HOW LOFT TOOK IT
“I HOPE to Heaven you _will_ be able to find her,” said Loft,
agreeing to the detective’s wish, but staring at him still, with that
blank, unseeing gaze. “But just now, Mr. Kinney, I’ll ask you to leave
me to myself for a time. You must realize that your news is a great
surprise to me,--and I may have to--readjust my plans somewhat.”
“Plan any way you like, Mr. Loft,” Kinney said, almost cheerily, “we
have enough data now to go ahead with.”
“Hold on,” Angel cried out, “are you sure of this tale you tell, Mr.
Kinney? Don’t let him ‘go ahead,’ Val, until we check up on this thing.”
“No necessity for that, Mr. Baldwin. The agent we sent to Reno is
a capable and experienced man. He would not send that definite
information unless he was certain it was true. And, you must admit the
circumstances all go to prove it. Here’s the divorced wife of Hugh
Curran--”
“Mr. Kinney, will you leave this room before I put you out?” Loft’s
face was menacing, his tone was desperate.
“Why, yes, Mr. Loft, I’ll go. But I’m counting on finding you here
when I want you. Your heroics are well done,--but, I’m not so sure you
didn’t know all this before, and--”
Loft suddenly jumped from his chair, his eyes blazing, and Kinney,
really frightened at his approach, fled from the room.
“Angel, what does it mean?” and Valentine Loft looked despairingly at
his friend.
“I don’t know, Val, but it must be true. As Kinney says, such detailed
and authentic information must be a statement of facts.”
Loft looked up quickly, sensing a certain lack of sympathy in Baldwin’s
voice.
“That will do, Angel,” he said, coldly, “and forgive me if I ask you to
leave me alone for a bit. I’ve a lot to think out.”
Without a word, Baldwin rose, and Loft added:
“I suppose Kinney will spread the news broadcast. That can’t be helped.
Do all you can for me, Angel.”
“Sure,” said Bob, and went on out.
Then Valentine Loft faced the situation.
At first, his mind refused to work at all. His brain was stunned,
dazed, from the knowledge that had come to him.
His abhorrence of divorce was so strong,--so deep-seated in his nature,
that the mere idea of connecting it with Pauline was almost impossible.
Pauline,--his Pauly,--a divorced woman! And from Hugh Curran! It was
incredible,--it was almost laughable! There was some mistake, of
course. Another Pauline Fuller,--yes, that must be it. He would prove
it,--he vowed he would prove it. That satisfied, smirking detective
should eat his own words!
Loft paced up and down the room, his strides increasing in length as
his mind worked itself up into a fury against the man who had dared
pretend that married Pauline Fuller was his Pauly!
But rushing thoughts surged through his brain. Curiously, one of the
first was the expression on Hugh Curran’s face as he said to Pauline on
that dreadful evening, “Are you, too, untidy about your bureau drawers,
Miss Fuller?” or some such thing as that. Who but a man who had been
a woman’s husband would think of saying such a thing? Her husband!
Pauline’s husband!
Loft tore up and down the library, his brain seething, his hands
clenched and his face crimson with rushing blood.
It could not be! His adored, his darling, never could have been the
wife of any man! She was pledged to him,--all her sweet, girlish beauty
was his own,--Curran!--divorced!
He dropped into a chair, exhausted. Slowly his face paled to a chalky
white as his brain began to realize--to straighten things out, and to
face the appalling truth.
It must be faced. He must understand that his Pauline had been the wife
of Hugh Curran,--that she had been divorced,--and--that she had kept
these facts from him.
He knew better than to doubt the truth of it all. He knew there was not
the slightest hope of a mistake,--not the tiniest loophole of escape
from the facts. He knew that he had to meet the situation, grapple it,
wrestle with it,--and throw it,--or, be thrown!
He faced it. And as his thoughts ran riot, a dozen hints or memories
came to help prove the case.
That “Rosalie” business. Miss Hetty had said that Curran called his
wife Rosalie or Rosy,--though that was not her name. A nickname or pet
name, then, for Pauline,--perhaps because of the rosy cheeks she had
had then.
Then! Nowadays, her cheeks were always pale,--so that she indulged in a
touch of rouge, sometimes.
And that evening, Curran had said: “_Rosalie_,--does that mean
anything to any one here?”
And Pauline had moved restlessly,--he had seen it. And when Curran came
in that day,--Pauline had let the cup she was filling overflow on the
table.
Still,--Pauline had told him,--her clear eyes looking into his own,
that she never had seen Hugh Curran before.
Ah,--his quick wits understood that. She never had. The man she had
known was Hugh Dwyer. Curran was a new name to her.
Thinking deeply, Loft decided that Pauline did not know who Curran was
until he arrived at the house.
Few knew the novelist’s real name, and Loft remembered how he had
jestingly described Curran’s appearance in any way but the real one.
Then, too, if Pauly didn’t know that Dwyer had changed his name and
had become an author, of course, she had no reason to suspect that the
invited celebrity would turn out to be her--
Every time Loft’s train of thought led him back to the awful
truth,--and every time he was crushed and broken anew.
It was bad enough that Pauline had been married,--it was worse, in his
eyes, that she had been divorced,--but--she had deceived him about it.
And, so,--when Curran came that day, she recognized him,--and forgot
what she was pouring--and--oh, yes, he asked her to walk in the
garden--alone with him. Oh, yes,--so he did.
And he had said “Rosalie,”--playing with her, as a cat with a mouse.
And he had flashed his watch open, that she might see the picture. And
she did. Oh, yes.
And then--she had gone to his room,--that night--after two
o’clock--well,--she had a right to--or, didn’t she?
His brain raced on. She had gone to his room,--to ask for the
picture,--and he--probably refused,--and then--she--his brain
was working automatically now, quite independent of his mind or
heart,--and then she killed him--why, of course Pauly killed him, she
was the one who had advocated poison from the start.
And then she took the watch and went back to her room and hid the
watch, and that meddling detective had hunted it out!
Confound him, why couldn’t he leave Pauly alone?
Quite calm now, Loft went across the room to where a large
silver-framed photograph of Pauline stood on a table.
He picked it up and gazed at it with a loving reverence.
“My darling,” he said softly, “my blessed little girl, you are mine,
and I love you--more than ever. Why did you run away from me? Didn’t
you know, dear heart, there is nothing I wouldn’t forgive you? Nothing!
Don’t you know what that means? It means you can deceive me, you can
commit crime, you can do anything,--and you are still my own, my Best
Beloved.
“That’s what love means, dear. It isn’t love if it dies or even wanes
because of--because of anything at all. Now, Sweetheart, my first task
is to find you,--my next,--to--to take care of you and protect you.
“Where are you, Pauline? How can I get word to you? I remember how
you looked,--how solemn, yes, sad, the day you told me that when you
sent me just the message, ‘Good-by,’ it would mean good-by forever.
But it doesn’t, Beloved, no, it does not! I know now what was in your
mind,--this horrid old Curran business. But,--oh, my Love, didn’t you
know I would forgive even that? Why didn’t you tell me all about it? It
was my own fault, though. I denounced divorce so strongly, you thought
your own pitiful little story would affect my love for you. Bless your
baby heart! Six years ago you were a mere school girl. You were dragged
into a marriage--well, I won’t try to imagine it. When I get you back
again, you shall tell me all about it while I hold you close and safe
in my arms.”
Loft laid his cheek against the picture for a moment and then set it
back in place.
“Now,” he said to himself, sitting down at the desk, “let’s tabulate
our procedures.”
“First, I must find Pauline before those fool detectives do. Next, I
must get the crowd here in the house all on Pauline’s side,--or they,
especially the women, will do a lot of harm. Next, I must get up some
theory of Curran’s death,--manufacture evidence if need be, to turn
suspicion away from Pauline,--for it’s bound to hit her sooner or
later. Miss Dwyer will be hard to manage, I daresay. Old Angel will
stand by me,--though he seemed pretty well shaken by Kinney’s story--”
And then Loft’s mind came back with a shock to realities.
It was all very well for him, while alone, to forgive Pauline, to
rhapsodize over her portrait and to smooth her way by reason of
his unalterable love,--but none of these things would help much in
regard to the fearful publicity and scandal that must follow on the
announcement of Kinney’s report.
Well, this certainly was no occasion for his motto of “Do nothing and
all will be done!” That principle would not work in this case. He must
plunge in and do it all himself.
Just what he was to do, he wasn’t quite sure. But he had to trust to
his own wisdom and judgment to meet each phase of the situation as it
presented itself, and, mentally girding his loins for battle, Loft
drew himself up proudly, and went out of the library to join the others.
He found them grouped on the terrace.
He was almost amused at the various attitudes with which they greeted
him.
Anna ran to him and impulsively threw her arms around his neck, crying,
“I’m always your friend, Val, through thick and thin!”
Even through his preoccupied thoughts there came to Loft a sudden
thought of how prone Anna was to take advantage of a situation which
would give her legitimate excuse to fling her arms around a man’s neck.
He gently disengaged the lovely arms, saying simply, “Thank you, Anna,
I felt sure I could bank on you,--on you all,” he added, looking around
at them.
Baldwin nodded, Knox gave an acquiescent smile, while Roly Mears
exclaimed, fervently, “You bet!”
The Countess said, very gravely, “I am your friend, Valentine,--and
Pauline’s.”
But Miss Hetty Dwyer was plainly antagonistic.
“You can hardly expect such protestations from me, Mr. Loft,” she said,
icily. “I am amazed to learn that Miss Fuller is my brother’s divorced
wife,--though I should not be. I should have suspected at once that his
reference to Rosalie was directed at her--”
“Why should it have been, Miss Dwyer?” Loft asked, quietly. “Why should
your brother want to tease or annoy the woman who had been his wife?”
“Because she was playing a part! Because she was passing herself off as
a girl, when she was a married woman,--a divorced woman! No discomfort
he could cause her, could deeply hurt such a callous, a perverted
nature--”
Valentine Loft interrupted her.
“Miss Dwyer,” he said, “I want to make a statement. Miss Pauline Fuller
is my fiancée, my deeply beloved bride-to-be. Nothing she has done,
nothing she ever may or can do can shake my faith in her or in the
slightest degree lessen my love for her. Now, then: no one under my
roof may make the least unpleasant allusion to her, or say the merest
word of reproach or unkindness. This understood, you are all welcome to
the hospitality of my home as long as you choose to stay here. I shall
be glad of your company, but I will not tolerate a word, a hint or a
look that is unfriendly to Pauline Fuller. Am I clear?”
“You are, Val, and I heartily stand by you,” declared Knox, and Baldwin
murmured, “Me, too.”
“But, Valentine,” Roly Mears exclaimed, “we’ve got to look into these
matters. We can’t just sit down and do nothing. And, who knows where
the investigation may lead?”
Loft smiled a little.
“Roly,” he said, “I’m not thinking of you. You go ahead with your
‘investigation,’ perhaps you’ll be of real help. Countess, where do you
stand?”
“At your side, Val. Count on me for love and sympathy with Pauline, and
you must forgive me if I go so far as to say, that I shall love her
just the same through good report and evil report.”
“Thank you, Countess, I take that exactly as I know you mean it. Now,
we are all in accord,--except, perhaps, Miss Dwyer.”
“Indeed you may except me,--I have no feelings in accord with those who
would protect the murderess of my brother. I have no sympathy for a
woman who could deceive the man who loved and trusted her, who could
pretend she was an unmarried woman, when--”
“I don’t think you need go over that again, Miss Dwyer,” Loft spoke
evenly; “will it not do if you merely say you do not care to stay with
us, and make your adieux?”
“I have no intention of doing anything of the sort, Mr. Loft,” the
spinster retorted. “I am here, and here I stay until the mystery of
my brother’s death is solved. Of course, if you ask me to leave your
house, I shall do so, but I shall stay in the vicinity.”
“You are welcome to stay in my house, Miss Dwyer, as long as it suits
your convenience, on the sole condition that you speak no word of
unpleasant import concerning Miss Fuller. You may think what you
choose, but I must insist that under my roof no hint of disparagement
of her shall be voiced. I have your promise?”
“Yes. When I feel that I can no longer hold my tongue, I shall go away.”
“Very well, then,” and Valentine Loft turned from the lady, as one who
has no further interest.
There was a somewhat embarrassing silence after that. Every one of his
guests was anxious to talk to Loft alone, but none seemed to care about
joining in a general conversation.
Moreover, no one knew exactly what to say.
But Loft gave no opportunity for desultory chatter.
“You fellows come with me, will you?” he said, and led the way back to
the library.
Baldwin, Knox and Roly Mears followed him, leaving the women to pursue
their own vocations.
“Now, here’s the situation,” Loft said, in his most business-like
manner, “Pauline is the divorced wife of Hugh Curran,--or Hugh Dwyer,
as he was then. She has run away because she thinks I would be so
shocked at the knowledge of this that I would care less for her. As a
matter of fact the knowledge in no way affects my attitude toward her,
and, naturally I want her to know that as soon as possible. But, with
all my desire to do so, I cannot find her at once. I hope to do so,
but I know it will be a difficult task. Now, meanwhile, the police,
with their widespread detective facilities, may succeed in finding her
before I can do so. They follow up a disappearance by means of their
scattered agents, and I am alone in my search?”
“Let me help you, Val,” said Mears, eagerly. “I can trace her--”
“All right, Roly, go ahead. But your success is, to say the least,
problematical; and I’m alarmed for another reason. To put it plainly,
boys, it is almost inevitable that Pauline should be suspected of
killing Hugh Curran. Kinney is sure of it, and if he can find her she
will be arrested at once. This you can all see is an imminent danger.
It must be averted. So, I propose to give myself up for the murder of
Curran.”
“You!” Baldwin stared at him.
“Yes. I say now to you all that I killed Hugh Curran that night.”
“The only trouble is,” Knox put in, “nobody will believe you.”
“That’s just it. And that’s where I count on you fellows to help me
out. If I go to the police and give myself up, they will say, ‘No, you
are merely doing that to shield Miss Fuller.’ So, I want one of you to
go to Kinney and tell him convincingly,--convincingly, mind you,--that
you suspect me. You can say my motive was to keep Miss Fuller’s secret
from becoming public property. Or say I killed him in a fit of jealous
rage,--we’ll make up the best and most plausible story we can,--but it
must be a good one. Who’ll do this? You, Angel?”
“No, Val, I can’t. Don’t ask me to. I’m no good at that wool-pulling
stunt,--I wish I could,--but, oh, hang it all, old man,--I just can’t!”
Angel’s blue eyes showed deep distress, and his face was drawn with
anxiety and apprehension. He averted his gaze from Loft, and said,
“It’s a fool plan,--you can’t put it over.”
Roly looked amazed.
“If you do put it over,” he said, “they’ll take you at your word,--and
hang you!”
“I doubt it,” Loft returned, “but I’ll take that chance. Will you do it
for me, Ned?”
“Not without thinking it over first. And, I say, Val, suppose you’re
arrested, and Pauline hears of it,--which, of course, she would, she’ll
come flying back to confess herself,--if she did it.”
“She never did it,” Loft said, stubbornly. “Get that in your heads, all
of you. But she’s going to be suspected--accused of it,--and I’ve got
to save her! I can’t think of any other way,--so, I _did_ do it.”
“How’d you work it?” Baldwin asked. “How’d you lock the door after you?”
“I had a sort of skeleton key, that turns the door key from the other
side.”
“Can’t be done.”
“I did it,” and Loft’s calm serenity made it almost seem as if he were
stating a fact instead of playing a rôle. “I’d ask you to do this thing
for me, Roly, but--well, I know you’d muff it. Angel or Ned could pull
it off,--but you couldn’t. You can help, though, corroborate, you know.”
“Oh, I can’t bring myself to try it on, Val,” Knox looked sorry.
“Really, old man, it wouldn’t carry through.”
“That’s my business,” and Loft set his lips stubbornly. “Well, if you
won’t, then I shall have to go and give myself up,--but I know it would
be twice as convincing if _you’d_ carry the message to Garcia. I
can vow I did it,--and--well, perhaps I can make it realistic enough to
fool those purblind police. So you all refuse?”
“I do,” Baldwin said, decidedly. “And I’m against it. You’ll get
nowhere,--and, have you thought of this? When the police hear your
confession, and know,--as they will,--that you’re inventing it to save
Pauline,--they’ll realize your fear of her guilt and they’ll be surer
than ever of it.”
Loft looked at him contemplatively.
“You don’t think Pauly did it, Bob?”
“I do not. But the police will be sure of it if you go in for that fool
quixotic scheme you propose.”
“I don’t know about that. I’ll mull it over some more and see. Roly,
sometimes you have brilliant ideas,--what do you suggest?”
“I’ll tell you what I suggest,” and Roly looked very earnest. “I know
you all think I’m awful young and don’t know anything about real
detecting. And I guess you’re right, I don’t. Not in a big thing like
this. But, I’m positively sure that there’s a greater mystery here
than we know about yet. And I know those dunder-headed police will
never find it out. So I propose, Val, that you get Fleming Stone, the
detective.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Well, he’s well known among people who have had reason to employ him.”
“One of those story-book detectives?” Angel asked, with a smile.
“Well, he’s deductive and all that,--but he’s got a lot of good sound
common sense, too. Anyway, he’ll find Pauline, and he’ll find out the
truth.”
“Do you want the truth found out, Val?” and Angel looked at Loft
closely.
“Yes, I do,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “Pauline never killed
that man,--but if she did,--there was good reason,--and she’ll be
exonerated. Mind you, I say she didn’t,--but I also say I’m ready to
face the truth,--and if she did,--she is still my Pauline.”
“Good for you,” cried Roly, “you’re the real thing, Val. Will you send
for Stone,--or shall I?”
“You can do it, Roly, if you will. But let me see him first when he
arrives.”