One Woman and Another
Bates’ search for Gibbs or Corson resulted in finding the former in the
rooms of the late Sir Herbert Binney. Peters was also there, packing up
the personal effects of the dead man preparatory to vacating the
apartment.
As sole heir, Bates was in authority regarding these effects, but he had
paid little attention to them beyond giving orders to have them packed
and stored for the present.
“Thought I’d dig around a bit,” Gibbs vouchsafed, “but there’s no
indicative evidence that I can find. No papers of an incriminating sort,
no sign of any special woman friend—or feminine enemy, for that
matter.”
“Never mind generalities or suppositions. Look here, Mr Gibbs, what
about my aunt’s connection with this matter?”
Gibbs looked up quickly. “Just what do you mean by that?”
“Only that I’ve heard that you are considering the possibility of her
being implicated. Are you?”
“I’m considering any possibility I can find to consider. Yes, since you
ask me, I am looking into the question of your aunt’s connection with
the case. I know you want me to be frank.”
“I do. Have you any real evidence to work on?”
“Only talk. Only somewhat vague reports that I have yet to investigate.”
“Reports, no doubt, from Mrs Everett, my aunt’s longtime foe.”
“Yes, that’s the source of the hints I had given me. But Mrs Everett
does not accuse your aunt——”
“She’d better not!”
“Oh, she doesn’t. But the matter must be looked into, for there is a
motive, and your aunt——Really, I can’t discuss this thing with you, Mr
Bates!”
“But you must. I’m in charge,—I’m going to find out who killed my
uncle. I admit I hadn’t a great desire to know his murderer, when I
supposed it was some girls or women with whom he was mixed up in a
frivolous way. But if my aunt’s name is so much as breathed, of course,
I must discover the real murderer to save her reputation. She no more
did it than I did,—but I daresay the people who suspect her would also
implicate me!”
“Don’t speak like that. I’ve only a hint to go upon, and though I must
follow it up, it’s an easy matter, no doubt, for all your aunt’s
household to state an alibi and that settles it.”
“Real alibis are not always easy to prove. It’s your faked alibi that’s
glibly detailed and sworn to. There’s no one in my aunt’s household but
herself, myself, and Miss Gurney, her companion. We three were in our
beds and asleep at the time of the murder, but we can’t prove it by eye
witnesses! Naturally, there’s no one to swear to it, except ourselves.
Now, where does that lead you?”
“To further investigation. You know your aunt’s paper-cutter was
found——”
“That proves nothing. You must connect that knife undeniably with the
crime before you can use it against her.”
“I grant that. But first, let’s look into the motive. Your aunt did want
Sir Herbert out of the way. She did say she wished he was dead. She did
say she would kill him herself if she were sure she’d never be found
out.”
“I know she said those things, for I heard her,—not once, but
repeatedly. But my aunt is a quick-tempered and thoughtless-speaking
woman. She has time and again wished various people dead. She has often
expressed her willingness to kill certain people. But it meant no
more,—as she said it,—than for another to wish bad luck to them, or
say they hate them. She is most unguarded in her expressions and
exaggerates always. These things must be understood by you before you
accuse her. She has frequently wished herself dead, but she didn’t mean
it any more than she meant it regarding Sir Herbert.”
“All that will be considered and remembered, but we must question her.”
“You’d better question me. I can tell you anything she can, and in a
more satisfactory manner.”
“Tell us all you like,—all you will, but we must also question Miss
Prall and Miss Gurney.”
“All right, but there are other directions in which to look. Don’t be
too sure that women committed the deed.”
“No use your trying to throw over that dying statement. No use looking
for a man in the case, with that note before our eyes. You know yourself
if a man or men had killed Sir Herbert nothing could have influenced him
to write a denunciation of women. Why would he? What possible
circumstance could explain it? Have you any theory that would fit the
facts?”
“No, unless a man killed him at the instigation of or in behalf of some
women and Sir Herbert wanted the deed traced to its true source.”
“Even that doesn’t seem to make plausible a positive assertion that
‘women did this.’ No, there’s no getting away from that avowal. And, you
must see that the use of the plural,—women,—signifies collusion. Two
or more must be implicated. Not necessarily two or more present at the
moment of the crime, but two or more to be found and punished.”
“Yes, I see all that,—and I want to find the criminals as much as you
do. Especially now, since Miss Prall’s name has been dragged in. But I
do want you to understand how little her hints at ‘killing’ anybody
really mean. You know what an extravagant talker she is.”
“I do know that, and I assure you I’ll make all allowances. But I can’t
leave any stone unturned.”
The man Peters had been in and out of the room and, as he reappeared,
Richard said, “You know Miss Prall, Peters. You know how carelessly she
speaks of serious things?”
“Yes, sir, I do. But you needn’t tell me them little chickens ever had
any hand in the murderin’! Why, they just couldn’t have had.”
“Anything is possible, Peters,” said Bates, sternly. “And I don’t want
you to make those definite statements. They mean nothing, save that such
is your opinion.”
“But my opinions is pretty sound ones, Mr Bates, an’ founded on a lot of
personal knowledge of Sir Herbert,—rest his soul. And I tell you,
gentlemen, that that deed could never ha’ been done by young
girls,—neither the little ladies that Sir Herbert was fond of kitin’
round with nor yet the girls employed in this house. No, sir, that
fearful crime was planned and carried out by older heads than theirs.
Men or women might ‘a’ done it,—but never little half-baked flappers
like them you’re suspectin’.”
“There’s sense in that,” mused Gibbs, and Bates flared out: “I suppose
that leads you more certainly to suspicion of my aunt. But you’re wrong,
Gibbs, all wrong! Now, look here, suppose, just for a moment, there had
been no written message,—which way would you look then?”
“Toward some business complications,” said Gibbs, promptly. “You see,
Sir Herbert Binney was putting over an awful big deal in that matter of
his Bun business. He had dickered with several big bakery companies and
he was a shrewd man at a bargain.”
“And he was in bad with some of the men he was bargaining with,”
vouchsafed Peters, who was a privileged participant in the conversation,
because Gibbs hoped by this means to learn something from the valet.
“Who, for instance?” demanded Bates.
“Graham, of the Popular Patisserie concern; Vail, here in the house, and
Crippen of Crippen’s Cakes.”
“Nothing doing,” returned Gibbs, shortly. “I’ve dug into all those
issues. He was off with the Patisserie people weeks ago. He finished
discussion with the Vail company some days since, and the only one
pending was the Crippen bunch.”
“Yes, and my aunt says he expected to see Crippen the night he was
killed.”
“Well, he didn’t,” returned Gibbs. “I’ve looked up Crippen’s alibi and
it’s gilt-edged. Vail was in the elevator with Bob Moore at the time of
the murder,—that lets him out and the Patisseries are back numbers. I
mean they got through with Binney’s Buns as a working proposition, long
ago.”
“They might have come back to it,” suggested Bates.
“Sure they might,—so might Crippen or Vail. But they didn’t,—or if
they did, we’ve no tiniest speck of evidence of it. If you can get any,
go ahead. You don’t know of anything against the Bakery men, do you,
Peters?”
“No, sir. But Mr Crippen and Mr Vail have both been here——”
“Here! In Sir Herbert’s rooms?” cried Bates. “What for?”
“Mr Vail, he just dropped in, as he was passing by, and he looked round
the room, like in idle curiosity. He said, ‘Poor old chap, he was a good
sport,’ and went away. That wasn’t so strange, for he often used to drop
in for a chat with my master. But Mr Crippen, now, he never came here,
that I know of, while Sir Herbert was alive. But the day after he died,
Mr Crippen comes with a sort of determined air, and he wants to look
round,—and more, he wants to look over Sir Herbert’s papers. Of course,
I didn’t let him do that, but it seemed sorta queer,—didn’t it, now?”
“Maybe and maybe not,” said Gibbs. “I suspect there might have been a
letter from himself that he wanted to get possession of, or something
like that. I say, as I have said from the first, if it were not for the
written paper, I might have suspected these business men, but I’m sure
that’s the very reason Sir Herbert did write the paper, so we would not
go off on a wrong tack. It proves to me the determination of his strong
mind to lead us in the right direction and not let us pursue the most
obvious but mistaken course of looking into the Bun matters.”
“I agree with you on the face of things,” said young Bates, with a sigh,
“and if you hadn’t mentioned Miss Prall, I’d let you go your own gait,
but now you have mentioned her, I shall get into the game myself and
spare no effort or expense to dig up the truth! And, first of all, I’m
going back to Bob Moore. I don’t think he knows anything more than he’s
told, but I do think I can learn more from him now I’ve got my mad up!”
“Come on, I’ll go with you,” and Gibbs accompanied the young man to the
elevator.
Moore was not in the house, and Bates, determined to learn something,
went to Julie Baxter, who was at her switchboard.
He took her, Gibbs following, to a small reception room, where they
could be by themselves.
“Now, Julie,” Bates said, “you’ve got to come across with the true story
of your doings the night of the murder. You are not suspected, but you
will be if you don’t ’fess up. It’s a fool thing to do, to refuse to
tell, when continued silence may get you in very bad. So, out with it.”
“You did the same thing yourself, Mr Bates,” and Julie glared at him.
“You refused to tell——”
“But I’m not a woman; they can’t suspect me. Also, I’ll tell, if I have
to. My story won’t incriminate me. Go ahead, now,—let’s hear.”
“I’ll tell where I was, if you’ll promise not to tell anybody else.”
Julie looked obstinate, though evidently a good deal frightened.
“I’ll promise, if the secret can be kept without hindering our
investigation. Agree to that, Gibbs?”
The detective agreed, and Julie went on. “Specially, I don’t want Bob
Moore to know. We’re engaged and he’s awful particular about where I go,
when he isn’t along. And I’ve never gone any place or done anything he
wouldn’t want me to, except that very night. I went with a crowd on a
trip to Chinatown. It wasn’t any harm, but we were out late, and if he
knew it, he’d give me the dickens. You won’t tell, will you? And, too,
if the manager knew it, he’d think I was a different sort of a girl from
what I am. So, please don’t tell.”
“No; we won’t tell,” promised Bates. “Unless, of course, we find you
haven’t told the truth, or the whole truth,—in that case, you’ll be
shown up! I never suspected any connection of yours with the whole
matter, but if you’ve told the truth just now, it will go no further. I
know you’re not given to frisking about, and I think myself it’s just as
well Moore shouldn’t know of this one occasion. By the way, did you
study to be a nurse?”
“I began the course of training, but the work was too hard for me and I
gave it up the first year and took up telephoning.”
“Did you,” asked Gibbs, suddenly, “did you know any one else in the
hospital, or wherever you were, who studied nursing, and who is in any
way connected with the people interested in this murder?”
Julie hesitated and her face flushed a little.
“I don’t think I ought to mention it,——” she began, and Gibbs cried:
“Of course you ought to mention it! If you’re innocent it can do you no
harm, and if the one you tell us of is innocent it can do her no harm.”
“But it may stir up suspicion quite wrongly,” objected the girl.
“Then the suspicion will fall to the ground. Don’t be afraid; you are
only helping justice along. If it’s a real help you must give it, and if
not, it won’t be followed up.”
But Richard Bates looked grave.
“Oh, I don’t know, Gibbs,” he said; “somebody must have started this
trend toward my aunt, and it’s made me pretty miserable already. Now,
need we take up a new trail with only a sort of surmise on this girl’s
part. For, surely, she is by no means ready to make a positive
accusation.”
“Out with it, Julie,” commanded the detective with no apparent notice of
Bates’ demurrer.
“Well, it’s only this,” and Julie looked relieved at the thought of
unburdening herself; “when I was in training, the girls used to talk of
Kate Holland, who was there many years before, but who seemed to be a
sort of a star pupil. I don’t remember much that they said, only she was
renowned for her surgical skill, and when I heard Bob tell how the
murderer of Sir Binney was a knowing one, I couldn’t help thinking about
her. You know she’s Mrs Everett’s maid.”
“Oh, Lord!” Bates groaned, “don’t drag the Everetts into this thing!
It’s bad enough to have my people spoken of without attacking the
Everetts too!”
“Nobody has attacked them yet,” said Gibbs, dryly; “don’t go too fast.”
“But you will! You’ll suspect Kate because of what Julie has said, and
then you’ll go on to Mrs Everett and——”
“H’m,—you seem to inherit your aunt’s trait of hasty speaking. Better
stop where you are, Bates. Don’t put ideas into my head!”
“I don’t have to! You’re all primed to take up this new outlook. I knew
Julie’s tales would upset things! Just because Mrs Everett’s maid has
had training, doesn’t argue her a murderess!”
“Nobody said it did!” exclaimed Gibbs, angered at the young man’s words,
partly because they were so in line with his own thoughts.
“In fact,” and Bates looked very sober, “in fact, Gibbs, I’d rather
you’d suspect my aunt than the Everett crowd!”
“But nobody has voiced any suspicion of the Everett crowd——”
“You don’t have to voice it, for me to know what you have in your
mind——”
“And that Kate Holland is a terrible woman——” began Julie.
Richard silenced her with a look.
“Julie,” he said, sternly, “don’t you dare mention one word of Kate
Holland in connection with this matter! If you do, I’ll tell both Moore
and the house management of your Chinatown trip.”
“That’s right,” agreed Gibbs. “You’re not to mix into this thing in any
way, Julie. You run along now, and remember, it’s just as Mr Bates said;
if you breathe a word of anything you’ve heard or said in here with us,
we’ll show you up good and plenty, and we may do a little exaggerating,
too! Is it a bargain?”
“Yes, sir, it is!” and Julie Baxter went out of the room, glad to be
assured of the safety of her own secret.
“Now, Bates, you may as well face the music,” Gibbs began. “You must
know that in the back of everybody’s head has been an unspoken thought
of higher up people than chorus girls or elevator attendants. Those
youngsters don’t commit murder,—such a thing is unknown. But older
women with deeper motives must be considered. You say you want to find
the murderess in order to relieve your aunt from any hint of suspicion.
Do you want to do so if the trail leads toward the Everett household?”
Richard Bates seemed suddenly to have grown years older. His
good-looking young face turned to an ashen hue, and his eyes were wild
and staring.
His voice shook as he replied, “I say, Gibbs, I don’t know what I want!
I’m knocked galley-west. I don’t believe for the thousandth part of a
second that either Miss Prall or Mrs Everett have one speck of knowledge
of the deed, but you know the very mention of their names would be like
fire to tow in the newspaper reports.”
“Of course it would. Yet what can we do? However much I keep my
investigations quiet, there’s a gang of reporters nosing about
everywhere. They’ve likely got hold of Julie already——”
“She won’t tell anything.”
“She won’t mean to,—but they’ll frighten or trap her into it. There’s
nothing so dangerous as a woman with a secret of her own to guard.
She’ll babble of everything else.”
“What do you advise?” Bates was clearly at the end of his rope. He was
beseeching of manner and despairing of tone.
“Straightforwardness, first of all. I’m going at once, either to Miss
Prall or to Mrs Everett, and make them come across with something
definite. If they don’t know anything,—I’ll find that out, at least.”
“Go first to my aunt, then. I’ll go with you,—come along. Get all you
can out of her, I’m not in the least afraid!”
The two men went up to the Prall apartment and Bates opened the door
with his own key.
“Here’s Mr Detective, Aunt Letty,” he said, trying to speak lightly; “he
wants a little chatter with you.”
Miss Prall looked up from her book.
“Be seated, Mr Gibbs,” she said, with quiet dignity. “How do you do?”
“How do you do?” the detective returned, not quite at ease, in the
presence of her forbidding manner. “I’m sorry to intrude——”
“Then don’t,” interrupted Letitia, her large, strong face frowning at
him. “Why make us both sorry?”
“Because it must be done.” Gibbs gathered firmness from her own
attitude. “This matter of the murder of Sir Herbert Binney is of
sufficient importance not to wait on convenience or pleasure.”
“Quite right. And what have you done? Nothing, as usual? When one
remembers that the crime occurred nearly a week ago, and no steps have
yet been taken to apprehend the criminal——”
“Pardon me, Miss Prall, many steps have been taken, and they have led in
a definite direction.”
“Good gracious, where!” The spinster was startled out of her calm and a
look of concern spread over her face.
“First, tell me if you have any suspicions?”
“I have not, but if I had I’d never tell you, so long as they were
merely suspicions. If I could prove them, I’d tell quick enough!”
“But I may help you to prove them—or disprove them.”
“That’s just it; if you disprove them, I’m covered with shame and
confusion at having hinted them.”
“All right, I’ll do the hinting. Or, rather, I’ll speak right out. What
did you do with the paper-cutter from your library table,—I see there
is an empty sheath still there?”
“That?” and Miss Prall glanced casually at the sheath in question.
“The paper-knife was broken and I gave it to Sir Herbert Binney, who had
promised to get it mended for me at some specialty place he knew of.
Why?”
“Because that was, probably, the weapon that killed him.”
If Gibbs had expected any sudden telltale blush or confusion on Miss
Prall’s part, he must have been disappointed, for she only said:
“Indeed! How could that happen?”
“I don’t know, but the knife has been found, in peculiar circumstances,
and I’d like to know just when you gave it to him to get it mended.”
“Oh, I don’t know; several days before his death. Perhaps four or five
days, or a week. Go on.”
“The knife,—if that was the one,—was driven into the body in such a
way as to make it likely that the hand that thrust it was the hand of
some one experienced in surgical lore——”
“Hah!” the exclamation given by Miss Prall was full of meaning. It
seemed to imply a sort of triumphant surprise, a welcome knowledge, a
looked-for and longed-for state of things.
“This gives strength to your suspicions?” insinuated Gibbs.
“It does,” and the Grenadier sat up even straighter and her face was
even more indicative of elation as she added, “it does, indeed!”
“And perhaps you will tell us to whom your suspicion points?” urged the
detective.
“That I will do,” she declared, but Bates broke in with a “Hush, Aunt
Letitia! I command you not to speak!”