Helen's summons to America. Could it be possible that Doctor Rameses
had wanted a "cat's-paw" for some new chestnuts to be pulled out of the
fire? What would Helen Hartland's poor little paw avail him for that
work? I went on wondering. But the ways of the Egyptian were past
finding out--or had been, up to date. It was within the bounds of
possibility that thinking to compromise me, he had sought in England a
girl--preferably an actress--whom I had known; within the same bounds
that he might have induced her to cross the sea, in the hope that, once
on this side, we might play his game. So far-fetched an idea would
never have come into my head, had not Mrs. Edson mentioned the
circular, and the professor of hypnotism. But once in, I couldn't get
it out. I determined to take the next chance to catechise Helen.
It arrived by accident, or I thought so, believing myself a free agent;
instead of which I was a fly blundering into a spider's web.
From Maida Odell and from the elderly waiter who had looked over the
parapet at a man in a broad-brimmed hat, I have since obtained threads
which show how the web was woven: but some disastrous days were to pass
first.
During this time I heard nothing from Maida, but I had memories to
comfort me, and it was good to feel how few miles were between us.
Strange that, few as they were, no telepathic thrill was able to warn
me of what was happening behind the high garden walls of the Sisterhood
House!
Maida has told me since, how the Head Sister called her one day for a
talk. "I want to make a little journey and try to do a little good,"
the grey-veiled lady said in the deep voice which Maida had once
thought sweet as the tones of a 'cello. "I should like you to go with
me, but--there is a reason why perhaps you would rather I took someone
else. Still, I feel bound to give you the choice, as you are my
dearly-loved and trusted friend through _everything_."
"Why should I want you to take someone else, Sister?" Maida asked.
"Because--a man who would steal you away from us if he could, is often
at the place where we must go. He visits the young English girl I am
asked to help; and I fear that his interest in her is not for her good.
Now, dear child, don't be angry with me for saying this! I don't ask
you to believe. I tell you only what I hear from my philanthropic
friend in New York who enables us to do some of our best work. I wish
he would let his name be mentioned, but even his right hand is never
allowed to know what the left hand doeth! In any case the girl is in
difficulties, as this doer of noble works hears from one of his
assistants. She is an actress who sings in a gay, rowdy sort of hotel
frequented by sportsmen and their friends. I am requested to offer her
a home here, if she chooses to come, and eventually to send her back to
England at the expense of the Sisterhood funds. Now you see why I
spoke. You shall go or stay, as you wish."
Once Maida had thought all the Head Sister's precepts and acts beyond
criticism. But things had passed in Sisterhood House which had
slightly--almost imperceptibly--broken the crystal surface of perfect
trust. She found herself wondering: "Why does Sister advise me not to
think of Lord John? Why does she hint horrid things of him, yet take
me where we may meet?"
There was no answer to this question in Maida's mind, but she said that
she would go with the Head Sister on the "mission": and in her heart
she hoped that we might meet. She had been tried and tested before,
and again she was loyal in thought.
The conversation between those two at Sisterhood House took place the
day after my talk with Mrs. Edson. And while Maida and the Head Sister
discussed the short journey they planned to make, I was probably
dashing off a hasty letter to Helen Hartland. "I want to see you," I
wrote, "about something rather important. Please send a line in
answer, and tell me at what time I may call to-morrow afternoon."
In answer to this, Helen replied that she would see me at five o'clock.
"I'm very unhappy," she added. "I know you want me to go back to
England, and I believe you're _afraid_ of me. I think you are cruel,
but I'm thankful you're coming to see me of your own free will."
I should have been dumbfounded at this morbid nonsense, if the thought
of Rameses hadn't been haunting my mind. If he were the power behind
the throne in this business, he might have stuffed the girl with false
ideas about me, or else actually have hypnotised her to write in this
unbalanced fashion.
I had been in my hangar, or flying, most of the day, and came to the
hotel half an hour before the appointment, to make myself tidy for a
call. Looking out from the window I saw a grey automobile flash by and
slow down as if to stop at the door. Whether it did stop or no, I
couldn't be sure, as I could not see so far; nor should I have been
interested had the thought not flashed through my head that it looked
like the car which belonged to Sisterhood House.
Nothing seemed less likely than that it should come to the Aviation
Park Hotel: and there were many autos of that make and colour on Long
Island. I thought no more about it, little dreaming of the surprise
Doctor Rameses' genius had prepared for Maida and for me. Now I ask
myself where was my prophetic soul wandering at that moment? Perhaps
it was searching for Maida: but it would only have to look close at
hand to see her walking in to the hotel in the adorably becoming
costume of the Grey Sisterhood. The inevitable Head Sister was with
her, of course: but not in command, according to custom. Even before
starting, she had complained of a headache, and Maida had suggested
putting off the expedition: but the sufferer refused such
self-indulgence. During the drive to the hotel, she was speechless
with pain, and Maida, who had never seen the strong, vital directress
in such a condition, was anxious. "I'm afraid we must take a room in
the hotel for a while, where I may lie down until I'm able to see Miss
Hartland," the Head Sister said as the grey car drew up at the door.
Maida was thankful for this concession, but surprised that she should
be told, in a faint voice, to engage the best room in the house. The
Head Sister was usually spartan in her ways, setting an example of
self-sacrifice to all those under her care.
Maida obeyed without comment, however, and the big room adjoining Helen
Hartland's, with the double doors between, was given to the two ladies
of the Grey Sisterhood.
These happenings--and certain developments which followed quickly--I
learned long afterwards from Maida's own lips, when we were putting
"two and two together." From the elderly Austrian who acted as a
waiter in the roof-garden I forced another part of the same story,
hearing from him that he had been one of Rameses' many servants. This
I succeeded in doing too late to pull myself out of the pit which was
waiting (at this very moment) for me to tumble into it. Nevertheless
there was satisfaction later in knowing that my researches had never
strayed from the right track.
It had been raining that day, I remember--an unlucky thing for the
aviation "fans," come from far and near to see a new way of looping the
loop demonstrated by two American pupils of mine, and myself: a lucky
thing for the most daring experiment ever attempted by Doctor Rameses.
People were walking about between nights, with umbrellas held low over
their heads to protect them the better from a straight, steady
downpour. Thus, roofed with wet silk domes they could see little
except their own feet and each other. It was only when something
happened aloft that it was worth while to unroof themselves: and at
such moments all attention was concentrated on the sky. The air-show
was a good one. Soaked enthusiasts rushed to the hotel for a "quick
lunch" and drinks and rushed away again, or congregated on the roof
with sandwiches in their hands. Waiters in the roof-restaurant walked
with chins up: and there was a moment when one of their number--old
Anton, the Austrian--was able to lure even the kitchen staff, cooks and
all, out of doors for a few minutes. By a weird decree of fate, it was
a flight of mine that they were invited to desert duty in order to
witness!
While the kitchen was empty and the door open, with men's backs turned
to it, Anton had given a signal. A mackintoshed figure slipped in, and
finding the coast clear, made for the food elevator, which was ready to
mount. Inside there was room for a man to crouch. Anton, darting into
the kitchen, sent the lift up: then darted out again to tell the cook
and cook's assistant a spicy anecdote about me!
There was no stop for the elevator between kitchen and roof. It was a
slow traveller, and as the open front rose above the restaurant floor,
the crouching man within could see at a glance what hope he had of
running the gauntlet. The moment could not have been better chosen. I
was in the act of doubling my loop, and everyone on the roof--guests
and waiters--had crowded to the flower-fringed parapet. The lift was
artistically concealed by an arbour of white painted trellis-work, as I
have explained; but sharp eyes could peer between the squares overhung
with climbing plants, and see all that went on upon the other side.
The crouching figure crept out, rose, and precipitated itself down the
service stairway whose railed-in wall was also masked by the trellis
arbour.
It could not have been long after this that I finished my work for the
day, and came to the hotel, as I have said, to keep my appointment with
Helen Hartland; but meanwhile there had been time for the man in the
high-collared mackintosh coat to finish _his_ work also. He had not,
of course, ventured to try returning by the way he came, but had run
down the service stairs and walked out of the house by a side entrance.
Thanks to the rain and the umbrellas, and the call of the sky, he
escaped, as he entered, without being seen. If Anton had not been
compelled to betray him later, the mystery of the Aviation Park Hotel
would never have been solved.
Before I went (as requested in Helen's last letter) to knock at her
door, a new cause of excitement had arisen. Charlie Bridges had
crashed to earth in his machine, close to the hotel, and crowds had
collected round the fallen aeroplane. Those who saw the fall, were
able to explain why the 'plane was scarcely injured. Bridges had been
swooping at the time, so close to earth that the drop amounted to
nothing: but for some curious reason he had lost control of the
machine. He was far more seriously hurt than he ought to have been,
for not having been strapped in, he had slid from his seat somehow, and
been caught under the machine. Unconscious and suffering from
concussion the "California Birdman" was carried into a ground floor
room of the hotel, while a "hurry call" was sent over the telephone for
the nearest doctor.
All this happened unknown to me, for the room in which I was dressing
was on the opposite side of the house. Any shouts I heard, or running
men I saw through the window, were only part of the ordinary show for
me. At precisely five o'clock I went my way through various corridors
and knocked at Helen's door, in ignorance of Charlie Bridges'
misfortune.
The door stood slightly ajar, as if Helen had left it so purposely for
me: but no answer followed my knock. I tapped again more loudly, and
the door fell open at my touch. No one was in the room; but close to
the window, on the floor, I saw a bunch of crimson roses, wet with rain.
"Bridges!" I said to myself, with a smile.
For a moment I hesitated outside the door: yet rather than go away and
miss the girl when she arrived (I imagined that she had run up to the
roof), or lurk in the corridor to be stared at by passing servants, I
decided to walk into the room and wait. Probably, I thought, this was
what Helen had meant, in leaving the door ajar.
If the door of the next room had opened at that instant, and Maida had
looked out, the history of the wretched weeks which followed might have
been different for us both. But the door remained closed, and no
instinct told me who was behind it. No one saw me walk into Helen
Hartland's room; and therefore no one could tell at what hour I had
entered.
I did not look out of the window, or I should have seen the fallen
aeroplane which must still have been on the ground. I left the
flowers--red as their giver's blood--lying on the floor for Helen to
find when she came: but minutes passed and Helen did not come.
I sat down in a chair drawn up by the table and glanced at a couple of
books. Both had been lent by me at Helen's request, and had my name on
the flyleaf. I laid them down again impatiently on the gaudy cotton
tablecloth; and took out my watch. Ten minutes after five! ... Soon it
was the quarter past. I was resolving impatiently to scrawl a line on
a visiting-card, and go, when I heard a slight noise, as if someone in
the adjoining room were unlocking a door. I knew from Helen's
description that there were two doors, with a distance of at least
twelve inches between.
"Can she be using that other room, too?" I wondered: when suddenly
there rang out a scream of horror, in a woman's voice. It seemed to me
that it was like Maida's, though that must be a mere obsession! but I
sprang to my feet, dragging off the tablecloth and bringing down on the
floor books, papers, and a vase of flowers. My chair fell over also:
and all this confusion in the room was afterwards used against me.
I rushed to the door leading out to the corridor--which I had closed on
entering--and found a swarm of people, guests and waiters, already
pouring down the service stairs from the roof-garden just above.
Everyone saw me come out of Helen Hartland's room: but even if they had
not seen, there was my hat with my initials in it, on the floor with
the rest of the fallen things, to testify to my late presence.
As we crowded the narrow corridor, the door of the "best room" whence
the scream had come, was flung wide open, and to my amazement, Maida
Odell--in her grey costume of the Sisterhood--rushed out pale as a dead
girl.
"Murder! A woman murdered!" she whispered rather than cried, as one
strives voicelessly to shriek in a dream. Just then she saw me, and
held out both hands as if for help. I pushed past everyone else and
got to her: but others surged forward and she and I gave way before the
crowd. A dozen men at least must have jostled into the room after us;
but at the instant I hardly knew that they were there. I saw a big
woman in grey drawing a veil closely round her face as she rose from a
cushioned lounge: and I saw lying on the floor the body of Helen
Hartland with a thin stiletto sticking in her breast--a stiletto I had
lent her to use as a paper knife. I recognised it instantly in
redoubled horror, though not thinking then of consequences for myself.
By this time a policeman--one of those always present on the aviation
grounds--forced his way through the crowd massed in the corridor. He
got rid in summary fashion of everyone, except the two ladies,
occupants of the room, myself (because I seemed to know and have some
business with them) and the landlord. Another policeman who followed
close on his heels, guarded the doors of the adjoining rooms, and
doubtless a third busied himself in sending off frantic telephone calls.
Helen Hartland lay on her back on the pale grey carpet stained with her
blood; and Maida told tremulously how the tragedy had been discovered.
The Head Sister, feeling ill, had lain down on a sofa not far from the
door of communication between this room and the next. She had fancied
a noise on the other side, and asked Maida to try if the door were
fastened. Strangely, it was not (though Edson cut in to protest that
it, and all other communicating doors were invariably locked). The
door had opened as the handle turned, and to the girl's horror the
figure of a dead woman--standing squeezed in between the two doors--had
fallen into the room.
Hardly had the faltering explanation reached this point when a doctor
arrived--the man who had been in the hotel, attending Charlie Bridges.
He examined the body, pronounced that life had not been extinct for
half an hour, and thought from the position of the weapon, that death
had been caused by another hand than Helen's own.
There was, of course, no difficulty in identifying the girl, for the
landlord and I were both on the spot retained to give evidence. It
soon came out that Helen Hartland had told Mrs. Edson she expected a
visit from Lord John Hasle, and I without hesitation admitted making
it. The Head Sister chimed in, saying that she and her friend had come
for the express purpose of seeing Miss Hartland and persuading her to
leave "her unsuitable position." The adjoining room was entered, for
it was found that the second of the double doors was unlocked. The
confusion was remarked, and silence was maintained when I told how in
jumping up at the sound of the scream I had thrown down a chair and
pulled off a tablecloth.
The books with my name written in them were handled by the policeman
who had taken charge, and by his superior who soon arrived on the
scene. Letters of mine--albeit innocent ones--were unearthed. A few
drops of blood were discovered on the strawberry-coloured carpet
between the table and the door, as well as between the double doors, in
the narrow space into which the body had been thrust. Worse than all,
my monogram was seen to adorn the stiletto paper-knife; and later (when
I had been rather reluctantly arrested on suspicion) the last letter
Helen had written turned up in my pocket. I had slipped it in and
forgotten about it; but with so many damaging pieces of evidence that
capped the climax. The girl accused me in so many words of wishing to
get her out of the way, to send her back to England.
It seemed like a nightmare, and a stupid nightmare: one of those
nightmares when you know you are awake yet cannot rouse yourself: I,
John Hasle, brother and heir to the Marquis of Haslemere, lay under
strong suspicion of having murdered a pretty little third-rate actress
who had become troublesome to my "lordship"--Helen Hartland.
Everything was against me, nothing apparently for me: yet I was almost
insolently sure that my innocence would prove itself, until the lawyer
my friends engaged in my defence showed me how seriously he took the
matter.
"You're in a bad fix," he said, "unless we can find someone to prove
that you weren't in that room long enough to have killed the girl and
hidden her between the doors. You see, that would have been a smart
dodge on the murderer's part, putting her there. If the next room
hadn't happened to be occupied (it seldom is, the landlady says) the
man who did the trick would have had plenty of time to get away before
the crime was found out. It was an accident that there were ladies on
the other side to open the door of their room and see what was behind
it. Your letters, your books, your stiletto----"
"It seems to me the stiletto is a proof of my innocence, not of my
guilt," I ventured. "If I'd wanted to kill the girl, I wouldn't have
done it in a way to incriminate myself, would I?"
"Hobson's choice," said the famous James Jeckelman, shrugging his
shoulders. "You might have been in a rage and a hurry and had to take
what there was at hand. You couldn't have shot her, because of the
noise. It was a stab or nothing. No. If we're to save you, we must
get hold of someone who _saw_."
That was easy to say, but not to do. Not a soul came forward to state
that I had opened Helen Hartland's door at precisely five o'clock, to
find the room empty; and that at a quarter past five the girl's body
had fallen into the room next door. Even if there had been such
evidence in my favour, it could not have freed me from suspicion.
There might have been time to murder the girl, and hide her between the
doors in less than fifteen minutes. But it was strange that she had
not screamed.
Circumstantial evidence piled up: and the most hateful part for me was
that Maida, as well as the directress of the Grey Sisterhood, should be
called as a witness. I writhed at the thought that Maida was involved
in the case, a case concerning the murder of a woman supposed to have
loved me "not wisely but too well."
At first I thought only of this distressing phase of the business: but
it wasn't long before I began to realise that Jeckelman had not
exaggerated. My "position" was not to be allowed to tell in my favour,
and socialists were hot in anger against the British "lord" who thought
he could break any commandment he chose in America.
If only I had been sure how Maida felt, there might have been a rift in
the dark sky. Could it be that her loyalty had stood this greatest
test, or had the evidence and the Head Sister's hatred done their work?
I could not tell, and day after day I saw more clearly that I might go
to my death without knowing.
The coroner's inquest had found against me: and the trial was coming on
when one day Charlie Bridges suddenly woke to consciousness. For weeks
he had lain between life and death. The concussion from which he
suffered was so severe that for a time he had been a mere log. His
soul seemed to have gone out of him. Delirium followed this state.
Then he fell into a long, sound sleep, and waking, his first words
were: "What's happened since I fell? Have they got the man who made
Helen Hartland kill herself?"
The nurse who heard these questions thought that delirium had seized
her patient again: but the doctor, coming in at that moment, understood
that Bridges was in a normal state of mind. He realised that every
word the sick man said might mean life or death for me. Cautiously he
answered the question by another, speaking quietly, not to startle his
patient. "Did Helen Hartland kill herself? Weeks have passed since
you've been laid up, and the case was supposed to be murder."
"It was the same as murder," Bridges answered wearily. "Nearly
everyone who knew us, knew I used to fly past her window and fling in a
bunch of flowers. It was one of my stunts. I could always see what
Helen was doing if she was in: and there was generally time for a
smile. A smile's a thing quickly done. And that was the reward I got.
This last time I saw a man standing over her in a strange way with his
hand on her forehead, for all the world as if he was hypnotising her: a
big tall man I'd never seen before. I was so surprised that I turned
and flew back. The fellow must have seen my flowers fall into the room
with my first go; but the second time I swooped past, Helen was
_stabbing herself_ with a kind of stiletto. That was all I saw. I
went queer and sick, and felt that I'd lost control. My one thought
was to get out and save her. I believe I must have tried to jump.
That's the last thing I remember."
When he had finished, he fell back exhausted, and had to be revived.
But there wasn't much time to waste. Knowing the immense importance of
the statement, Doctor Graves got Bridges to repeat it as soon as he was
able. As the words left his lips they were taken down, and then signed
by him. Later he swore that the man he had seen with Helen was not
Lord John Hasle.
"If it had been, I'd have let him go to the chair, even if he didn't
kill her with his own hands. I'd not have opened my mouth to help
him," Bridges said. "I hated the fellow because Helen liked him better
than me. But I must say he didn't seem to encourage her much. Anyhow
I can't keep still and let an innocent man die."
When asked if he could identify the hypnotist. Bridges was not sure.
All he could say "for certain," he persisted, was that "John Hasle was
younger and slighter and altogether a different type: there was no
chance of a mistake."
I was saved--saved by my rival, poor Charlie Bridges, the last man on
earth to whom I should have looked for help. But then, his help didn't
precisely come from the earth: it came from the air.