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Title: The Crookshaven murder
Author: Alexander Morrison
Release date: September 28, 2026 [eBook #79666]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1927
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79666
Credits: Tim Miller, Dori Allard, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CROOKSHAVEN MURDER ***
Transcriber’s Notes: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores:
_italics_.
The Crookshaven Murder
THE CROOKSHAVEN
MURDER
BY
ALEXANDER MORRISON
[Illustration: (Colophon)]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1927
COPYRIGHT, 1927, BY ALEXANDER MORRISON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
TO
MY MOTHER
WHO ONCE SAID THAT
ANY BOOK WITH SUCH A DEDICATION
MUST BE A GOOD ONE
CONTENTS
I. COMEDY 1
II. TRAGEDY 18
III. SUSPICION 35
IV. EZRA MAKES A PROFESSIONAL CALL 52
V. MRS. BASCOM LAYS A GHOST 68
VI. ROBBERY 84
VII. A LIE 99
VIII. THREAT AND PROMISE 115
IX. GROPING 132
X. ESCAPE 148
XI. EZRA TURNS THIEF 163
XII. ‘IT’S GONE!’ 179
XIII. CONFUSION 195
XIV. THE PRODIGAL RETURNS 212
XV. MRS. BASCOM CAPITULATES 228
XVI. CONFLICTING WILLS 244
XVII. EZRA TAKES A NAP 260
XVIII. THE WHOLE TRUTH 274
[Illustration: _KEY._
_D--Desk at which King sat._
_W--Open window through which actors entered._
_C--Curtained windows._
_T--Typewriter desk._
_S--Safe._
_G--Guests’ chairs._
_H--Old grain chutes._]
THE CROOKSHAVEN
MURDER
∵
CHAPTER I
COMEDY
Gerard King frowned at a folded slip of paper that lay on the floor
at his side. It had fallen from his pocket when he pulled out a
handkerchief. He stooped with an angry exclamation, retrieved and
unfolded it, staring at some figures written across its face. His
eyes slowly dilated; his ire changed to dread, as he peered about
uneasily, glanced behind him into the shadows that encircled a desk
light, the room’s only illumination.
With an effort he shrugged, touched a lighted match to the paper and
watched it burn, scowling to see his fingers tremble as he tossed the
ashes into a tray.
‘I’m a fool. A doddering old fool--afraid of his own shadow. Worse
than one of the shrinking victims of blackmail in one of my own
detective stories.’
His words were scornful, yet his rather gaunt face mirrored their
literal sense rather than the bravado with which he had striven to
utter them.
‘This must be only some clumsy joke--a coincidence.--Yet some one
sent that paper to me--has sent other, similar ones----’
His jaw sagged open and his mutter ceased as something moved in the
darkness before him, a ghostly figure that floated toward him. But as
it approached into the light, it took form, became a young woman in a
white chiffon gown that drifted about her in a restless cloud. King
relaxed with a faint sigh, studying her vivacious, piquant face.
‘Mr. King, what is it?’ Her animation faded abruptly to alarm as she
looked into his eyes. ‘Something’s worrying you. I’ve noticed that
look on your face several times lately. What does it mean?’
The smile that had fled from her face seemed to leap across into his,
wiping away its fear.
‘Nonsense, my dear Miss Hawley. You’ve no right to impute such dire
notions to an old man’s reflections.’
‘Old man--tosh,’ she cut in indignantly. ‘But I know you’re worried.
Tell me what it is--let me help you as you’ve so often helped me.’
‘All right, Sylvia, forget your imaginative foolishness, and you
can--by making my little amateur mystery play a success.’
‘Oh, I’m primed to do my share, Mr. King--or Uncle, pro tem.’ She
smiled as she made this reference to her assigned rôle in the
entertainment he had planned so carefully for the amusement of
his week-end house-party. ‘Yet I’m sure you are bluffing me about
this. Somehow even I feel “all of a jump,” as Mrs. Bascom would
say--nervous, for no apparent reason. I wish you’d tell me----’
‘That must be stage fright, Sylvia.--It’s almost time for my curtain
speech of explanation to my guests, so I must hurry. Perhaps I’ll
tell you--some other time.--Now, then, let’s see. Paper-knife is
ready; red ink, in the drawer. The stage is set for the murder scene,
I guess, and the props all in order. I’ll take one last look just to
be sure.’
King disappeared into the darkness. A light flashed on with a click,
and he strode over to a row of chairs placed at the farther end of
the room. In one of these he seated himself and looked about swiftly.
It was a long room with walls of rough clapboards, ceiling of dusty
rafters, and crude plank floor, covered by threadbare rugs. In
reality it was a part of the hayloft of a barn, converted into a
study, or ‘workshop,’ as he called it, where King spent a large part
of his days writing detective stories that, started as a hobby, had
superseded all other work.
Three French windows had been cut into the walls to give light
and air. The one at the farther end of the room from him was
uncurtained and slightly ajar; the other two--one on his left, one
behind him--were covered with heavy portières which lapped over the
casements, effectually excluding any light from outside. A desk,
placed diagonally between the open window and the one on his left,
together with two straight-backed chairs, completed the meager
furnishings.
‘Just switch off all the lights except on the desk, will you, Miss
Hawley?’ asked King from his seat. ‘Great! You can’t see a thing from
here except the immediate area of the desk and a gray blur from the
open window. Aside from these two spots, the room is pitch black. I
couldn’t have picked a better night for my play. It’s so overcast, no
light can seep in to reveal too many details.’
‘It’ll be the darkest murder of the year!’ chuckled Sylvia.
‘I hope so,’ responded King. He tossed an old dressing-gown over the
back of the desk chair, turned off the light, and led Sylvia away,
discussing some final preparations still to be made.
A few minutes later, Sylvia returned to straighten up the desk and
put a fresh blotter in the pad. Approaching almost noiselessly in
the darkness, she hesitated just outside the door, thinking she had
heard a board squeak under a footstep in the room. But when she
called out--‘Who’s there?’--a faint creak was her only answer, so she
hurried in and switched on the light. The room was empty.
Sylvia was not a timid or imaginative woman normally, yet, as she
changed the blotter, she looked up twice, unable to throw off the
feeling that some one had been, or still was, in the room. Her task
quickly completed, she did not stop to investigate further, plunging
the room into darkness and hastening away, trying not to hear a sound
from behind her that might have been a person breathing or moving
lightly, stealthily.
When she reached the brightly lighted living-room of the house
itself, Gerard King was ensconced before the fireplace, addressing
his guests in a hearty voice.
‘--And I doubt every last one of you. All this talk about the ease
of solving a mystery once you find the clues is the theorizing of
amateurs. Clues, so-called, may be twisted any number of ways. As a
writer of detective fiction, I consider myself an authority on the
matter and challenge your sleuthing powers.
‘Now here’s a practical test for you. We’ll act out a play, a murder
scene--let you watch and hear everything except who actually does
the deed, then see who is clever enough to deduce the truth. I’ll
guarantee to provide sufficient tangible clues that, when rightly
interpreted, will prove the murderer’s guilt. As a spur, I’ll give
a prize to the one who actually proves--not merely guesses, mind
you--who the guilty one is.’
A clamor of applause greeted his words, but he held up his hand for
silence.
‘Of course you must observe certain conditions. You must not
interrupt the play nor move from your seats during it. You, Basil
and Ruel, will play the villains, I’ll be the victim. And we must
have a heroine too. Miss Hawley shall do that rôle.--Now, then,
after the play is over, I shall remain “dead” until my murderer has
been discovered. You can do as you please then, make deductions and
find clues--which you will discover in the room itself; but you must
not touch or disturb anything that might prove vital evidence. That
clear?--Then come along to my workshop. We’ll make that the scene of
the crime.’
When the guests trooped up the narrow, dark stairs to the loft, King,
who refused to have any lights turned on, was in the lead. Beside him
walked a slender, erect little woman who was speaking crisply.
‘You can put it any way you please, Gerard King, but making a play
and entertainment out of death is fool----’
‘Foolish? Of course, but what is any impromptu entertainment at a
house-party if not foolish?’
‘Impromptu?’ she echoed with a shrewd sniff. ‘It’s all a hoax of
yours--concocted well ahead of time, or I miss my guess. You brought
it about entirely too cleverly for an impromptu stunt.’
‘Right--as usual, Mrs. B., but I defy you to solve the mystery when
you witness it, just the same!’
‘Oh, you’ll probably bungle it enough times to make that easy,’ she
gibed. ‘You just watch me.’
They had no time for further conversation as King left his guests to
fumble into their places in the darkness.
Mrs. Bascom picked out a prominent chair in the front row, tucked her
feet neatly under it, and stoically endured being bumped and prodded
rather than relinquish her seat. She had not thoroughly approved
of this idea of acting out a murder--it seemed vaguely wrong, like
tempting Providence; yet, since King intended to carry it through,
Mrs. Bascom intended to miss no detail of it!
When the confusion and murmur of voices had somewhat abated, a light
at the farther end of the room flashed on, and Mrs. Bascom leaned
forward--though she would have stoutly denied any feeling of interest
or excitement then. At his desk sat King, his dressing-gown loosely
tied about his waist, revealing a paper sticking out of his vest
pocket. By squinting, Mrs. Bascom made out the words printed on its
outer fold--‘Last Will and Testament’--before he withdrew it to read
its contents. He was smiling as he did this, but the expression
changed abruptly to consternation, it seemed to Mrs. Bascom. He
frowned, seized the sheet as if to tear it, then shrugged and
obviously shook off this mood of surprise.
The incident passed so quickly that most of the guests accepted it as
a bit of clever acting, but Mrs. Bascom checked off a point on her
finger which she bent down to her palm. That was not all acting, she
commented mentally. At the very outset, something had gone wrong,
some mistake had been made and he was trying to conceal it. Nor
was it an ordinary one to have called forth such an expression of
surprise, almost of--well, dread, for lack of a better term, thought
Mrs. Bascom. Yet evidently he had decided to overlook it and go on
with the play. She wondered----
Her speculations were interrupted by a low, scratching sound like
pebbles thrown against glass. King half turned toward the French
window that stood ajar, and called out gruffly, ‘Come in.’
It flew open with a crash and Major, his ecstatic puppy, bounded into
the room, only to stop short, bracing himself clumsily on all four
paws at the burst of laughter from the guests behind Mrs. Bascom.
His expressive tail drooped, one ear cocked up, and his head tipped
quizzically. Then he hesitatingly sat up to beg, as if it were the
only thing to do under the circumstances! A whispered pleading and
insistent snapping of fingers from outside the window were hardly
necessary to inform Mrs. Bascom that this actor, though effective,
was usurping another’s rôle. She bent a second finger with a chuckle,
wondering if she would have hands enough for all the mistakes that
seemed predestined to occur.
Reluctantly the dog dropped to his feet again and obeyed the summons
from without, at which the expected actor made his anticlimactic
entrance. It was Basil Stacey, wearing a long yellow slicker and
carrying a slouch hat in his hand. His was a jolly, likable face,
yet to Mrs. Bascom the concentrated light seemed to bring out the
weakness of his jaw and lack of strong character.
‘Beastly sort of a night to set a man on a cross-country hike,’ he
began at once as he advanced to the desk. ‘Of all the toe-stubbing,
shin-barking darkness I ever stumbled through----’
‘It was necessary,’ interrupted King, overdoing the severity of his
tone. ‘No one knows you came or shall see you go, understand?’
A bark of remonstrance from outside smothered his answer.
The dialogue and acting that followed were decidedly unimpressive to
Mrs. Bascom. Both men were upset, almost too overcome with mirth to
carry out their rôles, much less make them effective. King demanded
some undefined papers; Basil declined to give them up. An argument
was clearly intended to follow, but Basil cut it short, unable to
play his part longer. With a sound that he tried to pass off as a
sob of emotion, he threw down a packet of papers on the desk, kicked
aside the chair by which he had been standing, and stumbled toward
the window. When he had passed out of the immediate area of the light
so that his expression could no longer be seen, he paused to shake
his fist menacingly, then disappeared into the darkness. But the
point of the scene had been hopelessly spoiled.
Mrs. Bascom gave an audible ‘Hump!’ which she hoped would reach
King’s ears, then fixed her eyes on his face as he thumbed the papers
in gloating silence before muttering, ‘I must put them into the
safe.’ He crossed the room, passing before the dim oblong of light
that defined the window, stooped down to fumble in the shadow beyond
it, swung open the door to the safe she knew stood against the wall,
and thrust in the papers.
Back again in his chair, he took up the will, drumming with his
fingers as he read it.
A footstep sounded from the window, and another figure materialized,
stepping inside and advancing slowly toward the desk.
‘Well, back again? Changed your mind about letting me have ’em?’
sneered King without turning his head.
‘Pardon me, sir. May I have a word with you?’
‘Oh, Ruel Moore. Well, I’m busy, but I’ll listen if you make it
brief. Need another loan, I suppose?’
King’s greeting seemed to confuse Ruel. He stood stiffly by the
side of the chair, and Mrs. Bascom relaxed as if in anticipation of
another scene about to miscarry. Ruel, typical gentleman farmer in
overalls and corduroy jacket, was too literal, too matter-of-fact for
such fooling.
‘No, Mr. King,’ the latter answered as dramatically as he could.
‘I’ve come to pay back what I’ve borrowed--with interest in full.’
King grunted, received the paper Ruel extended and glanced at it.
‘The check is correct.--How did you do it? Some one die and leave you
a fortune?’
‘Pigs!’ answered Ruel laconically. ‘If you’ll give me a receipt----’
He waited, manifestly ill at ease while the other scribbled on a
paper. This he thrust into his pocket without a glance.
‘Mr. King, there’s another matter.’
‘What, more pigs?’
‘No, that is, you see, it’s--it’s not that--er--gender.’
‘Oh, you mean sows--lady pigs?’
‘Yes, the--er--ladies--your niece, to be exact.’
The guests behind Mrs. Bascom laughed, hissed and applauded this
sally, but she suspected his embarrassment was due more to stage
fright or diffidence than deliberate cleverness of acting. At their
clamor, he stiffened, his jaw protruding with determination, his
hesitancy vanishing.
‘Young man, am I to assume you are proposing marriage to me?’
‘Yes--that is, not to you, but to your niece. She’s already accepted
me and we intend----’
‘Intend, do you?--Let me get this straight. Ruel Moore, farmer,
borrows money from Gerard King, feeds it to his hogs, and, through
luck, gets it back again. He pays up his obligations, then announces
his intentions of marrying his benefactor’s wealthy niece, thereby
clinching for himself--and his hogs--a future income.--And if she
were penniless, what then?’
‘Sylvia is, for all I know. Nothing would alter my intentions, for
that matter.’
Some one near Mrs. Bascom interrupted _sotto voce_, ‘You see, my
dear, his intentions are honorable!’ but King paid no attention to
this remark, launching into a tirade against the pseudo-lover,
the ‘brawny hero all aquiver to carry off his romantic--and
wealthy--heroine.’ His anger was well simulated even though his
bombastic words overdid the effect he tried to create. Ruel remained
silent.
‘Damn you, get out!’ roared King in a final burst. ‘My niece shall
never marry a man with a piggery for a home. Sylvia shall marry when
I choose and whom I choose, understand?--Now get out before I throw
you out.’
‘I go, sir, but I shall return.’
King sprang to his feet. ‘If it is the last thing I do, it will be
to prevent such a marriage. Let me find you so much as looking at
Sylvia again, and I’ll----Wait. Though I’ve made a will here leaving
everything I possess to her, before I sleep to-night I’ll add a
codicil cutting her off without a cent if she marries you. Then we
shall see how pressing our swain becomes!’
‘We shall see,’ echoed Ruel as he stalked toward the window.
Mrs. Bascom led the applause heartily. In her estimation, Ruel had
been a most natural actor after all, and her shrewd mind was already
at work surmising which of these men would prove to be the murderer,
as one was obviously cast for that rôle.
Meanwhile King scowled and sat down, muttering, ‘The insolence of
him. Sheer bravado----Why, he--Sylvia----’
‘Yes, Uncle,’ answered a voice from the neighborhood of the door.
‘You want me?’
Mrs. Bascom recognized Sylvia Hawley’s accent, watched the grace of
her silhouette as it passed across the gray of the window and into
the spot light of the desk.
‘I do, Sylvia. Come here,’ replied King sternly.
Even Mrs. Bascom was surprised at the transformation in King’s
secretary. Gone was her severe business dress and manner, the air of
efficiency and briskness. She was animated, provocatively lovely.
‘Something wrong, Uncle?’
‘Decidedly so.--Ruel Moore has just been here.’
‘To pay back his debt? I shouldn’t think that would distress you.’
‘You know what else transpired.’
‘Perhaps I could guess.--But it was nothing “decidedly wrong,” I’m
sure.’ Her averted eyes and hurried words attested to her skill as an
actress.
‘It was ridiculous--utterly impossible--preposterous!’
‘Ridiculous? Not--not our love, Uncle.’
‘Puppy love is always absurd.’ The comparison was not a fortunate
one, and King hurried on. ‘As to this----’
‘This is not--what you just called it!’
‘Words--quibbling. Listen to me, Sylvia. You shall not spoil your
life by a hasty marriage to a common farmer. You are too fine for
that.--No, let me finish.--When I brought you here to act as my
secretary, I had no other thought than kindness toward an orphaned
relative. But you have changed all that.
‘Now you have become a daughter to me. Why, only to-day I made you
heiress to my wealth. And as my niece--daughter, rather--you shall
not throw yourself away for a whim, a romantic passion. You have
scarcely a nodding acquaintance with life, and there are others, real
men, more worthy of----’
‘Social dummies, you mean! No, Uncle, I’ve seen that sort of
successes--men birthmarked with a dollar sign who have never faced
an issue in their lives. I’ve had to fight for a living, and I want
a man who can do the same, one whom I can help. Ruel is that sort of
man.’
‘Nonsense--a yokel. I know the world better than you do. You leave
such matters to me.’
‘The world, yes--but not my love!’
‘Look here, Sylvia, enough of this parrying. I forbid you to speak
of that man again, absolutely forbid you to have anything to do with
him, do you hear? I am your guardian, and while you remain here, you
shall obey me--for your own good.’
‘Very well. While I am here, I shall obey.’
‘Quite right.’
Without further reply, she walked away and left as she had come.
While the guests cheered this bit of the drama, Mrs. Bascom sat
tense. A vague movement from the window had riveted her attention.
It was a movement so slow and indistinct that she scarcely could be
sure it was not her own imagination. She had rather scoffed at the
speeches and acting thus far, but there was something arresting,
pulse-quickening about this furtive shadow that sent a shiver of
expectancy down her erect spine.
King stared after his pseudo-niece as if in doubt as to the meaning
of her last words, took a step and called her name. When she did not
answer or return, he shrugged and settled back in his chair. But
Mrs. Bascom was oblivious to all this. The shadow had taken outline
against the window, became a man, peering stealthily into the room,
though his features were, of course, indistinguishable.
In spite of Mrs. Bascom’s scorn at the idea of the play, now that
she sensed the approach of the climax--the murder scene--she became
excited, clasping her hands tightly, thus wiping out all the errors
she had started to count, and wetting her thin lips in the darkness.
Something made her uneasy, ‘creepy’ she would have described the
feeling. The enacting of a murder, of death by violence, had not
appealed to her as an appropriate subject for amusement, but it was
more than a mere sense of indelicacy now. She was acutely nervous----
‘Stop being so skittish, Ellen Bascom,’ she admonished herself. ‘It’s
nothing but your own imagination--all worked up just because it’s
dark and sort of spooky.’
This seemed to calm her for a while and she watched keenly for some
clue to the identity of the silent intruder and the meaning of his
actions.
Meanwhile, King sat gazing into the light in thought, then blinked
and abruptly snapped off the switch. The room became pitch black,
except for that shadow against the window where a man waited
patiently.
A match flared up as King lighted a cigarette. Its tip made a glowing
point of light as he puffed a few times, then tossed it into an ash
tray on his desk. The whistling sound of his breath became more
pronounced and regular. He was supposedly asleep.
Then the man at the window moved, tiptoed into the room, halting
at each step to listen and peer into the darkness toward the desk.
He did not turn his head enough for his face to be seen in profile,
however, and it might have been either Ruel or Basil for all Mrs.
Bascom could tell.
At last he passed out of line with the dim light of the window,
became invisible. She strained to trace his movements, but in vain.
She heard him shuffle toward the desk. There was a soft scraping,
perhaps when his fingers fumbled over the desk or blotter. Mrs.
Bascom thought she heard a rustle, then a swish as from a quick,
sudden movement of an arm. The gasping sigh that followed was
convincing. She shuddered as King’s stertorous breathing abruptly
ceased.
A thud announced the falling of a body against the desk. Something
metal clattered to the floor and she caught her breath sharply to
stifle an exclamation. It all seemed so vividly real.
Out of the obscurity a voice whispered tentatively, ‘Uncle.’ When
there was no reply, a woman’s figure glided from the doorway into the
oblong of light, advanced toward the safe and stooped down before it.
Mrs. Bascom recognized this was Sylvia.
The knobs twirled and clicked, the door swung open. A sheet of paper
appeared in her silhouetted hand, and she held it close to her eyes
as if to read it in the half light. Satisfied with her scrutiny,
she tore it into tiny bits which she scattered on the floor, then
chuckled, and slipped away through the door as she had come.
Silence--broken by a deep sigh like the exhaling of a breath held
almost to the bursting point. A cautious fumbling, the click of a
ring or finger nail as it rapped against wood, then a shuffling of
footsteps, and the man appeared abruptly before the window. He paused
to wipe his fingers meticulously on a handkerchief which he withdrew
from his pocket. This done, he produced a pair of gloves and slowly
drew them on his hands, just as there was a second sharp sigh and
movement from the direction of the desk.
To this latter sound, the actor paid no attention, yet it had a
curious effect on Mrs. Bascom. She held her breath, peered toward
the desk, and half arose to her feet. King’s first death sigh in the
play had been gruesomely realistic; this one seemed unnatural, out
of keeping with the action. There was no definite reason for her
feeling, yet she became stifled, oppressed. It was too much. She must
relieve her tenseness, cry out, or----
She sank back, flushing.
‘You skittish old fool--as emotional as a school girl! Stop making
a scene of yourself,’ she whispered, forcing her eyes to the man
kneeling before the safe to listen for the fall of the tumblers in
the combination.
At length his efforts succeeded and the door swung part-way open. But
he did not reach in, instead became rigid, listening intently.
Somewhere outside the room a board squeaked under the pressure of
a foot. A woman’s voice hummed a tune, then a chair scraped along
the floor. A typewriter clicked as a paper was inserted into the
carriage, the keys tapped out a brief sentence, then the chair
scratched again as if the woman had stood up. There followed a
smothered exclamation, a curious thump, dying away in a series of
low, bumping jerks as when some bulky object is dragged across the
floor.
The thief sprang to his feet and leaped toward the window, stepped
across its sill and vanished. But his hands were empty, Mrs. Bascom
noted.
She sat listening, still tense. After a brief pause, two men’s voices
came from a distance and the clatter of feet upon an uncarpeted
stairway. They stumbled in the darkness as they neared the door.
A hand fumbled along the wall, a switch clicked, and the room was
flooded with blinding light.
Involuntarily, as she blinked at the sudden illumination, Mrs. Bascom
turned first to look at the motionless figure, fallen forward on the
desk. But under this light, her unnatural fears vanished. After all,
it was only a play!
With a smile, she turned to Ruel and Basil who had just entered the
room.
CHAPTER II
TRAGEDY
King’s guests jumped to their feet, moving toward Basil and Ruel and
all talking at once.
‘Of all the ham actors I ever saw----’
‘The trained dog act was quite human----’
‘My dear, if he doesn’t move this minute to prove he isn’t dead, I
think I shall scream!’
‘Come on, let’s lynch the murderer!’
‘All right, but who is he?’ Basil laughingly challenged this last
speaker.
His question precipitated a chorus of shouts, some crying ‘Ruel,’
others ‘Basil,’ and trying to make the reason for their conclusions
heard above the din.
It was a cosmopolitan gathering of men and women, ranging, as King
had remarked earlier in the evening to his secretary, ‘From youth,
almost to senility and back again.’ The former might best be typified
by Mrs. Tenney, vivacious and sophisticate from the tips of her smart
pumps to the remarks that gushed from her carmined lips; the latter
by Mrs. Bascom or ponderous Judge Brant, who said nothing, but smiled
with a tolerant, superior air.
The hubbub continued as they milled about Basil until he held up both
hands in a plea for silence.
‘For the love of crime, you’re making enough noise to wake the dead
there, but you haven’t a scrap of evidence on which to base your
judgments. How about searching for the clues first?’
‘May we question the suspects, you and Ruel?’ asked some one.
‘Certainly not. We’d only deny our guilt, and besides you’re supposed
to know all and more than a detective would when called upon the
scene. Haven’t you just _seen_ the murder committed?’
‘Insinuating I have cat’s eyes?’ laughed Mrs. Tenney.
Basil ignored the remark.
‘Now remember your instructions, and obey them as the last words of a
dying man--Ruel, the papers!’
The latter distributed to each of the guests a pencil and a sort of
handbill on which was drawn a plan of the room with a red ink ‘X’ to
mark the position of the body, as in a newspaper diagram. Below this
were tabulated spaces to be filled in with the name of the murderer,
list of clues found, deductive reasoning, and such details, ending
with a line for the signature of the person submitting it.
When these had been received, they all began to scurry about the
room, utterly disregarding most of the rules that had been imposed by
King, moving the few furnishings and looking in corners and under the
rugs as if a clue might be found like a lost jewel or elusive collar
button. The curtains over the windows were jerked aside until they
hung askew; they jostled one another in laughing eagerness, ran in
and out of the open window looking for footprints--and discovering
their own! Only the realistically crimson-daubed paper-cutter on the
floor and the motionless figure crouching over the stained blotter
escaped their onslaught.
The two actors in the play watched them for a time in smiling
derision. Standing together, they were much alike in height and
general build, save that Ruel’s body was thickset with hardened
muscles, Basil’s with flabbier flesh. But there the similarity
ended. Basil Stacey’s face, upon closer scrutiny, lost some of its
geniality in the weakness of its pointed chin that lacked strength
of character; his cheeks were too flaccid, and his eyes were faintly
underlined with telltale shadows. Ruel Moore, on the other hand,
seemed serious even when smiling, and his features, each in its own
way, emphasized the virile force that his companion’s lacked. Sun and
air had tanned them a healthy brown that accentuated the firmness of
his jaw against his white collar, while his clothes, donned to be in
keeping with his rôle in the play, were shabby and ill-fitting in
comparison with Basil’s immaculate evening dress.
After a brief word or two with Ruel, Basil crossed over to the safe
upon which he stepped for a platform and began to speak.
‘Now that the room looks as if an excavating party had done its
best,’ he shouted, ‘I should hope some one has found the missing
link. If that’s your idea of detectives at work----’
His further words were drowned in a roar of laughing denials, while
the guests, by common consent, crowded closer to him.
‘Every one satisfied he’s seen all there is to be seen?’
There were cries of ‘Yes,’ ‘No,’ and ‘But there wasn’t a darned clue
anywhere!’
‘All right, then who has solved the mystery?--No, don’t answer aloud.
Say it with words. Fill in your blanks and sign on the dotted line.’
So many objections were raised to this long-winded process that Basil
acceded to their wishes.
‘Very well. Those in favor of Ruel as the arch-criminal, say
“Aye”--contrary minded, “No.” The “Ayes” have it and Ruel seems to be
elected. “Ayes” two paces to the right of me, “Nos” to the left.--So.
Now, how did you know Ruel did it? Answer in rotation.’
‘He had the motive. You see, he wanted to kill King before the will
was altered, and naturally thought it would be in the safe, so----’
‘That may be feminine intuition, but it’s no proof. Next!’ cut in
Basil imperiously.
‘Ruel is the stronger of you two and the victim died with scarcely
a sound from a single blow. Besides, you wore a slicker and the
murderer didn’t. That proves----’
‘Nothing, my dear Watson. I would have taken off the slicker before
killing him--if I had done it.’
‘I found a pebble on the floor, but darned if I see how that helps,
though of course I know Ruel did it,’ was Mrs. Tenney’s contribution.
‘In the name of justice, can’t any one produce some real evidence?’
exclaimed Basil in mock despair.
‘I can,’ spoke up Judge Brant confidently, elbowing his way to the
front of the group. ‘The proof is to be found in the characters of
the two suspects. Ruel opposed King openly; Basil was cowed by him.
Now, my experience, if I might say so, has dealt with many similar
cases and I could cite numerous instances to prove my contention. The
man who would take such a chance to kill another is certainly not
the one who cringes in his presence as Basil did, or was supposed to
do, let us say. That’s conclusive, so----’
‘It would never convict him in this court, Judge.--What do you say,
Dr. New?’
The man Basil addressed was thin, almost emaciated, with a narrow
face and jet black beard. It was a keen, alert face, however, and
when he spoke his voice was curtly authoritative.
‘I believe the real clue might be found on the paper-cutter, though
I haven’t examined it closely. There must be finger-prints on it
because he didn’t put on gloves until after he had used it for the
murder.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere!’ encouraged Basil. ‘Look it over,
Doctor.’
One of the elder women gasped audibly as the latter picked up the
paper-knife by its pointed blade and studied the handle critically.
‘They’re here, but blurred. Can’t make them out enough--too faint.’
‘Then even you fail as a witness.--Who’s next?’
One by one the other members of the group made suggestions,
elaborated theories, only to have them tossed aside by Basil as
unsubstantiated by conclusive facts, hence unqualified to compete for
the prize. At last he turned to those who had selected him as the
criminal. There were only two: demure Mrs. Bascom who looked like
the wife of a country clergyman, and a pert young matron dressed in
a startling costume of cerise and blue silk. The latter spoke first
with the studied carelessness of one used to holding the center of
attention quite facilely.
‘I know you did it, Basil, simply because every one else believes
Ruel guilty! In detective stories, it’s always the one you least
suspect!’
She received a laugh of applause, but Basil shook his head.
‘And you, Mrs. Bascom?--You’re my last hope, I’m afraid.’
The elderly woman flushed slightly as so many eyes fixed on her, but
she spoke in a soft, precise tone, nipping off each word crisply.
‘I have three reasons for knowing you are guilty. In the first
place, the--the murderer put on his gloves before touching the safe
so as not to leave incriminating marks, presumably, in the heat of
his anger, forgetting to do so before. A man like Ruel, if bent on
revenge, would not have thought of this at all. In the second place,’
she checked it off on her fingers unconsciously, ‘you had the only
real motive--to regain those papers. No rational man would murder
the relative of the woman he was about to marry, especially when he
declared money was no object to him.
‘Finally, I noticed that you are left-handed. I saw this before the
play. The paper-knife was on the floor to the left of--of Mr. King,
exactly where it would have fallen after a left-handed man struck the
blow.’
A cheer went up from the guests, but she scarcely noticed the
interruption in the flush of her eagerness.
‘A lot depends upon what those papers were, of course, and I’d like
to look in the safe at them. The murderer left empty-handed, so they
might prove to be a valuable clue----’ She hesitated questioningly,
adding, ‘That is, if they were really part of the play as I think.’
At Basil’s nod of acquiescence, she stepped forward and swung open
the half-shut door which no one had bothered to touch. The others
pressed closer to see what would be revealed.
A thin sheaf of papers held together by an elastic band lay on the
floor of the inner compartment. It was obviously the one that Basil
had given to King in the play. At first glance, the sheets seemed to
be blank, but the central one bore upon its outer fold the words--‘To
Whom It May Concern.’
Mrs. Bascom read this aloud, then faced Basil.
‘It is part of the plan, then, not something personal? Shall I open
it?’
‘Search me! I’m sure I never heard of a detective stopping to ask
such a question, though,’ he countered, stepping down from the
impromptu pedestal as if anticipating the dénouement that would
follow. ‘Open it first and ask questions after, would be my advice.’
There was a breathless silence as she unfolded the paper and began to
read its contents to herself, a smile of satisfaction spreading out
from the corners of her mouth.
‘Read it--read it aloud,’ clamored the others, surging about her in
an attempt to read over her shoulder.
Two men laughingly seized her by the elbows and lifted her to the top
of the safe before she could demur. She flushed again, cleared her
throat, then began to read:
‘Be you so keen as you seem
And so wise as this paper to find,
Some inkling of truth’s in your mind.
I’m dead, but you, Sleuth, can avenge me;
Let others now see why they’re blind!’
‘A cryptogram!’ wailed one of the women in the crowd. ‘That’s not
fair. After we worked so hard----’
Basil snorted aloud at this, but Mrs. Tenney interrupted with an
exclamation.
‘The old plotter! Now I understand about that will! I’ve been
wondering why he picked on me as a witness.’
‘What will? What do you mean?’ cried several in unison.
‘Why, he called three of us to witness a will this afternoon with
great formality. Of course I didn’t read it, but now I doubt if it
was a will at all. Probably some gibberish--part of his scheme to use
it in the play, I imagine.’
‘And that’s why Basil has been flaunting his left hand--doing things
to attract attention to the fact he is left-handed, I mean,’ added
another.
‘But this doesn’t help us to solve the cryptogram.--Have you any idea
what the jingle means, Mrs. Bascom?’
‘Surely. It’s the key to the murder or the corroboration of it,’
answered the latter, smiling down jubilantly upon their upturned
faces.
‘Then you were right? It was Basil?’
‘Of course. See, the first letter of each line, read downward, spells
his name!’ She held the paper facing them to prove her statement.
‘So you think you have me cornered, eh?’ mocked Basil suddenly. ‘Yet
what if I denied it? What if I told you that paper was only a false
scent and not a true clue at all?’
‘Why--why that’s not fair! You’ve got to confess,’ gasped Mrs.
Bascom, her triumph wilting at the very thought of all her careful
deductions being overthrown.
‘I won’t, though!’
‘If you don’t, the--the corpse will rise up to accuse you!’ she
retorted with a flash of inspiration.
The guests laughed and applauded her challenge, turning expectantly
toward Gerard King. But he did not stir.
‘Now, you see? He said he’d not move until the murderer was _proved_
guilty, so you’ll get no help from him!’
Mrs. Bascom became a beet red. She was normally a timid, rather shy
woman in a crowd, though _tête-à-tête_ she could hold her own with
the most agile-witted. A resident of the village of Crookshaven a
mile away, she had always amused King by her good nature and rather
tart common sense. He included her in all his house-parties, both
because she enjoyed them, and because she made herself useful as a
sort of hostess.
The necessity of playing up to her share in the game had, until now,
overcome her timidity, even elated her to such an extent that she
was positively enjoying her triumph. But this doubting and defying
of her proof upset her, brought back a consciousness of her former
diffidence in a devastating rush.
She felt she must say or do something, if only to end this torment
and turn their eyes away from her. Twice she tried to speak, but a
hot lump choked her voice, and she could think of no adequate retort.
Then anger, half at her own foolishness, half at Basil’s insistence
upon prolonging the cross-examination, came to her rescue. She jumped
down from the safe, starting over toward King’s motionless figure.
‘We’ll see if he won’t help me!’ she muttered as she advanced, laying
her hands on his shoulders and shaking him. ‘Mr. King, I----’
Her appeal stopped short. The flush swirled from her cheeks and her
outstretched hands drew slowly back from his shoulders. Her eyes
dilated as she stood there motionless, and her voice quavered as she
whispered, ‘Look--look!’
Her gentle shake had moved King’s head so that now it peered out
above his elbow. The face was bloodless, the eyes glazed and staring.
It was the face of a dead man!
Dr. New pushed rudely forward, halting at the corner of the desk and
turning to face the guests, his expression alertly professional.
‘Some of you men carry chairs into the next room for the ladies.
Escort them there and return immediately.’
His crisp words broke the spell, were punctuated by gasps and indrawn
breaths.
‘Mrs. Bascom, if you----’
‘I--I’m all right. I won’t faint, Doctor,’ she whispered, swaying
slightly, but gaining control of herself and resolutely leading the
way toward the door.
‘Please go there and wait, all of you ladies. Remember, we don’t know
anything certain as yet,’ soothed the doctor, shielding King’s body
with his own while the women, in a daze, moved out of the room. ‘We
will join you in a few moments.’
When they had gone and the men were reassembled, he turned swiftly
toward the body, bending closer to examine it. There was no need to
touch it. Gerald King was dead.
Dropping to his knees beside the chair, the doctor scrutinized the
stain on the dressing-gown, hidden from casual glance by the position
of the body as it bent forward toward the desk. It was a dark blotch
that surrounded a short slit in the cloth just over the victim’s
heart. Gingerly he untied the cord that belted it in at the waist,
folded it back enough to reveal the pleated dress shirt clotted with
blood about a small, deep wound.
His eyes darted from one face to another as he slowly stood up and
spoke.
‘Gentlemen, Mr. King died almost instantly while we were present in
this room. He was killed by some sort of a knife thrust that pierced
his heart. That, and his tight vest, account for the comparatively
small bleeding, for, of course, his heart ceased pumping the blood
almost instantly. The weapon was much the same size and shape as
that paper-cutter, I should say.’ He pointed toward the knife that
he had replaced on the desk a few minutes ago. ‘Obviously that is
not the one, however. Its stains are red ink or paint, certainly not
blood. Aside from that, I would have unhesitatingly named it as the
murderer’s weapon.’
‘You’re sure--he’s dead?’ muttered one of the men, unaware of the
incongruity of his question.
The doctor nodded silently as his gaze still searched their faces,
becoming fixed at last on Basil’s--pale, aghast, its lips gaping in
horror.
‘I am rather a stranger to most of you,’ began Dr. New, choosing
his words with care. ‘Perhaps that is fortunate, in a way, for
it will allow me to ask some questions impersonally--without any
accusation of prejudice. You see, I was King’s friend, and if there
is anything--if any of you can tell me----’
‘What’s that paper?’ interrupted one of the men quickly, pointing to
a sheet which lay just beyond King’s elbow on the desk.
‘The fake will he used in the play, I suppose.’
The doctor was about to continue when Judge Brant gave a startled
exclamation. He had leaned forward to glance at the paper and now
straightened up with a look of incredulity.
‘Fake will?--That remains to be seen. It looks like a formal will
in his own handwriting, duly signed by witnesses, and it makes Miss
Hawley his heiress.’
‘You mean--it’s not a fake? It’s legal?’ The question was Basil’s as
he pressed forward, hardly realizing he had spoken aloud.
‘It appears so. If it was signed knowingly as a will, witnessed by
the three parties each in the presence of the others, it would be
legal. Yet it can’t be! He said nothing to me about drawing such a
document. And no man in his senses would have written such a will
simply to use as a stage prop in a play.’
‘But Mrs. Tenney, I think it was, intimated that was exactly what
did happen!’ said Dr. New, still watching Basil’s face.
‘Then--then it stands. But I can’t understand----’
‘Is her real name and all given?’ asked Basil in a whisper.
‘Yes. On the surface, everything seems quite in order. I know it’s
King’s signature and if the others are _bona fide_----’
‘This all appears to upset you strangely, Mr. Stacey,’ interrupted
Dr. New suddenly. ‘May I ask you why?’
‘Nothing--it doesn’t. The surprise--the thought of all his plans for
distributing his wealth----’ He paused in confusion.
‘Well?’
‘Dr. New, I--It was because I am an interested party to King’s
estate. He had told me I was to receive a small share in it.
Naturally, I was--astonished.’
‘So? Well, tell me about your part in the play,’ replied the doctor
levelly.
‘Of course. I was so stunned for a moment, I’d forgotten that.’
‘Yet not so stunned as to wonder and ask questions about the will,
eh?’
‘I’ve explained that already.’
‘Go on, then, about the play.’ Dr. New sounded skeptical.
‘It was this way: Ruel and I----Where is Ruel now?’
For the first time the men noticed Ruel Moore was the only one absent
from the group.
‘He was here a moment ago, I’m sure,’ said one.
‘I saw him go out of the room just before Basil started to----’
‘Never mind that. He’s not here now,’ broke in the doctor curtly.
‘Some one see if by chance he is outside anywhere.’
He was not found.
‘Let us hear the rest of Mr. Stacey’s story. We’ll make a more
thorough search in a moment. Go on, please.’
‘Why, he did it--the pseudo-murder, I mean. You see Mr. King
concocted the scheme of the play, mapped out the parts and so on,
though some of the details, such as the will, the note in the safe,
and such clues, he kept to himself. I was supposed to act the--the
murderer just as Mrs. Bascom deduced. My finger-marks were all
planted on the paper-cutter in advance as one of the main clues--that
and the way I was to drop it on the floor. But Ruel and I planned a
little joke of our own. We decided to switch rôles just to confuse
things and fool King himself. Ruel was to drop the knife on King’s
right instead of----’
‘But it was found on his left!’
‘That’s what I can’t understand. We thought----’
‘Keep to what you did, please.’
‘I’ve told you all I know. We did as planned.--That’s why Ruel’s
fingers confused the prints of mine, why I challenged Mrs. Bascom
and all. But of course he can explain. He wouldn’t--couldn’t have
done--this,’ Basil added in defense of his absent friend.
‘Then who did?’ The judge’s voice unconsciously snapped. ‘We saw with
our own eyes--that is, we--er----’
‘We must find Ruel Moore at once,’ Dr. New interrupted the judge’s
floundering. ‘Have you any idea where he might have gone, Stacey?’
‘Perhaps he--No!’
‘Well?’ prodded the doctor as Basil closed his lips firmly.
‘I don’t know where he went.’
‘Come, Stacey. This is not the time for hedging. Where do you think
he went then?’
Basil looked away in indecision, then answered slowly, ‘I was only
guessing, but it occurred to me he might have gone after----’
‘Basil--Basil!--Oh, there you are. I want a word with you.’
The men whirled about to face Ruel who had just entered by the open
window. He was breathing rapidly.
‘Why--Is anything the matter?’ he called tensely as no one spoke. His
face was already pale under its tan; his muscles were taut, and he
seemed to be under some strain.
‘Mr. King is dead--murdered!’ cut in Dr. New sharply. ‘He was stabbed
in the heart.’
‘King--dead--murdered?’ muttered Ruel, swaying forward and gazing
blankly from one to another. ‘But it’s impossible! I scarcely touched
him at all. I----’
‘Then you admit you acted the part of the murderer in the play?’
‘Of course. Basil and I----’
‘Stacey told us about that.’
‘But King was alive then. He whispered to me.’
‘Before you struck the fake blow?’
‘Yes.’ Ruel did not seem to understand the purport of these
questions. ‘He can’t be dead!--If this is another joke----’
‘See for yourself!’ The doctor stepped aside abruptly, and Ruel’s own
eyes confirmed his doubts.
‘You don’t think--you don’t mean _I_ did it?’
‘You were the only one near him by your own confession,’ pointed out
the doctor.
‘But I tell you, I didn’t kill him! It’s preposterous.’
‘Words, Mr. Moore--your denials against the evidence of our own eyes.’
‘It was dark. You couldn’t actually see what happened.’
‘All the more reason the burden of proof rests upon you.’
‘Proof? How can I prove it, except to give you my word! I never
killed King. I swear it.’
He was about to deny his guilt vehemently again, when it suddenly
seemed to dawn upon him that the ladies were not in the room. This
recalled the matter about which he had been seeking Basil. He became
still more agitated as he spoke.
‘Basil, have you seen Sylvia--Miss Hawley?’
‘Why, no, not since the play.’
‘She’s disappeared--vanished!’ muttered Ruel in a flat, lifeless
voice. ‘I’ve been looking for her everywhere. That thumping noise--as
if something were being dragged along the floor just after she
stopped typing in the play. It sounded queer. I looked for her to ask
about how she made it. I couldn’t find her--anywhere. The servants
were below in the barn, preparing the supper King had planned to
serve there, but they swear she did not come down the stairs. She
didn’t come out the window, so----’ He gestured vaguely, hopelessly.
But no one followed his gesture. All eyes automatically turned to
rest upon the will--the will that made Sylvia Hawley an heiress!
CHAPTER III
SUSPICION
It was Mrs. Bascom who took the initiative and carried out the
suggestion Dr. New made; that is, to proceed to the house and there
await the men in more comfortable quarters. She was still pale from
the shock of having been the one to discover King’s murder, but her
lips were set in a firm line as she marshaled the women down the
stairs. The very fact that there was something to be done stimulated
her.
The doctor nodded to himself as she took charge. He had rather
expected she would be the one to rise to the emergency. Heroism,
leadership, bravery--these are not necessarily the prerogatives of
greatness: more often they are the results of circumstance, and the
demand for action in a crisis frequently produces unexpected strength
in an otherwise meek and drab figure. So with Mrs. Bascom, necessity
bred courage.
The first rustle of wind whined through the trees, bearing with it
the cool moisture of an approaching storm, as they hurried down the
gravel drive and into the house, a massive bulk against the metallic
sky. One by one Mrs. Bascom switched on all the lights in the lower
rooms as if to dispel her own mental gloom by the friendliness of the
glare. Yet the women, silent and shaken by what they had so recently
witnessed, stood about the living-room apathetically, huddled closer
together for mutual comfort and shuddered as they heard Mrs.
Bascom’s voice calling up the police station in the village.
When she returned from this errand, she sensed their dread and began
to bustle about with an air of briskness, assumed to cloak her own
emotions.
‘Do sit down--every one,’ she urged, pulling up chairs into a
friendly circle about the huge open fireplace. ‘I think a little
blaze would help, don’t you? It’s going to rain any minute now, and a
big house like this gets so damp and chilly these spring nights.’
Suiting her actions to her words, she struck a match and touched
it to the kindlings beneath the birch logs, then dropped into the
nearest chair and spread out her hands toward the blaze. As the
crackling tongues of flame licked the whiteness of the bark, changed
it to golden brown, then charred black, the others followed suit,
pulling up the chairs closer or sitting down upon the low, cushioned
bench that stood before the brass fender.
‘I can’t seem to realize the--the awful tragedy of it all,’ began one
of the women. ‘To think that he was laughing and planning----’
‘Let’s not think of that part,’ interrupted Mrs. Bascom. ‘No one
feels the tragedy more than I, but what I want to consider is,
whether we can be of help now.’
‘There’s no way we can that I see.’
‘Obviously not. Yet let’s think--get behind the obvious.’
The idea impressed them, created a thoughtful silence until Mrs.
Tenney spoke hesitatingly, staring into the fire. Her smooth chin was
propped up in her hands; her face no longer was animated and smiling,
as she drew her penciled brows into a frown of concentration.
‘I wonder--Wouldn’t it help if we each tried to recall exactly what
we saw, or thought we did?’
‘Excellent, my dear. You mean one of us might have noticed some
little action or detail the others had overlooked?’ exclaimed Mrs.
Bascom.
‘Yes, that’s it.--You think it was Basil who acted that part in the
play?’
‘I’m sure of it. I think he denied it only for effect, to confuse
me and prolong the--the game. But I’m just as certain he did not do
it--commit murder, I mean.’
They all nodded in agreement, and Mrs. Bascom deliberately spun out
the discussion to draw their thoughts away from the horror of it all
into more constructive channels. She reiterated that she and all of
them had known Basil for some time, had seen evidence of his sincere
friendliness with King, hence knew he could have no motive for
murder. Moreover, he did not impress her as the type of man either to
plan such an act deliberately or to do it in a sudden burst of anger.
‘Yet who else could have done it?’ asked Mrs. Tenney. ‘_Some one_ was
there in the darkness and he----’
‘Perhaps more than one was there! Still, that’s useless speculation,
as we haven’t been told a thing yet, beyond the fact that King was
killed.--Wait, I’ve an idea--two of ’em, in fact. First, we must be
searched.’
‘Why? What would you expect to find?’
‘I don’t know! I mean, of course, nothing will be found, but we
ought to do it just the same--to prove we’re innocent of concealing
anything, at any rate. I’ll be first. You search me, Mrs. Tenney, and
then I’ll be responsible for the rest of you. Don’t hesitate to be
thorough. You see I’ve more opportunity than you have for concealing
things!’ She smiled without embarrassment at her longer and more
voluminous gown of modest gray silk.
The search was carried out in an orderly fashion, but without result.
‘There, that proves we’re not accessories, at least. Now for my
second inspiration. We still have those pencils and sheets of paper
with the plan of the room. Let’s each write down her impressions,
make a record of them while they’re still fresh in mind.
‘You’ve all kept the papers? Good.’ She procured some magazines from
the table and distributed one to each. ‘Use these for lap pads to
write on. I suggest we answer the questions given here first--the
ones about clues and so on, not thinking of them in connection with
the play, but more in the light of what happened in reality. Then we
can add anything else we recall that might help; what we saw, who sat
next us, and such points.’
‘But we seated ourselves in the dark! I didn’t notice who was beside
me, in the excitement.’
‘I did. When the lights went up, Bob was on my right and----’
‘Write it down, don’t confuse us by telling now,’ suggested Mrs.
Bascom, already busy with her answers.
They were still thinking and writing when the rattle of an automobile
stopped outside the house and Mrs. Bascom arose to admit the local
police force of two, augmented by the village doctor and one other
man. She directed them to the barn where the men guests were waiting.
A gust of wind and driving rain swept into the hall, and Mrs. Bascom
shivered as she pushed against the door to close it. Mechanically
she stepped over to the mirror and paused to tuck up a lock of black
hair which had blown loose from her modestly sleek coiffure. As she
regarded the reflection of her pale face, she closed her eyes for a
moment, whispering to herself, ‘Play up, Ellen Bascom, an’ the Lord
give you strength an’ courage.’ Then she straightened her narrow
shoulders and returned to the other women.
Their accounts completed, Mrs. Bascom collected the papers and began
to read the answers aloud, discussing each with its author and
occasionally jotting down an additional note which their talk served
to bring out. There was little of apparent value in their statements,
however, the most noteworthy fact being the wide divergence of
inference which these eye-witnesses had drawn from the same scene
they had all witnessed.
Just as they concluded the last statement, the men filed into the
room with the two officers bringing up the rear, Ruel walking between
them. At a nod from the shorter one, who seemed to have assumed the
authority, his companion closed the door and stood guard before it.
‘Now then, ladies,’ began the former, taking up a position at one
end of the fireplace, his rather guileless blue eyes seeming to look
everywhere except at them, although he was already trying to fix a
picture of each face in his mind. ‘It kind of looks as if this case
wasn’t so ballin’ up as you might think.’
His voice was pleasantly drawled and conversational in tone. At first
glance, he might have been taken for a healthy, middle-aged farmer,
dressed in seedy working clothes. His face contained little to single
it out from any of a dozen men such as are seen in a village street,
ready leisurely to pass the time of day or swap the latest titbit of
local gossip.
‘It ain’t exactly a pleasure, me comin’ here to do what I have to do,
but murder ain’t pleasant anyways you look at it. What I mean to say
is this: there’s one here as is pretty strongly suspected, you might
put it, only before I do anythin’ about him, I want you all to tell
me what you saw, like the men here have done.
‘I don’t know any of you intimate, ’cept Mrs. Bascom an’ Ruel, but
I’ve seen some of you kitin’ through the village in autos an’ things,
so I’ll just ask some questions, friendly like.’
‘Might I interrupt your concise explanation for a moment, Mr.
Sewell?’ asked Mrs. Bascom with an asperity that plainly indicated
some personal feeling toward him that was not exactly flattering to
his intelligence.
‘Certain sure, Mrs. B. Fire ahead, only I guess I’ll kind of be
“Inspector” Sewell to you all, if you don’t mind.’
‘Hump!--Well, it might save you a good deal of useless trouble if
you’d read these papers before asking your questions, Ezra Sewell.’
‘Papers? What’s in ’em?’ he grinned, ignoring her use of his name.
‘The answers to your questions, probably.’
‘But I ain’t asked ’em yet, ma’am.’ He put on a pair of bone-rimmed
glasses that sat quite incongruously on his stubby nose. ‘Oh, tells
about what you saw an’ all.--I might have known you women-folks
wouldn’t just set here doin’ nothin’. That’s mighty helpful.’
‘We searched each other, too,’ added Mrs. Bascom shortly.
Sewell nodded, shuffling through several of the sheets and looking at
one item in particular on each. He slowly wagged his head at what he
found.
‘You all seem to make the same mistake on one thing sure enough,’ he
ruminated, placidly continuing to scan the accounts or painstakingly
puzzling out some illegible handwriting.
‘He probably means about Basil exchanging rôles with----’
‘Hold on a bit, Doctor. I wasn’t goin’ to tell that just yet. Seein’
as how you’ve started unloadin’ the cart, though, you might as well
finish the job, I guess. You sort of worked it out first, anyway,
near as I can make out.’
Briefly the doctor outlined the cause of King’s death and the
true account of the play, adding meticulously, ‘It’s all very
involved--Mr. Moore playing a joke on King by switching rôles with
Mr. Stacey, then reversing the joke on the latter, so he claims, by
placing the knife on the left instead of on the right. Like most
practical jokes--but that’s irrelevant. He also swears he knows
nothing of the actual murder, declaims his innocence----’
‘And quite naturally too! Any person with an atom of sense could see
he is innocent,’ said Mrs. Bascom hotly, springing to her feet.
‘Far as I can make out, Mrs. B., it don’t seem to be much a case of
seein’ anythin’, because it happened in the dark,’ suggested Sewell
calmly.
She sat down again with an audible sniff, her cheeks red, her eyes
snapping at this clever rebuff. But Ruel threw her a look of thanks.
‘Understand me, ma’am. I’ve known Ruel Moore about as long as you
have, an’ as Ezra Sewell I’d take his word quick as--quicker than
most. But as _Inspector_ Sewell, takin’ words for things is a gray
mare of another color. Evidence is evidence, an’ there’s got to be a
mighty lot of explainin’ to this thing yet.’
‘But, Ez, I told you I didn’t even touch King,’ pleaded Ruel.
‘Heaven knows I had no motive. He’s been so kind to me I’d rather
die for him than kill him. I’ve explained everything to you exactly
as it happened, and I swear it’s the whole truth--everything I
know. Suspect me if you have to now, but for God’s sake let’s do
something--find Miss Hawley before--before anything more happens.’
At his outburst, Mrs. Bascom sat up straight and looked about her at
the women. In her agitation she had not missed Sylvia before.
‘What do you mean, Ruel? Where is she?’
‘God knows, Mrs. B. She’s disappeared!’ groaned Ruel, sweat breaking
out on his forehead.
Thoughtlessly he raised the back of his hand to wipe it away, then
seemed to recall he was not out in the fields so drew out his
handkerchief instead.
‘Yes, and the will King made and left on----What’s that?’ finished
the judge sharply, pointing to Ruel’s hand.
Stupidly Ruel stared at the handkerchief he held. It was stained with
great spots of red.
‘It’s blood, Ruel. Where’d it come from?’
‘I--I don’t know, Ez.’
‘He wiped his hands on it in the play just after the murder! We all
saw him do it,’ interrupted the judge.
‘So? Well, it just seems, Ruel, as if that was one of them last
straws they talk about. I guess I’ll have to ask you to come along
down with me a spell.’ Sewell’s words were delivered in a tone
that made them sound more like some pleasant invitation than an
official arrest. ‘You go along with Pete there, an’ I’ll see you
later.--’Course, it ain’t exactly legal, arrestin’ you without no
warrant this way, but you can sue me for false arrest if you’re a
mind to. I figure it’s best you go peaceable, anyway, an’ we’ll tend
to the rest later.’
The man at the door stepped forward obediently, but he did not touch
Ruel, merely stood by his side until he turned to move away.
‘I’m sorry, Ruel, old man, but don’t worry. It’ll come out all
right,’ sympathized Basil. Ruel did not seem to hear.
‘Ezra Sewell, the Lord forgive me for callin’ you a fool!’ sputtered
Mrs. Bascom. ‘Of all the idiotic, preposterous----’
‘There now, Mrs. B., save all them dictionary words for a more
understandin’ critter than me, who’s just doin’ a duty as plain as
the nose on your face--not speakin’ personal, I mean to say.--Get
along, you two.’ But his suggestion was unnecessary; Ruel and the
officer had gone.
‘Now, then, folks, there’s lots to be tended to yet. First off,
what’ll I do with you all?’ He addressed the question to them as if
seriously awaiting an answer.
‘Of course we’re at your mercy--your command, Inspector,’ suggested
one of the men, not too seriously in view of the latter’s rather
casual methods. ‘We want to do everything we can to help, but what
about to-morrow? I, for one, must get back to business, and, besides,
this house--after to-night----’
‘I was just considerin’ all that, mister. Now seems to me kind of
useless, keepin’ you all here, though, on the other side of the
fence, seems as if I ought to. Well, since you’ve been searched an’
with the women-folks’ statements an’ names, I guess you can go. You
leave me your names too an’ where I can get you if needs be, an’ I
guess that’ll be enough.’
‘I’m sure I can arrange for a few days’ leave. I’ll stay,’ said Judge
Brant quickly. ‘Naturally I want to help, and there’s the question of
the will to investigate.’
‘That’s fine.--An’ you’ll stay too, Doctor, at least till after the
inquest?’
‘Of course if you really need me I’ll manage it somehow,’ answered
the latter, a little reluctantly.
‘Good.--I do, ’cause I’ll need your testimony, professional like.
Now, if you other gentlemen will give me your names an’ addresses an’
telephone numbers, please, I’ll be much obliged.’
One by one they gave the required information while Sewell
laboriously wrote it down in a tattered notebook he drew from
his pocket, using a borrowed pencil which he wet with his tongue
frequently. This done, he made a stiff, awkward bow and walked out of
the room after requesting the doctor, the judge, and Basil Stacey to
accompany him.
‘Well, of all the unprepossessing, comedy “constabules” I ever saw!’
exclaimed Mrs. Tenney in a voice that certainly must have reached
that dignitary’s ears.
‘Fool!--I will say it--fool!’ muttered Mrs. Bascom. ‘Oh, Basil, wait
a minute.’
She detained him at the door, questioning him about the mysterious
will and Sylvia’s disappearance. When he had answered briefly, she
seized him by the arm excitedly.
‘Somethin’ has happened to her. She’d never go off like that of her
own free will.’
‘I’m sure of it, Mrs. B., and I mean to start on a search for her
right away. This--this Sewell dismisses her disappearance by saying
that if she’s abducted, she’d be far away and well hidden by now,
while the murder is more important to investigate first. But I’m
going to tell him I’m off to find her--this minute.’
‘You will--you must,’ whispered Mrs. Bascom to herself as he hurried
down the hall after the other three men.
Rain was pelting down in drenching streams as he ran the few steps
between the house and barn, struggling into a raincoat he snatched up
from the hall. The others had made a dash for it unmindful of the
storm, and were just ascending the stairs when Basil called out.
‘Inspector Sewell, you don’t need me here, do you? I’m going to find
Miss Hawley.’
It was more an assertion than a question, and he started out into the
rain again before Sewell slowly answered, ‘I calculate that’s a good
idea, young man. Go to it.’
Continuing up the stairs, Ezra led the way directly to King’s
workshop and switched on the lights. The room was now empty, for the
village doctor and his helper had removed King’s body to the house
while the inquiry was taking place in the living-room. Yet there was
a feeling of tragedy and confusion about the room still. The curtains
hung drunkenly before the rain-dripping windows, the chairs, which
had not been removed for the ladies’ use in the next room, were
pushed about in uneven rows; King’s dressing-gown, taken off for an
examination of the wound, lay draped over the back of the desk chair.
Everything either directly or indirectly heightened the lingering
horror of the drama which had so recently taken place there.
The wind whined above the streaming rain, lashing the trees and
whistling around the corners of the barn like a banshee.
‘It sounds almost as if some one were calling,’ shuddered the judge.
‘Yep, it’s a funny thing, about winds. Seems like they always follow
your mood; sigh restful when you’re happy, an’ mournful when you’re
sad,’ commented Sewell, motioning the two men to remain by the door.
Then his voice became crisp, dropped its drawl, though his easy-going
manner did not change. ‘Just let me take a look about before you come
in, though there’s not much use, since every one’s mussed about so
already.’
Slowly, almost indifferently, it seemed, he walked once about the
room without stopping, his eyes flitting from one object to another.
This done, he examined each of the windows in turn. The one which
had been used as a door in the play was now closed to shut out the
storm, and he muttered as he gazed out of it, ‘No chance for marks on
that glass or sill after that washin’.’ The other two were locked and
equally uninteresting.
‘Let’s see now. This barn’s built into the side of the orchard hill,
ain’t it, so instead of this bein’ the second-story floor as it
should be, all them windows open right on the ground.’
‘That’s right,’ approved the judge, ‘except that, due to the
irregularity of the slope, two of them are about a foot above the
ground. The opened one is on the ground level, though.’
‘Um, that don’t help any. The other two were locked.--You said only
the desk light was on?’ Sewell lighted it, then walked over to one of
the empty chairs and sat down in it. ‘Switch off the rest so I can
see how it looked.’
When this had been done, he studied the desk in silence.
‘Now one of you go over there an’ turn off the desk light.’
Dr. New did this.
‘Move around a bit.--You’re movin’ now?--Hmm. That’s enough. The
floor’s squeaky an’ it’s black as a bat so I couldn’t see you.’
‘That’s exactly the way it appeared during the play, except for the
opened window.’
‘What do you mean by that, Judge?’
‘It wasn’t raining then, so was a little lighter. We could see
whatever moved in front of it--as when the men entered the window or
when Miss Hawley came in the door between us and it. There was only
light enough to make out silhouettes, not details, of course.’
Sewell advanced toward the desk once more and stared down at the
stained blotter.
‘Pretty positive that ain’t blood, Doctor?’
‘Sure of it. It’s red ink from the bottle you saw in the desk drawer.
King probably spilled it while the room was dark to carry out the
illusion. Besides, the very way the body leaned, the wound and blood
were below the level of the desk.’
‘Like this, eh?’
Sewell sat down in the chair and bent forward, though refraining from
touching the blotter.
‘That, or possibly a little farther forward.’
Sewell held his position without replying, for he had noticed certain
indentations in the otherwise smooth blotter--marks very indistinct
due to the dampening it had received from the ink, yet clear enough
to show some one had written at the desk since the fresh blotter had
been placed there. It looked like a single word.
‘Happen to know if this was a new blotter or when it was last
changed?’
The men shook their heads in the negative.
‘Wonder if any one else could tell me that?’
‘Probably Miss Hawley or one of the men in the play.’
‘Sure. Guess that’s a point I’ll have to find out about.--King didn’t
do no writin’ durin’ the play, did he?’
‘No, unless it was in the dark. Why do you ask?’
‘I was just wonderin’.’
Sewell took up the dressing-gown to examine it closely. He measured
with his eye the rent that the knife had made, estimating it was less
than two inches in length. Something rustled in one of the pockets as
he handled it, and he drew out a small slip of paper. It was slightly
wrinkled and torn on one edge, while on it was a single row of
penciled figures--‘2 4 5 7 8.’ The numbers were unevenly spaced and
irregular as if hastily done, each approximately an inch in height.
He was about to replace this in the pocket as unimportant for the
present, when his eyes fell again upon the marks on the blotter.
Bending forward as if to hold the paper nearer the light to study
it, he compared the figures with the indentations. Obviously they
coincided! This information he kept to himself, though he showed the
figures on the paper to the men.
‘Make anythin’ out of that?’
‘About the right length for an auto license,’ suggested the doctor.
‘It ain’t King’s, ’cause I’ve seen it often. But that’s an idea. What
do you say, Judge?’
‘Might be anything--or nothing,’ responded the latter absently,
shuddering at the sound of the wind. ‘What a night!’
Inspector Sewell nodded, carefully folded the slip and placed it in
his worn notebook.
‘This secretary, Miss Hawley, maybe she’d know that too, leastwise
she would if any one, I guess. Seems like she might know lots of
things, only she ain’t here to tell ’em. Hope maybe Basil finds
somethin’ about her.’
‘That reminds me. What do you make of this will affair?’ questioned
the judge. ‘I don’t like it. I was in King’s confidence and certainly
he mentioned nothing about such a radical change in his will to me.’
‘Don’t make nothin’--yet. The point of law is up to you, an’ the
rest--well, we’ll see later.’
‘But she’s disappeared, whether by force or----’
‘Hold on, there. I ain’t exactly worryin’ about her--now. Got enough
else on my mind. If she’s been took off, she’s hid by now, an’ if
she’s took herself off, she’s either hid or will come back when she’s
a mind to. My assistant, Pete, is startin’ things along that line an’
so is Basil. An’ that’s all we can do for the present.’
His fat thumb emphasized his words by pressing the switch button
and plunging the room into darkness. As they passed into the other,
unfinished part of the loft, Sewell turned on a second light and
paused to look at the small, dust-covered windows. They had no locks,
and one contained streaks in the dust of the sill, but it was useless
to raise the window for further examination, as the storm would only
destroy them.
Just at the right of the door leading into the workshop stood the
typewriter desk and chair which had been moved there for purposes of
the play when Miss Hawley was supposed to frighten away the intruder.
Over this Sewell bent in passing, reached behind the machine and
lifted out a paper which had fallen there. With this in hand, he
turned to the men.
‘If I recollect right, you said she wrote somethin’ on that machine
durin’ the play? Well, now, would it be much--a few words, or what?’
‘Not more than a line, I should say. She rattled it off very swiftly.’
‘I heard the bell ring only once,’ nodded the judge.
‘A few words, then. About this long, maybe?’
Sewell extended the paper which he had just picked up, and the men
read--‘Now is the time--2 4 5 7 8.’
‘Good Lord--that number again! You don’t suppose----?’
‘Queer, ain’t it?--An’ now she’s gone off somewheres,’ muttered
Sewell as he led the way to the stairs in the farther corner of the
room. But to himself he recalled that in the sequence of the play,
she had appeared at the safe just after the pseudo and the real
murder must have been committed! Which way had she entered, then,
from the loft or from the room itself?
CHAPTER IV
EZRA MAKES A PROFESSIONAL CALL
‘Feel sort of confidin’ now, son?’
Ruel ceased his pacing and whirled on the balls of his feet to face
Inspector Sewell.
‘You’ve found her?’
Sewell shook his head sorrowfully as he unlocked the bars and entered
the cell. Ruel continued his pacing without a glance at the door
which the inspector had left half open.
‘Nope, nothin’ to tell about that, yet.--You got anythin’ to tell me
though, Ruel?’ His voice was almost wheedling as he perched on the
edge of the cot, drawing up his knees and resting his chin upon them.
‘No?--Then it ain’t done no good, has it?’
‘What?’
‘Solitary confinement--sunlight makin’ patterns of the bars on the
floor--remorseful thoughts, an’ such,’ replied Sewell, tapping one
palm with the bulky key to the cell. ‘Now that you’re a formal
prisoner, arrested good an’ proper an’ all, seems as if you ought to
be feelin’ different, ’cordin’ to these here psychologists!’
‘The only remorseful thoughts I have are that I ever came here so
meekly in the first place, didn’t break away to look for Sylvia
myself before you had me arraigned before the local judge late last
night.’
‘Any particular reason why _you_ should feel that way?--No, don’t
answer, bein’ as it’s personal an’ unnecessary. Besides, I guess
them as know you an’ her like I do, can dope out a pretty close
answer, eh?’
‘There’s--there’s no definite reason--yet,’ stammered Ruel.
Sewell nodded, turned his head toward the corridor and called out,
‘Pete, soon as that Basil Stacey gets here, step him along in, will
you?’
A voice from the office answered laconically, ‘Yep.’
It was nine o’clock in the morning of the day after the tragedy.
The night had passed agonizingly for Ruel. He had not slept at
all, spending the time either pacing his cell or hunched with
his head in his hands, reliving each thought and action of that
fatal play with its subsequent revelations, striving to recall
something--anything--that might give a key to these events. But the
process had been in vain--only served to bewilder him more than ever.
His brain ached with the exertion, while his body suffered from the
lack of it. His face was pallid, his hair and clothes disheveled,
and his eyes seemed to have receded into his head. Yet all this
only added to the strength and determination of his face, the weary
dejection of his expression.
Ezra Sewell also showed the effects of his all-night search for
Sylvia Hawley, yet his eyes were alert and keen. A sparse cowlick
over his forehead made a sleek contrast to his otherwise tousled
hair, and as he perched there, his arms encircling his drawn-up
knees, he seemed a rather whimsical, weather-beaten sort of elf.
‘Look here, Ruel, it ain’t doin’ no good ragin’ round like a loco
pig. Set down now, so we----’
‘Pigs?--I’d forgotten mine. I suppose now they will----’
‘I ain’t. Pete’s tendin’ to them an’ feedin’ ’em all right.--But what
I mean to say is this: we’re doin’ all we can to find Miss Hawley,
an’ don’t mistake me neither. We’ve got to find her.’
‘I know, but I can’t stay here doing nothing. Let me help, Ez.’
‘No, son, can’t do that. Me--I’d turn you loose in a shake, only
don’t you see I ain’t me, now. I’m an inspector. I’m the law, you
might say, an’ if people saw you runnin’ loose after this, they’d
never respect it no more. It’s little enough they do, as it is.’
‘Oh, I appreciate that, Ez, but it’s hard----’
‘Most things as are right, is. But I’m doin’ all I can to make it
easy, Ruel.--Now let’s talk sensible. You been thinkin’ over things,
eh?’
Ruel laughed jerkily. ‘Yes, but it’s no use. All I know is that I
didn’t kill King.’
‘Of course you never, but all the evidence is against you, an’ it’s
embarrassin’. Take that blood, for instance, how’d it come to be on
your handkerchief?’
‘I don’t know unless----Well, you see I wore these old clothes to
carry out my part in the play. The handkerchief was in them, not a
fresh one. I suppose I cut myself--I’m always doing so--and stopped
the blood with it, then stuffed it into that pocket and forgot it.’
‘When did you do that?’
‘That’s the trouble, Ez. I can’t remember any specific time, and I
heal quickly.’ He spread out his calloused hands; they were scarred
in several places, but no very recent cuts were visible.
‘Not very convincin’ to a jury.--That play now, Ruel, seems kind of
foolish an’ far-fetched in a way. Was----’
‘But not so much as you think, Ez. That was the reason I hated
to take part in it--so much of it was near the truth. It made me
uncomfortable, especially when King played his part so--so literally.
I hadn’t expected him to stick to actual facts, you see.’
‘You mean usin’ your own names an’ you--er--you an’ Sylvia like?’
‘Yes, and more. King had actually lent me money for my farm, and I
still owed it to him. When he brought that into the play, gave me
that receipt and all, I----’
‘You still got it?’
Ruel took a paper from his pocket and handed it to Sewell.
‘Hmm. How much did you owe him, Ruel?’
‘Five thousand--about.’
‘I thought so. This looks like a genuine receipt for that amount in
full!’
‘What? Let me see! I hadn’t looked before.--But of course he didn’t
mean it seriously. Here, let me tear it up.’
‘Hold on. We ain’t destroyin’ nothin’. You see it might prove he was
expectin’ somethin’ to happen--preparin’ for it, like, though it’d be
just like him to do it on purpose, he was that kind an’ generous.’
‘You mean he might have been forewarned? But then you must suspect
some one else. Who is it?’
‘There now, I knew you’d ask that pretty soon, only I was sort of
hopin’ you wouldn’t, in a way. Maybe it will kind of make it simpler
if I tell you right out plain--plough right along into it, ‘stead of
only furrowin’ round the edges. ’Course I s’pose no matter how easy
like I put it, you’ll get all riled up, so here it is. You see, I
suspect Sylvia Hawley----’
Ready as he was for Ruel’s protests, Sewell was not prepared for the
sudden onslaught that followed. Without a word, Ruel charged like an
angry bull at the mention of Sylvia’s name, his muscles bulging, his
hands reaching out as if to tear away that word from the inspector’s
lips. But when he bent forward to seize and shake him, Sewell
suddenly straightened his knees, driving his feet straight forward.
It was not a very dignified way to end an imminent fight, but it was
an effective one. His feet landed neatly against Ruel’s chest. The
force of the blow sent the latter reeling backward until he sprawled
against the wall which saved him from falling. Then Sewell calmly
reached over with one foot, swung shut the door with a slam, and
resumed his former position.
‘Guess it would be better, shuttin’ that door--keep the bull in the
pen, eh?’ he drawled. ‘Too bad you didn’t give your head a crack
against the wall--knock some sense into it maybe. Such a temper would
most make me believe you might have killed King in anger, if I didn’t
know you better.--Suppose you didn’t sleep much, though. Don’t know
as I blame a young fellow like you--might have done the same thing
myself, if I felt that way about a girl.’
He was talking against time to allow Ruel to compose himself. This
the latter did abruptly, crossing over to the bed and sitting down
beside Sewell. He still twitched nervously, and dropped his head into
his hands.
‘Sorry, Ez. I--I won’t interrupt again.’
‘Hope not--at least, not so violent. You’ll feel better, gettin’ it
out of your system too. Now I can tell you the whole thing, includin’
the fact she ain’t the only one I suspect of knowin’ a lot about
this. Understand me, too, I ain’t said I suspected her of guilt,
just of knowin’ somethin’ as might help. I suspect every one right
now--except you!’
Sewell’s manner changed as he began to recount the discoveries he
had made after Ruel’s arrest. He spoke in short, concise sentences,
clipping his words instead of drawling them, dropping his voice
from its rather high pitch to an emphatic, low staccato. Intently
he watched Ruel’s face and followed his expression of surprise and
incredulity carefully. It was too sincere to be mere acting. Beyond
a doubt, Ruel knew nothing about that mysterious number. This much
accomplished, Sewell relapsed into his former conversational manner.
‘There’s a lot she’s got to explain, certain sure, d’you see? But
that don’t mean she can’t set things to rights in a jiffy, far as
she’s concerned. It don’t stand to reason she’d disappear without
some reason. She’ll probably turn up with some simple explanation
when the time comes.’
‘And probably some one else typed that line, left it on purpose to
cast suspicion on her.’
‘It’s possible--so’s anythin’ for all we know yet,’ assented Sewell
gravely. ‘But I ain’t surmisin’ things. I just told you the facts as
I found ’em, so as to sort of prepare you. If you should remember
anythin’ about that number----’
‘I don’t, Ez. It means absolutely nothing to me.’
‘Well, let’s try somethin’ else. About Sylvia, now. You don’t suppose
she just went off for some reason of her own? A relative, maybe,
or----’
‘She hadn’t any. She was an orphan, Ez. She said she hadn’t a real
friend--outside this village. Mr. King met her at Basil Stacey’s
office and brought her here when he bought that house a year ago.
She’s been here ever since, even when he went on trips to New York or
anywhere.’
‘Hmm. I’d forgotten she worked for Stacey.--Suppose you know all
about her, where she came from an’ so on? All I know is she’s a
mighty nice, interestin’ woman.’
‘Why--no. I never asked her, and she didn’t seem to like to talk much
about her past. You aren’t insinuating----’
‘No, I ain’t. Guess I can tell good folks from bad without no
autobiography, young man. But you let somethin’ like this happen,
an’ sure as I’m alive, of all the cussed complications an’----Why,
I’d have said I knew Sylvia Hawley from A to Izzard before this.
Ask me now, an’ I’m as bad as you, sayin’ she’s mighty sweet an’
all, without knowin’ nothin’ to drive a spike into. Seems like that
reminds me of some others too. You take----’
‘Step right along in. He’s waitin’ for you,’ interrupted Pete’s nasal
voice from the office, followed by Basil’s appearance at the bars.
Sewell handed him the key and Basil unlocked the door and entered,
leaving it open behind him.
‘The last of the guests have gone, even the doctor and judge, to
arrange their affairs. Any news?’
He nodded to Ruel, but they did not bother to shake hands or greet
each other.
It was useless to ask him the same question, for his eagerness
betrayed his own lack of it. Unlike Ruel, though he had been up most
of the night in his fruitless search for Sylvia, his face seemed
as fresh, his manner as jaunty as if he had just awakened from a
refreshing sleep. It was the contrast between a man used to regular
hours and outdoor life, as opposed to one accustomed to the rush and
irregularity of city life.
‘We’ve been mullin’ things over a bit, but ain’t arrived no place in
particular,’ said Sewell. ‘You might tell us about lookin’ for Miss
Hawley.’
‘I searched everywhere, and there’s no trace of her. There was no
train out of here after she was last seen in the play, and I checked
up on all the known automobiles and conveyances in the village or
house. No one saw her after the play and she couldn’t have come down
the stairs from the loft without being seen by Mrs. Dobson who was in
the barn below.’
‘That only leaves two ways, then. Number one is to have sneaked out
that window----’
‘Impossible, Sewell, if you mean the one we used in the show. In the
first place, she’d have been seen against the light; in the second,
I’d have seen her, for I was waiting just outside there for Ruel to
finish and come out.’
‘As far as I can figure out, nobody saw nothin’ important an’ did see
lots as was unimportant. That’s always the way with human critters in
a crisis, seems like.--You was standin’ close to the window?’
‘At the right of it as you face it from outside, wasn’t it, Ruel? I’d
been waiting there in the shadow for some time.’
Ruel nodded absently.
‘Then she didn’t come out there, that’s certain.’
Ruel opened his lips suddenly to speak, but as neither of the
men appeared to be looking at him, he changed his mind, scowled
thoughtfully, and glanced sidewise at Basil, then remained silent.
Sewell noticed this expression of doubt, but made no comment on it
just then. ‘She must have climbed out one of the little windows then,
the one where the dust was streaked on the sill an’ dropped--let’s
see--nigh on to fifteen feet to the ground. Hump! That don’t seem
logical, not to me it don’t. I dunno why she’d try such a thing.’
‘Her disappearance is all illogical,’ echoed Basil. ‘She couldn’t
leave that room--yet she did. Even if some one tried to force her
away, I don’t see how it could have been accomplished.’
‘Nor me, neither.--Hold on.--Now kick me if I ain’t the fool Ellen
B. says I was! An’ me livin’ around farms most all my life! Why, look
here. There’s a door in the end of the barn there an’ the hoistin’
tackle an’ rope for pullin’ up hay to the loft. She might have slid
down that neat as a whistle an’ no one the wiser.’
‘Not Sylvia,’ said Ruel firmly. ‘Sliding down a rope is no easy task
for a woman in evening clothes. Besides, there was no rope there, I
know. King had taken it down.’
‘I s’pose you’re right,’ grunted Sewell, nodding his head to
emphasize his words, ‘but just the same it’s possible.--Say, you
haven’t heard all of it--what I found after you left, Basil.’
The inspector turned to the latter and again rapidly told of the
papers with the numbers on them. Basil was obviously incredulous,
vehemently denying any suspicion of Sylvia’s guilt, but his vehemence
did not take any physical form as Ruel’s had done. Instead he scoffed
at the idea of her knowing anything about the numbers, and dismissed
them as unimportant.
‘This Mrs. Bascom,’ continued Basil, changing the subject abruptly,
‘she is certainly shrewd--the way she worked out the play and took
charge afterward.’
‘Shrewd? Hump! Don’t need to have no one tell me about that critter.
She’d be up to most anythin’.’
‘I wonder!’ murmured Basil, as if to himself.
‘What’s that? You insinuatin’ Ellen B. had somethin’--? Say, young
man, what gave you such a fool notion?’
‘I don’t know. She seemed to be the only level-headed one--she solved
the mystery and was pretty calm about things mostly. She saw what no
one else seemed to take in, and after all she was there in the room.’
‘So was quite a few others--all of ’em as much suspected as her.’
‘I was just theorizing, Sewell, thinking out loud and trying to help
somehow,’ replied Basil apologetically.
‘Sure, I need help, but none about them as I know as well as Ellen B.
I guess I know her, all right--darned well!’
For several minutes thereafter, under Sewell’s prodding, Basil gave
miniature characterizations of each of the guests, whom he knew quite
intimately, save for Dr. New. In this latter case, however, he was
able to repeat King’s own eulogy of his friend and physician. The
result was not illuminating beyond the fact that they seemed a gay,
likable set, devoted to Mr. King and without exception feeling the
loss of his friendship as a decidedly personal one.
This naturally brought the conversation to King himself and rapidly
developed the fact that, although he was accepted everywhere, admired
and looked up to, comparatively few intimate details were known
about his life. A year ago he had bought a large farmhouse about a
mile from the center of Crookshaven and spent a small fortune on
repairing it. He had moved in at once, bringing Miss Hawley with him
and establishing Mr. and Mrs. Dobson in charge of the grounds and
household.
The repairs and modernizing of the house had been skillfully executed
so as to make it thoroughly comfortable and livable, yet not offend
the charm of its age. Externally, wherever repairs were made, a
replica of what had to be removed was put back in its place, then a
coat of stain, rather than paint, applied, so tempered and tinted
that its protective coating enhanced the illusion of boards grown
gray-green with time. Inside, rooms were thrown together in some
instances, restored and redecorated with the same general plan in
mind. Electric lights were added, the plumbing modernized, but
otherwise the effect was of comfortable antiquity.
King had taken an eager, personal interest in all this, spending
lavishly and refurnishing the house with antiques. Two stipulations
were made with regard to the furniture: each piece must be a genuine
antique, but also it must pass a test of comfortableness in the case
of chairs and such appointments. Miss Hawley’s enthusiasm and good
taste had been a material assistance in the work.
At first regarded somewhat in awe because of his wealth and power,
Mr. King had rapidly overcome the village’s reserve and ingratiated
himself with its inhabitants, sharing their hopes, plans, and
sentiments as if he had always lived among them. His generosity
became a byword with them, whereas normally such matters as money
or personal problems were seldom discussed openly; his approval and
advice were sought on many occasions and never proved wanting. In a
year’s time, he called most of them by their first names, could ask
after their children both present or absent, discuss their affairs
and encourage them in periods of stress like a relative.
Yet now that Sewell began to look farther back, he abruptly
discovered little or nothing was known of King himself before his
advent into the village.
Basil was able to trace his history one step farther, yet without
adding materially to it. He had first met King in New York in a
matter of business which had resulted in their friendship. King had
proved himself a shrewd business man, honest, yet capable of matching
wits with the keenest brains and singularly able to get his own way
once his mind was made up on any matter. He had quickly gathered a
circle of friends about him, a somewhat cosmopolitan group, to be
sure, but one that was at bottom sincere in its relations to him
and each other. He enjoyed having them about him, took a special
pleasure in entertaining them without thought of reciprocation or
those formalities of social life that can prove a bane as well as a
blessing.
For two years King had lived alone, enlarging his income by clever
ventures into business where everything seemed to turn to his profit.
Then his hobby--the writing of stories and intricate mysteries--grew
from a pastime to a major work, and he retired to Crookshaven to
gratify it. Yet he could be reticent, and always was, concerning his
past life. He referred to it in generalities, such as to mention some
city or country he had visited or some personal reminiscence that
had apparently been the basis of one of his stories, but he avoided
specific details. Some accused him of having been a detective at
one time because of his knowledge of their ways and methods, but he
smiled without affirming or denying the fact.
‘Seems funny,’ commented Sewell mournfully as Basil completed his
scanty account of King’s city life. ‘It don’t seem right as I should
be the one to play detective for him. He was smart along those lines
himself, an’ it ought to have been the other way around, like.--But
I guess it ain’t the first or last time life’s mixed things up all
wrong. One thing’s certain sure, the person that killed King has got
a lot of enemies in this village an’ a lot of eyes workin’ against
him.’
‘But that hasn’t solved the mystery--or found Sylvia yet,’ said Ruel.
‘No, and I say let’s _do_ something, get busy. This talking will
never get us anywhere.’
‘Don’t be too sure of that, my man. There’s times to act an’ times to
talk, an’ most of us do a whole lot more talkin’ than actin’, so it
stands to reason discussin’ ain’t always a waste of time. Personally,
I guess I’ve learned lots since I came here to-day.’
Sewell got slowly to his feet and yawned, kicking out one leg after
the other to increase the circulation after his cramped position.
‘Basil, you go crank up my auto out there an’ we’ll amble up to the
house for another look around by daylight. There’s a couple of places
I want to see now it ain’t rainin’. I’ll be along soon as I hear the
thing goin’.’
The inspector fumbled with the key, inserting it in the outside of
the lock and delaying until Basil had gone. Then he turned back to
Ruel.
‘Just what was you thinkin’ back there a spell when he said he was
standin’ waitin’ outside the window? I saw you had somethin’ on your
mind.’
For a moment Ruel hesitated, then looked Sewell straight in the eyes
as he answered: ‘I thought it was unimportant--kept still rather
than--well, than appear to be throwing suspicion on a man’s word. I
guess he forgot, but he was not on the right of the window and not
standing still. I know because I took a couple of steps down the
slope on the left when I came out. He met me there and he’d been
running or something, as he was breathing fast.’
‘Hmm. You did right, tellin’ me, son. Now why should he have said he
was standin’ still waitin’?’
‘I don’t know, but I don’t think he meant it as an attempt to cover
up some--some guilty act.’
‘Maybe not, but he kind of made a point of it, seems to me.--Well,
don’t forget, Ruel, I expect to hear everythin’ like that as may
come to your mind, see? Little details turn out big, you know, quite
often.’
At that moment the telephone bell rang and Pete answered it, received
some message evidently, for the receiver clicked down again after a
brief pause without his making any remark. Then Pete shuffled out of
the office with a chuckle and addressed his superior familiarly.
‘Message for you, Ruel,’ he grinned again, ‘an’ one for you, Ez.’
‘Not--not Miss Hawley----’
‘About her, yep. She’s back, Ruel.’
‘Thank God. Where was she? Is she all right?’
‘Yep, so Mrs. B. says.’
‘Ellen B.?’ interrupted Sewell. ‘What did she say? Give it plain an’
literal, Pete.’
‘She says--“Tell Ruel Moore I’ve found Sylvia. She’s shook up a bit,
but she’s safe an’ all right now.”’
‘But where--where was she?’
‘Don’t know, Ruel. All else she says was--“An’ if Inspector Sewell
wants to know where she was, tell him for me it was where any one
with sense, especially an inspector like him, would have looked first
thing.”’
‘Hump. I notice she didn’t look there herself--first thing,’ grunted
Sewell testily. ‘Why didn’t you hold on to the wire, Pete?’
‘’Twasn’t no use when she hung up, Ez. Guess I know Ellen B.!’
A loud report and chugging from the yard announced that the auto was
ready to perform its duty. Sewell slammed the cell gate and, ignoring
Ruel’s pleas to be allowed to accompany him, stamped hurriedly away.
CHAPTER V
MRS. BASCOM LAYS A GHOST
As the last automobile load of the guests turned into the road
toward the village, Mrs. Bascom heaved a sigh of relief and leaned
back against the piazza rail. She enjoyed them usually, but her
self-appointed task of hostess had not been an easy one this time.
Gradually the hum of motors faded into the distance, giving way to
the chatter of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves in the cooling
morning breeze. The smell of warm oil and gasoline fumes dissipated
slowly, routed by the clean odors of freshly dampened earth, flowers,
and hayfields filled with clover. The sun, poised in a deep blue sky
washed clear by the night’s rain, was comfortably warm and friendly,
softening the lines on Mrs. Bascom’s face, bringing out the healthy
color of its skin, the benignity yet firmness of its expression, and
adding lustrous highlights in her rather tightly drawn, dark hair.
Scarcely had her slender body relaxed, however, when she straightened
up and admonished herself audibly.
‘Ellen Bascom, you’re a lazy, idlin’ woman. Where’s your gumption?’
As if this self-imposed taunt had goaded her to action, she walked
halfway down the curved drive, then swung about to survey the house
and grounds. She knew this was the best spot from which to view both
house and barn together, for it afforded a clear vista between the
elm trees that shaded the lawn.
Her eyes rapidly swept over the familiar house with its air of
sturdiness and age. It was only two stories high, the peaked gable
adding an unfinished attic, but it gave the impression of being a
spacious house. Originally square, two wings had been added some time
before King bought it, thus almost doubling the floor space. One of
these additions remained exactly as it had formerly been, but in the
other, rooms had been thrown together on the lower floor to make the
large sitting-room and smaller den behind it. A square hall with
narrow, yet not ungraceful, stairs leading straight up to the second
floor, opened on the left into the sitting-room, on the right into a
library, back of which lay the smoking-room, dining-room, and kitchen.
Mentally reviewing this house plan and studying its exterior as if
it might hold some secret, she remembered how children had always
called it the ‘Smiling House,’ pointing to the broad piazza across
its entire front as the mouth, its second-story windows as eyes, and
the chimney as a rakishly cocked hat. Now its smile seemed to become
a leer, and the ells and wings stretched out, not in their former
friendliness, but as if to shrink away from the main body itself.
What had been skillfully counterfeited age seemed too vividly old,
about to fall apart with the passing of its master.--But such fancies
were not for practical minds.
Mrs. Bascom deliberately turned her attention to the barn. It stood
about ten yards to the rear of the house and was built into a low
hill that formed a background for both buildings. Although two full
stories in front, the second floor was on a level with the hill at
the back, thus bringing King’s workroom almost flush with its slope.
Small windows in double rows punctuated the sides of the barn,
terminating in the larger French window at the back.
The huge doors stood open now, giving a glimpse of the small box
stalls, some of which King had converted into places for his own and
his guests’ automobiles. They were still hung with bits of harness,
and the disused implements of the farm of which they had once been
a vital part. Her eyes rested for a moment on the short length of
frayed rope swinging from the wooden crane over the smaller door on
the second floor where hay had once been hoisted for storage, passed
on to the stone wall that cut a line across the hill just back of the
barn, returned to the open doorway just as a man hurried out of it
almost fearfully.
It was ‘Jake’ Dobson, King’s man of all trades and husband to Martha,
the housekeeper. He was bareheaded and clad in overalls, though the
shoulder straps had not been adjusted and trailed behind him as he
hurried toward the house. They caught on a stone and jerked him
backward with a startled cry. As he stooped to free himself, Mrs.
Bascom hastened toward him.
‘’Morning, Jake.--Sakes alive, you look as scared as if you’d seen a
ghost!’ she remarked.
‘I have!’ replied Jake unexpectedly, his red face now crimson as
he straightened up and adjusted the suspenders fumblingly to his
shoulders.
‘Stuff and nonsense.--Where?’
‘Well, I ain’t exactly seen a speerit, ma’am, but it’s a-moanin’
terrible in the barn. I--I was just a-goin’ to tell Marthy about it
before we--before I tried to find it.’
Mrs. Bascom snorted and made a clicking sound with her teeth which
seemed as expressive as a whole volley of sarcasm.
‘You come along with me, Jake Dobson, an’ let me listen to your
ghost,’ she called scathingly as she started toward the barn. He
hesitated, then followed sheepishly.
‘I was just puttin’ on my jeans when it began to moan awful bad. It
wasn’t wind either. I’m used to that. It was more like----’
‘Keep still. How do you expect me to listen to spirits with your
voice jabberin’ in my ears.’
Jake halted, abashed, keeping near the open door while Mrs. Bascom
walked firmly into the friendly muskiness of the barn.
‘Where were you standing, by the peg where you hang your things?’
He nodded silently, his eyes rolling about as if in search of some
dread shape.
At that moment a low moan, faint, but more human than ghostly,
reached Mrs. Bascom’s ears. It seemed to come from one of the stalls,
and she listened breathlessly to locate which one. The moan changed
to a muffled call, a cry of ‘Help--help’ followed by a slow tapping
sound.
Without hesitation, Mrs. Bascom scurried toward one of the box
stalls, disappeared inside, only to reappear and hurry toward the
stairs.
‘It’s Sylvia,’ she called out to Jake. ‘Get Martha--quick.’
‘Sylvia Hawley? Where--What--?’
‘Don’t stand there gapin’ like an idiot. Bring Martha up here.’ Her
final words floated down from above as she disappeared up the narrow
stairs.
Bewildered, Jake obeyed, stammering so badly that his wife thought
something had happened to Mrs. Bascom and came on the run. When she
had reached the loft, she stopped short in amazement and relief. By
the farther wall knelt Mrs. Bascom, bending over a grain chute in the
floor and calling little inarticulate words of sympathy down it. At
Martha’s approach she turned her head for a quick explanation.
‘It’s Sylvia. She’s been down the chute all this time.--Tell Jake to
fetch up a rope.’
This Martha did, and there was no hesitation in Jake’s movements when
she issued instructions!
Then began the somewhat awkward rescue. Martha held one end of the
rope, her husband the other, while Mrs. Bascom lay flat on the floor,
reaching down the chute to help as best she could as Sylvia worked
the loop behind her shoulders and up under her arms. Realizing this
would cut into the flesh, for Sylvia’s gown was a sleeveless evening
dress, Mrs. Bascom halted proceedings long enough to procure two
burlap bags to use for padding.
The rope adjusted, she joined Martha on her end of it and all
three began to pull. At the first loosening movement, Miss Hawley
groaned in pain, yet called up pluckily, ‘It’s my ankle. But I can
stand--anything--to get out of here.’
Slowly they raised her. Her face appeared, pale and streaked with
dust, her teeth clenched to stifle the pain. When her knees were on
a level with the floor, her rescuers moved back a step or two, thus
gently seating her on the edge of the chute. She smiled wanly, then
fell back in a faint.
‘Look, her ankle is sprained!’ cried Martha pityingly as she drew up
Sylvia’s feet from the hole and pointed to her left leg. ‘Give me
your knife, Jake.’
When he had opened and handed it to her, she cut the straps of the
dainty pump over which the swollen ankle bulged painfully, then ran
her fingers delicately over it to see if she could detect any broken
bones.
While she was doing this, Mrs. Bascom gently smoothed back the wavy,
bobbed hair from Sylvia’s face. Though drawn, dirty, and streaked by
tears of pain, it was still a delicately fresh, youthful face upon
which cosmetics and such artifices were unnecessary. Now that her
eyes were closed, it was expressionless, save for a hint of suffering
about the puckered lips and firmly closed jaws. Her dress, once
white, was wrinkled and blotched with dirt from the sides of the
chute as it outlined the slender curves of her body, lying back on
the floor.
A draped cascade of chiffon that hung from her shoulder had spread
out on the floor behind her, and this suddenly riveted Mrs. Bascom’s
attention. Something had cut a neat slit down part of its length, and
the edges along this slash were stained a dark red-brown that looked
like blood! Glancing down the folds of the dress, she discovered
another slit, but here the cloth was unstained.
Quickly Mrs. Bascom placed her foot upon this bit of drapery, then
stooped to raise Sylvia to a sitting position, thus ripping it away
from its fastenings on her shoulder.
‘There now, see what I’ve done!’ she murmured to Martha. ‘But her
dress was ruined anyway, poor dear.--She’s such a slender little
thing I’m sure Jake can carry her to the house.’
The latter did as he was bidden, picking up her limp body easily and
moving toward the stairs with many adjurations and comments upon his
clumsiness from his wife.
Mrs. Bascom lingered behind, ostensibly to pick up the bit of chiffon
and the mutilated slipper, but as soon as she was alone, she peered
down the chute. It was a square slide, tapering downward to a narrow
opening as it neared the little barred grill through which the horse
could munch his hay in the stall below. With the light filtering in
through this opening, she could just catch a glint of something on
the floor of the chute. What it was, she suspected and meant to make
certain.
Hesitating until she heard Jake’s footsteps on the gravel drive, she
hurried down the stairs and into the stall, pressing her face against
the grill. There, upright, its point stuck in the soft wood, was a
slender knife! Covering her hand with a thickness of the chiffon,
Mrs. Bascom reached in and secured it, hastily wrapping it around
with the rest of the cloth, being careful not to touch it with her
fingers. Then, with a shudder, but none the less resolutely, she
thrust it into the bosom of her dress and ran to catch up with the
others just as they were ascending the stairs in the house.
Once in Miss Hawley’s room, Jake was summarily dismissed, and the two
women undressed her and put her to bed.
‘If only Dr. New hadn’t gone to town,’ remarked Mrs. Bascom. ‘But
that’s just like a man--never on hand when he’s wanted. You call up
Dr. Smith in the village, Martha, then make some malted milk for
Sylvia in case she comes to. She’ll need nourishment after being
cooped up so long in that trap.’
‘How do you suppose she came to----’
‘We’ll know--when she tells us,’ answered Mrs. Bascom, opening the
window and procuring a bottle of smelling salts.
Martha Dobson swiftly left the room to do as Mrs. Bascom had
instructed, leaving the latter to revive her patient. As she bathed
Sylvia’s face with cold water, her mind raced with questions.
Had Sylvia been pushed or merely accidentally fallen into the chute?
Who had removed, then replaced the cover to it again? How had that
knife come to be in the chute? How had her dress been stained and
cut? Would she be able to answer all these questions or----
So absorbed had she been mentally, Mrs. Bascom did not notice
Sylvia’s eyes open and rest upon her for a moment inquisitively. But
when Sylvia sighed, Mrs. Bascom abruptly ended her cogitations.
‘There, now, I am thankful to see you come to yourself again. Does
the ankle pain much?’
‘Enough, Mrs. B. But I’m so much more comfortable than squashed in
that smelly hole! It was foolish of me to faint that way when you----’
‘My dear, a woman is never foolish to faint. It’s a God-given
privilege of the sex,’ rebuked Mrs. Bascom with her familiar toss of
the head. ‘And if ever any one had a right to a comfortable swoon, it
was you.’
‘Perhaps--though I’d already indulged in one or two before you found
me!’ smiled Sylvia rather wanly. ‘It was the pain and stuffiness.’
‘Now don’t say another word until after you’ve had a bit of hot milk
to drink,’ commanded Mrs. Bascom sternly as Sylvia seemed about to
add something else. ‘You lie still while I go poke up Martha who is
preparing it. The doctor will be along soon to look after you and
then you can talk all you feel like.’
She bustled out of the room without waiting for an answer, returning
shortly with some malted milk that Sylvia sipped gratefully.
‘I’m really perfectly all right now, Mrs. B. You’ve been a dear
to look after me so nicely.’ Sylvia paused, a hesitant, doubtful
expression in her eyes as they met those of the older woman.
She was troubled, perplexed about something, decided Mrs. Bascom at
once.
‘I want to talk now--to ask some questions and tell you things.’
‘You really shouldn’t, my dear, but if it will ease the pain by
taking your mind off it----No, that’s not honest, not what I’m
thinking at all! I’m really dying with curiosity, of course, and I
wouldn’t be human to make you keep still if you feel like talking.’
Sylvia smiled briefly, and any lingering hesitation vanished. Mrs.
Bascom took both Sylvia’s hands in hers and noted they were cold and
trembling slightly.
‘Did the--the play go off well, Mrs. B.?’
‘It was too gruesomely realistic,’ answered the latter truthfully.
‘You don’t mean--that is----’
‘My dear child, you really are upset. Hadn’t you better wait a while
and rest?’
‘Upset? No--yes. Let me tell you exactly what happened. Then you’ll
see why I’m so--so disturbed.
‘You saw the play, so there’s little I need add to that. There were
several bungled spots in it, one in particular. I saw that Mr. King
had forgotten to place that mock will in the safe, so I carried in a
piece of blank paper which I pretended to take out and tear up. Then
I waited just outside the door until I heard Basil at the safe, after
which I played my invisible part of writing on the typewriter and
moving about as if to enter the room. What I really did was take a
few steps backward, intending to move over toward the window to see
when he went out, thus ending the play.
‘My heel caught on something in the darkness and I twisted my ankle,
then, in an effort to regain my balance, I stepped back and fell
into space. Of course, it was down that chute.--I can’t understand
who could have removed the cover from it or why. Although no one
used that part of the loft now, Mr. King had warned me about the hay
slides and always kept them covered.--Anyway, down I went.
‘The shock of the fall must have stunned me, for the next thing I
knew, I heard you all laughing and moving around the room. I tried to
call out, but the dust got into my throat, and I knew you couldn’t
hear me then, anyway, so kept still, waiting an opportunity to call
when the confusion quieted down.
‘It was just then something suddenly rapped me on the shoulder. I
tried to scream, but my throat seemed to close up tight. I thought
of rats----Oh, it was awful--awful. I could scarcely breathe for a
moment. Then a board creaked, and I realized some one had replaced
the cover to the chute. I hadn’t heard a sound, but the faint light I
could see before was cut off, so I knew what had happened. I should
have screamed then, but--I fainted.
‘When I regained my senses again, my foot pained terribly and I
was so cramped that I could scarcely move. I wriggled, but that
only wedged me tighter--made my position worse. I thought I heard
something drop to the stall below with a little thud.--You--you
didn’t see anything there?’
‘I’ll go look--in a moment,’ muttered Mrs. Bascom evasively, as the
knife in her bosom seemed to press accusingly against her heart.
‘The rest is all confused--a sort of waking nightmare. Once I dimly
heard voices and I’m sure I moaned loudly, but no one seemed to hear
me. Then I dozed or fainted and dreamed--horrible things--that Mr.
King was really dead--that I was in some way respon----’
‘Hush, my dear,’ soothed Mrs. Bascom, scarcely realizing what she
was saying. ‘You were hurt, frightened. No wonder you dreamed such
things.’
‘But they were so vivid, so real. The cover being replaced so
furtively--I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that something was
horribly wrong. Once before, when I was alone in that room just
before the play, it seemed as if some one was there--something
sinister----Oh, it was only fancy, wasn’t it?’ pleaded Sylvia half
hysterically.
‘There now. Don’t bother your tired brain with such----Ah, that’s
the doctor’s car,’ said Mrs. Bascom with heartfelt relief at the
interruption, for she did not know what to say or how to conceal her
own agitation longer.
With an air of brisk authority, she smoothed the bedclothes, caught
up Sylvia’s hastily discarded garments and modestly thrust them
into the closet, then hurried into the hall to usher in the doctor.
Calling Martha to the room to assist him, she stumbled away to be
alone and think. Her feet carried her automatically toward the barn,
her hand clutching at the bosom of her dress.
Straight to the box stall she went, then drew out the knife to
examine it. Unwrapped from the cloth, she held it flat in the palm of
her hand, one fold of the cloth between it and her fingers. It was
a slender knife with a carved hilt, made to represent a sword. Its
tapering silver blade was clotted toward the tip with blood, and
looked exceedingly sharp on both edges. She was sure she had seen it
before, somewhere in King’s house, and obviously it was the weapon
used to murder him.
Wrapping it up in the cloth, she tucked it into her dress again and
stood motionless, tense with her own speculations. She did not doubt
Sylvia’s rather disjointed story, appreciated some of her vague fears
and dreams while penned in the chute. Yet why should they have taken
so definite a form--a premonition of tragedy? Some one had dropped
the knife down there--it was the touch on the shoulder Sylvia had
felt, accounted for the cut, smeared cascade on her dress. But had
this person also removed the cover to the chute purposely to trap
her? No, for then he would not have tossed the knife there, unless
he meant to cast suspicion on her directly. But who--why had any one
wanted to kill Mr. King?
Mrs. Bascom shuddered as the knife weighed against her heart like an
icy finger. For a moment she stood gazing blankly at the wall of the
stall, then shook herself as if to shuffle off by some physical act
her mental doubts and fears.
‘The Lord willin’, we’ll do it, Ellen Bascom,’ she muttered rather
ambiguously, took a few deep breaths to calm her heaving breast,
then hurried back to the house to telephone her message to Inspector
Sewell. Its very words attested to her recovered equilibrium and the
resumption of her former spirit!
It was well she was calm again, for the doctor, when he came down the
stairs, was solemn and perturbed.
‘It’s nothing serious?’
‘Merely a sprain and, of course, the nervous strain. I left a mild
sleeping powder in case it’s needed.--Why didn’t you tell me she did
not know about King?’
‘Do you mean to say you blurted out _that_?’
Before he could answer, she was halfway up the stairs. She hurried to
Sylvia’s room and sat down beside her on the bed, impulsively seizing
both her hands. Sylvia was pale, her eyes fixed in a vacant stare on
the opposite wall. Yet when they turned to meet Mrs. Bascom’s, they
seemed more thoughtful than irrational, and her voice was quite low
and steady.
‘I know now that Mr. King is dead. Tell me--everything.’
In a flash Mrs. Bascom made up her mind to do so. This was no time
for evasions or half truths; only the whole of it would ease the
confused questioning in Sylvia’s mind and enable her to get the rest
she required. Without preamble, therefore, she retold the facts of
the murder as they were known to her, including the switching of
rôles in the play, the dilemma of King’s will, and Ruel’s detention.
At this latter fact, Sylvia’s eyes closed suddenly. She had received
all these details in silence, her eyes never leaving Mrs. Bascom’s
face, her own blank of expression. But the mention of Ruel’s
imprisonment seemed to affect her in some way--just how, Mrs. Bascom
could only guess.
‘Did you look--in the stall?’ Sylvia’s eyes flew open once more. ‘Was
anything there in the chute?’
‘I looked. There was nothing there,’ replied Mrs. Bascom steadily.
‘Now you really must rest, my dear. We must all keep our wits about
us and be ready to do our share--for Mr. King.’
It was exactly the right note to strike, and Sylvia took the opiate
willingly while Mrs. Bascom talked soothingly and smoothed the pillow.
‘Of course the will was just part of the play,’ she concluded. ‘Judge
Brant will tend to all that for you, do whatever is necessary along
legal lines. He is keeping it now, I believe. There’s absolutely
nothing for you to worry about, so----’
She paused. Sylvia’s eyes were closed. A few minutes later the drug
and the physical strain had overcome her resistance and Sylvia was
asleep.
The sound of a motor, grinding up the drive, announced the arrival of
Inspector Sewell and Basil whom Mrs. Bascom met at the door.
‘She is asleep now, so we can talk here, _Inspector_,’ she accented
the last word meaningly.
‘Then she isn’t hurt?’ asked Basil.
‘A sprained ankle--from her fall.’
‘Fall, eh?--You’ve talked to her some, eh? Well, did she by chance
say anythin’ about figures?’
‘Figures? What do you mean, Ezra Sewell?’
Briefly he explained, showing her the penciled sheet.
‘Not a word.’
‘Didn’t calculate she would, but I wanted to know right off.--Now,
Ellen B., let’s get down to facts. Where’d you find her?’
Succinctly Mrs. Bascom told him, but omitting any reference to the
closing of the chute, Sylvia’s premonitions, her stained dress, or
the finding of the knife. Her first intention had been, of course,
to reveal everything, for after all Sewell represented the law,
and this was certainly valuable information. But when he implied a
suspicion of Sylvia by his reference to those figures, Mrs. Bascom
bridled at his stupidity, realized that the story of the knife and
Sylvia’s fears might only add to his case against her. Right or
wrong, Mrs. Bascom decided to protect King’s secretary from such a
contingency--at least for the present or until she could work out an
explanation that could not possibly involve Sylvia in any way.
‘Then the mysterious disappearance was sort of an accident like,
almost comic as you might say.’
‘As _you_ might say,’ echoed Mrs. Bascom scathingly. ‘Personally, I’d
consider such an accident--’
‘There now. You know I ain’t speakin’ literal, ma’am.--But it don’t
seem to explain much, as I’d kind of hoped it might.--Well, Basil,
you get along now an’ make up some of that lost sleep. I’ll have a
look around, an’ if I need you, I’ll sing out.’
He moved away at a shuffle, kicking up the pebbles in the driveway
thoughtfully. His mild eyes had noticed one peculiar fact. Mrs.
Bascom’s left breast had seemed curiously enlarged and her hand had
twice strayed to touch it while she spoke. He noted both these times
were also when her story became less detailed, was spoken rapidly
as if to cover up something. This might have been coincidence,
imagination on his part, yet he shrewdly suspected Mrs. Bascom knew
more than she had revealed.
CHAPTER VI
ROBBERY
‘I’m not intruding, am I, Inspector?’ asked Mrs. Bascom as she joined
him in the workroom of the barn.
‘Intrudin’--meanin’ forcin’ your way in?--Well, I ain’t seen no one
stoppin’ you, Ellen B.,’ said Sewell with a grin. ‘If you ask me, I’d
say you’re welcome--always stimulatin’, sort of, to have you helpin’
me.’
He chuckled softly to himself as she stalked over to one of the
chairs and sat down with an audible ‘Hump!’ He had expected a more
violent retort than that, but when she remained silent, he continued
his study of the room, examining the desk with a grotesquely large
magnifying-glass he took from his pocket, then using it on the safe,
the chairs, even along the carpet. At length he returned it to his
pocket and shook his head as their eyes met.
‘It ain’t no use. The rain’s cleaned up any marks outside, an’ there
might as well have been a cyclone in here. Finger-marks blurrin’ all
over everythin’ an’ not a real clue left. Kind of stumps me, all
right. You ain’t got any ideas, I s’pose?’
‘Of course I have. Some one simply walked in that window over there
and killed King in the dark.’ She pointed to the curtained window
near the desk.
‘But it was locked, every one said so, an’ I saw it for myself.’
‘That doesn’t make any difference. Obviously no one could get in
there--so naturally some one did!’
Sewell stared at her incredulously, then a slow flush began to mount
into his cheeks as he realized she was only jeering at him.
‘All right, Ellen B., that squares up for the time bein’. For a
moment I thought you really meant--’
He broke off as an idea struck him. Several of the guests had
examined the windows that had been curtained and found them locked,
according to their statements. They had proved so when he too
examined them, yet he now decided to look a little more closely,
especially at the one near the desk.
Without a word of explanation, he walked over to this latter window
and studied its lock. It was an ordinary bolt affair, securely
fastened and impossible to move from the outside. A drop of water
seemed to have seeped in somehow from the storm, and he absently
touched it with his finger, then wiped it off on the white paint of
the woodwork. It left an oily smear. He bent closer, discovered the
catch had been recently and thoroughly oiled!--Why? To prevent a
squeak--?
The bolt slid noiselessly under his touch and he slowly pushed the
French window open. Something gritted on the sill and he stooped down
to pick up a pebble which had caught under the door frame. Beside it
on the white paint was a scratch and a faint heel mark which had been
partly under the door, hence was not washed away by the rain.
He looked up to find Mrs. Bascom just behind him, intently watching
every move he made.
‘Seems as if you weren’t so far off, after all,’ he said mildly. ‘If
I remember rightly, this window wasn’t used much, was it?’
She shook her head, stepping back a pace to hide her curiosity.
‘Well, them marks look kind of fresh to me!’
She bent closer to look at the blur. Sewell was watching her, and
the movement confirmed his suspicion. Something was concealed in the
bosom of her dress, for it bulged out as if from a weight. It might
be a purely personal article, and yet----
‘Looks like this might be one clue they didn’t mess up.--Ha, it ain’t
a pebble, it’s cement--an’ cement’s on that stone wall there.’
He pointed to the wall which ran so close to the barn that a person
might easily have stepped from it to the window sill. A glitter on
one of the hinges caught his attention then. It proved to be another
drop of oil, and when he tested the doors, they moved noiselessly.
‘Guess you must be quite some detective yourself, Ellen B. I’m kind
of glad you intruded!--’Course, you just guessed it, I suppose;
woman’s intuition, eh?’ His glance at her face was swift but piercing.
‘Yes, I--I was only getting back at you for what you said to
me.--But, Ezra, do you mean he--the murderer--came in this way? Then
it must have been an outsider!’
‘Seems so--him or her. Looks like he was well prepared for the
murder, too. Either he was a pretty good guesser or knew just when to
come an’ go in the dark.’
‘But that would mean he knew all about the play!’
‘You’re a pretty good guesser, ma’am, or else you know somethin’ I
don’t, Ellen B.,’ he shot at her suddenly.
‘What do you mean?’ Involuntarily her hand moved toward her breast,
but she stopped it midway.
Sewell did not answer. He crossed over to the window behind the
chairs in which the guests had sat to watch the play. A brief
examination of this showed it also had been well oiled, but there
were no marks on the sill. When he turned to face Mrs. Bascom again
his expression was calm, though he was inwardly excited.
‘We’re gettin’ somewhere now. I got a hunch it was one of the guests
as did it, came out of here an’ in that other window in the dark,
then locked ’em again durin’ the confusion afterwards, see?’
‘What do you mean about me--knowin’ something?’ reiterated Mrs.
Bascom, refusing to be side-tracked.
‘Oh, nothin’, only you seem to be a pretty good guesser.’
‘You’re accusing me of holding back guilty knowledge, Ezra Sewell!’
‘Nope, certain not. It just struck me queer for a minute--how you
knew about that window.’
‘I didn’t know, I tell you. It was merely a coincidence. If you
appreciated anything about human nature and psychology----’
‘Well, I apologize, ma’am, so don’t get all riled up over it.--Let
me think.--It must have been some one as knew all about the play, eh?’
‘Yes, it might have been one of us,’ acceded Mrs. Bascom eagerly
as an idea occurred to her. ‘It was so dark in the room after King
turned off his desk light that some one might have done as you say.
Any one passing before that other window would have been seen, but if
he came in by the curtained window and kept to this side of the room,
he would have been invisible to us, of course.’
‘Him or her!’
‘Why do you keep adding--“her”?’ snorted Mrs. Bascom. ‘Just because
of that paper with the numbers on it--Why, how do you know Sylvia
typed it at all? How do you know it wasn’t planted there on purpose?
Why do you suspect Sylvia of such an imposs----’
‘I ain’t mentioned no names, have I?’ he interrupted. ‘I merely
remarked it might have been a he or a she, for all we know yet.’
‘But you meant Sylvia, you know you did. And you know perfectly well
she wouldn’t----’
‘’Course I know she wouldn’t, nor Ruel, nor----But some one did.
Might have been you! Far as I’m concerned, me an’ the law suspects
every one around here--’cept myself.’
This silenced her as he had intended it should, and Inspector Sewell
abruptly led the way from the room. When they were outside the barn,
he asked a few questions quite briskly.
‘When can I talk to Sylvia, do you think?’
‘To-morrow, perhaps.’
‘An’ the inquest’ll be then too. You’ll be there for it?’
‘I’ve decided to stay here in the house for a few days. I may be able
to help.’
‘Good idea. Better not say anythin’ about what we just found,
understand?’
‘I won’t. How could I, when commanded not to by--by the law?’
Sewell chuckled appreciatively. ‘Well, I’m kind of glad you’ll be
handy to keep an eye on things. Hope you’ll call me if you need
anythin’ or find anythin’.’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, the weapon.--Huh, you look as s’prised as if you’d never thought
of that. Seems queer to me it ain’t turned up--’specially if one of
the guests did it. I’m goin’ to have a look for it outside here now.’
Mrs. Bascom watched him walk away with a queer fluttering of her
heart beneath the knife that still rested over it. His sudden
reference to the weapon had startled her. Had he suspected anything?
Had his question about her concealing something contained a double
meaning? She could only wonder as she watched his leisurely progress
toward the rear of the barn.
He stooped to pluck a long grass stem which he stuck in his mouth,
then pushed his hat farther back on his head and stood staring at the
window just beyond him.
As he paused there, feet apart, hands clasped behind his back, an
idle thought crossed Mrs. Bascom’s mind. His was not a prepossessing
figure, average in height, not as rugged as many of his neighbors.
Yet there was a virility, a latent strength about him which he never
seemed to call into being. The same applied to his character which
was friendly, likable, yet rather impressive.
This being true, why should he always arouse an antagonism in her
which was quite obviously reciprocated? She was not ill-tempered
by nature. She could ‘get along’ with almost every one, and the
fact that she was a widow, living alone in moderate comfort, did
not hinder her social standing with the other men and women in the
village. Yet it was certainly true that she and Sewell were always
sarcastic, even caustic, with each other for no apparent reason.
Sometimes she felt he deliberately taunted her, and occasionally she
had tried to overcome this spirit, but always with the same result.
The mood was only short-lived, resulted in a spirited resumption of
hostilities. She had done her best; the result was, of course, his
fault, not her own--just like a man!
With this comforting self-justification, she watched him disappear
around the corner of the barn, then hastened into the house. Sylvia
was still asleep, so she went to the kitchen to inform Martha of her
decision to remain in the house for a few days, after which she set
off at a brisk walk to close up her own home temporarily and bring
back in a battered, straw suit-case a few necessary articles for her
stay.
When she returned, the knife, still wrapped in the chiffon, lay
safely hidden in her own attic. Before putting it away in a trunk,
she had studied it with a magnifying-glass from her parlor table. The
blade showed no marks and the hilt was so carved and etched that no
finger-prints could have been retained on it. Aside from the fact
that it was undoubtedly the weapon the murderer used, it seemed to be
of little value as a clue, she comforted her conscience.
Once established in the bedroom next Sylvia’s in King’s house, Mrs.
Bascom felt comfortably lazy and picked up a book she found there
to read. It proved to be one of King’s novels, written under a
pseudonym, and she began it with interest. The tale was an absorbing
mystery of crooks and detectives, murders and counter-plots which
quite thrilled her. Two hours passed as a few minutes, and only when
the front door bell rang did she look up with a start to find it was
almost dinner time. After changing her dress, she descended to greet
the doctor and judge who had just returned.
Eagerly they listened to her story of Sylvia’s rescue, pressing her
for details which she gave much as she had done earlier to Sewell and
with the same reservations.
‘I suppose this inspector person has made a more thorough search
to-day. Did he find anything tangible--the weapon, for example?’
asked Judge Brant when she concluded.
Mrs. Bascom glanced at him quickly, but his face revealed nothing but
interest and curiosity.
‘No--unless he found it after I left him.’
‘And Miss Hawley. How is she now?’ asked Dr. New, professionally
interested in that angle of the case.
‘Resting comfortably and as well as could be expected!’ gibed Mrs.
Bascom.
The doctor grinned. ‘You’d make a good nurse, Mrs. Bascom.--But I
gather she’s been looked after--her ankle?’
‘By our local doctor, yes. He said nothing was wrong with her except
the sprain--that rest was all she needed.--But I wish you’d give your
opinion too. I’d feel so much more comfortable, with you, right here
in the house, looking after her.’
‘Of course, while I’m here I shall, if you wish.’
‘Does that mean you have to go soon, Doctor?’
‘I’m afraid so--after the inquest.’
‘But Dr. New, I think you ought to stay on a few days--just to make
sure she’s all right.’
‘So, you don’t trust your local physician?’ smiled the latter
banteringly.
‘Yes, but--well, the nervous shock must have been severe. And I know
Mr. King would insist upon the best of care for her, if he were still
alive.’
The doctor hesitated. ‘Put that way, Mrs. Bascom, I can hardly
refuse. I’ll stay--a day or so, at least. You don’t think I ought to
see her to-night?’
‘She’s asleep, so I guess she’d better just rest. There’ll be so
much for her to do when she can--go over King’s papers and answer
questions and all. Incidentally, I’m going to stay here too for a
while.’
‘Quite right, Mrs. Bascom. Just call on me if necessary.’
The two men left to prepare for the evening meal and Mrs. Bascom,
observing the inspector outside the window, hurried out to accost him
as he shuffled toward his car.
‘Find anything new, Ezra?’
‘Not a durned thing, Ellen B.,’ he replied cheerily. ‘Guess I need
your guidin’ hand when it comes to findin’ things.’
He bent over the crank of his car and puffed audibly as he spun its
handle several times before the engine snorted noisily. His face was
red with the exertion as he climbed into the driver’s seat without
bothering to open the door. Tossing off his hat, he bent closer to
her with a twinkle in his eye and shouted above the pounding of the
engine--‘Mighty becomin’ dress, that. Seems to fit you better than
the one you had on this mornin’, Ellen B.!’
With a flourishing rap on his chest, he threw in the clutch and
started with a bounding jerk, leaving Mrs. Bascom gasping.
So he had noticed that bulge in her dress! But had he guessed what
it was? Did that explain his questions, his first reference to the
missing weapon? Or was it merely a coincidence, a product of her own
imagination?
A sort of panic seized her. Had she done the right thing to conceal
that knife? If he suspected her knowledge, might not he get her into
trouble?--Her ideas were vague. She saw a vision of herself in jail,
held for--what was the term?--contempt or accessory to something.
She wavered, might have confessed it all if Ezra had only remained.
Then Sylvia’s anxious, wan face seemed to float before her eyes,
strengthening her resolve. Sylvia would have enough to face without
that. Come what might, Mrs. Bascom would guard her secret, do a
little sleuthing of her own before she gave up that knife and its
story. And she must warn Sylvia to keep silent about certain phases
of her confinement in the chute--for the time being, at least.
The evening meal was given over to a discussion of the crime with
the doctor, the judge, and Basil, but it was all fruitless and
brought out nothing new. After it was concluded, the men retired to
the piazza to smoke and Mrs. Bascom withdrew to her room where she
eagerly took up King’s story once more, reading it with avidity.
About ten o’clock she went to Sylvia’s room, placed some more malted
milk at the side of her bed, then, as she was a light sleeper, left,
knowing she would hear if Sylvia should call or need her.
King’s book enthralled her. She heard the men retire to their rooms,
but still read on, unable to put down the story again until she had
concluded it. So it was nearly midnight before she closed it with a
little sigh of relief, undressed, and went to bed. But she could not
sleep as she had expected to do. For what seemed hours, she lay awake
going over and over the details of King’s murder. Even her caustic
admonitions to herself proved unavailing; her brain refused to cease
its activities.
At last she fell into a doze, only to be awakened by some sound which
ceased as soon as it had startled her to an upright position in bed.
She sat there, tense, for a moment, but no repetition of the sound
came to her ears. She must have been mistaken, she decided. It was
nothing but her own nerves.
Disgusted at herself for being so foolish, Mrs. Bascom lay back
again, deliberately closing her eyes and counting sheep jumping
over the wall. She had just reached the fiftieth hurdler, when an
unmistakable crash brought her to her feet by the side of the bed.
Somewhere in the house a chair or some heavy piece of furniture had
been tipped over and fallen upon an uncarpeted floor. The sound
seemed to have come from one of the rooms on the lower floor.
Mrs. Bascom groped for her dressing-gown, only to realize she had
neglected to bring it with her. She crept to the door, opened it a
crack, but modesty prevented her from stepping into the hall.
Modesty is an illogical emotion. Dress Mrs. Bascom in a flannel
wrapper and she felt quite competent to face any masculine eye--under
such provocation as the present situation--but clothe her in an even
more voluminous flannel nightgown, and even her curiosity shrank
back in righteous terror. Some one might see her, one of the men,
if the sound had awakened him too. If only she had brought that
dressing-gown----
A door opened, then another, and she heard whispered voices, the
muffled shuffling of slippered feet. Peering out through a crack in
the door, she could just discern two figures hastily descending the
stairs. Undoubtedly they were the doctor and the judge whose rooms
were at the farther end of the corridor. Opening her door a little
wider, she listened eagerly until footsteps close by made her close
it again quickly. That must be Basil coming from his room farther
down the wing.
A blur outside her window announced the arrival of the men in the
study below and the turning on of its lights. Mrs. Bascom remembered
the window would probably be open--it was a needless precaution to
even close it this far out in the country--so leaned out of her own
to try to catch any of the sounds or voices from below. A word or
broken phrase became intelligible as the men moved about in the room,
enough for her to gather that some one had entered with the obvious
intent of robbery.
She had listened there for several minutes before the thought of
Sylvia came to her mind. Perhaps the noise had awakened her and she
might be frightened. Mrs. Bascom hurried to the door between the two
rooms and softly pushed it open, glancing quickly at the bed. It was
empty!
Scarcely believing her eyes, she looked again, opening the door wider
and almost gasping aloud with surprise. The covers were thrown back,
and Sylvia was nowhere to be seen. Her eyes swept the vacant room
questioningly, paused on the hall door that stood ajar. She took a
step into the room, then shrank back again. That door was slowly
moving open!
Mrs. Bascom cringed back into the shadows, but held her door open a
crack so that she might watch.
A figure stumbled into the room and leaned against the wall. It
was Sylvia in a dark dressing-gown, supporting herself on a cane!
Painfully she drew herself toward the bed, favoring her sprained
ankle, but stepping on it occasionally and breathing rapidly. Once
there, she thrust the cane under it, then threw herself down, too
exhausted to remove her wrapper or get beneath the covers.
Mrs. Bascom rattled the knob of the door and entered.
‘My dear, what’s the matter?’ she called softly.
‘That noise--I tried to get to the door--I’ll be all right now.’
‘You should not have gotten up,’ reproved Mrs. Bascom sternly. ‘Why
did you do it?’
‘I--I had to----But the doctor said I could--advised me to step on my
foot all I could, you know. It’s bandaged--’
‘There now. Let me help you and tuck you in. You’re still weak.
Everything is all right. Just rest and sleep.’
Sylvia sighed deeply and relaxed, seemed to fall asleep almost
instantly, so Mrs. Bascom left her, hearing the men approaching
up the stairs. Modesty or no modesty, she must find out what had
happened! Wrapping the puff about her shoulders, she thrust her head
into the hall and called out, ‘What is it? Was it a robber?’
‘Yes--at least, an intruder,’ answered one of the men. ‘He broke into
King’s desk, but of course we don’t know whether he took anything or
not. The window was open--he must have come in there. We’ve locked up
again now, so don’t worry. We’ll search the house, then call Sewell,
so you’ll be perfectly safe.’
It sounded like the judge’s voice, but as he spoke he was moving
toward his room so that Mrs. Bascom had no chance for a reply or to
ask any of the questions that arose in her mind. For a moment she
stood still listening. Thus it happened she overheard still another
brief conversation.
Scarcely had the two men closed their doors, when one of them opened
again and Mrs. Bascom, by leaning immodestly into the hall, saw Judge
Brant step from his lighted room and knock on the doctor’s door. When
the latter opened it, the Judge spoke in what was supposed to be a
whisper, but was so loud and excited that Mrs. Bascom clearly heard
his words.
‘Doctor, some one has been in my room while we were downstairs. Come
in and I’ll show you. My wallet----’
The rest was lost as the two men disappeared from Mrs. Bascom’s view,
but she had heard enough. She knew that ‘some one’ was Sylvia!
But why? What was she doing there? If she was after some special
thing----The will! That was the only article the judge possessed that
seemed to bear on the case. She was after the will--why?
Shivering slightly with the excitement and the chill of the night,
Mrs. Bascom got back into bed to think. She intended to straighten
out these questions in her mind before sleeping again, sure that rest
could not come until her perplexities were settled.
Yet the human brain is a contrary organism; given a problem which
must be solved, it often plays the truant, closes up shop and refuses
to function, while if it has no duty to perform, it creates one
out of thin air. Thus, now that Mrs. Bascom had a real reason for
remaining awake, she almost instantly dropped off to sleep!
CHAPTER VII
A LIE
‘Much better, Mrs. B.,’ Sylvia Hawley answered her inquiry. ‘I’ve
slept for hours. I don’t think I’ll attempt getting up just yet,
however. If Inspector Sewell wants to ask questions as you say, bring
him up now and I’ll answer them.’
It was mid-morning. Sylvia had just finished the breakfast Mrs.
Bascom had solicitously brought her and now sat propped up in
bed. Beyond its pallor, her face showed scarcely any traces of
the ordeal through which she had so recently passed. A becomingly
ruffled negligee had been thrown over her shoulders and she seemed
even younger than her twenty-six years, the slight disarray of her
bobbed hair adding to the effect of careless youth and softening an
expression which, to the observant Mrs. Bascom, was a trifle too
tense and nervous.
Tactfully, Mrs. Bascom set about to relieve this strain as well as to
caution Sylvia about certain matters, such as any reference to the
presentiments she had felt while in the chute.
‘What it is to still have youth!’ she began cheerfully. ‘One would
scarcely suspect you’d even been up to a late party, much less a
harrowing adventure.’
‘I do look--normal?’ responded Sylvia, quite too seriously.
‘And bewitching, my dear, to say the least. You certainly do not look
as if you needed any help, especially mine, but I’m going to offer
it, nevertheless. Not only do I want to help you, but also Mr. King.
He was my friend and I----Oh, I suppose it’s all quite foolish of me,
but it seems as if I had a personal responsibility to discharge.
‘You know I was the one to solve the pseudo-mystery of the play as
well as find he was really dead. In the cryptogram jingle he left,
telling it was Basil who was supposed to have killed him, there was a
line--“I’m dead, but you can avenge me.” I can’t get that out of my
head, somehow.’
‘Why, Mrs. B., I didn’t know you felt--that way.’ Sylvia hesitated,
seemed about to continue with some important remark from the
seriousness of her expression, but instead she patted the older
woman’s arm affectionately.
‘I know. You think it’s foolish of me and sentimental--to take those
words literally--but I do.’
‘I’m sure you’ll help us--me, Mrs. B. It’s not going to be easy, but
I----’
‘That’s what I wanted to speak to you about, Sylvia dear. There are
some things you don’t already know and I want to advise--to help you
about them. For instance, when you used the typewriter during the
play, what did you write?’
‘I don’t remember--some jumble or other that occurred to me there in
the dark. It was quite mechanical and--Yes, I do recall part of it.
I started to write off that practice line all stenographers learn,
about being the time for all good men, and so on. But I wrote only a
few words, as I remember, then tapped whatever keys happened to be
under my fingers to finish out the line.--But why do you ask that?’
Briefly, Mrs. Bascom told of the finding of the similar numbers on
that sheet to those on the paper in King’s dressing-gown pocket.
‘But I never heard of them before!’ exclaimed Sylvia. ‘I didn’t even
know I was making figures at all.’
‘You’ll have to explain that coincidence to Inspector Sewell,
however. Frankly, he suspects you of--well, complicity!’
Sylvia closed her eyes suddenly, thus robbing her face of an
expression which Mrs. Bascom was trying to catalogue. It seemed
almost as if a look of relief had showed briefly in her eyes, but
that was impossible under the circumstances. It should have been fear
or anger at being suspected. Yet Sylvia’s mouth, instead of drooping,
was set into a misleading willfulness and satisfaction.
‘Of course, he is only a muddle-headed fool to believe such a thing
about you--or Ruel, for that matter, but----’
‘I’ve changed my mind. I shall get up and see Sewell and the others,
since you say they are here, at once.’
Sylvia’s eyes flew open again, but they were expressionless and only
added strength to the determined set of her mouth, almost a bitter
hardness. Her voice cut into Mrs. Bascom’s soothing murmur with an
abrupt rudeness.
‘But, my dear, you don’t seem to understand. He suspects you, and I
want to warn you about certain----’
‘Thank you, I don’t need your warning.’
Startled at this brusque dismissal of her aid, Mrs. Bascom again
protested, but Sylvia did not listen, throwing back the bedcovers and
awkwardly swinging her feet to the floor. Seeing this determination,
Mrs. Bascom closed her lips sternly and did not offer to assist
Sylvia as she dressed. The latter seemed in a nervous haste to put on
her clothes, so much so that she fumbled with them and bit her lip
in annoyance as her fingers seemed to become all thumbs. When she
was ready, she stooped to secure the cane which she had thrust under
the bed after the disturbance of the night, and, as she straightened
again, their eyes met and held for an instant. Mrs. Bascom’s showed
her hurt and resentment, yet Sylvia’s did not change or appear to
take notice of this obvious appeal.
In spite of her pique, Mrs. Bascom could not endure the sight of
Sylvia’s halting progress toward the door, so drew the latter’s free
arm over her shoulder and thus bore much of her weight as they moved
toward the stairs. Here she called to Basil and Dr. New for aid. The
two men hurried up the stairs and, learning her wish, carried Sylvia
between them to the smoking-room where the judge and Sewell were
talking together.
It was an oddly comfortable room, which had formerly served as the
kitchen in the old-fashioned house. A huge brick fireplace with a
built-in oven filled its longer wall. This had been kept intact even
to the utensils which still hung about it, including a more modern
corn popper and toast rack. A variety of low chairs mutely beckoned
with lazy allure to any man who desired to smoke, spill his ashes
carelessly into the fireplace, or even prop up his feet on the low
brick oven for sheer comfort.
When Sylvia had been established in a winged chair and her injured
foot placed on another before it, Dr. New bent for a brief,
professional examination of the ankle. Running his fingers over the
surgeon’s plaster that encased it, he nodded to show his approval,
then resumed his seat.
‘Well, Miss Hawley,’ said Sewell with a cordial smile of greeting,
‘I’m right glad to see you again. I was kind of beginnin’ to worry
about you, till Mrs. B. here decided to show up the whole durned
constabulary by listenin’ to a ghost an’ takin’ him--or rather
her--serious.’
‘At least I can use the common sense the good Lord gave me,’ retorted
Mrs. Bascom tartly.
‘Yep--only you took your time about it,’ murmured Sewell slyly.
Mrs. Bascom understood this reference to her telephone message and
began to bridle with another retort, but she did not get a chance to
use it.
Sylvia had not smiled at this brief exchange of amenities, though
normally she had always been the first to appreciate and even abet
their word battles. Her attitude confirmed her serious expression and
Ezra Sewell, responsive to a mood, though apparently taking no notice
of it, met it squarely after having thus tested it.
‘Now, Miss Hawley, let’s get right down to the road-bed, as you might
say. There’s some interestin’ things you can tell us an’ if you’re
feelin’ up to it--’
‘Of course I am.--Shall I tell you what I know about--about the
play and all, or do you prefer to question me first?’ She spoke in
a level, quick tone as if it were some sort of a formal business
interview with strangers.
‘You go ahead, an’ I’ll pick up the leavin’s afterwards.’
‘There isn’t much I know. Of course you’ve been told all about the
entertainment Mr. King planned. My part in it was quite obvious up to
the time I was supposed to frighten away the intruder by writing on
the typewriter. I wrote what was on that paper you found, according
to Mrs. Bascom. Then I stepped back, wrenched my ankle, and fell
into that hole--the feed chute. I heard the confusion, but could not
make myself heard. Then some one replaced the cover to the chute and
I fainted. I was in a sort of stupor from then on until Mrs. Bascom
found me.’
‘Land o’ Goshun! An’ they say a woman can’t be brief!’ chuckled the
inspector when she stopped speaking. ‘Why, you ain’t told us nothin’
yet.’
Sylvia sat silent, waiting for him to continue and totally
unresponsive to his efforts to draw her into a more freely
conversational mood. Desisting in this attempt, Sewell began to ask
questions in rapid succession.
‘Before the play, now. Mr. King seemed happy, not scared or anythin’?’
‘Apprehensive? Not at all. He’d worked up the scheme of the play
carefully and was anxious for it to get over successfully.’
‘Anybody know about it, except you ones that was in it?’
‘Not to my knowledge. He swore us to secrecy to insure its success,
so I doubt if he told any one else.’
‘The blotter on his desk, was it a new one?’
‘Yes, I changed it just before the play. But why do you----’
‘Had the room been cleaned recently?’
‘That afternoon. I helped Mrs. Dobson air it of tobacco smoke, dust
and generally clean it.’
‘So she said.--An’ all the windows were opened?’
‘For a time. I was the one who closed them before Mr. King hung the
draperies.’
‘Did you lock ’em?’
‘I did.’
‘Did you happen to notice the sills?’
‘Not particularly, though I swept them just before closing the
windows.’
‘In the show, now. Could you see anythin’ when you came in to open
the safe?’
‘No, but I did not look specially. I knew Basil, or Ruel as it turned
out to be, was there in the darkness, of course.’
‘An’ when you did that writin’, why did you choose them words an’
figures?’
‘I wrote without thinking. It was part of a sentence we typists used
to practice on for speed. “Now is the time for every good man to come
to the aid of the party.” I started that, then tapped a few keys
haphazardly, just as my fingers happened to be above them. I don’t
even remember how much of that sentence I wrote. I mean, I didn’t
until I was told about that paper.’
‘Perhaps you’d seen those figures before somewhere an’ they came to
your memory automatic, eh?’
‘Possibly, but I don’t recall ever having seen or heard them.’ She
looked away in an obvious attempt to avoid his eyes, and her fingers
plucked at her dress nervously.
‘Certain sure, Miss Hawley? It’s kind of important, you know.’
‘I know. Mrs. Bascom explained that to me.’
He waited for a more direct reiteration of her denial, but when
none came, he did not press the question, glancing sidewise at Mrs.
Bascom’s face. She was intently watching Sylvia, her mouth gaping
slightly in astonishment, a look of incredulity in her eyes.
‘Now, then. When this cover to the chute was put on again, what’d you
hear?’
‘Nothing. I was waiting for the confusion to stop so I could call
out, when suddenly it was muffled and I saw the cover had been
replaced, that’s all.’
‘No footsteps, like?’
‘Possibly, but very faintly.’
‘An’ that was all you knew then?’
Sylvia nodded in the affirmative, her eyes darting a swift look at
Mrs. Bascom. The latter exhaled her breath with a whistling sound
as if she could hold it no longer, then, meeting Sewell’s gaze, she
flushed and spoke with an asperity that was not altogether genuine.
‘What would you expect an injured person, shut up in that chute, to
hear, I’d like to know?’
‘Dunno. I was just askin’ that question to find out,’ retorted the
inspector dryly. ‘Now, about yourself, Miss Hawley. If you’d tell
us----’
‘My life history?’ she interrupted listlessly. ‘I’m an orphan,
working for my living and have since I was twelve. I can give you the
usual references, of course, but there’s nothing much to say.’
‘I’d like to have ’em later, just for form, sort of.--Where’d you
meet Mr. King?’
‘In Mr. Stacey’s office where I was working at the time.’
‘I see. An’ you left him to become King’s secretary?’
‘I can answer that,’ broke in Basil, speaking for the first time. ‘It
was the only thing I have against King. He stole my one competent
secretary.’ Basil smiled at Sylvia, but she did not respond to his
flattery. ‘She’d only been with me a few weeks--just long enough
to be indispensable--when I did some work for King. He spotted her
ability even when I tried to hide her, and bribed her away.’
‘It was a generous offer I could not afford to let pass,’ added
Sylvia stiffly.
‘So you didn’t know King before Basil did, eh? But you must have
heard somethin’ about his life, King’s, I mean, before he came to New
York?’
‘He never mentioned it directly. Our arrangement was strictly a
business one, of course, though he treated me like a daughter. I
took his dictation and helped him with social affairs, but never
inquired into his life. He was reticent about that--quite naturally,
I thought. His friends can tell you----’
‘No, they can’t, seems like. No one appears to know much about
him--before he came to New York--unless you gentlemen do, eh?’
‘Not I,’ responded Dr. New, ‘though I’d never thought of it before. I
attended him as his physician, though I gave rather nominal advice,
medically speaking. He was sound as an oak. I liked him from the
start and we simply dropped in upon one another quite naturally. I
admired him and accepted him at face value, but as for his past----’
He spread out his slender fingers in a deprecating gesture.
‘It’s extraordinary,’ added the judge. ‘I met him when he came to me
as a client, but even as his lawyer, he told me nothing. It was never
necessary or pertinent to ask, you see. As a judge of character, I
considered him a----’
‘Oh, I ain’t castin’ no slurs on him. Guess we all know he was an
exceptional man. But it’s queer, though it’s human. We accept some at
face value, an’ require nothin’, an’ others we just naturally never
accept, for no reason at all except likes an’ dislikes.--Anybody know
where he lived before New York?’
They all shook their heads.
‘Well, now, comin’ to this burglary business of last night. He was
kind of well off, I guess?’
‘More than “kind of,”’ said Basil to whom the question seemed
addressed. ‘I handled some of his business--bonds, you know--but even
that was enough to insure a moderate income. Besides, he did quite a
bit of writing and publishing, I believe.’
‘Keep any cash here as you know about--or valuable papers an’ things,
Miss Hawley?’
‘I should say so, although I don’t know accurately. He attended to
all money matters himself. He was generous and liberal, and always
seemed to have money on hand when it was needed.’
‘Guess I know he was generous an’ so does most of the village.--Well,
probably ’twas thievin’, then. Of course when you, as knows most
about his things, get a chance to check up, we can tell for sure.
Where did he keep his valuables?’
‘In a safe behind a panel in the library.’
‘Not in his desk, hey? Then seems like the thief didn’t get much
after all.’
‘There were some important papers in the desk,’ volunteered Sylvia,
looking away pointedly. ‘I’m not sure what they were, but he spoke of
attending to them after the house-party.’
‘Well, let’s quit for a while an’ let you look ’em over,’ decided
Inspector Sewell. ‘Guess you’ve told us about everythin’, Miss
Hawley, an’ helped a bit, leastwise about some things.’
‘May I ask a question or two?’ interrupted the judge.
Sylvia nodded, fixing her eyes on his face and bracing herself as if
for something she had dreaded and expected. Inspector Sewell noticed
that her hands clenched until the knuckles showed white as the dress
that almost concealed them.
‘It’s about that will. You’ve been told about the one King used in
the play?’
Sylvia moistened her lips and nodded slowly.
‘There’s one thing that has occurred to me in that connection. In the
sequence of the play, you tore up something you took from the safe.
Was it supposed to have been the will?’
‘Yes. He’d planned----He forgot to put it there as he’d planned. I
saw this--from the door--so carried in a blank sheet--tore it up.’
Her words jerked as if forced out by an effort of will power.
‘Then but for a chance mistake, it would have been destroyed!’
muttered Judge Brant. ‘Did you know it was a real, legally executed
will?’
‘No--that is, not until Mrs. Bascom told me.’
‘Well, I’ve interviewed the witnesses to it, and it was quite in
order. Yet I can’t understand it. I know the contents of his previous
will, made less than a month ago, and he said nothing about altering
it so radically. This one is his last, hence stands, unless----’
‘I want it to be probated!’ interrupted Sylvia in a small, dry voice.
‘No, no, my child, that’s the term you mean for putting it into
force. Now I’m sure you----’
‘I do understand, and that’s what I shall insist upon!’
‘What?’
They all stared incredulously at her, the judge leaning forward and
cupping a hand behind his ear as if he had not heard her words.
‘The will in my favor--I want you to probate it.’ Her voice steadied,
her eyes met his inflexibly.
‘But I can’t do that! I’m sure it was somehow just a mistake--a part
of his plan for the play. I thought of course you’d understand and
help us show that----’
‘He told me he would provide for me in his will,’ interrupted Sylvia.
‘And he did, handsomely, but naturally he did not mean to give you
everything.’
‘He has left me everything. You yourself said it was legally drawn
up.’
‘Sylvia, you don’t know what you’re saying!’ cried Mrs. Bascom,
suddenly recovering from her astonishment. ‘You know Mr. King had
other plans. He’d told us all about them--many times. You know there
must be some mistake about this will.’
‘Let’s hear what she has to say,’ suggested Basil. ‘She must have
some foundation for all this. I think I’ve a right to say this, as
I’m an interested party, you know. He read the clause in his previous
will that included me.’
‘One thing at a time,’ said Sewell slowly. ‘Just explain a bit, Miss
Hawley.’
‘There’s nothing to explain. I knew about that will. He told me he
was going to make it--in my favor.’
‘When?’
‘A--a few days ago. I--I don’t remember exactly,’ stammered Sylvia,
her assurance suddenly collapsing, her pale face working, her eyes
restless and avoiding theirs. It was scarcely a tone of conviction or
the manner of one who told the truth.
‘What did he say, exactly? Were there any other witnesses to the
interview?’ snapped the judge.
‘I don’t remember--No,’ she answered both questions at once.
‘But, Miss Hawley, think. If you insist upon this, it will
seem--people will think----’
‘I don’t care what people think,’ she cried wildly. ‘The money is
mine--mine, and I intend to have it.’
She broke down completely, sobbing and wringing her hands. It was
then Dr. New interrupted quietly but firmly.
‘Wait. She’s not strong enough for this sort of thing yet, Sewell. We
must get her to bed again at once, or she’ll become hysterical and
have a bad relapse.’
At a gesture from him, Basil assisted, and together they carried
her to her room, Mrs. Bascom following in a daze, shaking her head
from side to side and moving automatically, though she carried out
the doctor’s instructions quite capably. When Sylvia had been put to
bed, he procured a sedative and watched over her until she had become
calm and fallen into a doze. Then he arose to leave, and Mrs. Bascom
followed him into the hall, stopping him with a touch on his arm.
‘You don’t suppose--the shock and all, I mean--could that have
affected her--made her temporarily forget things?’
‘It’s quite possible. Of course the shock and strain were severe,
yet she did seem rational enough when she first started answering
questions,’ he replied, not suspecting all that prompted this
question.
It was not only Sylvia’s determination about the will that troubled
Mrs. Bascom. She had heard her story the night before, had just
listened to her answers which omitted several details and avoided
other pitfalls with evasions that amounted almost to lies. True,
she herself had not been entirely straightforward with Ezra Sewell,
but that was different. At least she had not told direct lies,
while Sylvia----Yet what was right? Had Sylvia been so confused and
bewildered that she had not realized what she was saying? No, not
entirely, at least. The presence of the knife, the cut and stained
dress proved the account of the tap on the shoulder. And if that much
was true, it seemed evident the rest was also clear.
Mechanically she heard what the doctor was saying to the other men as
she followed him into the smoking-room once more.
‘Miss Hawley has been walking on that foot, Sewell. I think in view
of that fact you should tell about what occurred in your room,
Judge,’ he said sternly.
‘I’ve already done so. But are you sure she’s walked on it?’
‘I can tell by the bandaging--yes.’
‘You went into his room, Doctor? You saw that wallet was lyin’ on
the floor an’ its papers scattered about as if some one had been
searchin’ ’em?’
‘Yes, Inspector.’
‘But she stepped on her foot before I called you up to help her down
the stairs!’ interrupted Mrs. Bascom, coming to Sylvia’s aid without
stopping to think of her words. ‘I don’t see what you are trying to
insinuate--why you----’
‘There now, Ellen B. Let’s not argue about such things now. Wait till
we kind of digest like what everythin’ means. What looks simple,
ain’t, and t’other way round. There’s Ruel in jail with enough
evidence to make him out guilty, an’ there’s her with a lot of queer
goin’s on. Seems like Dr. New, the Judge, an’ me are the only ones
that can tell straight stories, so far.’
‘You left me out of that,’ grinned Basil.
‘So I did!’ answered the inspector quizzically. But he did not amend
his statement.
His eyes, half mocking, half serious, met Mrs. Bascom’s and held them
for a moment. No one noticed, however, that she did not try to add
her name to the list of omissions!
CHAPTER VIII
THREAT AND PROMISE
The inquest was over, and King’s body quietly laid to rest. A verdict
of death by person or persons unknown had been duly returned, then a
postponement had been ordered to sift the evidence and investigate
the clues, at some later date to be reconvened for further testimony.
It had been a purely formal ceremony to satisfy the letter of the
law, for Sewell had taken care that nothing of real importance had
been presented. He was far from ready for that contingency as yet.
To Mrs. Bascom the proceedings had been a decided disappointment, for
she had attended them fully confident of learning what Sewell’s real
suspicions might be, sure that she would hear any facts or details he
had gathered which had not been discussed in her presence. Instead,
only the bare outline of the case had been given out, a brief
recapitulation of what she already knew.
She was not at all sure now that Ezra Sewell had any definite theory
as to the murder. His face was as placid as ever, his manner as
leisurely and unperturbed as if nothing of importance was being
discussed. Yet that did not deceive Mrs. Bascom. She knew that
underneath his assumed air of nonchalance, his eyes were watching
every one, his brain receiving and cataloguing their expressions
and reactions or noting details that might have any bearing on
the case. It was these characteristics which had made him come out
victorious in so many deals or trades with shrewd farmers, had gained
him a hearty respect and reputation for wisdom among his fellow
townspeople. But these same traits led many strangers to pass him by
as a quite ordinary, none too keen farmer!
All this Mrs. Bascom sensed without ever having put it actually into
words or even concrete thoughts, and it made her realize still more
forcefully that her own dilemma was precarious. That Sewell suspected
her of concealing some knowledge was certain, but whether this was
merely a vague impression or a definite suspicion, she could not
decide.
In spite of these thoughts, however, she had definitely decided upon
a course of action for herself. Sylvia must be protected until such
time as she regained her normal senses. There was no explanation
possible, it seemed to Mrs. Bascom, for Sylvia’s actions and words
other than an imminent nervous breakdown or mental lapse. Whether
this be temporary or not remained to be seen, but until it was past,
Mrs. Bascom would keep her knowledge of certain things to herself.
This would mean concealing the knife and the stained bit of Sylvia’s
dress, would require her to choose her words with care in discussing
certain phases of Sylvia’s temporary disappearance, but she did
not shrink from the task, once her mind was fixed upon a definite
policy. Perhaps also there was a certain perverse pleasure in keeping
a secret from Sewell, even though she ran a very real risk of
complications with the law for her deeds. That only added a spice to
the affair!
The inquest over, Mrs. Bascom went up to Sylvia’s room and found her
just awakening.
‘Feeling better and rested?’ she asked, the sight of Sylvia’s drawn
face putting to rout any lingering doubts as to her duty in shielding
her.
‘Yes. I’ll try not to be foolish again, Mrs. B.--Tell me, has
anything happened since they--they questioned me?’
‘The inquest has been held, but only the usual vague verdict was
rendered. Nothing else has occurred at all.’
‘They did not bring out any new facts?’
‘Not even all the old ones!’
‘And was anything said--about me?’
‘No. The whole thing was postponed until the evidence against Ruel
could be sifted, or at least that’s what I gather they meant.’
‘If I could only do something,’ muttered Sylvia tearfully. ‘If only
it weren’t for this ankle----’
‘There’s nothing better you can do than to rest and get well
speedily,’ soothed Mrs. Bascom. ‘When things get straightened out and
clear in your mind again----’
‘What do you mean? Everything is perfectly clear now. I know exactly
what I’m doing, if that’s what you infer.’
‘Not--not when you insist upon that will, not when you tell the very
details that involve you most suspiciously.’
‘You mean I’ve made my position--suspicious?’
‘Yes.’ Mrs. Bascom was moving about the room, so did not notice the
curious expression on Sylvia’s face at that moment. ‘If you’d only
listened to me first--let me help you----It was not like your usual
clear-headed way of doing things, Sylvia.’
‘I knew you’d say that, though I’d hoped----Never mind,’ she finished
flatly, and the buoyancy went from her face, leaving it cold, aloof,
and determined.
‘Mrs. B.,’ she said after a moment’s pause, ‘I suppose I told you a
lot of queer things about--about when I was in the chute, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, you did. And that’s another reason I could not understand some
of your answers.’
‘I don’t wonder. But don’t you see I was still dazed then and didn’t
know what I was saying? If I contradicted myself to-day--well, what I
said to the inspector is--what I shall stick to, so please forget the
rest.’
‘It sounded quite convincing as you told it to me,’ challenged Mrs.
Bascom.
‘Did it?--But won’t you forget it now?’
‘You mean your premonitions--that tap on your shoulder?’
‘You said there was nothing at the bottom of the chute, so that
proves I was only imagining things,’ interrupted Sylvia quickly. ‘It
was all fancy, you see.’
Mrs. Bascom could not reply to this. Caught in a web of her own
weaving, she did not deem it wise to confess about the knife she had
found there nor the way she had evaded lying about it. Robbed of any
retort, she merely studied Sylvia’s expression in silence, trying
to pierce beyond its blankness to find some emotion. Certainly her
words were clear-headed enough now.
‘Is Basil about the house?’ suddenly asked Sylvia.
‘I think so.’
‘Then would you mind asking him to come here? I want to talk with
him--alone.’
‘Surely. But you don’t mean alone--while you’re in bed, my dear, and
in your nightgown!’
‘Oh, I’ll slip on a negligee, though I guess Basil wouldn’t be
shocked.’
‘But, Sylvia, it isn’t proper.’
‘Why not?--That sounds like his step now.’
She raised her voice, calling his name, and when he answered, told
him to enter. This he did in the midst of Mrs. Bascom’s frantic
efforts to envelop Sylvia in her negligee! The result was more
revealing than concealing for a moment, but it was Mrs. Bascom who
blushed. Basil, as Sylvia had remarked, did not seem to mind.
‘Hello, Sylvia. Up and at ’em again, eh?’ he called cheerily.
Her stolidity broke into a gay smile of welcome.
‘Not up, but decidedly at ’em,’ she laughed. ‘Pick out an easy
resting-place, I want to talk to you.’ She signaled to Mrs. Bascom
to retire, but when the latter did not move as Basil drew up a chair
close to the bed, Sylvia added flippantly, ‘You’ll promise to be a
good boy? You see, Mrs. B. doesn’t seem to trust us--alone.’
Basil laughed heartily and was about to cap her remark with another,
but Mrs. Bascom did not stay to hear it. With outraged dignity, she
strode from the room, slamming the door obviously behind her.
In the hall she paused to gasp for breath. Decidedly she was
learning things about Sylvia! Until now she had seemed a quiet,
self-respecting young girl, but turning on Mrs. Bascom as she had,
becoming so suddenly secretive, and inviting a bachelor into her
bedroom--Either she was wholly out of her senses or--she was not the
sort of woman Mrs. Bascom had supposed.
The door to her own room stood open, so she stepped inside, then
halted abruptly at the sound of voices.
Her room was next Sylvia’s and the communicating door was ajar so
that she could hear every word Sylvia and Basil were saying. With all
due justice to her, Mrs. Bascom remained in her room not with any
idea of eavesdropping, but merely to satisfy her sense of propriety.
It was not in her code for young women to entertain men alone in
their bedrooms--under any circumstances. Hence it was her plain duty
to act as chaperon, even though unwelcome and unsuspected. She picked
up a book and began to read conscientiously.
For a few moments the two voices from the other room kept up a
battery of light chatter and Mrs. Bascom read a page or so. Then,
unconsciously at first, a phrase here and there seeped into her
ears as the voices lowered somewhat and became serious. Before she
realized what she was doing, the book slipped to her lap unnoticed,
and she bent toward the door to catch their words. And when she did
realize her attitude, she was deliberately listening, her conscience
ceasing to prick her, for the revelations she heard were too
astonishingly important to her knowledge of affairs.
It was Basil who first brought up the subject of the will.
‘Sylvia, what was the idea in saying King had told you he meant to
leave everything to you?’
There was a strained pause before she answered.
‘Why do you ask that? You heard what I said to the inspector.’
‘And I also know it wasn’t true.’
‘How?’ Her voice was sharp, frightened.
‘Because he discussed his financial affairs with me that morning,
told me of one alteration in his will he was going to make, but
decidedly it was not all in your favor.’
‘Then he must have changed his mind.’
‘I don’t think so,’ replied Basil levelly. ‘Besides, you said he told
you this a few days ago. If he had changed, it was obviously not in
your benefit.’
‘Then I--I must have confused the time.--You insinuate I was--lying?’
‘Come, Sylvia. Don’t get huffy about it. All I want to know is,
what’s the game? I’m not accusing you of--er--anything. You know I
admire your clever little brain and want to help you. I’ve told you
that before and it still goes.’
‘I--Let’s not discuss that, please.’
‘Why not?’ reiterated Basil calmly. ‘You know I like
you--tremendously. I’d been trying to get you alone all day before
the play to tell you----’
‘Don’t Basil, not now,’ pleaded Sylvia in a panic.
‘Why not now? It’s just the time you need help and advice. I only
want to understand your game so I can play up too.’
‘Play up?’ exploded Sylvia. ‘You accuse me of scheming and playing a
game, do you? You dare to talk that way to me--you, who sneak about a
dead man’s house like a thief--no, _as_ a thief!’
‘What do you mean?’ His voice was surprised, but not alarmed.
‘I saw you tiptoeing down the stairs just before the--the burglary.
Oh, I know what was in that desk--what you took from it. You knew
well enough where he put those unlisted securities and bonds. I don’t
have to look there to see what’s gone or guess where it is now.’
‘So you saw me, eh? And why were you up at such a late hour, might I
ask? Why didn’t you tell all this to Sewell?’
‘Because I wanted to hear what you had to say first. Also I haven’t
made sure yet----’
‘Ah! Two minds with but a single thought!’ laughed Basil a trifle
harshly.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Why, you expressed exactly the reason I kept mum about your little
prowling in the dark!’
‘About my--about me----’ Real fear choked her voice now, and Mrs.
Bascom involuntarily stood up, ready to act if necessary.
‘Yes, about your little trip down the hall. Oh, you didn’t know I
saw you hobbling down to Judge Brant’s room, did you? Well, I did. I
came up here to search about for the burglar’--he snickered at the
word--‘and paused on the stairs while you entered his room. I suppose
it was the creaking of the stairs that scared you back again, eh? Of
course you were after the will, but you didn’t get it. He sent it
off to his office for safe-keeping this morning.--Well, what did you
mean to do with it?’
‘Destroy it,’ whispered Sylvia desperately.
‘Quite likely, my dear, when you insisted on probating it to-day!’
Sylvia did not answer. Mrs. Bascom could not stand the suspense
any longer. Shamelessly she pulled her skirts up so they would not
rustle, and crept over to the door. Slowly she moved her head until
one eye could look through the crack.
Basil was on his feet beside the bed, his hands thrust into his
pockets, his whole attitude one of insolent victory. Sylvia crouched
back against her pillow breathing rapidly, her hands clutching at
the bedclothes and trembling, her eyes staring with horror. Her lips
moved as if in speech, but no words came from them.
That one glimpse was enough for Mrs. Bascom. Quickly she retreated,
intending to gain the hall, then enter Sylvia’s room and interrupt
this painful scene. She might have done so more easily by entering
through the communicating door, but instinctively she avoided
exposing her presence there, her mind groping to explain what she had
overheard.
Before she reached the hall, Basil spoke again.
‘That’s hit you where you live, eh? Well, think it over, Sylvia, my
dear. You’ve no need to fear. There’s an easy way to fix everything,
you know, for both of us. If you don’t discover it, I’ll tell
you--to-morrow.’
Mrs. Bascom took a few steps down the hall, then turned as if just
coming from the farther wing of the house. Thus Basil saw her, nodded
quite composedly, and moved down the stairs with some pleasantry
that she neither understood nor even heard. She had just made a
discovery. She did not like Basil, had always mistrusted him somehow,
now that she came to look back upon their meetings!
When Mrs. Bascom entered Sylvia’s room, the latter had not moved,
still cringed, staring blankly at the spot where Basil’s face had
been. Mrs. Bascom’s first impulse was to take her in her arms,
soothe away her abject terror and comfort her. Yet, as she started
to move toward the bed, reason conquered impulse, and she paused.
There was little she could say without revealing that she had
been eavesdropping, and nothing to be gained by such a course.
Moreover, she hesitated to approach Sylvia in the latter’s strange,
unsympathetic mood that had rebuffed her so sharply a few moments ago.
Steeling herself with these resolves, she went to the window
and began fussing with the curtains and shade to give Sylvia an
opportunity to make the first overture if she so desired. Evidently
she did not, so Mrs. Bascom raised the shade rather noisily and
whirled to face her.
‘You look very weary. You must rest, Sylvia.’
At the sound of her voice, Sylvia seemed to notice her presence in
the room for the first time, caught her breath sharply, and closed
her eyes before the light that flooded in the window.
‘Rest--rest?’ she whispered in a dull voice. ‘Yes, I must think.’
Her tired, helpless tone almost broke down Mrs. Bascom’s resolve,
but before she could move or speak, Sylvia abruptly sat up in bed,
slapping her cheeks to bring back their color, and tossing back her
hair with little impatient jerks of her head.
‘Mrs. B., I’m acting like a--a fool. You must think I’m
utterly--utterly----’ She could not find the right word, so left the
sentence unfinished with a fluttering gesture of impatience.
‘I think you’re utterly worn out, scarcely recovered from your
experience in the barn before you went through that ordeal of
questioning,’ finished Mrs. Bascom for her.
‘No, I’m behaving like a helpless infant, not a normal, healthy
woman. But it’s all so sudden--so hard to make out. And I must carry
on--alone.’
‘Tell me what’s troubling you, Sylvia,’ pleaded Mrs. Bascom,
coming closer and seizing her hand. ‘You know you can trust me. I
know--perhaps more than you think. Don’t you see, I’m as anxious to
find out the truth as you are? I’m a woman. I can understand, and
help you, if you’ll only let me, Sylvia.’
‘I wish--But you don’t understand, you can’t.’ Sylvia, with an
irrepressible shudder, leaned closer for a moment. ‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Because you’re afraid I won’t hold my tongue? Because you think I’m
just an inquisitive, gossipy old woman?’ Mrs. Bascom bridled in spite
of herself.
‘Oh, no--no, not that. It’s just you wouldn’t believe--you’d insist
I----Mrs. B., don’t fail me! Help me to do--what’s to be done. Trust
me--if you can!’ The last words were spoken in a whisper.
Mrs. Bascom did not know the first principles of psychology, but
she did know human nature. There was something Sylvia wanted to
tell her, yet dared not, some hint she was trying desperately to
convey, yet conceal. Mrs. Bascom could not fathom her purpose, yet
the appeal was genuine, sincere, and those whispered words seemed to
portend some further trial, some future event which would tax her
credulity even more. Whether these words had been impulsive or chosen
with forethought, Sylvia’s plea could not have been better planned
to bring back Mrs. Bascom’s determination to protect her. Somehow
they made her believe in Sylvia’s innocence in spite of the web of
circumstance that was tangling about her.
‘I do trust you, my dear, though I think you are mistaken, trying to
carry some double burden alone. You have the confidence of youth, but
that’s a deceptive strength without the knowledge of experience.’
‘I know, I know. It’s what you’d say, of course, but this isn’t the
first time I’ve had to--to carry a burden. If you’ll only trust me
and help me.’
‘Trust makes trust,’ answered Mrs. Bascom simply. ‘Now you must
stop talking. You’re wearing yourself out without cause. Save your
strength--if you must fight.’
Obediently Sylvia lay back, allowing Mrs. Bascom to smooth the
bedclothes and tuck her in comfortably. In a few minutes she dropped
off to sleep like a weary child. Then Mrs. Bascom tiptoed out of the
room and thoughtfully descended the stairs.
In the living-room, she saw Dr. New who came to meet her with a
question.
‘How is Miss Hawley now?’
‘Asleep, Doctor. She seems to be quite played out, poor dear.’
‘And well she might be. Young nerves may be made of steel, but
like piano wires, they are tightly stretched and ready to vibrate
too easily to any note, or even to snap. That experience in the
chute--it’s a wonder she didn’t have all sorts of hallucinations.’
‘She did.’
‘Ah, I thought so. And she told you about them? Then undoubtedly they
are still recurring to her mind, helping to keep her nerves upset.
There was no specially vivid one she told you about?’
‘Why, yes, a premonition of King’s death and--er--rats.’
‘So?--Well, that’s not so unnatural, though bad enough. I suppose the
confusion we made moving about gave her the former idea?--We must try
to clear her mind of them somehow, help her to forget them. The mind
is a delicate organism. In her nervous state, Mrs. Bascom, if she
broods over some one thing, she might become--well, she might suffer
for it, shall we say.’
‘That’s what I wanted to ask you about. Is it possible all this has
upset her so that she’d be perfectly normal about some things and
queer about others?’ asked Mrs. Bascom.
From the turn the conversation had taken, a scheme had sprung into
her mind and she acted upon it at once. If she could deliberately
plant the suspicion that the balance of Sylvia’s mind was temporarily
upset by the strain of her experiences, it might soften the
impression she had made about the will as well as prepare for the
indefinite fear of the future she had expressed.
‘I think I see what you mean, Mrs. Bascom,’ answered the doctor, his
eyes narrowing speculatively. ‘It’s quite possible, almost probable.
Is there anything definite you can point to that gave you this
impression?’
‘Woman’s intuition, perhaps, more than definite facts,’ evaded Mrs.
Bascom. ‘But I hope I’m wrong.’
‘Of course. You must watch her closely, however, and if you find a
basis for your fears, let me know at once. It may prove vital in the
treatment, you see.’
‘I certainly will, Doctor. I’m so glad you are taking charge, will be
right here when needed.--You do intend to stay a while yet?’
He replied in the affirmative and switched the conversation to
Inspector Sewell, about whose ability he questioned Mrs. Bascom
plainly and seriously.
‘Oh, Ezra’s all right--in his way. This is the first murder he’s ever
had to handle, but I guess he’s capable of it,’ she acknowledged.
‘You think he is really competent, then? You see, I’m anxious to see
something done, to call in a real detective if necessary. Mr. King
was my friend and----’
‘And mine,’ interrupted Mrs. Bascom. ‘That’s why I would agree to
getting an outside man if I thought it necessary. But I don’t--yet.
I’m sure Ezra Sewell is doing his best. He’s keener than he looks in
some ways, and I’d trust him anywhere as far as I was concerned.’
‘Thanks for the kind words, Ellen B.,’ said the inspector’s voice
with a chuckle, as he suddenly appeared in the doorway of the room.
‘’Bout time I interrupted, I figured, as things was gettin’ sort of
personal.’
‘You mean you’ve been guilty of eavesdropping?’ laughed the doctor as
Mrs. Bascom sniffed in humiliation that her words should have been
overheard. ‘Guess I’ll have to watch my speech from now on!’
‘Yep, you’d better. Inspectors an’ such ain’t supposed to have no
scruples, you know, Doctor. But then, I ain’t learned much for my
pains’--he turned to Mrs. Bascom with a grin--‘’cept Ellen B.’s
opinion of me, which is highly flatterin’, considerin’!’
She took a step away from him, but Sewell followed her.
‘Just a minute, ma’am. There’s somethin’ I’d kind of like to say
to you, if you don’t mind--sort of private like,’ he added for the
benefit of the doctor.
In silence they walked out of the house and down the lawn toward the
road, until Sewell suddenly stopped and spoke.
‘I’m goin’ back to have a little confab with Ruel about now. I
was just thinkin’ maybe you an’ me could talk things over a bit,
confidential like.’
‘What things?’
‘Well, I kind of figured we might compare notes in case I should
find you’d thought of somethin’ I hadn’t, or found somethin’ as
you’d--er--forgotten to tell me about.’ He paused suggestively, but
she did not take the hint.
‘Whom do you suspect?’ she answered evasively.
‘Huh. That’s a mighty big little question, Ellen B. There’s lots of
queer notions runnin’ round in my head,’ he drawled. ‘One of ’em
perhaps you’d be interested in hearin’ an’ helpin’ me with.
‘Say we was wonderin’ about some woman.--I’ll put it the way you do
one of those things you try to prove in geometry.--Given this woman,
let’s say she was one of the guests, an’ a right smart one too. She
sort of had her finger in things from the start, talked to lots of
’em, an’ had a chance to find things out an’ cover up some facts, if
she’d happened to want to.
‘Well, let’s say she did, but little things kind of showed her up.
She was so terrible honest, she wouldn’t tell a lie, so told things
so true it gave her away. Then again, she always knew just where
to look for things--clues that were sort of blind an’ might be
misleadin’. She answered some questions right cute an’----’
‘Ezra Sewell, are you accusing me of--of this murder?’ cried Mrs.
Bascom sharply.
‘Murder--you? Certain not. Whatever put such an idea in your head? I
was just talkin’ about this “suppose woman,” an’ I was just sayin’,
if there had been such a female, how’d you go about it to find out
why she did these things an’ what they were?’
Mrs. Bascom returned his gaze with snapping eyes and defiantly poised
head.
‘If I were a man, Ezra Sewell, I’d use what brains the good Lord gave
me. Being only a woman, I’d--I’d----’
Her retort rather failed in letter, though not in spirit. She could
think of nothing withering enough, so ended with a click of her teeth
that attempted to express her loathing and disgust.
‘Well, if you should happen to think of any way, let me know, Ellen
B.,’ suggested Sewell mildly, as he shuffled down the road.
Not until he had disappeared from sight did Mrs. Bascom allow herself
the relief of gasping aloud.--So he suspected her, had warned her--Of
what? She was only doing her best to solve the mystery--by concealing
vital facts from the law, her conscience added!
She trembled, but her thin shoulders straightened with determination
even as she leaned weakly against a tree for support.
CHAPTER IX
GROPING
‘You get along home, Pete. An’ don’t forget to look in on Ruel’s pigs
an’ see that everythin’ is all right on his place. Scat, now. I’m too
busy to talk.’
Inspector Sewell pushed up his bone-rimmed glasses to their rightful
position on his stubby nose. They had been pulled down from his eyes
so that he might look over their rims as he addressed his assistant,
but the very act of pushing them back into place added a note of
finality to his words. Peter shambled away without even the formality
of a ‘Good-night.’
Ezra Sewell sat in an odd-looking room, known officially as the
office to the jail. To study its details was, in a measure, to
understand the man himself, for the room held many hints both
tangible and intangible as to the character of its master.
Coming upon the jail from the outside, it appeared to be a
single-storied, unpretentious brick house, unless it were viewed
from the back where curtained windows gave place to barred ones.
A single door in the exact middle of the façade opened into the
office, large, square, and sunny. This was neither cluttered nor
formal in appearance, though it contained a variety of objects, each
scrupulously clean and neat, obviously upholding the maxim of ‘a
place for everything, and everything in its place.’
Hooked rugs in gay colors attracted the eye to the polished floor; a
row of pots in the windows added a touch of scarlet geraniums against
the white curtains, while a red checkered cloth and rose-painted lamp
adorned the table in the center of the room. A Governor Winthrop
desk filled one corner, attesting to a shrewd piece of ‘trading’ on
Sewell’s part; a safe in the opposite one was decked with a tidy and
a shining silver loving-cup bearing the inscription ‘To Ezra Sewell
in token of ten years’ service to the community--From his fellow
townsmen and women.’ Finally, an armchair, in which no one but its
owner ever dared to sit, a homemade bookcase, and four cushion-seated
chairs completed the main furnishings of the room.
Facing the outer door was another, now open, which gave a glimpse
of a narrow corridor with its three barred cells, while similar
doors on the right and left walls opened into a small bedroom and
bath and a kitchen, respectively. The remaining space on the walls
was incongruously decorated with a lithograph of ‘Rock of Ages,’ a
shotgun, a framed certificate, a pair of handcuffs of antiquated
design, a glass case of worsted flowers, and an ormolu clock.
At the desk, Ezra now sat in his shirt-sleeves, biting his pencil and
staring at a blank sheet of paper before him. His toes were hooked
back around the front legs of his chair, and his blue shirt bulged
out from under gaudy pink suspenders as he leaned forward intently.
For some time he sat motionless, while the light of the early
evening waned. At last, with a long-drawn sigh, he started to write,
then threw down his pencil and went to the table, lighted the lamp
ceremoniously, and, pushing aside the electric drop light on the
desk, set it down at his elbow and resumed his task.
He wrote a heading, followed it with a few brief lines, then read
them over aloud.
List of Things to be Investigated
1. Where the weapon is hidden.
2. The motive for the murder. (Note: check up on King’s early
life somehow.)
3. The meaning of the figures 24578.
4. Who the thief was and what he got.
‘But he might have been any one,’ a voice from outside the room
interrupted the reading. ‘How can you expect to find a man who just
walked in the window and out again?’
‘I think it was some one not so far off, Ruel,’ answered Sewell, as
if the interruption was not unexpected. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me none
if it had somethin’ to do with the murder too, in a way.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Little things. Not a sign of a clue, yet he was scared away sudden;
no attempt at real robbery except in that one drawer of the desk
where only papers were; the fact it happened just when it did, sort
of.’
To a visitor, this exchange of questions and information between a
prisoner and his jailer would have seemed strange, to say the least.
As a matter of fact, this was not the first time such a conversation
had been held. Sewell’s wits seemed to be sharpened by talking things
over with some one like Ruel and meeting his objections, for he was
loquacious both by nature and environment. To Ruel it had been a
God-send, for by this means he was able, in spite of his forced
confinement, to learn details of progress in the investigation.
‘Finally,’ continued Sewell. ‘Number five is--“What’s Ellen B.
concealin’?”’
‘But surely you don’t think she’s guilty?’
‘Guilty of what? Murder?--No. Hidin’ some sort of information or
somethin’ like that--yes.’
‘Why don’t you ask her point-blank then?’
‘Who, Ellen B.? I guess you don’t know her--or wimmen, for that
matter, son,’ answered Sewell lugubriously. ‘Give ’em nothin’ to talk
about, an’ you can’t stop ’em; let ’em decide to keep a secret, an’
the Lord help you!’
‘I take it you don’t think much of----’
‘Hold on. I ain’t said nothin’ against her an’ the whole tribe of
’em,’ bridled Sewell. ‘An’ I ain’t given up findin’ what she knows.
There’s ways of gettin’ around saints an’ devils--an’ she ain’t
exactly either.’
Ruel wisely made no comment on this bit of philosophy, so Sewell got
to his feet, walked over to the safe and squatted before it. Slowly
he twisted the combination, squinting at it and working his jaws. The
first time it failed to work, but the second attempt opened the door.
He took out a cardboard candy box, carried it to the desk and spread
out its contents--a bit of cement, the slip of penciled figures from
King’s dressing-gown pocket, the typewritten sheet from Sylvia’s
machine, and the sheaf of papers containing the guests’ summaries of
what they had seen.
These he eyed thoughtfully, touching one after another with the tip
of his finger, then drew a fresh sheet of paper toward him and made
a row of nine, carefully spaced circles, tracing them around a small
button. In these he put numbers from 2 to 0, then laboriously spread
his fingers over certain of these, studying his hand speculatively.
‘It’s possible--with hers,’ he muttered. ‘I just been tryin’, Ruel,
to see if it would come natural like to punch those typewriter
figures without thinkin’ about it much. Seems like it would, with
Sylvia’s hands.’
‘Of course it was only a coincidence if she says so,’ agreed Ruel
eagerly. ‘I tried that scheme myself on the wall here.’
‘Defacin’ township property, was you?’ chuckled Sewell. ‘You’ll have
to settle up for that.’
‘But, Ez, you know she had nothing to do with it. You said yourself
she was innocent.’
‘So I did, before she was found.’
The bars of the cell rattled furiously and Ruel’s voice raised to an
angry pitch.
‘Ezra Sewell, you listen to me. Sylvia could no more have----’
‘I’ve heard all that before, son. No more could she be the one to
grab for his money on that will business--but she’s doin’ it. Explain
me that first, before you tell me what she couldn’t do.’
‘But you haven’t given her a chance to explain. There must be some
reason. She says King told her he was going to make that will.’
‘That’s just the trouble. He didn’t!’
‘How do you know? You mean to call her a--a liar?’
‘Seems so. Seein’ as how King told me that very day he intended
leavin’ quite a sum of his money to the village an’ such, it looks
queer. Besides, a blind man could see she was makin’ that up. She
ain’t a good liar.’
The bars rattled again impotently, but Ruel could think of no
adequate retort to this statement except a loud groan. It was Sewell
who spoke again.
‘Now as you’ll let me finish what I had a mind to say, I will. I
ain’t said I don’t think she’s innocent, an’ I ain’t said but what
I think she’s hidin’ somethin’. What that is an’ why, I aim to find
out, that’s all, an’ I hope it ain’t nothin’ against her.--Seems to
me if only these here women weren’t so blame full of hidin’ things,
we’d get along faster.’
He abruptly swept the papers and clues into the box, thrust it into
the safe, and strode into the corridor to stand just outside Ruel’s
electrically lighted cell, rocking back and forth on his heels as he
spoke.
‘Son, I may be gettin’ old an’ all that, but I ain’t a fool. Of
all them as looks queerest--the most suspected ones--you an’ her
are the ones I’m most certain are innocent. First off, I know you
two. Second, it’s just ’cause you can’t explain things only by
coincidences an’ such, that I know what you say is true. I mean to
say, it’s easier to make up a real good lyin’ excuse for somethin’
than just a coincidence that may sound queer. If you two had denied
things right out, it would be different, but you ain’t tried to, see?
Leastwise, you ain’t on the most important things. As to you, son, it
seems like you’re the only one I can talk to open an’ trust. Don’t
spoil it, Ruel.
‘I know it’s hard on you, keepin’ you locked up here. You don’t have
to say nothin’ about how you feel toward Sylvia either. It’s writ all
over you. But you’re doin’ more good right here, not confusin’ things
up by messin’ in with help, than if you were free. That plain an’
hittin’ the nail on the head?
‘Now, then. You’re blamin’ me for not gettin’ anywhere. Oh, yes, you
are, an’ maybe you ain’t the only one neither. But that ain’t the
fact.--It won’t do no good steppin’ on everybody’s toes, accusin’
before you have proof. An’ it does do a whole lot just lettin’ every
one go unsuspected like. Look at that robbery business. It wouldn’t
have happened, I’ll bet, if whoever done it thought he was suspected,
see? But it proved there’s still some one about who--well, who ain’t
to be trusted, puttin’ it mild.
‘Take each one by turn. The doctor an’ the judge. Old friends of
King’s an’ not to be suspected, except they were handy at the
murder an’ might have been the burglar, of course. Ellen B. an’
Sylvia--both actin’ queer, hidin’ things an’ playin’ some sort of
fancy game. Basil Stacey--well, he’s got some things to explain yet.
An’ you--tied up with circumstantial evidence. You’re the goat now,
all right, an’ it’s handy havin’ one, even if you know he just butted
into things innocent.
‘Why, it’s just so simple, it’s all complicated. I got it all figured
out how King was killed, certain sure. One of his guests knew all
about the play, an’ planned accordin’. In the dark, he slipped out
the window back of the guests an’ came in the one near the desk. They
were all oiled an’ the curtains made it easy not to let in any light.
‘He hid in the dark till after you was supposed to have killed King,
then did it himself, slippin’ back as he had come. He probably locked
one window after him, an’ the other while the folks were messin’
around lookin’ for clues.
‘His motive? That’s what we’ve got to find out, not how he did it
in every detail. An’ that means findin’ who King really was, where
he----’
‘Let me out of here, Ez, and I’ll trace back his life,’ pleaded Ruel.
‘How? Visit every city in the country an’ Europe lookin’ for a man
who probably deliberately hid his history? Don’t be foolish, son. You
just sit tight, an’ one of these days we’ll have you out of here in a
jiffy. Meanwhile, I ain’t accusin’ any one, but I’m watchin’ ’em all,
an’ if they think I’m a fool--so much the better.’
Ruel nodded, convinced for the time by Sewell’s arguments. The
latter, having delivered himself of this oration, turned on his heel
to walk away, but changed his mind.
‘I wonder, Ruel, can I trust you to help me?’
‘Just try me, Ez. It’s what’s driving me crazy, doing nothing.’
‘Well, ’tain’t exactly doin’ much.--If I let you out of that cell,
hide you somewheres for a while, you won’t try to get away?’
‘I swear I won’t, Ez.’
‘All right.’ He unlocked the door and motioned Ruel to follow him
into the bedroom. ‘Now you set there in the dark right still an’ just
listen--listen hard, see? I’m about due for some callers an’ two
pairs of ears is better than one, just in case--There they come now.’
Sewell hurried from the room, leaving the door ajar, and dodged
into the corridor where he waited until the outer door opened, then
slammed the cell gate shut, switched off the light, and reëntered the
office.
‘Howdy, Doctor, howdy, Judge. Just closin’ up for the night. Glad to
welcome you here, unofficial. Set down an’ make yourselves to home.’
Ezra closed and locked the door to the cells before taking a chair
himself.
‘How is the prisoner? Told you anything yet?’ asked Judge Brant as he
eased himself into Sewell’s armchair and crossed his plump hands over
the hilly folds of his vest.
Before he replied, Sewell carefully filled and lighted his pipe,
seeming intent upon his task, but covertly studying the two men.
Both physically and mentally they were direct opposites in type.
Judge Brant was the more prepossessing in bulk and appearance, Dr.
New the more insignificant in physique, but keener of expression and
quicker to make a decision or express an opinion concisely. They were
both well dressed, obviously men of means and authority in their
respective professions.
The doctor sat erect and alert, smoking a cigar leisurely, and
scarcely seeming to move as he did so. The judge puffed on his with
avidity, and had an annoyingly nervous habit of opening his eyes wide
as if in amazement every few minutes, when there was nothing to cause
such an expression.
‘No, he’s gettin’ restless, but he ain’t confessed yet,’ Sewell
answered the latter’s question.
‘A little psychology, eh? Cage the out-of-doors man for a while and
he’ll soon weaken. That your theory?’ continued the judge approvingly.
‘I’m not so sure he’s guilty,’ interposed the doctor. ‘I’m
remorseful, in a way, since it was I who first accused him. He seemed
so genuinely confused and bewildered that after it was all over his
face rather haunted me.’
‘Sure, I’d have said he was innocent myself,’ answered Sewell, ‘but
look at the evidence against him.’
‘He hasn’t refuted that?’
‘Not satisfactory, Judge.’
For a time they discussed this chain of circumstantial evidence,
Sewell giving Ruel’s reasons for the facts but maintaining a
skeptical tone, the judge frankly doubting, and Dr. New weighing
their remarks mostly in silence. From this they drifted into an
argument over various phases of the mystery, the inspector allowing
the two men to choose their topics at will, listening, for the
most part, and putting in a remark or question only when directly
addressed or when the talk began to lag. He gained nothing in new
theories or knowledge, the two men being frankly puzzled and without
definite suspicions except for Ruel.
At length Sewell took a more active part in the conversation,
introducing the matter of the burglary so skillfully that it did not
seem to be his doing at all.
‘It’s puzzling,’ Judge Brant responded to his lead. ‘It seems to
me, after due thought, that the burglar must have been after some
definite thing and knew exactly where to look for it. Miss Hawley
mentioned papers were kept in that desk, as I recall it. That makes
it all the more certain it was some one who knew King and his ways
intimately.’
‘I don’t agree with you there,’ said Dr. New, leaning forward
intently. ‘Your logic seems to me at fault. A desk is a natural place
in which to keep papers, while a locked drawer invites investigation.
It is one of the first places in which a thief would look. Besides,
he stumbled into a chair and knocked it over, thus awakening us.
Certainly that would argue for an outsider who was not familiar with
the room.’
‘Both seem pretty possible to me, gentlemen. But seems like the
biggest part is, there’s no marks where he could have come in an’
gone out, none in the flower-bed outside the window, none in the
room. As to the chair, it’s easy to hit one in the dark, an’ after
the confusion in the house any one may have moved it out of its
rightful place.’
‘I suppose you’re right, Inspector, yet, if he was a clever man,
could he not have foreseen all this?’
‘Maybe, Doctor. But presumin’ it was an insider, who would you say it
was?’
‘I’ve thought of that, but I don’t like the obvious conclusion.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Well, it was neither the Judge nor myself. We each heard the sound,
jumped out of bed, and opened our doors almost simultaneously as we
struggled into bathrobes. As to Basil, his room was down the hall,
and he joined us before we reached the bottom of the stairs. That
lets him out. Miss Hawley couldn’t have done it and gotten back up
the stairs again with her bad ankle. That leaves only----’
‘Ellen Bascom!’ cried Sewell incredulously. ‘Why, I’d never thought
of her--for that.’ True the idea had never occurred to him, but now
that it had been suggested, it opened up several possibilities quite
against his will. ‘You say she was in her room an’ questioned you
when you came up again?’
‘Yes, she was standing in her doorway. She didn’t seem to be a bit
frightened, either,’ remarked Judge Brant thoughtfully.
‘She wouldn’t be,’ muttered Sewell. ‘How was she dressed?’
‘Scantily. Looked like a bed quilt around her shoulders, eh, Judge?’
‘Something like that, something bulky clutched around her shoulders.’
Ezra laughed aloud at this picture, but there was relief as well as
humor in his tone.
‘That settles it. I sort of hated to believe Ellen B. would do such
a thing. Now I know it. She wouldn’t be kitin’ around the house in
a nighty, not Ellen B.!’ He chuckled again, then stopped abruptly.
‘That kind of spoils the rest, too, though.’
‘What do you mean--what rest?’
‘Judge, you’re sure about somebody bein’ in your room?’
‘Of course. My wallet was on the floor, open, some of the papers half
out, others scattered to one side.’
‘That all?’
‘It was enough.’
‘But look here. Maybe it fell to the floor an’ they just spilled out.’
‘Not with my coat carefully spread over the back of the chair. It’s
a habit I always have--hanging it that way.’
‘Sure you did it as usual that night?’
‘Of course. Ask Dr. New. He came in and saw it for himself.’
Thus appealed to, the latter looked thoughtful for a moment before
replying.
‘Sorry, Judge, I’m afraid I can’t agree with you. Now that you
mention it, I’ve quite a vivid recollection that it was hanging by
one arm. I wouldn’t take an oath on it, but I’m reasonably sure.’
The judge’s fat cheeks flushed. ‘I--I think you’re mistaken, Doctor.
I’m very particular about my personal habits and I always hang my
coat up at night. I’d gone leisurely to bed and there’s no reason why
I should not have done as usual.’
‘It’s no killing matter, after all,’ said the doctor, raising his
eyebrows slightly at his companion’s confusion. ‘At that, habits----’
‘But it is kind of important,’ broke in Sewell hastily. ‘I can see
you’re a neat man, Judge, an’ I noticed that particular. But if you
forget this once, it means we’re suspectin’ some one innocent, see?’
‘Oh, I see, of course,’ muttered the judge somewhat apologetically.
‘I only objected to criticism about my personal habits, because I’m
sure that----’
‘Look here, was this chair near the door, between it an’ the bed?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘Then maybe you knocked off the coat when you hurried past it, eh?’
‘That’s exactly what happened!’ agreed the doctor, nodding to Sewell
in appreciation of his adroit explanation.
‘Maybe,’ said Judge Brant, still rather doubtfully obstinate.
‘Then you see we’ve been tryin’ to make out one of the women did it
when neither one had a hand in any such thing.’
‘One of them? You mean to include Mrs. Bascom?’
‘That’s what I was thinkin’, Doctor, back there a ways when I said I
hadn’t figured her for thievin’ downstairs, but for somethin’ else. I
knew she didn’t, though, when you spoke of her nighty!’
He grinned again and the other two joined in with him.
He had accomplished his purpose; whether rightly or wrongly, for he
was not so certain as he strove to appear, he had diverted suspicion
from both the women. Incidentally, he had gained an interesting,
though irrelevant, view of the two men’s characters. Dr. New was
evidently a keen observer and a diplomat, whereas Judge Brant was
rather methodical and resentful of any personal criticism no matter
how trivial.
Soon after this, the clock struck ten, and the men arose to depart.
‘Don’t hurry, gentlemen, it’s only nine-thirty. That clock strikes
kind of contrary on the half-hours instead of right. It always has.’
‘Why don’t you have it fixed, then?’
‘Always aim to, but never seem to get there. Besides, I’m used to
it,’ apologized Sewell, noting their exchange of amused glances.
They delayed a few moments, but soon left. Once they were gone, the
inspector called to Ruel and led him back to his cell in silence.
When it was locked once more, he faced the young man through the
bars, waiting for him to make some comment on what he had overheard.
‘I don’t see why you wanted me to listen to _that_,’ said Ruel
disgustedly.
‘No? Then I take it you wasn’t so interested?’
‘Only that it was all another proof of the utter foolishness of
suspecting Sylvia for anything.’
‘Maybe. Personally, I calculate talkin’ is always interestin’ an’
informin’. Me, now, I learned a lot. Ellen B. ain’t involved like
I kind of thought she might be, an’ that’s somethin’. Then the
doctor is kind of softenin’ toward you while the judge ain’t. That’s
somethin’ more. As to the burglar, I kind of got a hunch who it was,
if not what he was after. Seems as if all that’s worth pretty much to
me.’
Ruel stared at him queerly.
‘You mean--Basil?’
‘Ain’t many others I could mean, sir. Think it over, same as I will,’
answered Ezra, shuffling away down the corridor.
‘But he was King’s friend, Ez. Why should he----’
There was no use addressing the vacant air; Ezra had gone without
answering.
Slowly Ruel prepared for bed, twisting and turning the inspector’s
remarks in his mind, trying to interpret Basil’s actions in the light
of this new suspicion. He had liked Basil in a general way, had
envied him for an assurance and easy manner so contrasting to his
own diffidence. They had been casual friends, meeting often at King’s
house, yet they had never been drawn together closely by any mutual
interests, and Ruel had recently begun to resent Basil’s attentions
to Sylvia, although never with any real foundation.
Like a flame, fed by a spark of suspicion, this resentment grew, even
though it had no fuel to feed upon--a fact that only increased its
intensity. As he climbed into the narrow cot bed, one thing became
more and more sure in his mind. Ezra Sewell’s methods were certainly
individual, his lazy geniality just a useful blind. Back of it all
was a keen brain, and Ruel felt suddenly reassured. He trusted
himself and Sylvia implicitly in this man’s hands.
CHAPTER X
ESCAPE
Mrs. Bascom was very busy the following morning, yet her activities
were somewhat peculiar. She had gone to sleep the previous evening
reading another of King’s books, awakened quite early, finished the
story, then tiptoed down to the library for another volume. This she
skimmed through, reading a page here and there only, and completing
it before breakfast.
From that time on, she had a book under her arm wherever she went,
and only when necessary did she raise her eyes from its printed
pages. For the most part she had remained in her room with the door
to Sylvia’s partly open. In this way she could be of service at a
moment’s notice if needed, but, more important still, she would be on
hand if Basil attempted to make his threatened call. This he had not
done, however, and nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
Sylvia, pleading weariness, had decided to remain in bed until noon
at least. She had stayed awake, but whenever Mrs. Bascom looked
into the room, her expression was thoughtful, as if turning all the
energy saved by her languor into mental activity. Mrs. Bascom had not
interrupted this mood; in fact, she was sure Sylvia had not even seen
her stand in the doorway at all.
The house had been very quiet. The doctor and the judge had gone
for a walk, while Basil was content to read and write in the rooms
below. This did not surprise Mrs. Bascom, for she knew that he was on
his vacation, also that he had expressed a wish to be left alone to
loaf about and not feel he must go anywhere or do anything requiring
energy; yet she looked in on him more than once during the morning
and kept a watchful eye on what he was doing. Thus she knew, when he
later on went for the mail, that he was taking along two letters of
his own, but they were the ordinary size and bulk.
It was about noon when she finally laid aside her books and nodded
silently to some weighty decision she had made. She was replacing the
last volume in the bookshelf in the library when Basil returned.
‘Caught in the act!’ he laughed. ‘I’ve always heard it was the meek
and mild pillars of virtue who really support blood and thunder
literature, but I’d never suspected it of you. It only goes to show
how little we can judge our fellow beings by their faces--in a manner
of speakin’, as Sewell would say.’
A withering response rose to her lips, but she checked it back and
forced herself to smile.
‘You would think there was enough mystery about here, even to satisfy
me! But I read one of King’s stories--and that was my downfall.--Did
you stop for the mail?’
‘Worse and worse!--I have a letter for you, and I do believe it is in
a masculine hand.--Ah, your blush confirms it. Here, let me not delay
the happy moment longer.’ He turned about with elaborate courtesy
after he handed her the note.
She glared at his back for a moment, her lips curling with
unconcealed disdain to relieve the resentment she could no longer
control, then read the letter quickly. A gleam of satisfaction
lighted her eyes as she stuffed it into her dress, forcing herself to
speak casually and naturally.
‘A business matter--quite successful, too.’
‘Sounds serious.’ Basil turned about again with a fatuous grin. ‘I
only hope you haven’t been playing the market, Mrs. Bascom? There are
widows and----’
‘Widows!’ finished Mrs. Bascom emphatically, and the one word neatly
closed the subject. ‘I think dinner--or lunch, as King always called
it--will be ready as soon as you are.’
‘Good, I take the hint. I’ll be with you in a tick.’
Throughout the meal they talked quite steadily on various
subjects, but the one uppermost in their minds had no share in the
conversation. Mrs. Bascom asked a good many questions about city
life, a subject for which she expressed considerable interest and
little knowledge. Basil responded readily enough to her lead, but
she rather suspected his answers were not always strictly truthful.
Though his manner was deferential and serious, she sensed the lighter
mood behind it, so accepted his statements in equal gravity without
believing a word of them. That he could be quite charming and
entertaining, he proved conclusively, yet she was on her guard to
discount all this, repressing a growing dislike for him and his easy
duplicity.
Ezra Sewell arrived soon after the meal was concluded. He requested
Mrs. Bascom to find out if Miss Hawley felt able to go through the
papers in King’s desk and check up on a possible loss. This Sylvia
consented to do, insisting she was perfectly rested and anxious to be
of assistance. As soon as she had dressed, Sewell himself came up to
assist her down the stairs, but she declined his offer, saying it was
time she learned to get about alone, become less dependent on others.
Basil joined them in the den where the robbery had taken place, and
Mrs. Bascom watched keenly for some interchange of greeting between
him and Sylvia, but the latter did not look up or speak as she began
to take out the papers from the drawer that had been forced open.
Coming upon a sealed envelope that was not labeled, she reached out
for a paper-cutter with which to open it, but there was none on the
desk. Sewell interpreted her gesture rightly and put her question
into words.
‘A paper-knife? It ain’t where it usually is, eh?’
Sylvia nodded.
‘What kind of thing was it?’
‘Why, it was one of Mr. King’s favorite keepsakes. It was shaped like
a sword--silver blade and cleverly imitated hilt.’
Something had warned Mrs. Bascom at Sewell’s first question, so she
was able to conceal her emotions at the moment. Undoubtedly it was
the knife she had found in the chute--had thought was familiar--knew
was the one used to murder King!
‘It was always kept on this desk?’
‘Always.’
‘Hm.--Perhaps the burglar opened the drawer with it, an’ took it off
with him,’ suggested Sewell with apparent indifference. ‘But let’s
see if he took anythin’ else, Miss Hawley.’
She continued with her work, a moment later looking up at the
inspector.
‘There is one bundle of papers missing. They were folded sheets, a
package about two inches thick, I should say.’
‘You know what was in ’em, what they were about?’
‘No, not exactly. I only saw the bundle, folded up in a blank sheet
of paper. There were several sheets inside this, and it was something
to do with business, I gathered.’
‘Then you wouldn’t know ’em if you saw ’em again?’
‘No.--All I do know is that Mr. King locked them in there late in the
afternoon of the--the day he died.’
‘But he might have taken ’em out again himself.’
‘I doubt it. He was busy with his guests from that time on. I’m sure
he did not remove them.’
‘An’ the thief did, eh?’
She nodded silently, and for the first time gave one fleeting glance
at Basil. Mrs. Bascom saw this, interpreted it as half pleading, half
defiant, but Basil’s expression did not change in response to it.
‘Then it seems like another of these here affairs that might have
been done this way or that way, for all we know. I’d give fifty cents
if I could get hold of somethin’ definite an’ clear just for once,’
grumbled Sewell disconsolately. ‘You ain’t got anythin’ to add, I
s’pose, Basil? You knew somethin’ about his business affairs. Do you
happen to know about this?’
‘Not a thing more than Sylvia does,’ responded Basil readily. ‘He
spoke of some business matter he wished to run over with me sometime,
but gave no hint as to its purport. He has often talked things over
with me--the business end of his writing and all--so I have no idea
just what he had on his mind this time.’
‘This safe, Miss Hawley, I wonder if the thief broke into that too?’
At this implied question, Sylvia pointed to a panel in the wall and
told the inspector how to open it. This he did, revealing the locked
door of a wall safe.
‘Maybe you’d better open it an’ make sure.’
‘I can’t, Inspector. It was Mr. King’s private safe and only he knew
the combination.’
‘Then I guess we don’t need to bother with that now.--Miss Hawley,
if you don’t mind, I’d kind of like to have a little confab with you
alone, just to run over certain things a bit.’
This was a request Mrs. Bascom had both anticipated and tried to
avoid. She had fully intended to talk with Sylvia herself, to impress
upon her the very real danger of her position. That she had not done
so was partly her own fault, partly due to Sylvia’s unresponsiveness.
Yet Mrs. Bascom had come to fear Sewell’s innocent conversations, his
apparent simplicity, so she tried to forestall him.
‘Ezra Sewell, you know she isn’t fit to go through another grilling.’
‘Grillin’, ma’am? I promise it won’t be that--just a friendly chat.’
‘Call it what you will, she’s upset and----’
‘No, Mrs. Bascom,’ interrupted Sylvia. ‘I may have been foolish and
nervous before, but I’m perfectly fit again now. Besides, I want to
clear up things, to talk them over with Inspector Sewell.’
Mrs. Bascom attempted to dissuade her, but Sylvia remained firm,
ignoring all hints obdurately, quite as determined on the interview
as the inspector himself. Almost literally shoved out of the room,
Mrs. Bascom’s temper very nearly got the better of her. She even
contemplated eavesdropping to further her own knowledge of events
and to be able to rush in and interrupt matters if Sylvia became too
involved. But before she had decided on a definite plan, Dr. New
entered the hall and insisted upon leading her away to another room
for a private discussion of Sylvia’s physical condition.
‘Frankly, Mrs. Bascom, I’m rather troubled about her,’ he began,
placing the finger-tips of one hand against those of the other and
staring at them as he moved his palms backward and forward. ‘I do not
mean so much her physical as her mental condition.’
‘She seemed perfectly rational--if that’s the proper word--to me.
She’s just been going over King’s papers with Inspector Sewell and is
now talking with him alone.’
‘Was anything found to be missing?’
Mrs. Bascom briefly recounted the discovery of the loss of the papers.
‘I see. Still I’m not satisfied. Her mind is clear now and her
physical reactions seem normal for the moment, yet, when I stepped
into her room earlier this morning, she was quite the reverse. Her
pulse was racing, her nerves too taut, although she seemed relaxed
to the point of enervation. When I talked with her, asked a few
simple questions to test her reactions, her answers were disjointed,
almost irrelevant at times and contradictory. Finally she became
moody, silent, and hostile, to judge from her eyes.’
‘But is that exactly abnormal?’ countered Mrs. Bascom. She was
privately wondering whether this was acting on Sylvia’s part, or
whether her plan to make the doctor suspicious of the latter’s mental
balance was not working a little too well. ‘You know she’s been moody
and unlike herself ever since I found her in the chute.’
‘You mean, in other words, that because she is a woman she has a
right to be changeable?’ twitted the doctor. ‘Seriously, it is this
exaggeration of mood that troubles me, you admit she is different,
vacillating from mood to mood. A normal mind has periods of extremes,
depressions on the one hand and gayety on the other, but between them
come stretches of repose--a sort of middle ground, so to speak. She
goes too rapidly from one extreme to the other and does not seem to
gain that equilibrium which is natural.’
‘True--in a way. I’ve noticed that myself. But what do you infer from
that?’
‘Merely, we must watch her more carefully, Mrs. Bascom. Understand
me, I am not actually alarmed or predicting any relapse, but this
mental state, if allowed to continue, would result in a super-nervous
condition that might prove decidedly serious. You have influence with
her, you can do much that a man or her physician cannot. Find out
what is really troubling her and let me know. Then we can take steps
to counteract it.’
It was upon the tip of Mrs. Bascom’s tongue to reply that she had
already tried and failed, but instead she promised to do all she
could. Then the doctor gravely left her.
For a time she sat there, silent and thoughtful, her mind working
rapidly. Something must be done, some action must be taken. But
what? Ezra Sewell seemed content to let matters drift; that was not
her idea of tracing a murderer. She had little as yet to go on, yet
she had something which no one else knew about and her ruse for
protecting Sylvia had obviously borne fruit.
Her speculations were interrupted when she heard a door open and saw
Sewell assisting Sylvia toward her room. The latter was silent and
thoughtful, but the inspector talked in a cheerful monologue. Mrs.
Bascom followed after them to Sylvia’s room, and there stopped Sewell
as he was leaving.
‘I want to talk with you. Where are you going now?’
‘Well, I was goin’ down town, Ellen B. ‘Course if you----’
‘I’ll go with you,’ she interrupted quickly, then turned to Sylvia
who was sitting silently by the window.
‘Did he ask you a lot of questions?’
‘A few. We just talked--in general.’
Mrs. Bascom realized she was in an unresponsive mood, so made her
comfortable with some cushions and prepared to leave.
‘Sylvia, will you promise me to stay here in this room and rest until
I return. Will you?’
Sylvia nodded assent rather wearily.
‘Ring this bell if you want anything and I’ll tell Martha to listen
for it.--Now remember, you’ve promised to stay here.’
‘I will, Mrs. B.’
‘By the way, I intend to stop in at the jail for a moment or two,’
suggested Mrs. Bascom offhandedly. She waited, but Sylvia turned her
head away and did not speak. ‘I thought you might like to send a
message to Ruel or perhaps a note?’
‘Tell him I’m sorry, of course,’ murmured Sylvia in such a low tone
that Mrs. Bascom scarcely made out her words. They were far from what
the latter had expected for an answer, but when nothing more was
added, she left the room, her face puckered into a frown as soon as
she entered the hall.
So Sylvia would not even send a message of cheer to Ruel, much less
the sort of intimate message she had expected to carry!
Ezra Sewell sat in his automobile patiently waiting for her. After
one glance at her face as she climbed in beside him, he drove rapidly
down the road and maintained what for him was a reckless pace until
they drew up before her home.
‘Well, here we are, Ellen B. Now what you got to say? From the look
on your face back there, I don’t know whether to expect a revelation
or a revolution!’
‘My information may prove both, Ezra Sewell,’ she answered briefly.
‘Information, did you say?’
‘I did, even though you may think you’re the only one who knows
anything about this affair.’
‘Wish I was an’ did, ma’am. Seems like I ain’t an’ don’t, though.’
‘I’m glad you admit it, at least.--However, I came to tell you two
things, and here they are. The other day I recalled one little fact
I’d almost forgotten. While we were searching for clues after the
play, one of the guests, Mrs. Tenney, found a stone or pebble on the
floor, but did not mention it in her written summary as it seemed so
unimportant. I wrote her when I recalled it. Here is her answer.’
She handed Sewell the letter Basil had delivered to her. He read it
slowly aloud:
MY DEAR MRS. BASCOM--
Yes, I do remember finding that pebble or piece of cement or
whatever it was. As it seemed useless, I threw it out of the
window later. Roughly (no pun intended, I assure you), the spot
where I found it was on the edge of the rug a few feet from the
desk over toward that closed window.
That answers all your questions, I think, though for the life of
me I can’t see anything to them. I suppose I am not intended to!
Do give my love to that wonderful specimen of a ‘constabule’
who----
Ezra read the remainder of the note in silence, chuckling at the
innuendos quite frankly.
‘Thanks for lettin’ me see this--all of it,’ he nodded. ‘It kind of
backs up our suspicions, don’t it?’
‘The other information,’ continued Mrs. Bascom, paying no attention
to his remark, ‘concerns Mr. King.--Have you ever read any of his
books?’
‘Sure. Mighty lively an’ interestin’ fun, too.’
‘I have just finished skimming through them all--especially some of
the older ones I did not know he had written. I think they are more
than merely interesting stories. They tell where he lived before he
went to New York.’
‘My land!’ exclaimed Ezra fervently. ‘You don’t mean it! Ellen B., if
you ain’t the cleverest, smartest woman----But get on, tell me the
rest.’
She was flushing faintly for no accountable reason at his compliment,
but her words were tart enough. ‘It’s plain as can be to any person
of sense. It was Boston.’
‘What was the book you found that in? How are you sure?’
‘It was in most all of them.’
‘But look here, near as I can remember they were written about
different places.’
‘Some of them were, of course, but more of them were laid in Boston
than any one other city. Besides, I found several, written some years
ago, I guess, and they were all about Boston. His characters are
invariably New England people too. I guess I’ve visited my sister in
Boston enough to know his descriptions are accurate, and that’s why
his stories are clear and interesting, because he wrote about places
he knew. Another thing. He must have known detectives and criminals
and their ways. He shows it in his books.
‘I believe, Ezra Sewell, that he himself was a detective working in
Boston at one time, and his death was an act of revenge by some
crook he had captured. That explains everything.’
She concluded with an emphatic nod. Ezra took off his hat slowly
and scratched his head. He had been prepared to accept some shrewd
deduction from Mrs. Bascom, but this was a little too intangible, too
far-fetched for him.
‘Well, now, seems kind of possible, but I dunno as it means as much
after all. Sounds kind of like one of his own stories. ’Course I can
write down there an’ inquire a bit, but----’
‘You ought to go there yourself--do something at once,’ snorted Mrs.
Bascom, observing the doubt in his face. ‘It is certainly worth that
effort to find out.’
‘Nope, I can’t get away just now, Ellen B. Got too much to do here.’
‘In other words, you don’t believe me.’ She made a clicking sound
with her teeth that expressed her feelings of scorn for his judgment.
‘Very well, then, Ezra, I’ll tend to that myself.’
‘Goin’ down personal, you mean?’
Mrs. Bascom ignored his questions pointedly.
‘I want to talk to Ruel, if it’s possible. Will you take me there or
shall I walk?’
‘’Course I’ll take you to the jail.’
Wisely he let the matter of King’s identity drop for the time being.
After all, there was a chance that her deductions might prove right,
and certainly he must let no such chance escape. He could write
officially to make inquiries. But she was piqued, and he felt sure
she would do as she had threatened. Ellen B. was tenacious, not
easily discouraged, and if she determined to go on such a wild-goose
chase personally--well, that was her affair, and between them, they
would certainly find out all there was to know.
When they reached the jail, a new thought struck him.
‘Did you go for the mail to-day?’
‘No, Basil Stacey brought it.’
‘Hm. Then you can’t say as to who got letters, eh?--Happen to know
whether he did any writin’ himself, mail anythin’ to-day?’
‘Yes, two letters.’
‘Observin’, ain’t you?--Well, guess I’ll do a sort of errand or two,
Ellen B. Take me half an hour, maybe, then I’ll come back here for
you. That long enough for a call?--Help yourself, ma’am. You’ll find
the key to his cell hangin’ in the office near the door. Go right in
an’ make yourself to home. Guess he ain’t a desperate criminal, so
you needn’t be scared.’
Chuckling softly, Ezra left his car and watched her quizzically as
she disappeared into the jail, before he set off down the street,
whistling tunelessly as he scuffed away.
His first errand led to the post-office and general store, where he
lounged until the little room emptied of its few leisurely customers,
then he went to the mail window and gave the postmistress an order to
list all incoming or outgoing mail for any of the people at King’s
house. Questioning her as to the morning’s mail, he received a bit of
information that was both interesting and illuminating. Basil Stacey
had mailed his two letters, both addressed to his office, and with
them two packages of approximate letter size, though much more bulky.
These had gone under registered mail to his office also.
Turning this information over in his mind, Sewell next sought out
several of his feminine neighbors in the village and shamelessly
gossiped with them, in each case leading the subject about until
it touched upon Sylvia Hawley, and resulted in a brief character
sketch through these women’s eyes. Invariably, Sylvia came out with
flying colors as a thoroughly likable, sincere, and unselfish woman,
irrevocably devoted to Mr. King and his affairs.
It was almost an hour later he returned to the jail, expecting to
find Mrs. Bascom either already gone or impatiently waiting with
some quite personal remarks in store for him. She was not in the
office, and a glance at the hook where the key to Ruel’s cell hung
proved it was still in place. Grinning to himself, Ezra stepped into
the corridor to ask Ruel when she had gone and if she had left any
message. But the words froze on his lips.
There in the cell sat Mrs. Bascom, gagged, and tied hand and foot,
perched bolt upright on Ruel’s cot!
Ruel was gone!
CHAPTER XI
EZRA TURNS THIEF
Ezra Sewell stood stock still, too helpless with surprise to move.
Ellen Bascom, a prisoner--Ruel Moore, his rightful prisoner, gone!
The obvious conclusion was that Ruel had made this exchange and
escaped, yet Ezra was reluctant to accept the obvious. It was not
like Ruel to have done such a thing, nor was it consistent with Mrs.
Bascom’s character to have submitted to the exchange. She might have
been overpowered, but again that was scarcely plausible from either’s
standpoint.
As he stood there holding to the bars in his astonishment and trying
to muddle out some explanation, the comedy of it suddenly struck
Ezra. A chuckle escaped his lips, became a prelude to a convulsing
sputter of laughter. Ellen Bascom in jail! Ellen Bascom, helpless,
gagged so that she was even robbed of the power of speech, sitting
there bolt upright in a cell, powerless to move, her eyes snapping at
his! And even in her captivity, she was so calm, so haughty in her
pose, so ridiculously out of place.
His mirth passed as quickly as it had come. His duty and a desire to
learn from her own lips what had happened were the chief causes for
this, but back of them may have been a guilty feeling at the baneful
stare from her eyes, just visible above the gag. Obtaining the key
from the office, after a hasty glance both inside and outside the
jail to make certain Ruel was nowhere in sight, Ezra unlocked the
cell door and hurried to Mrs. Bascom’s side, his face now grave and
serious.
First he untied the gag, which proved to be Ruel’s handkerchief, or
rather, one that Ezra had lent his prisoner. But Sewell noted it
was quite loosely tied, might easily have been slipped off by the
manipulation of her jaws, if she had really tried to free herself.
The moment it came undone, Mrs. Bascom spoke, her words and tone
sharp with sarcasm.
‘Have you quite finished your laughter at a poor, helpless woman?
Please don’t consider relieving my discomfort for an instant until
you have entirely exhausted the humor of your side-splitting joke.’
‘Now, now, Ellen B., I apologize right off to you. It wasn’t a
gentleman’s way to be actin’, I know, but if you’d only been me an’
could see how you----’
‘Thank you, I don’t need to _see_. I can _feel_ how helpless and
uncomfortable I am.--A woman in distress must seem very comical to
you, of course.’ By this time, Ezra had unbound the rope from her
wrists and was stooping to loosen those which shackled her ankles,
but she quickly drew her feet back beneath the edge of the bed. ‘I
prefer to do the rest myself, Ezra Sewell.’
Ezra straightened and turned his face away to conceal the involuntary
grin that broke over it. Of course he should never have presumed to
touch her ankles!
She sprang to her feet and took a step toward the door, but Ezra
stepped in front of her to block the way, and she faltered back as if
from contact with him.
‘Hold on a bit there, Ellen B. Seems like as if there might be a
little explainin’ before you go.’
‘Oh!’ The exclamation, though brief, expressed withering scorn. ‘I’d
thought that to a keen mind such as yours, the situation would be
quite obvious. I beg your pardon for presumin’ on your intelligence!’
‘No presumin’ I’m sure, Ellen B.--I suppose it was Ruel as did this?’
‘Not at all! Of course I did it myself--just to amuse you. It was
such a good joke, so easy to tie myself all up, lock myself in, and
hang up the key, outside!’
‘But why did he do it?’ asked Sewell, quite oblivious to her ridicule.
‘Because I asked him to, naturally. He was so nice about it, too.’
‘Come, Ellen B., this ain’t no time for jokin’.’
‘No? I guess I must be dense. I’d thought you--er----’ She paused as
their eyes met for an instant. There was an unspoken command in his
that suddenly made her flush and stammer. This only increased her
ire, yet somehow it checked the remainder of the retort that came to
her lips.
‘A prisoner has escaped,’ continued Sewell pointedly, ‘an’ it’s my
business to find out how an’ why, ma’am.’
The very mildness of his tone warned her that he was in earnest, and
she began to speak rapidly to cover up her confusion.
‘I came here as soon as you left me, found the key, and entered this
cell. Ruel appeared glad to see some one really interested in his
welfare and innocence. I sat down on the cot, he stood before me,
and we were talking when----’
‘About what, ma’am?’
‘Nothing special--Sylvia, and the mystery in general.’
‘You was deliverin’ a message from her to him, maybe?’
‘No. She sent none, though I asked her----’ Mrs. Bascom stopped in
confusion, and glanced sharply at Sewell as she interrupted her
thought. ‘Suddenly he made a break for the door that I had left ajar,
and closed me in. It seemed to be a spring lock or something. Then he
returned, let himself in again, and bound and gagged me as you saw.
He’d gotten the rope from outside somewhere. After he’d locked the
door again, he hung up the key and went away.’
‘Without explainin’?’
She shook her head in the negative.
‘How long ago was that?’
‘Thirty or forty minutes, I should say. We talked only a very short
time before this happened.’
‘Hm. There wasn’t nothin’ you said as might have given him reason to
do this?’
She bridled instantly, recovering some of her former asperity. ‘Are
you accusing me of urging him to do this, Ezra Sewell, of asking him
to tie me up?’
‘I’m askin’, not accusin’, Ellen B.’
‘Then I’ll answer you that I’m not a medium with powers of seeing
into other people’s minds, even though I can read yours. I’m sure
I never stopped to analyze my words or what he thought in his mind
about them.’
‘I can believe you there, Ellen B.,’ nodded Sewell enigmatically,
but if her words were intended as an evasion, he either overlooked
or deliberately let them pass unchallenged. A slight relaxing of
her tenseness did not escape his keen eyes, however, as he abruptly
changed the subject. ‘Hope he didn’t tie you up too tight? Them ropes
didn’t hurt, did they?’
His solicitude was disarming and, in spite of herself, Mrs. Bascom
thawed perceptibly. Ezra asked her a few other inconsequential
questions, then pushed open the door and followed her out into the
office, concealing his own emotions at this latest development.
‘Can I drive you somewheres, Ellen B.?’ he asked as they came to the
outer door.
‘No, thank you. I’m going to my house for a little, then back to
Mr. King’s. I don’t know just how long it will take me, and I need
the exercise, anyway, so I’ll walk.--I--I hope you won’t hold this
against Ruel. I think he was sort of distracted and impatient over
his confinement. I’m sure he meant no wrong--to any one.’
‘Oh, that end of it’s all right. But when a prisoner escapes, it’s
kind of serious business, you see.’
‘Not if it’s a secret--if no one knows about it, Ezra.’ Her eyes met
his squarely, and this time he perceived their message at once.
‘Perhaps not,’ he nodded slowly. ‘Anyways, as long as no one knows
except us two, we won’t do anythin’ serious about it--yet. Of course,
his escapin’ is bad, a felony in itself. But if he was proved
innocent of murder, I guess the judge would pardon that, Ellen B.’
Mrs. Bascom smiled quite genuinely in her relief, then turned and
hurried down the street. Inspector Sewell stood in the doorway
watching her until she had disappeared around a curve in the road.
‘Smart woman--slick as a whistle,’ he muttered to himself as he
reëntered the office and, walking over to the desk, sat down to think.
Now that he was alone, he arrived at a definite conclusion almost
instantly. It was not because Ezra Sewell was mentally slow that he
had not reasoned this out before. There were two very distinct causes
for his delinquency; one, that he had been too interested in Mrs.
Bascom and her retorts to consider seriously the reason for Ruel’s
act, the second, that he could not help but admire her spirit and the
ease with which she evaded questions she did not care to answer, yet
never told a positive falsehood. Nor had he tried to force answers
from her by reiterating such questions. He knew by experience the
futility of such a course, appreciated the value of a more indirect
method of securing the truth.
With her departure, however, everything seemed perfectly clear and
obvious with scarcely a thought.
‘Pretty clever, but just a little too much so to fool me,’ he said
aloud, unconsciously addressing his words toward the cell where Ruel
had formerly shared his oral musings. ‘Guess it happened about this
way. Ellen B. didn’t think I paid enough attention to her bright
idea about goin’ to Boston to look up King’s past, so darned if she
didn’t persuade Ruel to go for her--just like that! Not that it’ll do
any harm, as far as I can see. Guess it’ll be better for him than
stayin’ cooped up here as long as folks still think he’s a prisoner.
‘Well, now, let’s see. She has him lock her in an’ tie her up just
to make it look natural an’ fool me. But there’s where she laid it
on a bit thick, seems to me. It wasn’t necessary at all, at all. An’
naturally he tied her up gentle, too, so all that talk was--well,
actin’--all except her bein’ mad at me for laughin’ an’ her bein’
willin’ to keep it all a secret.’
Ezra slapped his knee and chuckled again at the picture his memory
recalled. Then his eyes fell upon a folded slip of paper, tucked
beneath the ink bottle. It proved to be a note, without address or
signature. But neither was necessary as he read the hurried scrawl in
Ruel’s handwriting:
I promised not to break away from _you_, but not any one else.
Don’t worry, I won’t disgrace you, and will keep out of sight.
Will call on you the moment I return.
‘Yep, when he returns--from Boston. So that’s that, all neat an’
tidy.--But that Ellen critter. ’Tain’t good for her to think she’s
foolin’ me completely. ’Tain’t good for any woman, least of all her.
Guess I’d better just drop by her house an’ kind of let her know by a
hint like.’
He carefully locked the outer door of the jail so that no one could
enter and discover Ruel’s absence, and the very resistance of the
lock attested to the fact that this precaution had not been taken for
months or years. Then he set off down the road at a comfortable amble.
It was not far to Mrs. Bascom’s house, spick and span in its recent
coat of white paint, set off by trellised crimson rambler vines
and shaded by a tall elm that dwarfed as well as protected it. The
pathway to the front door cut through velvety grass and lanes of
flowers, here and there speckled with early blossoms, but mostly
green with promise of later blooms.
The shades were all pulled down to the window sills to keep out the
hot sun, but the door stood wide open. Ezra stepped inside, pulling
off his somewhat battered felt hat and twirling it on his fingers,
as he glanced at the closed doors on the lower floor, then up the
stairs into their cool darkness. Not a sound came from anywhere in
the house. He put a foot on the stairs to ascend, then drew back.
‘Nope. She might be dressin’ or somethin’,’ he muttered, then raised
his voice in a lusty shout. ‘Ellen B., oh, Ellen B.’
Immediately there was a crash like the hasty closing of a box or
trunk, followed by a scurry of footsteps. Ezra listened as they
descended from the attic and brought Mrs. Bascom to the head of the
stairs. She was flushed, excited, and startled.
‘My land, you scared me!’ she explained needlessly. ‘I--I was just
seein’ to something up there and----’ She stopped abruptly to recover
her breath. ‘Well, what do you want now, Ezra Sewell?’
‘Me? Nothin’,’ he drawled, but he wondered why she seemed to look
almost guilty. Could it be that Ruel was hiding here, waiting for a
chance to slip away? It would be easy to find out. ‘I just happened
along to ask you if you was ready to go back. Thought I’d drive you
up.’
The flush slowly seeped from her face, though she still eyed him with
suspicion as she descended the stairs.
‘Yes, I’m ready now, and I’d be glad for a lift after all.’
‘Then I’ll go get the car, shall I?’
‘Don’t bother. I’ll go with you.’
Was it only imagination or was she now quite anxious to get him away
from her house? He waited while she locked the door, then slipped the
key under the mat quite casually. That rather settled his suspicions
that Ruel was in the house. Such being the case, why was she so
perturbed?
Before he could answer his own query, Mrs. Bascom briskly led the way
to the street and turned in the direction of the jail.
The ride back to King’s house was made in silence as far as
conversation was concerned--a silence enforced by the clatter of the
ancient automobile. But when they arrived in a little swirl of dust,
Ezra shut off the engine and faced his passenger quizzically before
she could get out.
‘I’ve been thinkin’, Ellen B. About that idea of yours of trailin’
Mr. King. Guess there might be somethin’ to it after all.’
‘I’m sure there is, but you needn’t bother about it. I’ll tend to it
in my own way as I said I would.’
‘Then it won’t be necessary for me to make the trip, eh? ’Course
you’ll tell me what you find out?’
‘Certainly.’
‘An’ you’ll keep it a secret, about what happened this
afternoon--Ruel an’ all?’
‘I’ve already said I would,’ she answered as she descended to the
road. ‘I’m not likely to boast about it. I should think that would be
obvious--even to you!’
‘That’s fine, an’ I hope he learns somethin’ too.’
Mrs. Bascom turned so suddenly she had to steady herself against the
automobile.
‘He? What do you mean?’ she questioned with an unsuccessful attempt
to sound innocently bewildered.
The self-starter chugged loudly, caught, and the engine roared with
staccato explosions. Just before he threw in the clutch, however,
Ezra smiled down at her and called above the noise, ‘Tell him I’ll
always have a room an’ bed waitin’ for him--when he gets back!’ Then,
with a leap, the car sprang forward with Ezra grinning to himself at
the consternation on her face.
‘Maybe that’ll give her somethin’ to think about, eh, my friend?’ he
asked a jay that eyed him saucily from a tree by the side of the road.
As he drove toward the village, the automobile went slower and
slower, accommodating its pace to his thoughts. Some of the events of
the day had cleared of themselves, but others were still puzzling. He
could not forget that look of startled guilt on Mrs. Bascom’s face as
she confronted him from the top of the stairs. For that matter she
had been acting queerly ever since King’s death. What could be the
reason? Did she know more than she had told? Obviously she did. But
was that knowledge guilty or----
There seemed no logical alternative, yet he refused to accept the
inevitable conclusion. It was utterly impossible to suspect Ellen
Bascom of guilt. On the other hand, it was equally impossible
to believe Sylvia or Ruel was guilty, yet facts, circumstantial
evidence, everything seemed against them.
His musing was interrupted by his arrival at the jail, but was
automatically resumed as he prepared to cook himself a hasty supper.
Again the mood was shaken off while he ate whole-heartedly, only to
return, once this ceremony had been performed and the dishes neatly
washed and put in their respective places.
‘A trunk. Now what would she be doin’ with a trunk?’
He jammed tobacco into his pipe so emphatically that it would not
draw. This necessitated cleaning it out again, refilling it, then
neatly brushing up the tobacco he had spilled in the process and
hoarding it back into the can. Darkness had fallen, but he made no
move to light the lamp on the table. He tilted back his chair and
rocked on it as he smoked and muttered aloud.
‘Say it was puttin’ somethin’ away, now.--Don’t seem logical. She
didn’t have anythin’ with her an’ she’d already been away at King’s
a couple of days. Trust Ellen B. to have done her tidyin’ before
that.--Well, then, say she was takin’ somethin’ out.--But she didn’t
bring anythin’ down as I could see.
‘Then she was lookin’ at somethin’ that was already put away there.
That’s the truth. Perhaps it was somethin’ she’d put there just
recent----’
His chair came to the floor with a thump and he remained immovable
for a full minute.
‘She was concealin’ somethin’ in her bosom that day, an’ she was
kind of guilty about it. Now to-day she was guilty-lookin’ again at
bein’ found in her own attic.--Ezra Sewell, if you ain’t on the right
track, you ain’t no weather prophet!’
With this rather mixed remark, he again relapsed into silence. It was
broken only once by another disjointed bit of philosophy. ‘Women are
peculiar, but usually they have reasons for things an’ the doin’ of
’em.’
It was quite dark when Ezra got to his feet, fumbled about in the
familiar room until he found a flashlight, tested it, then went out,
locking the door again behind him. Apparently bent on an aimless
walk, he followed the street down to the edge of the village, then
cut off into a field that ended in a pine grove. Into this he
disappeared.
Fifteen minutes later he had circled around and was approaching Mrs.
Bascom’s house from the rear, taking care to keep in the shadows
as much as possible. Gaining the doorway, the elm tree effectually
darkened the house so that no one would have seen him there--had any
one been about so late at night! His groping fingers found the key
under the mat, and with it he unlocked the door. Once inside, Ezra
turned the key in the lock and breathed easier.
‘Nice way for an officer of the law to be sneakin’ around, but all’s
fair in love an’ detectivin’,’ he mused, directing his flashlight
on the stairs up which he mounted on tiptoe with unconsciously
exaggerated caution.
He did not pause at the second floor, but continued up the short,
boxed-in flight to the attic. Here he flashed the rays of the light
about the room before advancing. It was a single large room,
covering the whole area of the house, its ceiling formed by the
gabled roof, high in the middle and sloping sharply down to meet the
floor at the sides. Pushed into these narrow spaces were two neat
rows of trunks, boxes, and bundles, the latter carefully labeled.
‘It was a trunk lid she slammed, that’s certain.’
He advanced to the first trunk and lifted its lid. A whiff of moth
balls assailed his nostrils, and the light revealed the smooth
surface of some blankets. The next one seemed full of newspaper
bundles, carefully tied with string. Their odor was of lavender. But
when he opened a third, the hand that held the light trembled for a
moment. There on top of a paper wrapped bundle lay a wisp of white
cloth, partially concealing a knife or dagger, its point stained an
ominous brown!
Ezra Sewell goggled at it for a moment in astonished silence, holding
his breath. Then, with a low whistle, he bent his light down, moving
it closer until it almost touched the knife. The cloth had a sort of
bow in one end. It was obviously part of a woman’s dress--but not
Ellen Bascom’s. The thought, as it flitted through his head, seemed
to bring a peculiar relief.--No, it was more like a younger woman’s
fancy, such as Sylvia----
His fingers slipped off the battery button and he was plunged
into darkness, but he scarcely noticed that as his mind whirled
incredulously. Then he switched on the light again, wrapped the cloth
carefully about the knife and placed it gently in his breast-pocket.
This done, he closed the lid and stole down the stairs. Unlocking
the door, he opened it a crack, listened, then slipped out. A moment
later he had replaced the key under the mat and was sauntering down
the street as if nothing more startling than an evening’s stroll had
been occupying his mind.
Once inside the jail, however, his lassitude changed to briskness.
The door shut and locked, the shades drawn tight, he lighted the lamp
and set it upon the desk. Then he withdrew the knife from his pocket,
unwrapped the cloth and studied them both carefully.
The knife seemed almost familiar.--Yes, it was the paper-cutter from
Mr. King’s desk--the one Sylvia had reported missing. The stains
were undoubtedly clots of blood--King’s blood. But there were no
finger-marks anywhere on it.--Then the murderer had worn gloves,
presumably. It all corroborated his theory of a carefully planned,
premeditated murder.
Disconnected ideas and conjectures chased through his brain.
How and where had Mrs. Bascom found it? It must have been the morning
she discovered Sylvia in the grain chute. Of course it was what she
had concealed in her dress. Then obviously she had found it just
before or after Sylvia’s rescue.--The bit of cloth, stained and cut,
was it a clue or had it been used merely as a convenient wrapper for
the weapon?--Both. It was dirty from the dust of the chute and must
have been torn from Sylvia’s dress after she was taken out.--That was
it, the knife had been in the chute with Sylvia! And that explained
why Mrs. Bascom had concealed it--because she feared it would
implicate Sylvia.
Sylvia’s peculiar actions, her insistence upon probating the will,
her strangely cold, withdrawn manner. Was she implicated, then? Did
she know about this knife, or----No! She need not have pointed out
its loss. Besides, her face, her tense, frightened look, her subtly
pleading eyes as her lips calmly insisted upon the terms of the
will that seemed the one touch of avarice and greed--surely these
were not the actions of a murderer. She was doing it all for some
purpose--acting a part. But what purpose?
Basil, who had mailed two packages suspiciously like those stolen
from the dead man’s desk--or were they stolen? Sylvia had said so,
yet she might be in league with him, might be shielding him--Again,
no. It was not consistent with her character. Her character?
Certainly that too was inconsistent----
Abruptly Ezra Sewell stood on his feet, bundled the knife into the
cloth, and put it away in the safe. Then he began to pace the floor,
even going into the corridor to stand before the empty cell, staring
at it as if to hear some answer to his silent queries from Ruel.
It was midnight when he again reseated himself at the desk and calmly
began to speak aloud, addressing his absent prisoner.
‘It don’t change things a mite after all, Ruel. It helps, in a way,
but still we don’t seem to get hold of much of anythin’ certain. Now
here’s what we know.
‘Man--or woman--he was one of the guests that night an’ knew all
about the plans beforehand. While it was dark, he sneaked out one
window an’ into the other, killed King, then hid the knife an’
covered his tracks in the confusion. My guess would be reasonable he
dropped it down that chute an’ didn’t get a chance to get it again.
‘That seems clear logical, but it don’t decide who the man was or
why he did it, eh, son?--Well, that’s what I’m after, only darned if
I see how I’m goin’ to get there. It ain’t no use accusin’ any one,
but I’ve got to do somethin’ mighty quick. There’s too much hidin’
an’ queer business to suit me. Guess, Ez, you’ll have to do some
mighty direct questionin’ one of these days.--Anyway, I hope you find
somethin’, boy, even if it does look like a wild-goose chase.’
This speech relieved Ezra’s mind somewhat, for within fifteen minutes
he was comfortably in bed and snoring wheezily.
CHAPTER XII
‘IT’S GONE!’
When Ezra Sewell drove off in his car, Mrs. Bascom was so astounded
by his remarks that she could not think of a retort until he was out
of sight, and by that time more serious matters were clamoring for
consideration in her mind.
Of course he had guessed her scheme in sending Ruel off to
Boston--how, did not matter much--and Ezra’s words implied he would
not attempt to interfere with this escape. Yet this was not enough
to satisfy her. Woman-like she tried to probe further, to reason
out why he had not objected to Ruel’s release, what his attitude
toward her would be, and whether, after all, her somewhat impulsive
scheme, had been the best possible one to accomplish her ends. Ruel
Moore was methodical and dependable rather than quick-witted or
imaginative; yet he had been keen to perceive her meaning in the
hurried instructions she had given him. Did that prophesy he would be
equally clever at unraveling the mystery upon which he had been sent?
She fervently hoped so, not only for the purpose of clarifying King’s
past life and catching the murderer, but also to vindicate her own
judgment--though this latter reason she did not fully accredit at the
time.
Behind this was another startling fact. Ezra Sewell was not easily
hoodwinked, it seemed. This was the second time he had made veiled
remarks to her, such as his observations on the bulge in her waist
when she was carrying the knife concealed there. Did that signify he
knew a lot more than he had revealed, that perhaps he had not been so
inactive as he appeared? Knowing him, she was inclined to believe so,
yet he could not possibly understand even as much of the tangle as
she did.
Pondering and speculating, Mrs. Bascom shook the dust out of her
skirt with her habitual care, straightened a coil of hair that had
been jolted loose during the ride, and resolutely closed her mind to
these tantalizing speculations, as she turned toward the house. At
least she now had a means of finding out whether Sylvia was deeply
interested in Ruel or not. She, Mrs. Bascom, had presumed so until
Sylvia refused to send any message of encouragement to him, but she
was not altogether sure this should be taken as conclusive one way or
another. She had no reason for this feeling, but intuition warned her
not to make a too hasty decision.
Before mounting the stairs to Sylvia’s room, Mrs. Bascom proceeded to
the kitchen to ask a question of Martha Dobson, whom she found just
withdrawing two delicately browned loaves of bread from the oven.
‘Back again, Martha,’ she said with an appreciative sniff at the
baking. ‘Everything serene? Miss Hawley comfortable?’
‘Comfortable? I presume so,’ answered Martha, rather shortly with a
toss of her head that invited further questioning.
‘Then she hasn’t called for you, I take it?’
‘That she hasn’t--not for _me_, Ellen Bascom!’
‘What do you mean?’ inquired the latter, surprised at her emphasis.
‘Exactly what I said. She’s had no need of me, though that hasn’t
prevented her calling for a certain other person as I might mention.’
‘The doctor? She’s been sick again?’
‘Sick? Hump. Hardly! Not when she’s been a carryin’ on fit to kill
with that Stacey man--as I never could abide.’
‘Basil Stacey?’ cried Mrs. Bascom incredulously. ‘Carrying on? Where?
How?’
‘It was scandalous, I’d say.--An’ she, supposed to be sick an’ upset
over Mr. King’s death, settin’ there laughin’ an’ talkin’ just as
if nothin’ had happened. An’ with him at it too, visitin’ her right
there in her bedroom!’
Martha paused dramatically, her flour-powdered arms indignantly
akimbo, a picture of outraged dignity.
‘In her room? Talking and--and laughing, you said? But you must be
mistaken. Sylvia promised----’ She faltered, recalling that Sylvia had
only promised not to leave her room. ‘Why didn’t you stop him, forbid
him to----’
‘Forbid him, is it? As if I didn’t try to, an’ he pushin’ me aside
with a laugh, while she tells me to go away an’ leave them alone! It
only goes to show what them city folks is really like. An’ I’d always
thought she was different.’ Martha sniffed and walked away into the
pantry.
Mrs. Bascom literally ran after her.
‘Martha Dobson, you tell me just what happened. I’ve got to know.’
‘You will, quick enough.’ Martha wiped away a tear which might have
been of anger, but which was more likely of personal shame and
humility at Sylvia’s treatment of her. ‘It wasn’t ten minutes after
you left, I was goin’ up to see if she wanted anythin’. This man was
walkin’ up just ahead of me an’ she calls out to ask if it was him.
He answers it was, an’ started straight for her door, so I sidled
ahead of him to keep him out. But there he stands, lookin’ hard at
her, while she, in one of them fetchin’ wrapper things that makes
her look like a girl almost, sat smilin’ an’ sayin’, “Come right in,
Basil, I want to have a talk with you.”
‘At that I spoke up, tried to get in ahead of him to close the door
an’ bring her to her senses. An’ what does he do but push me away
with some silly joke she laughs at! I was that taken aback, before I
could move or speak again, he’d actually closed it in my face.
‘With that I pushed it open again an’ started givin’ him a piece
of my mind good an’ plain, but she frowned, stood up an’ ordered
me--ordered me out of the room! Flabbergasted, I was. I didn’t know
what I was doin’ until I found myself outside in the hall again, an’
heard him lockin’ the door on me!’
‘Locked the door--with Sylvia----’ Mrs. Bascom’s eyes widened
with horror, and she turned as if to hurry away from some utterly
unbelievable gossip.
‘Oh, he’s gone again now, never fear,’ said Martha quickly, mistaking
her movement as a determination to go upstairs and interfere herself.
‘But if you could have heard them, laughin’ an’ talkin’ as I did,
Ellen Bascom, you’d----’
‘Then you--you listened?’
‘Yes, I did, an’ I’d do it again without no pricks of conscience,’
Martha justified herself stoutly.
‘Of course. It was your duty. But what were they saying?’
‘I couldn’t hear very well, especially at first, they talked so quiet
an’ serious like, he a-holdin’ her hand an’ bendin’ close to her.’
‘But the other room--why didn’t you go in there by that door?’
questioned Mrs. Bascom, unaware that she might be revealing more than
she intended by this knowledge of a better listening post.
‘I did, but it was shut tight an’ I was afraid if I opened it, he’d
come an’ lock it too. Well, after a bit, this Stacey let go her
hand an’ drew up a chair. I was a-lookin’ through the keyhole, you
see. An’ then they just began laughin’ an’ smilin’ away at each
other as if--as if he was her best friend,’ Martha finished lamely,
suppressing a stronger phrase that obviously rose to her lips.
‘How long did you stay there?’
‘Till he went--more than half an hour later, an’ me so stiff with
kneelin’ there my legs almost cracked. He walked straight out of the
house an’ hasn’t been back since, so I came down here without a word
to her. An’ that’s all I know, though it’s more than enough, I’d say
to any one as asked me.’
The two women stared silently at each other, each picturing that
scene which Martha had just described. At last Mrs. Bascom spoke in a
low, hurried voice.
‘You did exactly right, Martha, both in listening and telling me.
It--it must be as the doctor feared--her mind is affected.’
‘Did he say that? You mean she might not know--might not realize
what she was doin’?’ whispered Martha, eager to accept any plausible
explanation of Sylvia’s rebuffs.
Mrs. Bascom nodded slowly, though she was far from certain this was
the whole truth.
‘I think we’d better keep this to ourselves, not tell any one, don’t
you?’ she suggested.
‘I won’t tell a soul.--An’ I hope it’s so, that her mind is----I
mean, it would be terrible, only it seems as if it was the best thing
to happen----Oh, I’m that upset an’ confused I don’t know what I’m
sayin’.’
Tears trickled down her kindly, wrinkled face and for a moment Mrs.
Bascom soothed her like a child, then hurried away down the hall. But
her steps retarded as she mounted the stairs, paused on the landing
part-way up to adjust her mind to this new complication.
Considered of itself, this meeting between Sylvia and Basil would
have appeared as unaccountable as it had to Martha, yet for all
its strangeness, Mrs. Bascom sensed certain things in view of the
previous conversation she had overheard between them. That their
serious talk had been concerned with the matter of the stolen papers
and Basil’s subsequent threat, Mrs. Bascom had not a doubt, and that
they had arrived at some amicable agreement was quite clear from the
laughter and talk that had followed. Yet how could they have agreed,
arranged a plan between them? Basil held the upper hand, was not
likely to have receded from it. Had he merely extended the time limit
of his threat? Improbable, for in that instance, Sylvia would still
have been perturbed, scarcely free to laugh.
Then there was only one other assumption possible--that Sylvia had
given in to him. Incredible--impossible! Surely she was in love with
Ruel. It seemed obvious--their actions previous to King’s death,
their being together so much. And yet Sylvia was so strange, had
seemed to ignore Ruel’s imprisonment.
There was a way of finding out the answers to some of these
speculations, and Mrs. Bascom hesitated no longer to take it. But
her determination suffered a temporary setback when she arrived at
Sylvia’s room. Peering through the door that stood ajar, she saw
Sylvia was fast asleep in her chair, so Mrs. Bascom postponed her
questioning, entered on tiptoe and stood at her side, studying her
face in an attempt at cool impartiality which broke down almost
immediately.
There is something disarmingly frank and innocent about the face of
a sleeper. The closing of the eyes at once takes away the animation
and subtlety which give depth to the expression, while the relaxing
of the muscles in sleep robs a face of any artificiality or pose,
moulds it into those characteristic lines which may be controlled
or repressed during consciousness. So with Sylvia’s quiet face,
there was only a pathetic droop to her bowed lips and an appealing
youthfulness that demanded sympathy, not condemnation. It could never
be the face of a murderer or a cold-blooded plotter, Mrs. Bascom
decided again, her sympathies swallowing up her resentment of a few
moments ago.
Retiring to her own room, she freshened up for dinner, then sat by
the window calmly reviewing the facts as she knew them, until her
watch pointed to six-thirty. A glance in at Sylvia’s room disclosed
she was just awakening, so Mrs. Bascom entered and cheerfully asked
what she would like to eat. Sylvia returned her smile quite naturally
for an instant, then abruptly sighed and seemed to withdraw within
herself once more.
‘Don’t bother, Mrs. B. I shall hobble down as soon as I slip on a
dress,’ she said with forced briskness.
‘You’d much better stay up here, Sylvia dear. It’s no bother at all
to bring you a tray.’
‘Thank you, no. I’m not an invalid any longer. Besides, I--I want to
be with people and listen to conversation again instead of being all
alone.’
Mrs. Bascom realized it was useless to argue, so returned to her room
and puttered about for a few minutes until Sylvia should be ready,
intending to assist her down the stairs. Her offer, however, was
stoutly declined.
‘I can manage quite well, Mrs. B., if I just go slowly. You’ve all
been babying me too much lately, and it’s time to call a halt.’
The others had already assembled when the two women arrived in the
lower hall and Basil came forward immediately, linking his arm
through Sylvia’s and supporting her weight quite easily. Mrs. Bascom
noticed that Sylvia did not refuse his help nor draw away from him.
The meal proved to be rather a labored one as far as conversation
was concerned. Judge Brant and Dr. New were somewhat weary and
uncommunicative, replying only when directly addressed. The doctor,
moreover, seemed to be watching Sylvia closely, obviously surprised
and interested by her attitude toward Basil. These two were talking
and laughing together, rather ignoring the others. Their conversation
was light and aimless, Basil exerting himself to the utmost to
entertain her, Sylvia encouraging him, though at times her animation
grew forced, her interest merely a veneer.
Following Mr. King’s custom, the two women left the men to their
smoking after the meal, but Sylvia decided not to go to her room yet,
insisting she wanted to check over all the papers in the desk before
retiring. Mrs. Bascom accompanied her to the den and sat down to read
the local news while Sylvia worked. An hour passed in which Mrs.
Bascom did little reading, but Sylvia worked in absorbed silence,
sorting the papers, taking notes, and making calculations.
At last Mrs. Bascom put aside the newspaper and, making an excuse of
going to her room for something, ascended the stairs, her mind made
up to write down and arrange a résumé of the details and discoveries
she had made in an effort to clarify matters.
She had moved quite silently and as her hand was stretched out to
touch the doorknob of her room, she abruptly became rigid, listening
to a faint sound from within. Somebody was in there, had just opened
one of the bureau drawers!
Cautiously she pushed on the door, which was unlatched, until she
could peer in, regardless of the fact that she might be discovered.
Against the dim outline of the window was silhouetted a man’s
figure, stooping over the bureau. As she watched, he switched on a
flashlight, holding it inside the drawer so as to concentrate its
rays, and began to poke an inquiring finger among the neatly folded
garments which it contained. The reflected light was not bright
enough for her to make out the man’s features, but he seemed to be
of large frame, and his fingers were short and thick--like those of
Judge Brant!
Unsuccessful in his search, he treated the other drawers in the same
manner, entered the closet, even rifled her suit-case. When he turned
off his light after this, Mrs. Bascom realized he must come out into
the hall in another moment, so stepped aside from the door, waiting
to challenge him when he opened it.
Footsteps crossed the room, stopped, then continued, but toward the
communicating door to Sylvia’s room! Mrs. Bascom waited until they
had passed over the threshold, then, without hesitation, dodged into
her room and continued her spying.
The same procedure was followed in Sylvia’s room. Each drawer was
searched, but apparently without result. The closet yielded nothing.
Then the figure turned to the writing-table and the light flashed on
and off as it was scrutinized. Suddenly the man sighed or whistled
in a low tone and, before she realized what he was doing, swiftly
crossed the room to the hall door and disappeared.
Mrs. Bascom scurried to her own door, opening it just in time to see
him enter a room farther down the hall. It was Judge Brant’s room!
She thought rapidly. She must make certain who this man was. On the
other hand, if it should prove to be the judge himself, she must have
some ready excuse for knocking on his door as she did not intend to
accuse him or reveal her knowledge of his prowling yet--not until she
could think out some reason for it.
She was saved all this, however, for at that moment the doctor’s
voice from below called the judge lustily. Drawing back, Mrs.
Bascom saw the door open and the judge himself hurry out and down
the stairs. As soon as he had disappeared, she went to his room and
knocked. There was no answer. She opened the door and boldly turned
on the light, but as she had expected, the room was empty. On the
bureau lay a flashlight!
Then it was the judge, beyond a doubt. But why had he searched the
two rooms? What was he after?
Mrs. Bascom returned to her room and sat down to ponder these two
questions. Fear gripped her, a weakness that robbed her of all her
self-assurance at one sweep. She had felt quite capable of playing
the detective until now, had rather gloated over the knowledge she
was concealing from Ezra Sewell. Yet nothing seemed to clarify under
her handling, everything was becoming more confused and complex.
Every one seemed to be acting queerly, unnaturally, concealing some
act guiltily--Sylvia, Basil, and now Judge Brant. Would it be Dr. New
next?--The thought sent an unaccountable chill down her spine.
Footsteps began to ascend the stairs slowly. She jumped to her feet,
her heart racing. Some one was approaching stealthily, testing each
step before placing his weight upon it. She shrank back with eyes
fixed upon the door, expecting to see it slowly open. Step by step,
softly, the person mounted, reached the top, then----
Mrs. Bascom shivered and tried to laugh as her body relaxed so
suddenly that she would have fallen if she had not caught the
footboard of the bed. It was only Sylvia, limping and slow!--Strength
raced back into her body and with it a new determination to finish
what she had set about to do; namely, confront Sylvia with some, if
not all, of the facts she knew.
Mrs. Bascom smiled grimly to herself, thinking of her foolish fears
of a moment ago.--Confess defeat so easily, run to Ezra Sewell with
her tale--and probably have him scoff at it as all imagination----No,
not she! Without waiting to knock, she walked into Sylvia’s room,
resolved not to leave it again until certain pertinent questions had
been asked and answered.
‘You’ve finished your work over the papers? Nothing new discovered, I
suppose?’
‘No. There were some things to be acted upon at once. I sorted them
out and will attend to them to-morrow,’ murmured Sylvia abstractedly.
‘There’s so much to be done. I’m glad--it will keep me busy, help
me not to think.’ She spoke in such a low tone that her words were
scarcely audible, but Mrs. Bascom did not miss them.
‘Exactly. And now that you’ve recovered so nicely, Sylvia, I think
it’s time we had a good talk over matters. While you were still ill
from the shock, you said such unaccountable things that----’
‘But I have nothing to retract,’ interrupted Sylvia, a note of
weariness in her voice. ‘Please let’s not discuss that now, Mrs. B.
I’m so tired of it all.’
‘Not too tired to work--or chatter like a magpie with Basil!’
Mrs. Bascom’s shot went home. Sylvia winced and dropped her eyes, a
slow flush gathering in her cheeks. She clenched and unclenched her
fingers nervously; her lips opened to respond, then closed again with
a snap and her mouth set into a firm, straight line. Mrs. Bascom
waited, but when she understood Sylvia did not intend to speak, she
did so herself.
‘Sylvia Hawley, if you don’t try the patience of a saint--and I’m not
one. What’s come over you? You haven’t been acting like yourself at
all. Even Dr. New, who hasn’t known you well before, has an excuse
for thinking your mind is--well, upset.’
She hesitated, hoping this hint might elicit some reply. Sylvia
glanced up quickly, and there was evidence of a struggle going on in
her mind, but she did not speak.
‘Don’t you understand I only want to help you? Don’t you see your
position is rather a precarious one?’
‘You mean--I’m suspected of--of some part in this murder?’ Sylvia
whispered.
‘Yes, you are--but not by me. Oh, I can help you, if you’ll only let
me. I know----’
‘No--no, you don’t--you can’t!’ exploded Sylvia; then added with
pathetic pleading, ‘You said you’d trust me. I told you before I must
go on--alone. Please--please don’t ask me anything more. It’s hard
enough----’
‘Hard, is it?’ Mrs. Bascom’s tone shifted from sympathy to scorn as
she deliberately taunted Sylvia to make her reply. ‘I suppose I’m to
believe you are suffering while you laugh and talk--yes, flirt with
Basil Stacey! And Ruel is shut up in jail, accused of murder!’
Sylvia shrank back and hid her face with one hand, making a gesture
with the other as if to push Mrs. Bascom’s words away.
‘I thought you had some feelings, the ordinary decency of a woman at
least,’ continued Mrs. Bascom. ‘So did we all of us--up till that
awful evening. But now----What do you suppose people can believe,
except that you are somehow guilty--don’t honestly care what happens
as long as you get your employer’s money! It’s not hard to see why
some would rather see you behind the bars than Ruel!’
Sylvia jerked her face from her hands. Her reply was unexpected.
‘Then why don’t they make the exchange?’
Mrs. Bascom jumped to her feet in astonishment. The prospect of being
put into prison, far from frightening Sylvia, seemed to be what she
most desired! It was unaccountable, unless----She clicked her teeth
abruptly. What a blind fool she had been not to see it all before!
But her tone showed no change of emotion as she continued her probing
mercilessly.
‘I think perhaps he’d prefer to stay where he is than to see the way
you are carrying on. When he hears how you and Basil----’
‘No--no. He must not hear that!’ Sylvia was on her feet, her face
ashen and distorted with emotion. She clenched her fists and leaned
toward Mrs. Bascom, her words fairly tumbling over one another in
a burst of passion. ‘Swear to me you’ll never tell Ruel!--It isn’t
true. He’d never believe you. I--I won’t have him told.--If you love
me--if you have one speck of respect for me or ever had, you’ll never
tell him.’
‘And why shouldn’t I tell him what I saw with my own eyes?’
‘It’s not the truth, I tell you,’ almost hysterically Sylvia shouted
the words. ‘I hate Basil. I----’
‘You think I’ll believe that when I--when we all saw you act that way
toward him?’
‘You must. There was a reason.’
‘Well?’
‘I can’t tell you.--But promise me you won’t tell Ruel?’
‘Not just yet, Sylvia Hawley, because he’s beyond telling. He has
escaped from the jail and disappeared!’
Sylvia swayed backward as if from a blow. Her lips formed Mrs.
Bascom’s words, but she could not speak them aloud. Her eyes fixed on
the other woman’s face, agonized, as she tottered back and fell into
her chair gasping for breath.
‘Then you do love Ruel?’ questioned Mrs. Bascom seizing her chance.
Sylvia nodded passionately, her defense overthrown.
‘You’re trying to shield him, is that it? You think that by casting
suspicion upon yourself, you----Sylvia, do you mean you suspect
Basil? You’re trying to lead him on, flirt with him and find out what
he knows?’
Dumbly Sylvia nodded again.
‘But that’s so foolish. You’ll only get yourself into trouble without
helping Ruel at all. You must tell me--everything.’
‘I--I knew you’d say that. It’s why--I couldn’t--tell you.’
‘But, my dear, don’t you see now that I can help you? You’re only
tangling things up for us all. I know more than you think, and I can
see the damage you are doing. I know that Basil was the thief the
other night, I know he threatened you, saw you enter the judge’s
room. I know you lied about the will. I found the dagger in the grain
chute with you and have been hiding it----’
Mrs. Bascom was stunned into silence by the appalling effect her
last words had produced. Sylvia seemed about to faint; her eyes were
glassy, her breath coming in faint gasps. But she gathered herself
together, raised herself to her feet by sheer will power.
‘I’ll tell you--everything--show you----’
She took a step, stretching out her hand toward Mrs. Bascom for
help and support. The latter sprang to her side and assisted her to
the desk where she fumbled under the blotter, at first slowly, then
frantically.
‘It’s gone!’ she wailed suddenly, and leaned back against Mrs. Bascom
heavily.
CHAPTER XIII
CONFUSION
Mrs. Bascom gently assisted Sylvia to her chair without asking what
it was that had disappeared from her desk and so distressed her.
‘There, now, you’re all upset again, my dear. I’m going to put you to
bed at once and----’
With a perfunctory rap, Dr. New opened the door abruptly and came
toward them.
‘I was passing down the hall when I heard Miss Hawley cry out,’ he
explained, looking sharply at Sylvia. ‘You’re not well at all, are
you?’
He took her wrist automatically to feel her pulse.
‘She’s tired and upset about something,’ said Mrs. Bascom. ‘I was
just suggesting bed for her.’
‘See that she goes there,’ confirmed the doctor with a meaning glance
at Mrs. Bascom. ‘I have a little medicine with me--some soothing
drops. I’ll get them.’
He hurried away, shaking his head to himself, and Mrs. Bascom bent
down to unfasten the straps of Sylvia’s pumps. She had just completed
this task when the doctor returned with a small bottle and drew
her aside, ostensibly to give her directions for its use. To these
he added a whispered caution: ‘Don’t let her talk. It might prove
dangerous for her to become more excited than she already is. This
drug will soothe her nerves and make her sleep.’ Mrs. Bascom nodded
silently, and he again withdrew.
Listlessly Sylvia allowed herself to be helped into bed, but once
there she refused to lie back or take the medicine, sitting erect and
tense.
‘I must tell you everything before I go to sleep, Mrs. B.’
‘To-morrow, my dear, not to-night. The doctor said----’
‘I don’t care what he said. I couldn’t sleep anyway unless I get
this off my mind. I’ve worried and muddled along trying to do what
seemed----’
‘Sylvia, you simply mustn’t talk now. These drops will help you to
forget it and sleep, and to-morrow I’ll listen.’
‘I won’t take them until after I’ve told you, Mrs. B.!’ decided
Sylvia stubbornly. ‘I don’t like Dr. New anyway. He stares at me
peculiarly, is forever asking me questions and telling me to rest.
Of course I’m tired--who wouldn’t be after going through what has
happened to me? But you must listen now and help me as you said you
would, Mrs. B. dear.’
Sylvia clutched her hand, but not hysterically. Her voice was
steadying itself with each word she spoke, and her eyes seemed clear
and normal.
Mrs. Bascom made a quick decision. The doctor was mistaken in his
diagnosis of Sylvia’s trouble, from what the latter had just said,
seemed to think she was in need of close observation. This was
partly due to his ignorance of Sylvia’s exaggerated mental strain,
partly, thought Mrs. Bascom, to her own deliberately misleading
hints. Moreover, if confession was good for the soul, it was also
relieving to the mind, and Sylvia would rest far better with a clear
conscience. Hence Mrs. Bascom did not try to dissuade her further.
‘There’s so much to tell,’ began Sylvia, instinctively dropping
her voice to a low murmur as she felt Mrs. Bascom’s willingness to
listen. ‘Every word of what I told you after you found me there in
the grain chute, was true--every word. And you said you found a
dagger--a knife in it, too?--But I thought you told me----’
‘That was after I went to look at your request,’ interrupted Mrs.
Bascom to justify her apparent falsehood. ‘I truthfully said there
was nothing in the chute then. There was not, because I had already
removed the knife and hidden it in my dress just after finding you.
It was the paper-cutter you missed from Mr. King’s study.’
‘His own paper-cutter!’ echoed Sylvia. Her eyes grew moist with
sincere grief, but she winked back the tears resolutely. ‘It was
after I learned the details of his death that I formed my mad plan.
I _tried_ to be suspected, tried to act so queerly they would blame
me and let Ruel free. Don’t you see, it means everything to him, his
freedom, whereas for me----His farm, his success, depends upon his
own hands, in a way, and now was just such a critical time for him.
Besides, I--we liked each other and I wanted to help, to spare him if
I could.’
Mrs. Bascom murmured comfortingly, ‘I understand your reasons, my
dear. But it was a mad scheme.’
‘I know--now. I was afraid to confide in you, sure you’d try to
dissuade or actually prevent me from carrying it through. It was
hard, but I made myself do it--for his sake. Some things conspired
in my favor, others complicated my plans.--I lied about the will. It
seemed a sure way of drawing suspicion to me. I knew Mr. King had
meant to leave me something--he’d told me so just the day before,
said he was drawing up a new will. But I’ll tell you about that in a
minute.
‘The night after you found me, I lay in bed thinking and determined
to get that wrong will from the judge and destroy it. If I could do
this without being seen, I thought I could confess to the theft or
something, but refuse to give up the paper, thus involving myself
even deeper. Just as I was trying to scheme a way to accomplish this,
I heard the commotion downstairs. It seemed providential. After the
men had gone down, I hobbled into the judge’s room and was searching
his pockets when the pain in my ankle made me feel faint. I was
afraid of losing consciousness there in his room, so left without
obtaining the will. On the way back to my room, Basil saw me. Later
on he told me so and threatened----’
‘I know all about that. I listened, heard what you both said from my
room. Perhaps it was wrong, but I thought the end justified----’
‘I’m glad you did.’ Sylvia squeezed Mrs. Bascom’s hand in lieu of
further words. ‘Then you know all that without my telling you. Well,
the next day I discovered what this supposed thief had taken, as I
suspected. It was a package of stocks or securities that Basil had
delivered to Mr. King the day before his death. I guessed that he’d
taken them again--Basil, I mean--and that made me suspicious of him.
I began to recall other little things. Mr. King had trusted Basil
very freely until recently, but something--some business deal--had
gone wrong and I think he had begun to suspect Basil of poor judgment
if not--well, deliberate manipulation of funds. These stocks had
something to do with it all, I know.
‘When I left Basil’s office to accept Mr. King’s position, there had
been other things I tried to forget, irregularities I half suspected,
but never proved, things he said to me----Oh, I might as well confess
it all. He had proposed to me and proved beastly, intolerable when I
rejected him. That was why I was only too glad to get away. I tried
to hint to Mr. King, but he did not understand, seemed so sure of his
own business acumen that I weakly did not press it. Besides, I did
not care to drag in my personal affairs. So I treated Basil amicably
for Mr. King’s sake.
‘But when Basil threatened me, I saw something more behind his move.
Of course he was trying to force me to marry him, that I realized at
once, but I staved him off with half excuses, determined to play the
part of relenting slowly so as to find out if there was anything else
he knew--if he had been involved in more than theft. That was why I
invited him to my room here, tried to flirt with him and played up to
him as I did at dinner. You do understand now?’
‘Of course I do. I never did suspect you of anything wrong. I thought
you were foolish and did not realize what you were doing. I was hurt
at your attitude toward me, too, but now I understand your motive.’
They were silent for a moment, each thinking her own thoughts.
‘It has all been useless too. Either he does not know anything about
the--the murder, or else he is too sly. I’ve found out nothing from
him.’
‘This thing you missed from the desk just now, what was it and why
did it upset you?’ prompted Mrs. Bascom.
‘It was Mr. King’s latest will, the one he had drawn up to include a
legacy for me. I found it with some papers in his desk and slipped it
under that blotter yesterday.’
‘Was it signed?’
‘By his name only, not witnessed. But I think I can explain that.
Somehow it must have been a mistake, don’t you see? It was the one
he had meant to execute and have witnessed by those people, but it
must have gotten mixed with the fake will he had planned to use in
the play. I’m sure it must have happened that way. They signed the
wrong one, don’t you see? I meant to write those three people and ask
exactly what happened--see if there was any chance of an error.’
‘I’ll do it for you--to-night,’ said Mrs. Bascom eagerly. ‘Better
yet, perhaps, I can telephone in the morning. I’m sure you must be
right.--Now, Sylvia dear, lie down and sleep. What you’ve just told
me----’
‘Wait. I’ve told you everything, but I too want to know----Where is
Ruel?’ Her voice broke pleadingly.
‘Don’t worry about him, Sylvia,’ smiled Mrs. Bascom, and proceeded
to explain how she had prevailed upon him to ‘escape,’ as well as
her reason for being so curt in her manner of revealing this before.
‘He’s safely in Boston by now.’
‘Did he know--did he think that I----’
‘No. I gave him a message from you--made up one such as I thought
you’d really want to send him,’ murmured Mrs. Bascom with a faint
flush in her cheeks as she hastened over this intimate revelation. ‘I
firmly believe Mr. King used to live in Boston, and Ruel is going to
do his best to trace him there. It might help to establish a motive,
turn up something in his past, you see.’
‘Boston--Boston,’ whispered Sylvia thoughtfully. ‘Mr. King spoke of
it, seemed familiar with it as with many other cities. Yet he never
referred to his past to me any more than to his other friends. It may
be----Oh, I hope he finds--something. But what makes you think it was
Boston?’
Mrs. Bascom explained her theory as derived from the reading of
King’s books, and this time she found a willing convert to her
deductions. Again she counseled sleep and arose to get the medicine
when Sylvia stopped her for a final question.
‘Tell me about the paper-knife.’
Mrs. Bascom did so, ending with the details of how it had cut and
stained Sylvia’s dress.
‘Then that was the touch on my shoulder,’ said the latter with a
shudder. ‘And that was what slipped down my back, cutting my dress
and falling to the bottom of the chute. It was the--the murderer,
hiding it.’
‘Probably, but you mustn’t think of that now.--Here, drink this and
go to sleep. To-morrow we’ll talk it over again and plan out a
better campaign.’
‘You mean to tell Ezra Sewell? I’d trust him. I wanted to tell him
before, only that would have spoiled my scheme.’ She swallowed the
medicine and sank back on her pillow gratefully. ‘You’ve no idea how
tired yet rested I feel, now that I’ve told you and you understand.
You’ve been so kind and dear to me, Mrs. B.’
‘I’ve been a blind fool,’ snorted the latter, running her fingers
soothingly over Sylvia’s smooth forehead.
Sylvia shook her head in denial, smiled, then relaxed like a tired
child and was soon peacefully sleeping.
When Mrs. Bascom had turned out the light and opened the window, she
retired to her own room, leaving the door between wide open. Slowly
she undressed in the dark and got into bed. But as she lay there,
wide awake, questions battled in her brain for answers. Why had Judge
Brant stolen that unsigned will? Was Basil merely a thief, or did he
know something sinister about the murder? Had Dr. New been passing
the door as he claimed, or was this more than coincidence? If he had
been deliberately listening----
Idly her own thought of earlier in the evening returned. Basil, Judge
Brant, and now Dr. New--all acting strangely! Then another question
superseded all the others. Should she take Ezra into her confidence
now? It was her plain duty to do so, yet----Why was it she hesitated?
Why did she treat him as she did, unreasonably, belligerently? She
liked him, appreciated his common sense, his slow but sure methods,
and yet----
Sleep put an end to her cogitations abruptly.
When she awoke the next morning, her first thoughts were for Sylvia,
but one glance sufficed to show she was still asleep, so Mrs. Bascom
dressed and went down to breakfast. The men were waiting for her.
‘How is Miss Hawley now?’ asked Dr. New as they took their places at
the table.
‘She was still asleep when I came down.’
‘What, has she been ill again?’ inquired Basil rather offhandedly.
‘She suffered a nervous attack last evening. Possibly the strain of
being up to dinner.’ Dr. New frowned slightly at Mrs. Bascom as if
blaming her for this. ‘I trust it was nothing worse.--You gave her
the medicine--immediately--as I directed?’
‘Oh, she insisted upon talking for a few minutes first, and seemed so
determined I let her relieve her mind without trying to cross her,’
answered Mrs. Bascom quite truthfully, if not wholly accurately.
‘Eh? What’s that? How long did you let her talk?’ The idea disturbed
the doctor markedly.
‘Only a few minutes. I’m sure it did no harm,’ answered Mrs. Bascom
with calm self-assurance.
‘I’m not so sure, but I hope so.’
Mrs. Bascom skillfully changed the subject at this time. She had no
doubts upon the subject, rather thought less of the doctor for his
manifest error of diagnosis and consequent qualms.
Halfway through the meal, Basil Stacey was summoned to the telephone,
and when he returned he was smiling broadly.
‘I’m all flattered! That was a request from none other than Saint
Peter, Sewell’s right-hand sleuth, for a _tête-à-tête_ with his
master at the jail this morning.’
‘Better think over all your sins,’ laughed the doctor.
‘Luckily, my conscience is clear,’ retorted Basil.
Mrs. Bascom bit her lip in an effort to choke back a retort to
this remark, but an interruption by the judge saved her from any
embarrassing revelation.
‘I’m not so sure any one has so much to fear from Sewell. You know,
I’ve been wondering. That man Sewell seems to get nowhere on this
case. He impresses me curiously, and I’m considered quite a judge of
character.’
‘But a rotten punster!’ added Basil.
‘It wasn’t intended, I assure you. I’m serious about this, Mr.
Stacey.--As I was saying, two or three times he’s seemed quite quick
and keen under that drawling manner of his; yet at others, he’s dull
and stupid. He’s not a man of action, and what we need is some one
to _do_ something. Now I’m dropping down to Boston this morning on a
little personal matter, and I’ve almost decided to hire a detective,
one really trained to the profession. What do you think of the idea,
Doctor?’
‘Not a bad one, as I’ve already thought of it myself! But I’d hardly
call it a good one either. Personally, I believe Sewell is doing all
that’s possible--which, after all, isn’t much, I’ll admit. But what
could any one else do? There’s not a chance of finding any so-called
clues now. He’s questioned all of us again and again, found out all
there is to be learned. In other words, tell me what use a detective
could be and I’ll be only too glad to help you get one here.’
‘Well, detectives are trained men, specialists in the science of
reading and interpreting people and motives.’
‘People--such as ourselves? Then you suspect one of us?’
‘No, no, I don’t mean that.’
‘And motives, when we know so little about King after all,’ continued
Dr. New.
‘A detective might find out something about him,’ blustered Judge
Brant.
‘How? Where would he start?’
‘That would be up to him.’
‘Yes, but if we, his closest friends, know nothing, who would? If he
has deliberately concealed his past--as it rather seems he has--then
don’t you suppose he’s done a thorough job of it?’
‘One thing, though,’ interrupted Basil. ‘I believe King was once a
detective, and that ought to help.’
‘No, Basil, I don’t see it. Even granted that--which I doubt--it
would be rather difficult and expensive, not to mention foolish, to
search the whole United States for some record, say twenty years old
or so which might mention King. Besides, was that his name--then?--Of
course, Judge, do as you see fit, and I’ll back you, but frankly this
idea doesn’t appeal to me--not without something to work on.--What do
you say, Mrs. Bascom?’
‘I say, leave it to Ezra Sewell,’ she answered succinctly.
‘The “ayes” have it. Leave it to Ez!’ chuckled Basil.
The judge capitulated. As soon as breakfast was over, he left in his
automobile which was already at the door, intending to take the first
train to Boston. Basil went with him to the village to answer his
summons to the jail, the doctor settled down on the piazza to read,
and Mrs. Bascom peeked in on Sylvia, then left her asleep to help
Martha about the house.
Ten o’clock came and there seemed nothing left to do, so Mrs. Bascom
decided the time had come to act. As Sylvia showed no signs of
stirring, she left her in Martha’s charge and started out to the
village to make her delayed confession to Ezra Sewell.
‘Going in town?’ asked Dr. New with a yawn as she came out of the
house.
‘Yes, for a little while. There are a couple of things I want to see
about. Miss Hawley seems to be resting comfortably and Martha will be
on hand when she wakes. Will you be here too?’
‘Probably, or not far away. I may take a short walk, but I’ll look in
on her before I go.--By the way, if you should see Sewell, tell him
I shall probably drop down later on in the day to see him. I rather
enjoy talking with him, you know, Mrs. Bascom. His conversations are
always illuminating.’
‘So I’ve found,’ she smiled cryptically as she walked away toward the
road.
It was an almost cloudless, warm day yet not too hot to be
uncomfortable so she started off briskly. But as she drew nearer the
village, her pace slackened.
The prospect of her interview with Ezra was not altogether a
pleasant one. Her mind was made up--she would not funk it--yet
somehow she felt loath to do her obvious duty. It was not through
any doubts or fears that he would suspect Sylvia after he heard the
whole truth; it was not for any qualms about involving Basil or Judge
Brant. Rather it was a purely personal dislike to admit defeat for
herself, to ask for his help in carrying out what she had planned to
do herself. Yet now this task had grown too involved and complicated
for one person.
Mentally she reviewed what she was about to say, arranged the details
chronologically and neatly so that they might be presented in the
briefest, clearest form. She wished that Ruel’s mission were already
completed--and successfully. That at least would be a point in her
favor!
Drawing near her house, she decided to obtain the knife and give it
to Ezra, thus making a clean sweep of the whole affair. She walked
up the path, stooping to pull up an encroaching weed here and there.
Weeds are such handy things to have--when they may be used as an
excuse to delay an unpleasant duty a little longer!
‘Ellen Bascom, you quit tryin’ to fool yourself,’ she suddenly
remarked out loud, after wasting several minutes at this task. ‘It
don’t do you any good stalling and putting this off. March, now! Do
your duty like a woman!’
With this injunction, she went straight to the door, unlocked it,
then sniffed audibly and paused. A faint odor like that of stale
tobacco seemed to reach her nostrils for an instant, only to be
drowned out by the fresh breeze that swept in with her.
Tossing her head, she mounted the stairs to the attic and threw back
the lid of the trunk where she had put the paper-cutter. She stared.
It was not there! In a panic she stepped back a pace and ran her eye
along the other closed lids.
‘Am I losing my memory? I could have taken my affidavit it was in
that one.’
Quickly she opened one after another, removed the top layer of each,
felt down the sides, but in vain. The knife, her one bit of tangible
evidence, was gone!--That whiff of tobacco in the hall--it had been
real, not an hallucination after all. Some one had been in her house!
Mechanically she closed the trunks again and hurried down the stairs
into her bedroom. In the doorway she stopped short, involuntarily
passing her hand across her eyes to clear her vision of some
impossible sight. But it was real! The room was all in confusion.
Drawers were pulled open, their contents scattered about ruthlessly;
the closet was a jumbled mass of garments, even the bedclothes were
mussed and pulled aside.
From room to room she wandered with increasing fear and
consternation. Each had been searched with no effort to replace what
had been moved about. The whole house had been thoroughly ransacked.
Mrs. Bascom did not touch anything--she was too dazed. Without
realizing what she was doing, she walked out the door, locked it,
and, clutching the key in her hand, started rapidly down the road,
unmindful which way her steps led her as she groped mentally for some
explanation of this theft.
That it placed her in a decidedly compromising position was
obvious. Whether or not Ezra would have forgiven her for temporarily
concealing vital evidence no longer mattered. Now she had lost it,
was technically an accessory or something, she thought--might even be
subject to imprisonment. Perhaps the murderer had taken the knife. In
that case, she had only destroyed another chance of finding him and
bringing him to justice.
Wait! There was only one person who had any reason to suspect her
of concealing anything, and that person was Ezra himself! But even
if he had guessed the truth, why should he have taken this means of
securing the knife? Surely he would have first challenged her with
his knowledge. Again she could not imagine him leaving everything in
such a mess. No, it was some one else, some one who----
Dr. New! He had been at Sylvia’s door listening! It was just before
Sylvia had called out that Mrs. Bascom had mentioned finding and
concealing the knife, and he must have heard this--searched her house
as the logical place for concealment. He had found it then, but why?
Did he believe her guilty, or was he merely going to turn it over to
Ezra? He had spoken of his intention to call upon Sewell that day,
also he was yawning and sleepy. That was it, he had searched her
house last night! But her position was still more dangerous now. She
must see Ezra at once--explain everything before the doctor told his
story.
Her decision made, she looked up and found herself at the entrance to
King’s drive. In her abstraction, she had walked directly away from
the jail where she had meant to go.
She hesitated, decided to look in on Sylvia, then return to the
village once more, even though this would mean missing her lunch. The
house was silent and apparently deserted, so she ran up the stairs.
Just as she reached Sylvia’s door, however, it moved open and Dr. New
confronted her gravely.
‘I’m glad you’re back, Mrs. Bascom. You may be needed.’
‘What do you mean? Sylvia’s not--worse?’
He nodded silently, drawing aside so that she might look into
the room. There on the bed lay Sylvia, her eyes closed, her face
strangely waxen and lifeless.
‘Dr. New--tell me!’ gasped Mrs. Bascom, thoroughly alarmed.
‘She is in a coma, has not roused since you went away and I
cannot wake her. Her pulse and respiration are subnormal, and her
reaction----’
‘Tell me in plain words,’ interrupted Mrs. Bascom, unconsciously
grasping his arm for support.
‘There is little I can say. I was worried after what you said of
her having talked against my orders, and when she did not awaken,
my fears seemed justified. A shock--some sort of nervous reaction,
perhaps, I cannot tell as yet. But those words of hers may have been
her last for hours--perhaps days. There is nothing we can do now but
wait.’
Mrs. Bascom paled, trembled, and clung to him.
‘You don’t think----’
‘I’m not unnecessarily alarmed yet, nor, in a way, surprised. It is
merely a question of time and complete rest, I think.--But do not
take it to heart. It was not your fault. She must be kept quiet,
that’s all.--Did you give Sewell my message?’
‘I didn’t see him,’ gasped Mrs. Bascom weakly. ‘What--what can I do?’
‘Nothing. Rest, in case you are needed later.’
CHAPTER XIV
THE PRODIGAL RETURNS
Inspector Sewell was late in keeping his appointment with Basil that
morning; in fact, he almost forgot it entirely. He had stepped out
for a brief walk and had become so absorbed in speculations over
the murder that he had gone much farther than he intended. When he
arrived at the jail, however, he found Basil cheerfully talking with
Pete, his assistant.
‘Sorry to be so late, Stacey,’ apologized Sewell with a friendly nod.
‘I kind of lost track of time for a bit, I guess.’
‘Hard on the trail, eh?--Well, I’ve been well entertained by Pete
here,’ grinned Basil.
‘Good. Then you ain’t really missed me much. Pete’s some talker, I
know, an’ some folks say he’s my only rival in that line.--But that
ain’t neither hare nor hound. Seein’ as I kept you waitin’ so long,
I’ll just ask you to stay to dinner with me to make up, if you’d like
to.’
‘Decidedly. It’ll be the first time I ever ate in or accepted an
invitation to a jail, Sewell.--My suit is fortunately striped, so I
guess I’m already dressed for the part!’
Sewell laughed heartily at the joke, dismissing Pete with a nod
and settling down to a comfortable smoke. Under guise of a general
conversation he probed Basil about his business, displaying an
unexpected knowledge of financial matters. Basil expanded readily,
in fact, almost succeeded in making a sale of some speculative stocks
to the inspector. It was not definitely closed, however, Sewell
deciding with Yankee caution to sleep on the matter. Then the latter
began to prepare the meal, taking Basil into his small kitchen while
he cooked with appetizing skill and lack of effort.
Over the food the conversation veered around to the affair of the
murder, when Basil abruptly asked Sewell if he hadn’t forgotten to
feed his prisoner, Ruel.
‘Oh, I’ll tend to him later. It don’t do him no harm to wait a bit.
About all a man in a cell has to think over is his next meal, an’
they say anticipatin’ is better than gettin’, you know.’
‘I see. And a little hunger sometimes loosens a man’s tongue, eh?’
Sewell nodded and winked slyly.
‘Don’t do no harm, anyways. But I thought as you was a friend of his.
Sounds like you kind of expected him to confess to somethin’.’
‘I do--and I don’t, Sewell. I’ve been thinking over matters a lot
recently, and it seems inevitable--his having something to do with
it at least. I know you must feel the same way or you wouldn’t keep
him a prisoner.--As to his being a friend of mine--well, it’s hard
to express myself clearly. He is, in a casual sort of way, mostly
because he was a friend of King’s.’
‘An’ Miss Hawley’s?’ added Sewell suggestively.
A faint but unmistakable frown momentarily crossed Basil’s face.
‘Of course.--You understand I like him myself too. He always seemed
a solid kind of man, if you know what I mean, not exactly quick and
keen, but quiet, almost to the point of dullness in comparison with
the people I know. I suppose that’s the New-Englandism of him.’
‘Maybe, though he ain’t always lived in these parts an’ he’s been to
college. Guess he would make a kind of hard man to beat in anythin’
he really wanted.’
‘Some things, but not others,’ smiled Basil assuredly. ‘Perhaps
it’s just that he doesn’t seem to fit in with King’s other friends,
in a way. But what I’m getting at is this. As far as I can see,
all the evidence points to him and it’s only his denials and half
explanations that oppose it. I’d be the last man to suspect him of
guilt myself, yet he must be guilty until proved innocent, to twist
the phrase, and that doesn’t look very promising of accomplishment.’
‘But suppose he was shieldin’ some one else?’ put in Sewell.
‘Some one else?--You don’t mean--Sylvia?’
‘I certain sure do.’
‘That’s ridiculous. It only goes to show his method of insinuation if
he’s been trying to throw suspicion that way on an innocent person.
Confidentially, that’s one of the reasons I don’t like him, Sewell.
He doesn’t seem to know his place at times, assumes liberties, if you
know what I mean. I’m afraid it’s rank jealousy.’
‘You mean you an’ her?’
‘Between ourselves, yes. We have an--er--understanding.’
‘I see. That sort of clears up some things a bit,’ mused Sewell
aloud. ‘It makes some of his remarks kind of more forceful an’ I’m
glad you warned me.’
‘It wasn’t a pleasant duty, but after all I’m glad you know.’ Basil’s
manner was quite convincingly relieved, though his smile was a trifle
smug.
‘Now there’s one or two questions I’d like to ask you as might be
important in that connection. First off, when he came out of the room
after the play, you was standin’ there by the window.--Which side was
it?’
‘On the right as you face the window from the outside. I remember
that distinctly.’
‘An’ you’d just been standin’ there all the time?’
‘Exactly--waiting for him.’
‘That’s that. Now the other thing’s about the burglary business when
those papers was taken. You don’t remember anythin’ about them?
Seems queer, because Ruel was here in jail an’ if he was the guilty
party----’
‘But the two don’t necessarily have any relation, surely.’
‘Some one took advantage of King’s death to get them papers, seems
like to me.’
‘Coincidence! Besides, the thief was an outsider, so might have done
it without even knowing King was dead.’
‘Maybe, but I doubt it.--You don’t know any one as wanted any of his
papers, then?’
Basil shook his head silently, but did not meet Sewell’s gaze.
‘Well, now, I tell you what we’ll do. I’ve kind of got a scheme. You
sneak out into the next cell to Ruel’s when I open the door into the
corridor, an’ listen while I ask some questions, see? Better step
right inside the cell in case he comes close to the bars, because you
can hear just as good an’ won’t be seen. You listen close, an’ later
we’ll compare notes, see?’
Basil fell in with the plan eagerly. When Sewell opened the door and
motioned to him, Basil dodged into the empty cell, drawing its door
almost closed behind him and listening as Sewell stepped to Ruel’s
cell, calling gruffly, ‘Now, prisoner, I’ve decided we’ll have a
little show-down an’ get back of some of this lyin’. Not one bite
more food do you get, my man, until you tell the truth an’ the whole
of it, see? There’s ways of makin’ a man tell the truth, an’ I’d
advise you not to make me use too many of ’em.’
Basil waited for a response, pressing against the bars to listen. He
scarcely noticed the slight click as the lock snapped into place,
but Sewell was listening for it. Suddenly the inspector stepped down
closer to the bars of Basil’s cell.
‘You heard what I said?’ he called.
Basil nodded silently, thinking it was a double question both for
his and Ruel’s benefit, but he was surprised when Sewell continued,
addressing him directly:
‘Good land, Stacey, you’ve locked yourself in there an’ I can’t get
you out. The key’s mislaid!’
Basil stared at him helplessly, scarcely comprehending what this
situation might mean.
‘But you must!’ he cried, his voice raised sharply as he tugged at
the bars. ‘I refuse to stay cooped up in this----’
‘Oh, you ain’t exactly a prisoner, young man, if that’s what you
mean. Of course I haven’t got any right nor reason to keep you
against your will, only you see I can’t let you out without a key,
can I?’ There was a hint of mockery in his tone that did not escape
Basil. ‘You should have gone into the other cell, anyway. Guess you
must have made a mistake again about your directions.’
‘Directions? You told me to come here and if you don’t----’
‘Hold on. It don’t seem as if I’d instruct you to lock yourself in a
cell without a key, now, does it? Besides, if you got into the wrong
one, I’m not so surprised, though I can’t see why a man should get
all confused over which is his right an’ which his left hand. But
there have been cases. Take a man I know, for instance, who stands on
the left of a window, yet insists it was the right. You’d think he’d
know better, wouldn’t you?’
‘What do you mean? What are you babbling about?’ yelled Basil, but
the color came and went in his cheeks with great rapidity.
‘An’ since it looks as if you’d have to stay here a bit till I get
somethin’ to let you out with--them bars are mighty stout--here’s
another little puzzle you might kind of think over for somethin’ to
occupy your mind. When I come back, we’ll talk it over some more,
perhaps. You see I’m sort of wonderin’ about a certain man I know. He
committed a theft of some papers like, an’ sent ’em away by mail----’
‘You mean to insinuate I----You’re keeping me here illegally for----’
‘Hold on, Stacey. No need to get all roiled up that way. I ain’t
said no names at all, have I? I was just explainin’ some interestin’
ideas of mine an’ you seem to think they fit you so well you’re
denyin’ ’em all! As to keepin’ you here, that ain’t my fault. I
didn’t lock you up or anythin’, did I? It was just an accident like.
Of course I can’t hold you even if I’d wanted to. But knowin’ you’re
so anxious to help out in this mystery, maybe you’ll overlook any
inconvenience of bein’ here--until I can find that key to let you
out, see? Meanwhile, I guessed you’d like somethin’ to think about
an’ pass the time.’
Sewell’s words were apologetic, but his tone was not sincere, so that
their double meaning was obvious. Basil was not a prisoner, yet he
might be held there until he satisfied Sewell’s purpose and would
have no cause for objection later. He began to storm and bluster, but
the inspector turned away, muttering that he had better set about
looking for that key. Then Basil called aloud to Ruel to witness his
plight, but when he received no answer, Sewell poked his head in the
corridor door for a final gibe.
‘Guess you won’t get no response out of Ruel just now. Maybe you’d
like to figure out why!’ Then he closed the door with a bang and
sat down to think. That his ruse would quickly scare a confession
from Basil he felt certain, but that this confession would prove
of little real value he also felt decided. From his talk with this
man and a study of his character, Sewell had evolved a theory that
quite plausibly explained everything. Basil was greedy--a sharper
in business. He had stolen back some stocks which, if found, would
somehow react to his loss or discredit. That accounted for the
robbery.
As to the rest, he did not seem either cunning or brainy enough to
have planned and executed this murder. His presence on the wrong
side of the window when Ruel came out, no doubt had some simple
explanation. Also his attitude toward Miss Hawley was quite clear.
He was trying to force her into marriage to obtain King’s legacy.
He had spoken of an ‘understanding,’ had acted confidently, but not
until to-day. Obviously he had been talking to her, probably held
some threat over her. This would account for her strangely upset and
nervous condition.
Sewell’s contemplations had reached this point when they were
suddenly interrupted by the entrance of Judge Brant, who had just
returned on the afternoon train from Boston. He was quite red in the
face and excited.
‘Just dropped in for a little call, Sewell,’ he began, glancing about
the room quickly.
‘Glad to see you, Judge. Sit down. I was wantin’ to have a talk with
you,’ answered Sewell, noting his eagerness questioningly. ‘Been to
the city? Have a good trip?’
‘Yes, quite an interesting one,’ said the Judge, sticking a cigar in
the corner of his mouth and preferring to chew it rather than light
it. ‘How is the case progressing, Inspector?’
‘Slow, slow. But things are headin’ up some.’
‘And how is your prisoner?’
‘Prisoner? Well, he’s kind of restless, but I gave him somethin’ to
occupy his mind for a bit.’
‘He’s still in his cell, of course?’
‘Locked up, snug as you please.’
‘Then I’d like to see him for a moment.’
‘Now, Judge, don’t know as I can allow that,’ answered Sewell without
change of expression, but becoming alert. ‘Don’t see as that would be
policy just now.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, you see he’s a guilty man, one that’s under suspicion, at
least, an’ not one to receive callers. Besides, you’re sort of an
interested party an’ that makes it bad.’
‘Interested in finding the murderer, yes. But I want to see your
prisoner for a minute.’
‘Then I’ve got to know why, Judge. Don’t seem to me you’d have any
real important reason for seein’ him as I can figure out.’
‘Oh, I won’t speak to him if you forbid that,’ answered the judge
rather testily.
‘Hm. Then why disturb him at all?’
‘Why? I’ll tell you why. Because I don’t believe he’s there at all!
You’re lying to me, Sewell, and I’m dissatisfied with the way you’re
handling this affair. I almost hired a real detective to-day, and now
I’m sorry I didn’t!’
‘You mean to say you don’t believe I have a prisoner?’ remarked
Sewell, apparently not at all disturbed by this accusation. ‘But I
swear he’s there safe an’ sound.’
‘Then why this hesitation about letting me prove it for myself?’
‘An’ if I might say the same to you, why this sudden notion of yours
that he ain’t?’
‘Because I’ve seen him with my own eyes--in Boston, that’s why!’
Sewell was not entirely unprepared for this answer, so he was able
to conceal his thoughts. It complicated matters quite badly. The
judge was suspicious and antagonistic. It would be hard to explain
matters to him without either drawing in Mrs. Bascom, which would be
disastrous in every way, or without further exposing himself to the
charge of incompetence in his official capacity. His eyes flitted
about the room for an instant, paused at the open window behind the
judge’s back, then returned to his accuser’s face placidly.
‘Sure you weren’t mistaken in thinkin’ you saw Ruel in Boston?’ His
voice was unnecessarily loud and sharp.
‘Positive. I met him almost face to face, but was so astonished he
slipped away before I could think to call the police.’
‘Queer. Seems like it must have been his double, then.’
‘Why not prove it without further hedging?’ snapped the judge puffing
to his feet with determination.
‘All right, I will, seein’ as you insist,’ said Sewell, standing up
in turn. ‘We’ll go in there,’ he motioned with his thumb toward the
closed door into the cell corridor, ‘an’ I’ll prove you’re wrong.
But first I’ve got a question or two to ask you myself, Judge. If
you don’t mind comin’ into my bedroom so there’s no chance of bein’
overheard, I’d like to tell you somethin’ confidential, an’ then I’ll
prove Ruel is there in his cell all right.’
His assurance nettled the judge, but he nodded assent briefly. Sewell
led the way into the inner room and closed the door behind him.
‘Now, then, Judge, you’re accusin’ me of bein’ slow. Well, maybe
I have been, but I’ve heard some things, right enough--more’n I’d
have heard by threatenin’ an’ accusin’ people right and left. For
instance, I’ve got the knife as was used to kill King; I know who did
the thievin’ after his death; I know how the murder was done exactly,
where the man stood----’
‘The man or the woman,’ interrupted the judge. Though obviously
impressed by Sewell’s manner and words, he appeared equally innocent
of any foreknowledge of these facts.
‘No, I said “man.” You’re basin’ too much on Miss Hawley’s attitude
about things.’
‘Wait. Since you know so much, let me add something you haven’t
learned. There is more than mere suspicion about that will which
makes me mistrust her.--The night of the theft, now. You rather
convinced me that Mrs. Bascom did not go to my room, but some
one else did, of that I was sure. Again, King had told me of his
intention to redraw his will, leaving a more generous share of his
estate to her, that is, Miss Hawley, but certainly not all of it.
That kept recurring to my mind unpleasantly. Of course she had access
to his papers, so--to cut directly to the point--I searched her room
on the chance of finding something further. I also searched Mrs.
Bascom’s. In Miss Hawley’s, I did find something--quite interesting.’
He paused for a too obvious dramatic effect, rather overdoing it.
‘I found a draft of that will King had spoken about--the one
containing her legacy. It was signed by him, but not witnessed,
hence not legal. And that’s not all. It was hand-written in the
same ink as the one used in the play, and was almost exactly the
same in provisions as his former will except for this new bequest.
That proves he really meant it to stand and that this play one was
somehow a mistake, see?--Now, why was Miss Hawley concealing this and
insisting on the probating of the false one? Answer me that!’
The inspector shook his head gravely; he could not answer it.
‘One thing more. Whatever Miss Hawley’s reasons are for acting this
way, I’m firmly convinced Mrs. Bascom not only is aware of them, but
is abetting her. I’ve noticed many little things and I’m positive
they understand each other.’
‘Perhaps I agree with you there, Judge. Anyway, I thank you for
tellin’ me this, an’ I think it’ll help quite a lot.’
‘How? I don’t see.’
‘Nor I either--definitely. But I’ve got a plan to try out an’, unless
I miss my guess, I’ll know quite a lot more before night.’
‘You mean you have a concrete suspicion? If so, why don’t you _do_
something.’
‘I’m goin’ to, only knowin’ some things an’ people as I do, it don’t
seem wise to be too hasty about it. I think----Hold on, there’s the
telephone.’
Sewell opened the door into the office, inwardly thankful for the
interruption. He took down the receiver and before he could speak a
woman’s voice challenged him.
‘That you, Ezra Sewell?’
‘Certain sure, Ellen B.’
‘I want to talk with you. It’s something important I have to tell.’
‘About time,’ answered Sewell cheerfully, ‘only better not say it
over the ’phone if it’s important.’
‘When will you be up here?’ she cut in, ignoring his provocative
taunt on her common sense.
‘Soon as I can, Ellen.’
The receiver clicked in his ear. It must be truly important, thought
Sewell, for she had sounded quite humble and disturbed, had not
flashed back at him at all. Probably she had discovered the loss of
the knife, eh?
‘Now, then, Judge, if you want to see the prisoner with your own
eyes, come along,’ said Sewell aloud. He opened the door into the
corridor and pointed to Ruel’s cell.
Judge Brant stepped forward and looked in at the barred door. There
lay a man on the cot, apparently asleep. At that moment, however, he
stirred, twisting his head slightly around so that the judge could
see his face. It was Ruel! The skepticism faded from the judge’s face
as he turned to Sewell with a nod.
‘I’m satisfied, though I could have sworn that was Ruel in Boston.’
At the sound of his voice, Basil suddenly appeared in his cell,
then quickly drew back again. His first impulse had been to call
out, but he checked it. After all, he did not wish to announce
his predicament, make it worse by explaining himself to the judge
unnecessarily. But as soon as he had heard the judge leave the jail,
Basil called to Sewell, who came to his cell at once.
‘Has he gone?’
‘Who, Judge Brant? Yep, he’s gone.’
‘Then listen, Sewell. I swear to you this is gospel truth. I did
take some papers from the drawer of King’s desk. They were an--an
unfortunate investment I’d made for him--some stocks, you see. I
mailed them to my office, as you evidently found out somehow, in
order to rectify the error. I swear he--or rather his heir--won’t
lose by it. They were technically my stocks, in a way, and I----’
‘Never mind tryin’ to excuse yourself, Stacey. You admit you took
’em.--An’ you don’t know nothin’ else about his death?’
‘On my word of honor--no.’
‘What about that matter of bein’ on the wrong side of the window
after the play?’
‘I’d been trying to get those stocks then. While Ruel was carrying on
the play, I ran to the house, knowing no one would be there. But the
drawer was locked and I hadn’t time to get the stocks. I hurried back
just as Ruel came out.’
‘Didn’t notice anythin’ else? How did you come back, which way, I
mean?’
‘Around the front of the barn and up the hill. It was the quicker
way.’
‘Didn’t happen to notice anythin’ unusual--toward the back, say?’
‘Not a thing. What do you mean?’
‘Never mind.--Guess I believe you this time, Stacey, only take
warnin’. It don’t pay to tell fibs. You always get found out an’
maybe get into bad trouble.’
Basil’s mind was taken up at that moment with something more
important to him.
‘Have you found the key yet?’ he asked anxiously.
‘The key? Well, now, seems as if I’d just thought of where it might
be!’
Sewell shuffled away to return a moment later and unlock the door.
Immediately Basil stepped out with a sigh of relief.
‘There’s no need for any one to know about--about this business and
my being shut up here, is there, Sewell?’
‘Maybe not. Can’t tell yet. But I’d kind of advise you to stay pretty
close to King’s house for the next day or two, Stacey.’
‘Don’t worry. I will. I’m afraid not to--now.’ He glanced curiously
in at the sleeping Ruel. ‘I’ve got a lot more sympathy for him after
this experience.’
Sewell chuckled mildly, but made no reply as Basil hurried out of
the jail, anxious to get as far away from it as possible. As soon as
he had left the corridor, Ruel opened one eye experimentally, then
jumped to his feet.
‘Gosh a’mighty, Ruel, I’m glad to see you again,’ exclaimed Sewell
fervently. ‘Give me the key so I can come in.--It was kind of nip an’
tuck for a while back there. When I saw you peekin’ in at the window,
while I was stallin’ the judge, I almost let out a yell an’ spoiled
it all. An’ I’m glad you took the hint an’ snuck in here.’
‘I was on the same train with him,’ explained Ruel. ‘I knew he’d seen
me in Boston and I’d completed my job, anyway.’
‘Didn’t find what she’d sent you for, eh?’
‘She?--Then you know?--But I did, Ez. I found out King had lived in
Boston, only--well, I hated to dig up his past, Ez, once I found its
trail. It may establish a motive, but, for God’s sake, let’s leave
his past buried otherwise.’
‘As bad as that, Ruel?’
‘Yes.’ Slowly he withdrew a photograph, and some papers covered with
penciled writing from his pocket, placed them before the inspector,
then began his story in a low, vibrant tone.
CHAPTER XV
MRS. BASCOM CAPITULATES
‘Since you know about Mrs. Bascom’s hand in my going away, I need not
explain why I left the jail here, Ez.’
The inspector had seated himself on the cot bed in Ruel’s cell as the
latter paced the floor, recounting his experiences on that hasty trip
to Boston.
‘It wasn’t very hard to persuade me, especially as it was a chance to
_do_ something instead of sitting cooped up here. I hoped you would
understand I wasn’t running away.
‘Well, I took a short cut through the woods to the main road, where
I was lucky enough to get picked up by a man who was driving in his
automobile to Boston. We made it in good time, and I started looking
for any record of “Detective King.” I can’t begin to tell you how
many places I----’
‘Don’t try, son. Just skip to the important part,’ interrupted Ezra.
‘That was this morning. Mrs. B. had thought the murder was the work
of some ex-convict, you know, who held a grudge against King as a
detective. I happened to think of those figures in that connection,
wondered if it was possible for them to have been his prison number.
So I went to the Charlestown Jail to check up on them. For some
reason the police in Boston had been very willing to help me in every
way, so got me the proper credentials.’
‘They would. I telephoned ’em that you, as my agent, was to have
clear hoein’.’
‘So that was it!--Well, I found the number in the Rogues’ Gallery all
right, but not what I expected. The convict’s photographs were all
too plainly King!’
‘Hold on, Ruel. It’s easy to be mistaken in photos sometimes.’
‘Don’t think I didn’t _want_ to be, Ez, but the likeness was too
strong and obvious. It was King, younger and under the name of
Jameson, but King beyond a doubt. Then I looked up his record, later
copied parts of it and the newspaper accounts of his trial. You’ll
find it all as I wrote it down.’ He pointed to the papers he had
taken from his pocket, but Sewell scarcely glanced at them.
‘Tell me about it yourself, Ruel, kind of brief like,’ he commanded.
‘It’s not very complicated. Jameson, or King as we knew him, was
in partnership with an older man named Fox. Under cover of a
merchandising brokerage business, it appeared they had been carrying
on some sort of shady work, smuggling or something like that. Finally
the Government got on their trail through some deal in jewels, and
laid a plot to capture the whole gang red-handed. They did get many
of the lesser agents, and when they entered the partners’ office
suddenly, they found King bending over Fox, who was dead--stabbed.
The knife was in King’s hand.
‘King--I can’t think of him as Jameson--was tried and all the
evidence established his guilt, though he maintained he was innocent,
even denied all knowledge of the illegal deals and so on. When his
lawyer saw how the verdict was going, he evidently persuaded King to
change his plea to self-defense. The sentence was finally given for
manslaughter.
‘After twelve years in jail, King was pardoned and seemed to have
disappeared. That was eight years before he came to New York.’
‘An’ he was wealthy then, eh?’ muttered Sewell, half to himself.
‘No, that was one of the ameliorating circumstances to his release.
His partner seemed to have kept most of the money, and it was never
found.--Oh, I don’t believe King was guilty in any way. The money he
made was his own, because he was a good business man and writer of
fiction. He was too kind, honest, and sincere a man for such things.’
‘Seems so,’ echoed Sewell, ‘but it looks now as if no one would ever
know for certain.--But see here. His partner, anyway, was dealin’
shady. That means he must have had a lot of others helpin’ him.
See the point? It might have been one of ’em, one of his gang that
followed King an’ tried to blackmail him--finally killed him. That’s
logical, even if the rest ain’t.’
‘But such a man could not have been one of his guests, Ez.’
‘Yes, he could. If King was innocent, he wouldn’t have known any
of ’em, the gang, see? This man might have made friends with him
on purpose.--Well, anyway, I guess that proves the motive, certain
sure--it was blackmail or sort of revenge. But the question still is,
who was the man?’
‘You haven’t discovered anything since I left?’
‘Yep, quite some, an’ I guess there’s more comin’ right quick.’
‘How? What?’
‘Never mind now. Guess I’ll wait a bit an’ maybe tell it all in a
bunch.’
‘At least, Ez, tell me about Basil. What was he doing in that cell? I
was dumfounded when he first spoke, though I realized it was a sort
of confession he was making.’
‘Believe what he said?’
‘Yes, I do. It explains everything he did. He’s weak, capable of
desperate means to protect his interests, but I’m certain not of
murder. I don’t admire him exactly----’
‘Nor he you!’ chuckled Sewell, then recounted the facts of Basil’s
temporary confinement. ‘But here I am gaddin’ as if I had nothin’
else to do when Ellen B.’s waitin’ for me.--You just rest up a bit,
Ruel. You’ve earned it, I guess. Only don’t go listenin’ to any more
Eves’ or Ellens’ temptin’s, see? Jailbreakin’ ain’t no joke, Ruel,
an’ I’m kind of pergerin’ myself, coverin’ your trail. Guess I ain’t
makin’ no mistake, though.’
With this injunction, Sewell went out, locking the door behind him,
climbed into his automobile and drove rapidly to King’s house. Mrs.
Bascom, having heard his noisy approach, met him on the steps. Her
kindly face was rather strained and pale, but her eyes did not falter
as they met his.
‘Afternoon to you, Ellen B. I was kind of held up a bit gettin’ here,
for which I apologize, seein’ as it ain’t right to keep a woman
waitin’--especially you.’
To his surprise, she did not make any sarcastic retort such as he had
expected.
‘Ezra Sewell, I’ve got a lot to tell you,’ she answered seriously.
‘Let’s go out on the lawn a bit.’
Her glance about was eloquent. Plainly, she feared being overheard,
so chose the lawn where no one could approach without being seen.
‘How’s Miss Hawley to-day?’ remarked Ezra as they walked toward the
elm tree in the center of the grass plot.
‘Worse. She’s in a coma, and Dr. New is afraid it may be serious.’
‘You mean she’s really sick?’
‘Yes. And it’s all my fault.’
‘Shucks, Ellen B. Don’t believe it for a minute. You’d never hurt a
fly--even if you got a chance to swat it.’
She did not respond to this gibe, but faced him, tense yet hesitant.
Twice she tried to speak and failed. Her eyes dropped nervously from
his face and her hands fluttered aimlessly about the pleats of her
dress.
‘Ezra, I’ve been a--a foolish woman, and it’s not easy to start
tellin’ on myself.’ Unconsciously she slurred her words and brought
them out in awkward breaths.
‘Gosh, Ellen, if that’s all that’s troublin’ you, let me help out
a bit.--You kind of think I don’t know much about this affair, eh?
Well, you ain’t the only one of that opinion, an’ I’m glad of it.
That an’ lettin’ others do a lot of talkin’ has learned me things.
Land knows there’s lots I wish I knew--some as I hope you’ll tell me
now--but still I do know perhaps more than you calculate.
‘For instance, I know Basil stole those papers an’ why, also that
he probably is holdin’ somethin’ over Sylvia’s head. Then again, I
know about the judge, pokin’ into ladies’ rooms.--Oh, so that ain’t
news to you, eh?--Well, here’s another. Ruel’s back an’ what he found
about King helps some. Then there’s the paper-knife as was used to
kill King. I know----’
He stopped short at the audible gasp and the strangely awed
expression that came into Mrs. Bascom’s face.
‘Ezra Sewell, you--you mean to say you know--I----’
He smiled at her confusion, but not unkindly.
‘There’s ways of findin’ out things, Ellen B., an’ I’ve found ’em!
But I guess if you an’ me sort of get together on some of ’em,
instead of pullin’ crosswise, it might help a bit, eh?’
‘Ezra Sewell, if I’d only known this before----What a smart Alec
I’ve been!’ She was almost sniveling with the sudden relief of her
wrought-up emotions.
‘There--there, it’s all right, Ellen B. I couldn’t understand you
for--for keepin’ back from me, b-but I never did suspect you of no
wrong nor nothin’ like that.’ Sewell was so embarrassed that he
stuttered as he clumsily tried to soothe her.
‘I’ve been a fool--a fool! And to think you were trustin’ me all the
time too, while I was only trying to be a better detective than you.’
Ezra burst into a laugh that he could not control.
‘A detective, Ellen? Well, I never! If that don’t explain most
everythin’ in a word. So that was why you was so clever an’ smart
at findin’ things, cookin’ up ideas an’ concealin’ information. A
she-detective! An’ you succeeded too. Why, look at that inspiration
about King’s past life, an’ findin’ the murderer’s weapon----’
‘That was only because I happened to come on Sylvia first. Oh, I
should never have kept it from you, only I thought--I----’
‘You thought I was kind of passin’ out on the job. Still, I heard you
defendin’ me once, Ellen, an’ I don’t hold nothin’ against you--not
if you tell me everythin’ now.’
‘I will, Ezra. It’ll be easy and a relief.’ She was recovering her
poise rapidly and once more faced him steadily, alert and eager.
‘You’ve got the knife, then?’
He nodded silently.
‘I thought--I hoped so, only it didn’t seem like you to turn my whole
house upside down. I suppose, not knowing just where it was----’
‘What’s that? Guess you’d better begin at the beginnin’, Ellen. I
got the knife ’cause I guessed where it was, but if your house has
been searched, that wasn’t my doin’.--Let’s take one thing at a time,
startin’--well, wherever you began detectin’.’
Mrs. Bascom needed no further encouragement. With obvious relief
in her tone she began her story, relating everything in detail and
speaking rapidly. She recapitulated her share in the discovery of
the murder, told of finding Sylvia and the knife, repeated Sylvia’s
description of her accident, what she had seen at the time of the
robbery, and the overheard conversation between Sylvia and Basil.
At this point, Sewell interrupted for a moment to tell of his recent
conversation with Basil and the latter’s confession.
An account of Judge Brant’s search of the two women’s rooms, the
discovery that the knife had disappeared and Sylvia’s most recent
confession ended Mrs. Bascom’s revelations. Sewell capped them with
the judge’s explanation for his search of the rooms.
‘I should say, ma’am, your career as a detective has been a mighty
strenuous one,’ continued Sewell. ‘An’ it’s been mighty useful too.
Some ways it looks better, after all--not hearin’ all that till now,
I mean--because it puts everythin’ plain an’ unconfusin’.’
‘I don’t see anything very plain about it, Ezra. All it does is clear
Sylvia and Ruel, who never needed it.’
‘An’ some others, too, Ellen B. Yourself, for instance. Oh, you
needn’t jump like a scared pullet. I don’t mean I suspected you of
murder, but I did of knowin’ too many things an’ keepin’ mum about
’em. Guess you gave me reason enough, too.’
‘Then why didn’t you ask me outright about them? I’d have told you if
I’d known how much you’d found out already.’
‘Would you?’ responded Ezra quizzically. But he did not wait for
an answer as he ruminated aloud, ‘Now, then, let’s sort of arrange
things a little. Sylvia an’ you are out of it--entire. So is Ruel, in
my opinion. Basil Stacey--well, I kind of think he told about all he
knew, an’ I don’t somehow believe he had spunk enough to do anythin’
worse than thievin’ to protect his own hide. That leaves Judge Brant
an’ Dr. New on the scene--unless it was one of the other guests, an’
I doubt that.
‘The judge, now. He’s appeared keen on findin’ the murderer, an’
the things he’s been doin’, when he explained ’em, seem reasonable
enough. The doctor, of course, never was involved, except for his
bein’ on the spot like. Yet it’s got to be one of those men, Ellen
B. The oiled door, the pieces of cement on the window an’ floor, an’
all the careful arrangements prove it was one of the guests. Add the
motive we’ve just turned up--thanks to you, ma’am--an’--well, common
sense, an’ intuition, an’ everythin’, an’ it comes out Stacey or
Brant or New.’
‘Explain the motive. You said Ruel was back, but you haven’t told me
what he found.’
‘It was kind of a shock, Ellen.’
‘I know. But it seemed the only way. I could not go to Boston myself,
and you----’
‘Oh, I don’t mean your sendin’ Ruel there. That was clever of you,
Ellen, but kind of obvious--the way you was so carefully an’ loosely
tied up when you didn’t have to be at all, bein’ locked in the
cell.--No, I mean the facts he found were a shock.’
Briefly he recounted what he had just learned from Ruel, while Mrs.
Bascom breathed in quick gasps.
‘His life as we know it,’ finished Ezra, ‘don’t seem to gibe with
such a history, an’ yet----’
‘Of course it does,’ she interrupted with quick sympathy. ‘He never
was guilty to begin with--he couldn’t have been. It was all his
scheming partner and his gang. But King was just the sort of man
to take everything on his shoulders--give himself and his money to
others in a mistaken sense of restitution to society or whatever
you’re a mind to call it. Besides, it may have been his partner’s
hidden money he did it with.’
‘By gosh a’mighty! I bet you’re right at that,’ muttered Sewell,
impressed with the logic of the idea. ‘It ain’t no use denyin’ it,
Ellen B., we ought to team up together--when it comes to detectin’, I
mean,’ he added somewhat hastily and with a touch of embarrassment.
‘Anyway, that number bein’ written on the paper in his pocket shows
some one knew about his past trouble, an’ that some one must have
been among the guests. It seems logical King might never have known
him, an’ that all goes to prove it was one of this partner’s gang,
seems to me.’
‘It would explain a lot, but how are we going to tell which one it
was? I don’t see that all this brings us any nearer finding the man
who killed King.’
‘Wait a minute. What about your house bein’ all upset? I didn’t do
it, so who did an’ why? That’s the final proof, see? One of these
here men did it, ’cause he’s handy an’ knows what’s goin’ on all the
time.’
‘You mean it was some one after the knife?’
‘That or somethin’ connected with the murder as he thought you had.
Basil, now, he seems quite a breaker into things. Do you suppose he’d
have done it for any reason?’
Mrs. Bascom stared thoughtfully at Sewell for a moment.
‘It’s possible. He was away from the house a good deal yesterday, but
if he didn’t commit the murder, as it seems likely, why should he go
after the knife?’
‘You’re sure you never mentioned to no one where you’d kept it?’
‘Never, not even to Sylvia.’
‘Well, that seems to end it. There’s still one chance left, though.
I kind of--well, saw that you was concealin’ somethin’ in your dress
that day you had the knife. It’s possible he or some one might have
guessed the same thing as I did, an’ looked for it just to give it
over to me.’
Again they seemed to have argued in a circle, but it did not worry
Ezra. It was not the first time he had struggled on after apparently
baffling defeat. He started once more to build a sound case against
Basil, only to find it could be knocked down too easily. In passing,
he mentioned Sylvia’s name and this recalled her condition to Mrs.
Bascom.
‘I’m so glad she told me everything before this relapse.--You don’t
think her condition is serious, do you?’
‘Not bein’ a doctor, I can’t say, Ellen.’
‘I mean, judging from what you saw of her, from your talk with her,
you’d not think her mind affected seriously or anything, would you?’
‘Far from it, Ellen. She was upset in her mind--an’ who wouldn’t have
been with what we now know was in it--but I couldn’t get nothin’
out of her except what she had a mind to tell. I could see she was
thinkin’ rapid, an’ she dodged certain questions quite neat--like you
did--but all that, I should say, showed she was far from sick.’
‘But she is now.--Ezra, I’m worried. If I helped to cause her relapse
as Dr. New said----’
‘He’s got to blame some one, ain’t he, an’ you was handy. A patient
under his care gets worse; whose fault is it? Certainly not
his!--Shucks, Ellen, if her mind’s affected like he says, that wasn’t
your fault. Why, you couldn’t get into her mind like a germ--nor
influence it much up to lately, as far as I can make out.’
This comforted Mrs. Bascom considerably, so that when they turned
toward the house, she felt quite buoyant and ready to throw herself
into the work once more. First she went to look at Sylvia, but found
her condition unchanged. The doctor had left some medicine to be
taken immediately if she stirred, and this stood ready by the side
of her bed. Inexpertly Mrs. Bascom tried to feel Sylvia’s pulse,
but gave up after several attempts when each count proved so widely
divergent from the last. She took a book and sat by the window
without opening it, mulling over the news which Ezra had imparted to
her, but her sense of relief at having shifted the responsibility to
Ezra’s shoulders was so great that she could not think clearly.
In the meantime, the inspector had driven straight to Mrs. Bascom’s
house. She had mentioned the fact that the key was no longer under
the mat, so he had borrowed it from her. Now he entered boldly, ran
up a shade to let in the light and began a search of his own.
Everything was still in confusion, as Mrs. Bascom had not
tried to straighten up, but his search was fruitless. Taking a
magnifying-glass from the parlor table, he studied the knobs and
edges of the drawers that had been opened, scrutinized parts of the
woodwork, table-tops, chairs, but after doing this in three rooms,
he gave up the task. There were no finger-prints, only faint blurs
here and there. Obviously the intruder had worn gloves, just as the
murderer had!
Leaving the lower rooms, Sewell ascended the stairs and opened a door
at the end of the hall. The room was stuffy with the odor of musk,
which, he found, proceeded from a broken vial in the bureau drawer.
It seemed to warn him that he was trespassing on no man’s ground, and
he flushed to himself as he rather hastily resumed his search. It was
in vain. Nowhere was there a clue as to the identity of the intruder.
Disappointed, he carefully drew down the shade on the lower floor
room again, locked the door, and left the house, muttering, ‘Now,
what in time was he after, I’d like to know? There’s one thing
certain, he wasn’t a burglar, since nothin’ seemed to have been
taken, an’ he did know what he was about, wearin’ gloves.’
At the jail, Sewell went straight to the safe and took out his
meager store of clues one by one. These he carried into Ruel’s cell
and spread out on the cot. Ruel started forward at the sight of the
knife, but fell back again at a sign from the inspector.
‘Don’t you touch a thing, son. You just listen to me with both ears
forward an’ I’m goin’ to tell you everythin’, just in the order it
happened, whether it was me or Ellen B. or any one else as really
found it out. They say two heads are better than one. Well, let’s
see if three is better yet. An’, mind you, not an interruption till
I finish. This is only part for your benefit an’ most to hear myself
tell everythin’ I know, see?’
Ruel nodded mutely, his eyes wavering back and forth between the
clues and Sewell’s serious face. Then the latter began, speaking in
a slow, emotionless drawl, picturing everything that had occurred as
if some third person had shared in or watched it, detail by detail.
Several times Ruel choked back an exclamation or question with
difficulty, but he did not speak until Sewell had ceased talking.
Even then he kept silent, for there seemed nothing he could add, no
solution for the mystery he could offer.
‘Well?’ interrogated Sewell at length. ‘Am I to take it a third head
is as befoozled as two of ’em?’
‘At least it all goes to show one thing,’ began Ruel hopefully. ‘It
proves Sylvia is innocent, was only----’
‘My soul an’ body!’ cried Sewell thunderously. ‘I might have known
it. When I take pains to lay the whole thing open before you, ask you
to help me an’ treat you confidential with every bloomin’ detail, all
you’ve got to say is that Sylvia’s innocent!’
‘But I did listen carefully, Ez,’ said Ruel, abashed. ‘I followed
every word, only I don’t see as it clears up anything except her and
Mrs. Bascom’s attitudes. I don’t mean----’
‘Oh, well, I should have expected it,’ said Sewell philosophically, a
twinkle creeping into the corners of his eyes, though his frown did
not relax. ‘It was the same way with her--sayin’ as she’d done it all
for your sake an’ talkin’ to Ellen B. an’ tellin’ her about lyin’
an’ falsifyin’ things just because she--because of you.’
‘Did she say that, Ez?’ pleaded Ruel, seizing him by the arm in his
eagerness.
‘Let go my arm! What you tryin’ to do, bust it clean off with your
sledgehammer hand?--There. That’s better.--Of course she said it, an’
probably a lot more things Ellen an’ I’d blush to repeat.--Hey, where
do you think you’re goin’ now?’
‘To see Sylvia!’
‘No, you ain’t, young man. You stay right here an’ act sensible.’
‘Sensible? That’s exactly what I’m doing.’
‘Hump.--Look here, son. She’s sleepin’ an’ needs the rest. She’s plum
worn out lyin’ for you,’ reasoned Sewell, concealing the seriousness
of her rest, for he knew such knowledge would drive Ruel straight to
her side. ‘You don’t want to make her any worse, do you?--Well, then,
wait till to-morrow, anyway. Guess one day more or less won’t make no
difference to you two.’
‘That’s all you know about it,’ muttered Ruel, but he subsided
restlessly on a corner of the cot. A moment later he was on his feet,
grasping Sewell’s hand and wringing it until it brought a yell of
pain from the inspector.
‘Let go of me, you young ox,’ he bellowed. ‘I’ll have to arrest you
for assault an’ battery too, if you don’t leave me be.’
‘But, Ez, I’ve got to tell you how much I----’
‘No, you ain’t. I won’t listen to you. I’ve got enough on my mind
now, without havin’ to listen to--well, to what you’ve got to say.’
Sewell swept the clues up with one hand, and almost ran from the
room, kicking the door shut behind him violently to hide his chuckles.
His smile faded rapidly, however, as he locked the articles in the
safe once more, then sat down at his desk, gazing speculatively at
his little list of suspects with the comments he had noted opposite
each name.
‘He ain’t fallen into a trap of his own makin’ yet. Now I wonder if
he will--or have I got to set one for him?--The trouble is, I don’t
know exactly how to bait it, seein’ as I ain’t certain sure which
one he is. But he’s gettin’ nervous an’ more darin’, an’ whichever
he is, that’s somethin’. Sooner or later truth’ll come out, only if
Ellen an’ me could only push it along a mite faster.--Detective Ellen
Bascom an’ Inspector Ezra Sewell----’
He chuckled, then became pensively silent.
CHAPTER XVI
CONFLICTING WILLS
When Inspector Sewell arrived at King’s house the next day, he seemed
tired and hollow-eyed. That was the result of long hours of thought
and vain planning. Being of that healthy type of men who are used to
regularity and a full nine hours of sleep each night, the lack of it
showed plainly in his face. Yet his shoulders were erect, his eyes as
keenly alert as ever in spite of the dark arcs below them.
Mrs. Bascom met him at the door. By contrast, she seemed to have
rested and relaxed from her overwrought emotions of the previous day,
for her face was calm and unworried, her poise assured.
‘Good-morning, Ezra.’ She eyed him sharply and her mood softened
further.
‘’Mornin’, Ellen B. You look perky as a lark an’ fresh as a daisy.’
‘Can’t say you do, Ezra.’ It might have been a taunt, but her tone
robbed the words of any such interpretation.
‘Guess daisies an’ larks ain’t in my line,’ grinned Ezra. ‘How’s
Sylvia?’
‘Just the same.--Before I forget it, I think I left a handkerchief in
your automobile yesterday. Will you help me find it?’
Mrs. Bascom moved down the drive toward the car and Sewell followed,
after her meaning glance at him. When they reached it, she went to
one side and began fumbling around the seats while he did likewise
on the other.
‘I thought it best to take precautions,’ explained Mrs. Bascom
quietly. ‘I wanted you to see this letter I received in answer to one
I wrote.’
She dropped a sheet of notepaper to the floor of the automobile,
and Ezra, with a nod of approval, bent closer to read it while he
pretended to putter about. When he had finished it, he stuck the note
into his pocket.
‘Thanks, Ellen. I guess we’d better talk it over with the judge.’
‘I didn’t know what your plans were--whether you wanted to confide
anything to him or the others,’ answered Mrs. Bascom, and the
suggestion of her complete dependence upon his decision revealed to
what extent she had now confided in him.
‘Some things, yes, but not all. I--it’s sort of nice of you, Ellen
B., to--well, to do like this,’ stammered Ezra, suddenly ill at ease
for no accountable reason.
‘I want you to handle things--to assume the responsibility. That’s
why I told you,’ she replied readily. ‘I’m out of this from now on.’
‘Not if I can help it. You’ve got to assist me, Detective Bascom,’
he grinned, continuing before she could interrupt with more than a
vague gesture of deprecation--‘this is what I aim to do now, subject
to change without notice, as they say. Not a hint about what Sylvia’s
told you, nor about the knife nor King’s past. Otherwise I’ll act
trustin’ as ever, an’ you do it, too. Only keep your eyes an’ ears
open an’ don’t be surprised if I don’t follow my own rules.’
She nodded and suddenly whisked a handkerchief out from her skirt,
then pretended to take it from behind the seat.
‘Here it is. I found it, Ezra,’ she called quite loudly.
Sewell straightened up to see the judge approaching behind him across
the lawn.
‘’Mornin’ to you, Judge. You’re just the man I want to see now that
I’ve done my one good deed for the day by helpin’ Ellen find her
handkerchief--if you’d call that dinky pen-wiper such a thing. Let’s
get along into the house out of the sun.’
Judge Brant nodded to Mrs. Bascom, and the three moved toward
the house with some inconsequential remarks. In the hall, they
encountered Basil talking earnestly to Dr. New, so Sewell suggested
they make it a full conference. He led the way to King’s den, where
they all sat down comfortably.
‘You seen Miss Hawley yet to-day?’ the inspector addressed the doctor.
‘Yes. She is still resting.’
‘You mean unconscious?--Well, I hope it ain’t as serious as Mrs.
Bascom told me it might be?’
‘Can’t say definitely as yet--certainly not in its present stage.’
‘Nothin’ we can do to hurry things along a bit, then?’
‘Not until she comes out of her coma.’
‘Well, that’s kind of unfortunate, as I think what I’m goin’ to tell
you has to do with her, an’ I’d like to hear what she’d say about
it. However, let me ask you, Judge, a question to start.--About that
will, how does one of ’em have to be signed to make it legal?’
‘It must be signed by the executor in the presence of three
disinterested parties, each signing after him in the presence of the
others. Is that what you mean?’
‘Precisely. An’ whatever’s signed that way is a legal will, eh?’
‘If the witnesses to the instrument know it was a will, yes, and
providing there is no fraud or such contingency.’
‘Supposin’ there was a mistake. Supposin’ there was two wills an’ the
wrong one got signed, all legal like.’
‘That’s not definite enough. Could you prove absolutely that it was
an error?’
‘Not positively, perhaps.’
‘Then, if one was legally executed, it would stand, supposing your
premise to be true.--Are you implying this is what happened in the
case of King’s will?’
‘I think so, only what you say complicates matters, some. Here’s
the facts. Mrs. Bascom here has received a letter from one of the
witnesses, one of the guests, you know, who signed his will. I’ll
read part of it to you.’
Sewell adjusted his glasses with care, took a letter from his pocket
and read aloud:
We assembled in his library. There were several papers on his
desk, rather scattered about, some signed, others not. One of
these latter he took up, explaining it was his will and that we
were to witness it.
He glanced it over a minute, then wrote his signature. Of course
I never looked at what was written except to notice that it was
in his own hand. He gave me the pen first, and I was just about
to sign it when there was a terrible clatter outside and King
exclaimed, ‘Sounds like the local fire department in action.’ We
rushed to the window and threw it open, all leaning out to watch.
To us city people the apparatus was quaint and amusing, so we
watched until it disappeared up the road. I remember King said,
‘Just a brush fire and not dangerous if they’re going in that
direction, though it’s a bit breezy for any sort of a fire
to-day.’
When we went back to the desk, I picked up the paper that the
wind had blown a little to one side, and signed it under his
name. The others followed me.
That is all I remember. I’ve told it in as much detail as I
could....
‘The rest doesn’t matter,’ explained Sewell, folding up the paper
again. ‘One thing more, though. This witness showed her statement
to another one of ’em before sendin’ it, an’ he agreed to every
word--What do you think of that, Judge?’
‘I’d say it was perfectly legal,’ he answered slowly.
‘An’ that’s the one we found on King’s desk after he was killed,
the one makin’ Miss Hawley his heiress. But I want to explain what
I think really happened. There was another draft of a will. It was
found among some papers on his desk in the house here. This one
wasn’t signed except by King, an’ his writin’ was blurred a bit as
if somethin’ had smeared over it before the ink was dry.
‘Now that letter from the witness speaks of one or two interestin’
points. There were several papers on the desk, some already signed.
Again, there was a wind blowin’ when the window was opened,
interruptin’ the signin’. The paper was blown to one side, see?
Well, I guess you can figure out now what I’m drivin’ at. I believe
he’d signed one for the play, just a fake one meanin’ to fake some
witnesses for it. Then he signed the real one all right, but the wind
blew it aside and this witness picked up the fake by mistake.’
‘Ingenious--and plausible,’ chimed in Judge Brant, bringing his
hands together with a bang. ‘I’m positive something like that must
have occurred. Besides’--he turned to the others--‘remember King’s
expression when he first took up that will in the play? It was
not wholly acting, I believe now. He was genuinely surprised and
concerned for a moment, started to tear it up, then decided to go on
with the play. I’m sure it was when he discovered his error.’
‘Seems to bear out my theory, don’t it?’
The judge’s elation suddenly wilted. ‘But, Sewell, this is all
assumption. I don’t see how it can be definitely proved.’
‘You mean the signed one would stand in spite of this?’
‘It would be hard to discredit it.’
‘Why try to?’ interrupted Basil with assurance. ‘There’s no reason
for thinking he didn’t mean to make Miss Hawley----’
‘Yes, there is. He told me about his plans just the day before and
they included a bequest, but not the entire estate, to Miss Hawley,’
said the judge.
‘He may have changed his mind,’ argued Basil stubbornly. ‘It seems to
me she has a perfect right to insist on the terms of that will.’
‘Makes her quite an heiress--a right smart catch for some man, don’t
it?’ interposed Sewell calmly, his eyes meeting Basil’s squarely.
The latter’s dropped quickly before this taunt, as he turned away
with a gesture of bravado, but not before a flush stained his cheeks.
No one seemed to notice this except Mrs. Bascom who shot a glance of
approval at the inspector.
‘Now, folks, I’m pretty sure of one thing--to get back to the murder
part. Whoever did it must have known King pretty well to have had a
motive an’ he must have been right here on the spot.--I ain’t exactly
suspectin’ one of you here an’ I ain’t so sure about Ruel, so it
seems to me perhaps I’d better get along myself an’ call on every one
of the other guests present that night. It’s kind of a long process,
but it might lead to somethin’. What do you think?’
‘I’ve wondered why you didn’t do it before,’ remarked Judge Brant
dryly.
‘Not I,’ said Dr. New. ‘It seems to me the thing to do now, but only
as a sort of last gasp, when all else has failed. Of course, if you
had some definite clue, it would be different.’
‘That’s the funny part, ain’t it? There don’t seem to be any of ’em
to speak of. I ain’t said much about it to you before, folks, but
it’s struck me as queer all along that the murderer’s weapon hasn’t
turned up yet. That’s really the only argument against its bein’ one
of the guests, see?’
‘No, I don’t. What do you mean?’
‘Well, Doctor, it’s this way. Say one of ’em killed King with some
sort of knife. What could he do with it--where could he hide it? You
were all searched, an’ so was the barn. I even went over the ground
outside to see if it was buried. It wasn’t. Yet it must have been
hidden mighty quick after the murder unless it was some one from
outside who didn’t stay after his deed.’
‘What makes you think it wasn’t such a person?’ The question was
Basil’s.
‘Kind of a hunch, I guess; also the fact that whoever did it must
have known about King’s plans for the play pretty well or he’d not
have taken such a chance.’
‘A pretty strong argument against Ruel, then, isn’t it?’
‘Just as strong against you--or Miss Hawley,’ answered Sewell
briefly, and Basil abruptly subsided again. ‘Now, Doctor, let’s just
go over a point or two about the actual killin’, if you don’t mind.
We know it was skillful an’ sudden, struck right to the heart. I
just wondered whether that was an easy thing to do--hit the heart, I
mean--or did it require some special skill?’
‘Not at all. The blow penetrated the thorax between the sternal ribs
and----’
‘Hold on a bit. Thorax--I thought that was somethin’ in the throat?
Couldn’t you explain a bit simpler?’
‘Of course. The thorax is, in general, the part of the body between
the neck and abdomen. A blow directed at the heart, if it struck in
that region and hard enough, might pierce that organ or be deflected
into it by one of the ribs. Any one might have done it quite easily,
and death would be instantaneous with the stopping of the heart
action.’
‘I see.--Could a woman have done it, then?’
‘Yes.’
They were silent for a moment after this reply, the judge’s eyes
automatically glancing at Mrs. Bascom, then quickly away again.
‘Well, that’s only as I’d figured it out myself, an’ it don’t change
nothin’.--I guess that’s about all this conference is good for
to-day, unless some one’s got a suggestion to make.’
‘The only thing I can say is--let’s have some action,’ grumbled the
judge. ‘Things have been dragging on and on, but as far as I can see,
we’re no nearer finding the murderer. I don’t doubt your sincerity
in the least, Sewell, but I want to see King’s murderer brought to
justice.’
‘No more’n I do. If you can suggest some way of actin’, you’ve got me
beat.’
‘That’s just it. You’ve covered the ground thoroughly without
unearthing anything of value. Now, why not call in a little outside
help? It may be rather late in the day, but----’
Martha appeared in the doorway at this moment to interrupt with a
telegram for the inspector. This he read slowly without change of
expression, then got to his feet as he put the paper in his pocket.
‘I guess I will, Judge. I know a man for the job, an’ I’ll send a
wire to him right now by Pete who brought me this little business
matter.’
He left the room quickly, and was back again before any one spoke.
‘This man, name of Bartrum, ought to be here by to-morrow. Till then,
I guess there’s nothin’ to do but hold on.’
‘He’s a good man?’ asked Judge Brant earnestly. ‘I know a smart
detective myself, you see.’
‘I guess he’s smart as they make ’em,’ cut in Sewell with finality.
‘Good, I’ll wait till after he comes, then I really must get back to
my work. I’ve stayed longer than I had intended already.’
‘I also,’ added Dr. New. ‘If it were not for Miss Hawley’s condition
I’d have gone before. But I hope she’ll come around soon. If not, it
would be better to place the case in the hands of another doctor and
nurse, I’m afraid. It rather baffles me.’
‘Well, I guess that’ll be all right, gentlemen, an’ thanks for
stayin’ so long.--Ellen B., anythin’ I can do for you in the village,
or take you there, perhaps?’ drawled Sewell, his eyes meeting hers
for a brief glance.
‘No, thanks, Ezra.--But wait. I guess I will run down to the store a
minute, if you can spare the time.’
‘Certain sure. Got nothin’ to do but wait for help now.’
Mrs. Bascom bustled up the stairs for a peep at Sylvia, then hurried
out to Ezra, who was waiting on the piazza, chatting with the men.
The car was started and, Mrs. Bascom at his side, it chugged down
the road leaving a powdery cloud of dust behind it. Halfway to the
village, Ezra stopped by the side of the road quite suddenly.
‘Important errand, Ellen B.?’ he grinned.
‘Very. I need a spool of thread for the kitten to play with,’ she
replied with an answering smile. ‘What was it you wanted to tell me,
Ezra?’
‘Right smart at takin’ a hint, ain’t you?--Well, now, seein’ as we’re
partners in this business, I kind of thought you’d like to know about
that telegram. Women are supposed to be curious, you know.’
‘Not supposed to be--they are,’ corrected Mrs. Bascom in a
matter-of-fact tone.
‘Well, I’ll tell you, then. When Ruel had gone an’ I sort of guessed
where an’ why, I called up the police of Boston an’ told ’em to treat
him well, give him all the help possible. They did all right, an’ now
they’re wirin’ me some more information. Guess they must have done
some lookin’ around, too, an’ now here’s this man Bartrum they’re
sendin’ along to help. He knows all about that old case, see? They’re
sendin’ some more dope to me an’ it may be interestin’, but I guess
I can’t wait for it to come. Incidentally, I didn’t wire for him, as
he’s already comin’ as near as I could make out their message.’
‘So that’s your famous detective?’
‘Yep, though he may not know it!--But I declare I’d like to start
somethin’ right now--I’ve got to. I was thinkin’ most all of last
night how to lay a trap or somethin’, but I’m scared to--yet.’
‘You mean you really suspect one of those men here?’
Sewell nodded gravely, but declined to reveal his thoughts, and she
did not press him.
‘The knife--how about finding it suddenly? That might lure him into
exposing himself,’ suggested Mrs. Bascom eagerly.
‘An’ it only takes a woman that--’ he snapped his fingers loudly, ‘to
think of what took me most an hour! But it won’t do, Ellen. If some
one was after the knife in your house, he already knows you have it,
or thinks you have, an’ pretendin’ to find it would only make him
suspicious of a trap. No use doin’ that.’
They were silent for a moment, then Mrs. Bascom spoke.
‘Ezra, I’ve been wondering. Judge Brant seemed anxious to get hold of
a detective--but one that he knew. The moment you spoke of Bartrum,
he decided to leave. Do you suppose that has any significance?’
‘I can suppose lots of things, Ellen, an’ I’ll admit I’d thought of
that, but what’s the use? Dr. New’s leavin’ too, an’ both of ’em
have suggested gettin’ a detective, before. You can twist almost
anythin’ any one says or does into meanin’ somethin’ suspicious, when
you haven’t somethin’ definite to go on. But I’m gettin’ kind of
discouraged with myself, Ellen,’ he went on, his mouth drooping at
the corners--‘kind of losin’ faith in myself--about ready to give up.’
‘Give up? Don’t be a fool, Ezra Sewell. Don’t admit you’re stumped
when you’re not and you know it. Don’t fish for compliments from me!’
The tartness of her words revived him like a tonic. She had been
almost too docile since her confession, but this was more like her
old, vigorous self. Yet the flame was only temporary. When he egged
her on again, she bit her lip and answered mildly, turning the
subject.
‘We’ve had time enough to get to the village and back. Better turn
around so I can return and be with Sylvia. I’m worried about her,
Ezra.--By the way, does Ruel know?’
‘Not yet, though I kind of promised him a talk with her to-morrow.
He’s gettin’ restless an’ wants to see her. I guess you know why,
Ellen.’
‘Of course I do, the poor children.’
‘Children? Now don’t rub it in like that. Makes me feel like an
old Methuselah, an’ as to you--well, you ain’t exactly decrepit
yet--seems to _me_.’
With this remark, he started the car so abruptly that their heads
jerked backward painfully. When she had recovered herself, Mrs.
Bascom glanced at his whimsically stern face with its eyes held
straight to the front. It was a dubious compliment, perhaps, but
coming from him so unexpectedly it had taken her off guard. A reply
was impossible as he backed and headed for King’s house, so she
remained thoughtfully silent. When he stopped to let her out at
the door, however, she leaned close to make him hear as she gave a
parting word of advice.
‘Keep Ruel away for to-day, at least. Tell him some message from
Sylvia. Make up a strong one. You’d know what to say!’
Then she hurried into the house, leaving Ezra staring after her in
open-mouthed alarm.
He’d know what to say----Now what did she mean by that? The answer
worried him even more than the other questions on his mind as he
returned to the jail and spent an hour energetically sweeping up and
tidying the office. His message to Ruel seemed sufficiently personal
to pacify him for a time, however, especially when Ezra hinted it was
Sylvia’s own desire to rest and be at her best when they should next
meet.
Ezra’s housekeeping duties over, he was about to go outside again
when the telephone rang. It was Mrs. Bascom, who spoke in a low,
hurried voice.
‘I want you to come here after lunch. Take the back road and bring
Dr. Smith from the village. Be here by, but not before, two o’clock.
I’ll signal to you.’
With that the receiver clicked silent, and Ezra hung up. So Ellen was
at work again, eh?--She wanted the village doctor--why? Obviously to
see Sylvia. Again, why? And her abrupt manner----
‘Ruel,’ called Ezra, ‘do you know any funny stories? If you do, tell
me one quick so I can stop mullin’ over foolish ideas like I’ve got
now.’
But Ruel did not reply. He was asleep.
At the appointed hour, Sewell led the doctor toward King’s house
from across the orchard back of the barn. He consulted his watch to
be exact and scanned the house for some sign from Ellen. As they
approached cautiously, Mrs. Bascom appeared in the kitchen doorway
and beckoned for them to hurry, which they did.
‘Dr. Smith,’ she said as she led them toward the hall, ‘I want you to
look at Miss Hawley. I’ve been thinking back over her condition and
I’m not satisfied, somehow, with Dr. New’s diagnosis. He’s supposed
to be a fine nerve specialist, but--well, I’m not sure it’s all
nerves. The three men have gone for the mail.’
‘Tell me what you think,’ said the doctor, taking his cue from her
and not wasting time by idle questions to satisfy his curiosity at
this mysterious summons.
Briefly she recounted Sylvia’s symptoms of a nervous breakdown,
omitting the reasons for it, and Dr. New’s gloomy predictions,
then opened the door to Sylvia’s room. Sewell peeped in, but did
not enter, leaving that to Mrs. Bascom and the doctor. It was not
modesty that held him back, rather it was the realization that now
was a splendid chance to search the absent men’s rooms as he had been
planning to do.
Of necessity it was rather a hasty search, yet it was not
unproductive. He entered the judge’s room first, as it was the
nearest. Here everything was neat and precise as he had expected;
toilet articles arranged and orderly, clothes hung in the closet,
shoes in a row on the floor. A leather portfolio lay open on the
table, containing a sheaf of documents. One of them caught Ezra’s
eye and he slipped it out. It was a half-sheet with the typed
words--‘Prisoner No. 24578.’ This he tucked into his pocket.
The doctor’s room came next, a decided contrast in neatness. A suit
of clothes lay mussed in a chair, a medical book on the floor, while
the bureau top was a jumble of toilet articles. Two white pills lay
untidily on the carpet before the bureau, and Ezra neatly picked them
up. A handbag in the closet disclosed part of a doctor’s kit, a
stethoscope, some bottles of pills and liquids, and a roll or two of
bandages. As Ezra bent over this he sniffed once, smiled to himself,
then nodded and left the room.
Clothes for all occasions filled Basil’s room, each rather carefully
hung up or put away in drawers, but one thing in his almost empty
suit-case pursed Ezra’s lips into a soundless whistle. Tucked into
a side pocket next a flask, was a jimmy and a revolver! This latter
he unloaded, dropping the shells into his pocket, then, hearing
footsteps in the hall, hurried back toward Sylvia’s room.
The doctor and Mrs. Bascom stood there looking for him, the former
rather grim, the latter horrified, yet triumphant.
‘How is she?’ Sewell addressed the doctor, but his eyes were fixed on
Mrs. Bascom’s.
‘She will regain consciousness in a short time now.’
‘An’ she’ll be clear in her mind, do you think?’
‘Absolutely. She’ll only remember that she’s been asleep, probably. I
mean she will not know why she’s been unconscious for so long.’
‘But you do?’
‘I do!’
If he had expected to create a sensation by these words, the doctor
failed, for Sewell, still staring at Mrs. Bascom, merely nodded as if
the news was no surprise to him--was only a confirmation of some idea
of his own!
CHAPTER XVII
EZRA TAKES A NAP
Mrs. Bascom stared from Ezra to Dr. Smith incredulously. She had
anticipated the doctor’s statement as to Sylvia’s condition would
startle the inspector, but instead he took it calmly, did not even
ask for details as if he were already aware of them.
‘Ezra Sewell,’ she exploded at last, ‘do you mean to stand there, not
even interested enough to ask what was wrong with her? You act as
if----’
Sewell stopped her with a commanding gesture for silence, listened
intently, then spoke quickly and sharply.
‘That’s the judge’s car comin’ back. Go down an’ keep ’em from
lookin’ out back until we get away, Ellen. Mum’s the word till I can
call you up an’ explain.’
Seizing the doctor by the arm, he hurried him down the stairs and out
the back way, pausing until he heard Mrs. Bascom’s voice addressing
the men at the front of the house, then urging the astonished
physician out through the barn and thus away from it by the orchard.
Not until they had safely gained Ezra’s car, parked on the back road,
did the latter speak.
‘Doctor, I guess you must think I’m actin’ like a crazy loon, but
you’ll have to trust me a bit. I’ll just say this. Ellen’s a right
smart woman, an’ between her an’ me, before another day’s over,
things will be all straightened out clear. Just you be patient an’
keep your mouth shut tight on all this.--Take my car an’ drive back.
Leave it at the jail. I won’t need it for a while.’
‘But, Ez, don’t you even want to know about Miss Hawley? She’s
been----’
‘Never mind now. Think I could guess pretty accurate myself! We’ll
talk that over later on. Now, git!’
Sewell turned abruptly away, retracing his steps toward the barn.
As they had left it a moment ago, he had been careful to see that
the French window they used was not latched behind them. Now he
stepped through it again into King’s workshop. Withdrawing a clean
handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped off the hinges and lock of the
rear window, then performed the same operation on the one at the side
of the room near where the guests had sat. This done, he rolled the
cloth into a ball, wrapped it in a piece of paper, and retraced his
steps to the road, setting off toward the village at a brisk walk.
Fifteen minutes later he called Mrs. Bascom on the jail telephone and
seemed gratified by the apparent calmness of her tone.
‘Ellen, just answer yes or no to what I ask you, see?--Now, can any
one hear what I’m sayin’ except you?--Good. Then here’s what I’d
suggest doin’. Keep _every one_ away from Sylvia, even Martha. Lock
yourself in with her if necessary, but try not to arouse suspicion
an’, whatever you do, don’t let ’em know if she comes to. Otherwise,
try to act natural, an’ if you ever played a part, play that one for
all you’re worth.
‘Nothin’ will happen to-night--that I’ll guarantee. I’ll be up there
if I can, but don’t go out of your way to talk to me, an’ don’t leave
your room to-night--not for anythin’.--Understand all that?--I’m
bankin’ on you a lot, Ellen B.--That’s all.’
He hung up the receiver abruptly, next calling Dr. Smith and
listening gravely to his diagnosis of Sylvia’s condition.
‘Think she’ll be able to stand a little talkin’ an’ excitement by
to-morrow?--That’s good.--Well, I’m askin’ you to do somethin’
else for me now, Doctor. Pete here will be over shortly with a
handkerchief of mine. It’s kind of oily. Could you soak it out
somehow an’ find out what kind of oil it is?--Fine.--I’ll pick you
up to-morrow mornin’ about nine o’clock, an’ we’ll go up to King’s
house, where I guess everythin’ can be settled right prompt. See you
then.’
Pete had been listening to this conversation, so received the
handkerchief with a silent nod, as Sewell beckoned him to follow to
Ruel’s cell where he paused outside, speaking quite briskly.
‘Son, it’s all over but the shoutin’ now, I hope, though there may be
quite some of that.’
‘You mean--you know who killed King?’
‘Yep. But I ain’t tellin’ you or any one else--yet. Now here’s what
I came to say. I’ve still got to prove it an’ you’ve got to help me.
You an’ Pete here have an all-night job ahead of you. Now take this
calm, Ruel. The truth is, Sylvia’s comin’ around all right, but she’s
been pretty bad. Some one went an’ doped her, drugged her to keep her
mouth shut.’
‘Doped--Sylvia?’ Ruel shouted, shaking the bars as if to wrench them
from the masonry. ‘Who? Why? Let me out of here, Ez. I’ll----’
‘Shut up!’ commanded Sewell sharply. ‘I told you she was all right
now an’ I also said I needed your help. If you can’t control
yourself, I’ll say no more--leave you here an’ get some one as is
willin’ to act sensible.’
This threat sobered Ruel at once, but he gripped the bars until his
knuckles showed white.
‘Ellen B. helped to discover that, an’ she’s lookin’ after Sylvia
now.’
‘God bless Ellen B.,’ muttered Ruel fervently.
‘You said it, son. Now, then, there’s nothin’ to worry
about--absolutely nothin’. To-night Pete here will let you out of
that cell. You an’ him sneak up to King’s house, an’ don’t get seen
doin’ it either. When it’s dark, you hide in the bushes on this side
of it, Pete on the farther side. There’s a man in the house who might
try to sneak away, though I don’t think so. However, it’s up to you
two not to let him--to see that no one leaves durin’ the night--no
one.’
The men nodded, Pete with apparent languor, though his eyes sparkled
with interest, Ruel with set jaw and tense muscles. Sewell glanced at
the latter quizzically as he remarked, ‘Guess no one will get away on
your side, Ruel!--An’ incidentally, I guess these are your last hours
in jail, so make the most of ’em.--Get along on that errand now,
Pete.’
When the latter had gone, Sewell went into the office, took out his
little box of clues, tied them in a neat bundle, and stowed them back
in the safe again. Next he seated himself at the desk to write.
There were long pauses for thought and many lines were rewritten
several times. At last he sank back in his chair, read the result
of his labors twice, then tore the pages into bits. Thus Sewell
marshaled his facts and arguments in preparation for the following
day.
A telephone call to the judge made an appointment for the latter to
come to the jail at half-past seven that evening, then Sewell set
about preparing supper, whistling and humming quite light-heartedly.
Prompt to the minute, Judge Brant’s car drew up before the jail and
he bustled into the office, smoking a long fragrant cigar.
‘Here I am, Sewell. Have one?’ He offered a cigar to the inspector as
he settled down in the empty chair, drawn up into the light of the
lamp.
‘No, thanks, Judge. I ain’t used to highfalutin smokes. A corncob is
more suitin’ to me, an’ don’t take my mind off things by makin’ me
think how much I ought to be enjoyin’ the smoke.’
The judge chuckled. ‘Well, Inspector, is this another of your
conferences?’
‘Yep, sort of. More talkin’, Judge, but perhaps you’ll get some
actin’ for a change to-morrow.--How’s everythin’ up to the house?’
‘About the same. Mrs. Bascom had a headache and is staying in her
room; Miss Hawley is still asleep. It is certainly unfortunate--her
condition, just at this time.’
‘Ain’t it?--especially when she might be able to clear up
things--about the will business, for instance.’
Judge Brant nodded skeptically. He doubted this statement, but did
not bother to deny it. His face, lighted by the full glare of the
lamp, showed lines of worry, appeared weary and puzzled as if his
thoughts were troubling him, and his eyes rather avoided Sewell’s.
‘I suppose this case ain’t been run accordin’ to detective methods,
exactly,’ said the latter, clearing his throat noisily. ‘I’ll admit I
ain’t a go-gettin’ sleuth like in King’s stories, but to me, it ain’t
been the kind of thing such methods could apply to, if you know what
I mean. For instance, there’s been too few clues. Again, there’s been
too much of this keepin’ things secret, not offerin’ information like
people ought to, if they are anxious to clear up a mystery.’
‘To whom do you refer?’ asked the judge rather absently, as if only
half interested in Sewell’s words.
‘You!’
‘Me? I--I don’t understand!’ His interest no longer wavered. His
eyes, narrowed and searching, fixed upon Sewell’s, his cigar spilled
ashes unnoticed upon his immaculately brushed clothes.
‘About King. Why didn’t you tell me what you knew, Judge?’
‘What I knew?’ echoed the latter, but his face flushed with the
effort to keep his voice calm.
For reply, Ezra fumbled in his pocket and placed upon the table
between them the slip of paper that he had abstracted from the
judge’s portfolio. The latter glanced down at it, unable to conceal a
start of surprise.
‘I don’t see what you are driving at, Sewell. I suppose you found
that in my room. Well, it’s just a--a case in which I was interested.’
‘I’m kind of interested in it too--about King, alias Jameson, eh?’
The judge’s bluster, like a pricked bubble, vanished. ‘You--you know
that?’
‘An’ a good deal more. An’ I repeat, why didn’t you tell me?’
The judge stared incredulously at the inspector, but this time his
eyes did not waver under the other’s scrutiny. He became intent,
nervous, as he leaned forward, his fingers crushing the paper into a
ball.
‘You’re insinuating I had something else to conceal--some knowledge
of the murder, I suppose? I swear to you it’s not true. I had a
reason for keeping this knowledge from you, but not the one you’re
imputing.’
‘I guess I believe you, Judge, but tell me about it,’ replied Sewell,
knocking out the ashes from his pipe and preparing to refill it.
‘How much do you know?’ countered the judge.
‘What the police records an’ newspapers told.’
‘Then there is a little more I can add.’ There was a distinct relief
in his tone now. ‘I found it out only yesterday when I was in Boston.
That number in King’s dressing-gown pocket--when I first saw it I
felt sure I ought to recognize it, yet couldn’t. It’s been puzzling
me. Yesterday I remembered certain private documents King had given
me some weeks ago. They were kept separate from his other papers,
so I had almost forgotten them. When I looked them over, I found a
letter addressed to me which I had opened before and put aside. It
contained an instruction that in case any peculiar accident should
occur to him, I was to go to a certain safety-deposit box in a bank.
This was to be done only in case I should think it necessary.
‘I had not understood his instructions at the time, and he refused
to explain them. That’s why they made little impression on me. But
the safety-deposit box number was the same as that on the slip--his
prison number.
‘I obtained the specified paper, found it was his confession of
his imprisonment. But in it he denied all the charges against him,
disclaimed any knowledge of either the murder or the underhanded
business of his partner. Two other facts were important. First, he
admitted learning, by chance, where his partner had hidden some of
his illicit gains. There was no way of returning them or making
restitution, so he said nothing about it at the trial. He obtained
them when he was released, and made a fresh start. Part of the funds
he used for this purpose, but later paid them back scrupulously,
devoting the entire fund to charity--to helping others in distress,
and so on. His accounting of it is all there, and it was his moral
restitution, I suppose.
‘The second fact bears on his death, or so it seems to me. He stated
that for some months he had been receiving slips of paper with his
prison number on them--nothing more. He feared this was blackmail and
left this explanation, obviously in case--well, in case of his sudden
death through other than natural causes.’
‘That corroborates things pretty well, especially Ellen B.’s ideas.
An’ it was just like him to go an’ choose that special number for his
lock box.--Interestin’--kinks of human nature, ain’t they? But why
didn’t you tell me?’
‘The revelation of his past stunned me. It was like defaming the
dead to bring it all to light again. I knew I should tell you, but I
hesitated, tried to believe it would not be necessary. Oh, I might
as well tell the whole truth. I feared you would not be discreet,
Sewell. Frankly, I did not have much confidence in you, feared you
might let it all become known unnecessarily, so meant to get a
detective of whom I was more certain. I apologize, sincerely. I’ve
misjudged you and----’
‘Never mind that part. It’s done no real harm, lettin’ some others
think I’m a lazy sort of fool too.’
‘You mean you know who is guilty?’
‘I do. Bein’ a good listener comes in handy sometimes, Judge, an’
often words do speak louder than actions. But I’m wanderin’ from the
road. You haven’t told any one else?’
‘Not a soul. And you? Must the world be told?’
‘Not if I can help it. You seem to forget he was my friend, too, an’
the same to lots of others hereabouts.’ Sewell’s words were sharp and
indignant, but only for the moment. ‘Well, Judge, that clears up your
end quite satisfactory. Maybe I can count on you to help as well as
be--er--discreet, seein’ as we understand each other, eh?’
‘Absolutely. If there is anything I can do----’
‘Seems to me I’ve heard you say them words before,’ remarked Ezra
pointedly, ‘but this time I’ll take ’em at face value an’ trust
you’ve told me everythin’. Just forget about what we’ve been sayin’,
see? If any one asks you why I called you down here, say--well, tell
’em it was one of my usual blunderin’ conferences!’
‘I’ll play up, Sewell. But who is the person you suspect? Do I know
him?’
‘Certain sure, but I ain’t quite ready to tell you--yet. You might be
more help not knowin’, see? But I figure it won’t be long before you
do. This much I’ll say--it’s some one as is in King’s house now!’
‘Then why don’t you arrest him?’
‘Don’t worry. I will when the time’s ripe. Look here, Judge, I’ve got
two things you can do to help. The first is, sleep light to-night an’
keep one ear an’ eye open. I don’t want any one leavin’ that house
to-night. The other request is simpler--drive me up to the house now
for a spell.’
‘Of course, I will--and that answers for both,’ nodded the judge, his
whole attitude having been completely revolutionized. ‘You may be
sure I’ll watch carefully too. Ready to go right away?’
Ezra pocketed his pipe without knocking out the smoking ashes, took
up his battered felt hat, then blew out the light and followed the
judge to his waiting car. He nodded to Pete, who was loitering on the
curb, gossiping with one of the villagers, then they drove off in
silence. Yet, when Basil Stacey and Dr. New arose to greet them from
King’s piazza, Sewell became even more loquacious than usual. After
they had talked for some time, he suggested they play a game of cards.
‘You needn’t look so darned shocked,’ he added with a chuckle at
their startled expressions. ‘I’m human, an’ it’s good to relax with
a game once in a while. Sometimes I’ve wished we had more company
down at the jail for that reason, ’cause two can’t play much, an’,
besides, I know all the ways Pete cheats! To-night I kind of feel
like breakin’ out a bit, throwin’ over the traces for relief, you
might say, seein’ as the detective will be takin’ over my job
to-morrow, I guess.’
When they saw his suggestion was made in earnest, they agreed to it
readily, starting for the smoking-room to set up a table and cards.
As they stepped toward the door, Sewell touched Basil’s arm and
motioned for him to hang back after the others.
‘Stacey,’ whispered the inspector authoritatively as he loudly
knocked out the ashes from his pipe as an excuse for delaying, ‘watch
out to-night. One of those men may try to leave. See that he doesn’t
quit the house, understand?’
‘You think that----’
‘I’m givin’ orders, not answerin’ questions, an’ if you know what’s
good for you, do as I say. Play up, now.’
Before the surprised Stacey could speak again, Sewell pushed him into
the hall toward the smoking-room.
‘What shall it be, gentlemen?’ asked the doctor as he shuffled the
cards.
‘Know whist? It’s kind of takin’ advantage of you, my bein’ the
champion of the county, but it’s about the only game I know.’
The others assented and the evening passed quickly. Ezra proved
his boast convincingly, the while flavoring the conversation with
stories and sly jokes so that no one had time to revert to the
mystery. A little after eleven, he stretched, yawned frankly, and
pushed back his chair.
‘You night owls can play as long as you want, but I’m goin’ to bed.’
‘Want me to drive you down, Sewell?’ asked Judge Brant.
‘No. Walkin’ will make me all the sleepier. Thanks for the game.’ He
smiled and jingled some newly acquired silver in his pocket.
At the doorway he addressed the doctor over his shoulder.
‘By the way, do you think there’s a chance of Miss Hawley bein’ up
to-morrow when the detective comes? I’m expectin’ him by the first
train.’
‘Rather doubtful, I’m afraid, Sewell.’
‘Wish she might. There’ll be questions to ask.’
‘Well, Mrs. Bascom said she was still--er--asleep when I stopped at
her door. That doesn’t look very hopeful.’
Sewell nodded and beckoned. While he had been speaking, he stepped
into the hall, the doctor naturally following him. Now they were out
of sight of the others and Ezra leaned close to whisper in his ear.
‘Can’t explain now, but I want those two men watched. Don’t let
either of ’em slip out of the house to-night. It’s important.’
Dr. New grabbed at Sewell to restrain him for a question, but the
latter eluded him and, placing a finger on his lips, hurried down the
hall, calling back aloud as he stood in the open door, ‘Good-night,
gentlemen, an’ thanks for a mighty pleasant an’ profitable evenin’.’
This remark was largely for the benefit of his two watchers, Ruel and
Pete, who should be on duty by now. As Ezra walked toward the road,
he glanced sharply about for them, but neither was visible, so he
nodded contentedly to himself, walked away out of sight of the house,
then cut into the field and circled back until he was in front of it
again. Here he squatted in the grass near a tree and waited, his eyes
fixed on the lighted hall.
A half-hour passed, and he began to nod gently, bringing his head
up with a jerk every now and then. After repeating this painful
process several times, he jabbed his thumb into his ribs viciously
and muttered, ‘Here you, Ezra, wake up. You’re a fine specimen of a
guard, you are.’
He glanced quickly at the house again. All the upper rooms were dark,
but the hall light burned brightly and a reflected light on the
bushes at one side showed the smoking-room was still illumined.
‘Hump! Wonder if they’re takin’ my remark serious an’ are goin’ to
play all night?’
He chuckled, and looked at his radium-dialed watch.
‘Gettin’ on to midnight. I never should have stayed up so late last
night. It ain’t good trainin’ for guard duty, leastwise not for an
old man like me.’
With a yawn he got stiffly to his feet, knowing it was too dark to be
seen from the house, stretched his arms and legs luxuriously, then
began to chuckle to himself heartily. A moment later he slapped his
leg softly, then slunk away in the general direction of the village.
Twenty minutes later he let himself into the dark jail and slipped
into his room, undressing without turning on the light. As he sank
back between the sheets of his bed, he snickered again.
‘Yep, you’re deliberately desertin’ your post, Ezra Sewell, but no
one will ever know it an’ you’ve earned a good night’s rest. Besides,
ain’t it a sign of a big man who can get others to do his work for
him?--Ha! I’d like to be a skeeter on the wall of that room so I
could see those three men, each watchin’ the other an’ suspectin’
him!--As to Ruel, it’ll do him good, havin’ a night out, an’ it’ll
keep him out of mischief, playin’ watch-dog hero. An’ Pete--well,
it’s time that lazy critter earned his salt. Yes, you take a good
snooze, Ezra, an’ to-morrow----’
The rest was lost in a yawn, quickly followed by rhythmic breathing
and a whistling snore.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE WHOLE TRUTH
When Ruel and Pete entered the jail the following morning at seven
o’clock as Sewell had instructed, the latter had breakfast ready and
waiting. His invitation to partake of it needed no repetition.
‘Peaceful night, eh? I didn’t see a soul go out, did you?’ the
inspector questioned them as they sat down at the table.
‘Nary a sign of one,’ said Pete.
‘Nor I,’ reported Ruel. ‘Where were you, Ez?’
‘Oh, I circled back a bit after I left the house,’ responded the
inspector vaguely.
‘Those three men sat up half the night playing cards. I could watch
them through the window,’ added Ruel as he sipped his coffee.
‘I thought they might. Well, stock up, boys, an’ then rest a bit till
we meet Detective Bartrum on the train an’ go up to King’s.’
‘Rest? Not I, Ez. Do we all go together?’
‘Yep, that is, providin’ you’ll obey orders an’ behave,’ nodded
Sewell. ‘An’ for my part, I’ll promise to clean up the mystery.’
Ruel’s eyes pleaded for more information, but he stifled his
questions when the inspector shook his head.
Breakfast over, the three men made short work of cleaning and
putting away the dishes, then Ezra set about tidying up the already
neat room. It proved a rather futile task. Ruel kept walking about
nervously, moving a chair as soon as Ezra had carefully straightened
it or absently picking up some object and replacing it in the wrong
spot. At first, Sewell merely grunted and hastened to set them to
rights again, but at length he gave it up when it appeared to be
rapidly becoming a sort of endless game of checkers--a series of
moves and jumps without purpose.
He sat down to smoke, but Ruel’s nervousness had proved infectious.
His pipe would not draw well, puffed out ashes unexpectedly; the
smoke bit his tongue. He glanced repeatedly at his watch. At last, he
got to his feet, procured the clues from the safe, and started for
the door. Here he collided violently with Ruel, who apologized in a
breathless tone.
‘Take it easy,’ admonished Sewell kindly. ‘You might expend some of
your superfluous energy fillin’ the radiator with water, if you’ve a
mind to, son.’
This humble duty accomplished, Ruel sprang into the seat beside Ezra,
Pete in the rear, and they drove quickly to the station. Of course
the train was late, but at last it puffed into sight, tooted, and
panted to a stop at the small platform. Two men got down after the
conductor and turned toward the main street. Both were natives of the
village.
Ezra looked up and down the platform expectantly, but the train
pulled out again, and Bartrum, the detective, had not arrived.
‘Guess he slipped up somehow,’ explained Sewell, bolstering up his
own disappointment. ‘I’d kind of figured on his help a bit, but with
a little changin’ of plans, we can get along without him, all right.
Just as well, maybe, at that.’
He took this mishap philosophically, but the ride to King’s house was
a silent one as he appeared to be thinking seriously. They picked
up Dr. Smith on the way, but he, too, sensed Ezra’s abstraction, so
remained mute after a friendly greeting. When they drew up before the
house, Sewell gave a low command to his henchmen.
‘We’ll meet in King’s den. Ruel, stay by the door; Pete, by the
window. You, Doctor, watch out for any tricks.’
They entered the hall just as Mrs. Bascom appeared at the top of the
stairs and looked questioningly at Ezra. He shook his head in the
negative, and she disappeared silently.
A little pile of luggage--four suit-cases, a brief-case, and a small
handbag--lay on the floor near the hatrack. These Ezra recognized as
belonging to Judge Brant and Dr. New. One of them he picked up and
handed to Basil, whispering, ‘Take it to the den an’ kind of put it
out of sight. Wait there.’
His order obeyed, Sewell called out briskly, ‘Hey there, anybody to
home?’
A door opened somewhere above and Judge Brant appeared in the upper
hall. Dr. New came almost simultaneously from the rear hall. Each
seemed on the point of asking an eager question when he noticed the
other and stopped.
‘’Mornin’, gentlemen. Have a good game after I left?’
‘We did play quite a while,’ yawned the judge, glancing sidewise at
Dr. New.
‘Sure. Gettin’ ready to leave, were you?’ He nodded toward the
luggage.
‘Temporarily,’ answered Dr. New. ‘Judge Brant offered me a ride and
we both have to go for the day, at least, so decided it would be a
good chance to take most of our things with us. We thought that as
soon as this new man had asked any questions he might want to put,
we’d be off. Of course we’ll come back, if necessary.’
‘Guess that man ain’t comin’--just yet.’
‘No? That’s unfortunate, as I really must be in town by noon at the
latest.’
‘Oh, that’s all right. I think we can fix things so nobody much need
wait around longer. But how about your patient, Doctor?’
‘Miss Hawley? I was going to speak to you about her. There’s really
nothing I can do that your village doctor can’t attend to quite well.
Of course, it’s an interesting case and I shall hope to follow it
closely, but I can leave directions and all that quite easily.’
‘I brought him along, thinkin’ he might prove handy,’ said Ezra.
‘Glad I did now. Then you think her condition ain’t really serious?’
‘I hope not. She’s still unconscious, you know,’ he added for the
benefit of the other doctor. ‘She hasn’t been able to speak and
explain her symptoms, so for that reason I may be mistaken in my
diagnosis.’
‘Glad to hear you say so, Doctor,’ Sewell gravely answered. ‘Where’s
Stacey?’
‘Around somewhere. Shall I find him?’
‘Wish you would, Judge, an’ bring him along to the den.’
Ezra did not seem to notice the judge’s gesture which sought a
private word with him. As soon as he had gone on his errand, Sewell
moved away toward the den and Dr. New seized his opportunity
to remark in a low tone, ‘We played cards rather late, and
I--er--followed your directions.’
‘Good. No trouble?’
‘None, though both men seemed keyed up, watchful and nervous, rather
furtive at times. But what does it mean? This detective----’
‘Far as I know he’ll be along sometime, but I guess it don’t make any
difference. I don’t need him after all.’
‘What? You mean----’
‘Yep, I know who killed King, how an’ why,’ drawled the inspector.
‘Ah, here’s Stacey. How are you, Basil?’
The latter nodded as he entered the den with the judge. He seemed
surprised by the cordiality of Sewell’s tone. Then he noticed Ruel,
rather tense and silent, by the door and greeted him with an effort
at heartiness.
‘Glad to see you again, Ruel. Out on parole or--well, what?’
‘For good,’ answered Sewell succinctly. ‘Now we’re all here, let’s
get down to horses an’ sheep. No, hold on a bit. Ellen B. ain’t here.
I’ll call her.’
‘Too bad Miss Hawley can’t join the group,’ added Judge Brant.
Ezra disregarded this remark, disappearing into the hall. They heard
him call out to Mrs. Bascom. As he passed Ruel in returning to the
room, he whispered, ‘Hold hard, son, she’s comin’,’ then walked to
the desk, where he stood staring silently at Dr. New. The latter
returned his gaze questioningly, but his lips twitched slightly as
the silence remained unbroken, save for Mrs. Bascom’s advancing
footsteps, curiously slow and halting.
It was one of those peculiarly electric moments when, without a word
spoken, every one seemed to feel a tenseness in the air, to expect
something neither definite nor understandable. Mrs. Bascom’s approach
seemed somehow significant, ominous, yet there was no reason for such
a feeling. The doctor’s eyes shifted nervously toward the doorway;
every one’s gaze, except Sewell’s, riveted there.
Mrs. Bascom appeared in the doorway, gravely paused, half turned
about, held out her hand, and Sylvia stepped to her side! The latter
was dressed in a becoming frock and her face, though a trifle wan,
was flushed with excitement.
Ruel started forward eagerly, but after one step, drew himself back
to his post. For once, hard as it was, he obeyed orders, though his
eyes spoke to Sylvia’s even more expressively than his actions could
have done. In silence Mrs. Bascom led her to a chair, holding her
hand encouragingly as she stood beside her. Dr. New’s face became
suddenly pallid as he leaned forward, winking to clear his vision.
‘Miss Hawley,’ he muttered in an unnatural tone, ‘what are you
doing--up--like this? I thought----’
‘Yes, your diagnosis was wrong, eh, Doctor? She came to quick enough
once we discovered what ailed her--dope!’
‘Dope?’ The doctor whirled toward Ezra. He was now completely master
of himself again through an heroic effort, his expression one of
incredulity. ‘You mean to insinuate I drugged her?’
‘She was your patient.’
‘But who told you that--said she was drugged?’
‘I did,’ answered Dr. Smith levelly. ‘She was not only doped with
medicine, but had been given a hypodermic injection, cleverly
concealed under the band of her wristwatch.’ Their eyes met, Dr.
Smith’s frankly accusing and hard, Dr. New’s snapping with anger.
‘Then you’re a poor specimen of a medical man!’ sneered the latter.
‘The idea is sheer idiocy. Why should I----But wait. It’s just
possible I might have confused those pills. I happened to have two
unlabeled bottles, though of different shapes, and one held a mild
drug. Of course I may have seized the wrong one in a hurry----’
‘And I might requote your epithet on that score, Doctor! Besides, who
gave the hypodermic?’ Again their eyes met, and this time there was
anger in both pairs.
‘Look here, Sewell,’ blustered Dr. New, deliberately turning his back
on his accuser, ‘do you mean to stand there and let me be insulted by
a mere country quack?’
‘Yep, an’ to add a country constable’s insult, let me expand the
accusation of druggin’ to breakin’ with the intent to steal, an’
murder!’
Dr. New sprang toward the inspector, swinging his clenched fist back
to strike, only to have it seized firmly by the other physician. His
eyes blazed, and his breath whistled through his compressed lips as
he tugged to free his hand. But the physical action seemed to calm
him, to make him realize the uselessness of this act. With a gasp and
a shudder, his tenseness relaxed, and Dr. Smith released his hand,
though remaining alertly near him.
‘That calls for an explanation, Sewell,’ cried the doctor. His voice
bit harshly even as it trembled with rage, and his face blanched to a
pasty gray.
‘An’ it don’t call in vain, you damned sneakin’ murderer--you skunk
in sheep’s clothin’,’ snapped the inspector, loosing control of
himself for that one outburst, then speaking with a quick, incisive
tone that fell in unfamiliar cadence from his lips. ‘I’m only too
glad to oblige you.’
Sewell whirled on his heel, crossed over to a chair near Ruel, seized
the small bag from under it, and set it upon the desk. As he began to
speak, he opened it, then drew a pair of handcuffs from his pocket
and placed them beside it.
‘You’ve been lookin’ for action, have you? Well, now you’ll get it.
You killed King, an’ this is how.
‘Knowin’ the secret of his past, you tried out blackmail--just
sendin’ him that number on pieces of paper. As his doctor an’ friend,
you watched him, but he didn’t seem scared. You hated him, an’ that
night your chance came for revenge. You took it.
‘You sneaked out to the barn while they were makin’ plans for the
play an’ listened. When they’d gone, you oiled the doors, or
windows, located the creaks in the floor to avoid, an’ tucked that
slip of paper in the pocket of his dressing-gown. Bravado, eh, but
’twas kind of a fool thing to do. Then you took the paper-knife from
his desk in the house here an’ got your rubber gloves handy.
‘In the darkness of the play, you took a seat right near the window,
crept out of it, walked along the wall so as not to leave foot marks,
an’ came in by that other one, so nicely curtained. Just after Ruel
acted his part, you killed King an’ sneaked back. It was easy that
way--even simple to make some alibi if you’d been missed, ’cause
it was dark an’ besides you were King’s friend. In the confusion
afterwards, you locked the window, an’ threw the knife down the chute
where you could get it again later. But you didn’t get the chance or
know Sylvia had fallen there, through your leavin’ the cover off.
‘You thought you played the game clever--stayin’, when urged, to
watch an’ cover your trail in case anythin’ went wrong. But nothin’
did at first. A country fool of an inspector took charge. He did
nothin’ but talk, an’ was easy to bluff an’ flatter. You were safe.
Everythin’ went fine. Others were suspected, others blundered, but
never you, oh, no! Then somethin’ turned up that was puzzlin’. The
knife disappeared from the chute, an’ no one seemed to know about
it. Other little things went queer, too--the robbery, the way Sylvia
acted about the will an’ the money you coveted, but couldn’t get.
You got a wee bit nervous, an’ decided to stick around, make sure to
cover your tracks, eh?
‘Then luck played into your hands. You learned by eavesdroppin’ that
Mrs. Bascom had the knife, but had kept it a secret. You guessed it
was in her house an’ blundered outright--tryin’ to recover it. You
didn’t find it, ’cause I beat you to it. Still nothin’ happened,
nothin’ tangible. You got a shock, though, learnin’ Sylvia had told
Mrs. Bascom a lot more that night after you thought she was asleep.
You knew she had almost caught you in King’s workshop just before the
play. Perhaps she knew somethin’ else--too much!
‘You decided to shut her up until you could make a clean
get-away. What more natural than a nervous breakdown--a coma? A
few drugs would do it. Safe, eh? But it didn’t work, you see.
Murder--druggin’--breakin’--all proved to a T.’
Sewell paused to regain his breath after this long speech.
Dr. New had been watching him steadily, his face hard and devoid
of emotional expression, but there was a gleam of real fear in his
eyes that he could not disguise. Steel himself as he had for part of
these accusations, a recital of all his movements and reactions so
logically and clearly in such an assured tone came near to breaking
his control.
‘A fine story--very ingenious. But such beautifully fabricated
deductions cannot be proved, Sewell.’
‘No? Take ’em one by one, then, an’ let Judge Brant here see what he
thinks of the evidence. Supposin’ I was to list ’em off this way.
‘First, you were seen listenin’ to the rehearsal. Second, you used
castor oil on those doors, havin’ some handy in this bag here. Oh,
yes, that’s been tested an’ proved when I wiped some of it off, you
see. Third, it was known where you sat near the window. Clever as you
were, some of the guests had senses an’ used ’em too. You forgot the
women might get excited an’ want to hold your hand! That’s how they
found you gone.
‘Fourth, you were seen at the window durin’ the confusion when you
locked it an’ also when you skipped out to get rid of the knife.
Fifth, you tried to throw suspicion on others an’ acted noble as if
you wanted to help, only to find a way to hinder. Sixth, you broke
into Mrs. Bascom’s house to get the knife.’
Sewell took out a pair of rubber gloves from the doctor’s bag.
‘Careless-like, you broke her vial of musk when searchin’ in her
room--got some on your gloves. Musk’s pretty penetratin’--you can
still smell it on ’em. An’, incidentally, probably these are the same
ones you used when you killed King, eh? Seventh, you drugged Sylvia
Hawley to close her mouth effectively. I picked up a couple of them
dope pills in your room. Eighth, you were preparin’ to run away an’
never come back.
‘How do I know? ’Cause you received a letter from a steamship company
yesterday an’ they told me it contained a ticket to South America
when I telephoned them.--How’s that for a few clinchers, Judge?’
The latter could not speak as his cheeks puffed crimson with emotion,
but he nodded emphatically.
‘Oh, yes, an’ the motive,’ continued Sewell as the doctor moistened
his lips to speak. ‘The dead past they tell about ain’t so dead but
what its ghosts can rise up. We know King’s story. We also know his
innocence an’ _your guilt_--your connection with his partner, Fox,
an’ his gang of smugglers, drug peddlers, petty criminals--even his
death!’
Dr. New’s bravado crumpled suddenly under this last battery of
accusations. He slumped against the desk as if for support, his head
lolling to one side, his hands nervously plucking and fumbling at his
coat. One hand darted into his pocket and up to his mouth suddenly.
With a cry, Sewell sprang forward, but Dr. Smith acted even quicker.
He seized the back of New’s jaws with one hand, his throat with the
other. The one made him open his mouth, the other prevented him from
swallowing until Sewell had roughly snatched out the pill which lay
on the guilty man’s tongue.
‘None of that. Poison’s a cheap way of cheatin’ justice an’ too easy
for the likes of you.’ As he spoke, Sewell snapped on the handcuffs.
‘Of course, that’s a confession of your guilt, but not all the one
you’re goin’ to give.’
‘Oh, I confess--to both of them,’ snarled the doctor impotently.
‘King’s an’ his partner Fox’s deaths, eh? Well, I guess we’d better
have that in writin’ even if we have got enough witnesses. Judge, how
about it?’
For answer, Judge Brant strode to the desk, seized paper and pen, and
began to write.
His act broke the spell of tenseness that had held the others silent
in its grasp. There was a rustle as they all seemed to stir at
once, to find emotional relief in some movement, however trifling
and insignificant. Peter drew closer to Dr. New’s side. Basil Stacey
fumbled for a chair and sat down in it heavily. Mrs. Bascom released
Sylvia’s hand and glanced at her face, rather expecting to find
nervous tears of excitement there. But Sylvia sprang to her feet and
moved toward Ruel with a smile that ignored every one and everything
else. They did not speak, merely joined hands and gazed at each
other, so Mrs. Bascom looked away, stepped to the desk, sniffed of
the musk-scented gloves, then smiled at Sewell’s exultant expression.
The judge’s pen scratched its way across the paper in a brief
statement of the two murders he had just heard confessed, then he
thrust the pen into Dr. New’s hand, soberly read aloud the words that
he had written, and waited while the guilty man awkwardly signed his
name.
An involuntary sigh of relief escaped Sewell’s lips, but he tried to
conceal it by speaking sharply.
‘I’ll take care of that paper, Judge. Now, then, Pete, rustle him off
to the jail, an’ do it kind of sly. I don’t want trouble when the
village finds out who killed King, an’ there might be if they learned
it too quick or sudden. Search him careful before you go too. Judge,
would you just as soon drive him along in your car? Thanks. An’ you,
Dr. Smith, better step along with ’em as an extra guard. I guess you
understand about most things by now, an’ what you don’t, I’ll be
pleased to tell you later.’
Sewell looked about him, as if to make sure every one was accounted
for, and saw Basil scowling ferociously at the oblivious Sylvia and
Ruel. The inspector chuckled aloud.
‘Oh, Miss Hawley, if I could interrupt for a second----About that
will, now. What do you say doin’ with it?’
Sylvia turned about slowly, her face animated, her eyes sparkling.
‘Just what I said before--and always meant to do if there was no
other way--probate it! As soon as that is done, I shall make a lot
of bequests and gifts--all, in fact, that are specified in the will
he really meant to execute. If you’re afraid to trust me, make it
binding somehow in writing and I’ll sign it.’
‘Hump! Guess that ain’t necessary--not for the likes of you, Sylvia.
An’ I calculate it kind of proves drugs ain’t hurt you none or warped
your brain!’
‘But, Sylvia’--Basil jumped to his feet excitedly--‘you don’t seem to
realize things yet. You need some one to explain----’
‘Yes, I guess I do. Won’t you help me and explain things--Ruel?’
she smiled, deliberately turning her back on Stacey. Though this
movement hid her own face and expression, Ruel’s was easy to see--and
interpret!
With another explosive chuckle, Sewell again issued a command.
‘Stacey, get along in that auto, too. The doctor might as well have
a full an’ complete bodyguard to his new lodgin’s. Besides, you
ain’t--er--needed here any longer--an’ that’s permanent!’
Basil took the hint. There was nothing else he could do! After the
prisoner’s pockets had been emptied into his satchel, the men filed
out of the room. But Ruel was oblivious to their departure as he and
Sylvia whispered together.
When Sewell had seen the automobile disappear down the road, he swung
about on the piazza steps to find Mrs. Bascom at his elbow.
‘Congratulations, Ezra.’
‘Congratulations, Ellen.’
Their words were spoken in unison and made them both smile. Mrs.
Bascom was the first to recover, becoming serious again.
‘It’s all over, Ezra, and, my, what a relief! Somehow this house
seems--natural, like King’s home, for the first time in days. It’s
the old, Smiling House again.’
‘What you mean by that, Ellen, some of your fancy business?’
‘Yes--nothing. But, Ezra, there’s so much I don’t understand even
now.’ Automatically they began to walk away from the house toward the
road. ‘You learned so much more than I ever suspected. Who was it
saw him eavesdropping at the workshop? Which one told you where he
sat during the play? None of the women, I’m sure, for their written
statements made no mention of it. Yet you said----’
Sewell stumbled and almost fell headlong. He stopped to pick up
an old, rusty horseshoe by the side of the road, stared at it in
surprise, then burst into a laugh.
‘Gosh, I ain’t superstitious, but I kind of wish I’d fallen over that
a little while back. It would have made me feel better, sort of given
me courage an’ good luck when I needed it, Ellen.’
‘Ezra Sewell, answer my questions. Who----’
‘Hold on there an’ give me a chance. I can do it, I guess, all to
once. Just between you an’ me, there was lots of them things I _said_
that wasn’t true. No one saw him so much as I made out they did!’
‘What? But you did say----’
‘Yep, I said a lot. Some of it was true, about the oil an’ the proof
of his searchin’ your house an’ such, but I figured it might not be
enough to make him confess, so, seein’ as I was pretty sure just how
he did things, I sort of dressed up my story a bit, added some frills
an’ guesses, like. An’ it worked fine, Ellen B.!’
‘You mean--a lot of it was bluff?’
‘It sure was--an’ I was kind of scared at first--till I got goin’
good, an’ then my tongue wagged all of itself! But if I hadn’t been
such a slow poke, lettin’ myself get all balled up over simple
things----’
‘That’s not true,’ interrupted Mrs. Bascom softly. ‘You know it
isn’t, Ezra. You handled it just right, as events have proved. But
about King’s partner. How did you know this man killed him too?’
‘I didn’t--hadn’t the least idea. Fact is, I didn’t even mean to
imply it, only my tongue got waggin’ the more scared he looked, an’
then he took my words for an accusation himself! I guess that part’ll
be up to that smart Bartrum or some one to check up. Wonder why he
didn’t come? Oh, well, I suppose he had somethin’ bigger to tend to,
perhaps, an’ didn’t want to bother with country inspectors. I ain’t
worried he missed the show--not now.’
‘The credit fell where it was due, I’d say, if you asked _me_,’
retorted Mrs. Bascom seriously.
‘Now, Ellen, cut out that flatterin’ business or you’ll have me
blushin’,’ muttered Sewell, abashed.
At that moment he lived up to his prophecy by flushing a beet red,
but not because of her words. They had turned upon reaching the road,
retracing their steps past the house toward the barn. As Sewell
spoke, they had just reached a point opposite the den, and both
involuntarily looked in. Through the open window could be seen the
back of a chair with two heads just visible above it, one bobbed, the
other carelessly tousled, but so close to each other that duller eyes
might have taken them for one head!
‘My land, come away from that,’ muttered Sewell, seizing Mrs. Bascom
by the arm. ‘I’ll be darned if you ain’t brought me here on purpose,
like a sentimental--a sentimental----Well, anyway, this ain’t no
place for you an’ me.’
He was breathing unnecessarily hard and his face grew almost purple.
Mrs. Bascom’s silent smile was disconcerting.
‘That’s a woman--all over,’ continued Ezra. ‘An’ the older they
get----’
‘Seems to me you remarked I wasn’t so very old--not to you,’
interrupted Mrs. Bascom slyly.
‘You ain’t--only--you’re old enough to know better.’
Sewell was flustered. This new mood of hers upset him. She had not
risen to the bait of any of his taunts of late, and seemed almost
a stranger to him with her compliments and flattery. It made him
uncomfortable, at a loss to understand her or know what to answer.
But he strove manfully to steer the conversation into safer channels.
‘I ain’t had time to thank you, Ellen, for all you did. Without you
I’d have been helpless an’----’
‘Ezra Sewell, I’ve never told a man to shut up before, but I’m doing
it now! If you say another word about my acting like a fool, I
declare I’ll--I’ll cut you dead when we meet again.’
Ezra chuckled with relief. He felt on firmer ground now.
‘It certain sure would be a tragedy if that happened, Ellen B. Don’t
know as I could get along on the plain victuals of life without any
of your sass, if you know what I mean!’
She did, and tossed her head, her anger rising in spite of herself.
‘Oh, a shrew, am I? Well, if that’s what appeals to you, I’ll do my
best to give full meals of it, Ezra Sewell. Of all the insults I ever
received from you, that’s the worst. If you can’t think of anything
better to say----’
‘Maybe I could if I tried hard,’ he drawled as she turned to walk
away. ‘But I’d kind of like to know if what you said is a threat or a
promise--that sass with my meals part?’
She whirled about, her eyes snapping, her jaw set. But before she
could speak, he repeated his question quizzically, and now that she
saw his eyes, she read a different meaning in it.
‘Three times a day--at meals--like a prescription. Do you mean it,
Ellen? Three meals a day together--you an’ me----’
Her mouth opened in astonishment, closed with a snap, then curved
into a smile as she seemed to make a discovery.
‘It may be the most fool trick I ever did, Ezra Sewell, but I guess I
do!’
Just at that moment, Sylvia and Ruel looked up and saw them. Ruel did
not blush as Sewell had done a short time ago. Instead he shamelessly
grinned and watched the arm of the law doing its duty--until it
suddenly occurred to him to follow the good example set by his elders!
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
silently corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences
within the text and consultation of external sources. On page 164,
“But Sewall noted” has been replaced with “But Sewell noted.” Other
than that, original spellings in the text and inconsistent or archaic
usage have been retained.
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
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