STORM IN THE MOUNTAINS
XVI
FRIENDS
A shaded walk, with a glimpse of sea beyond, embowering trees, a stretch
of lawn on one side, and on the other the dormer windows of a fine old
house half hidden by scaffolding, from which there came now and then the
quick strokes of a workman's hammer.
It was half-past four, if the sharp little note of a cuckoo-clock,
snapping out one, told the time correctly.
Two men are pacing this leafy retreat, both of whom we have seen before,
but under circumstances so distracting that we took little note of their
appearance, fine as it undoubtedly was in either case. However, we are
more at leisure now, and will pause for an instant to give you some idea
of these two prominent men, with one of whom our story will henceforth
have very much to do.
One of them--the Curator of our famous museum--lacks comeliness of
figure, though at moments he can be very impressive. We can therefore
recognize him at a distance by means of a certain ungainliness of
stride sometimes seen in a man wholly given over to intellectual
pursuits. But when he turns and you get a glimpse of his face, you
experience at once the scope of mind and charm of spirit which make his
countenance a marked one in the metropolis. A little gray about the
temples, a tendency--growing upon him, alas!--to raise his hand to his
ear when called upon to listen, show that he has already passed the
meridian of life; but in his quick glance, and clear and rapid speech,
youth still lingers, making of him a companion delightful to many and
admirable to all.
The other--Carleton Roberts, his bosom friend, and the museum's chief
director--is of a different type, but no less striking to the eye. For
him, personality has done much toward raising him to his present status
among the leading men of New York. While not tall, he is tall enough
never to look short, owing to the trim elegance of his figure and the
quiet dignity of his carriage. He does not need to turn his face to
impress you with the idea that he is handsome; but when he does so, you
find that your expectations are more than met by the reality. For though
he may not have the strictly regular features we naturally associate with
one of his poise and matchless outline, there is enough of that quality,
and more than enough of that additional elusive something which is an
attraction in itself, to make for handsomeness in a marked degree. He,
like his friend, has passed his fortieth year, but nowhere save in his
abundant locks can one see any sign of approaching age. They are quite
white--cut close, but quite white, so white they attracted the notice of
his companion, who stole more than one look at them as he chatted on in
what had become almost a monologue, so little did Roberts join in the
conversation.
Finally the Curator paused, and stealing another look at that white head,
remarked anxiously:
"Have you not grown gray very suddenly? I don't remember your being
whiter than myself the day I dined with you just preceding the horrible
occurrence at the museum."
"I have been growing gray for a year," rejoined the other. "My father was
white at forty; I am just forty-three."
"It becomes you, and yet--Roberts, you have taken this matter too much
to heart. We were not to blame in any way, unless it was in having such
deadly weapons within reach. How could one suppose----"
"Yes, how could one suppose!" echoed the director. "And the mystery of
it! The police seem no nearer solving the problem now than on the night
they practised archery in the galleries. It does wear on me, possibly
because I live so much alone. I see----"
Here he stopped abruptly. They had been strolling in the direction of the
house, and at this moment were not many paces from it.
"See what?" urged the Curator with an accent one might almost call
tender--would have been called tender, if used in addressing a woman.
"See _her_, that dead girl!--constantly--at night when my eyes are
shut--in the daytime while I go about my affairs, here, there and
everywhere. The young, young face! so white, so still, so strangely and
so unaccountably familiar! Do you feel the same? Did she remind you of
anyone we know? I grow old trying to place her. I can say this to you;
but not to another soul could I speak of what has become to me a sort of
blind obsession. She was a stranger. I know of no Madame Duclos and am
sure that I never saw her young daughter before; and yet I have started
up in my bed more than once during these past few nights, confident that
in another moment memory would supply the clue which will rid my mind of
the eternal question as to where I have seen a face like hers before? But
memory fails to answer; and the struggle, momentarily interrupted, begins
again, to the destruction of my peace and comfort."
"Odd! but you must rid yourself of what unnerves you so completely. It
does no good and only adds to regrets which are poignant enough in
themselves."
"That is true; but--stop a minute. I see it now--her face, I mean. It
comes between me and the house there. Even your presence does not dispel
it. It is--no, it's gone again. Let us go back once more and take another
look at the sea. It is the one thing which draws me away from this
pursuing vision."
They resumed their stroll, this time away from the house and toward the
oval cut in the trees for a straight view out to the sea. Across this
oval a ship was now sailing which attracted the eyes of both; not till it
had passed, did the Curator say:
"You live too lonely a life. You should seek change--recreation--possibly
something more absorbing than either."
"You mean marriage?"
"Yes, Roberts, I do. Pardon me; I want to see your eye beam again with
contentment. The loss of your late companion has left you desolate, more
desolate than you have been willing to acknowledge. You cannot replace
her----"
"I am wedded to politics."
"An untrustworthy jade. When did politics ever make a man happy?"
"Happy!" They were turned toward the house again. When near, Roberts
capped his exclamation with the remark:
"You ask a great deal for me, more than you ask for yourself. You have
not married again."
"But my mistress is not a jade. I find joy in my work. I have not had
time to woo a woman as she should be wooed if she's to be a happy second
wife. I should have so much to explain to her. When I get looking over
prints, the dinner-bell might ring a dozen times without my hearing it. A
letter from an agent telling of some wonderful find in Mesopotamia would
make me forget whether my wife's hair were brown or black. I don't need
diversion, Roberts."
"Yet you enjoy a couple of hours in the country, a whiff of fresh
air----"
"And a chat with a friend. Yes, I do; but if the museum were open----"
Mr. Roberts smiled.
"I see that you are incorrigible." Then, with a gesture toward the house:
"Come and see my new veranda. Its outlook will surprise you."
As you have already surmised, he was the owner of this place; and the man
for whose better understanding Sweetwater had again taken up the plane
and the hammer.
XVII
THE CUCKOO-CLOCK
As they made their way through scattered timber and the litter of fresh
carpentry-work, the man who was busy there and who certainly had
outstayed his time took up his kit and disappeared around the corner of
the house. Neither noted him. The cuckoo-clock was chirping out its five
small notes from the cheerful interior, and the Curator was remarking
upon it.
"That's a merry sound both sweet and stimulating; and what is still
better, I can hear it without effort. I believe I should like to have
a clock of that kind."
"It goes where I go," muttered its strange owner with what seemed an
involuntary emphasis. Then as the Curator turned upon him in some
surprise, he added with studied indifference: "I brought it from
Switzerland when I was younger than I am now--a silly memento, but
I fancy it."
A commonplace explanation surely; why, then, did that same workman, who
had stopped short after rounding the corner to pick up something which he
as quickly threw down, turn a quick head and listen eagerly for what
might be said next. Nothing came of it, for the veranda door was near and
the two gentlemen had stepped in; but to one who knew Sweetwater, the
smile with which he resumed his work had an element in it which, if seen,
would have darkened still further the gloom in the troubled eye of the
speaker.
Switzerland! He had said Switzerland.
It was not long after this that the Curator and his host left for New
York.
The house was not quite ready for occupancy, but was in the process of
being made so by the woman who had done duty as housekeeper for Mr.
Roberts both before his marriage and since his wife's death. During the
fifteen years which had intervened, she had been simply the cook.
This woman, Huldah Weston by name, did not accompany them. She was in
Belport to stay, and as it behooves us to remain there for a while longer
ourselves, we will join her in the quiet rest she is taking on the
kitchen steps before shutting up the house for the night.
She is not alone. A young man is with her--one to whom she is giving
temporary board and lodging in exchange for the protection of his
presence and such slight help as he can afford her in the heavy task
of distributing and arranging the furniture.
We know this man. It is the one we have just seen halting at the corner
of the house, on quitting his work on the new veranda--Sweetwater.
He is a genial soul; she, though very old for the responsibilities she
still insists upon carrying, enjoys a good laugh. Nor is she averse to
the numberless little kindly attentions with which he shows his respect
for her age if not a personal liking for herself. In short, they are
almost friends, and she trusts him as she has never trusted any young man
yet, save the boy she lost when she was still a comely widow.
Perhaps this is why, on this night when we find the two together, he
ventures to turn the talk upon the man she had so devotedly served during
the better part of her life.
He began with the cuckoo-clock. Where did it come from? How long had they
had it? What a jolly little customer the wee bird was, darting out and
darting in with his hurry-call to anyone who would listen! It made a
fellow feel ashamed to dawdle at his work. It wouldn't do to let any mere
bird get ahead of him--a wooden bird at that!
He got her talking. She had known Mr. Roberts' mother, and she had been
in the house (a young girl then) when he went away to Europe. He had not
wanted to go. He was in love, or thought he was, with a woman older than
himself. But the mother did not approve of the match, though the lady had
a mint of money and everything in her favor but those seven years. She
afterward became his wife and for all his mother's fears they lived
together very happily. Since her death which occurred about a year ago
he's been a different man; very sad and much given to sitting alone.
Anyone can see the effect it has had upon him if they look at him
closely.
"She was a good woman, then?"
"Very good."
"Well, life must be lonesome for a widower, especially if he has no
children. But perhaps he has some married or at school?"
"No, he has no children, and no relations, to speak of."
"And he brought that clock from Switzerland? Did he ever say from what
part of Switzerland?"
"If he did, I don't remember; I've no memory for foreign names."
This sent Sweetwater off on another tack. He knew such a good story,
which, having told, he seemed to have forgotten all about the clock, for
he said nothing more about it, and not much more about Mr. Roberts.
But when, a little later, he followed her into that gentleman's room for
the purpose of unlocking a trunk which had been delivered that day, he
took advantage of her momentary absence in search of the key to pull out
that cuckoo-clock from the wall where it hung and read the small slip of
paper pasted across its back. As he hoped, it gave both the name and
address of the merchant from whom it had been bought. But that was not
all. Running in diagonal lines across this label, he saw some faded
lines in fine handwriting, which proved to be a couplet signed with
five initials. The latter were not quite legible, but the couplet he
could read without the least difficulty. It was highly sentimental, and
might mean much and might mean nothing. If the handwriting should prove
to be Mr. Roberts', the probabilities were in favor of the former
supposition--or so he said to himself, as he swung the clock back into
place.
When Mrs. Weston returned, he was standing as patiently as possible in
the middle of the room, saying over and over to himself to insure
remembrance till he could jot the lines down in his notebook: _Bossberg,
Lucerne.... I love but thee--and thee will I love to eternity._
His interest in this slight and doubtful clue, however, sank into
insignificance when, having unlocked and unstrapped the trunk which Mrs.
Weston pointed out, he saw to his infinite satisfaction that it held Mr.
Roberts' clothing--the one thing in the world toward which at this exact
moment his curiosity mainly pointed. If only he might help her handle the
heavy coats which lay so temptingly on top! Should he propose to do so?
Looking at her firm chin and steady eye, he felt that he did not dare. To
rouse the faintest suspicion in this woman's intelligent mind would be
fatal to all further procedure, and so he stood indifferent, while she
lifted garment after garment and laid them carefully on the bed. He
counted five coats and as many vests--and was racking his brains for some
plausible excuse for a nearer inspection, when she stopped in the midst
of her work, with the cheery remark:
"That will do for to-night. To-morrow I will look them all over for moths
before hanging them away in the closet."
And he had to go, leaving them lying there within reach of his hand, when
one glance at the lining of a certain coat which had especially attracted
his eye might have given him the one clue he most needed.
The room which had been allotted to him in this house was in the rear and
at the top of a steep flight of stairs. As he sought it that night, he
cast a quick glance through the narrow passageway opening just beyond his
own door. Would it be possible for him to thread those devious ways and
reach Mr. Roberts' room without rousing Mrs. Weston, who in spite of her
years had the alertness of a watchdog with eye and ear ever open? To be
found strolling through quarters where he had no business would be worse
than being suspected of taking a personal interest in the owner's
garments. He was of an adventurous turn, and ever ready to risk something
on the turn of a die, but not too much. A false move might hazard all;
besides, he remembered the airing these clothes were to get and the
nearness of the clothes-yard to the pump he so frequently patronized,
and all the chances which this gave for an inspection which would carry
little danger to one of his ready wit.
So he gave up the midnight search he might have attempted under other
circumstances, and shut his room from the moon and his eyes to sleep, and
dreamed. Was it of the great museum, with its hidden mystery enshrouding
its many wonders of high art, or of a far-off time and a far-off scene,
where in the stress of some great emotion the trembling hand of Carleton
Roberts had written on the back of this foolish clock for which he still
retained so great a fancy the couplet which he himself had so faithfully
memorized:
I love but thee,
And thee will I love to eternity.
At eight o'clock on the following morning the quick strokes of the
workman's hammer reawakened the echoes at the end of the building where
the big enclosed veranda was going up.
As the clock struck nine Mrs. Weston could be seen hanging up her
master's coats and trousers on a long line stretched across the
clothes-yard. They remained there two hours, viewed from afar by
Sweetwater, but not approached till he saw the old woman disappear
from one of the gates with a basket on her arm. Then he developed thirst
and went rearward to the pump. While there, he took a look at the sea.
A brisk wind was springing up. It gave him an idea.
Making sure that his fellow workmen were all busy, he loosened one end of
the line holding the fluttering garments and then went back to his work.
As the wind increased, the strain on the line became too great, and soon
he had the satisfaction of seeing the whole thing fall in one wild flap
to the ground. With an exclamation calculated to draw the attention of
the men about him to what had happened, he rushed to the rescue, lifted
the line and rearranged the clothes. Then refastening--this time
securely--the end of the line which had slipped loose, he returned to his
post, with just one quick and disappointed look thrown back at the now
safe if wildly fluttering garments.
He had improved his opportunity to examine the inside of every coat and
had found nothing to reward his scrutiny. But it was not this which had
given him his chief annoyance. It was the fact that the one coat from
which he had expected the anticipated clue--the coat which Mr. Roberts
had certainly worn on that tragic day at the museum--was not there. A
summer overcoat had filled out the number, and his investigation was
incomplete.
Why was that one coat lacking? He was sure he had seen it the night
before lying on the bed with the others. Was it still there, or had it
been stowed away in drawer or closet, irrespective of its danger from
moths, for a reason he would give his eyeteeth to know but dared not
inquire into till he had clinched his friendship with this old woman so
thoroughly that he could ask her anything--which certainly was not the
case as yet.
The absence of the one coat he wanted most to see afflicted him sorely.
He told Mrs. Weston, on her return, how the line had fallen and how he
had replaced it, but for all his wits, he could not get any further. With
the close of the day's work and the reappearance of Mr. Roberts, he
slipped away to the village, to avoid an encounter of the results of
which he felt very doubtful. His dinner would not be ready till after Mr.
Roberts had been served, and the three hours which must necessarily
elapse before that happy moment looked very long and very unproductive to
him, especially as he had found no answer as yet to the question which so
grievously perplexed him.
He had paced the main street twice and had turned into a narrow lane
ending in the smallest of gardens and the most infinitesimal of houses,
when the door of this same house opened and a man came out whose
appearance held him speechless for a moment--then sent him forward with
a quickly beating heart. It was not the man himself that produced this
somewhat startling effect; it was his clothes. So far as his hat and
nether garments went, they were, if not tattered, not very far from it;
but the coat he wore was not only trim but made of the finest cloth and
without the smallest sign of wear. It was so conspicuously fine, and
looked so grotesquely out of place on the man wearing it, that he could
pass no one without rousing curiosity, and he probably had all he wanted
to do for the next few days in explaining how a fine gentleman's coat had
fallen to his lot.
But to Sweetwater its interest lay in something more important than the
amusing incongruity it offered to the eye. It looked exactly like the one
belonging to Mr. Roberts which had escaped his scrutiny in so remarkable
a way. Should it prove to be that same, how fortunate he was to have it
brought thus easily within his reach and under circumstances so natural
it was not necessary for him to think twice how best to take advantage of
them.
Father Dobbins--for that is the name by which this old codger was
known to the boys--was, as might be expected, very proud of his new
acquisition and quite blind to the contrast it offered to his fringed-out
trouser-legs. He had a smile on his face which broadened as he caught
Sweetwater's sympathetic glance.
"Fine day," he mumbled. "Are ye wantin' somethin' of me that ye're comin'
this way?"
"Perhaps and perhaps," answered Sweetwater, "--if that fine coat I see
you wearing is the one given you by Mrs. Weston up the road."
"'Deed, sir, and what's amiss? She gave it to me, yes. Came all the way
into the village to find me and give it to me. Too small for her master,
she said; and would I take it to oblige him. Does she want it back?"
"Oh, no--not she. She's not that kind. It's only that she has since
remembered that one of the pockets has a hole in it--an inside one, I
believe. She's afraid it might lose you a dime some day. Will you let me
see if she is right? If so, I was to take you to the tailor's and have it
fixed immediately. I am to pay for it."
The old man stared in slow comprehension; then with the deliberation
which evidently marked all his movements, he slowly put down his basket.
"I warrant ye it's all right," he said. "But look, an ye will. I don't
want to lose no dimes."
Sweetwater threw back one side of the coat, then the other, felt in the
pockets and smiled. But Gryce, and not ignorant Father Dobbins, should
have seen that smile. There was comedy in it, and there was the deepest
tragedy also; for the marks of stitches forcibly cut were to be seen
under one of the pockets--stitches which must have held something as
narrow as an umbrella-band and no longer than the little strip at which
Mr. Gryce had been looking one night in a melancholy little short of
prophetic.
XVIII
MRS. DAVIS' STRANGE LODGER
"If you will look carefully at this chart, and note where the various
persons then in the museum were standing at the moment Correy shouted his
alarm, you will see that of all upon whom suspicion can with any
probability be attached there is but one who could have fulfilled the
conditions of escape as just explained to you."
Stretching forth an impressive finger, Mr. Gryce pointed to a certain
number on the chart outspread between him and the Chief Inspector.
He looked--saw the number "3" and glanced anxiously down at the name it
prefigured.
"Roberts--the director! Impossible! Not to be considered for a moment.
I'm afraid you're getting old, Gryce." And he looked about to be sure
that the door was quite shut.
Mr. Gryce smiled, a little drearily perhaps, as he acknowledged this
self-evident fact.
"You are right, Chief: I am getting old--but not so old as to venture
upon so shocking an insinuation against a man of Mr. Roberts' repute and
seeming honor, if I had not some very substantial proofs to offer in its
support."
"No doubt, no doubt; but it won't do. I tell you, Gryce, it won't do.
There cannot be any such far-fetched and ridiculous explanation to the
crime you talk about. Why, he's next to being the Republican nominee for
Senator. An attack upon him, especially of this monstrous character,
would be looked upon as a clear case of political persecution. And such
it would be, and nothing less; and it would be all to no purpose, I am
sure. I hope you are alone in these conclusions--that you have not seen
fit to share your ideas on this subject with any of the boys?"
"Only with Sweetwater, who did some of the work for me."
"And Joyce? How about him?"
"He had the same opportunities as myself, but we have not reached the
point of mentioning names. I thought it best to consult with you first."
"Good! Then we'll drop it."
It was decisively said, but Gryce gave no signs of yielding.
"I'm afraid that's impossible," said he. Then with the dignity of long
experience, he added with quiet impressiveness:
"I have, as you know, faced crime these many years in all its aspects.
I have tracked the ignorant, almost imbecile, murderer of the slums, and
laid my hand in arrest on the shoulder of so-called gentlemen hiding
their criminal instincts under a show of culture and sometimes of wide
education. Human nature is not so very different in high and low; and
what may lead an irresponsible dago into unsheathing his knife against
his fellow may work a like effect upon his high-bred brother if
circumstances lend their aid to make discovery appear impossible.
"Mr. Roberts is the friend of many a good man who would swear to his
integrity with a clear conscience. I would have sworn to it myself, a
month ago, had I heard it questioned in the slightest manner; and I may
live to swear to it again, notwithstanding the doubts which have been
raised in my mind by certain strange discoveries which link him to this
unhappy affair by what we are pleased to call circumstantial evidence.
For, as I am obliged to acknowledge, the one great thing we rely upon, in
accusations of this kind, is so far lacking in his case: I mean, the
motive.
"I know of none--can, in fact, conceive of none--which would cause a
gentleman of even life and ambitious projects to turn a deadly weapon
upon an innocent child with whom he is not, so far as we can discover,
even acquainted. Dementia only can account for such a freak, and to
dementia we must ascribe this crime, if it is necessary for us to find
cause before proceeding to lay our evidence before the District Attorney.
All I propose to do at present is to show you my reasons for thinking
that the arrow which slew Angeline Willetts--or, as we have been assured
by unimpeachable authority, Angeline Duclos masquerading under the name
of Angeline Willetts--was set to bow and loosed across the court by the
gentleman we have just mentioned."
Here Mr. Gryce stopped for a look of encouragement from the severely
silent man he was endeavoring to impress. But he did not get it. With
a full sense of his years weighing upon him as never before, he sighed,
but continued with little change of tone:
"In the first day or two of keen surprise following an event of so many
complicated mysteries, I drew up in my own mind a list of questions which
I felt should be properly answered before I would consider it my duty to
submit to you a report to the disadvantage of any one suspect. This was
Question One:
"'Whose was the hand to bring up into the museum gallery the bow
recognized by Correy as the one which had been lying by for an indefinite
length of time in the cellar?'
"Not till yesterday did I get any really definite answer to this. Correy
would not talk; nor would the Curator; and I dared not press either of
them beyond a certain point, for equally with yourself, I felt it most
undesirable to allow anyone to suspect the nature of my theory or whom it
especially involved.
"The Curator had nothing to hide on this or any other point connected
with the tragedy. But it was different with Correy. He had some very
strong ideas about that visit to the cellar--only he would not
acknowledge them. So yesterday, after the satisfactory settlement of
another puzzling question, I made up my mind to trap him--which I did
after this manner. He has, as most men have, in fact, a great love for
the Curator. In discussing with him the mysterious fetching up of the bow
and its subsequent concealment in the Curator's office, I remarked, with
a smile I did not mean to have him take as real, that only the Curator
himself would do such a thing and then forget it; that it must have been
his shadow he saw; and I begged him, in a way half jocose, half earnest,
to say so and have done with it.
"It worked, sir. He flushed like a man who had been struck; then he grew
white with indignation and blurted forth that it was no more his shadow
than it was Mr. Roberts'--that indeed it was much more like Mr. Roberts'
than the Curator's. At which I simply remarked: 'You think so, Correy?'
To which he replied: 'I do not think anything. But I know that Curator
Jewett never brought up that bow from the cellar, or he would have said
so the minute he saw it. There's no better man in the world than he.'
'Nor than Mr. Roberts either,' I put in, and left him comforted if not
quite reassured.
"So much for Question One--
"Number Two is of a similar nature. 'Was the transference of the arrow
from one gallery to the other due to the same person who brought up the
bow?' Now, in answer to that, I have a curious thing to show you." And
lifting into view a bundle of goodly size, wrapped in heavy brown paper,
he opened it up and disclosed a gentleman's coat. Spreading this out
between them lining side out, and pointing out two marks an inch or so
apart showing the remains of stitches for which there seemed to have been
no practical use, he took from his own vest-pocket what looked like a bit
of narrow black tape. This he laid down on the upturned lining in the
space bounded by the two lines of marks I have mentioned, and drawing the
Chief's attention to it, observed in quiet explanation:
"The one fits the other--stitch for stitch. Look closely at them both, I
beg, and tell me if in your judgment it is not evident that this strap or
loop, or whatever we may call it, has been cut away from this coat to
which it had been previously sewed--and by no woman either."
Anyone could see that this had been so. There could be but one reply:
"This coat I bought from an old man to whom it had been given by Mr.
Roberts' housekeeper on their arrival at his new home on Long Island. The
strip was picked up at the museum in the room where Mrs. Taylor spent an
hour or so immediately upon leaving the scene of crime. With her at the
time was the young lady who had kindly offered to look after her and two
or three men directly associated with the museum, of whom Mr. Roberts was
one. These and these only. Now, this strap or let us say loop, since we
are beginning to see for what purpose it was used, was not on the floor
previous to the entrance of these few persons into this room--or, indeed,
for some little time afterward. Otherwise this young lady, who was the
one to open my eyes to this clue, surely would have seen it in the
half-hour she stood at Mrs. Taylor's side with no one to talk to and
quite free to look about her. But it _was_ there after that lady had
revived from her fainting-fit--dropped, as you see--cut from its owner's
coat and dropped! Chief, let me ask why this should have been done in a
time of such suspense if it had had nothing to do with the crime then
occupying everybody's attention--a good coat too, almost new, as you will
observe?"
The Chief, possibly with a shade less of irony in his manner, answered
this direct question with one equally direct:
"And what connection have you succeeded in establishing between this
abominable crime and the coat with or without a loop worn by the museum's
leading director? One as straight and indisputable, no doubt, as that you
have just attempted to make between this same gentleman and the museum
bow," he added with biting incredulity.
"Yes," returned the other in calm disregard of the sarcasm, "straighter
and more indisputable, if anything. We are asking, as you will remember,
how an arrow could have been carried from the southern to the northern
gallery without attracting anyone's attention. I will show you how."
With a rap on the table which brought Sweetwater into the room, he
proceeded to pin again into its old place on the lining of Mr. Roberts'
coat the so-called tag. Then, taking the arrow which Sweetwater proceeded
to hand him, he slipped it into the loop thus made and showed how
securely it could be held there by its feather end.
"A man of Mr. Roberts' upright carriage might, with his coat well
buttoned up, walk the length of Broadway without disclosing the presence
of this stick," remarked Mr. Gryce as, at his look, Sweetwater doffed his
own coat and put on the one thus discreetly weighted.
The Chief stared, paling slightly as he noted the result. Mr. Gryce,
who never overemphasised his effects, motioned Sweetwater to leave and
proceeded to the next question.
"Number Three," he now observed, "should have come first, as it has
already been answered. It asks if it is possible to hit the mark in
Section II of the museum's gallery, from behind the pedestal in Section
VIII. From the pedestal nearest the front, _no_; but from the one further
back--upon which, by the way, Stevens found the print of a gloved
finger--_yes_.
"Who wore gloves that day--kid gloves, mind you, for the mark of the
stitching is exact, as you can see in this print of the same made by
Stevens? All the ladies, except a young copyist who was leaving in a
hurry and had not stopped to put hers on. But of the men, only one--Mr.
Roberts, the careful dresser, who was never known to enter the street
without this last touch to his toilet. How do I know this? Look at the
chart, Chief--this one which shows the court and the persons in it at the
precise minute of first alarm. You see how near the exit Mr. Roberts was,
and who was closest to him. I had a little talk--the most guarded one
imaginable--with this lady, who was the very one of whom I have just said
that she had omitted to put on her gloves; and she gave me the fact I
have just passed on to you. She noted Mr. Roberts' hands, because they
shamed hers, and she was just stopping to pull her gloves from her
coat-pocket when Correy's voice rang out and everything else was
forgotten.
"Corroborative, only corroborative, sir? I am quite aware of that. But
what I have now to add may give it weight. The stringing of a bow is no
easy task for an amateur; nor is the discharge of an arrow, under such
dangerous circumstances as marked the delivery of the one we are
discussing, one which would be lightly attempted by a person altogether
ignorant of archery. However strong the evidence might be against a man
who was not an utter fool, I would never have presumed to lay it out
before you if I had not verified the fact that the director, whatever his
life now, was once greatly addicted to sports, and thoroughly acquainted
with the management of a bow and arrow. It has taken time. Many
cablegrams were necessary, but I have at last received this copy of a
report made sixteen years ago by a club in Lucerne, Switzerland, in
which mention is made of a prize given to one Carleton Roberts, an
American, for twelve piercings of the bull's-eye in as many shots, in
an archery-contest which included all nationalities.
"Nor is that all. In a study of himself,--his home, his life, his secret
interests,--we come upon things which call for closer inspection. For
instance, not a day has passed since that poor child has been in the
morgue that he has not been one on the line to see her. He dreams of her,
he says; he cannot get her face out of his mind--you notice that he has
been growing gray.
"But I will stop here. I do not wonder that you look upon all this as the
ravings of a man on the verge of senility. If I were in your place, I
should undoubtedly do the same. But ungracious as the task has proved, I
owed it to myself to rid my mind of its secret burden. It is for you to
say whether, all things considered, I am to drop the matter here or
proceed blindly in search of the motive lying back of every premeditated
crime. I can imagine none in this case, as I have frankly stated, save
the very weak and improbable one already advanced by young Sweetwater in
connection with another party upon whom he had fixed his eye--that of the
irresistible desire of an expert to test his skill with a bow which comes
unexpectedly into his hands."
"That wouldn't apply to Roberts--not in the least," affirmed the Chief
with the emphasis of strong conviction. "Even if we should allow
ourselves to regard these stray bits of circumstantial evidence as in any
way conclusive of the extraordinary theory you have advanced, he's much
too able and cautious a man to yield to any such fool temptation as that.
But to let that matter pass for the present: why have you paid such close
attention to one end of your string, and quite ignored the other? Madame
Duclos' hasty flight and continued absence, in face of circumstances
which would lead a natural mother to break through every obstacle put
in the way of her return, offers a field of inquiry more promising, it
appears to me, than the one upon which you have expended your best
energies. You say nothing of her."
"I have nothing to say. I am glad to leave that particular line of
investigation to you, and more than glad if it has proved or is likely to
prove fruitful. Have you heard----"
"Read that."
He tossed a letter within the detective's grasp and leaned back while
Gryce laboriously perused it.
It was illy written, but well worth the pains he gave to it--as witness:
_To the Chief of Police:_
Dear Sir:--I am told that there is a reward out for a certain woman by
the name of Duclos. I do not know any such person, but there is a woman
who has been lodging in my house for the last two weeks who has acted
so strangely at odd times that I have become very suspicious of her,
and think it right for you to know what she did here one night.
It's about a fortnight since she came to my house in search of
lodgings. Had she been young, I would not have opened my doors to her,
decent as she was in her dress and ways; for she was a foreign woman
and I don't like foreigners. But being middle-aged and ready with her
money in advance, I not only allowed her to come in but gave her my
very best room. This is not saying much, because the elevated road runs
by my door, darkening my whole front, besides making an awful clatter.
But she did not seem to mind this, and I took little notice of her,
till one of the other lodgers--a woman with a busy tongue--began to ask
why this strange woman, who was so very dark and plain, went out only
at night? Did she sew or write for a living? If not, what did she do
with herself all day?
As the last was a question I could easily answer, I said that she spent
most of her time in reading the newspapers; and this was true, because
she always came in with her arms full of them. But there I stopped, as
I never discuss my lodgers. Yet I must acknowledge that my curiosity
had been roused by all this talk, and I began to watch the woman, who I
soon saw was in what I would call a flustered state of mind, and as
unhappy as anyone could be who hadn't suffered some great bereavement.
But still I wasn't really alarmed, being misled by the name she gave,
which was Clery.
Night before last I went to bed early. I am a heavy sleeper, as I need
to be with those cars pounding by the house every few minutes. But
there are certain noises which wake me, and I found myself all of a
sudden sitting up in bed and listening with all my ears. Everything
was quiet, even on the elevated road; but when the next train came
thundering along, I heard, piercing shrilly through the rumble and
roar, that same sharp _ping_ which had wakened me. What was it? It
seemed to come from somewhere in the house. But how could that be! I
was startled enough, however, to get up and slip on some of my clothes
and stand with ears astretch for the next train.
It came and passed, and right in the middle of the noise it made I
heard again that quick, sharp sound. This time I was sure it came from
somewhere near, and opening my door, I slid out into the hall. All
my lodgers were in but one, a young gentleman who has a night-key. And
most of the rooms were dark, as I can very well tell from the fact that
none of the doors fit as they ought to and there is sure to be a streak
of light showing somewhere about them if the gas is burning inside.
Everything looked so natural, and the house was so still, that I was
going back again when another train swept by and that sound was
repeated. This time I was sure it came from somewhere on the lower
floor, and mindful of Mrs. Clery's queer ways, I stole downstairs to
her door. She was up--that was plainly enough to be seen. But what was
she doing? I was just a little frightened, or I would have knocked on
the door and asked.
As I was waiting for the passing by of the next train, my last lodger
came in and caught me standing there before Mrs. Clery's door. I know
him pretty well; so I put my finger to my lips and then beckoned him to
join me. As the train approached, I seized him by the arm and pointed
toward Mrs. Clery's door. He didn't know what I meant, of course, but
he looked and listened, and when the train had gone by, I drew him down
the hall and said, "You heard it!" and then asked him what it was. He
answered that it was a pistol-shot, and he wanted to go back to see if
any dreadful thing had happened. But I shook my head and told him it
was one of five, each one taking place when the roar of the trains
going by was at the loudest. Then he said that this woman was
practising at a mark, and bade me look out or we should have a house
full of anarchists. At that, I loudly declared she should go the first
thing in the morning and so got rid of him. But I did not keep my word,
and for this reason: When I went to do her room-work as I always do
immediately after breakfast, I was all smiles and full of talk till I
had taken a good look at the walls for the bullet-holes I expected to
see there. But I didn't find any, and was puzzled enough you may be
sure, for those bullets must have gone somewhere and I was quite
certain that they had not been fired out of the window. I hardly
dared to look at the ceiling, for she was watching me and kept me
chatting and wondering till all of a sudden I noticed that one of the
sofa-pillows was missing from its place. This set me thinking, and I
was about to ask her what she had done with it when my attention was
drawn away by seeing among the scraps in the wastebasket I had lifted
to carry out the end and corner of what looked like a partly destroyed
photograph.
This was something too strange not to rouse any woman's curiosity, but
I was careful not to give it another glance till I was well out of the
room. Then, as you may believe, I drew it quickly out, to find that all
the middle part was gone--shot to pieces by those tearing bullets. Not
a particle of the face was to be seen, and only enough of the neck and
shoulders to show that it had been the portrait of a man. I enclose it
for you to see; and if you want to talk to the woman, she is still
here, though I only keep her in the hope of her being that Madame
Duclos for whom money is offered. I will tell you why I think this: Not
because of a torn skirt,--you see I have been looking over the
advertisement printed in the papers,--but because she is foreign and
dark and has a decidedly drooping eyelid. Then too, she halts a little
on one foot, as I noticed when I called her hurriedly to the window to
see something. If you want to have a look at her, come after five and
before seven; we are both in then.
Yours respectfully,
Caroline Davis.
"No doubt that's the woman," commented Gryce. "We are fortunate in
hitting her trail at this critical moment."
He had already glanced at the mutilated photograph lying before him, but
now he took it up.
"Very little here," he remarked as he examined first the face of it and
then the back. "But if you will let me take it, I may find that its place
is in our incompleted chain."
"Take it, and if you would like to have a talk with the woman
herself----"
"Yes, Chief; I would like that above all things."
"Very good. I'm expecting her here any minute, but--Well, what now?
What's up?"
An officer had entered hurriedly after one quick knock.
"Mrs. Davis' lodger is gone," said he. "Left without a word to anybody.
When they went to her room they found it empty, with a five-dollar bill
pinned to the riddled cushion. As nobody saw her go, we are as much at
sea as ever."
A smile, both curious and fine, crossed Mr. Gryce's lips as he listened
to this, and turning earnestly to the Chief, he begged for the job of
looking her up.
"I think with the little start we now have that I can find her," said he.
"At all events, I should like to try."
"And let the other matter rest quiescent meanwhile?"
"If it will."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I hardly know myself, Chief. All is hazy yet, but skies clear, and so do
most of our problems. If the two ends of my string should chance to come
together----"
But here a look from his Chief stopped him.
"Let us pray that they won't. But if they do, we shall not shirk our
duty, Gryce."
XIX
MR. GRYCE AND THE TIMID CHILD
"Assurance does it, sir--a great deal of assurance. Not that I have
much----"
Here Mr. Gryce laughed, with the result that Sweetwater laughed also. A
moment of fun was a welcome relief, and they both made the most of it.
"Not that I lack it entirely," Sweetwater hastened to say. Then they
laughed again--after which their talk proceeded on serious lines.
"Sweetwater, what is that you once told me about a family named Duclos?"
"Why, this, sir: There is one such family in town, as Peters discovered
in looking up the name in the directory a day or two after Madame's
disappearance. But there's nothing to be learned from them. Mr. and Mrs.
Edward Duclos are a most respectable couple and have but one answer to
every question. They know no one of their name outside their own family.
Though the man of the house is Breton born, he has lived many years in
this country, and in all that time has never met another Duclos."
"And Peters let it go at that?"
"Had to. What else could he do? However, he did make this admission--that
there was a child in the room who betrayed a nervousness under his
questions which was not observable in her elders, a girl of twelve or so
who put her hands behind her when she found she could not control their
twitching. And I've an idea that if he could have got this child by
herself, he might have heard something quite different from the plain
denial he got from the mother. I've always thought so; but I've had too
many other things to do to make an effort in this direction.
"Now, if you approve, I'll see what I can do with this girl, for it
stands to reason there must be some place in town where this woman, just
off ship, found an immediate refuge and a change of clothing and effects.
Nor should I be much surprised if we should discover that she is an
inmate of this very house. What do you think, Mr. Gryce? Is it worth
looking into?"
"It is worth my looking into. I have other work for you. Where does this
Duclos family live?"
Sweetwater told him. It was in one of the Eighties, not a quarter of a
mile from the Hotel Universal.
This settled, Mr. Gryce took from his pocket the mutilated photograph
which had served as a target to the woman in Fifty-third Street.
"You see this," said he. "The face is all gone; only a sweep of the hair
on one side, and a bit of collar and the tip of a shoulder on the other,
remain to act as a clue. Yet I expect you to find the negative from which
this photograph was printed. It should not be so difficult,--that is, if
in the course of time it has not been destroyed,--for look here." And
turning over what remained of the mutilated photograph he displayed the
following:
Cor. 9th Street
w York)
"New York! The portrait was made here and--at Fredericks'. His studio was
on the corner of Ninth Street up to a few years ago. It's a trail after
my own mind. If that negative is in existence, I'll find it, if I have to
ransack half the photograph-studios in town. About how old do you think
this picture is?"
"Old enough to give you trouble. But that you're used to. What we want to
know--what we must know--is this: The name of the man who has incurred
Madame's enmity to such a degree that she spends the small hours of the
night in knocking out his features from a fifteen-year-old photograph. If
it should prove to be that of a public man, rich or otherwise, we might
consistently lay it to social hatred; but if, on the contrary, it turns
out to be that of a private individual--well, in that case, I shall have
a task for you which may call for a little of that assurance of which we
have just acknowledged you possess a limited share."
That evening, just at dusk, a taxicab which had been wandering up and
down a well-kept block in Eighty-seventh Street stopped suddenly in front
of a certain drug-store to let an old man out. He seemed very feeble and
leaned heavily on his cane while crossing the sidewalk toward the store.
But his face was kindly, and his whole aspect that of one who takes the
ills of life without bitterness or complaint. When halfway to his
goal,--for twenty steps are a journey to one who has to balance himself
carefully with every one,--he slipped or stumbled, and his cane flew out
of his hand. Happily--because he seemed unable to reach it himself--a
young girl just emerging from the drug-store saw his plight and stooping
for the stick, handed it to him. He received it with a smile, and while
it was yet in both of their hands, said in the most matter-of-fact way in
the world:
"Thank you, little Miss Duclos." Then suddenly: "Where's your aunt?"
She did not stop to think. She did not stop to ask herself what this
question meant or whether this old gentleman who seemed to know so much
about her and the family's secrets had a right to ask it, but blurted out
in nervous haste as if she knew of nothing else to do, "She's gone," and
then started to run away.
"Come back, little one." His tone was very imperative, but for all that
of a nature to win upon a frightened child. "I know she's gone," he added
soothingly as she looked back, hesitating. "And I'm sorry, for I have
something for her. I recognized you the moment you stepped out of the
store; but I see that you don't remember me. But why should you? Little
girls don't remember old men."
Again that benevolent smile as he poked about in one of his pockets and
finally drew out a little parcel which he held out toward her.
"This belongs to your aunt. See, it has her name on it, Madame Antoinette
Duclos. It came to the lodging-house in Fifty-third Street just after she
left, and I was asked to bring it to her. I was going to your house as
soon as I had done my little errand at this store, but now that I have
met you, I will ask you to see that she gets it."
The girl looked down at the parcel, then up at him, and reaching out her
hand, took it.
His old heart, which had almost stopped, beat again naturally and with
renewed strength. He was on the correct trail. When Mrs. Duclos and the
rest of them had said that they knew of no one of their name in this
country but themselves, it was because the Madame of the Hotel Universal
was of their family--the widow of their brother, as this child's
acknowledgment showed.
He was turning back to his taxi when the child, still trembling very
much, took a step toward him and said:
"I don't know where to find my aunt. She didn't tell us where she was
going; and--and I had rather not take this parcel back with me. Mother
don't like us to speak of Aunt Nettie; and--and I don't believe Aunt
Nettie would care to have this now. Won't--won't you forget about it,
sir, if I promise to tell her some day that it was brought back and I
wouldn't take it?"
Mr. Gryce felt a qualm of conscience. The child really was too simple to
be made game of. Besides, he felt sure that she had spoken the truth, so
far as she herself was concerned. She didn't know where her erratic aunt
had gone; and any further questioning would only frighten her without
winning him the knowledge he sought. He therefore took the parcel back,
said some soothing words and made his way across the walk to his taxi.
But the number he gave the chauffeur was that of the house where this
little girl lived.
He arrived there first. To him, waiting in the parlor and very near the
window, her shrinking little figure looked pathetic enough, as glancing
in at the taxi, and finding it empty, she realized who might be awaiting
her under her mother's eye. He remembered his grandchild, and made up his
mind, as she slid nervously in, that no matter what happened he would
keep this innocent child out of trouble.
The lady who presently came in to receive him was one who called him
instinctively to his feet in respect and admiration. She was an American
and of the best type, a woman who, if she told a lie, would not tell it
for her own comfort or gain, but to help some one else to whom she owed
fealty or love. But would she lie for anyone? As he studied her longer,
taking in, in his own way, the candid expression of her eye and the sweet
but firm set of her lips, he began to think she would not, and the
interest with which he proceeded to address her was as much due to
herself as to the knowledge he hoped to gain from her.
"Mrs. Duclos?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. And you?"
"I am a member of the New York police. My errand is one which you can
probably guess. You have a sister-in-law, the widow of your husband's
brother. As her testimony is of the utmost importance in the inquiry
which is to be made into the cause and manner of her daughter's death, I
should be very glad to have a few minutes' talk with her if, as we have
every reason to believe, she is in this house at the present moment."
Mrs. Edward Duclos was a strong and upright woman, but this direct
address, this open attack, was too much for her. However, before
replying, she had a question of her own to put, and she proceeded to ask
it firmly, quietly and apparently with every expectation of its being
answered:
"How did you learn that Mr. Duclos had a brother and that this brother
had left a widow?"
"Not from you, madam," he smiled. "Nor from your husband. I very much
wish we had. We have been waiting for some such word ever since our
advertisement appeared. It has not come."
She gave him a quick interrogating glance, folded her hands and answered
without further hesitation:
"We had our reasons for silence, reasons which we thought quite
justifiable. But they don't hold good if we are to be brought into
conflict with the police. Mr. Duclos told me this morning that if we were
driven to speak we must do so with complete honesty and without quibble.
What do you want to know?"
"Everything. First, your sister-in-law's story, then her reasons for
sending her child alone to the museum, as well as the cause of her flight
before she could have heard of that poor child's fate. More hangs upon an
understanding of these facts than I am at liberty to tell you. She
herself would agree with me in this if I could have a few minutes'
conversation with her."
"She is not in the house. She left us late last night without giving us
the least hint as to where she was going. She is, as you can very well
see, as little anxious to talk of her great trouble as you are to have
her, and recognizing that attempts were being made to find her and make
her speak, she fled before it was too late. I am sorry she did so, sorry
for her and sorry for ourselves. We do not approve her course, whatever
reasons she may have for it. At the same time, I feel bound to assure
you that to her they are all-sufficient. She is a conscientious woman,
with many fine qualities, and when she says as she did to us, 'It is my
duty to flee,' and again as she bade us a final adieu, 'I will die rather
than speak a word of what is on my mind,' I know that it is no small
matter which sends her wandering about like this."
"I should think not. A mother to leave her daughter to be exposed at the
morgue, and never intervene to protect her from this ignominy or to see
that she has proper burial after that dread display is over!"
"I know--it was dreadful--and we! Do you not think we felt the horror of
this also?"
"Your own flesh and blood--that is, your husband's. I wonder you could
stand it."
"We had promised. She made us promise the first day she came that we
would keep still and make no move, whatever happened."
"It was here she came then, directly from the hotel?"
"I am obliged to admit it."
"With her torn dress and her little bag?"
"Yes."
"And you procured her different clothes and the suit-case in which she
now lugs about her effects?"
"You seem to know it all."
"Mrs. Duclos, I hope you will answer my next question as honestly as you
have the previous ones. Had Madame Duclos heard of her daughter's death
when she first presented herself to you?"
"Since you ask me this, I must answer. She was in great distress, but did
not tell me why, till I asked her where Angeline was. Then she broke down
utterly and flinging herself face down on the sofa, sobbed and wailed and
finally confided to us that a terrible accident had happened to the child
and that she was lying dead in one of the city's great museums."
"Did she say what accident?"
"No; she was almost delirious with grief, and we couldn't question her.
After the papers came and we had read the dreadful news, we tried to get
from her some explanation of what it all meant, but now she wouldn't
answer; before, she couldn't."
"Did you ask her how she came to know that Angeline was dead, before the
news was circulated outside the museum?"
"Yes; but she did not answer, only looked at us. It was the most
despairing look I ever saw in my life. It made it easier for us to
promise her all she wanted, though we regretted having done this when
we came to think the matter over."
"So you positively do not know any more than this of what she has so
religiously held secret?"
"No; and I have got to the point where I do not wish to."
"Did you know she was coming to this country?"
"Yes--but not her reasons for doing so. She has been a little mysterious
of late."
"Did she say she was going to bring her daughter with her?"
"Yes, she mentioned Angeline. Also the name of the ship on which they
expected to sail."
"Was this letter mailed from Paris or London?"
"It came from Paris."
"Did you understand that she was leaving France for good?"
"I got that idea, certainly."
"But not her reasons for it?"
"No. The letter was very short and not very explicit. I really have given
you all the information I have on this subject."
"Mrs. Duclos, it is my duty to inform you that your sister-in-law had a
deep and intense hatred for a man to us at present unknown. Can you name
him? Is there anything in her early history or in what you know of her
later life, here and abroad, to enlighten you as to his identity?"
With a steady look and a slow shake of her head, Mrs. Duclos denied any
such knowledge, even showing a marked surprise at what was evidently a
new development to her.
"Antoinette has had little to do with the men since our brother's death,"
she said. "I can hardly conceive of her being greatly interested either
in favor of or against any of the opposite sex."
"Yet she is--even to the point of wishing him dead."
Mrs. Duclos rose quickly to her feet, but instantly sat again.
"How do you know?" she asked.
Should he tell her? At first he thought not; then he reconsidered his
decision and spoke out plainly.
"Madam," said he, "some day you will hear what I had rather you heard now
and from me. Madame Duclos left the lodging-house where she was so safe
because she was detected, or was suspicious of having been detected,
shooting the face from a photograph she had set up before her as a target
in the small hours of the night."
"Impossible!" The woman thus exclaiming was quite sincere. "I cannot
imagine Antoinette doing that."
"Yet she did. We have the remains of the photograph."
"And who was the man?"
"When we know that, we shall know all, or be in the way of knowing all."
"You alarm me!" She certainly looked alarmed.
"Why, madam? Do you not think it better for the truth to be known in such
a case?"
"You forget what I told you. Antoinette will not survive the betrayal of
her secret. She said she would not, and she is a woman who weighs her
words. There is a firm edge to her resolves. It has always worked for
good till now. I cannot bear to think of its working in any way for
evil."
"Has she socialistic ideas? Can her hatred be for some of our plutocrats
or supposed oppressors of the people?"
"Oh, no; she is of aristocratic descent and proud of her order. The
Duclos are bourgeois, but Antoinette is a De Montfort."
Mr. Gryce suppressed all token of his instinctive amazement. This fine
American woman was not without a sense of reflected glory given by this
fact. Her sister-in-law was a De Montfort! Expressing his thanks for her
candor, he rose to depart.
"For all that," said he, "she may be at heart a _révolutionnaire_." Then,
as he noticed the negation in her look, he added softly: "The least clue
as to her present refuge would make me greatly your debtor."
"I cannot give it; I do not know it."
And somehow he believed her as absolutely as even she could desire. If he
should yet be fortunate enough to find this elusive Madame, it would have
to be through some other agency than these relatives of hers by marriage.
As he passed out, he heard a frightened gasp from somewhere back in the
hall. Turning, he asked in the most natural manner whether there were
children in the house.
Mrs. Duclos answered with some dignity that she had three daughters.
"You are fortunate, madame," he remarked with his old-fashioned bow. "I
live alone. My last grandchild left me a year ago for a man many years
my junior."
This brought the little one into his view. She was smiling, and he went
away in a state of relief marred by but one regret:
He was as ignorant as ever where to look for the mother of Angeline.
XX
MR. GRYCE AND THE UNWARY WOMAN
Nevertheless Mr. Gryce was proud of the gain he had made in his talk with
Mrs. Duclos, and he smiled as he thought of his next interview with
Sweetwater. Assurance will often accomplish much, it is true, but it
sometimes needs age to make it effective. He could not imagine either
Mrs. Duclos or her daughter yielding to the blandishments of one even as
gifted in this special direction as Sweetwater. Authority was needed as
well--the authority of long experience and an ineradicable sympathy with
human nature.
Thus he gratified himself with a few complacent thoughts. But when he
stopped to think what a great haystack New York was, and how elusive was
the needle which had escaped them now these three times, his spirits sank
a trifle, and by the time he had ridden a half-block on his way back to
Headquarters, he was at that low ebb of disheartenment from which only
some happy inspiration can effectually lift one. He was glad to be able
to report that he had learned a few important facts in regard to Madame
Duclos, but he equally hated to admit that for all his haste in following
up the clue given him, he knew as little as ever of her present
whereabouts; and hated even worse to have to give the cue which would
lead to a surveillance, however secret, over a house which held a child
of so sensitive and tremulous a nature as that of the little friend who
had picked up his stick in front of the drug-store.
He was recalling to mind the pathetic spectacle presented by her agitated
little figure, when his eyes chanced to fall upon a small shop he was
then passing. It was devoted to ladies' furnishings, and as he took in
the contents of the window and such articles as could be seen on the
shelves beyond, a happy thought came to him.
Madame Duclos had left her hotel in a hurry, carrying but few of her
belongings with her. A lady of cultivated taste, she must have missed
many articles necessary to her comfort; and having money would naturally
buy them. Prevented by her fears from going downtown, or even from going
anywhere in the daytime, what was left for her to do but to patronize
some such small shop as this. Its nearness to her late refuge, as well as
its neat and attractive appearance, made this seem all the more likely.
A question or two would suffice to settle his mind on this point and
perhaps lead to results which might prove invaluable in his present
emergency.
Signaling to the chauffeur to stop, he got out in front of this little
shop, toward which he immediately proceeded, with an uncertainty of step
not altogether assumed. He did have some rheumatic twinges that day.
Entering, Mr. Gryce first cast a comprehensive glance at the shelves and
counters, to make sure that he would find here the line of dress-goods in
which he had decided to invest; then, approaching the middle-aged woman
who seemed to be in charge, he engaged her in a tedious display of the
goods, which led on to talk and finally to a casual remark from him,
quite in keeping with the anxiety he had been careful to show.
"I am buying this for a woman to whom you have probably sold many odd
little things within the past few days. Perhaps you knew her taste, and
can help me choose what will please her. She lives down the street and
buys always in the evening--a dark, genteel appearing Frenchwoman, with
a strange way of looking down even when other people would be likely to
look up. Do you remember her?"
Yes, she remembered her and recognized her perfectly from this
description. He saw this at once, but he kept right on talking as he
handled first one piece of goods and then another, seeming to hesitate
between the gray and the brown.
"She went out of town yesterday, and wanted this material sent after
her. Do you think you could do that for me, or shall I have to see to
expressing it myself? I'll do it if I must--only I've forgotten her exact
address." This he muttered self-reproachfully, "I've a shocking bad
memory, and it's growing worse every day. You don't happen to know where
she's gone to, do you?"
The innocence of this appeal from one of his years and benevolent aspect
did not appear to raise the woman's suspicion; yet she limited her reply
to this short statement:
"I'll send the goods, if you will make your choice." And it was not till
long after that he learned that Madame Duclos, being very anxious for her
mail and such newspapers as she wanted, had made arrangements with this
woman to forward them.
Disappointed, but still hoping for some acknowledgment that would give
him what he wanted, he continued to putter with the goods, when she broke
in with harsh decision:
"I think she would prefer the gray."
"Oh, do you?" said he, with just a hint of disapproval at the suggestion.
"I like brown best, myself; but let it be the gray. Ten yards," he
ordered. "She was particular to say that she wanted ten yards, and
that I was to be sure and purchase the dress at the shop adjoining the
drug-store. You see I have obeyed her," he added with a touch of senility
in his quiet chuckle which threw the busy woman off her guard.
"I fear," said she, "that the dress I sold her before will not prove very
becoming. But gray is always good. That's why I advised it."
"I see, I see," chattered away the old man, not without some slight
compunction. "But in my opinion she's too dark for such somber dresses.
I've told her so a score of times." Then as he watched the woman before
him rolling up the goods he proceeded to ask with fussy importunity what
she thought the express charges were likely to be, for he wanted to pay
the whole bill and be done with it.
She was caught--caught fairly this time, though I doubt if she ever knew
it.
"We don't often send up the river," said she. "But I should say that for
a package of this size and weight the charges would be about forty cents.
But that you can leave her to pay. She will be quite willing to do so, I
am sure."
"Of course, of course--I didn't think of that. She'll pay for it, of
course she'll pay for it." And he continued to fuss and chat, with that
curious mixture of native shrewdness and senile interest in little things
which he thought most likely to impress the woman attending him, and trap
her into giving him the complete address.
But she was too wary, or too much preoccupied with her own affairs, to
let the cat any farther out of the bag, and he had to be content with her
promise, that the package should be given to the expressman as early as
possible the next morning.
The feebleness he showed while leaving the shop was in marked contrast,
however, to the vigor with which he took down the telephone-receiver in
the booth of the neighboring drug-store. But she was not there to see;
nor anyone else who had the least interest in his movements. He could,
therefore, give all the emphasis he desired to the demand he made upon
Headquarters for a close watch to be set on the adjoining dry-goods shop,
for the purpose of intercepting and obtaining the address of a certain
package, on the point of being expressed from there to some place up the
river.
Then he went home; for by now he was fully as tired as his years
demanded.
XXI
PERPLEXED
"Elvira Brown."
"Elvira Brown? That the name on the package?"
"Yes."
"And the address?"
The name of a small town in the Catskills was given him.
"Thank you. Very good work." And Mr. Gryce hung up the receiver. Then he
stood thinking.
"Elvira Brown! A very fair alias--that is, the _Brown_ end. But what am I
to think of _Elvira_? And what am I to think of the _Brown_, now that I
remember that the woman who has chosen to hide her identity under another
name is a Frenchwoman. Something queer! Let me see if I can call up the
station-master at the place she's gone."
A long-distance connection proving practicable, he found himself after a
little while in communication with the man he wanted.
"I'm Gryce, of the New York police. A woman in whom we're greatly
interested has just entered your town under the name of Elvira Brown."
_"Elvira Brown!"_
Mr. Gryce was startled at the tone in which this was repeated, even
making due allowance for the medium through which it came.
"Yes. What's there strange about that?"
"Only this: That's the name of a woman who has lived in these mountains
for forty years, and who died here three days ago. To-day we're going
to bury her."
This _was_ a blow to the detective's expectations. What awful mistake had
he made? Or had it been made by the man detailed to steal the name from
the package--or by the woman in the shop, or by all these combined? He
could not stop to ask; but he caught at the first loose end which
presented itself.
"Well, it isn't she we're after, that's certain. The one we want is
middle-aged, and plain in looks and dress. If she came into your town, it
was yesterday or possibly the night before. You wouldn't be apt to notice
her, unless your attention was caught by her lameness. Do you remember
any such person?"
"No, and I don't think anyone like that passed through my station. We're
off the main road, and our travelers are few. I would have noticed the
arrival of a woman like that."
Mr. Gryce, with an exclamation of chagrin, hung up the receiver. He felt
completely balked.
But old as he was, he still had some of the tenacity of youth. He was not
willing to accept defeat without one more effort. Going downtown as
usual, he wandered again into the little dry-goods shop to see if the
package had been sent.
Yes, it had gone, but the expressman had had some trouble with a drunken
man who actually took the package out of his hands and didn't give it
back without a squabble. Strange how men can drink till they can't see,
and so early in the morning, at that!