Laura greeted us cordially; and Miss Pembroke, with a politeness which,
though slightly constrained, was quiet and non-committal. But, as I had
hoped, Fleming Stone's winning manner and charming conversational
ability seemed to make Janet forget her aversion to detectives. At the
luncheon table various subjects were touched upon, but it was not long
before we drifted into a discussion of the theme uppermost in all our
minds. I could see that although Fleming Stone was apparently talking in
a casual way, he was closely studying Janet's face as he talked.
I noticed that when any reference was made to George Lawrence, Janet
seemed perturbed, and, although Mr. Stone said flatly that George could
not have entered when the door was chained, this did not seem to lessen
Janet's concern. But when Stone referred to George's perfect alibi,
Janet looked relieved, as if freed from a great fear.
It was entirely due to Fleming Stone's tact that the conversation was
kept at a light and airy level. I was intensely conscious of a growing
portent of evil. A cloak of gloom seemed to be settling around me, and
it was only with the utmost effort that I could control my nervous
apprehensions. What was going to happen, I did not know, but I felt
intuitively that a climax was fast approaching, and at last I found
myself sacrificing all other sympathies to the hope that Janet might be
spared.
I could see that Laura was equally agitated, although she too was
outwardly calm. Janet, as always, was a puzzle. She seemed alternately
depressed or gladdened in proportion as the drift of suspicion seemed
directed toward or away from her cousin George.
In a word, Fleming Stone's personality dominated us all. We were but as
strings of an instrument upon which he played, and we responded
involuntarily to his impulses or at his will.
Into this surcharged atmosphere came another element with the entrance
of George Lawrence. He looked handsome and debonair as usual, and
informally begged of Mrs. Mulford permission to share our after-dinner
coffee.
"We're glad to have you," said Laura, in her affable way, "and, as we
have finished luncheon, we will have our coffee in the library, where we
can be more comfortable."
Although Lawrence seemed perfectly at ease, and unconscious of any
reason to fear Fleming Stone's investigations, I couldn't help feeling
that his air of ease was assumed. It was not so much any signs of
nervousness or sensitiveness about him, as it was the pronounced absence
of these. It seemed to me that he was playing a part of straightforward
fearlessness, but was slightly overdoing it.
Fleming Stone talked to Lawrence casually, referring once to his perfect
alibi. George remarked that though he had no fear of suspicion falling
in his direction, it gave him a feeling of satisfaction to know that he
could satisfactorily account for his whereabouts at the time the murder
was committed.
"And now," said Mr. Stone, after the coffee service had been removed, "I
think I will make my examination of the apartment opposite. It is not
probable that I will discover anything in the nature of a clue, but as a
detective I certainly must examine the scene of the crime. I would
prefer to go alone, if you will give a key. I will rejoin you here after
my search."
Janet gave Mr. Stone her key, and without further word he crossed the
hall alone to what had been the Pembrokes' apartment.
After Fleming Stone's departure a strange chill fell on the mental
atmosphere of our little party. George Lawrence seemed to lose his
careless air, and a grayish pallor settled on his face, notwithstanding
his apparent effort to appear as usual. Janet watched her cousin
closely, and she herself seemed on the verge of nervous collapse. Laura,
like the blessed woman she is, strove bravely to keep up, but I saw that
she too felt that the end was near. As for myself, remembering Fleming
Stone's promise, I seemed to be possessed, to the exclusion of all else,
of a great fear for Janet.
It could not have been more than ten minutes, if as much as that, before
Fleming Stone returned.
As he entered our library he seemed to have lost his professional
aspect, and I thought I had never seen a sadder or more sympathetic
expression than I read in his eyes.
"Mr. Lawrence," he said, without preamble, "it is my duty to arrest you
for the murder of your uncle, Robert Pembroke."
For a moment there was no sound, and then, with a pathetic,
heart-breaking little cry, Janet said: "Oh, I hoped so that it wasn't
_you_!"
To my surprise, Lawrence tried to deny it. Guilt seemed to me to be
written in every line of his face, yet, with a palpable effort, he
assumed an air of bravado and said: "I told you I might be accused, but
I can prove a perfect alibi."
"Mr. Lawrence," said Fleming Stone, more sternly than he had yet spoken,
"you have over-reached yourself. That very phrase, 'I can prove a
perfect alibi,' gave me the first hint that your alibi was a
manufactured one. An innocent man can rarely prove a perfect alibi. Not
one man in a hundred can give accurate account to the minute of his
goings and comings. Your alibi is _too perfect_; its very perfection is
its flaw. Again, the idea of _proving an alibi_, or, rather, the idea of
using that phrase, would not occur to an honest man. He would know that
circumstances must prove his alibi. It was that which proved to me that
Mr. Leroy and Mr. Gresham were innocent. I am informed that Mr. Leroy
refused to tell exactly where he was at the time this crime was
committed. Had he been guilty he would have had a previously prepared
and perfectly plausible alibi. Then Mr. Gresham said frankly that he
didn't know where he was at the particular hour about which Mr. Landon
questioned him. Had he been the criminal, and left his handkerchief
behind him by way of evidence, he, too, would have prearranged a story
to tell glibly of his whereabouts. No, a perfect alibi should ordinarily
lead to grave suspicion of the man making it, for it is ordinarily a
concocted fiction. Again, it would have been a strange coincidence had
your watch happened to run down, which you admit is a most unusual
circumstance, at the only time in your whole life when you had a reason
for its doing so. Your watch did _not_ run down; you pretended that it
did so as to get an opportunity to fix the time--the _apparent_ time--in
the mind of the hall boy at your apartment. This is what you did: You
returned to your apartment much later than 11.25. In the absence of the
boy, probably while he was up with the elevator, you stepped in and
changed the time on the office clock. You went out again, and after a
moment came in as if just reaching home. You then asked the boy the
time, and he told you, although he had supposed it to be much later.
Again you overdid your work when, while going up in the elevator, you
asked the boy again, as if to make sure of the time, but really to fix
it firmly in his mind, that he might witness for you. Some time later,
during the night, you probably slipped down-stairs, eluding the
elevator, and corrected the clock. All this is corroborated by the fact
of your calling Miss Waring's attention to the time when you left her
house. You carefully brought to her notice that it was then exactly
eleven o'clock, which it was."
George Lawrence sat as if petrified; for the moment I think he was
really more amazed at Fleming Stone's marvellous discoveries than
alarmed at his own danger. He did not attempt to deny what Stone had
said; indeed, he could not, for under the peculiar magnetism of the
speaker's gaze Lawrence seemed hypnotized, and his silence had tacitly
affirmed each point as it was brought out against him.
Suddenly he drew himself together with a bold shrug, as if preparing for
a last desperate effort.
"Your deductions are true in part," he said. "I did change the clock, as
you so diabolically discovered, and I suppose I did overdo matters when
I accounted for every minute too carefully. But, though it was a
manufactured alibi, and though I had reasons of my own for wanting to
account for my movements that night, it has nothing to do with Robert
Pembroke's death, and couldn't have had; for, as you all know, though I
have a latch-key, the door was chained all night."
"Leaving that question, for a moment," said Fleming Stone, "let us
consider these clues, which though apparently leading in various
directions, point, Mr. Lawrence, directly and indubitably to yourself.
When I was told by Mr. Landon of the several clues picked up in Mr.
Pembroke's bedroom, the morning after his murder, I was impressed at
once by their number and variety. It was extraordinary to find so many
objects, unrecognized by any member of the household, in the murdered
man's bedroom. Then, when I learned that some of these had been traced,
and each so-called clue led to a different suspect, I saw at once that
the situation was prearranged. The various clues were placed where they
were found, exactly as a mine is 'salted' in expectation of prospectors.
You, Mr. Lawrence, deliberately and with intent to throw suspicion in
various directions, and thus baffle detectives,--you placed this key,
this handkerchief, this time-table, and these torn tickets in the room
where they were found. All this shows not only cleverness and ingenuity,
but carefully prearranged plans. Where you obtained those precious
'clues,' I do not know, but at a guess I should venture to say that you
picked up the ticket stubs in the street, as they show evidences of
pavement dirt. The time-table has a distinct imprint of the roughened
surface of the steel stair-binding. I think that as you came up the
stairs, intent upon your deadly errand, you chanced to find that
time-table, and left it behind you as one more distracting piece of
evidence. But these details are of no importance. You salted the mine
successfully, and by the diversity of your clues you led the honest
efforts of the detectives in devious paths. But, after all, the missing
money and the pin, used as a weapon, are the real clues. We have traced
the pin,--to you. We have traced the money,--to you. We have eliminated
all possible suspicion of anyone else, and if you have anything to say
by way of defense, or in any way concerning the matter, you may speak
now."
"I have only to say," said Lawrence, "that you have exhibited a
marvelous ingenuity in building up this fabrication of falsehoods, but
your whole structure falls to the ground in face of the positive
evidence of the chain on the door. For though I have a latch key to the
apartment, entrance is impossible when the chain bolt is on."
"Oh," cried Janet, with a wail as of utter despair. "If your alibi is
broken, George, then _I_ know how you got in that door!"
It was my turn to feel despair. Since the alibi was broken, Janet was
practically confessing her complicity in the matter.
"What do you mean, Janet?" said George sharply. "I couldn't get in
unless you had let me in, and you _didn't_."
"No," said Janet quietly; "I didn't. Nor did Charlotte. But I know how
you got in--at least, how you could have got in."
"I, too, know how you got into the apartment," said Fleming Stone; "and
it was without the assistance, and without the knowledge, of either
Miss Pembroke or her servant."
Again that wonderful gaze of Fleming Stone's sad, serious eyes seemed to
compel Lawrence to speak against his will.
"How did I get in?" he said hoarsely, bending forward as with the
breathless suspense of a man taking his last chance.
"It is not an easy matter to explain," said Fleming Stone, "nor can I
show the method in this apartment; but if you will all come with me
across the hall, I will demonstrate to you the possibility of entering a
chained door."
Without a word, we all crossed the hall and entered the Pembroke
apartment. It was a cheerful, sunny suite of rooms, and its beautiful
furniture and appointments seemed meant for a happy home life rather
than grim tragedy. Fleming Stone went first, followed by Laura and
George Lawrence. I followed with Janet, and, emboldened by her look of
pathetic appeal, I clasped her hand in mine. When we were all inside
Fleming Stone closed the door, the night-latch of which, of course,
snapped itself.
Lawrence still acted as one hypnotized. Seemingly with no volition of
his own, he followed Fleming Stone's movements, keeping his eyes fixed
upon the detective as if literally unable to look elsewhere.
After closing the door, Fleming Stone put on the night-chain. For the
first time I looked at the chain carefully. It was a heavy brass chain,
long enough, when the door was closed, for the end, on which was a sort
of knob or button, to reach back to the opening provided for it, and
then slide along the brass slot until it stopped at the other end and
hung in a loop. It seemed to me no different from dozens of chains I had
seen of the same sort.
When it hung finally in position, Fleming Stone turned the knob and
opened the door with a jerk, precisely as Charlotte had done on that
memorable morning.
"Is it not true," asked Mr. Stone, "that this door, with the chain on
thus, has often been violently jerked open?"
"Yes," said Janet; "Charlotte is very strong, and always pulls the door
open sharply, forgetting the chain is there. And, too, Uncle Robert has
often done the same thing, and his motions were always so vigorous that
I thought sometimes he would break the chain."
"There was no danger of breaking the chain," said Mr. Stone; "but the
repeated jerks at it have so forced the end of the slot nearest the edge
of the door, that the brass is sprung outward, and the knob on the end
of the chain may be removed--not as easily as it can be at the other
end, it is true, but with some ingenious handling."
As he spoke, Fleming Stone, by some clever exertion, so twisted the knob
on the end of the chain that it came out of the near end of the slot,
with no necessity of pushing it back to the other end. I saw at once
that this could be done also from the outside of the door, there being
ample room when the door was ajar to slip one's hand in and free the
chain in this manner.
At this demonstration of an actual fact, Fleming Stone did not look at
George Lawrence, but at Miss Pembroke.
"You knew of this?" he said.
"I feared it," replied Janet, and I think she would not have spoken but
for those impelling eyes upon her. "I remember George was out one
evening when he was living here, and I thoughtlessly put the chain on
the door and went to bed. The next morning, when I found that he had let
himself in in some way, I wondered at it, but concluded that I must have
been mistaken, and had _not_ put the chain on. But I had noticed myself
that the slot was sprung at this end, and I had been thinking that I
would get a new and heavier chain bolt."
My first thought was that Janet's puzzling demeanor was now explained,
and I understood why she had so readily accepted my services. She had
suspected George from the first, because she knew that with his
latch-key and the defective chain-lock he could make his entrance. But
his perfect alibi had deceived her, and relieved her fear, so that she
was glad or sad according as his alibi was sustained or doubted. Janet's
evidence, of course, left no doubt as to George's guilt.
He saw this himself, and, seemingly at the end of his resources, he
exclaimed: "It's no use. I may as well confess. I did kill Uncle Robert,
but it was not premeditated, or, at least, not until a few moments
before the deed. I want to make my confession to my cousin. I owe it to
no one else."
But although Lawrence said this, he never once moved his eyes from
Fleming Stone's face, and seemed really to make his confession to him.
"It was a violet pin I used, not a hat-pin. I--I had it, by accident, in
my coat lapel all Wednesday afternoon at the matinée. On account of
disastrous losses in Wall Street that morning, I had determined to kill
myself. I'm not of much account, any way, and I was desperate. I knew
Uncle Robert would give me no money to repay my stock losses, for he
always thought speculation no better than any other sort of
gambling--and it isn't. As I sat in the theatre, unconsciously my
fingers trifled with the pin, and I conceived a notion of using that to
take my own life, instead of a revolver. I went home to dress for
dinner, and, still having the pin in my mind, I transferred it from my
frock coat to my evening coat. As I stood looking at it while in my
room, it occurred to me that were it not for the head of the pin I might
push it into my flesh so far as to hide it. It would then be assumed, I
thought, that I had died a natural death, and both the family and my
memory would be saved the stigma of suicide. Acting on this thought, I
laid the pin on the hearthstone and crushed off its glass head with my
heel. Without definite intention as to when or where I should carry out
my plan, I put the pin in my coat and went on to Miss Waring's dinner.
It was as I sat at the dinner table, and looked around at other men of
my own age and class, that I suddenly realized I did not want to give up
a life which held promise of many years of pleasure, could I but tide
over my financial troubles. I knew, too, that at Uncle Robert's death I
should inherit enough to make good my losses, and an ample fortune
besides. It was then, I think, that the thought came to me, why should
not Uncle Robert die instead of myself? He was old, he had no joy in
life, he made my cousin's life a burden to her, and his death would free
us both from his tyranny. I'm not saying this by way of excuse or
palliation, but simply to tell you how it occurred. Like a flash I
realized that if my own death by means of the headless pin might be
attributed to natural causes, the same would be true of Uncle Robert's
death. I knew I could get into the apartment in the same way I had done
before, and I knew, too, that as the chain slot was even more pulled out
of shape now than it was then, I could with some manipulation replace
the chain before closing the door. I think I need not say that I had no
thought of implicating my cousin, for I had no thought of the pin being
discovered. The idea obsessed me. The deed seemed inevitable. My brain
was especially active, and planned the details with almost superhuman
ingenuity. I left Miss Waring's at eleven o'clock, calling her attention
to the fact purposely. I walked over here rather slowly, planning as I
walked. I resolved, as Mr. Stone has remarked, to leave a misleading
clue or two behind me. I searched the pavement as I walked, for
something that would answer my purpose, and was surprised to see how
little may be gleaned along a New York street. I found the two ticket
stubs, evidently thrown away by someone, and put them in my pocket. Near
here, less than two blocks away, I saw a shining object on the sidewalk,
and picked up a key, which I was more than surprised to have traced to
Mr. Leroy. I suppose he dropped it when he was hanging around here,
beneath my cousin's window, on his way to the midnight train. I then
came on to this house, and, after loitering about a minute in the
street, I saw the elevator begin to rise. The main front door is always
open, and I came in and walked up-stairs. It is easy to evade the
elevator, even if it passes. On the stairs I found the time-table. And
then I came----"
Lawrence stopped. Even his hardy bravado and indomitable will gave way
before the picture that now came into his mind. His swaggering narrative
ceased. His eyes fell, his mouth drooped, and he seemed on the verge of
collapse.
Fleming Stone's quiet, even voice broke the silence. "And the
handkerchief?" he said.
"It came in my laundry, by mistake," answered Lawrence, and he spoke
like an automaton, his intelligence seeming to hang on the will of
Fleming Stone.
"You brought it with you on purpose?"
"No; not that. When I left home my plans were entirely different, as I
have told you. But I picked up the handkerchief hastily, and though
noticing it was not my own, I thrust it into my pocket without thinking
much about it."
"And then when you wanted evidence to incriminate some one other than
yourself, you thought of those unknown initials, and flung the
handkerchief on the bed."
"Yes," said Lawrence, still as if hypnotized by Stone's compelling
glance.
"And afterwards----?"
"Afterwards--afterwards--I went out and got down-stairs the same way,
having waited until the elevator was on the floor above. I felt like a
man in a dream, but I knew that now I _must_ establish my alibi. This I
did exactly as Mr. Stone has described. I took great chances in
tampering with the office clock, but I knew the boy to be of a stupid,
dull-witted type, and, too, he was always half asleep during night
hours. Again I watched my chance to elude the elevator, and slipped
down-stairs later to set the clock right again. I suppose I overdid it
in asking the boy the time twice, and also in drawing attention to the
clock when it struck eleven."
"That is so," said Fleming Stone. "A perfect alibi is not possible
unless it is a true one, and then it proves itself without any effort of
anybody."
* * * * *
But all this happened many years ago. It is indeed a painful memory, but
time has blended away its poignancy. George Lawrence was arrested, but
found the means to take his own life before his trial could be begun.
Janet being left with a large fortune, went abroad at once and Laura
accompanied her. The two became close friends, and when, some months
later, I joined them in Italy, the course of true love began to run
smoothly, and has continued to do so ever since.
Nor has it been difficult to understand Janet. For all queerness and
contradictoriness disappeared after the mystery was solved. It was all
because she suspected her cousin that she had endeavored to suppress any
evidence that might throw suspicion toward him. He had asked her to get
money for him from Robert Pembroke. She had asked her uncle for this,
and he had told her that if she'd marry Leroy, he would give her not
only the money she asked for, but much more. Knowing, as she did, of the
defective bolt, she knew there was grave reason to suspect George both
of murder and robbery. But once convinced of his alibi, she hoped the
guilt might be placed elsewhere.
Also, of course, the life she led with her erratic and ill-tempered
uncle affected her spirits, and made her lose temporarily the joyful and
happy disposition that was really her own, and that was permanently
restored after new scenes and new friends had caused her to forget the
dreadful past.
Janet has been my wife for many years now, and, though we live in New
York, our home is far removed from the Hammersleigh; and though our door
is securely locked, we have never had it guarded by what was to Fleming
Stone A CHAIN OF EVIDENCE.
_By ELIZABETH DEJEANS_
* * * * *