The Varian Pearls
When Bill Dunn went up on the porch of Mrs Blackwood’s bungalow that
evening, he found a group of neighbors there, and was not at all
surprised that they were discussing the dreadful affair of Headland
House.
Claire Blackwood greeted the caller courteously and asked him to go
inside the house with her.
“Let us all go,” said Rodney Granniss. “I want to learn all about this
case, and we’re entitled to know.”
“Come on, everybody,” Dunn invited, “I want to ask a lot of questions and
who knows where I may get the best and most unexpected answers.”
Granniss and Lawrence North, with Ted Landon and John Clark, who had been
up on the Headland in the afternoon, were the men, and Mrs Blackwood and
her young guest, Eleanor Varian were the only women present.
Yet Dunn seemed well satisfied as he looked over the group.
“Fine,” he said, “all the witnesses I wanted, and all here together.”
“We didn’t witness anything,” offered John Clark, who was apparently by
no means desirous of taking part in the colloquy. “And, as I’ve an
engagement, can’t you question me first, and let me go?”
“Sure I can,” returned Dunn, whose easy manners were not at all curbed by
the more formal attitude of those about him. “Just tell the story in your
own way, son.”
Clark resented the familiar speech, but said nothing to that effect.
“There’s little to tell,” he began; “I’d never been up to Headland House
before, and of course I’d never before met the Varians,—any of them. I
went on Mrs Blackwood’s invitation, and after meeting the family and
their guests on the veranda, we all started for a picnic. We had reached
a point half way down the steep path from the house, when Miss Betty
Varian said she had forgotten her camera. She returned to the house for
it, and we waited. She was gone so long, that we wondered,—and then, her
father went to hurry her up. He, too, was gone a long time, and then,
Doctor Varian and Ted Landon went after him. That’s my story. Landon can
tell you the rest.”
“I know the rest,” said Dunn, shortly; “I don’t see, Mr Clark, that you
need remain. Your evidence is merely that of all the party who stayed
behind while the others went up to the house.”
“Yes,” said Clark, with a sigh of relief, and making his adieux, he went
away.
“Have you formed any theory of the crime, Mr Dunn?” asked Lawrence North,
who was consumed with impatient curiosity, during the already known
testimony of Clark.
“Not a definite one,” Dunn replied, seeming by his manner to invite
advice or discussion. “It is too mysterious to theorize about.”
“By Jove, it is!” North agreed; “I never heard of a case so absolutely
strange. I’d like to get into that house and see for myself.”
“See what for yourself Mr North?”
“Whether there’s any secret passage—but, of course you’ve looked for
that?”
“Yes; thoroughly. I’m of an architectural mind,——”
“So is Mr North,” said Mrs Blackwood. “He designed this bungalow we’re in
now.”
“Are you an architect, Mr North?”
“Not by profession, but I’m fond of it. And I flatter myself I could
discover a secret passage if such existed.”
“I flatter myself I could, too,” said Dunn, but not boastfully. “Yet, I
may have overlooked it. I’d be obliged, Mr North, if you’d come up to the
house, and give it the once over. You might spot what I failed to see.”
“But I don’t know the people at all——”
“No matter; I ask you as a matter of assistance. Come up there tomorrow,
will you?”
North promised to do so, and Dunn turned to Eleanor Varian.
“Sorry to trouble you, Miss Varian, but I have to ask you some very
definite questions. First, do you know your relatives up there pretty
well?”
“Why, yes,” said Eleanor, with a surprised look. “They live in New York
and we live in Boston, but we visit each other now and then and we often
spend our summers at the same place. Of course, I know them well.”
“Then, tell me exactly the relations between Miss Varian and her father.
Don’t quibble or gloss over the facts,—if they were not entirely in
accord it will be found out, and you may as well tell the truth.”
Eleanor Varian looked thoughtful.
“I will tell the truth,” she said, “because I can see it’s better to do
so. Betty and her mother are much more in sympathy with one another than
Betty and her father. I don’t know what makes the difference, but Aunt
Minna always seems to want everything the way Betty wants it, while Uncle
Fred always wants just the opposite.”
“Yet Miss Betty was fond of her father?”
“Oh, yes; they were devoted, really,—I think. Only, their natures were
different.”
“Was there any special subject on which they disagreed?”
“There has been of late,” Eleanor admitted, though with evident
reluctance. “Of course Betty is a great belle. Of course, she has and has
had many admirers. Now, Uncle Fred seems always to be willing for Betty
to have beaux and young man friends, but as soon as they become serious
in their attentions, and want to marry Betty, then Uncle Fred shoos them
off.”
It was, as yet, impossible for Eleanor to speak of her uncle in the past
tense. The girl had not at all realized this sudden death, and couldn’t
help thinking and speaking of him as still alive. Nor could she realize
Betty’s disappearance. She was somewhat in a daze, and also over-excited
by the awfulness of the situation. She talked rapidly, yet coherently,
and Dunn secretly rejoiced at her agitation, knowing he would learn more
than if she had been cool and collected.
“But that’s not at all an unusual thing,” put in North, who felt sorry
for Eleanor and wanted to relieve her all he could from the grilling fire
of Dunn’s questions. “I find that the majority of fathers resent the
advances of their daughters’ suitors. Now, mothers are different,—they
encourage a match that seems to them desirable. But a father can’t
realize his little girl is growing up.”
“Well, Lawrence,” exclaimed Claire Blackwood, “for a bachelor, you seem
to know a lot about family matters!”
“I’ve lots of friends, and I can’t help noticing these things. Isn’t it
true, Miss Varian?”
“Yes,” Eleanor said, “to a degree, it is. I mean, in some instances. Any
way, it’s quite true of Uncle Fred and Betty. Aunt Minna would be
delighted to have Betty engaged to some nice young man, but Uncle Fred
flies in a fury at mere mention of such a thing.”
“I can swear to that,” said Rodney Granniss. “I’ve known the Varians for
two years, and it’s quite true. Mrs Varian smiled on the attachment
between Betty and myself, but Mr Varian most certainly did not!”
“What!” exclaimed Dunn, “you one of Miss Betty Varian’s suitors?”
“Even so,” said Granniss, calmly. “I knew them in New York. I came up
here to be near Betty. And now, Mr Dunn, I want to say that I’m going to
do all I can to solve the mystery of Mr Varian’s death, but even more
especially am I going to try to find Betty herself. I haven’t been up to
Headland House yet, for it—well, it seems awful to go there now that Mr
Varian can’t put me out!”
“Look here, young man,” Dunn gazed at him curiously, “it doesn’t seem to
occur to you that you yourself may be said to have an interest in Mr
Varian’s death!”
“Meaning that I shot him!” Grannis looked amused. “Well,—if you can tell
me how I accomplished it——”
“But, my dear sir, somebody accomplished it——”
“And it might as well be me! The only trouble with your theory Mr Dunn
is, that I didn’t do it. Investigate all you like, you can’t pin the
crime, on me.”
“And, I suppose you didn’t abduct Miss Betty either?”
“I did not!” Granniss looked solemn. “I only wish I had. But I’m going to
find her, and I want to start out by being friendly with you, Mr
Dunn,—not antagonistic.”
“Easy enough to check up your alibi, Mr Granniss,” Dunn said; “no, don’t
tell me where you were at the time,—I’ll find out for myself.”
“I’ll tell you,” said North, casually. “Mr Granniss was out in his motor
boat all the afternoon. I know, because I was out in mine, and I saw him
frequently. We were both fishing.”
“That’s right,” said Granniss, carelessly, as if his alibi were of small
moment to him, as indeed it was. “Now, Mr Dunn, you must have some
theory,—or if not a theory, some possible explanation of what occurred.
Do give it to us.”
“Yes, do,” said North. “I’m fond of detective stories, but I never read
one that started out so mysteriously as this.”
“I haven’t any theory,” Dunn looked at each in turn, his eyes roving
round the room as he talked, “I can’t say as I can even dope out how it
_could_ have happened. But here’s what I work on,—motive. That’s the
thing to seek first,—motive. We know Mr Varian is dead, we know Miss
Varian is missing. That’s all we really know. Now, you can’t deduce
anything from those facts alone. So, I say, hunt for a motive. It isn’t
likely that Mr Varian had any enemies up here. And if he had, they
never’d chosen such an opportunity to shoot him,—for, just think how
sudden, how unexpected that opportunity was! Who could have foreseen that
Miss Varian would go back to the house for her camera? Who could have
foreseen that her father would go back after her? If those goings back
were unpremeditated, then no enemy could have been there ready to utilize
his chance. If, on the other hand, those goings back were premeditated,
then they were arranged by either Miss Betty or her father——”
“Impossible!” cried North. “Mr Varian couldn’t foresee that his daughter
would forget her camera, and Miss Betty couldn’t foresee that it would be
her father who would come back for her!”
“I know it seems that way,” Dunn looked deeply perplexed, “but I can’t
get away from the idea of there being some premeditation about the two
goings back to that empty house that resulted in a double tragedy.”
“Suppose a burglar——” began Claire Blackwood; “suppose he had been
concealed in the house before we left to go to the picnic. Suppose when
Betty came back unexpectedly, he attacked her, and then, when Mr Varian
came——”
“But what became of the burglar,—and of Miss Betty?” asked Dunn. “I’ve
mulled over the burglar proposition, I’ve imagined him to be one of the
servants, but it all comes back to the fact that such an intruder just
simply couldn’t get away, and couldn’t get Betty away, dead or alive.”
“That’s perfectly true,” Claire agreed. “There’s no way to dispose of an
imaginary intruder. But neither is there any way to dispose of Betty.
Nothing in this world will make me believe that girl shot her father, but
just assuming, for a moment, that she did,—what happened next?”
Claire demanded this with the air of an accusing judge.
“Why, that’s the only possible theory,” said Dunn. “Say the young lady
did shoot her father, then she went some place,—where, we haven’t yet
discovered,—and shot herself,—or, is there, alive yet.”
“If that’s the case, I’ll find her!” Rodney Granniss burst forth, his
strong young face alight with zeal; “I’m going up there at once. Mr
Varian didn’t like me, but Mrs Varian does, and maybe I can help her.”
“She can’t see you,” Dunn told him. “She’s under the influence of opiates
all the time. Doctor Varian keeps her that way.”
“She’ll have to come to her senses some time,” said Rod. “I’m going up
there any way.”
“I’m going with you,” declared Eleanor Varian. “I don’t want to stay
here,—forgive me, Mrs Blackwood, you’re kindness itself,—but I want to be
where father and mother are. I want to help find Betty, too. I know a lot
of places to look——”
“You do!” exclaimed Dunn. “Where are they, now?”
But all that Eleanor mentioned, Dunn had already searched, and his hopes
of the girl’s assistance fell. Still, she might be familiar with Betty’s
ways, and might be of some slight use.
“Well, Miss Varian, you must do as you think best,” he said; “but I
advise you to bide here till the morning, anyway.”
“Yes, do, dear,” urged Claire, and Eleanor, remembering the unavoidable
climb up the steep rocks, consented.
“Tell me one thing, Miss Varian,” said Dunn, suddenly; “were you in the
kitchen of the Varian house this afternoon at all?”
“Yes, I was; I went out there with Betty to get some cakes and things.
Why?”
“When you were there, did you notice a yellow sofa pillow out there?”
“In the kitchen? No, I did not!”
“You know the two yellow cushions that belong on the hall sofa?”
“Yes,—I think I know the ones you mean. What about them?”
“We found one of them in the middle of the kitchen floor. Do you think
anybody could have put it there purposely?”
“I can’t imagine why any one should!”
“What do you deduce from that?” Lawrence North asked, interestedly, and
Claire said:
“Why, that’s what you call a clue, isn’t it? What does it show?”
“It doesn’t show a thing to me,” declared Dunn; “leastways, nothing
sensible. Look here, folks,—either there was somebody else in that house
at that time besides Betty and her father,—or else there wasn’t. Now if
there was, he surely wouldn’t be moving sofa pillows about. And if there
wasn’t, then one of those two people moved it. Now, why? I can’t think of
any reason, sensible or not, that would make anybody lug a fine handsome
sofa cushion out to the kitchen.”
“Was it valuable enough to be worth stealing?” asked North.
“No; a good looking affair, but nothing to tempt a thief.”
“Looks like the servants’ work, I think,” suggested Claire. “Suppose one
of them had stayed behind, and not with any criminal intent, either; and
suppose, merely to be luxurious, she had taken a fine pillow out to her
kitchen quarters.”
“But even so, and even if she were caught by the returning Betty she
couldn’t have shot Mr Varian and concealed both herself and Betty——”
“You run up against a stone fence whatever you surmise,” exclaimed
Landon. He had been a quiet listener, but had done some deep thinking.
“There’s only one plausible solution,—and that’s a secret passage.”
“Look here, Mr Landon,” Dunn said, sharply, “that speech gets on my
nerves. Anybody who thinks there’s a secret passage in that house up
there on the cliff is welcome to go up there and find it. But I’m no fool
and sheriff Potter isn’t either; nor is Doctor Herbert Varian. And none
of us can find a secret passage, and what’s more, we’re positive there
isn’t any. So, either show where there could be one,—or let up on that
solution.”
“Good lord, Dunn, don’t get so wrathy!” Landon said, good-humoredly. “And
I will go and look for one,—since you invite me. Go with me, North?”
“Yes,” was the willing reply, and Rodney Granniss said:
“Well you fellows won’t want to make that search till tomorrow. But I’m
going up to the house now. You’ll stay here, won’t you, Miss Varian?”
Reluctantly, Eleanor agreed to stay, and Granniss went off alone.
Rodney Granniss was a determined man, and when he made his mind to hunt
for Betty Varian he also made up his mind to find her. To his mind the
very fact that the whole case was so inexplicable made it likely to
develop some sudden clue or key that would unlock the situation.
He still felt averse to visiting a house where his presence had been
forbidden by one who was now unable to resent his coming, but this was
offset by his desire to help Mrs Varian and to help in finding Betty.
He pondered over the idea of a secret passage in the house, but it was of
small comfort to him. If those other indefatigable workers had not been
able to find it, he had no reason to think he could do so. And, besides,
it was anything but an attractive picture to imagine Betty, either hidden
voluntarily or concealed against her will in some such place.
He trudged along up the rocky steps and presented himself at the door of
Headland House.
Sheriff Potter admitted him, and listened to his story.
Then he took him to the library and introduced him to Doctor Varian and
his wife.
“I am glad to see you,” cried Janet. “Tell me of Eleanor.”
“She’s all right,” returned Granniss, cheerfully. “She rather wanted to
come up here with me, but they persuaded her to stay over night with Mrs
Blackwood.”
“Better so,” said Doctor Varian. “Did Dunn learn anything from anybody
that you know of?”
“No,” said Rodney, “and I fear there’s little to learn from anybody.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that whatever there is to be learned must be found out here in
this house,—not from any of those onlookers.”
“Sensible talk,” said Doctor Varian, “but how shall we set about it?”
“I don’t know. I’m not possessed of what is called detective instinct,
nor am I especially clever at solving puzzles. But I have determination,
and I’m going to devote my whole time and energy to finding Betty
Varian!”
“Well said, young man,” put in Potter, who was listening, “but untrained
sleuthing is not often productive of great results.”
“I don’t mean sleuthing, exactly,” and Granniss looked at him squarely,
“I am untrained. But I’m willing to be advised, I’m willing to be
dictated to; I only ask to help.”
“You’re a brick!” said Janet; “I shouldn’t be surprised if you succeed
better than the detectives.”
“If so, it will be because of my more personal interest in the case. I
ought to tell you, Mrs Varian, that Betty and I are practically engaged.
It depended, of course, on her father’s consent——”
“And that he refused to give?” asked Potter.
“Yes, he did. Which immediately ticketed me as his murderer in the eyes
of Mr Dunn. But I’m not a criminal, and I didn’t shoot Mr Varian. I
shan’t insist on this point, because you can prove my words true for
yourself. Now, I’d like a talk with Mrs Varian,—Betty’s mother,—when such
a thing is possible—and convenient.”
“I’m not sure but it would be a good thing,” said Doctor Varian,
thoughtfully; “when she wakes, Mr Granniss, she will either be hysterical
still, and in need of further opiate treatment, or,—and which I think
more likely,—she will be calm, composed and alert minded. In the latter
case, she might be glad to talk to the man who cares so much for her
daughter.”
“I hope so; and, in the mean time, what can we do in the matter of
finding Betty?”
“There’s nothing to be done in that line that hasn’t been done,” said the
sheriff, despairingly. “All evening Doctor and Mrs Varian as well as the
butler and cook have been going over the house and the grounds, calling,
and hunting for the girl, with no success of any sort.”
“Had she a dog?”
“No, there is none about. Now, just before you came, we were thinking of
looking over some of Mr Frederick Varian’s papers——”
“And there’s no reason to change our plans,” said Doctor Varian; “Mr
Granniss’ presence will not interfere.”
So Rodney sat by, awaiting the possible awakening of Mrs Varian, and
trying hard to think of some new way to look for Betty.
With keys obtained from the pockets of the dead man, his brother opened
the drawers of the desk.
“It must be done,” he said, as his hand slightly hesitated, “and, too, we
may come across some clue to his death.”
Among the first of the important papers found was Frederick Varian’s
will. The contents of this were a surprise to no one present, for the
entire estate was left to the wife, with instructions that she make due
and proper provisions for the daughter.
But a final clause caused Herbert Varian to stare incredulously at the
paper.
“What is it, dear?” Janet asked, seeing his astonishment.
“Why,—why, Janet! the Varian pearls are left to Eleanor!”
“To Eleanor? No!”
“But they are! See, it’s plain as day!”
There was no doubt as to his statement. The final clause of Frederick
Varian’s last will and testament, bequeathed the string of pearls, known
as ‘the Varian pearls,’ to his niece, Eleanor, the daughter of his
brother Herbert.
“Just what is so startling in that?” asked Potter, curiously, and Doctor
Varian replied:
“The Varian pearls are an heirloom, and are valued at two hundred
thousand dollars. It is the custom for the oldest of the family to
inherit them, and he is expected to bequeath them to his oldest child.
Why did my brother leave them to my daughter instead of to Betty?”
“Herbert, it’s dreadful! Eleanor shall not take them!” Janet cried.
“That makes no difference, ma’am,” Potter said; “it’s the fact that Mr
Varian left them away from his own child, that proves the attitude of the
father to the daughter!”