“So sweet of you to see me, Miss Carwell, in all your grief, and I must
apologize for troubling you.”
Miss Tighe, alias Morocco Kate, fairly gushed out the words as she
extended a hand to Viola in the library. The first glance at the “large
blonde,” as the maid had described her, shocked the girl. She could
hardly repress a shudder of disgust as she looked at the bleached hair.
But, nerving herself for the effort, Viola let her hand rest limply for
a moment in the warm moist grip of Miss Tighe.
“Won't you sit down?” asked Viola.
“Thank you. I won't detain you long. I called merely on business, though
I suppose you think I'm not a very business-like looking person. But I
am strictly business, all the way through,” and she tittered. “I find it
pays better to really dress the part,” she added.
“I was so sorry to hear about your dear father's death. I knew
him--quite well I may say--he was very good to me.”
“Yes,” murmured Viola, and somehow her heart was beating strangely.
What did it all mean? Who was this--this impossible person who claimed
business relations, yes, even friendliness, with the late Mr. Carwell?
“And now to tell you what I came for,” went on Miss Tighe. “Your dear
father--and in his death I feel that I have lost a very dear friend and
adviser--your dear father purchased many valuable books of me. I sell
only the rarest and most expensive bindings, chiefly full morocco. Your
father was very fond of books, wasn't he?”
Viola could not help admitting it, as far as purchasing expensive, if
unread, editions was concerned. The library shelves testified to this.
“Yes, indeed, he just loved them, and he was always glad when I brought
his attention to a new set, my dear Miss Carwell. Well, that is what I
came about now. Just before his terrible death--it was terrible,
wasn't it? Oh, I feel so sorry for you,” and she dabbed a much-perfumed
handkerchief to her eyes. “Just before his lamented death he bought a
lovely white morocco set of the Arabian Nights from me. Forty volumes,
unexpurgated, my dear. Mind you that--unexpurgated!” and Morocco Kate
seemed to dwell on this with relish. “As I say, he bought a lovely set
from me. It was the most expensive set I ever sold--forty-five hundred
dollars.”
“Forty-five hundred dollars for a set of books!” exclaimed Viola, in
unaffected wonder.
“Oh, my dear, that is nothing. These were some books,” and she winked
understandingly.
“It isn't everybody who could get them! The edition was limited. But I
happened on a set and I knew your father wanted them, so I got them
for him. He made the first payment, and then he died--I read it in the
papers. Naturally I didn't want to bother you while the terrible affair
was so fresh, so I waited. And now I'm here!”
She seemed to be--very much so, as she settled herself back in the big
leather chair, and made sure that her hair was properly fluffed around
her much-powdered face.
“You are here to--” faltered Viola. “To get the balance for the
books--that's it, dear Miss Carwell. Naturally I'm not in for my health,
and of course I don't publish books myself. I'm only a poor business
woman, and I work on commission. The firm likes to have all contracts
cleaned up, but in this case they didn't press matters, knowing Mr.
Carwell was all right; or, if he wasn't, his estate was. I've sold him
many a choice and rare book--books you don't see in every library, my
dear. Of course there were--ahem--some you wouldn't care to read, and
I can't say I care much about 'em myself. A good French novel is all
right, I say, but some of 'em well, you know!” and she winked boldly,
and dabbed her face with the handkerchief which was quickly filling the
room with an overpowering odor.
“You mean my father owes you money?” faltered Viola.
“Well, not me, exactly--the firm. But I don't mind telling you I get my
rake-off. I have to so I can live. The balance is only three thousand
dollars, and if you could give me a check--”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Viola, “but I have nothing to do with the
business end of my father's affairs.”
“You're his daughter, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
“And you'll get all his property?” Morocco Kate was getting vindictive
now.
“I cannot discuss that with you,” said Viola, simply. “All matters
of business are attended to at the office. You will have to see Mr.
Blossom.”
“Huh! LeGrand Blossom! No use seeing him. I've tried. But I'll try
again, and say you sent me.” The voice was back to its original dulcet
tones now. “That's what I'll do, my dear Miss Carwell. I'll tell LeGrand
Blossom you sent me. He needn't think he can play fast and loose with
me as he has. If he doesn't want to pay this bill, contracted by your
father in the regular way--and I must say he was very nice to me--well,
there are other ways of collecting. I haven't told all I know.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Viola hotly. “Oh, there's time enough
to tell later,” was the answer. “I haven't been in the rare edition
business for nothing, nor just for my health. But wait until I see
LeGrand Blossom. Then I may call on you again!” And with this rather
veiled threat Morocco Kate took her leave.
“What horrible person was that?” asked Miss Mary Carwell, who met Viola
in the hail after her visitor's departure. “She was positively vulgar, I
should say, though I didn't see her.”
“Oh, she was just a book agent. I sent her to Mr. Blossom.”
“To Mr. Blossom, my dear! I didn't know he was literary.”
“Neither was this person, Aunt Mary. I think I shall go and lie down. I
have a headache.”
And as she locked herself in her room shed bitter tears on her pillow.
Who was this person who seemed to know Mr. Carwell so well, who boasted
of how “good” he was to her? Why did Colonel Ashley want to gain all the
information he could about her?
“Oh, what does it all mean?” asked Viola in shrinking terror. “Is there
to be some terrible--some horrible scandal?”
She put the question to Colonel Ashley a little later.
“Who is this woman?”
The colonel considered a moment before replying. Then, with a shrewd
look at Viola, he replied:
“Well, my dear, she isn't your kind, of course, but I've known her, and
known of her, for several years. She, and those she associates with,
work the de luxe game.”
“The de luxe game? What is it?”
“In brief, it's a blackmailing scheme. A woman of the type of Miss
Tighe, to give her one of her names, associates herself with some men.
They arrange to have a set of some books--usually well known enough
and of a certain value--bound in expensive leather--full morocco--hand
tooled and all that. They call on rich men and women, and induce them to
buy the expensive and rare set, of which they say there is only one or
two on the market.
“Sometimes the sales are straight enough--particularly where women are
the buyers--but the books, even if delivered, are not worth anything
like the price paid.
“But, in the case of wealthy men the game is different.”
“Different?”
“Yes, particularly where a woman like Morocco Kate is the agent. They
are not satisfied with the enormous profit made on selling a common
edition of books, falsely dressed in a garish binding, but they endeavor
to compromise the man in some business or social way, and then threaten
to expose him unless he pays a large sum,--ostensibly, of course, for
the books.
“Morocco Kate, who called on you, has more than one killing to her
credit in this game, and she has managed to keep out of jail because
her victims were afraid of the publicity of prosecuting. And it was
so foolish of them for, in most cases, it was just mere foolishness on
their part, and nothing criminally, or even morally, wrong, though they
may have been indiscreet.”
“And you think my father--”
“I don't know anything about it, Viola, my dear!” was the prompt answer.
“Your father may have dealt in a legitimate way with this woman, buying
books from her because she cajoled him into it, though he could have
done much better with any reputable house. As I say, he may have simply
bought some books from her, and not have made the final payments on
account of his death. Whether the contract he entered into is binding or
not I can't say until I have seen it.”
“But I found nothing about books among his papers!”
“No? Then perhaps it was a verbal contract. Or he may have been--” The
colonel stopped. Viola guessed what he intended to say.
“Do you think he was--Do you think this woman may make trouble?” she
asked bravely.
“I don't know. We must find out more about her. If she comes again, hold
her and send for me. I didn't want her to see me to-day to know that I
was on this case. But I don't mind now.”
“Oh, suppose there should be some--some disgrace?”
“Don't worry about that, Viola. But now, I have some rather startling
news for you.”
“Oh, more--”
“Not exactly trouble. But Captain Poland has gone away--his place is
closed.”
“The captain gone away!” faltered the girl.
“Yes. I wondered if you knew he was going. Did he intimate to you
anything of the kind?”
The colonel watched Viola narrowly as he asked this question.
“No, I never knew he contemplated ending the season here so early,”
Viola said. “Usually he is the last to go, staying until late in
October. Is there anything--”
“That is all I know--he is gone,” said the detective. “I wanted to
ask him about that fifteen-thousand-dollar matter, but I shall have to
write, I suppose. And the sooner I get the letter off the better.”
“Please write it here,” suggested Viola, indicating the table where
pens, ink and stationery were always kept. “I am going to look again
among the papers of the private safe to see if there was anything about
books--the Arabian Nights, she said it was.”
“Yes, that's her favorite set. But don't worry, my dear. Everything will
come out all right.”
And as Viola left him alone in the library, the detective added to
himself:
“I wonder if it will?”
Colonel Ashley wrote a brief, business-like letter to Captain Poland,
addressing it to his summer home at Lakeside, arguing that the yachtsman
would have left some forwarding address.
Then, lighting a cigar, the colonel sat back in a deep, leather
chair--the same one Morocco Kate had sat in and perfumed--and mused.
“There are getting to be too many angles to this,” he reflected. “I need
a little help. Guess I'll send for Jack Young. He'll be just the chap
to look after Jean and follow that French dope artist to his new place,
provided he leaves here suddenly. Yes, I need Jack.”
And having telephoned a telegram, summoning from New York one of his
most trusted lieutenants, Colonel Ashley refreshed himself by reading a
little in the “Compleat Angler.”
Jack Young appeared at Lakeside the next day, well dressed, good
looking, a typical summer man of pleasing address.
“Another diamond cross mystery?” he asked the colonel.
“How is your golf?” was the unexpected answer.
“Oh, I guess I can manage to drive without topping,” was the ready
answer. “Have I got to play?”
“It might be well. I'll get you a visitor's card at the Maraposa Club
here, and you can hang around the links and see what you can pick up
besides stray balls. Now I'll tell you the history of the case up to the
present.”
And Jack Young, having heard, and having consumed as many cigarettes as
he considered the subject warranted, remarked:
“All right. Get me a bag of clubs, and I'll see what I can do. So you
want me to pay particular attention to this dope fiend?”
“Yes, if he proves to be one, and I think he will. I'll have my hands
full with Blossom, Morocco Kate and some others.”
“What about Poland and Bartlett?”
“Well, Harry is still held, but I imagine he'll be released soon, Jack.”
“Nothing on him?”
“I wouldn't go so far as to say that. You know my rule. Believe no one
innocent until proved not guilty. I can keep my eye on him. Besides,
he's pretty well anchored.”
“You mean by Miss Viola?”
“Yes.”
“How about the captain?”
“He's a puzzle, at present. But I wish you'd find out if that chauffeur
has a girl. That's the best way to do, or undo, a man that I know of.
Find out if he has a girl. That'll be your trick.”
“All right--that and golf. I'm ready.”
And Jack Young worked to such good advantage that three days later he
had a pretty complete report ready for his chief.
“Jean Forette has a girl,” said Jack; “and she's a little beauty, too.
Mazi Rochette is her name. She's a maid in one of the swell families
here, and she's dead gone on our friend Jean. I managed to get a talk
with her, and she thinks he's going to marry her as soon as he gets
another place. A better place than with the Carwells, she says he must
have. This place was pretty much on the blink, she confided to me.”
“Or words to that effect,” laughed the colonel.
“Exactly. I'm not much on the French, you know. Still I got along pretty
well with her. She took a notion to me.”
“I thought you might be able to get something in that direction,” said
the colonel with a smile. “Did you learn where Jean was just prior to
the golf game which was the last Mr. Carwell played?”
“Yes, he was with her, the girl says, and she didn't know why I was
asking, either, I flatter myself. I led around to it in a neat way. He
was with her until just before he drove Mr. Carwell to the links. In
fact, Jean had the girl out for a spin in the new car, she says. She's
afraid of it, though. Revolutionary devil, she calls it.”
“Hum! If Jean was with her just before he picked up Carwell to go to
the game--well, the thing is turning out a bit different from what I
expected. Jack, we still have plenty of work before us. Did I tell you
Morocco Kate was mixed up in this?”
“No! Is she?”
“Seems to be.”
“Good night, nurse! Whew! If he fell for her--”
“I don't believe he did, Jack. My old friend was a sport, but not that
kind. He was clean, all through.”
“Glad to hear you say so, Colonel. Well, what next?”
They sat talking until far into the night.
There was rather a sensation in Lakeside two days later when it became
known that the coroner's jury was to be called together again, to
consider more evidence in the Carwell case.
“What does it mean?” Viola asked Colonel Ashley. “Does it mean that
Harry will be--”
“Now don't distress yourself, my dear,” returned the detective,
soothingly. “I have been nosing around some, and I happen to know that
the prosecutor and coroner haven't a bit more evidence than they had at
first when they held Mr. Bartlett.”
“Does that mean Harry will be released?”
“I think so.”
“Does it mean he will be proved innocent?”
“That I can't say. I hardly think the verdict will be conclusive in any
case. But they haven't any more evidence than at first--that he had a
quarrel with your father just before the fatal end. As to the nature
of the quarrel, Harry is silent--obstinately silent even to his own
counsel; and in this I can not uphold him. However, that is his affair.”
“But I'm sure, Colonel, that he had nothing to do with my father's
death; aren't you?”
“If I said I was sure, my dear, and afterward, through force of evidence
and circumstance, were forced to change my opinion, you would not thank
me for now saying what you want me to say,” was the reply. “It is better
for me to say that I do not know. I trust for the best. I hope, for your
sake and his, that he had nothing to do with the terrible crime. I want
to see the guilty person discovered and punished, and to that end I
am working night and day. And if I find out who it is, I will disclose
him--or her--no matter what anguish it costs me personally--no matter
what anguish it may bring to others. I would not be doing my full duty
otherwise.”
“No, I realize that, Colonel. Oh, it is hard--so hard! If we only knew!”
“We may know,” said the colonel gently.
“Soon?” she asked hopefully.
“Sooner than you expect,” he answered with a smile. “Now I must attend
the jury session.”
It was brief, and not at all sensational, much to the regret of
the reporters for the New York papers who flocked to the quiet and
fashionable seaside resort. The upshot of the matter was that the
chemists for the state reported that Mr. Carwell had met his death
from the effects of some violent poison, the nature of which resembled
several kinds, but which did not analyze as being any particular one
with which they were, at present, familiar.
There were traces of both arsenic and strychnine, but mingled with
them was some narcotic of strange composition, which was deadly in its
effect, as had been proved on guinea pigs, some of the residue from
the stomach and viscera of the dead man having been injected into the
hapless animals.
Harry Bartlett was not called to the stand, but, pale from his
confinement, sat an interested and vital spectator of the proceedings.
The prosecutor announced that the efforts of his detectives had resulted
in nothing more. There was not sufficient evidence to warrant accusing
any one else, and that against Harry Bartlett was of so slender and
circumstantial a character that it could not be held to have any real
value before the grand jury nor in a trial court.
“What is your motion, then?” asked the coroner.
“Well, I don't know that I have any motion to make,” said Mr. Stryker.
“If this were before a county judge, and the prisoner's counsel demanded
it, I should have to agree to a nolle pros. As it is I simply say I have
no other evidence to offer at this time.”
“Then the jury may consider that already before it?” asked Billy Teller.
“Yes.”
“You have heard what the prosecutor said, gentlemen,” went on the
coroner. “You may retire and consider your verdict.”
This they did, for fifteen minutes--fifteen nerve-racking minutes for
more than one in the improvised courtroom. Then the twelve men filed
back, and in answer to the usual questions the foreman announced:
“We find that Horace Carwell came to his death through poison
administered by a person, or persons, unknown.”
There was silence for a moment, and then, as Bartlett started from his
seat, a flush mantling his pale face, Viola, with a murmured “Thank
God!” fainted.