FIBSY MEETS A COUNTESS
AS the car rolled smoothly up the long drive through the tree-shaded
lawns of Valhalla, Fleming Stone and his able assistant, young McGuire,
gazed in silent admiration at the beautiful well-kept place.
“When I have made my world-wide reputation, F. Stone,” the boy said,
“and have solved my last case, I shall retire on my income and live in
just such a place as this.”
“Last week you planned a castle on the Palisades,--and the month
before, you thought you’d like a California villa.”
“All off,--this is the sort of thing for an American gentleman,--which
I shall be by then.”
Stone forbore to smile at the freckled-faced, red-haired lad in the
rôle of a country gentleman, but he gave him a sympathizing look and
said, “I hope you’ll realize some one of your air castles, Fibsy.”
“Yessir. What do you know about this present disturbance, F. Stone?” he
asked, as they came in sight of the house.
“Only the main facts. But it’s the always interesting question of the
victim in a locked room----”
“And a beautiful lady. When I’m in this business for myself, F. S., I
shall take only cases that include the beautiful lady.”
“But in this case, the lady has disappeared.”
“That’s the beauty of it. I shall have the pleasure of finding her.
Won’t that be nice?”
“Very nice, Terence, and I hope you may do so. To me this whole case is
a bit serious.”
“Then it is to me, too, F. Stone,” and the freckled face at once became
grave.
Terence McGuire was Irish, and therefore possessed of quick wits and
a warm heart. Both these attributes were dedicated to the service of
Fleming Stone, and as the years went by, Stone depended more and more
on his young assistant, who was rapidly becoming a colleague.
When taking a case, Stone acquainted himself, if possible, with the
principal facts and conditions, but kept an open mind as to deductions
therefrom, until he could see and hear details on the scene itself.
The pair were received in the library by Valentine Loft alone.
“The case is a peculiar one, Mr. Stone,” he opened the subject; “and
I’m not sure you will want to conduct it as I wish. If not, just say
so. I am employing you,--your reports are due to me only. While in no
conflict with the police, at the same time I do not propose to take
them into my confidence unless I choose to do so.”
“May I anticipate your intentions, Mr. Loft, by asking if yours is not
the attitude of one who wishes my services in so far as they result in
accordance with your desires,--and,--no further?”
Loft was a little taken aback at this perspicacity, but he said,
frankly, “that is not far from the truth, Mr. Stone. But I hope,--I am
trusting that there will be no conflict between your discoveries and my
inclinations.”
“Put it more plainly,” Stone said, briefly.
“Very well. My fiancée, Miss Pauline Fuller, has disappeared. This fact
has caused the police to suspect her of the murder of Mr. Curran. You
know the circumstances of his death?”
“Yes, in the main. Go on.”
“Miss Fuller has been proved to be the divorced wife of Mr. Curran,
and, the police assume, she killed him in order to protect her secret,
or because of some unknown reason connected with their married life.
I’m speaking very plainly, for I want to insist that there shall be no
secrets between you and me. Now, here’s my position. If Miss Fuller is
innocent, I want it proved. If she is guilty, I want the fact concealed
and her innocence falsely proved. Do you see?”
“I see.”
“This proposal could not be made to a guardian of the law, a dispenser
of justice,--but a detective is not necessarily that. It is not only
to find out the truth that I ask you, it is to prove to the public the
innocence of Miss Fuller, whether she be innocent or not.”
“Is she innocent?”
“I believe she is,--but, of course, I should believe that, unless she
herself should tell me the contrary. But do your very best to prove her
innocent, and if you cannot do so, then do your very best to cover her
guilt from the public eyes.”
“I suppose you know you are asking me to compound a felony.”
“You are entirely at liberty to refuse to take the case at all.”
“But I shall take it, Mr. Loft, and I am taking it because I want to
discover the truth for myself. I certainly cannot promise to conceal
the fact, if I find Miss Fuller guilty, but I will agree to tell you
first,--and you may take what steps you choose.”
“And you?”
“I shall be guided entirely by circumstances. I bind myself by no
promises,--but I think I shall not disappoint you. There may be other
directions in which I look than toward Miss Fuller. The case seems to
me to present a number of angles.”
“Is there any one you suspect, Mr. Loft?”
The question came from Fibsy, who sat, looking earnestly at the master
of the house.
Loft looked at the lad a little surprised, for he had thought him a
mere clerical assistant of the detective, or, perhaps, errand boy.
But the clear gaze of the blue eyes held his attention, and Loft
replied, thoughtfully, “No, I can’t say that I have. You see, no one I
know could have any motive,--that I can think of. So, I think--I hope,
the murderer was some one I never heard of. Of course, Curran was a
stranger to us all--except Miss Fuller.”
The pain that showed in Loft’s eyes was so poignant that Fibsy turned
away his head. The boy was sympathetic to a degree, and he vowed to
himself that he would work hard on the case and do all he could in
Loft’s interests, whatever the result.
“Well, Mr. Loft,” Stone finally summed up, after some few general
questions, “I will begin my investigations at once. I’ve no wish to
work incognito or to keep my presence here a secret, as I sometimes
have occasion to do. I’d like to mingle with your household, chat with
the guests, interview the servants, discuss matters with the local
police,--if they are willing,--and generally inform myself on the
situation, making what deductions I may as I go along.”
Stone looked so capable, so efficient, that Loft felt encouraged.
“Very well, Mr. Stone,” he agreed. “I’ll have you and Mr. McGuire shown
to your rooms, and as soon as you like, we will call a conclave of the
people.”
“Are all here who were here at the time of Mr. Curran’s death?”
“No; three have left. But I think you may feel sure they were in no
way connected with the crime.”
“If it was a crime,” Stone added, “may it not have been an accident?”
Loft’s face brightened. “We’ve never thought of that,” he cried. “We’ve
discussed suicide and murder, but accident never occurred to us.”
“Can it,” said Fibsy, seriously. “It couldn’t have been accident.
Where’d the poison come from for accidental use?”
Loft’s face fell. Already he had come to look on the boy’s opinions
with thoughtful attention. It mattered not to him that McGuire was a
young, half-grown chap, or that his words were not chosen from the most
elegant English. There was something in Fibsy’s face and manner that
appealed to Valentine Loft’s sense of reality, and he readily listened
when the boy talked. And so, his quick turndown of the accident theory
made Loft see at once that it really was untenable.
Stone and Fibsy were given adjoining rooms, and as they had rather a
long confab as soon as they were alone, it was luncheon time before
they saw Loft again.
Then introductions were general and the party adjourned to the
dining-room.
By experience in connection with Stone’s cases, Fibsy had learned the
principles of etiquette, at least, sufficiently to make a presentable
appearance at a well-ordered table.
He was about to take the chair Loft designated for him, when the
Countess exclaimed: “You funny boy! Come right over here by me. Roly,
you take that other seat.”
A glance at Stone, who nodded, and then Fibsy obediently went over and
seated himself beside the Countess.
He was quite alive to the fact that, for the first time in his life
he was seated next a titled person, and he greatly enjoyed it, though
outwardly careless of the honor.
“Why are you called Fibsy?” the Countess inquired bluntly.
“Because I tell fibs, madam,” he returned, wondering if he ought to
say, “Your Grace,” and concluding to ask Stone about it later.
“Indeed! And why do you tell fibs?”
“Because of necessity, madam; I only tell them when it is best and
wisest to do so.”
“You seem to be a remarkable child!”
“Yes, madam,--I am.”
“And conceited!”
“No, if you please. The remarkable thing about me is that I have gained
the friendship of Mr. Fleming Stone,--and that I am able to make myself
useful to him.”
“You are fond of him?”
“Oh, gee! yes! I beg your pardon, madam, but added to my untruthfulness
I am possessed of a sad addiction to slang phrases.”
“You are simply delicious!” the Countess exclaimed; “I’ve never met any
one more refreshing!”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Fibsy, and rolled his blue eyes at her so
comically that she shook with laughter.
Always quick to discern those who could be of help to him, especially
among the women, Fibsy had picked out the Countess and Anna Knox as
being the most promising.
Miss Dwyer he shrank from at once. Greatly alive to personalities,
Fibsy had no use for the spinster, he concluded.
Nor did she seem to have any for him. She glared at him as at an
intruder, and though she didn’t say outright that he had no right to be
at the family table, she hinted as much, and Loft was obliged to resent
it.
“I reserve the privilege of ordering my household appointments,” he
said, with a frowning glance at her, and she subsided, though not
without a scornful look at Fibsy.
After luncheon they gathered on the veranda, and Fleming Stone began at
once to ask questions.
His manner was grave, his speech cultured and refined, and his hearers
were all impressed with the kindness of his demeanor and the gentle
quality of his character.
Yet as his shrewd eyes roved from one face to another, Fleming Stone
gathered a good deal more than met the ear.
His inquiries brought out not only the facts as they were known, but
the interpretations the various minds put upon them.
Miss Dwyer was loquacious; and as she was, in a way, most concerned
with the dead man, Loft let her talk all she chose.
And it was in her account of the discussion of ways and means of murder
that Stone showed his first decided interest.
He asked over just which methods were selected by the different men,
and then Miss Dwyer said, spitefully, “and it was Miss Fuller herself
who chose poison as the medium!”
“That seems to be a point in her favor,” Stone said, thoughtfully. “I
should say if any one of the people who discussed the matter should
turn out to be the murderer, he or she would use a means other than the
one of which they, personally, expressed approval.”
“Exactly,” agreed Loft, delighted at any hint in favor of Pauline.
“After methods, let’s consider motives,” Stone went on, suavely, but
with a carefully veiled scrutiny of the faces before him.
Fibsy, too, under cover of a disinterested nonchalance was taking his
cue from Stone, and watching the countenances of all present.
“I can’t imagine any motive on the part of any one present,” Loft
declared, “unless it be myself. You might say, that if I knew or
suspected Curran’s previous relationship to--to Miss Fuller, I might
have killed him in a fit of angry passion.”
“However, we know you didn’t,” Ned Knox said, “so why waste time on
that?”
“I’m not so sure he didn’t,” Miss Dwyer said, with asperity. “To me
it seems quite possible that Mr. Loft did know about it and perhaps
surprised the pair together in Mr. Curran’s room, and so he killed him.”
“There seems to have been little or no opportunity for that,” Stone
said. “As I see it, whoever killed Mr. Curran did so in a most clever
and ingenious way. To administer prussic acid, and leave no trace of
the method or manner of its administering, is to my mind the work of a
diabolically clever brain.”
“Yes, I agree to that,” said Angel, thoughtfully.
“But,” Stone went on, “I have a belief that the smarter the criminal
the easier he is to catch.”
“That’s a strange theory,” Knox said, surprised.
“But true. Your stupid dolt, who kills on an impulse, is often harder
to apprehend than the smart Aleck who takes pains to hide his clues.”
“And leave no feathers around,” put in Loft.
And as Stone looked inquiringly, he related the story of the negro and
the stolen chickens.
Fibsy laughed outright.
“That’s a good one,” he said. “Feathers left around! And F. Stone
can take those feathers and construct the whole bird,--just like the
Natural History guys do.”
“Next,” Stone went on, “what about alibis? Don’t think I’m accusing any
member of the household,--but I must check up your whereabouts that
night.”
He listened to their stories, and summed up thus:
“Then, Mr. and Mrs. Knox were in separate rooms, with a bathroom and
two closed doors between. Mr. and Mrs. Meredith were in one room. Miss
Lawrence, Miss Fuller and Countess Galaski, each in a room by herself.
Mr. Loft and Mr. Baldwin, in two adjoining rooms, only one of which,
Mr. Loft’s, opened on the hall. And Mr. Mears in a room alone. Now,
as you must see, with the possible exception of Mr. Baldwin and the
Merediths, no one has a real alibi. Any one could have gone into the
hall, into Mr. Curran’s room, and back again, without necessarily
arousing any one else.”
“Did any one see or hear any such occurrence?”
“I did,” said the Countess, “and I propose to tell of it, for it will
come out, and I can give the unvarnished truth. Others might exaggerate
or garble it. I saw Miss Fuller come out of Mr. Curran’s room that
night sometime after two o’clock. She carried with her something that
shone and glittered,--and which, I have no doubt, was Mr. Curran’s
watch,--with her picture in it. I am telling this because it seems
to be in Miss Fuller’s favor. She never killed that man! If she had
done so, she would, as Mr. Stone says, have used any means other than
poison. But she didn’t do it, because it is not in Pauline Fuller’s
nature to commit crime. And, too, why should she kill him? She was
divorced from him,--what had she to fear from him?”
“Countess,” Bob Baldwin said, “you think you are doing a wise thing
to talk like that of Pauline,--but I advise you to stop. We, who know
and love her, feel how impossible it is that she could have committed
crime,--but others,--strangers,--may not judge her so leniently or so
truly.”
“That’s so, Countess,” Loft said. He had been dumfounded by the
Countess’ speech, and he wished, uneasily, that she would stop talking
like that.
“Now, don’t be alarmed about Mr. Stone and me making any mistakes in
judging the lady in question,” Fibsy said, suddenly.
His eyes were shining, and his shock of red hair was rumpled where he
had unconsciously pulled at it, in his deep absorption in the recital
of the Countess.
“In fact,” Fibsy went on, “I may say, that I noted in Madam Countess’
story a pretty strong indication that Miss Fuller certainly did
_not_ kill Mr. Curran.”
“Bless you, boy!” the Countess exclaimed. “I wonder if you mean that.”
“Yes, I do,” Fibsy declared, “though I may be mistaken. We’re not
infallible,--F. Stone and me.”
“May I inquire, Mr. Stone,” said Miss Dwyer, acidly, “if that boy is
head of your firm, or if you are?”
“It isn’t a firm,” Stone returned, a quiet smile on his face. “McGuire
is my valued assistant, that is all. His quick wits and young eyes
sometimes discern things that I myself should not have noticed.”
“Oh, come now,” and Fibsy looked bashful, “that ain’t quite right. Only
I pick up now and then some feathers left around, that Mr. Stone hasn’t
time to stoop for.”
“You’re a darling!” the Countess cried, enthusiastically, “and I shall
leave you something in my will.”
“No time like the present,” murmured Fibsy, with a saucy glance that
delighted the old lady.
“At any rate, I shall address myself only to you, Mr. Stone,” Miss
Dwyer went on. “Have you any idea, as yet, who killed my brother? Do
you expect to find out? How soon do you expect to do so? Have you made
any real progress during this inquiry you have just been holding? Do
you really think that because these men talked over detective methods
or murder methods with my brother, who was a writer of such stories,
that there is the slightest reason to suspect one of them? Are you
really trying to solve the mystery of my brother’s death,--or, are you
only trying to exonerate from suspicion Miss Pauline Fuller--as she
calls herself?”
With difficulty Valentine Loft restrained his angry retort to this
harangue, but Stone had already taken the lead.
“Miss Dwyer,” he said, pleasantly, but with an undertone of sternness,
“I find it difficult to remember all your queries. But I will say that
I am searching for the truth and the truth only. I do not think that
because a man talks over methods of murder he is necessarily himself
a criminal. I have made real progress in my quest during this present
session, and while I have not yet a definite idea of the name of your
brother’s murderer, yet I have made steps toward that, by eliminating
one or two possible suspects. May I ask you in future to ask me
questions in smaller quantities at a time?”
“You’re a queer detective,” Miss Dwyer vouchsafed.
“You are,” Little Anna agreed. She had begun to feel less awe of Stone
and her innate desire to receive attention made it impossible to keep
silent longer. “I thought detectives asked a line of questions just as
fast as they could talk.”
“We do, sometimes,” Stone smiled at her. Few could help smiling at
Little Anna. “But a rightminded detective questions different people
differently. When I tackle the servants of this establishment, I shall
doubtless ask them a line of questions. But among us,--as equally
intelligent people, I prefer to get at what I want by desultory chat.
Besides, it’s pleasanter.”
“What were those things Mr. Curran said, when he pretended to be mind
reading?” Fibsy asked. “I heard you mention them at luncheon, but
didn’t get them all.”
“I’ll tell you,” said the Countess, beaming kindly on her new favorite.
“He told me that he could read in my mind that my shoes were too tight.
He was absolutely correct, but as my face was all screwed up with pain,
it didn’t show very desperate clairvoyant powers.”
“What else?” asked Fibsy, and Stone listened, too.
“Why, he spoke of _Rosalie_ and asked if it meant anything to
anybody. Of course, we know now, it meant a lot to Pauline,--poor
child. Then, Mr. Curran spoke of a _Mr. S._, who, of course, was
also some man of whom Pauline knew, and whom doubtless, she preferred
not to remember. As I see it now, he was merely baiting Pauline all the
while.”
“Yes?” said Stone. “Do you know who this _Mr. S._ could have been,
Miss Dwyer?”
“I do not. I haven’t the slightest idea. I suppose it was some man his
wife had--”
Stone interrupted her, and went on, placidly: “And, I am told, Mr.
Curran collected old and rare books?”
“Yes,” Loft replied, for Miss Dwyer was silently sulking. “Mr. Baldwin
here can tell you the details of that matter. He is a connoisseur.”
“Ah, yes; I collect some myself.” Stone smiled at Angel. “Perhaps we
can do a browse in the Loft library, Mr. Baldwin.”
“At your service,” said Bob, but he seemed disinterested, as he
oftenest was, when amateurs wanted to consult with him.
And then in his courteous way, Stone implied the confab was over for
the moment, and he went away to interview the servants.