MRS. ATKINS HOLDS SOMETHING BACK
"Is Mrs. Atkins ready?" I inquired of the pretty maid. Before she
had time to answer, I heard the frou-frou of silk skirts advancing
rapidly towards me. The perfume I had already noticed grew still more
overpowering, and the lady herself appeared. And an exceedingly pretty
little woman she proved to to be, too, with golden hair and cheeks that
rivalled the roses. Her large blue eyes were as innocent and, it would
be hypercritical to add, as expressionless as her sisters' of the
toy-shop. A white muslin garment, slashed in every direction to admit of
bands and frills of lace, enveloped her small person, and yards of blue
ribbon floated around her. Her tiny, dimpled fingers were covered with
glittering rings, which, however, scarcely outshone her small pink
nails. She beamed coquettishly at me, showing some very pretty, sharp
little teeth as she did so, and I found myself smiling back at her,
completely forgetting the tragic errand I had come on.
"Oh, Doctor," she cried, in a high treble voice, "isn't it dreadful!
They tell me that a poor man has been killed in the building, and I am
so terrified at having to look at him! Must I really do so?" She wrung
her hands in graceful distress.
"I'm afraid you must," I replied, smiling down at her.
"But you will go with me, won't you?" she begged.
"Certainly, dear Madam, and if your servants are also ready we had
better get it over immediately."
As the lady crossed the threshold of her apartment she tucked her hand
confidingly into my arm, as if the support of the nearest man were her
indisputable right, and, followed by the two servants, we proceeded
in this fashion down-stairs. Mr. Merritt met us on the landing, and,
signing to the two girls to wait outside, ushered us into the room where
the body lay.
As Mrs. Atkins caught sight of the dead man a great shudder shook her
whole body, and I felt the hand on my arm grow suddenly rigid. She
neither screamed nor fainted, but stood strangely still, as if turned to
stone, her eyes riveted on the corpse in a horrified stare.
"Mrs. Atkins?" inquired the Coroner.
She seemed incapable of answering him.
"Mrs. Atkins," he repeated, a little louder, "do you recognise the
deceased?"
This time she moved slightly and tried to moisten her grey lips. At
last, with a visible effort, she slowly raised her eyes and glanced
about her with fear.
"No, no," she murmured, in a hollow voice.
"Mrs. Atkins, I must request you to look at the dead man again," the
detective said, fixing his eyes on her. "One of the elevator boys has
identified the body as that of a gentleman who called on you on Tuesday
evening."
She raised her arm as if to ward off a blow, and moved slightly away
from me.
"I don't know the man," she said.
"You deny that he called on you on Tuesday evening?"
"I do," she answered, in a steady voice.
I saw that she was rapidly recovering her self-control, and I made up my
mind that I had misjudged the little woman. Under that soft, childish
exterior must lie an indomitable will.
"Do you deny that you received a man on that evening?" She glanced
hastily at each of us before answering: "No."
"Oh, you did see a gentleman? Who was he?"
She hesitated a moment: "An old friend."
"Will you kindly tell us his name?"
"No! I won't have him mixed up in this."
"Madam," said the detective, "the deceased has been murdered, and--" A
shriek interrupted him.
"Murdered! Oh, no, no," she gasped, her eyes wide with terror.
"I regret to say that there is no doubt of it."
"But when,--how?" she demanded, in a trembling voice.
"On Tuesday night."
She drew a deep breath. The horror faded slowly from her face, and
she repeated with great composure, "Oh, Tuesday night," with a slight
emphasis on the Tuesday.
The change in her was perfectly startling. She seemed calm,--almost
indifferent.
"Have you discovered how he was murdered?" she inquired.
"Yes; he was stabbed through the heart by an instrument no larger than a
knitting-needle."
"How strange," she exclaimed; "do you know who committed the crime?"
"Not yet," said the Coroner; "and now, Mrs. Atkins, I ask you again if
you are quite sure that you have never seen the deceased before?"
"Yes," she answered, firmly.
"And you are willing to testify to this effect?"
"Yes."
"You are aware that the elevator boy has positively identified the body
as that of your visitor?"
"I guess my word's as good as a nigger's," she said, with a defiant toss
of her head.
"No doubt," replied the Coroner, politely; "but if you would tell us
the name and address of your friend we could look him up and be able
to assure the police of his safety, and so save you the disagreeable
necessity of appearing in court."
"In court," she repeated, with a horrified expression. Evidently this
possibility had not occurred to her, and she glanced hurriedly around as
if contemplating immediate flight.
"Mrs. Atkins," said the detective, earnestly, "I do not think that you
realise certain facts. A man has been murdered who has been identified,
rightly or wrongly, with your visitor. Now, no one saw your friend leave
the building, and it is our business to ascertain that he did so. Can
you tell us what became of him?"
A hunted expression came into her eyes, but she answered in a steady
voice: "My friend left me at a little after eleven; he was going to take
the midnight train to Boston." She paused. "His name is Allan
Brown--there, now!"
"Thank you, madam, and what is Mr. Brown's address in Boston?"
"I don't know."
"What was his address in New York?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
"Was he in any business?"
"I don't know," she answered, sullenly, with a glance at the door.
"Mrs. Atkins, you seem singularly ignorant about your friend,--your old
friend."
"Well, I hadn't seen him for some years. He's a stranger in the city."
"Where is his home?"
"I don't know," she answered, impatiently.
"Are you a New Yorker, Mrs. Atkins?" inquired the detective.
"No."
"Ah, I thought not! And where do you come from?"
"Chicago."
"Chicago? Indeed! I've been there some myself," Mr. Merritt continued,
in a conversational tone. "Nice place. How long is it since you left
there?"
"Six months," she answered, curtly.
"So it was in Chicago you knew your friend?"
"Yes," she admitted, with a slight start.
"And you are sure he didn't belong there?"
"Yes; but look here: why are you asking such a lot of questions about
him? I've told you his name and where he's gone to, and if you can't
find him that's your lookout."
"The consequences of our not being able to find him would be much more
serious for you than for me," remarked Mr. Merritt, quietly.
"Now, Mrs. Atkins," resumed the Coroner, "can you say in what particular
Mr. Brown differs from this dead man?"
"Oh, they're a good deal alike," she replied, fluently,--but I noticed
that she did not look in the direction of the corpse,--"only Mr. Brown's
younger, and not so heavy, and his nose is different. Still, the man
does resemble Mr. Brown surprisingly. It gave me quite a shock when I
first saw him." It certainly had, only I wondered if that were the true
explanation.
"Please tell us what you did yesterday."
"I went out in the morning and I came home at about half-past five."
"What were you doing during all that time?"
"Oh, several things; I called on some friends and did some errands."
"Your husband has been out of town, I hear?"
"Yes."
"When did he leave the city?"
"On Tuesday morning."
"When did he return?"
"Last night."
"At what time?"
"Half-past one."
"Where did he come from?"
"Boston."
"But surely the Boston train gets in a good deal earlier than that!" the
Coroner exclaimed.
"Yes, there had been a delay owing to a slight accident on the line,"
she reluctantly explained.
"Is Mr. Atkins often away?"
"Yes; he's out of town every week or so, on business."
"Thank you, Mrs. Atkins, that is all," the Coroner concluded, politely.
But the lady was not so easily appeased, and flounced out of the room
without deigning to glance at any of us.
The detective slipped out after her--to call the maids, as he explained,
but it was five or six minutes before he returned with the waitress.
After answering several unimportant questions, the girl was asked
whether she had ever seen the deceased before. "No, sir," she replied,
promptly.
"Did anyone call on your mistress on Tuesday evening?"
"I can't say, sir; I was out."
"At what time did you go out?"
"At about a quarter to eight, sir."
"Where did you go to?"
"We went to a party at me sister's."
"Who do you mean by 'we'?"
"The cook and me, sir."
"Ah, the cook went out, too?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you usually go out together?"
"No, sir."
"How did it happen that you did so on Tuesday?"
"Mr. Atkins, he was away, so Mrs. Atkins she said we might both go out."
"Mr. Atkins is often away from home, isn't he?"
"Yes, sir."
"How often?"
"About once a fortnight, sir."
"Has Mrs. Atkins ever allowed you both to go out together before?"
"No, sir."
"Where does your sister live, and what is her name?"
"Mrs. Moriarty, 300 Third Avenue."
The Coroner paused to scribble down the address, then resumed:
"At what time did you get back from the party?"
The girl tugged at her dress in some embarrassment. "It might have been
after eleven," she reluctantly admitted.
"How much after--quarter past, half-past?" he suggested, as she still
hesitated.
"It was almost half-past, sir."
"And when you returned, did you see your mistress?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"Was she alone?"
"Yes, sir," the girl answered, with some surprise.
"Did you notice anything unusual about her?"
"Well, sir, she'd been crying, and I never see her cry before."
"What did Mrs. Atkins say to you?"
"She scolded us for being so late," the girl answered shamefacedly.
"Was that all she said?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where was your mistress when you saw her?"
"She was lying on the sofy in her bed-room, tired like."
"What did Mrs. Atkins do yesterday?"
"She went out after breakfast and didn't come back till nearly six."
"How did she seem when she returned?"
"She'd been crying awful, and she just lay quiet and wouldn't eat no
dinner."
"Do Mr. and Mrs. Atkins get along well together?"
"Oh, sir, they're that loving," she answered with a blush and a smile.
Again my curiosity got the better of my discretion, and I asked: "Did
you hear any strange noises during the night?"
The Coroner glared at me, but said nothing this time.
"Well," replied the girl, "me and Jane did think as we'd heard a
scream."
Ha, ha, thought I, and I saw Mr. Merritt indulge in one of his quiet
smiles.
"So you heard a scream," said the Coroner.
"I don't know for sure; I thought so."
"At what time did you hear it?"
"I don't know, sir; some time in the night."
"What did you do when you heard it?"
"Nothing, sir."
This was all that could be got out of her, so she made way for the cook,
who, after being cross-questioned at some length, did no more than
corroborate the waitress's statement, only she was more positive of
having heard the "screech" as she called it.
"Could you tell whether it was a man or woman who screamed?" inquired
the Coroner.
"It was a woman's voice, sir."
Mr. Stuart, who was next admitted, proved to be a small, middle-aged
man, extremely well groomed, and whom I recognized as one of the members
of my Club, whose name I had never known. On being asked if he had
ever seen the dead man before, he solemnly inserted a single eye-glass
into his right eye, and contemplated the corpse with the greatest
imperturbability.
"So far as I can remember, I have never seen the man before," he
answered at last. After replying satisfactorily to a few more questions,
he was allowed to retire, and his cook took his place. She was a large,
stout woman about thirty years old, with a good deal of that coarse
Southern beauty, which consists chiefly in snapping black eyes, masses
of dark hair, and good teeth. On catching sight of the corpse, she threw
up her hands and uttered a succession of squeals, which she seemed to
consider due to the horror of the occasion, and then turned serenely
towards the Coroner, and with a slight courtesy stood smilingly awaiting
his questions.
"What is your name?" he inquired.
"Jeanne Alexandrine Argot," she replied.
"You are in the employ of Mr. Stuart?"
"Yes, sar. I 'ave been with Mr. Stuah, six a years, and he tell you----"
"Please look at the deceased, and tell me if you have ever seen him
before?" the Coroner hastily interrupted.
"No, sar."
After answering a few more questions with overpowering volubility, she
withdrew, and her husband entered. He was a tall, vigorous man, with
large hawk-like eyes, apparently a good deal older than his wife. He
bowed to us all on entering, and stood respectfully near the door,
waiting to be spoken to.
"What is your name?" inquired the Coroner.
"Celestin Marie Argot."
"You work for Mr. Stuart?"
"Yes, sar; I am Meester Stuah's butlair."
"Look at this corpse, and tell me if you can identify it as that of any
one you know, or have ever seen?"
He now glanced for the first time at the body, and I thought I saw his
face contract slightly. But the expression was so fleeting that I could
not be sure of it, and when he raised his head a few moments later he
seemed perfectly composed and answered calmly: "I do not know ze man."
Apparently the Coroner was not completely satisfied, for he went on:
"You know that this man has been murdered, and that it is your duty to
give us any information that might lead to his identification. Have
you seen any suspicious persons about the building during the last few
days?"
"No, sar; nobody,"--but I thought he had hesitated an instant before
answering.
"You must see a good many people pass up and down the back stairs,"
the detective remarked; "especially in this hot weather, when you must
be obliged to leave the kitchen door open a good deal so as to get a
draught."
The man cast a hurried, and I thought an apprehensive, glance at Mr.
Merritt, and replied quickly: "Yes, sar; ze door is open almos' all ze
time, but I 'ave seen nobody."
"Nobody?" repeated the detective.
"Yes, sar," Argot asserted, still more emphatically. "No vone, excep' ze
butchair, ze bakair, and ze ozer tradesmen, of course."
"How early are you likely to open the kitchen door? To leave it open, I
mean?"
"Oh, not till eight o'clock, perhap--Madame Argot, she stay in
déshabille till zen."
"What time do you go to bed?"
"At ten o'clock generally, but some time eleven o'clock--even
midnight--it depens."
"What time did you go to bed on Tuesday?"
"At eleven, sar."
"What had you been doing during the evening?"
"I had been at a restaurant wiz some friends."
"And when did you return?"
"At about half-pas' ten."
"Did you come in the back way?"
"Yes, sar."
"How did you get in?"
"My wife, she open ze door."
"And you saw nobody as you came in?"
He paused almost imperceptibly. "No, sar," he answered. But I was now
convinced that he was holding something back.
"Very well; you can go," said the Coroner. The fellow bowed himself out
with a good deal of quiet dignity.
"I kinder fancy that man knows something he won't tell," said the
Coroner. "Now, we've seen every one but the workmen," he continued,
wearily, mopping his forehead. "I don't believe one of them knows a
thing; still, I've got to go through with it, I suppose," and going to
the door he beckoned them all in.
There were five of them, including the foreman, and they appeared to be
quiet, respectable young men. After looking at the dead man intently for
some minutes, they all asserted that they had never laid eyes on him
before.
"Now have any of you noticed during the three days you have been working
here anybody who might have taken the key, kept it for some hours, and
returned it without your noticing it?" inquired the Coroner.
"We've seen no strangers," the foreman replied, cautiously.
"Who have you seen?" The foreman was evidently prepared for this
question.
"Well, sir, we've seen altogether six people: Jim, and Joe, and Tony,
Mr. McGorry, Miss Derwent, and the Frinchman," he replied, checking
them off on his fingers.
"When did the Frenchman come up here?"
"Yistidy morning, sir; he said he come to see the decorations, and he
come again about three; but he didn't stay long. I warn't a-going to
have him hanging round here interfering!"
"Did any of his actions at the time strike you as suspicious?"
"No, sir," acknowledged the foreman.
"And Miss Derwent; when did you see her?"
"I didn't see her myself in the morning, but he"--with a nod towards one
of the men,--"he saw her look in as she was waiting for the elevator,
and in the afternoon she come right in."
"Did she say anything?"
"Yes, sir; she said the paint and papers were mighty pretty."
"When you saw Miss Derwent," said the Coroner, addressing the man whom
the foreman had pointed out, "what was she doing?"
"She was standing just inside the hall."
"Was her hand on the door knob?"
"I didn't notice, sir."
"Did the young lady say anything?"
"When she saw me a-looking at her, she just said: 'How pretty!' and went
away."
"Have any of you seen Mr. or Mrs. Atkins, or either of their girls,
since you have been working here?" They all replied in the negative.
The Coroner's physician turned up at this juncture, with many apologies
for his late arrival, so, having no further excuse for remaining, I took
my leave. The lower hall swarmed with innumerable reporters, trying to
force their way upstairs, and who were only prevented from doing so by
the infuriated McGorry and two or three stalwart policemen. On catching
sight of me they all fell upon me with one accord, and I only managed to
escape by giving them the most detailed description of the corpse and
professing complete ignorance as to everything else.