THE NEEDLE AGAIN
FLEMING STONE stood on the veranda waiting for the car which was to
take him to see Doctor Gilvray. Fibsy stood beside him, quiet of manner
but with his quick-darting eyes taking in everything about him.
Roly Mears approached the detective a little diffidently.
“Mr. Stone,” he said, “would you mind if I went with you to the
doctor’s?”
“Not at all, Mr. Mears, come along.”
Greatly pleased at Stone’s affability, and hoping to learn some of his
conclusions, Roly went along.
“I don’t want to be intrusive,” he said, on the way, “but have you come
to any decisions, Mr. Stone?”
“A difficult question to answer,” Stone said, smiling. “I’ve come to
several decisions, but to no conclusion.”
“I don’t know the difference,” Roly said, honestly, his face rather
blank.
“Well, then, I’ve decided that I must first find out what killed Mr.
Curran. That’s a decision, and I hope it will lead to a conclusion on
that subject.”
“But, we know it was prussic acid.”
“Yes, but I mean how administered, in what form and by what method!”
And then they were at the doctor’s, who received them in his private
office. He looked dubiously at Fibsy, but learning that he belonged
with Stone, he seemed satisfied.
“Now, Doctor Gilvray,” Stone said, as they discussed the case, “how
many ways are there of administering that particular poison?”
“It may be swallowed or it may be inserted into the flesh,” the doctor
returned. “In this case we have to assume swallowing, because a
distinct odor was noticed on the dead man’s lips. The absence of any
trace of poison in the stomach, merely proves that there was only a
minute quantity taken.”
“A minute quantity is enough to produce death?”
“Oh, yes,--the merest speck.”
“Instantaneously?”
“Practically so; an interval of a very few minutes might elapse before
the victim ceased to breathe.”
“Can you explain the fact that there were traces in the mouth but not
in the stomach,--even granting a minute portion of the acid?”
“No, Mr. Stone,--not to my own entire satisfaction. I can only say it
was the poison that caused Mr. Curran’s death.”
“What is its exact action?”
“It is an active paralyzant and exerts a lethal influence over every
part of the body. The nervous system, heart, respiratory organs,
brain, and all vital parts are killed at once. The victim dies, with a
gasp. For an instant the face is convulsed, the eyes wide open, teeth
clenched,--all these symptoms were present in Mr. Curran’s case.”
“How are you so certain there was no poison in the stomach?”
“Because at an autopsy, in such cases, there is a fleeting but
unmistakable odor of bitter almonds when the body is opened. There was
none,--of that I am positive.”
“Haven’t you omitted the suggestion that the poison might have been
taken by inhalation--of fumes?”
“It may be so taken, but as there was no evidence of any such
possibility, I elided it.”
“Yet there was no evidence of the presence of the poison in powder or
in liquid form.”
“True.” Doctor Gilvray looked so puzzled and distressed that Stone
ceased to question him. The old physician was clearly at his wits’ end
to account for the circumstances of the case.
“You know,” Roly Mears said, “that night as Ned Knox passed the door
of Mr. Curran’s room, when Angel was in there with him, Ned heard them
saying something about a needle. I’ve thought it might have been a
hypodermic needle,--maybe Curran had suicidal intent and maybe Bob was
trying to dissuade him.”
Stone looked up quickly.
“More likely,” he said, “if they really were talking of a hypodermic
needle, or, of poisoning at all, more likely they were still discussing
Curran’s detective stories. We have no suspicions of Mr. Baldwin,
have we? And, too, if he planned to kill Mr. Curran by means of a
hypodermic, he would scarcely be chatting it over with him. Do you
remember what Mr. Knox overheard, exactly?”
“No,” Roly said, “but it was about the needle. The needle was the point
at issue, of that Knox is certain. I’ve talked to him a lot about it.
He gathered that Curran had the needle himself.”
“And that Mr. Baldwin wanted it?”
“I don’t know about that. You see, Ned thought nothing of it, except
that a needle was a queer thing to be discussing so earnestly.”
“Were the men angry?”
“Not at all, Knox says. But Curran was talking loudly, and Angel was
not.”
“Well, I can’t see how Mr. Curran could have been killed by a
hypodermic needle at that early hour, since he was seen alive later, by
Mrs. Knox, by the maid, Tessie, and,--as we are told,--by Miss Fuller.
By that time, Mr. Baldwin was tucked away in Mr. Loft’s bedroom.”
“Much as I hate to say so, I can’t see any real suspect but Miss
Fuller,” Doctor Gilvray said, and his sad face told how he grieved at
the thought.
“It looks that way, but I will not believe it,” Mears declared.
“If it looks that way, we must look that way,” Stone said, gravely.
“And p’raps,” Fibsy said, “if _we_ look that way, maybe we can
stop _its_ looking that way.”
“Perhaps,” Stone agreed. “And, now, Doctor Gilvray, it will be
necessary that I shall see the body of Mr. Curran. Can you arrange that
for me?”
“Yes,--Mr. Stone,--” the doctor hesitated, “if you are sure it is
necessary.”
“I am sure,” Stone said. “Otherwise, I can never arrive at the truth of
this thing. No disparagement whatever, Doctor, to your report of the
autopsy,--that is clear and correct. But I must examine that body.”
“Very well,” the doctor replied, and promised to make the desired
arrangements.
Returning to Valhalla, Fleming Stone asked for an interview with Loft,
in which he inquired very definitely concerning the knowledge and the
discoveries Loft might have made of Miss Fuller’s present abiding place.
“I have no knowledge whatever,” Loft said, dismally. “I am utterly at a
loss to imagine where she is, but, knowing her as I do, I am sure she
is safely hidden from detectives or from myself.”
“It’s not easy to hide so completely,” Stone said.
“No; but it’s possible,” Loft returned. “You must know, yourself,
Mr. Stone, that a man mightn’t do it, but a woman can retire to some
inconspicuous spot, and remain there undiscovered for a long time.”
“That’s true,” Stone said; “but how does Miss Fuller get money,--how
get in touch with her aunt, if necessary,--in a word, how does she
communicate with the outside world?”
“She doesn’t,” Loft replied, gloomily. “You see, Miss Fuller has a
wide circle of devoted friends. I could name half a dozen who would
willingly, gladly give her sanctuary, no matter what she may have
done. These friends would be wise enough and clever enough to keep
her presence safely hidden from any prying detectives or inquisitors.
It would not be so difficult. Imagine a large country house, with
lots of guests coming and going,--or, better, imagine a small country
home, on the outskirts, say, of some tiny village, or farther out in
the country. Granted a determined hostess, Miss Fuller could be an
unsuspected guest, indefinitely. At any rate, Mr. Stone, I am positive
that is where Miss Fuller is,--at some such place.”
“You’ve tried to communicate with her?”
“I have sent letters to her in care of five such homes as I’ve just
mentioned, but they were all returned with the statement that she was
not there. But that doesn’t shake my belief. Either the people were
untruthful, out of loyalty to her, or she is at some other place.”
Fibsy looked deeply thoughtful.
“Do you think she may be in some farmhouse, or some small house in the
country, Mr. Loft?” he asked earnestly.
“It may well be,” Loft replied. “That’s where I picture her. But I
shall write no more letters, she will not let them be answered.”
“And you can get no information from Miss Fuller’s home in New York?”
Stone asked.
“No. You see, Miss Fuller is very much alone in the world. Her aunt
who lives with her in her city home, is a nervous invalid, and pays
no attention to her niece’s comings or goings. I have learned that
she thinks Miss Fuller is still here, and I have not undeceived her.
I have found out, too, that Miss Fuller’s lawyer does not know where
she is,--that is, he says he doesn’t,--and her bankers profess the
same ignorance. Now, it’s quite possible that these people do know,
but deny the knowledge, holding it as a business secret. At any rate,
I cannot find out. You see, Miss Fuller can get money from her friends
without trouble.”
“As you put it, the whole affair is plausible enough from the very fact
that it is so casual,” Stone said, after a moment’s thought. “True,
a man,--especially a business man,--would find it difficult to drop
out of existence, but a woman,--and a desperate woman, can do many
seemingly impossible things.”
“Say, Mr. Loft,” Fibsy put in, “you think maybe Miss Fuller is at a
farmhouse,--where?”
“Probably up in Connecticut,--or Massachusetts. She has many friends
in all parts of the Berkshire regions. Also in New Jersey. And in the
Southern States,--but I think she is not very far away.”
“You’re basing your assumptions on your intimate knowledge of Miss
Fuller’s mind?” Stone asked.
“Exactly that,” Loft replied. “I know her indomitable will, I know that
she has disappeared without a word; she proposes to stay hidden, but I
also know, Mr. Stone, that she never killed that man!”
“I wish your conviction were positive proof,” Stone said, gravely.
“I wish so, too,” Loft agreed. “But I can’t expect those who do not
know Miss Fuller as I do, to realize the depths of her nature. I
appreciate, Mr. Stone, as you cannot, the motives that led to her
deception of myself. It was, primarily my own fault. I had no right
to be so arbitrary in my denunciation of divorce. It was, I see now,
merely a whim of mine, and had I not given way to it, Pauline might
have confessed all to me. I am thus frank with you, because I want you
to understand the situation perfectly.”
“I think I do, Mr. Loft,” Stone spoke sympathetically.
“I know I do,” Fibsy said, eagerly,--“and what’s more, Mr. Loft, I have
a notion I can find Miss Fuller for you.”
“Good boy!” Loft said, in a kindly way, but in a tone which showed
clearly he had small hope of Fibsy’s making good his promise.
But the boy wagged his head sagaciously, and Stone could see that some
ingenious scheme had sprouted in his fertile brain.
“What’s the big idea, Fibs?” he asked, when the two were later alone in
Stone’s room.
“I haven’t quite doped it out yet, Mr. Stone,” and Fibsy’s blue eyes
looked deep with anxiety. “But I have a glimmering of a notion--aw,
shucks,--wait till I give it another think, then I’ll tell you.”
“All right, McGuire. Now, how about giving Mr. Curran’s room a sweeping
glance?”
“Let’s,” and the boy jumped up readily.
So to the locked room the two went, and Stone producing the key Loft
had given him, they went in and locked the door behind them.
“Very few feathers left around,” Stone said, somewhat chagrined at the
slight effect of personal occupancy the room presented.
“Mr. Loft said nothing has been touched,” Fibsy reminded him. “Surely
you can find something indicative, F. S.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Stone scanned in turn each article of furniture, the walls, the floor,
the window sills and door frames.
“Not much,” he concluded. “How about the waste-basket,--turn it out,
Fibs.”
On an outspread newspaper, Fibsy emptied the basket.
Attentively the detective scanned the motley array of rubbish.
“Most wastebaskets speak louder than this one,” he said, grimly. “Can
you hear anything, Fibs?”
“Nope,” and the boy looked hopelessly at some torn papers, some bits of
string, some lead pencil shavings, an empty cigarette box, an empty box
that had evidently held digestive tablets, a wooden toothpick, a quill
toothpick, a torn toothpick paper, a few burnt matches, and an old
envelope or two.
Nearly all these things were duplicated on the floor of the room,
proving a most careless occupant, and also proving, that as Loft had
said, nothing had been disturbed.
“That medicine box might have held the poison,” Fibsy said,
half-heartedly, “but it doesn’t look that way to me.”
“No;” and Stone smelled of the pasteboard carton. “I doubt it.”
But he picked out two or three of the articles from the waste-basket
rubbish and put them in his note-book for future study.
“You see, the windows are fastened securely, with six-inch openings for
ventilation,” Fibsy remarked, and Stone said, “Yes,” disinterestedly.
“And, I say, F. Stone, this door, if locked, never could be opened from
the outside,--you can see that.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“Then how in the name of Emile Gaboriau did the murderer get in and
out?”
“Be more meticulous, Terence. You mean how did he get out? He could get
in easily enough.”
“Curran let him in?”
“Surely.”
“And then he accomplished his fell purpose?”
“He did.”
“And then, how did he get out?”
“Curran let him out.”
“While he was dead?”
“No,--alive.”
“But, the doctor said his death was instantaneous.”
“Yes,--oh, hush up, Fibsy! This is a wonderful case! But I can’t be
certain about it until I have seen the body of Hugh Curran.”
“Say, F. Stone, it wasn’t the Pauline lady,--was it?”
“It may have been,--so far we’ve found no one else with a motive.”
“Oh,--I can’t believe it--that lovely lady!”
“McGuire, you’ll never make a detective unless you are willing to seek
the woman. If you start out on the premise of a man miscreant always,
you’ll get nowhere,--you’ll get sadly left.”
“Well,--I’m starting out this trip with the premise that Miss Fuller is
as innocent as they make ’em, and therefore I’m going to produce her
and let her state her innocence for herself. She can put up the goods.”
“Just how are you going to find her, Fibs?”
And then, in a few words, McGuire detailed his plan.
“Good enough in theory,” was Stone’s comment, “but extremely dubious in
practice. However, go ahead,--if Loft agrees.”
And then Stone was called downstairs to meet Detective Kinney who
greatly desired to see him.
Fibsy went along, his head full of his own scheme of things.
So engrossed was he in his plans, that he paid little attention to the
conversation between Stone and the local detective.
When at last he listened in, as he would have called it, Kinney was
saying:
“Yes, sir, we have followed up many clues, which though promising at
first, led nowhere. But--”
“I’ll finish for you,” said Fibsy, saucily, “but you feel sure now, you
are working in the right direction and will soon be in full possession
of the facts. You are not at present ready to announce your decision,
but expect soon to make public some interesting disclosures.”
Kinney was furious, as this was just about what he had meant to say. He
gave Fibsy a withering glance, which that young hopeful received with a
knowing wink.
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Kinney,” he said, “you’re pretty sure, aren’t
you, that Miss Fuller is concerned in this matter--this crime, I mean.”
“I am sure of that!” Kinney exclaimed, “and if I could get hold of
her--”
“I’m going to find her,” McGuire said, calmly, “and then she and I
will prove to you that she is utterly and entirely innocent.”
“Ah, and who is the guilty person, may I ask?”
“You may ask and you may answer. I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Behave yourself, Terence,” Stone admonished him, and seeing no chance
of more fun at the expense of Detective Kinney, Fibsy wandered away.
He went in search of Tessie, with whom he had already made friends.
“Tell me something, sweetie,” he said, with a cherubic smile, “tell
your little Fibsy something, will you?”
“Go along with you,--you, and your foolishness,” and Tessie
involuntarily smiled back at the impudent chap.
“No, seriously, now. Tell me what sort of clothes and things Miss
Fuller took when she went away that day.”
“Why, she took no clothes at all,--no dresses or hats. I mean she took
what we call an overnight bag,--only her night things, and brushes and
such.”
“Yes,--but I mean did she take her best night things,--as if she was
going to a swell party?”
“Why--let me see. No, as I remember, she took rather her plainer
things,--no boudoir cap and only a simple kimono,--no fancy negglegy.”
“Yes,” and the red head nodded with satisfaction. “Say, like she was
going to see some friend who wasn’t one of the tip-top upper crust?”
“Well, yes, you might put it so.”
“And, say, Tessie,--oh, now do try! Can’t you think of something she
said that would give the leastest, tiniest hint of where she was going?”
“No, I can’t,” but urged by the earnestness of her interlocutor, Tessie
thought hard.
Finally she said, “There’s just one thing; in the car, on the way to
the station, I caught sight of a New York Central time table in Miss
Fuller’s bag--the Harlem Division--”
“Oh, you duck! you daisy!” and Fibsy grabbed the girl in his arms, and
made her dance a two-step while he whistled a lively tune.
“Behave yourself, you young rascal,” Tessie cried, as she shook him
off. “I’ll not stand for such goings on!”
“You needn’t,” he cried, “I’m going off--way off!”
He ran away and presented himself at the door of the library, where
Loft still sat at his desk.
“Mr. Loft,” he said, respectfully, “may I have a talk with you?”
“Come in,” Loft said, his attention arrested by something in Fibsy’s
tone.
“I think I may be able to locate Miss Fuller, sir,” he said, a little
embarrassed as he felt Loft’s grave gaze fixed on his face.
“Just how?” and Loft spoke kindly.
“I’d rather not tell you,” Fibsy replied. “I know that sounds queer,
sir, but Mr. Stone, he knows, and he can tell you if he chooses. But it
would sound to you like a wild goose chase,--and yet,--Mr. Loft,--wild
geese have been caught.”
Fibsy did not smile, and his look was so beseeching Loft listened with
interest.
“Yes, McGuire, they have. Well, what can I do in the matter?”
“Just this, sir. Will you give me some message, which, if Miss Fuller
hears it, she’ll know that you want her to come back. I mean some sort
of blind message,--that only she will understand,--but that she can
make no mistake about.”
“H’m,--I see. Well, tell her--tell her--there’s a Valentine waiting for
Pauline. How’s that?”
“Fine! Splendid. Now, is there any other word,--any phrase that is sort
of a by-word--sort of a secret between you two?”
“Why, yes, we had many of them. Tell her, for instance: ‘The Portuguese
are the people!’ She’d understand _that_ was a message from me.”
“Very well, sir,” Fibsy jotted the lines down in his note-book with
painstaking care. “Now, will you give me five hundred dollars to spend
on this thing? It’s a lot of money, but I feel sure it will give you
back your lady.”
“You are a most extraordinary youth!” Loft said, “but I’ll chance it.
Here is your money. Where are you going?”
“To Springfield, Mass.,” said Fibsy.