The Library Set
But it proved no easy matter to trace the whereabouts of Sir Herbert
Binney between the hours of twelve and two on the night he met his
tragic death.
The detectives were aware that he said a pleasant good-night to the
chorus girls he had entertained at supper, and had left the Magnifique,
alone, about midnight, but then all trace was lost. Naturally enough,
for peaceable citizens are not noticed if they follow a beaten or usual
path.
Nor could it be discovered whether he came into the onyx lobby alone, or
accompanied by the person or persons responsible for his death. The
absence of the weapon precluded all thought of suicide, therefore, he
had been murdered and the murderer was still at large.
There was no witness to his dying moments but the night porter, Bob
Moore. His testimony was not doubted, for, so far, no reason was
apparent for his having any ill will toward the victim of the tragedy.
The two police detectives on the case worked well together. Corson was
the more clever minded of the two, and Bates more energetic and active.
But they felt decidedly baffled at the stone wall they found themselves
up against.
Sir Herbert had left the Hotel Magnifique, walking. Where had he gone or
whom had he met? A highwayman or thug was improbable, for such a person
would not follow a victim into his own home before attacking him. This
added plausibility to the written statement incriminating women.
Angry or vindictive women might accompany him to the lobby of his own
hotel, pleading or threatening in their own interests and then, in their
final despair at gaining their point, stab him and run away.
Which, the detectives concluded, was just what had happened, and the
thing now, was to find the women.
In default of any other way to look, they were still investigating the
women employed in The Campanile.
But they had narrowed their search down to a few of those. Principally
of interest was Julie Baxter, the telephone girl,—but more for the
reason of her relations with Moore, than because of her own admissions.
A persistent quizzing of Moore had proved to the detectives’
satisfaction that he did not know where Julie was the night of the
murder, and that he was himself anxiously worried at her refusal to
tell.
For the girl would not tell even her _fiancé_ where she had been. She
persisted in her story that she had been up to no harm but she was
determined to keep her secret. This, in connection with her strong will
and blunt manner, convinced the detectives that, though she need not
have been criminally implicated, she, at least, knew definite and
indicative facts about the murder.
Moore said he was in a quandary. Full of detective interest, he longed
to work on the case, and felt sure he could be of use to the police, but
the attitude of Julie deterred him.
“You see, she’s my girl,” he said frankly to Corson. “And she does act
queer! I don’t understand her, but I can’t dig into this thing and maybe
run up against something she doesn’t want me to!”
“You have faith in her own innocence, then?”
“Oh, yes,—that is, she wouldn’t kill a man! And yet,—who can say that?
In a fit of anger a woman would do anything,—more especially, if she
wasn’t alone.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean a woman, working alone, would hardly dare to kill a man,—but,
accompanied, maybe egged on by another woman, she’d be daredevil enough
to——”
“Who would? Julie Baxter?” Corson flung the question at him.
“Yes,” Moore declared, “Julie or any woman of her fierce, intense
nature. I know Julie well, and I love her, and I’m going to see her
through,—but it’s quite in the picture that she knows something about
this thing.”
“You’re pretty frank for a man engaged to——”
“That’s just it! I’m going to save her from herself! Julie is
stubborn,—she’s positively pig-headed, if she takes a notion. Now, if
she’s keeping something back,—and she is,—it’s to shield some friend,
or,—or to shield herself; but not from conviction of crime,—rather
from some circumstances that might falsely incriminate her—or some one
else.”
“But if she knows who did this thing——”
“Oh, she doesn’t. At most, she only suspects. But I’ll find out. She’s
my girl, and I’m going to discover the truth about her,—and then about
the murder.”
“Oho, you’re going to be a detective!”
“Not so’s you’d notice it. But I’m going to do a little sleuthing on the
side and if I find out anything that will help justice along, I promise
to tell you,—let the chips fall where they may.”
“I haven’t any too much faith in Moore’s protestations,” Corson confided
to Gibbs. “He’s crazy to be a detective, but he’s afraid he’ll catch his
own girl in his net. That’s the truth in a nutshell. I do think, though,
he’d be good help to us, for he knows all about this house and its
occupants, and I can’t help thinking the murderers belong here.”
“I don’t think so,” returned Gibbs. “I’m sure they are rank outsiders.
They were with him during those missing two hours and they followed him
home, hoping to get what they were after,—black-mail, most likely, and
then at the last minute opportunity presented itself and they killed
him.”
“Must have been prepared for it, as they had a weapon, used it deftly,
and carried it off.”
“They did that, and there’s an important clew. None of those little
chorus babes could have stabbed with that deft touch, which the doctor
vows shows skilled medical or surgical knowledge.”
“Maybe, and maybe it was a chance blow. Well, I’m going off on a new
tack. I’m going up to see the dead man’s people and get, if I can, some
new angle on the case.”
Corson went up to the Prall apartment and found the members of that
household in a high state of excitement.
Miss Letitia Prall paused in what was evidently an angry harangue and
somewhat grudgingly accorded a greeting to the caller.
“Must you have an interview just now, Mr Corson?” she asked, acidly.
“I’m sure you know all we can tell you.”
“I’m not sure of that, Miss Prall. There are, I think, some points yet
to be cleared up.”
“The whole case is yet to be cleared up. I can’t see that you detectives
have solved any part of the puzzle.”
“I doubt it can be solved in parts. I think we must ferret about here
and there and at last we will strike the truth all at once.”
“Well, can’t you go and strike it somewhere else?” spoke up the pert
voice of Eliza Gurney. “We have much to attend to, with funeral
arrangements and business matters.”
“As to business matters, you are sole heir, I understand, Mr Bates?”
“Yes, I am so informed by the lawyer who has my uncle’s will in his
keeping,” answered Richard, with an air of cold politeness.
“And you will take up the Bun business?”
“He will not,” Miss Prall replied for him. “He will devote himself to
his great work of inventing—Mr Bates is a genius and now he will have
the means and the opportunity to carry on his life work.”
“Just so. And you will be getting married?”
“Of course he will,” Miss Prall still gave the responses; “not at
present, of course, but as soon as he finds the right young lady——”
“He won’t have to look far afield for that!”
“Leave me out of the conversation,” Richard growled. “These private
affairs of mine in no way affect your detective work.”
“But, you must pardon me if I seem intrusive, I am assuming that we are
at one in this matter of investigation?” Corson spoke sharply.
“Of course,” agreed Bates.
“Then I must ask if you are engaged to Miss Everett.”
“He is not!” Miss Prall almost shrieked the words. “He is not and never
will be. The death of his uncle, deplorable as are the circumstances,
leaves Mr Bates free to pursue his occupation with all his time and
attention. He will not think of other matters for a year at least, and
then the lady in the case will _not_ be Miss Everett!”
The Grenadier sat stiffly upright, and her black beady eyes, darted from
her nephew’s face to that of the detective as if challenging
contradiction from either of them.
Bates replied only by a shrug of his shoulders, but Corson said, “I
assume then, Miss Prall, that outside the natural shock of the tragedy
you feel a certain relief that your nephew is now the heir to great
wealth and can pursue his career? But I understand his uncle wished him
to associate himself with the Bun business.”
“Quite so,” Letitia snapped. “The late Sir Herbert was deeply interested
in my nephew, but he did not understand or appreciate his achievements
and possibilities in his own chosen line. Wherefore, I am rejoiced that
now my nephew can proceed unhindered.”
“But, I believe the late Sir Herbert favored the match between Mr Bates
and Miss Everett?”
“Drop that!” Richard blazed forth. “Leave that lady’s name out of this
conversation!”
“Yes, indeed!” Letitia cried; “I forbid the mention of the name of
Everett in my presence!”
“Yet it may be necessary,” Corson went on, calmly. “You know, Miss
Prall, the ends of justice may call for the mention of a name——”
“What in the world can the mention of that name have to do with
justice?” Eliza broke in. “You don’t connect the Everetts with the
murder, do you?”
“I don’t connect any one with the murder, as yet,” Corson replied, “but
it is my great desire to find some connection, and so I have to make
inquiries.”
“If that’s your motive, I still must request that you omit the name of
Everett from your conversation,” said Bates. “Look here, Corson, are you
getting anywhere, or aren’t you?”
“I am,” was the quiet reply; “now, Miss Prall, you’ll be obliged to
answer a few questions, whether you like it or not.”
Corson’s tone, though courteous, was severe, and the Grenadier, while
not frightened, gave him a look of curiosity and intense interest.
“Go on,” she said, briefly.
“This feud between yourself and Mrs Everett is a matter of long
standing, I believe. You can’t, therefore, object to my reference to it.
What was its cause?”
“Oh, it’s so old now, that its cause is sunk in oblivion.” Letitia
smiled sourly. “But it has been added to by other causes as time went
on, and thus new fuel has kept the fire burning.”
“Keep the home fires burning,” said Richard, with a mocking smile at his
aunt, who heeded it not.
“And so,” she went on, “the feud, as it has come to be called, is as
strong and well-nourished as ever.”
“Yet you two ladies elect to live under the same roof.”
“To nurse the feud along,” Bates asserted, and the Grenadier nodded
assent.
“However,” she added, “Mrs Everett is about to move away.”
“What!” cried Richard.
“Yes,” repeated his aunt, evidently pleased with the fact, “she is going
soon.”
“Thus,” offered Corson, “you will be relieved of two undesirable people
at once.”
“Meaning Mrs Everett and her daughter?” queried Eliza.
“Not at all. Meaning Mrs Everett and Sir Herbert Binney.”
“Oh!” gasped Miss Prall. “Don’t put it that way!”
“Why not? Since it’s the truth. You now can have the pleasure of seeing
your nephew pursue——”
“Don’t talk about me as if I weren’t here!” exclaimed Richard. “Or as if
I were a minor or an incompetent! I’m devoted to my aunt; I love, honor
and obey her, but I’m a man with a mind of my own. And when it runs
counter to the desires or plans of my aunt—well, we must fight it out
between ourselves. However, Mr Corson, I can’t see that the affairs of
my aunt and myself, or the affairs of my aunt and her fellow-feudist,
Mrs Everett, have any connection with or bearing on the murder of Sir
Herbert Binney. If they seem to you to have such a bearing, I think it
is right that you should tell us all about it.”
“I take it, then, that we are working in unison,—at least, in concord?”
“You may certainly assume that as far as I am concerned,” said Bates,
but the two women present seemed by their silence to reserve judgment.
“First, Miss Prall, I’d like to hear from you what plans Sir Herbert
had, so far as you know, regarding the sale of his great bakery
business.”
“I know a great deal about that, Mr Corson, as Sir Herbert not only
discussed the matter with me, but did me the honor to ask my advice,
considering that my judgment was of value.”
“No doubt. And you advised him?”
“I advised him to sell out to Crippen,—of _Crippen’s Cakes_. You know
of the firm?”
“Yes, indeed; who doesn’t? It’s the largest of its sort in the country.”
“Unless one excepts the Vail Bakery. But that’s bread.”
“And aren’t buns bread?”
“That was part of the controversy. However, Sir Herbert and Mr Vail had
their bout before the matter was taken up by the Crippen people. Mr Vail
didn’t see his way clear to combine his bread with Sir Herbert’s buns.
But Mr Crippen thought the buns would go well with his cake business,
and they were on the point of coming to an agreement in the matter.
Indeed, Sir Herbert told me he expected to see Mr Crippen last
evening——”
“He didn’t. I’ve interviewed Mr Crippen and he told me so.”
“Might they not have met after the Magnifique supper?”
“What!” Corson looked at Miss Prall in surprise. “You mean——”
“Oh, nothing,—nothing connected with the—the tragedy, of course. But
perhaps the interview did occur, and for some reason Mr Crippen doesn’t
want it known—can’t you see, Mr Corson, that it’s a queer thing that
nobody comes forward to tell where Sir Herbert was those last two hours
of his life? Well, mightn’t he have been with Mr Crippen,—remember, he
told me he expected to see him,—and whatever their conference resulted
in, might not Mr Crippen have wished it kept quiet——”
“And so, denied it? Why, it might be so, Miss Prall,—but in such a
serious case Mr Crippen would hesitate before he would be anything but
sincere in his story. It’s a risky matter to falsify when a murder case
is being investigated!”
“I know it,” and Miss Prall smoothed the folds of her gown placidly.
“But, you see, I know Mr Crippen.”
“Oh, come now, Auntie,” broke in Richard, “just because Crip was an old
beau of yours, don’t say things against him.”
“I’m not saying anything against him, Ricky, I only say I know him. If
that’s a damaging admission, it’s his fault, not mine.”
The Grenadier set her lips in a straight line, and looked sternly at
Corson. “You can draw any deductions you wish, Mr Corson,” she went on,
acidly, but positively; “I tell you that I know Mr Crippen very well,
and I wouldn’t believe a word he says, unless I had the corroboration of
another.”
“Be careful, Letitia,” warned Miss Gurney.
“You shut up, Eliza! I’ll say what I choose.”
“Do, Miss Prall,” urged Corson. “You’re decidedly interesting. May I be
forgiven if I look about a little. What unusual curios and treasures you
possess.”
“I do; but this is no time to examine or comment on those. If you have
questioned me all you wish,—though, for my part, I don’t think you’ve
questioned me at all,—suppose we consider this interview at an end.”
“Why, Aunt Letitia, have you no wish to find out who killed Uncle
Herbert?” asked Richard.
“I can’t say that I have. He’s dead; no punishment of his murderer can
bring him back. He was no relative of mine, nor was he such a friend
that I’m thirsting to avenge his life. For my part, I only want to have
the matter hushed up. The unavoidable publicity and notoriety are most
distressing!”
“I haven’t questioned you much, I admit, Miss Prall,” observed the
detective, “but I have found out a great deal since I have been here.”
“Yes?” she returned, coolly, with a haughty nod.
“Yes; are you interested to know what I have learned?”
“I am not. It is all beneath my notice. I assume you will use your
information in any way you see fit—but the way, nor the result,
interests me not at all.”
“Don’t talk like that, Letitia,” and Eliza looked deeply concerned. “Mr
Corson will think you a hard-hearted woman.”
“He has my permission to do so.”
“Oh, stop, Auntie!” Bates cried, earnestly. “You get yourself
misunderstood by such talk. You’re not hard-hearted,—except regarding
your foolish feud. In all other ways you’re normally kind and generous
minded.”
“Thank you, Rick, but I don’t care for compliments.”
Corson was fingering some library appointments on the large table near
which he sat.
“These brass sets are convenient things,” he remarked, referring to an
elaborate array of fittings spread out on the large green blotting pad.
“These long clipping shears are most useful, and the pen-holder, letter
opener and ink eraser, all to match, are of admirable workmanship.”
“Yes,” said Miss Prall, carelessly, “I had the set made to order. It is,
I think, unique.”
“Why are you interested in them?” Miss Gurney said, abruptly.
“Oh,” Corson returned, easily, “I love desk fittings. They always have a
peculiar fascination for me. I have several sets myself, but none so
fine or costly as these.”
“Why don’t you stick to your subject, Corson?” said Bates, a little
impatiently. “Are you and Gibbs going to make a success of this case or
not? And I wish you’d let me know all you’ve done. You have a frank air
about your disclosures, but I can’t help thinking you’re sounding us.”
“Sounding you?” and Corson looked mystified.
“Yes; as if you suspected us of knowing more than we’ve told. I assure
you _I_ don’t.”
“No, I never dreamed that you did. You’ve been most outspoken, Mr Bates,
and, while I can’t plume myself much as yet on my findings or those of
Mr Gibbs, you must remember that the matter is not many days old, and it
is not what is called an ‘open and shut’ case.”
“No; and yet, it ought to be. For a man who does not belong to this
country to come over here and be killed, seems to imply not such a very
large number of possible suspects.”
“As to that,” and Corson sighed, “I don’t know of even one possible
suspect. I wish I did,—it might lead to others. But we have the
assurance that the deed was done by women; that simplifies the search.”
“Yes and no, to that,” spoke up Miss Prall. “Sir Herbert, of course,
wrote that in good faith, but may he not have meant by the influence of
women, or at the orders or desire of women,—and not, necessarily, that
women committed the actual deed?”
“Granting all that,” returned Corson, “it is the women we want. If they
hired gunmen,—as they may be called,—we must find out the identity of
the women all the same. And if they actually committed the deed——”
The ringing of the telephone interrupted his speech and proved to be a
message for the detective to come downstairs at once.
Corson went and on reaching the ground floor he was met by Gibbs, who
took him to a small reception room and closed the door.
“Here you are,” Gibbs said, and handed the other a paper-wrapped parcel
which when opened proved to contain a long sharp paper-cutter. The
blade, apparently hastily wiped, still showed traces of what was
unmistakably blood.
“Where’d it come from?” Corson said, staring at the thing.
“A boy connected with the service department found it stuck between the
palings of a fence near the delivery entrance. It may have been placed
there by the murderer of Sir Herbert Binney.”
“Where is this entrance? Why wasn’t this found sooner?”
“The place is around the corner,—a sort of obscure entrance on the side
street, used only by the tradesmen, for delivery. A cleaner found this
just a short time ago.”
“Well,” said Corson, very gravely, “this is the paper-cutter belonging
to a set of writing implements on Miss Prall’s library table; and I have
just come from there, and I noticed that, though the sheath of this was
up there, the paper-cutter was missing!”