through his single
eye-glass.
"It was last Thursday at the Rosemere," I explained.
He appeared startled. I think the idea of my being a detective suggested
itself to him, so I continued, reassuringly:
"My name is Fortescue, and I am a doctor. My office is _vis-à-vis_ to
your building, so, probably on account of my proximity, I was called in
to see the victim, and have naturally become much interested in this
very mysterious affair."
"Indeed!" he remarked.
This was not encouraging, but I persisted.
"A very remarkable case, isn't it?" I said, trying to appear at ease.
"A most unpleasant business," he replied curtly.
My obstinacy was now aroused, so I drew a chair up and sat down.
"Mr. Stuart, I hope you won't think me very impertinent if I ask you
whether you have any reason to be dissatisfied with your two servants?"
He now looked thoroughly alarmed.
"No; why do you ask?"
"You probably know that the identity of the dead man has never been
established?" I continued.
"On the contrary," interrupted Mr. Stuart, "I am just reading an account
of how it has been ascertained that the body is that of a man called
Greywood."
"Oh," I replied airily, "that is only a bit of yellow journalism. If you
read to the end, you will find that they admit that the police place no
credence in their story. I have just been talking to Mr. Merritt about
it----"
"Merritt, the detective, you mean?"
"Yes," I answered.
"Well, he must be an interesting man. I should like to see him."
"Why, you have seen him," I said; "he was the short, clean-shaven man
who stood beside me, and afterwards followed you out."
"Really!" he exclaimed; "I wish I had known that; I have always taken
a great interest in the man. He has cleared up some pretty mysterious
crimes."
"I am sure he would be only too delighted to meet you. He's quite a nice
fellow, too, and terribly keen about this murder," I added, bringing the
conversation back to the point I wanted discussed.
"Yes?" said Mr. Stuart. "Of course, I am interested in it, too; but I
confess that to have a thing like that occur in a building where one
lives is really most unpleasant. I have been pestered to death by
reporters."
"Well, I assure you I am not one," I said, with a laugh; "but, all the
same, I should like to ask you a few questions."
"What are they?" he cautiously inquired.
"Do your butler and his wife get along well together?"
"Why do you want to know?" he asked, in his turn. I told him what had
just happened. He smiled.
"Oh, that doesn't mean anything. Celestin is insanely jealous of his
wife, whom he regards as the most fascinating of her sex, and has a
habit of watching her, I believe, so as to guard against a possible
lover."
"Do they quarrel much?"
"Not lately, I am glad to say. About a year ago it got so bad that I
was forced to tell them that if I heard them doing so again, I should
dismiss them both."
"Dear me, was it as bad as that?"
"Why, yes. One evening, when I came home, I heard shrieks coming from
the kitchen, and, on investigating, found Celestin busily engaged in
chastising his wife!"
"Really?"
"Yes, and the funniest thing is, that she did not seem to mind it much,
although she must have been black and blue from the beating he gave
her. It was some trouble about a cousin, I believe; but, as they
are both excellent servants, I thought it best not to inquire too
particularly into the business."
"And have they been on amicable terms since then?"
"Oh, yes. And, curiously enough, their behaviour to each other is
positively lover-like. Even in the old days, she would flirt and he
would beat her, and then they would bill and coo for a month. At least,
so I judged from the little I saw of them."
I was now anxious to be off, but he seemed to have overcome his aversion
or distrust, and detained me for some time longer, discussing the
tragedy.
When I reached the Rosemere, I found McGorry sitting in his private
office, and remarkably glad to see me. I offered him a cigar, and we
sat down to a comfortable smoke. At first, we talked of nothing but the
murder, but at last I managed to bring the conversation around to gossip
about the different people in the building. This was no easy matter,
for the fellow considered it either impolitic or disloyal to discuss
his tenants, but, luckily, when I broached the subject of the Argots,
he unbosomed himself. He assured me that they were most objectionable
people, and he couldn't see why Mr. Stuart wanted to employ Dagos, as
he called them. He told me that the woman was always having men hanging
around, and that her husband was very violent and jealous.
"But they have stopped quarrelling, I hear."
"Stopped, is it?" he exclaimed with fine scorn. "I suppose Mr. Stuart
told you that. Little he knows about it. They darsn't make a noise when
he's about. But Argot's been terrible to her lately. Why, they made such
a row that I had to go in there the other day and tell him if he didn't
shut up I'd complain to Mr. Stuart. He glared at me, but they've been
quieter since then. I guess she's a bad lot, and deserves what she gets,
or else she wouldn't stand it."
"I say, McGorry, you have seen nothing of a straw hat, have you?"
"Lord! Hasn't Mr. Merritt been bothering me to death about that hat? No,
I haven't found one."
That was all I could get out of him. Not much, but still something.
Returning to my office, I sat for a long time pondering over all I had
seen and heard that morning, and the longer I thought the more likely
did it seem that the corpse was that of some lover of Madame Argot's
whom her husband had killed in an attack of jealous frenzy. I had never
for a moment considered the possibility of the body being Greywood's,
and Merritt thought the objections to its being that of the vanished
Brown equally insurmountable. I was, therefore, forced to believe in
the presence on that fatal Tuesday of yet another man. That he had not
entered by the front door was certain; very well, then, he must have
come in by the back one. Of course, that there should have been three
people answering to the same description in the building at the time
when the murder occurred seemed an incredible conglomeration of
circumstances, but had not the detective himself suggested such a
possibility? The most serious objections to the supposition that Argot
had murdered the man were: first, the smallness of the wound, and,
secondly, the distance of the place where the body was found from
Stuart's apartment. The first difficulty I disposed of easily. Merritt
had failed to convince me that a hat-pin had caused the fellow's death,
and I thought it much more likely that the ornament found on the corpse
was a simple bauble which had nothing to do with the tragedy. Now, a
small stiletto--or, hold, I had it--a skewer! A skewer was a much more
likely weapon than a hat-pin, anyhow, besides being just the sort of a
thing a butler would find ready to his hand.
The next objection was more difficult to meet, yet it did not seem
impossible that, having killed the man, Argot should, with his wife's
connivance, have secreted him in one of the closets which his master
never opened, and then (having procured a duplicate key) have carried
the body, in the wee small hours of the morning, up the three flights of
stairs, and laid it in the empty apartment.
Thoroughly satisfied with this theory, I went off to lunch.
CHAPTER X
THE MISSING HAT
That very evening, as I was sitting quietly in my office, trying to
divert my mind from the murder by reading, my boy came in and told me
that there was a lady in the waiting-room who wanted to see me.
There was something so peculiar about the way he imparted this very
commonplace information that my curiosity was aroused; but I refrained
from questioning him, and curtly bade him show the lady in.
When she appeared I was no longer surprised at his manner, for a more
strange and melodramatic figure I have seldom seen, even on the stage.
The woman was tall and draped, or rather shrouded, in a long, black
cloak, and a thick black veil was drawn down over her face. Her costume,
especially considering the excessive heat, and that the clock pointed to
9.15, was alone enough to excite comment; but to a singularity in dress
she added an even greater singularity of manner. She entered the room
hesitatingly, and paused near the threshold to glance apprehensively
about her, as if fearing the presence of some hidden enemy. The woman
must be mad, I thought, as I motioned her to a chair and sat down
opposite to her.
With a theatrical gesture, she threw back her veil, and to my
astonishment I recognised the handsome, rotund features of--Madame
Argot! She smiled, evidently enjoying my bewilderment.
"Meestair Docteur, I no disturb you?" she inquired.
"Certainly not, madame; what can I do for you?"
"Ah, meestair," she whispered, looking towards the door, "I so afraid
zat my 'usban' 'e come back and fin' me gone; 'e terribly angry!"
"Why should he be angry?" I asked.
"He no like me to speak viz you. He no vant me to show you zis," she
answered, pointing mysteriously to her left shoulder.
"What is it that he doesn't want me to see?"
"I go show you," and, opening her dress, she disclosed two terrible
bruises, each as large as the palm of my hand; "and zat is not all," she
continued, and, as she turned round, I saw that a deep gash disfigured
one of her shoulder-blades.
I was really shocked.
"How did this happen?" I inquired.
"Oh, I fall," she said, smiling coquettishly at me.
"A very queer fall," I muttered.
The wound was several days old and not serious, but, owing to neglect,
had got into a very bad condition.
"Ah, zat is better," she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, when I had
thoroughly cleansed the cut. I was just preparing to bandage it up, when
she stopped me.
"No, meestair; not zat! My 'usban', 'e see zat, 'e know I come here, and
zen 'e angry. Ze vashin' and ze salve zey make me better!"
"But look here, my good woman," I exclaimed, indignantly; "do you mean
to say that your husband is such a brute that he objects to your having
your wound dressed--a wound that you got in such a peculiar way, too?"
Her manner changed instantly; she drew herself haughtily up, and began
buttoning up her dress.
"My 'usban' 'e no brute; 'e verra nice man; 'e love' me verra much."
"Really!"
"Yes," she asserted, "'e love me much, _oh oui, je vous assure qu'il
m'adore_!" and she tossed her head and looked at me through the thick
lashes of her half-closed eyes; "'e man, you know, 'e sometime jealous,"
she continued, smiling, as if his jealousy were a feather in her cap.
"Well, Madame Argot; that cut should be looked after, and, as it is in
such a place that you cannot properly attend to it yourself, you must
come in here every day, and I will dress it for you. Your husband
cannot carry his devotion so far as to object to your covering it with a
clean piece of linen, so I advise you to do that."
"Alla right, meestair, and zank you verra much. I come again ven I
can, ven my 'usban' 'e go out sometime," and, after carefully wrapping
herself up again, she sallied forth with infinite precautions.
Of course, the woman is a silly fool, and eaten up with vanity, but
she had been pretty roughly handled, and that she should consider
such treatment a tribute to her charms, seemed to me perfectly
incomprehensible.
After reading for some time longer, I decided to go to bed, and,
therefore, went into the front room to turn the lights out. Having done
so, I lingered near the window, for the temperature here was at least
several degrees cooler than the room I had just left. Although it was
still early, the street appeared to be completely deserted, not a
footfall was to be heard. As I stood there, half hidden by the curtain,
a queer muffled noise fell upon my ears. It seemed to come from outside,
and I moved nearer to the window, so as to try and discover what it
could be. As I did so, a white face, not a foot away, peered suddenly
into mine. I was so startled that I fell back a step, and before I
recovered myself the creature was gone. I rushed out into the hall,
and, unfastening the front door as quickly as I could, dashed into the
street. Not a soul was in sight! The slight delay had given the fellow a
chance to escape. Who could it have been? I wondered. A burglar, tempted
by my open window? Or Argot, perhaps? This latter supposition was much
the more alarming. What if he had seen his wife come out of my office? I
thought of the murdered man, and shuddered. Notwithstanding the heat, I
shut and bolted the window, and, as an extra precaution, also locked the
door which connected the front room with my office and bedroom. I had no
mind to be the next victim of an insane man's jealousy. All night long
I was haunted by that white face! More and more it appeared to me to
resemble Argot, till at last I determined to see Mr. Merritt and ask him
if we had not sufficient grounds to warrant the Frenchman's arrest.
But when the morning came, things looked very different. Fred's second
letter (which I have inserted in the place where it rightly belongs in
the development of this story) arrived, and the thought of May Derwent's
illness put everything else out of my mind. I might as well confess at
once, that with me it had been a case of love at first sight, and that
from the day I saw her at the Rosemere the dearest wish of my heart was
to have her for my wife. And now she was ill and another man--a man who
also loved her--had been summoned by her to fill the place I coveted.
The consciousness of _his_ devotion would uphold her during her
illness, and his company help to while away the weary hours of
convalescence. And here was I, tied to my post, and forced to abandon
the field to another without even a struggle. For I felt it would be
little short of murder to desert my patients while the thermometer stood
high in the nineties and most of the other doctors were out of town. But
if I could not go to my lady, she should, at any rate, have something of
mine to bear her company. Rushing out to a nearby florist's I bought out
half his stock. Of course, my gift had to go to her anonymously, but,
even so, it was a comfort to me to think that, perhaps, my roses might
be chosen to brighten her sick room. At all events, they would serve to
remind her that there were other men in the world who loved her besides
the one who was with her at that moment.
The afternoon edition of the _New York Bugle_ contained the announcement
that Mrs. Greywood had arrived in town that morning, and, on being shown
the body of the Rosemere victim, had emphatically denied that it was
that of her son. She thinks that the latter has gone off cruising, which
he has been expecting to do for some time past; and that, of course,
would explain his not having been heard from. The possibility of May
Derwent's having been, even indirectly implicated in the murder, was
thus finally disposed of. But I had been so sure, from the very first,
of the ultimate result of their investigations, that Mrs. Greywood's
statement was hardly a relief to me. Of course, I was very glad that no
detective would now have an excuse for prying into my darling's affairs.
Otherwise, I was entirely indifferent to their suspicions.
But these various occurrences helped to obliterate the memory of the
events of the previous night, and, as I had no time to hunt up the
detective, I decided to think no more about my strange adventure.
I was rather late in leaving the hospital that afternoon, and when I
reached home my boy told me that several patients were already waiting
for me. I hurried into my office and sat down at my desk, on which a
number of letters had accumulated. I was looking these over when I heard
the door open, and, glancing up, my eyes fell upon--Argot! I stared at
him for a moment in silence. Could this reserved and highly respectable
person be my visitor of the night before? Never, I concluded. He stood
respectfully near the door, till I motioned him to a seat. He sat
gingerly down on the very edge of the chair, and, laying his hat on my
desk, pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. I waited for
him to begin, which he seemed to find some difficulty in doing. At last
he said:
"Meestair, I come about a verra sad zing."
"Yes?" I inquired.
"You 'ave seen my vife?"
I did not answer at once; then, as I was uncertain how much he knew, I
decided that it would be safest to confine myself to a bare nod.
"She is a verra fine woman, not?" he demanded, with visible pride.
"Very much so," I assented. What could he be leading up to, I wondered?
"But, helas," he continued, "she is a little--" here he touched his
forehead significantly, while he gazed at me less keenly from under his
bushy brows.
"Really, you surprise me," was all I said.
"She quite wild some time," he insisted.
"Indeed?"
"Yes; she do some strange zings; she verra good vife--sough--verra good
cook." He paused.
"What are you telling me all this for? What do you want me to do about
it?" I inquired.
"Eh bien, Meestair; it is because she vant to come to see you, and she
like you to be sorry, so she 'ave t'rowed herself down and 'ave 'urt
'erself. She lika ze mens too much," he added, fiercely, while a
malignant expression flitted across his face.
It no longer seemed to me impossible that this middle-aged butler and
the apparition of the night before could be identical, and there and
then I determined that in future a pistol should repose in the top
drawer of my desk.
"Perhaps your wife is slightly hysterical," I suggested.
Now, for the first time, my eyes left his face, and happened to fall on
his hat, which was lying brim upwards at my elbow. My astonishment, when
I noticed that the initials A. B. were printed in large letters on the
inner band, was so great that I could hardly control myself. I looked
for the maker's name--Halstead, Chicago, I made out. Could this be the
missing hat? It seemed incredible. Argot would never dare display so
openly such a proof of his guilt! But if he were demented (which I
firmly believed him to be) would not this flaunting of his crime be one
of the things one might expect of an insane man? I had been so startled
that it was some minutes before I dared raise my eyes, fearing that
their expression would betray me. I have absolutely no idea what he was
talking about during that time, but the next sentence I caught was: "She
vill, she vill come, but you jus' say, nonsense, zat is nossing, and zen
she go."
"Very well," I assured him, anxious to get rid of the fellow. "I quite
understand;" and, rising from my chair, I dismissed him with a nod.
My office was still full of people, and I think that seeing those other
patients was about the most difficult thing I ever did. But at last even
that ordeal was over, and I was able to start out in search of the
detective. I had a good deal of difficulty in finding him, and, after
telephoning all over creation, at last met him accidentally, not far
from the Rosemere. I was so excited that I hailed him from a long way
off, pointing significantly the while to my hat. By Jove, you should
have seen him sprint! I had no idea those short legs of his could make
such good time. We met almost directly in front of my door.
"What is it?" he panted.
Without answering, I took him by the elbow and led him into the house.
He sank exhausted into one of my office chairs.
"What's up?" he repeated.
"Well," I began slowly, for I meant to enjoy my small triumph to the
full, "I only wanted to ask you if you have yet found the missing hat?"
"No; have you?"
"No; I can't say I have." His face fell perceptibly. "But I know where a
straw hat bearing the name of a Chicago hatter, and with the initials,
'A. B.,' stamped on the inside band, can be found," I added.
"You don't say so? Where is it?" He spoke quietly, but I noticed that
his eyes glistened.
"I don't quite know where it is at this moment, but when I last saw it,
it was on this desk."
"On this desk, and you allowed it--" He paused, speechless with disgust.
"Certainly, I allowed it to be taken away, if that is what you mean.
However, you can easily get it again. It is not far off. But, I assure
you, I have no intention of appearing in the character of the corpse in
another sensational tragedy."
"Who brought it here?" demanded Mr. Merritt.
"Well, do you think that Argot would be a likely person?" I asked.
"Argot!" He was evidently surprised.
"Yes, Argot." And I told him all that I had lately discovered about
the couple, and of their separate visits to me. Neither did I fail to
mention the strange apparition of the night before, which had caused me
so much uneasiness.
He seemed much impressed, and stared gravely before him for some
minutes.
"You are really not at all sure that the white face belonged to Argot,
are you?"
"No," I acknowledged.
"Well, Doctor," he continued, after a slight pause, "it's a queer thing
that, just as you have succeeded in persuading me that a hat-pin is
hardly a masculine weapon, and that, therefore, I ought to look for a
murderess, and not a murderer, you, on the other hand, should have come
to the conclusion that a man is the perpetrator of this crime."
"Ah! but you see, Mr. Merritt, I don't believe the victim was killed by
a hat-pin. I think he was pierced through the heart by a skewer, which,
in a kitchen, Argot would have found under his hand."
"Well, Doctor, you may be right. Live and learn, I always say. I shall
at once call on the Argots, and have a look at this hat."
"Don't you think you had better have him arrested, first, and question
him afterwards? I am convinced he is insane, and likely to become
violent at any moment; we don't want any more murders, you know."
"That is all very well, Doctor; but I can't have the fellow arrested
till I have something to go on. The hat you saw may not be the one we
want; or, again, Argot may have found it."
"Well, if you insist on bearding him, let me go with you."
"Certainly not. You are young, and--well, not uncalculated to arouse his
marital jealousy, while I," patting his portly person, "am not likely
to cause him any such anxieties. Even age and fat have their uses,
sometimes."
"But he may try to cut your throat," I objected.
"One of my men will be just outside, and will probably get to me before
he has quite finished me." He had risen, and stood with his hand on the
door-knob.
"Look here, Doctor, I'd like to bet you that Argot is innocent, and that
a woman, and a mighty pretty woman, too, is the guilty party."
"All right, Mr. Merritt; I'll take you. I bet you fifty dollars that a
man committed this crime."
"Done!" exclaimed the detective, and, pulling out his pocket-book, he
recorded the bet with great care. He looked at me for a moment longer
with one of those quiet enigmatic smiles of his, and departed.
I watched him cross the street and enter the back door of the Rosemere.
A moment afterwards a shabby-looking man came slouching along and
stopped just outside, apparently absorbed in watching something in the
gutter. The detective remained only a minute or so in the building, and
when he came out he gave me a slight nod, which I interpreted as a sign
that Argot was not at home. He took not the slightest notice of the
tramp, and, turning north, trotted briskly up town.
As I watched him disappear, I wondered what made him so sure of the
Frenchman's innocence, and I tried vainly to guess who the woman could
be whom he now had in mind. Miss Derwent, I was glad to say, was out
of the question. He himself had proved to me by the most convincing
arguments that Mrs. Atkins could not be guilty. And who else was there
to suspect? For the criminal must have been an inmate of the building.
That was one of the few facts which the detective claimed was
established beyond a doubt.
CHAPTER XI
MADAME ARGOT'S MAD HUSBAND.
After my interview with the detective, I went out to visit some
patients, and on my way home I met young Atkins, whom I had not
seen since the preceding Thursday. Although we had met but once, he
recognised me immediately, and greeted me most cordially. I was,
however, shocked to see what havoc a short week had wrought in his
looks. His face was drawn and pale, and he appeared nervous and ill at
ease. Notwithstanding he had been walking in the opposite direction, he
at once turned back, and we sauntered towards Madison Avenue together.
Our chief topic of conversation was naturally the murder, and we both
remarked how strange it was that the identity of the victim had not yet
been established.
"I suppose," said Atkins, "that we shall now never know who the man was,
for I hear he was buried yesterday."
"Oh, that doesn't at all follow," I assured him; "photographs have been
taken of the corpse, and, if necessary, it can be exhumed at any time."
Was my imagination playing me a trick, or was the young fellow really
troubled by this information? We had now reached my destination, and, as
I held out my hand to bid him good-bye, I said: "I am afraid Mrs. Atkins
must have such unpleasant associations with me that she will not care to
have me recalled to her notice; otherwise I should ask you to remember
me to her. I hope she is well, and has not suffered too much from this
prolonged heat?"
"I fear she's not very well," he replied. "It seems to have upset her
nerves a good deal to have a murder occur in the building."
"Yes, that is only natural. Wouldn't it be advisable to take her away
from here for a short time?" I suggested.
"I only wish she'd go; but she's got some maggot in her head, and
refuses to stir." He paused a moment and glanced almost timidly at me.
"Doctor," he burst out, "I wish you'd come and dine with us this
evening. It would be a real kindness. Wife and I both have the blues,
and you'd cheer us up no end."
I was rather taken aback by his eagerness. "I'm very sorry, I can't
possibly do so to-night, for I've just promised to dine with an old
friend, who is only in town for a short time."
"Well, if you can't come to-night, won't you come to-morrow?" he urged.
I hesitated a moment. On the one hand I was anxious to oblige Atkins,
whom I liked, and quite curious to see his wife again, and fathom, if
possible, the cause of the change in her husband; while, on the other
hand, I felt some delicacy about invading a lady's home when I had
reason to believe that my being there would not be agreeable to her, for
I remembered that she had refused even to look at me on leaving the
coroner's presence.
"If you are sure Mrs. Atkins would care to see me, I shall be delighted
to accept your invitation."
"Why should she object to see you?" he demanded.
"There is really no reason," I hastened to explain; "only as you tell me
your wife has been much upset by the murder, and is consequently rather
nervous at present, I don't wish to inflict myself on her if there is
the least danger that my company may recall that tragic occurrence too
vividly to her."
Atkins gave me a long, penetrating look, but having apparently satisfied
himself that I had given my real reason, he said:
"Nonsense, Doctor! Mrs. Atkins isn't as unreasonable as that. I'm sure
she'll be glad to see you. Now, remember, we shall expect you at seven
sharp to-morrow."
"All right," I called back to him.
I have given such a long account of this trifling incident, because for
some time afterwards I could not get the young fellow's face out of
my mind, and I kept imagining all sorts of possible, and impossible,
reasons for his changed looks. Could it be that he suspected the
murdered man to have been a friend of his wife's, and feared that she
might have some guilty knowledge of his death?
As I realised how such a thought would torture him, I wanted to go at
once and tell him how my first grave suspicions had been confirmed, till
now I was fully convinced of Argot's guilt. But, fearing that some
injudicious word might show him that I had guessed the cause of his
anxiety, I refrained. That evening after dining quietly at the Club with
an old school-fellow I walked slowly home, down Madison Avenue, which,
with its long rows of houses, almost all of which were closed up for the
summer, presented an extremely dreary aspect. Although it was barely
nine o'clock, the streets in that part of the town were well nigh
deserted, everyone who could do so having fled from the city. The
night was extremely dark, damp and hot. As I was nearing my office, I
observed that the back door of the Rosemere was being cautiously opened,
and a woman's head, covered with a thick veil, peeped out. Madame Argot,
I thought, and so it proved. Having satisfied herself that her lord and
master was not in sight, she darted across the street, and disappeared
in my house. I hurried up, so as not to keep her waiting, and, as I
did so, I fancied I heard some one running behind me. Turning quickly
around, I detected nothing suspicious. The only person I could see was a
very fat man, whom I had passed several blocks back. Was he nearer than
he should have been? I couldn't tell. At any rate, he was still far
enough away for it to be impossible to distinguish his features, but
as I was sure that he was not Argot, I did not wait for him to come up
with me. On entering the reception room, I found Madame, still heavily
veiled, huddled up in a corner, where she thought she could not be seen
from the street. I told her to go into the office and, approaching the
window, I looked out. There was still nobody in sight except the fat
man, and he had crossed over, and was ambling quietly along on the other
side of the way. He was almost opposite now, and, after looking at him
critically, I decided that it was too improbable that the running foot
steps I had heard following me had been his. But whose were they, then?
I trusted that the murder had not affected my nerves, also. At any rate,
I decided to take the precaution of shutting and bolting the window,
and of pulling down the blind, none of which things, during this hot
weather, had I been in the habit of doing. But I did not intend to
give that white-faced apparition, to whom I attributed the mysterious
footsteps, the chance of falling upon me unaware, especially not while
Madame Argot was on the premises.
"Well, how goes it?" I inquired, when I at last rejoined her.
"Oh, much, much better, Meestair."
I saw, indeed, when I examined the cut, that it was healing splendidly.
"Meestair Docteur," she began as soon as I had settled down to dress her
wound, "'usban' 'e come 'ere zis mornin'?"
"Yes," I assented.
"Ana what 'e say, Meestair?"
"Oh, I can't tell you that! Yon wouldn't like me to repeat to him all
that you say to me, would you?"
"No; but zen, me is different; I know 'e say zat me a bad 'oman; I know,
I know!"
"Indeed, he said nothing of the sort, and if you don't keep a little
quieter, I shall really not be able to do my work properly."
"Oh, pardon; I vill be so good."
"By the way," I inquired, "did Mr. Merritt call on you to-day?"
"Ah! you means ze gentleman vat I see, ven I go ze dead man's?"
"Yes."
"He a big policeman, not?" she asked.
"Well, not a very big one," I answered, with a smile, "but he does a
good deal of important work for the police."
"Ah, yes. Important, _oui_," she nodded. "Vy 'e come see my 'usban'? Do
you know? I not know; my 'usban', 'e not know, eizer."
"He didn't see your husband, then?"
"No; Argot, he not in."
"Well, I think Mr. Merritt is looking for a hat containing the initials,
A. B., and he wanted to ask your husband if he had found it, by any
chance."
She started up quite regardless of her wound.
"Ah, _par example, oui_! Yes, indeed," she exclaimed, vehemently.
"Your husband has found such a hat?"
"Yes, yes; I tell you. 'e make _une_ scenes about zat 'at!" she burst
out, angrily.
"But why?" I asked. "Why should he make a scene about it?"
"Ah!" she said, tossing her head coquettishly, though real annoyance
still lingered in her voice, "'e say it is ze 'at of my lover!"
"Really? Have you a lover whose initials are A. B.?"
"I 'ave no lover at all, Meestair! but I 'ave a cousin whose names begin
vis zose letters."
"I see; but how did your husband happen to get his hat?"
"I not know; Argot 'e come in von evenin'----"
"What evening?" I interrupted.
"Tuesday evening, las' veek--" I suppose my face betrayed my excitement,
for she stopped and asked, anxiously: "Vat is ze matter?"
"Nothing, nothing! go on; I am merely much interested in your story.
Well, what happened on Tuesday?"
"Vell, Meestair," she resumed, "my 'usban' 'e go out to ze restaurant
vere ze Frenchmens zey go play cards. Zen my cousin, M. Andrè Besnard,
'e come to call. My 'usban' 'e not zere, but I say, sit down; perhaps
Argot 'e come in. My cousin 'e live in Chicago; 'e never seen my
'usban'; 'e not know 'e jealous. So 'e stay, ana 'e stay, an ve talks of
France, ven ve vas chil'ren, and I forgets ze time, till I 'ears ze bell
vat my 'usban' 'e ring, ana I looks at ze clocks an I see it say eleven.
Zen I frightened. I know Argot dreadful angry if 'e fin' a man so late
vis me. So I say, go avay, quick; my 'usban' 'e jealous; 'e no believe
you my cousin. Go up ze stairs an' 'ide on ze next floor. Ven my 'usban'
'e come in, I shut ze kitchen door, and zen you can come down and go
out. All vould 'ave been vell if 'e done zis, but zat imbecile 'e peeped
over ze bannisters ven my 'usban' come in. But my 'usban' not quite sure
'e see somebody, so 'e say nossing, but ven I shut ze kitchen door 'e
sit near it an' listen, and in a few minutes I 'ears creek, creek, an'
'e 'ears it, too; an' 'e jumps up, and I jumps up, for I afraid 'e kill
my cousin; 'e look so angry. An' I puts my arms quite around 'im an' 'e
fights, but I hold on, an' 'e falls vis me, an' so I got my bruises; but
I no care, for I 'ears ze front door slam, so I knows Andrè is safe. In
a minute my 'usban' he up and rushes out, an' me too; but ven I see
Andrè is gone, I come back, but Argot 'e not come back."
"Your husband did not come back, you say?"
"No; 'e stay looking for Andrè----"
"How long was it before he came in again?"
"Ah! I not know," she exclaimed, impatiently, "'alf an hour, vone hour;
me get tired an' I go to bed. Ven Argot 'e come in 'e terribly angry; 'e
storm; 'e rage; 'e say, zat vas your lover; I say, no; zat vas nobody
I knows. But hélas, I am unfortunate, for 'e find Andrè's card vat 'e
left, for Andrè quite ze gentleman; zen, I sink, 'e have a fit; 'e swear
'e kill Andrè. But 'e not know vere Andrè is, because zere is no address
on ze cards, but I know vere 'e is, for Andrè 'e told me. So ze next
mornin' I writes to my cousin an' tell 'im my 'usban' 'e come for to
kill 'im. But Argot 'e go out every day to try an' fin' 'im. And 'e not
fin' im," she wound up, triumphantly, "because a friend of mine she tell
me zat Andrè 'ave left New York an' 'ave gone back to Chicago."
"Did your cousin look much like the corpse?"
"Ah, but not at all. My cousin 'e little man vid no beard, for 'e is a
vaitor."
"And you are sure your husband did not know him by sight."
"But certain," she asserted, vehemently.
"And you have no idea how your husband got hold of his hat?"
"No, Meestair, for I t'ought zat Andrè 'e took 'is 'at. An' Argot 'e say
nossing about it till vone day----"
"What day?" I interrupted, again.
"Oh! vat zat matter? Thursday or Friday of last veek, I sinks. Vell, I
come into the kitchen and zere is my 'usban' vis zat 'at. An' 'e glares
at me. I no understand; I say, Vat you got? Vy don't you sit down, an'
take off your at? 'e say, it is not my 'at; it 'as A. B. inside it, an'
I vill vear it till I can bring you ze 'ead of zis A. B.; zis charming
cousin whom you love so much. Yes! vait only, an' you shall have it, an'
zen you shall vatch it rot!! And you dare say nossing--nossing,--for you
be afraid ve gets 'anged for murder. But _I_ say it no murder to kill ze
lover of my vife. I say, Argot, you crazy; vere you get zat 'at? 'e say,
Never min'."
"Aren't you afraid to stay with your husband? In one of his fits of
insane jealousy he might kill you."
"Oh, no," she assured me; "'e beat me, but 'e no kill me; 'e love me
too much. It make 'im too sad if I die. But tell me vy Andrè 'e send ze
police for 'is 'at?"
Before I could answer her, I heard a crash in the hall, and two voices
raised in vehement altercation. One of the voices belonged to my boy;
the other, I didn't recognise.
"My 'usban'," whispered Madame Argot; "'e kill you."
She was as pale as death, and trembling with terror.
"No, you don't, sir; no, you don't," I heard the boy say. "Nobody goes
into the Doctor's office, without being announced, while I'm here."
I rushed to the door leading into the hall, and had only just time to
turn the key before a heavy mass was hurled against it. Luckily, the
door was pretty solid, but it couldn't stand many such onslaughts.
Quickly locking the other one, which opened into the waiting-room, I
turned back to Madame Argot. What was to be done with her? For I was far
from sharing her belief in her own safety. My office has only one other
means of exit, as you know. This is a third door leading to my bed-room
and bath-room. I decided at once that it was useless trying to hide
Madame in either of these places. Any moment the door might give way
before her husband's insane strength, and, then, it would infuriate him
still more to find his wife in such a compromising position. No, the
window, which opened on a small court, was our only hope. It was not a
big drop to the ground, and, once there, she could easily make her way
to the street, through the janitor's apartment. Without a word, I seized
her and dragged her to the window.
"Put your feet out," I whispered; "give me your hands, and now let
yourself go. It won't hurt you, and you will be able to escape through
the basement."
"I cannot; I am afraid," she murmured, drawing back.
A pistol shot rang out, followed by the sound of splintering wood. I had
no time to turn around, and see what had happened.
"Jump at once," I commanded.
She obeyed, almost unconscious from fear. She was pretty heavy, and
very nearly had me out, too, but I managed to draw back, although the
exertion was such that my arms ached for several hours afterwards. I
stopped a moment to close the window partly, fearing that if I left it
wide open, it might attract the madman's attention, and that he would be
after her before she had time to get to a place of safety.
Turning back into the room, I saw that a bullet had pierced one of the
panels of the door around which the fight seemed to be centred. A minute
more, and it would give way. I rushed to the other one, and, quickly
unlocking it, dashed through the waiting room, and caught the lunatic
in the rear. With a bound, I was upon him, my two hands encircling his
throat.
"Stand clear of that pistol!" I shouted, as Argot (for it was indeed he)
tried to fire over his shoulder. A young man I had not seen before
sprang forward, and, seizing his arm, bent it back till it caused a yell
of pain and the pistol fell from the madman's grasp. At this juncture
the janitor appeared, and the four of us had little difficulty in
overpowering the fellow, although he still fought like a demon. As soon
as he was safely bound, I sent my boy to telephone for an ambulance.
I now observed, for the first time, that Argot had evidently tried to
disguise himself. An enormous pillow, stuffed inside his trousers, and
several towels, wound around his shoulders, gave him the appearance of
extreme obesity. So, after all, he had been the fat man, and the running
footsteps had been his. Well, I was glad that one mystery, at least, was
cleared up.
The young stranger, whose opportune appearance had, in all probability,
saved my life, still knelt beside the prostrate man, and he and I,
together, succeeded in preventing him from breaking his bonds during one
of his many paroxysms of frenzy.
"Thank you very much for your timely assistance," I said; "you are a
brave man."
"Oh, not at all," he replied; "I am on duty here; I've been shadowing
this man all the evening."
We had an awful job getting Argot into the ambulance, and I confess I
never felt more relieved in my life than when I saw him safely locked up
in a padded cell.
As I was coming away from the hospital, I met Merritt hurrying towards
it.
"Hello!" he called out; "is it all over?"
"Yes; he's locked up, if that's what you mean."
"Well, Doctor, you've had a pretty lively time of it, my man tells me."
"It's entirely owing to your forethought, in having Argot immediately
watched, that some of us are alive at present."
"You don't say; well, let's have a drink to celebrate the occasion. You
look a little white around the gills, Doctor."
After tossing down my second bracer, I said: "Well, Mr. Merritt, how do
you feel about your bet now?"
"Oh, all right," he answered, with a twinkle in his eye.
I stared at him in bewilderment. Then, remembering that of course he had
not yet heard Madame's story, I proceeded at once to impart it to him.
"Very curious," was the only comment he made.
"But, look here, Mr. Merritt; what more do you want to convince you of
the Frenchman's guilt?"
"Proofs; that's all," he replied cheerfully.
"But what further proof do you need? Here you have a man who is
undoubtedly insane, who is furthermore an inmate of the Rosemere, and
who, on Tuesday evening, went out with the avowed intention of killing
his supposed rival; and, to cap the climax, the victim's hat is found in
his possession. And yet, you have doubts!"
The detective only smiled quietly.
"By the way," he said, "I must go to the hospital, and get that hat
before it disappears again."
I started.
"It didn't occur to me before, but when we put him into the ambulance,
he was bareheaded," I confessed.
Merritt uttered an exclamation of impatience.
"We'll go to your place, then; it must be there. When you saw him in the
street, he had on a hat similar to the one we are looking for, didn't
he?"
"Yes."
"Then it's probably somewhere in your hall. That you shouldn't have
noticed its absence does not surprise me so much, but that my man should
have overlooked an article of such importance, does astonish me. It's
his business to look after just such details."
When we reached the house we had to fight our way through a crowd of
reporters, but in the hall, sure enough, we found the hat. Merritt
positively pounced on it, and, taking it into my office, examined it
carefully.
"What do you think of it?" I at last asked.
"I'm not yet prepared to say, Doctor; besides, you and I are now playing
on different sides of the fence--of that $50, in other words, and till I
can produce my pretty criminal, mum's the word."
"When will that be?"
"Let me see," replied the detective; "to-day is Tuesday. What do you say
to this day week? If I haven't been able to prove my case before then, I
will acknowledge myself in the wrong and hand you the $50."
"That suits me," I said.
I am ashamed to say that all this time I had forgotten about poor
Madame. Having remembered her, I went to her at once, and found her
violently hysterical and attended by several well-meaning, if helpless,
Irish women, who listened to her voluble French with awe, not unmixed
with distrust. I at last succeeded in calming her, but I was glad her
master was spending several days out of town, for I could imagine
nothing more distasteful to that correct gentleman than all this noise
and notoriety. I was afraid that if he heard that more reporters were
awaiting his return, he would not come back at all.
CHAPTER XII
A PROFESSIONAL VISIT OUT OF TOWN
BEVERLEY, L. I.,
Monday, August 15.
DEAR CHARLEY:
My leg is worse. Won't you run down here and have a look at it? I
also want your advice about May Derwent.
Aff. yours,
FRED.
When I received this note early on Tuesday morning, I at once made
arrangements for a short absence. Now that duty, and not inclination
alone, called me elsewhere, I had no scruples about leaving New York;
and when, a few hours later, after visiting my most urgent cases, I
found myself on a train bound for Beverley, I blessed Fred's leg, which
had procured me this unexpected little holiday. What a relief it was to
leave the dust and the noise of the city behind, and to feast my eyes
once more on the sight of fields and trees.
On arriving at my destination, I drove immediately to the Cowper's
cottage. I found Fred in bed, with his leg a good deal swollen. His
anxiety to go to the Derwents had tempted him to use it before it was
sufficiently strong; consequently, he had strained it, and would now be
laid up with it for some time longer.
"Well, Charley," he said, when I had finished replacing the bandages, "I
don't suppose you are very sorry to be in this part of the world, eh? My
leg did you a good turn, didn't it?"
I assented, curtly, for, although I agreed with him from the bottom of
my heart, I didn't mean to be chaffed on a certain subject, even by him.
In order, probably, to tease me, he made no further allusion to the
other object of my visit, so that I was, at last, forced to broach the
subject myself.
"Oh, May? She's really much better. There is no doubt of it. I think the
idea of brain fever thoroughly frightened her, for now she meekly obeys
orders, and takes any medicine I prescribe without a murmur."
"Well, but then why did you write that you wished to consult me about
her?"
"Because, Charley," he replied, laying aside his previously flippant
manner, "although her general health has greatly improved, I can't
say as much for her nervous condition. The latter seems to me so
unsatisfactory that I am beginning to believe that Mrs. Derwent was
not far wrong when she suggested that her daughter might be slightly
demented."
I felt myself grow cold, notwithstanding the heat of the day. Then,
remembering the quiet and collected way she had behaved under
circumstances as trying as any I could imagine a girl's being placed in,
I took courage again. May was not insane. I would not believe it.
"At all events," continued Fred, "I felt that she should not be left
without medical care, and, as I can't get out to see her, and as she
detests the only other doctor in the place, I suggested to Mrs. Derwent
that she should consult you. Being a friend of mine, ostensibly here on
a simple visit, it would be the most natural thing in the world for you
to go over to their place, and you could thus see May, and judge of her
condition without her knowing that she was under observation."
"That's well. It is always best to see a nervous patient off guard, if
possible. Now, tell me all the particulars of the case."
When he had done this, I could not refrain from asking whether Norman
was still there.
"Certainly! And seems likely to remain indefinitely."
"Really?"
"Yes! I forgot to tell you that May begged to be allowed to see him
yesterday. As she was able to get up, and lie on the sofa, I consented,
for I feared a refusal would agitate her too much. I only stipulated
that he should not remain with her over half an hour. What occurred
during this meeting, of course, I don't know. But May experienced no bad
effects. On the contrary, her mother writes that she has seemed calmer
and more cheerful ever since."
"They are probably engaged. Don't you think so?" And as I put the
question, I knew that if the answer were affirmative my chance of
happiness was gone for ever.
"I don't believe it," he answered, "for after his interview with May,
Norman spent the rest of the day sunk in the deepest gloom. He ate
scarcely anything, and when forced to remain in the house (feeling, I
suppose, that politeness demanded that he should give us at any rate a
little of his society) he moved restlessly from one seat to another.
Several times he tried to pull himself together and to join in the
conversation, but it was no use; notwithstanding all his efforts he
would soon relapse into his former state of feverish unrest. Now, that
doesn't look like the behaviour of a happy lover, does it?
"Since he has been here he has spent most of his time prowling about
the Derwents' house, and as Alice was leaving their place yesterday
evening she caught a glimpse of him hiding behind a clump of bushes just
outside their gate. At least, she is almost sure that it was he, but
was so afraid it would embarrass him to be caught playing sentinel that,
after a cursory glance in his direction, she passed discreetly by.
Afterwards it occurred to her that she should have made certain of his
identity, for the man she saw may have been some questionable character.
We are not sure that May's extreme nervousness is not due to the fact
that she is being persecuted by some unscrupulous person, her brother,
for instance. You know I have always believed that he was in some way
connected with her illness."
"I know you have."
"But to return to Norman," continued Fred. "I not only suspect him of
haunting her door by day, but of spending a good part of the night
there. At any rate, I used to hear him creeping in and out of the house
at all sorts of unusual hours. The first night I took him for a burglar,
and showed what I con
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