AT THE TIME APPOINTED
DICK leaned limply against the high, glass counter, his cold fingers
holding fast to the telltale chain.
“Mr. Tillinghast.” He whirled around and found Hardy standing by his
side. “I tried to see you at your office, but Colonel Byrd said you
were at Stoneleigh Court. On going there, Mr. Blake’s servant told me
I might catch you here. Chief Conner has received word that Clark was
arrested this morning in New York on board an outgoing tramp steamer.
He was disguised as an Italian stoker. Two Secret Service men are
bringing him back on the six ten train to-night. Chief Conner sent me
word to look you up at once, as he--”
“Just a moment, Hardy,” Dick interrupted. He had done some rapid
thinking, and a daring plan had occurred to him, which he decided to
put into instant execution. “Are you a good bluffer?”
“You bet; try me.”
“Then go to the head clerk and tell him you need this chain,” picking
it up, “as a piece of evidence in a murder. Do that, then come with me,
and by night you will have the real murderer of Mrs. Trevor under lock
and key. Be quick.”
Hardy did exactly as Dick suggested, meeting with but little opposition
from the head clerk after he had convinced that individual that he was
a properly accredited representative of the law.
“Come on, Tom,” called Dick, as his friend stopped for a moment to
examine a tray filled with cigarette cases.
“What’s up?” he inquired, joining the two men at the door.
“Another clew,” answered Dick, briefly. “In with you both,” bundling
them unceremoniously into the waiting motor. “I want half an hour’s
uninterrupted talk with you and Hardy, Tom.”
Tom looked keenly at Dick’s serious face. “Drive to the Mall,” he
ordered, and the chauffeur started slowly off in that direction. “Out
with your story, Dick.”
The latter took the broken link out of his pocket and handed it to
Tom. “I found this link in the Trevor house under the armor in the
front hall. No member of that household can identify it. Wilkins, their
butler, declares it was not there on the morning of the murder, as he
and the footman oiled the floor then. Clark, according to the butler,
wears a fob. Swarms of people called and left cards at the Trevors’
but they go no further than the front door. I am telling you all this
to prove that that broken link was not where I found it _before_ the
murder, nor could it have been dropped there after the finding of the
body. Now, that broken link is exactly the same design and fits in this
chain which Hardy has just received from the clerk at Galt’s.”
“Well, what then?” demanded Hardy, eagerly.
“Just this.” Dick spoke slowly and distinctly so as to be heard by the
deeply interested men. “This chain belongs to Count de Morny.”
“Hold on--hold on,” exclaimed Tom, recovering from his surprise.
“Perhaps some person attending the inquest dropped it?”
“That part of the house was roped off and guarded by policemen.”
“You are right,” agreed Hardy. “I remember the careful arrangements we
made to keep the crowd to the left as they entered the house. Besides,”
examining the chain closely, “it must have taken a tremendous wrench to
break off that link, and the few pieces of furniture on the way to the
library and parlor were moved to make room for the people passing back
and forth.”
“Exactly,” said Dick. “My theory is that de Morny, after committing
the murder, concealed himself behind the armor in the corner by the
chimney. In getting up, his chain must have caught and wrenched off the
link.”
“But the motive?” demanded Hardy. “Count de Morny is a member of the
Diplomatic Corps; there will be an awful howl and international
complications unless we have absolute proof of his guilt before we
arrest him.”
“Mr. Blake can tell you that Mrs. Trevor and the Count hated each
other.”
“Yes, he told me so,” corroborated Tom, as the detective looked at him.
“I also overheard the Count threaten her.”
“Gordon was not the only man late in arriving at the Bachelors’
Cotillion that night,” went on Dick. “De Morny never got there until
after midnight. He gave very evasive answers to Miss Macallister when
she asked what had detained him. We all teased him about his unusual
solemnity; and then towards the end of the ball he astonished us by
sudden outbursts of hilarity. At the time I attributed them to too many
convivial glasses of champagne. But a more sinister cause may have been
responsible for his conduct.
“To sum up--we know de Morny hated Mrs. Trevor; we know he threatened
her; we know this chain belongs to him; we know one link from it was
found in the Trevor house; we know he could have killed Mrs. Trevor
that night and have gone afterwards to the ball--it is what Gordon is
accused of doing.
“Now, I propose we go to de Morny and demand an explanation. If he
cannot give a satisfactory one, Hardy, here, as a representative of the
law, can threaten to arrest him.”
“I can--” Hardy looked troubled--“but you gentlemen have got to stand
by me, for I may get into a devil of a row by exceeding my authority.”
“Don’t worry,” said Tom. “I am convinced de Morny is the murderer, and
that our bluff will work.”
“I must speak to Captain Brown first, sir,” objected the detective.
Tom wasted no time in words, he leaned across and spoke to his
chauffeur.
“Police Headquarters,” he ordered, “as fast as you can get there.”
About an hour later the big car purred softly up K Street and stopped
before a modest red-brick house. Tom led the way up the short flagged
walk and rang the bell. A Union Transfer baggage wagon drove up to the
curb, and Hardy nodded toward it, whispering to Dick: “Making a quick
get-away.”
“Take my card to Monsieur le Comte,” said Tom to the attendant who
answered the door. “I will detain him but a moment.”
His air of authority had its effect on the servant, and he promptly
showed them into the small parlor, saying he would summon his master.
Too nervous to sit down, Dick wandered around the cozy room, looking
at first one ornament and then another. The place spoke of wealth and
good taste. A Corot and a Millet hung on the walls. The rich coloring
of the oriental hangings and rugs gave out an air of comfort and warmth
which was added to by the cannel coal fire burning cheerfully in the
grate. It had grown bitterly cold outside, and the men, grateful for
the warmth, stood grouped about the fireplace as Count de Morny entered.
“Ah! Monsieur Blake, most welcome; and you, too, Monsieur,” shaking
Dick warmly by the hand, “and--” looking at the detective.
“Detective Hardy,” supplemented Tom, feeling exceedingly uncomfortable;
but the Frenchman apparently did not notice the air of constraint in
each man’s attitude, but greeted Hardy with all the courtesy of his
nation.
“Won’t you seet?” he asked, pulling the lounging chairs nearer the
fire. “Eet ees cold outside, _n’est-ce pas_?”
“Thanks. We have only come for a moment,” answered Dick, “just to ask
you--” He hesitated, glancing at Hardy.
“To ask you,” said Hardy, stepping forward, “what took place between
you and Mrs. Trevor on the night of Wednesday, February third?”
A look of blank astonishment crossed de Morny’s face.
“Ze night of ze sird!” he exclaimed. “But I do not see Madame zen.
I do not remembaire--one moment--” As he spoke, he drew a small
Morocco-bound memorandum book from his vest pocket, and rapidly turned
its leaves. “_Mais, oui_--I was at ze Bachelors’ zat night,” he added,
triumphantly.
“You did not go there until after midnight,” said Dick.
“_Oui_, Monsieur,” said de Morny. He eyed the men sharply. It just
occurred to him that their behavior was somewhat peculiar. “And what
then?” haughtily.
“We wish to know where you were between the hours of ten o’clock and
one in the morning on the night of the third.”
“Why should you question me, Monsieur Hardy?” turning squarely on the
detective.
“Because I want to know when you killed Mrs. Trevor,” he bluntly
replied.
The detective’s meaning dawned slowly upon de Moray’s mind; then he
leaped to his feet with an oath, his handsome eyes flashing with fury.
“_Pardieu!_” he cried. “You dare--you dare--” Not able to express his
indignation in his limited English, he burst into French.
Tom tried to stem the torrent of his words by addressing him in his
native tongue, while Dick and Hardy stood hopelessly looking on, but de
Morny would not be appeased.
“I--I--” he began, lapsing into broken English, “I--a de Morny--am
accused by a pig of an Americaine of a crime so foul! Bah!” Then,
mastering his rage by a great effort, he asked more calmly, “May I ask
Monsieur for his reasons of a charge so monstrous?”
“Certainly,” said Hardy. “You were heard to threaten her--”
“_I_, Monsieur?” in great astonishment.
“Yes; I overheard you do so at Mrs. Macallister’s,” interrupted Tom.
De Morny looked at him with an enigmatic smile. “So!” was his only
comment.
“You cannot give a satisfactory account of your whereabouts on February
third between the hours of ten and one in the morning; at least you
haven’t yet.”
“So!” Again the Frenchman smiled.
“Now, Count--” Hardy spoke slowly, to make sure that de Morny
understood him--“we have irrefutable evidence that you were in the
Trevor house on that night. A piece of your property was found there.”
“What is eet?” questioned de Morny, with a rising inflection.
“This--” taking the watch chain out of his pocket.
“_Mais c’est impossible!_” ejaculated the Frenchman. “I myself sent the
chain to ze jeweler to be mended.”
“Exactly, Count--_to be mended_. Here is the broken link you lost in
the Trevor house on the night of February third.”
Spellbound, de Morny gazed at the coin lying in Hardy’s broad palm.
Then he reached over, took up the watch chain, laid it on the bare
mahogany table, and fitted the broken link into place. In silence
the three men watched him, as a cat watches a mouse, but they could
learn nothing of the passion burning within him from his set face and
brooding eyes. Finally, he broke the long pause to ask:
“And you sink--”
“That the owner of that chain is the murderer of Mrs. Trevor.”
“You are right, sir,” said a low, clear voice back of the detective.
“_I am he._”
With a convulsive bound Hardy swung round; Dick and Tom being too
petrified to move.
“Ah, _non, non_, de Smirnoff, say not so,” cried de Morny, deep feeling
in his shaking voice.
The Russian had entered unnoticed some minutes before by a door
communicating with an inner room. Too shocked for speech, and sick at
heart, Dick gazed at him. This--this was the man who had saved him
from a horrible death--and he had repaid the debt by hounding him to
the gallows. But for his intervention the criminal would have gone
undetected.
“And why not, Henri?” asked de Smirnoff, quietly. “I cannot have you,
_mon ami_, arrested for my crime. And so, Monsieur,” to Hardy, “you
found my lucky piece and traced it here--I do not know how you did it,
but it was clever work. I thought I had covered my tracks.”
“Hold, sir,” said Hardy, his sense of fair play causing him to
interrupt. “I must warn you that everything you say will be used
against you.”
De Smirnoff shrugged his shoulders. “It can make no difference.” Then,
as Hardy pulled out a pair of handcuffs, his face flushed hotly. “Not
that--my God!--not that; I will come quietly with you.”
At a sign from Dick, Hardy reluctantly put them back in his pocket.
“My warm thanks, Messieurs,” said de Smirnoff, slowly, “for the great
kindness; and I have another favor to ask of you. My host, Count de
Morny, knows nothing of this affair. I would like, if possible, to
explain my share in it to him and to you. It was no sordid murder. Will
you not sit a moment?”
Dick held a whispered conversation with Tom and Hardy, and then turned
to de Smirnoff.
“We agree to listen, Count.”
De Smirnoff bowed his head in grave acknowledgment, and then signed to
the men to draw up their chairs. It was a scene Dick never forgot: the
room, lighted only by the winter twilight and the bright blaze of the
cannel coal, the five men seated in a circle around the hearth, the
firelight flickering on their excited faces. De Smirnoff was by far the
calmest of them all.
“It will not take long in the telling,” he began; “but to make the
present situation clear, I must speak first of the past. Hélène de
Beaupré’s mother, Olga Weletsky, was a Russian. She married Claude
de Beaupré, and they lived first in one country and then in another,
finally returning to St. Petersburg. There they lived in comparative
poverty and obscurity, having spent most of their patrimony in their
wanderings about the world.
“About five years later they both died within a very short time of each
other, leaving their only child, a girl of twenty-three, in the care
of an uncle, Colonel Weletsky. I saw her often before the death of her
parents. She was very beautiful then--the beauty of the devil--the
beauty that destroys men’s souls.
“My only son, Sacha de Smirnoff, met her frequently at a friend’s
house, and fell madly in love with her. She returned his passion, but
she would not consent to a marriage ceremony being performed, as she
said she did not believe in the solemn rites of the church. I think
she simply did not wish to bind herself legally to one man. They lived
together for two years.” He paused, then resumed his story.
“While this was going on, I was in Persia looking after some mining
interests, which I inherited from an uncle. News travels but slowly in
that country of no telegraphs, telephones, or railroads, and during
those two years and more I heard but seldom from Sacha. Therefore,
you can understand my horror and my agony when, on my return to St.
Petersburg, I found that my son had been arrested as a nihilist,
secretly tried, and sent God knows where.” His voice shook with
feeling. “Hélène had also vanished. I joined the Secret Police as a
political spy. For nearly four despairing years I searched Siberia for
my boy, visiting every penal settlement in that vast land.
“There is no need of recounting the humiliation and suffering I
endured during that time; the worst agony being my anxiety for my son.
Finally, I found him in the worst settlement of all, broken in health
and in spirit, a physical and almost mental wreck. Remembering him as
I did in the glory of his young manhood, tall, handsome, brave, it was
a fearful shock to me to find him crippled, scarred, and cringing.
Shortly after my arrival Sacha fell ill with brain fever, and for days
I nursed him, fearing he would never recover. He rallied finally, and
slowly day by day regained his strength. I did everything I could to
lighten his confinement, while all the time planning his escape.
“One day a fresh batch of political prisoners arrived, among them an
old friend of Sacha’s. When he found who I was, he told me that he
himself after Sacha’s arrest, had gone to Hélène and given her proofs
of Sacha’s innocence of the crime he was charged with, thinking that
of course she would use the papers to clear him. But the Vampire was
already tired of Sacha. She disappeared with the papers, believing that
safe in the wilds of Siberia Sacha would never trouble her again, and
she could live her own life untroubled by the past.
“Boris advised me to recover those papers, give them to the proper
authorities, and secure my son’s release. It seemed the only thing to
do, as Sacha’s health was such that to try and escape in the rigors of
that climate was courting certain death. Therefore, I left Siberia,
first arranging with one of the Cossack officials at the settlement to
send me word every month of my son’s physical condition, care of my
Paris bankers.” He stopped and sighed deeply, then drew out his cigar
case. “Will you not join me, I speak more calmly when I smoke?
“I will not weary you with a detailed account of my search for Hélène.
My connection with the Secret Police helped me, and I was of great use
to the Bureau, as few suspected that I belonged to the force. Finally
I traced Hélène to Italy, Paris, England, and then here. I knew of the
Grand Duke’s proposed visit, and asked permission to accompany him; and
I was sent on as special agent to guard him against the Camorra, as
you already know,” to Dick. “I came on to Washington before the Grand
Duke, however, and meeting Henri,” placing his hand affectionately on
de Morny’s shoulder, “an old friend of Sacha’s, accepted his invitation
to visit him during my stay here. That was on the second of February.
“On Wednesday morning as I was going out of the front door, I was
astounded to see Hélène sitting in her automobile by the curb. I
believe her chauffeur was in the vestibule waiting to deliver a note. I
paid no attention to him but went straight to the limousine and opened
the door. I have altered little, and Hélène knew me at once. She shrank
back in her seat.
“‘You have nothing to fear,’ I said, quickly. ‘I simply want those
papers which will clear Sacha. Have you kept them?’
“My one terror had been that she might have destroyed them, and my
heart leaped with joy when she told me she had the papers, but she also
said she had no intention of giving them up.
“‘I am not here to haggle with you,’ I answered. ‘What is your price?’
“‘Twenty thousand.’
“‘Roubles?’
“‘No, dollars.’
“Her ruling passion was gambling. It was an inherited vice. She would
sell her soul for money to lose over the gaming tables.”
“It ees so,” interrupted de Morny. “I was warning her, Monsieur Blake,
when you overheard me. She was my cousin, but yes, and I did not want
the name disgraced. I hated and despised her for her treatment of my
friend, Sacha; and it was I, Messieurs, who first notified Count de
Smirnoff that she was in Washington.” The Frenchman’s eyes sparkled
vindictively.
“Hélène leaned back in her car, thinking, thinking,” continued de
Smirnoff. “Finally she said, speaking low that the chauffeur should not
hear:
“‘Come to my house to-night at one o’clock. I can see you alone then;
the others will be at the ball. Knock very softly on the front door.’
“I nodded understandingly, saying: ‘I will bring the money, do not fail
me,’ and closed the door of the car as the chauffeur cranked the engine.
“The rest of the day was taken up with arranging my affairs. I produced
my letters of credit and drew out the money without difficulty from
different banks until I had the requisite amount. It was a quarter of
my fortune, but no sum was too great to spend in rescuing my son from
his living death. After helping me Henri went to Baltimore on business
connected with his Embassy--”
“_Oui_, I did,” again interrupted de Morny, “and I only return by ze
midnight train.”
“I was sitting here by the fire about eight o’clock,” went on de
Smirnoff, “thinking and planning for the future--the happy future--when
Sacha and I could go to sunny Italy and in that ideal climate, he would
regain his shattered health. We would take a villa on Lake Como-- Just
then the housekeeper brought in a cablegram. I tore it open--my son was
dead!
“In letters of fire the message burned into my brain. How long I sat
here I do not know; but when I rose my soul was frozen, my mind made
up. She who was blood guilty should answer for her crime. I would keep
my appointment, get the letters, and forward them to Russia, thus
making certain that Sacha should sleep in no unhallowed grave, but be
brought to the old vault in St. Petersburg to rest at last with honor
unblemished by the side of his illustrious ancestors.
“At the time appointed I was in the Trevors’ vestibule, and I tapped
softly on the door. In a few minutes Hélène admitted me, and we tiptoed
softly into what was apparently a private office. The light was on
and I glanced about the room to see if we were alone; the open safe
attracted my attention. Hélène noticed my glance in that direction.
“‘My papers are there with my jewelry. I had to get the combination
before I could see you. Have you the money?’
“I nodded. She went to the safe and picked up a small bundle. As I
watched her my hand closed over a hat-pin lying on the top of the desk
I was standing by; I glanced down at it--the long, sharp-pointed steel
caught my attention. It was an ideal weapon for my purpose; far better
than a revolver shot which might arouse the household. As it happened
the pin broke in the wound--” There was not a trace of feeling in his
voice.
“Hélène returned, and in silence I handed the money to her and watched
her count it. Beautiful as ever, living in the lap of luxury--while he,
Sacha, her devoted lover always, had experienced the dregs of life in
that hell upon earth. Merciful God! Could such things be?
“In silence she handed me the papers; in silence I took them. She was
about to speak when her eye caught the glitter of a ring on the floor.
She dropped on one knee to pick it up, resting her left hand against my
thigh to balance herself.
“Quickly I seized my chance; and with one strong, straight stroke drove
the hat-pin into her heart, putting out my left hand to catch and
steady her body. And I held her until her head fell back and I saw her
eyes glazing. Thus died Hélène--the Vampire!”
No one spoke. In the terrible silence the ticking of the small clock
sounded clear and distinct. De Smirnoff roused himself.
“My tale is soon finished. I carried the body to the safe and fastened
the door; but first I put the twenty thousand dollar gold certificates,
wrapped in her handkerchief, by her side. She had paid the price, I had
no further use for the money.”
A gasp came from Hardy. “Good God! Clark must have stolen the money,”
he cried, “he found the handkerchief.”
“What matter?” said de Smirnoff, indifferently. “It is blood money,
ill-gotten gains! To continue; I put out the lights in the room and
went into the hall, but just as I started for the door I heard someone
coming downstairs, so I hid behind a suit of old armor. The man, whom I
judged to be Mr. Trevor, went straight to the front door and admitted
a woman. They went immediately into the room I had just left. Just as
I started to go, Mr. Trevor returned into the hall and went upstairs.
He came down at once, and in a few seconds I heard him talking at the
telephone. This was my opportunity. I rose up hurriedly; but in my
haste I caught my watch chain in some sharp part of the iron stand
which supported the armor. I heard something snap, but dared not stop
to investigate. I slipped out of the front door and down the front
steps as noiselessly as I could,--but dropped the head of the hat-pin
in opening the door.
“With a supreme effort, I took up my everyday life the next morning,
attending to my duties in safe-guarding the person of the Grand Duke,
and accepting the invitations I received as Henri’s guest. It has given
me infinite satisfaction to see Hélène’s wicked past revealed gradually
to the world she had fooled so long.
“Monsieur Tillinghast--” he turned directly to Dick--“I am glad, glad I
was of service to you the other night, for you remind me of Sacha.” His
voice quivered on his son’s name.
“Count--Count--what can I say,” faltered Dick.
“Say nothing. It is Kismet. In my grief for my son I have never given
the loss of my lucky coin another thought; but I hated to be without my
chain, a present from Sacha when a lad; so I asked Henri to send it to
a jeweler’s to be mended. That--is--all--I--think--Messieurs--”
For some time his voice had grown husky from weariness and emotion; now
he could hardly articulate. None of his listeners cared to break the
painful pause. Suddenly, Hardy, the most callous of the four men, rose
and turned on the lights. As he did so a cry escaped de Morny:
“Look--look!” he shouted pointing to de Smirnoff.
With a bound Dick was by the Russian’s side, his hand on his heart.
De Smirnoff’s head was thrown back, his body, unnoticed in the dimly
lighted room, had twisted slightly, and his eyes were fixed in a
dreadful stare. There was no need for Dick to speak. Each man in the
room knew de Smirnoff was dead.
Tom leaned over and took the half-burnt cigar from the nerveless
fingers.
“The poison was here,” he said.
Dick’s pitying gaze fell on the livid face.
“Better so,” he said softly.