POSY MAY
“Well,” Keeley began, as we arranged ourselves comfortably on the
glass-enclosed porch and prepared for a confab, “our impulsive friend
here has gone and done it now!”
The two women gave me a quick look, and Lora, with her uncanny intuition,
said:
“When is the wedding, Gray?”
“As soon as it can be arranged,” I declared, stoutly, for I wasn’t going
to be secretive about this matter, anyway. “But don’t plan for it yet,
Lora, for the lady hasn’t by any means said yes. It’s only, so far, that
‘Barkis is willin’.’”
“It is serious,” Keeley said, slowly. “It’s all serious, and getting more
so every minute. I say, you’ll have to excuse me, I’ve got to go on an
errand.”
He rose hastily and gathering up his hat and coat, started off down the
road.
“Kee’s on the warpath for sure,” declared Lora. “What happened at
Whistling Reeds, Gray?”
“Nothing much—or, yes, I suppose there were developments. Better wait
till Kee comes back. He went over the house on a searching bout.”
“Did he find anything?”
“I don’t know, but I doubt if he found anything as important as I did.
You girls may as well know, first as last, I found—that is—I was
given—oh, pshaw, here it is—Alma asked me to destroy a book for her, and
it was a copy of that book that has in it the story of _The Nail_.”
“No!” cried Maud, aghast at the revelation. “Then——” She paused.
“Now, don’t jump at conclusions,” Lora begged, looking at me with the
utmost kindness, “To find that book there doesn’t necessarily point to
Alma. It may implicate that old harridan of a nurse or her caveman
husband. Far more likely than that cultured girl!”
I looked at her gratefully.
“Good for you, Lora,” I said. “Now I’m going to fight this thing to a
finish. I’m far from ready to admit that the book’s presence at that
house is a proof of anything; but of course, it must be investigated. The
worst part of it is that Alma asked me secretly to destroy it.”
“She would, if she is shielding either of those two caretakers of hers.
She is devoted to them, and I for one shouldn’t be at all surprised if
one or both of them did that murder. You see, they were afraid that the
marriage of Mr. Tracy would cut off the fortune from their beloved
mistress and so there’s motive enough.”
“But not a shred of evidence,” I said. “And the evidence against Alma is
simply piling up. The print of a shoe sole in the window sill shows
diamond-shaped dots, as you know, and Alma denied having any other
rubber-soled shoes. But, on the garden path there were distinct prints of
soles with diamond-shaped dots, and when Kee saw them, he drew my
attention. And besides,” in my despair I blurted out the whole story,
“Alma told me she had destroyed the shoes.”
“You poor boy,” and that blessed Lora patted my shoulder encouragingly,
as she flitted about, “don’t put too much weight on those facts. I begin
to see through it all. Alma was there, in that room—must have been—but
she was not the criminal. Nor did she cut up all those monkey tricks in
the bedroom. But these things must be sifted. Keeley will do it, once he
gets fairly started. That is, Gray, if you will help him. Do believe me,
when I tell you it is far better for you to be frank. Do you know, even
now, Kee thinks you’re holding out on him.”
“I certainly should have held out on that confounded book, if I’d had the
least idea he would sneak it away from me! Good Lord, Lora, you’ve been
in love—what would you have done if every man’s hand was against Kee and
you——”
“Hold on there, Gray, I love Kee now as much as I ever did! And I’m not
saying I wouldn’t lie or steal for him. But not if I were convinced that
honesty was the best plan. No matter what you know or what you may learn
against Alma, let Kee in on it, for that is the only way to prove her
innocence.”
“You haven’t any doubt of her innocence, have you, Gray?” Maud asked,
gently.
“No, Maudie, I haven’t. But there are such blatant, glaring bits of
evidence that seem to be against her, that I am afraid others won’t be
willing to sift them down, but will assume them to be proof positive of
her guilt.”
“But if she is shielding some one else, as she must be, surely detectives
like Keeley and Mr. March will see through it. Mr. March isn’t nearly as
keen as Keeley, but he’s nobody’s fool, and he can see through a
millstone with a hole in it.”
“She tries to take it all so lightly,” I went on, thinking aloud. “Keeley
made her say she left her fingerprints when she tried to raise that
window, and then he flung at her that it was raining all Tuesday
afternoon. And she only said: ‘Oh, well, then it must have been Monday.’
Now, that’s all right, and probably it was Monday, but March won’t be
satisfied with that. He’ll cross question her and bullyrag her until he
gets her so mixed up she won’t know where she’s at!”
“But, Gray,” Lora said, quietly, “have you realized that those
fingerprints are not such as would be made in an attempt to raise the
window? They are on the frame, not on the sash. They are obviously the
marks made by some one who stepped up on the window sill and sprang out
of the window. Kee is positive about this. He has examined them
minutely.”
“Then Heaven help Alma,” I groaned. “For they say they are her
fingerprints and her footprints and she admits that she had that Totem
thing in her mind. But it’s _too_ clear! It’s _too_ obvious! She never
killed her uncle, fixed up all that gimcrack business and then went in
the sitting room and jumped out of the window!”
“Stick to the things she evidently did do,” put in Maud. “She must have
stood on the sill and dived out of the window——”
“Not necessarily,” I stormed. “Even if she stepped up on the sill, say,
to open a window that stuck, that doesn’t say she jumped, nor does it
prove she killed her uncle.”
“Certainly not—hush, somebody is coming up the steps.”
The somebody proved to be Posy May, the pretty youngster whom I had seen
a few times already.
“Well, how goes it?” she demanded, dropping into a chair and curling her
feet under her, while I accommodated her with a cigarette and a light.
“How goes what?” asked Maud, who was not entirely in favour of the young
lady, being herself of the type that can’t quite understand the flapper
_motif_.
“Oh, the detective business in general. It intrigues me, you know. I
sometimes think I’ll take a correspondence course in Sherlocking.”
“What are you doing to-day?” Lora said, pleasantly. “Why aren’t you at
the McClellan’s tea?”
“Nixie on the switch! I like the subject I started better. And you
needn’t scorn me so. I could a tale unfold....”
Annoyed beyond measure by this impudent minx, I rose and sauntered toward
the house door.
But Lora had evidently caught a note of reality in the girl’s voice, for
she said, almost sharply, “What do you know, Posy? If you know anything
concerning the matter, it is your duty to tell of it.”
“I’d rather tell Mr. Moore,” she put on an air of importance. “He is at
the head of the investigation, I assume.”
Lora smiled, in spite of herself, at the chit’s manner, but she only
said, suavely:
“As a good wife, I am my husband’s helpmeet in all his business. And I
assure you it will be better to tell me and let me pass it on to him, for
he’s gone out, and I don’t know when he’ll get home again.”
“Do tell us,” Maud urged, helpfully. “We are all intrigued, as you say,
with the case, and your assistance might prove invaluable.”
The flattering glance that accompanied this speech seemed to win the day,
and Posy settled back in the big chair, sticking her feet out straight in
front of her.
“Well,” she said, smoothing down her brief and scant skirt, “you see, our
house is on down the lake, next below Whistling Reeds.”
Recognizing there was or might be something coming, I turned back, and
sat down again.
“So, of course, I can’t help seeing them about now and then, though I
don’t really rubber much—I don’t get time, as I’m busy on my own. And,
after all, there’s nothing to see, and if there was, you can’t see much
with all that wall of evergreens all round about.”
“If this is idle gossip, my dear——” Lora began.
“No, it’s—it’s information.”
Thoroughly enjoying the attention she was receiving, Posy prolonged the
situation by selecting and lighting a fresh cigarette. Having drawn one
puff, she turned it round and critically surveyed the lighted end, as is
the absurd habit of some people.
But each one of her hearers knew better than to interrupt by word or look
the possible continuance of her revelations.
“Now, what I have to tell, I’ve never breathed to a soul. I’m not sure
now that I ought to breathe it.”
She looked questioningly about, but we gave no aid or hindrance, knowing
the best plan was to let her alone.
Then she drew a long sigh, and let the whole story pour forth in a mad
rush of words.
“And it’s only one thing I saw, and one thing I heard. And I saw Alma
Remsen, out on the tennis court, in a perfectly fiendish rage, and she
was striking that old nurse person of hers and calling her the most
terrible names, and the man who takes care of the place came and carried
her into the house.”
“Carried the nurse?”
“No, of course not! Carried Alma into the house, and she was kicking and
fighting like mad. And the other time was when I was out on the lake and
I could see just the same sort of row going on, but I was too far to hear
what she said. But this time the man wasn’t about and the nurse managed
by herself to drag Alma into the house.”
“You’re sure what you are saying is true, Posy?” asked Lora, very gravely
and with an intent look at the girl.
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Moore, I’m sure, and the reason I’m telling you is because
I think that Alma isn’t—you know—isn’t quite right, sometimes. She
isn’t—exactly, all there. And then, except on these occasions, she is all
right, her own sweet, lovely self.”
“Do you know Alma well, Miss Posy?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. We come up here every summer, I’ve known her for five or six
years. She’s older than I am, we don’t go in the same set, but we meet at
fairs and tournaments and she’s always most chummy with me. Now, I know
you all think I’m telling this just to make a sensation and all that, but
it isn’t at all. I’ve thought it over a lot, and it seemed to be my duty.
You see, I’ve doped it out that she has spells—you know, epileptic, or
whatever they call it, and that they don’t come on often, but when they
do, she has no control over her passions. She becomes—oh, somebody else,
like—and she fights like a mad person. If you’d seen her go for Mr.
Merivale—wow! I don’t want to see it again!”
“I can’t help thinking you’re mistaken in your diagnosis, Miss May,” I
said, speaking indulgently, for I didn’t want her to flare up. “But I
think it’s far more likely the two occasions you speak of were just fits
of anger, unladylike, perhaps, even unjustifiable, but not the result of
a diseased mind or body.”
She looked at me with earnest eyes.
“You wouldn’t say that if you had seen her, Mr. Norris. She was mad—I
mean mad, in the sense of demented—I don’t mean just angry. Well, anyway,
I’ve told my story, now you can take it up. But I know, if you go there
and face that nurse down, she’ll have to admit there’s some such state of
things as I tell you of. She’d deny it to me, or to these ladies, but if
a man went there and made her tell the truth, you’d soon find out! That’s
why she had to be put out of her uncle’s house, when he decided to get a
wife in there. He couldn’t bring a wife to a home with a girl like that
in it. If it had not been for his approaching wedding, Mr. Tracy never
would have put Alma out.”
“Posy,” Lora spoke gently, “are you willing to keep this secret a while
longer? Are you willing to promise not to tell anybody about it until Mr.
Moore says you may? If you will do this, you may feel that you have been
of real help to us, but if you’re going to spread the story you will do
incalculable harm.”
“No, I won’t tell if you don’t want me to.”
“That’s a good girl and we certainly don’t want you to. Don’t even tell
Dick Hardy, will you?”
“Oh, gosh, no! He wouldn’t listen, anyway. He’s just my sheik, you know.
He and I don’t talk about anything serious.”
“You’re a funny youngster, Posy,” and Lora smiled kindly at her, “but I’m
going to trust your word in this thing. If you say you won’t tell, you
won’t, will you?”
“No, ma’am, I sure won’t. And, I don’t s’pose you can get me, but I
seemed to think the ends of justice couldn’t be served unless I coughed
up my yarn.”
“Oh, Posy, you funny kid!” said Maud, laughing outright.
But Posy didn’t smile, nor, indeed, did I.
After a few more words she went off, and as she ran round the corner of
the hedge I felt that doubtless she had dismissed the subject from her
addle-pated head.
For a few moments we sat, silently thinking over the story we had heard.
I broke the silence finally by saying, “It’s too circumstantial not to be
true.”
“Yes,” Lora agreed, “it’s true, right enough, but I can’t quite
understand.”
“Nothing hard to understand,” I argued. “Alma has a more uncontrollable
temper than I had any idea of. This doesn’t make me think she went so far
as to kill her uncle in one of her angry fits but I will say that the
matter must be looked into.”
“Kee will look into it,” Lora said, with one of her gentle smiles.
Kee’s wife was a good sort, and she always tried to make things easy and
pleasant for me. I knew, though, that she was thinking over this thing,
and I dreaded to learn whither her thoughts led her.
For I distinctly remembered Mrs. Dallas saying that Sampson Tracy had
wanted to tell her something about Alma, something unpleasant, she had
implied. What could it have been but this, that the girl had, at times,
an ungovernable temper?
For I was determined I would not believe that the trouble lay deeper than
that. That the sweet girl I adored had a flaw in her brain or a physical
disorder that meant impaired intellect in any way!
We ignored the subject by common consent, Lora, no doubt feeling that
since it must be discussed with Kee, there was small use mulling it over
beforehand.
And then, Kee returned.
He was full of some news of his own, so we listened to him first.
“It’s about that sound Ames heard,” he told us. “You know he said, after
several false starts, that it was like a stick drawn along a wall.
“Well, it occurred to me that, if it was anything at all, it might be the
murderer trailing along, with his hammer and nail in his hand, and if the
hall was dark, feeling along the walls and doors to guide him.”
“Rather far-fetched.” I smiled.
“Well, the only way to see about it was to look on the door of Ames’s
room and there, sure enough, was a long scratch, as if a nail or
something had been dragged along it. A distinct scratch, but only across
the door—at least, I could find no other such mark. So, me for the
Coroner’s office to look over the exhibits. And, if you please, with a
powerful lens, I discovered some minute particles of dark varnish in
under the head of that nail that played the principal part in our death
drama.”
“Seems incredible,” I murmured, and indeed it did.
“Yes, but true,” Kee averred. “And the brown varnish corresponds exactly
to the door of Ames’s room, all the doors in that wing, in fact.”
“Well, after all, what does it prove?” I asked, wearily, wondering what
new horror was to be divulged.
“Only premeditation. It proves that the murderer went to Tracy’s room,
passing by Ames’s room, carrying the nail with him, and presumably the
hammer. That’s all I can see in it, but it lends a bit of colour to
Maud’s idea that the story of _The Nail_ may have been responsible for
the whole thing.”
“Yes,” I said, holding myself together, “it does. But of course, even
though we found that book at the house on the Island, there are several
inmates of that house who may become suspect; also there is the
possibility that one of those inmates may have lent that book to anybody
in all Deep Lake.”
“Perfectly true, Gray,” and Keeley spoke almost casually. “That’s logical
enough. Now to find out who did or might have done that. It’s quite on
the cards that somebody in the Pleasure Dome household read that book and
used that method to do away with Tracy. It’s even possible that a rank
outsider did the same thing. But somebody did do it, and with that book
in the vicinity it’s only rational to assume the connection between the
suggestion and the deed.”
“Could it have been the work of a demented person?” asked Maud.
“Very easily,” Keeley said. “I’ve hoped all along some maniac would turn
up whom we could suspect. But none has, so far. Yes, it all has the
earmarks of the work of a distorted brain, I mean the feather duster and
all that tomfoolery. But I’ve not been able to find any trace of anybody
even slightly or temporarily demented.”
Well, then, of course, Posy May’s story had to be told to him.
Lora undertook the telling, and without any help from Maud or me, she
gave a clear and concise _résumé_ of Posy’s statements.
Kee listened, as always, thoughtfully and with deepest interest.
When she had finished, he turned to me and said, in what was intended for
a comforting manner:
“Take it easy, old man. The game’s never out till it’s played out. I’m
not at all of the opinion that the scenes the volatile Posy described
actually happened just as she described them. It may be Alma lost her
temper, lost it to such an extent that the Merivales, one and all, urged
her into the house. But make allowances for the source of that
information and remember that it may all have happened some time ago,
that Posy’s memory may be greatly stimulated by her imagination, and that
she is decidedly prone to exaggerate, anyway.”
My very drooping spirits revived and I plucked up a little hope. But I
had to know what Kee thought about the book.
“Do you feel sure, as Maud does, that the story in the book started the
whole thing?”
“As I said, a few moments ago, I do, at this moment, think there is some
connection, but I am quite willing to say, also, that it is, to my mind,
just as likely there is none.”
“Then why did Alma want the book destroyed?” I demanded.
“Because she thinks there _is_ a connection——”
My heart lightened.
“That,” I exclaimed, “proves you think her innocent.”
“I never said I didn’t think that. But thinking so is a far cry from
proving it. If you, Gray, could only bring yourself to tell me the
important bit of information you are holding out on me, I should know
better where we stand. I think, boy, the time has come—if you’re ever
going to tell—to tell now.”
I pondered. How could I tell them that I had seen Alma on the lake that
night? How could I put her dear head in the noose?—for it was nothing
less than that. I shook my head.
“There’s nothing, Kee,” I said.
“Don’t tell, if you don’t want to, Gray, but don’t think you can lie to
me successfully. You can’t.”
“But, Keeley,” I begged him, “granting I do know of a point that I
haven’t told you, and supposing it definitely incriminates the girl I
love, can you wonder that I want to withhold it?”
“You mean you _think_ it definitely incriminates her. You may well be
mistaken.”
“It doesn’t seem so to me.”
“And you propose to lock this important piece of information in your own
soul, away from us all, and let us go on, blindly floundering——”
“Do you suppose I care how blindly you flounder if you don’t suspect Alma
Remsen? Do you suppose I care that I’m accessory after the fact, and all
that, if I can keep her safe from suspicion?”
“But, Gray, if I can convince you that it’s wiser to let me know, and if
I promise not to utilize the information you give me, if it does prove
her guilty, what then?”
“If you give me your word of honour on that, I’ll tell.”
“Very well, word of honour.”
“Then,” I said, “I saw Alma Remsen in her canoe go to Pleasure Dome at
about half-past one that night her uncle died, and I saw—no, I heard, her
come back past here about half-past two.”
“How are you so sure of this?” Kee asked. “You didn’t know her then. That
was the very night you arrived here.”
“I know that. I was looking out of my bedroom window and saw the girl; it
was moonlight and I saw her distinctly. Then, next day when I saw Alma I
recognized her for the same girl.”
“And you didn’t see her return?”
“I heard her, but I was sleepy and didn’t get up to look out. It may not
have been she, of course, but it was a sound as of similar paddling.”
“I’m glad you told me,” Keeley said, but his face was sombre and his eyes
sad.