THE NEW BOARDER.
On the day of Allen Chesterbrook’s funeral Mrs. Callum took in another
boarder. She had waited in vain for the appearance of the young lady
Mr. Ulmer had spoken of sending, and eagerly showed the vacant room to
the middle-aged woman in brown who came with a valise and a portfolio.
The newcomer was an agent for a new art work, specimens of which were
contained in the portfolio. She explained that she had been directed
to call upon the wealthy people in the vicinity, and would most likely
need the room for three months, if not longer. The room suited her, and
so did the price, and she paid for one week’s board in advance and took
possession immediately.
While the new boarder was removing the signs of travel Mrs. Callum
prepared luncheon for her, and, during the progress of this, both
became quite friendly. Miss Deems said she was tired, and doubted if
she would attempt to do much that day.
“I have been very fortunate in my work,” she explained, “and, that
being so, I feel that I can afford to take it a bit easy.”
“I don’t believe you can do much to-day anyway,” returned Mrs. Callum.
“Most of the residents of the town are at Mr. Chesterbrook’s funeral,
and folks talk of nothing else.”
And on being slightly encouraged by Miss Deems, she told all that was
known of the mystery, and ended by remarking that her other boarder,
Miss Harding, had gone to the church with the rest of the young folks.
“She knew Mr. Chesterbrook,” she explained. “Not very well, but still
she knew him.”
“It must have been a shock,” was Miss Deems’ comment.
“Indeed it was! Why, Violet--I always call her that, she is so
friendlesslike and seems to invite familiarity--Violet came home sick;
I thought she was going to have a spell. She went right to her room and
didn’t want any luncheon or anything.”
“I suppose she had heard the news in church?” said the new boarder,
questioningly.
“I suppose so; I didn’t ask her. I wanted to give her a cup of tea, but
she wouldn’t even let me in the room. Strange how young girls do go on
over such a thing. Of course, it’s horrible, and gives one the creeps,
but, as the deed’s done, there’s no use to make an ado about it. I
buried two husbands and three children--one by the first and two by the
second--and I lived through it.”
“Perhaps she thought more of Mr. Chesterbrook than she was willing to
own.”
“Maybe. I never thought of that. He was kind to her, and got her a
position at the Land Improvement office. But she had no business to
think too much of him, for he was engaged to Miss Maud Willowby, and
she knew it.”
“Lots of girls do many things that are imprudent,” and Miss Deems
shrugged her shoulders suggestively.
“I suppose that’s so, too. But Violet is a good girl, a very nice,
quiet girl, even though she does have strange fits of temper now and
then. I tell you about the fits of temper, Miss Deems, so that you
won’t be astonished if you see her in one. She’s got Spanish blood in
her, she says, though she doesn’t show it much, and once in a while
she strikes fire, as my John used to say. But it doesn’t last, and she
doesn’t mean anything. You’ll like her; I know you will.”
“I’m sure I will--if you do,” smiled the new boarder, and then Mrs.
Callum liked her better than ever.
The funeral had been over two hours before Violet Harding returned
home, and was introduced to Miss Deems. A few remarks were exchanged
concerning the crowd at the church, and then Violet begged to be
excused and went to her room, not to appear for the remainder of the
day. Mrs. Callum took supper up to her, but she said she had a headache
and did not care to eat.
“I have a slight headache myself,” said Miss Deems, after the landlady
had returned below and told her what Violet had said. “I ought to
retire early, too.” And she did.
Once in her own room, with the door locked, Miss Deems’ manner
underwent a transformation. Her eyes brightened, her step grew
noiselessly swifter, and she appeared ten years younger. She approached
the side of the room where the bed stood against the wall, noiselessly,
and shoved the article of furniture to one side.
Originally a doorway led from this room to one occupied by Violet
Harding. But now the door was locked and bolted, and completely blocked
on one side by a bed and on the other partly by a wash-stand and an
old-fashioned towel rack.
Having carefully shoved the bed to one side, Miss Deems paused to
listen. Not a sound came from the other room. She approached the door
and applied her eye to the keyhole, from which the key had long before
been taken by Mrs. Callum.
Her range of vision into the next apartment was limited, yet she could
see one side of the bed, the bureau, and a rocker in front of it. An
oil lamp was lighted and turned down low.
Violet Harding lay upon the bed. She had removed her hat and veil,
otherwise she was as completely dressed as before. She lay staring at
the ceiling, without moving a muscle of her face.
Suddenly, when Miss Deems had been watching for several minutes, the
girl sprang up, and ran her hands through her thick hair, which, being
loose, came tumbling down over her shoulders. She gave a low moan and
began to walk the apartment, rapidly at first, but gradually slower,
and at last she sank down in the rocker and buried her face in her
hands. She remained in this attitude only a few seconds and then bent
forward, and, pulling open the bottom drawer of the bureau, began to
search for something.
The search came to a sudden end as the girl brought forth a photograph
and kissed it. Then she turned up the lamp and gazed at the picture,
while her eyes filled with tears. Much to her chagrin, the face of the
photograph was hidden from Miss Deems’ view.
The sight of the picture seemed to quiet the girl, even though she was
crying. She gazed at it a long while, then placed it away again, closed
the drawer and locked it, and began to make preparations to retire. A
quarter of an hour later she was abed, and Miss Deems followed suit.
The next morning, at breakfast, Violet announced that she would not be
home for luncheon.
“Just put me up a bite, will you?” she said to Mrs. Callum. “I have
lost so much time lately that I must work the noon hour and overtime to
make up.”
She was quite agreeable to Miss Deems, but showed no disposition to
become familiar, her mind evidently being preoccupied. The new boarder
was disappointed at this, but took good care not to show it. Directly
after Violet she went upstairs to prepare for her initial business
trip, as she told Mrs. Callum.
It was nearly ten o’clock when she came down, although it had been
scarcely eight when she had gone up.
“Perhaps I won’t be back to luncheon either,” she said to Mrs. Callum,
and passed out, her portfolio under her arm.
Evidently Miss Deems was not undecided as to where to make the first
strike for business. She walked directly toward a certain hotel,
stopped at the door for a few minutes, and then entered the ladies’
parlor, which was empty. In another minute a man joined her. It was
Jack Hull.
“Well, Frank, did you get in all right?” was his first question.
“I did,” returned Miss Francis Barton, for such was Miss Deems’
real name. She had as many assumed ones as would fill a small-sized
directory. Her ability, which rivaled that of leaders in her calling,
was responsible for her nickname.
“And have you discovered anything?” he went on eagerly.
“I have.”
“Go on; don’t keep me waiting,” he cried impatiently.
“Well, in the first place,” she returned, with something of pride
in her tone, “let me tell you what I did,” and, without waiting for
consent, she related her experience up to the time she had gone
upstairs to prepare for going out.
“When I returned to my room,” she continued, “I waited long enough to
make sure that Mrs. Callum was busy in the kitchen with the dishes,
and then I entered Miss Harding’s room. I first made a general search,
which revealed nothing; and then attacked the bureau, which I knew must
contain something important, otherwise they would not have locked it.
“Every drawer was locked, but I had seen her hide the key in her
workbasket, so it did not take long to hunt it up and unlock all of
them. I started with the top drawer, and found nothing of value; then I
tried the middle drawer, and, among some unwashed linen, I found this.”
Frank Barton opened her portfolio, and drew forth a dainty
handkerchief, delicately scented. On the handkerchief were several
blotches of deep red.
“Humph!” muttered Jack Hull. “Blood, true enough!”
“Yes, human blood.”
“Another clew, truly.”
“The finding of the handkerchief stimulated me. I went carefully
through to the bottom of the drawer----”
“Hold on. Was the handkerchief lying openly among the other linen?”
“No, it was wrapped in a bit of paper, probably to keep it from soiling
the other things.”
“I see. Go on!”
“At the bottom of the drawer I came to another slender package, also
wrapped in paper. I unrolled it, and found this.”
Once more Frank Barton placed her hand in the portfolio. This time she
drew out a flat, leather case, bearing upon a plate on its side the
letters V. H.
Jack Hull uttered a low whistle of surprise and pleasure, and took the
case in his hands.
“The sheath for the dagger, sure enough!” he murmured. “This is indeed
a find. I thought by having you go there we would discover something.
Anything else?”
“There was nothing more in the middle drawer, but in the lower one I
found several letters which Chesterbrook had written to her at various
times, and also a photograph of the man and the photograph of an old
lady.”
“What did the letters contain?”
“They were friendly letters. In one he spoke of having secured a
position for her, and with another he had sent her twenty dollars for
certain expenses. The third was the most interesting, and I copied a
portion of it. I didn’t bring the letters, for they were in a bundle
with others, and I was afraid of disarranging them. Of course, unless
you are going to proceed against her at once, I’ll have to return the
handkerchief and the dagger sheath to their original places. Here is
the slip.”
Jack Hull attentively read the extract from the letter.
“Humph!” he said. “This may mean everything and it may mean nothing.
What does he mean by saying that ‘She can rest assured he will keep the
secret?’ What secret?”
“Perhaps he held her secret, and she, fearing he would divulge it,
killed him,” suggested Frank Barton.
“It may be,” mused Jack Hull, and he thought of the strange meeting
between Violet Harding and the sporty-looking fellow on the bluff.
“This affair only gets more perplexing instead of clearer. But one
thing is certain--he was killed with Violet Harding’s dagger,” he went
on, with some satisfaction. “There is foundation for a good story on
the dagger and the bloody handkerchief, the hairs and the hairpin, and
those letters; a fine story, if we can only reach the bottom of it.”
“What do you wish me to do next?”
“Go back, make friends with her, and pump her. If you can’t pump her,
watch her, and note all she does. She’s bound to say or do something
worth knowing, sooner or later. And I’ll keep an eye on her myself.
You can put those things back where you found them. You didn’t read
those other letters?”
“I glanced at them. I hadn’t time to do more, for Mrs. Callum was
preparing to come up and sweep.”
“Then read all of them when you get the chance. You may strike
some other clew. I’ll meet you here every day at this time, if you
wish--here, or outside, if the hotel people become suspicious.”
“Then you are not going to frighten her into a revelation just yet?”
“No. I’ve got an idea. There may be much more in this murder than even
we suspect. There is a fellow who knows her well, a fellow she is
trying to get rid of. I’m going to hunt him up, if I can, and see if I
can force him to tell what he knows of her. He’s a dissolute sort of
chap, and perhaps a few drinks will oil up his tongue.”
“What’s the fellow’s name? I may learn about him through her.”
“I don’t know. But I remember his face, and I fancy he is hanging
around Lakeview, watching for a chance to interview her. I don’t
believe she’ll speak of him--she isn’t that kind of a young woman.”
The two separated, and Frank Barton went back to Mrs. Callum’s house.
She had no difficulty in restoring the things she had brought away
to their original places, but gained no chance to read the remaining
letters. She went out again, and did not reappear until Violet came
home from work.
That evening she did her best to make herself agreeable to the girl,
and partly succeeded--something that gave her a little satisfaction.
“A stubborn person,” she said to herself. “But I’ll overcome that soon,
see if I don’t. I never yet failed.”
But the work was harder than she anticipated. Day after day went by
and still Violet kept her at a distance, even though there was nothing
in her manner directly repellent. And one day a great surprise awaited
her. Violet Harding was gone, trunk and all, and had left no future
address behind her.