A crumpled handkerchief, a pair of white kid gloves, a little trinket
known as a “vanity case,” containing a tiny mirror and a tinier powder
puff; a couple of small hair-pins, a newspaper clipping, and a few
silver coins were all that rewarded my trouble.
Nothing definite, indeed, and yet I knew if Fleming Stone could look at
the little heap of feminine belongings, he would at once tell the fair
owner's age, height, and weight, if not her name and address.
I had only recently assured myself that such deductions were of little
or no use, and yet, I could not help minutely examining the pretty
trifles lying on the desk. I scrutinized the handkerchief for a monogram
or an initial, but it had none. It was dainty, plain and fine, of sheer
linen, with a narrow hem. To me it indicated an owner of a refined,
feminine type, and absolutely nothing more. I couldn't help thinking
that even Fleming Stone could not infer any personal characteristics of
the lady from that blank square of linen.
The vanity case I knew to be a fad of fashionable women, and had that
been monogrammed, it might have proved a clue. But, though pretty, it
was evidently not of any great value, and was merely such a trifle as
the average woman would carry about.
And yet I felt exasperated that with so many articles to study, I could
learn nothing of the individual to whom they belonged. The gloves were
hopeless. Of a good quality and a medium size, they seemed to tell me
nothing. They were but slightly soiled, and apparently might have been
worn once or twice. They had never been cleaned, as the inside showed
no scrawled hieroglyphics. But all of these conclusions pointed nowhere
save to the average well-groomed American woman.
The hair-pins and the silver money were equally bare of suggestion, but
I hopefully picked up the bit of newspaper.
“Surely this newspaper clipping must throw some light,” I mused, but it
proved to be only the address of a dyeing and cleaning establishment in
New York City.
“This is being taken care of?” I said, and the burly inspector, who up
to now had not spoken, said:
“Yes, sir! Nobody touches a thing in this: room while I'm here. You,
sir, are of course an exception, but no one else is allowed to meddle
with anything.”
This reminded me that as the detective in charge of this case, it was my
privilege--indeed, my duty--to examine the papers and personal effects
that were all about, in an effort to gather clues for future use.
I was ignorant of many important details, and turned to Parmelee for
information.
That young man however, though voluble, was, inclined to talk on only
one subject, the suspected criminal, Miss Florence Lloyd.
“You see, it must be her bag. Because who else could have left it here?
Mrs. Pierce, the only other lady in the house, doesn't carry a youngish
bag like that. She'd have a black leather bag, more likely, or a-- or
a--”
“Well, it really doesn't matter what kind of a bag Mrs. Pierce would
carry,” said I, a little impatiently; “the thing is to prove whether
this is Miss Lloyd's bag or not. And as it is certainly not a matter
of conjecture, but a matter of fact, I think we may leave it for the
present, and turn our attention to other matters.”
I could see that Parmalee was disappointed that I had made no startling
deductions from my study of the bag and its contents, and, partly owing
to my own chagrin at this state of affairs, I pretended to consider the
bag of little consequence, and turned hopefully to an investigation of
the room.
The right-hand upper drawer of the double-pedestalled desk was open.
Seemingly, Mr. Crawford had been engaged with its contents during the
latter moments of his life.
At a glance, I saw the drawer contained exceedingly valuable and
important papers.
With an air of authority, intentionally exaggerated for the purpose of
impressing Parmalee, I closed the drawer, and locked it with the key
already in the keyhole.
This key was one of several on a key-ring, and, taking it from its
place, I dropped the whole bunch in my pocket. This action at once put
me in my rightful place. The two men watching me unconsciously assumed
a more deferential air, and, though they said nothing, I could see that
their respect for my authority had increased.
Strangely enough, after this episode, a new confidence in my own powers
took possession of me, and, shaking off the apathy that had come over me
at sight of that dread figure in the chair, I set methodically to work
to examine the room.
Of course I noted the position of the furniture, the state of the
window-fastenings, and such things in a few moments. The many filing
cabinets and indexed boxes, I glanced at, and locked those that had keys
or fastenings.
The inspector sat with folded hands watching me with interest but saying
nothing. Parmalee, on the other hand, kept up a running conversation,
sometimes remarking lightly on my actions, and again returning to the
subject of Miss Lloyd.
“I can see,” he said, “that you naturally dislike to suspect a woman,
and a young woman too. But you don't know Miss Lloyd. She is haughty
and wilful. And as I told you, nobody has mentioned her yet in this
connection. But I am speaking to you alone, and I have no reason to
mince matters. And you know Florence Lloyd is not of the Crawford
stock. The Crawfords are a fine old family, and not one of them could
be capable of crime. But Miss Lloyd is on the other side of the house,
a niece of Mrs. Crawford; and I've heard that the Lloyd stock is not all
that could be desired. There is a great deal in heredity, and she may
not be responsible...”
I paid little attention to Parmalee's talk, which was thrown at me in
jerky, desultory sentences, and interested me not at all. I went on with
my work of investigation, and though I did not get down on my knees and
examine every square inch of the carpet with a lens, yet I thoroughly
examined all of the contents of the room. I regret to say, however, that
I found nothing that seemed to be a clue to the murderer.
Stepping out on the veranda, I looked for footprints. The “light snow”
usually so helpful to a detective had not fallen, as it was April, and
rather warm for the season. But I found many heel marks, apparently of
men's boots; yet they were not necessarily of very recent date, and I
don't think much of foot-print clues, anyhow.
Then I examined the carpet, or, rather, the several rugs which
ornamented the beautiful polished floor.
I found nothing but two petals of a pale yellow rose. They were
crumpled, but not dry or withered, and could not have been long detached
from the blossom on which they grew.
Parmalee chanced to have his back toward me as I spied them, and
I picked them up and put them away in my pocket-book without his
knowledge. If the stolid inspector saw me, he made no sign. Indeed,
I think he would have said nothing if I had carried off the big desk
itself. I looked round the room for a bouquet or vase of flowers from
which the petals might have fallen, but none was there.
This far I had progressed when I heard steps in the hall, and a moment
later the coroner ushered the six gentlemen of his jury into the room.