THE SISTER ARRIVES
“BUT you see, Pauline, darling, Ned Knox is impulsive, belligerent and
pig-headed. If he found Anna out on the balcony flirting with Curran,
he would kill him just as soon as he could manage it!”
“But how could he manage it?”
“Somebody managed it. You remember, when we talked about murder, Knox
said shooting was his choice. But, he had no gun, so he had to resort
to poison.”
“Where could he get it?”
“Well, there’s one way,” Loft said, slowly. “Angel has an elaborate
photographic outfit in my den. He has poisons there that he uses in his
work--”
“Why has Bob an outfit of that sort?”
“He’s an amateur photographer. He doesn’t say much about it, because
everybody is after him to take a photograph. And, too, he has to
photograph title pages or something, in connection with his book
business. In the New York Public Library, they have a whole room for
the purpose of photographing pages of rare books for people who want
them. Bob does this in a limited way. You know, Pauline, he is an
artist in this rare book business. He’s no amateur.”
“All right. Then, say Ned did get poison from Bob’s laboratory or
whatever you call it, how’d he get it to Mr. Curran?”
“He could get to him easily enough. I suppose Curran would let him in,
if he came to his room later. But, the thing is, how did he get out and
leave the door locked behind him?”
Pauline looked deeply thoughtful. Her beautiful eyebrows came closer
together as she concentrated on the problem. Her long, slim hands,
clasped in her lap, seemed to tremble with the intensity of her mental
effort.
At last, she gave a shrug, as if to throw aside a consideration, and
said, “But, Val, that problem confronts every theory. Why don’t you
leave that until you get other data, pointing toward the murderer,--or
the motive?”
“You’re right, Pauline, and I’m glad to see it so clearly. Now looking
at it that way, Ned had motive,--you know his insane jealousy of
Anna,--also, he had opportunity,--for after two o’clock, nobody was
awake or listening--”
“Except Mr. Meredith.”
“Oh, old Pop Meredith doesn’t count. Neither does Stella. They’re both
deluded by their subconscious dreams and vagaries.”
“Yes, I think that, too. Well, Val, go on. Did Ned take Mr. Curran’s
watch?”
“Surely. It had Anna’s picture in it.”
“Then you think Anna knew Mr. Curran before yesterday?”
“Of course she did. Anna is a flirt, but no woman would progress so
fast as to arrange a clandestine meeting with an utter stranger, the
first time she saw him!”
“Yes,--that’s so. And so late,--and in her boudoir gown--it was
that,--I know the rosebudded affair Tessie described.”
“Well, there you are. Lord knows I hate to suspect Ned Knox,--but
evidence is against him. And, too, he tried to implicate Angel,--to my
mind, that’s against him, too.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. But, Val, dear, must you--prosecute, or whatever
you call it? Can’t you hush it all up?”
“Don’t see how we can, Pauly. But I will try to get it all over as soon
as possible. If Ned is guilty,--I feel sure he’ll have the decency to
clear out pretty quick.”
“If Ned is a--a murderer,--you can’t expect him to have--decency.”
“Of course you can. His sudden wild impulse, and the consequent act of
crime, don’t change his traits or habits. If Ned Knox proposes leaving
here,--he wouldn’t be allowed to go,--but it would prove to my mind his
guilt--”
“Oh, Valentine, he never did it! He couldn’t have done it!” and Pauline
clasped her hands and shook her head in utter negation of the idea.
“What are you two talking about?” and the Countess sailed majestically
toward the pair who sat in the swing on the veranda.
“About Mr. Curran’s death,” said Pauline, calmly. “What do you think,
Countess?”
“I think Ned Knox killed him. Don’t ask me how or when or which or
what! I don’t know! I only know that Ned was insanely jealous of Anna
and he killed the man who--flirted with her.”
“Too easy,” Loft said. “Give a dog a bad name and hang him. But if it’s
a human dog, we must prove his claim to the bad name.”
“Don’t be too fussy, Val,” the Countess said, shortly, “Ned Knox killed
him, and now all you have to do is to check up the ways and means.”
“Just like a woman!” said Loft. “Oh, yes, I say so and so is a
murderer. Now somebody will please prove it.”
“But what do you think, Val?” Pauline asked, her eyes on Loft’s face.
“Don’t you think Ned did it?”
“No, Pauly,--frankly, no, I don’t!”
“Oh, fiddle-dee-dee!” cried the Countess, “what does it matter who we
think did it? The thing must be proved--proved!”
“All very well, Countess,” Loft began, but he was interrupted by Binns,
who announced, “Miss Dwyer is here, sir.”
“What?” “Who?” and “Good Lord!” his hearers exclaimed, simultaneously,
and immediately followed the butler into the house.
In a reception room they found a lady, tall, gaunt and aggressive.
At least, those were the qualifications that sprang first to Loft’s
notice.
The Countess observed that the visitor was distinctly Middle West as
to voice and manner, and Pauline noted with shocked realization the
tightfitting black taffeta, “travelling dress” the lady wore.
“I am Hetty Dwyer,” the strange guest announced, rising as the others
entered. “I am the sister of Hugh Dwyer,--known, perhaps to you as Hugh
Curran.”
“How do you do, Miss Dwyer,” Loft said, at once, and most courteously,
“it is good of you to come.”
“Not at all,” she spoke somewhat acidly, “I read of the death of my
brother in the paper, and I hurried here at once.”
“It is four days since Hugh Curran died,” Loft said, slowly, “and, Miss
Dwyer, he is now--”
“Buried?” she exclaimed, apprehensively.
“No; his body is in the receiving vault,--at the undertaker’s place,”
he assured her. “You may see him again,--if you wish.”
“Of course I wish,” she cried. “My only brother. My loved Hugh.
Certainly I wish to see him again, before he is laid away forever.”
“Very well, you may,” Loft assured her. “And now, Miss Dwyer, since you
are here, I’ve no doubt you can tell us something that may throw light
on the strange mystery of his death.”
“That I’m sure I can’t do,” she said, with asperity.
Miss Dwyer was a tall, angular person, with prominent cheek bones,
elbows and even knees, which indicated themselves inside her scant
skirts. She was perhaps forty, and old looking for her age.
She had none of the graces or amenities of urban life, rather she
showed the awkward, ignorant demeanor of a country-bred woman.
But she was shrewd and keen, and absolutely unabashed.
“That’s why I am here,” she went on, earnestly. “I want to know who
killed my brother. Any idea of suicide is utterly ridiculous--”
“But, Miss Dwyer,” said Kinney, who was present, “your denunciation of
a theory as utterly ridiculous, doesn’t make it so.”
“It does in this case,” she declared, calmly, “for I know my brother’s
circumstances and conditions,--and I know he was looking forward to a
new happiness,--to a new phase of his life, that meant, to him, nothing
less than bliss.”
“And what was that?” Kinney asked.
“He was about to be married,” she said, with all the awe and wonder in
her voice that accompanies a spinster’s dream of wedlock.
“Indeed,” Kinney said. “He had been married before, had he not?” Miss
Dwyer’s face changed. It looked scornful, even infuriated.
“Yes!” she said, “he had! To an utterly worthless woman! A silly,
selfish, peevish chit, who led him a dance, until--”
“Until he got rid of her?”
“Yes, well rid of her! That woman was a millstone round his neck! The
happiest day of his life was when their bonds were severed.”
“You knew her, then?” Kinney asked.
“I never saw her, thank heaven! But I know how unworthy of him she was!
You see, the whole affair,--I mean his meeting her, their engagement,
their marriage and their divorce, all occurred within a year, within
eight months,--to be exact, and I was abroad for a two-year trip at the
time. But as soon as I returned, and saw my brother again, I realized
how fortunate he was to be released from her.”
“Her name?” asked Kinney.
“I don’t really know,” Miss Dwyer said. “He called her Rose or
Rosalie,--but I don’t think that was her real name. Yet it may have
been. Her surname, I never heard. When I returned, the affair was all
over, a thing of the past, and I never talked to my brother about it.”
“It all has no bearing on the present problem,” Kinney said slowly,
“unless that wife could have been implicated in his murder,--if it is a
murder.”
“Oh, no, I’m sure she couldn’t have been. As I understood matters, she
was even more glad to get freed from him than he from her. They were
totally uncongenial, and each wanted separation.”
“Doubtless the marriage and divorce are all on record,” Kinney observed.
“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” Miss Dwyer said. “But I’m sure that woman
had nothing to do with it. My brother was an adorer of women, and had
dozens of affairs since his divorce. But, lately, he devoted his whole
life and soul to one girl,--a Miss Fitzgerald, of Chicago. And he
expected to marry her soon.”
“Can we get in touch with the lady?” Kinney asked.
“I don’t see why not,” Miss Dwyer returned. “Yet, she can’t help you.
I know she loved my brother,--she would have no hand in his taking
off. And if she hasn’t come forward in the matter, it’s merely because
she knows she can be of no help, and she would naturally hate the
publicity.”
“That’s all true enough,” Loft said, thoughtfully; “yet, it seems we
ought to see or hear from Miss Fitzgerald.”
“I should think so!” Kinney declared.
Miss Dwyer wore a hat with one stiff, black quill feather. When she
spoke emphatically, as she almost always did, this feather nodded
sharply and seemed to punctuate her speech.
It did so now, as she said,
“It is absurd to think that an interview with Miss Fitzgerald would
be of any help in this affair. On the contrary, Miss Fitzgerald knows
nothing about the awful details, and I beg of you leave the poor girl
in peace. Her grief is hard enough to bear without having the agonies
and distresses of a murder trial on her shoulders as well. Now, I know,
that my brother’s death is the work of some of you people here. You
society people,--frothy, artificial, fashionable puppets, who dance
as Fate pulls the strings! And, if you have a grudge or a fancied
grudge against any one, you snuff out his life with no conscience or
compunction.”
“Miss Dwyer,” Loft spoke seriously, “I can’t allow that statement to
stand. We are ‘society people,’ as you use that term, but I assure
you we are not given to murdering our fellow-men, or to accepting the
fact of murder, without being shocked by it, and striving to bring the
criminal to justice. I am surprised that you should think otherwise.”
“I do think otherwise, and your declaration does not move me. I still
believe that my brother came to his end by foul play of some one whom
he trusted and deemed his friend. I am here to prove or disprove my
theory. Mr. Loft, shall I remain here, under your roof, or go to some
inn or other stopping place?”
“I invite you to stay here, Miss Dwyer, as long as it pleases you to do
so. We are working on the mystery ourselves, and you may work with us
or pursue your independent search, as you choose.”
Valentine Loft was a perfect host, and his courteous manner and bland
speech seemed to affect Miss Dwyer pleasantly.
“Thank you,” she said; “I shall be glad to remain here a few days. As
you can readily understand, I am so shocked and upset by my brother’s
death I can scarcely pull myself together. And to be here, on the very
scene of his death, is--is unnerving,--to say the least.”
Valentine Loft, beneath his urbane exterior was a very sharp and keen
reasoner. And as he watched his newest guest, he doubted her sincerity
of grief regarding her brother’s death. She was shocked,--upset,--even
stunned,--but of actual grief or sorrow he saw small trace.
His conclusions were verified, when, a moment later, Miss Dwyer began
to inquire about her brother’s effects.
“As I am his only heir,” she said, “of course I am in full possession
of all he left,--in property or assets. I know little about such
matters, but I do know that Hugh’s book royalties and Motion Picture
royalties must amount to a considerable sum,--and all of those are
naturally mine.”
“Naturally,” agreed Kinney. “There will, I’m sure, be no trouble about
all that. Now, we want to get at the motive for the murder and the
identity of the murderer. Can you give us any suggestions, Miss Dwyer.”
“Only what I have already said. I’m sure Hugh’s death was due to some
acquaintance of his who,--well, I can’t help thinking it was because
of some woman. My brother was capable of sudden and deep passions for
a woman, and even though he was engaged to Miss Fitzgerald, that would
not prevent his violent flirtation with another woman, and through that
he might have been punished by some irate husband or fiancé.”
The contrast between the prim, prudish old maid, and her sophisticated
talk of her brother’s amours amused the Countess, who laughed outright.
“You’re a true woman,” she said, “and though unmarried, I daresay
you’ve had your own little affairs,--here and there.”
“You mistake me, madam,” Miss Dwyer sat bolt upright. “I am above and
beyond all small coquetries or intrigues. I loved my brother,--but I
have never loved any other man. Moreover, I do not enjoy the society of
men. While, here, I will, if you please, confine my associations mostly
to the women, and from them, or through them, I hope to unravel this
mystery.”
And so there was another sleuth added to the corps at Valhalla, and
indeed, one, who by virtue of her earnest and patient work, went far
toward the final solution of the mysterious death of Hugh Curran.
The Countess frankly disliked the new comer. This was not surprising,
for Countess Galaski liked few people, and rarely was amiable to a
woman.
So she and Miss Dwyer tacitly agreed to be enemies, and each
religiously opposed the other’s opinions or contradicted the other’s
statements.
“They’re really funny,” Pauline said to Val. “If the Countess should
say two and two make four, Miss Dwyer would bring any number of
authorities to prove it doesn’t.”
“Yes, they’re funny,” Loft agreed, “but I can’t like that Miss Dwyer.
One reason being, she hates me so. I believe she thinks I killed her
brother.”
“Oh, Val, how could she think that?”
“She can think anything,--and the police can, too. Kinney has been
looking at me askance of late. And, Good Lord, Pauline, which way is
there to look? Here it’s five days since Hugh Curran died under my
roof, and I’m no nearer a theory of his death than we were at first.”
“No; but suppose, dear, that it never should be discovered, would it
matter much?”
“Indeed it would, Pauline. There would always be a cloud over this
place,--over this house,--this home, which I hope will be your home. I
can’t ask you to accept a home with a cloud over it.”
“I don’t mind that, dear. I’d rather the whole affair would blow over
as quickly as possible,--I hate to hear about it,--to think about
it--oh, Val, let’s go away somewhere until it is all over.”
“I wish we might, dearest, but such a thing is out of the question. No,
we must face the music,--I must, anyway. But, dear heart, sometimes I
think you’d better go away for a time. It is painful for you,--”
“Don’t you want me here, Val? With you?”
“Oh, I do, Sweetheart! I’m thinking only of you. Pauline, suppose there
should be some important disclosure soon,--some awful fact about one of
our guests--”
“Anna?”
“Yes; how did you guess? But there is evidence,--of a sort,--against
Anna--”
“Valentine, put it out of your mind,--at once! Anna is absolutely
blameless--”
“Of the murder,--of course. But she has been--she was--indiscreet--”
“What did she do?”
On a sudden impulse, Loft told Pauline his opinion of the story Tessie
had given them.
She listened attentively, and then said: “I can believe all that,--that
Anna went out on the balcony and met him,--but not that she--”
“But Pauline, dear, you don’t understand. The theory is that Ned
surprised them out there together, and in his jealous rage, he killed
Curran.”
“That could be,” Pauline nodded her head thoughtfully. “But I don’t
believe it happened. Anyway, don’t bank on it,--don’t follow it up,
will you, Val?”
“It isn’t my doing. Roly is working from that angle. He has checked up
Anna’s wardrobe, and has even found the negligée in question,--with
floating draperies and tiny pink rosebuds.”
“Pshaw, every woman has a negligée answering that description,--I have,
myself.”
“Is that so, Pauline? Is it a usual model? That does seem to nullify
Roly’s clue.”
“Of course it does. And it’s a silly theory, anyway. Where’s Mr.
Curran’s watch? Why would Ned Knox take that?”
“That’s just the point. Roly thinks Anna’s picture was in it.”
“Anna’s picture! Ridiculous!”
“Why ridiculous? That is, assuming Anna knew him before.”
“Nonsense! It was never Anna’s picture.”
“I don’t see how you can be so sure.”
“Why,--I saw him flash the watch open that night, after dinner.”
“Did he? What for? It was not a hunting case. He didn’t have to open it
to see the time.”
“No.”
“Tell me, Pauline, what do you mean? How did you see the picture?”
“Oh, I didn’t exactly see it, Val, but I did see him flash the case
open and steal a look at the picture. I couldn’t see whose likeness it
was, but I’m sure it was not Anna’s.”
“Then dear, if you saw it as distinctly as that, you must have been
able to distinguish the features. Was it any one you knew?”
“No, oh, no. It was--it was the face of a stranger,--a young-looking
girl, with a lot of curly hair. A pretty face, but one in no way
distinguished.”
“You noted it closely.”
“Not intentionally. It meant nothing to me. But when it was exposed to
my view, though only for a few seconds, I really saw it plainly, and I
remember it.”
“You’d know the face if you saw it again?”
“Yes, I’m sure I should. But why so interested, Val?”
“Only that it’s one of the ‘feathers left around.’ I want to know what
it means.”
“But the watch wasn’t left around.”
“I mean the evidence,--the clue of the missing watch, is what we have
taken to calling a feather,--that is a clue.”
“Oh, yes, I see. If you could find out who that woman’s face was, you
think it would help you in your discoveries?”
“I do think so. Although it may have been the picture of Miss
Fitzgerald,--Curran’s fiancée.”
“Yes, that might be,” Pauline agreed, but her tone was perfunctory, and
her gaze faraway,--she seemed to be utterly preoccupied. “If he was
so interested in that girl,” she went on, “why was Ned so irate about
Anna? He couldn’t have thought Mr. Curran’s admiration of Anna at all
serious.”
“Ned is a lunatic, when it comes to Anna. I’ve seen him flare up and go
almost crazy if she so much as smiled on a man he disliked. Poor Anna.”
“Don’t waste your sympathy on Anna,” said Pauline.