Violet had gone to her room. She had a task before her. That afternoon,
a packet had been left at the door, which, from a certain letter
scribbled in one corner, she knew to be from her employer. The contents
of that packet must be read, and she had made herself comfortable with
the intention of setting to work at once. But ten o’clock struck and
then eleven before she could bring herself to give any attention to the
manuscript awaiting her perusal. In her present mood, a quiet sitting by
the fire, with her eyes upon the changeful flame, was preferable to the
study of any affair her employer might send her. Yet, because she was
conscious of the duty she thus openly neglected, she sat crouched over
her desk with her hand on the mysterious packet, the string of which,
however, she made no effort to loosen.
What was she thinking of?
We are not alone in our curiosity on this subject. Her brother Arthur,
coming unperceived into the room, gives tokens of a similar interest.
Never before had he seen her oblivious to an approaching step; and after
a momentary contemplation of her absorbed figure, so girlishly sweet
and yet so deeply intent, he advances to her side, and peering earnestly
into her face, observes with a seriousness quite unusual to him:
“Puss, you are looking worried,--not like yourself at all. I’ve noticed
it for some time. What’s up. Getting tired of the business?”
“No--not altogether--that is, it’s not that, if it’s anything. I’m not
sure that it’s anything. I--”
She had turned back to her desk and was pushing about the various
articles with which it was plentifully bespread; but this did not
hide the flush which had crept into her cheeks and even dyed the snowy
whiteness of her neck. Arthur’s astonishment at this evidence of
emotion was very great; but he said nothing, only watched her still more
closely, as with a light laugh she regained her self-possession, and
with the practical air of a philosopher uttered this trite remark:
“Everyone has his sober moments. I was only thinking--”
“Of some new case?”
“Not exactly.” The words came softly but with a touch of mingled humour
and gravity which made Arthur stare again.
“See here, Puss!” he cried. His tone had changed. “I’ve just come up
from the den. Father and I have had a row--a beastly row.”
“A row? You and father? Oh, Arthur, I don’t like that. Don’t quarrel
with father. Don’t, don’t. Some day he and I may have a serious
difference about what I am doing. Don’t let him feel that he has lost us
all.”
“That’s all right, Puss; but I’ve got to think of you a bit. I can’t
see you spoil all your good times with these police horrors and not
do something to help. To-morrow I begin life as a salesman in Clarke &
Stebbin’s. The salary is not great, but every little helps and I don’t
dislike the business. But father does. He had rather see me loafing
about town setting the fashions for fellows as idle as myself than soil
my hands with handling merchandise. That’s why we quarreled. But don’t
worry. Your name didn’t come up, or--or--you know whose. He hasn’t an
idea of why I want to work--There, Violet there!”
Two soft arms were around his neck and Violet was letting her heart out
in a succession of sisterly kisses.
“O, Arthur, you good, good boy! Together we’ll soon make up the amount,
and then--”
“Then what?”
A sweet soft look robbed her face of its piquancy, but gave it an aspect
of indescribable beauty quite new to Arthur’s eyes.
Tapping his lips with a thoughtful forefinger, he asked:
“Who was that sombre-looking chap I saw bowing to you as we came out of
church last Sunday?”
She awoke from her dreamy state with an astonishing quickness.
“He? Surely you remember him. Have you forgotten that evening in
Massachusetts--the grotto--and--”
“Oh, it’s Upjohn, is it? Yes, I remember him. He’s fond of church, isn’t
he? That is, when he’s in New York.”
Her lips took a roguish curve then a very serious one; but she made no
answer.
“I have noticed that he’s always in his seat and always looking your
way.”
“That’s very odd of him,” she declared, her dimples coming and going in
a most bewildering fashion. “I can’t imagine why he should do that.”
“Nor I,--” retorted Arthur with a smile. “But he’s human, I suppose.
Only do be careful, Violet. A man so melancholy will need a deal of
cheering.”
He was gone before he had fully finished this daring remark, and Violet,
left again with her thoughts, lost her glowing colour but not her
preoccupation. The hand which lay upon the packet already alluded to did
not move for many minutes, and when she roused at last to the demands
of her employer, it was with a start and a guilty look at the small gold
clock ticking out its inexorable reminder.
“He will want an answer the first thing in the morning,” she complained
to herself. And opening the packet, she took out first a letter, and
then a mass of typewritten manuscript.
She began with the letter which was as characteristic of the writer as
all the others she had had from his hand; as witness:
You probably remember the Hasbrouck murder,--or, perhaps, you don’t;
it being one of a time previous to your interest in such matters. But
whether you remember it or not, I beg you to read the accompanying
summary with due care and attention to business. When you have well
mastered it with all its details, please communicate with me in any
manner most convenient to yourself, for I shall have a word to say to
you then, which you may be glad to hear, if as you have lately intimated
you need to earn but one or two more substantial rewards in order to
cry halt to the pursuit for which you have proved yourself so well
qualified.
The story, in deference to yourself as a young and much preoccupied
woman, has been written in a way to interest. Though the work of an
everyday police detective, you will find in it no lack of mystery or
romance; and if at the end you perceive that it runs, as such cases
frequently do, up against a perfectly blank wall, you must remember that
openings can be made in walls, and that the loosening of one weak stone
from its appointed place, sometimes leads to the downfall of all.
So much for the letter.
Laying it aside, with a shrug of her expressive shoulders, Violet took
up the manuscript.
Let us take it up too. It runs thus:
On the 17th of July, 19--, a tragedy of no little interest occurred in
one of the residences of the Colonnade in Lafayette Place.
Mr. Hasbrouck, a well known and highly respected citizen, was attacked
in his room by an unknown assailant, and shot dead before assistance
could reach him. His murderer escaped, and the problem offered to the
police was how to identify this person who, by some happy chance or
by the exercise of the most remarkable forethought, had left no traces
behind him, or any clue by which he could be followed.
The details of the investigation which ended so unsatisfactorily are
here given by the man sent from headquarters at the first alarm.
When, some time after midnight on the date above mentioned, I reached
Lafayette Place, I found the block lighted from end to end. Groups of
excited men and women peered from the open doorways, and mingled their
shadows with those of the huge pillars which adorn the front of this
picturesque block of dwellings.
The house in which the crime had been committed was near the centre of
the row, and, long before I reached it, I had learned from more than one
source that the alarm was first given to the street by a woman’s shriek,
and secondly by the shouts of an old man-servant who had appeared, in
a half-dressed condition, at the window of Mr. Hasbrouck’s room, crying
“Murder! murder!”
But when I had crossed the threshold, I was astonished at the paucity
of facts to be gleaned from the inmates themselves. The old servant, who
was the first to talk, had only this account of the crime to give:
The family, which consisted of Mr. Hasbrouck, his wife, and three
servants, had retired for the night at the usual hour and under the
usual auspices. At eleven o’clock the lights were all extinguished, and
the whole household asleep, with the possible exception of Mr. Hasbrouck
himself, who, being a man of large business responsibilities, was
frequently troubled with insomnia.
Suddenly Mrs. Hasbrouck woke with a start. Had she dreamed the words
that were ringing in her ears, or had they been actually uttered in her
hearing? They were short, sharp words, full of terror and menace, and
she had nearly satisfied herself that she had imagined them, when there
came, from somewhere near the door, a sound she neither understood nor
could interpret, but which filled her with inexplicable terror, and made
her afraid to breathe, or even to stretch forth her hand towards her
husband, whom she supposed to be sleeping at her side. At length another
strange sound, which she was sure was not due to her imagination, drove
her to make an attempt to rouse him, when she was horrified to find that
she was alone in bed, and her husband nowhere within reach.
Filled now with something more than nervous apprehension, she flung
herself to the floor, and tried to penetrate with frenzied glances,
the surrounding darkness. But the blinds and shutters both having
been carefully closed by Mr. Hasbrouck before retiring, she found this
impossible, and she was about to sink in terror to the floor, when she
heard a low gasp on the other side of the room followed by a suppressed
cry.
“God! what have I done!”
The voice was a strange one, but before the fear aroused by this
fact could culminate in a shriek of dismay, she caught the sound of
retreating footsteps, and, eagerly listening, she heard them descend the
stairs and depart by the front door.
Had she known what had occurred--had there been no doubt in her mind as
to what lay in the darkness on the other side of the room--it is likely
that, at the noise caused by the closing front door, she would have made
at once for the balcony that opened out from the window before which
she was standing, and taken one look at the flying figure below. But her
uncertainty as to what lay hidden from her by the darkness chained her
feet to the floor, and there is no knowing when she would have moved, if
a carriage had not at that moment passed down Astor Place, bringing with
it a sense of companionship which broke the spell holding her, and gave
her strength to light the gas which was in ready reach of her hand.
As the sudden blaze illuminated the room, revealing in a burst the old
familiar walls and well-known pieces of furniture, she felt for a moment
as if released from some heavy nightmare and restored to the common
experiences of life. But in another instant her former dread returned,
and she found herself quaking at the prospect of passing around the foot
of the bed into that part of the room which was as yet hidden from her
eyes.
But the desperation which comes with great crises finally drove her from
her retreat; and, creeping slowly forward, she cast one glance at the
floor before her, when she found her worst fears realized by the sight
of the dead body of her husband lying prone before the open doorway,
with a bullet-hole in his forehead.
Her first impulse was to shriek, but, by a powerful exercise of will,
she checked herself, and ringing frantically for the servants who
slept on the top floor of the house, flew to the nearest window and
endeavoured to open it. But the shutters had been bolted so securely by
Mr. Hasbrouck, in his endeavour to shut out all light and sound, that by
the time she had succeeded in unfastening them, all trace of the flying
murderer had vanished from the street.
Sick with grief and terror, she stepped back into the room just as the
three frightened servants descended the stairs. As they appeared in the
open doorway, she pointed at her husband’s inanimate form, and then, as
if suddenly realizing in its full force the calamity which had befallen
her, she threw up her arms, and sank forward to the floor in a dead
faint.
The two women rushed to her assistance, but the old butler, bounding
over the bed, sprang to the window, and shrieked his alarm to the
street.
In the interim that followed, Mrs. Hasbrouck was revived, and the
master’s body laid decently on the bed; but no pursuit was made, nor any
inquiries started likely to assist me in establishing the identity of
the assailant.
Indeed, everyone both in the house and out, seemed dazed by the
unexpected catastrophe, and as no one had any suspicions to offer as to
the probable murderer, I had a difficult task before me.
I began in the usual way, by inspecting the scene of the murder. I found
nothing in the room, or in the condition of the body itself, which added
an iota to the knowledge already obtained. That Mr. Hasbrouck had been
in bed; that he had risen upon hearing a noise; and that he had been
shot before reaching the door, were self-evident facts. But there was
nothing to guide me further. The very simplicity of the circumstances
caused a dearth of clues, which made the difficulty of procedure as
great as any I had ever encountered.
My search through the hall and down the stairs elicited nothing; and
an investigation of the bolts and bars by which the house was secured,
assured me that the assassin had either entered by the front door, or
had already been secreted in the house when it was locked up for the
night.
“I shall have to trouble Mrs. Hasbrouck for a short interview,” I
hereupon announced to the trembling old servant, who had followed me
like a dog about the house.
He made no demur, and in a few minutes I was ushered into the presence
of the newly made widow, who sat quite alone, in a large chamber in
the rear. As I crossed the threshold she looked up, and I encountered a
good, plain face, without the shadow of guile in it.
“Madam,” said I, “I have not come to disturb you. I will ask two or
three questions only, and then leave you to your grief. I am told that
some words came from the assassin before he delivered his fatal shot.
Did you hear these distinctly enough to tell me what they were?”
“I was sound asleep,” said she, “and dreamt, as I thought, that a
fierce, strange voice cried somewhere to some one: ‘Ah! you did not
expect me!’ But I dare not say that these words were really uttered to
my husband, for he was not the man to call forth hate, and only a man
in the extremity of passion could address such an exclamation in such a
tone as rings in my memory in connection with the fatal shot which woke
me.”
“But that shot was not the work of a friend,” I argued. “If, as these
words seem to prove, the assassin had some other motive than plunder in
his assault, then your husband had an enemy, though you never suspected
it.”
“Impossible!” was her steady reply, uttered in the most convincing tone.
“The man who shot him was a common burglar, and frightened at having
been betrayed into murder, fled without looking for booty. I am sure I
heard him cry out in terror and remorse: ‘God! what have I done!’”
“Was that before you left the side of the bed?”
“Yes; I did not move from my place till I heard the front door close. I
was paralysed by fear and dread.”
“Are you in the habit of trusting to the security of a latch-lock only
in the fastening of your front door at night? I am told that the big key
was not in the lock, and that the bolt at the bottom of the door was not
drawn.”
“The bolt at the bottom of the door is never drawn. Mr. Hasbrouck was
so good a man that he never mistrusted any one. That is why the big lock
was not fastened. The key, not working well, he took it some days ago to
the locksmith, and when the latter failed to return it, he laughed,
and said he thought no one would ever think of meddling with his front
door.”
“Is there more than one night-key to your house?” I now asked.
She shook her head.
“And when did Mr. Hasbrouck last use his?”
“To-night, when he came home from prayer meeting,” she answered, and
burst into tears.
Her grief was so real and her loss so recent that I hesitated to afflict
her by further questions. So returning to the scene of the tragedy, I
stepped out upon the balcony which ran in front. Soft voices instantly
struck my ears. The neighbours on either side were grouped in front of
their own windows, and were exchanging the remarks natural under the
circumstances. I paused, as in duty bound, and listened. But I heard
nothing worth recording, and would have instantly reentered the house,
if I had not been impressed by the appearance of a very graceful woman
who stood at my right. She was clinging to her husband, who was gazing
at one of the pillars before him in a strange fixed way which astonished
me till he attempted to move, and then I saw that he was blind.
I remembered that there lived in this row a blind doctor, equally
celebrated for his skill and for his uncommon personal attractions,
and greatly interested not only by his affliction, but in the sympathy
evinced by his young and affectionate wife, I stood still, till I heard
her say in the soft and appealing tones of love:
“Come in, Constant; you have heavy duties for to-morrow, and you should
get a few hours’ rest if possible.”
He came from the shadow of the pillar, and for one minute I saw his face
with the lamplight shining full upon it. It was as regular of feature as
a sculptured Adonis, and it was as white.
“Sleep!” he repeated, in the measured tones of deep but suppressed
feeling. “Sleep! with murder on the other side of the wall!” And he
stretched out his arms in a dazed way that insensibly accentuated the
horror I myself felt of the crime which had so lately taken place in the
room behind me.
She, noting the movement, took one of the groping hands in her own and
drew him gently towards her.
“This way,” she urged; and, guiding him into the house, she closed the
window and drew down the shades.
I have no excuse to offer for my curiosity, but the interest excited in
me by this totally irrelevant episode was so great that I did not
leave the neighbourhood till I had learned something of this remarkable
couple.
The story told me was very simple. Dr. Zabriskie had not been born
blind, but had become so after a grievous illness which had stricken
him down soon after he received his diploma. Instead of succumbing to an
affliction which would have daunted most men, he expressed his intention
of practising his profession, and soon became so successful in it that
he found no difficulty in establishing himself in one of the best paying
quarters of the city. Indeed, his intuition seemed to have developed in
a remarkable degree after the loss of his sight, and he seldom, if ever,
made a mistake in diagnosis. Considering this fact, and the personal
attractions which gave him distinction, it was no wonder that he soon
became a popular physician whose presence was a benefaction and whose
word law.
He had been engaged to be married at the time of his illness, and when
he learned what was likely to be its result, had offered to release the
young lady from all obligation to him. But she would not be released,
and they were married. This had taken place some five years previous
to Mr. Hasbrouck’s death, three of which had been spent by them in
Lafayette Place.
So much for the beautiful woman next door.
There being absolutely no clue to the assailant of Mr. Hasbrouck, I
naturally looked forward to the inquest for some evidence upon which to
work. But there seemed to be no underlying facts to this tragedy. The
most careful study into the habits and conduct of the deceased brought
nothing to light save his general beneficence and rectitude, nor was
there in his history or in that of his wife, any secret or hidden
obligation calculated to provoke any such act of revenge as murder. Mrs.
Hasbrouck’s surmise that the intruder was simply a burglar, and that she
had rather imagined than heard the words which pointed to the shooting
as a deed of vengeance, soon gained general credence.
But though the police worked long and arduously in this new direction
their efforts were without fruit and the case bids fair to remain an
unsolvable mystery.
That was all. As Violet dropped the last page from her hand, she
recalled a certain phrase in her employer’s letter. “If at the end you
come upon a perfectly blank wall--” Well, she had come upon this wall.
Did he expect her to make an opening in it? Or had he already done so
himself, and was merely testing her much vaunted discernment.
Piqued by the thought, she carefully reread the manuscript, and when she
had again reached its uncompromising end, she gave herself up to a few
minutes of concentrated thought, then, taking a sheet of paper from the
rack before her, she wrote upon it a single sentence, and folding the
sheet, put it in an envelope which she left unaddressed. This done, she
went to bed and slept like the child she really was.
At an early hour the next morning she entered her employer’s office.
Acknowledging with a nod his somewhat ceremonious bow, she handed him
the envelope in which she had enclosed that one mysterious sentence.
He took it with a smile, opened it offhand, glanced at what she had
written, and flushed a vivid red.
“You are a--brick,” he was going to say, but changed the last word to
one more in keeping with her character and appearance. “Look here. I
expected this from you and so prepared myself.” Taking out a similar
piece of paper from his own pocket-book, he laid it down beside hers
on the desk before him. It also held a single sentence and, barring
a slight difference of expression, the one was the counterpart of the
other. “The one loose stone,” he murmured.
“Seen and noted by both.”
“Why not?” he asked. Then as she glanced expectantly his way, he
earnestly added: “Together we may be able to do something. The reward
offered by Mrs. Hasbrouck for the detection of the murderer was a very
large one. She is a woman of means. I have never heard of its being
withdrawn.”
“Then it never has been,” was Violet’s emphatic conclusion, her dimples
enforcing the statement as only such dimples can. “But--what do you want
of me in an affair of this kind? Something more than to help you locate
the one possible clue to further enlightenment. You would not have
mentioned the big reward just for that.”
“Perhaps not. There is a sequel to the story I sent you. I have written
it out, with my own hand. Take it home and read it at your leisure. When
you see into what an unhappy maze my own inquiries have led me, possibly
you will be glad to assist me in clearing up a situation which is
inflicting great suffering on one whom you will be the first to pity.
If so, a line mentioning the fact will be much appreciated by me.” And
disregarding her startled look and the impetuous shaking of her head, he
bowed her out with something more than his accustomed suavity but
also with a seriousness which affected her in spite of herself and
effectually held back the protest it was in her heart to make. She was
glad of this when she read his story; but later on--
However, it is not for me to intrude Violet, or Violet’s feelings into
an affair which she is so anxious to forget. I shall therefore from
this moment on, leave her as completely out of this tale of crime and
retribution as is possible and keep a full record of her work. When she
is necessary to the story, you will see her again. Meanwhile, read
with her, this relation of her employer’s unhappy attempt to pursue an
investigation so openly dropped by the police. You will perceive, from
its general style and the accentuation put upon the human side of this
sombre story, a likeness to the former manuscript which may prove to
you, as it certainly did to Violet, to whose consideration she was
indebted for the readableness of the policeman’s report, which in all
probability had been a simple statement of facts.
But there, I am speaking of Violet again. To prevent a further mischance
of this nature, I will introduce at once the above mentioned account.