"I'll read you the note, Lydia, but I can't let you touch it," Dundee
said sternly, taking good care that she should not touch either the
paper on which the note to herself had been written or the sheet which
contained that strange, informal will. Informal, in spite of the dead
woman's obvious effort to couch it in legal phraseology....
Was Lydia's frenzy assumed? Did she hope to leave fingerprints now which
would account for fingerprints she had already left upon it? Was it not
possible that Lydia's had been the prying fingers which had opened the
envelope after Nita Selim had sealed it with God only knew what fears in
her heart? If so, Lydia Carr had found that she was her mistress' sole
legatee.... _Revenge, coupled with greed...._ What better motive for
murder could a detective ask? And who had had so good an opportunity as
Lydia Carr to dispose of the weapon?
The woman crouched back on her haunches, an agony of pleading in her
single eye.
"Lydia, I think you know already what this note tells you," Dundee said
slowly.
To his astonishment the maid nodded, the tears starting again. "I asked
her once what she wanted to keep that old dress for, and she--she said
I'd find out some day, but I never dreamed she'd want it for a--oh, my
God!--for a _shroud_!"
For the second time that evening Lydia Carr completely routed Dundee's
carefully worked-up case against her. It was inconceivable, he told
himself, that a mind cunning enough to have executed this murder would
give itself away in such a fashion. If she had indeed pried among her
mistress' papers and found the will and note, would she not, from the
most primitive instinct of self-preservation, have pretended total
ignorance of the note's contents?
"I'll read the note, Lydia," he said gently. "It is addressed: 'My
precious old Lydia'--"
"She was always calling me that!" the maid sobbed.
"And she writes: 'If you ever read this it will be because I'm dead, and
you'll know that I've tried to make it up to you the only way I knew. I
never could believe you really forgave me, but maybe you will now. And
there is one last thing I want you to do for me, Lydia darling. You
remember that old royal blue velvet dress of mine that you were always
sniffing at and either trying to make me give away or have made over?
And remember that I told you that you'd know some time why I kept it?
Well, I want you to lay me out in it, Lydia. Such a funny old-fashioned
shroud, isn't it?... But with dresses long again, maybe it won't look so
funny, and there'll be nobody but you and Lois to see me in it, because
I've said so in my will. And I want my hair dressed as it was the only
time I ever wore the royal blue velvet. A French roll, Lydia, with
little curls coming out the left side of it and hanging down to the left
ear. You brush the hair straight up the back of the head, gather it
together and tie a little bit of black shoestring around it, then you
twist the hair into a roll and spread it high, pinning it down on each
side of the head. _And don't forget the little curls on the left side!_
I hope I have enough hair, but if it hasn't grown long enough, you
know where those switches are that I had made when I first bobbed my
hair.... You won't mind touching me when I'm dead, will you, Lydia? I do
love you.... Nita.'"
Dundee was silent for a minute after he had finished reading the strange
note and had returned it to the envelope, along with the will. At last,
speaking against a lump in his throat, he broke in on the desolate
sobbing of Nita's maid:
"Lydia, how old was your mistress?"
"You won't put it in the papers, will you?" Lydia pleaded. "She--she
was--thirty-three. But not a soul knew it except me--"
"And will you tell me how old the royal blue velvet dress is?" he
continued. "Also, how long since girls dressed their hair in a French
roll?"
"The dress is twelve or thirteen years old," Lydia said, her voice dull
now with grief. "I know, because I used to do dressmaking during the
war. And it was during the war that girls wore their hair that way--I
did mine in a Psyche knot, but the French roll was more stylish."
"Did your mistress ever tell you about the one time she wore the dress?"
Lydia shook her head. "No. She wouldn't talk about it--just said I'd
know sometime why she kept it.... Royal blue velvet, it is, the skirt
halfway to the ankles, and sleeves with long pointed ends, lined with
gold taffeta, and finished off with gold tassels. It's in a dress bag,
hanging in her closet."
"Do you think it was her wedding dress, Lydia?" Dundee suggested, the
idea suddenly flashing into his mind.
"I don't know. I didn't ask her that," Lydia denied dully. "Can I take
it with me--and the switches she had made out of her curls?"
"I'll have to get authority to remove anything from the house, Lydia,"
Dundee told her. "But I am sure you will be permitted to follow Mrs.
Selim's instructions.... So you're going to accept the Miles' offer of a
job as nurse?"
"Yes. I'd rather work. Mr. and Mrs. Miles have always been specially
nice to me, and I--I could love their children. They're not--afraid of
me--"
"Perhaps you're wise," Dundee agreed. "By the way, Lydia, did Mrs. Selim
have a pistol in her possession at any time during the past week?"
The maid shook her head. "Not that I seen. And if she'd got one because
she was afraid, she'd a-kept it handy and I'd a-been bound to see it."
Convinced of her sincerity, he was about to let her go to pack her bag
when another belated question occurred to him. "Lydia, will you tell me
what engagements Mrs. Selim had this last week?"
The woman scowled, fanatically jealous, Dundee guessed, of her mistress'
reputation, but at last she answered defiantly: "Let me see.... Mr.
Sprague had Sunday dinner here, and spent the afternoon, but Sunday
night it was young Mr. Ralph Hammond. He come whenever she'd let
him.... Monday night?... Oh, yes! She had dinner at the Country Club
with the Mileses and the Drakes and the Dunlaps. Mr. Miles brought her
home, because Mr. Sprague wasn't invited.... Tuesday night--let me
think!... Yes, that's the night Judge Marshall was here. Nita had sent
for him to talk about finishing up the attic--"
So that was the "business engagement" which Judge Marshall had hemmed
and hawed over, Dundee reflected triumphantly.
"--and Wednesday night," Lydia was continuing, with a certain pride in
her mistress' popularity, "she was at a dinner party at the Dunlaps'."
"Did Mr. Peter Dunlap ever call on Mrs. Selim--alone?"
"_Him?_" Lydia was curiously resentful. "He wasn't ever here. Nita said
to me she wished Mr. Peter liked her as well as Mis' Lois did."
"Thursday night?"
"Mr. Ralph Hammond took her somewhere to dinner, to some other town, I
think, but I wasn't awake when they got home. Nita never would let me
set up for her--said I needed my rest. So I always went to bed early."
"And yesterday--Friday?" Dundee demanded tensely. For Friday she had
been driven to making her last will and testament....
"She was home all day, but about half past four Mr. Drake came," Lydia
said slowly, as if she too were wondering. "She was awfully restless,
couldn't set still or eat. I ought to have suspicioned something, but
she was often like that--lately. Mr. Drake stayed about an hour. I
didn't see him leave, because I was cooking Nita's dinner.... But little
good it did, because she didn't eat it, so there was plenty for Mr.
Sprague when he dropped in about seven."
"Did Sprague spend the evening?"
"I guess so, but I don't know. Nita made me take the Ford and drive into
town for a picture show. She was in bed when I got back, and--" but she
checked herself hastily.
"Did Nita seem strange--troubled, excited? Did she look as if she'd been
crying?" Dundee prodded.
"I didn't see her," the maid acknowledged. "I knocked on her door, but
she told me to go on to bed, that she wouldn't need me. But now I think
back, her voice sounded queer.... Maybe she _was_ crying, but I don't
know--"
"And this morning?"
"She seemed all right--just excited about the party and worried about my
tooth. Mr. Ralph Hammond come to make the estimates on finishing up the
top floor, and we left him here--"
"What was her attitude toward Mr. Miles when he dropped in on her this
morning?" Dundee interrupted.
"Mr. Miles?" Lydia echoed, frowning. "He wasn't here this morning, or if
he was, it was after Nita and I left for town."
While the maid was packing a bag, which Dundee would examine before she
was allowed to take it away with her, the detective rejoined Tracey
Miles, who had made himself as comfortable as possible in the living
room.
"Lydia's going with you, and is grateful for your wife's kindness,"
Dundee informed him, and felt his heart warm to the boresome,
egotistical little cherub of a man when he saw how Miles' face lit up
with real pleasure. "By the way, Miles, you saw Ralph Hammond when you
called here this morning, didn't you?"
"Yes," Miles answered with some reluctance. "He answered the door when I
rang and told me Lydia and Nita had gone into town."
"Mr. Miles," Dundee began slowly, throwing friendliness and persuasion
into his voice, "I know how all you folks stick together, but I'd
appreciate it a lot if you'd tell me frankly whether you noticed
anything unusual in Hammond's manner this morning."
"Unusual?" Miles repeated, frowning. "He was a little short with me
because he was busy, and, I suspect, a little jealous because I'd come
calling on Nita--" He broke off abruptly, in obvious distress. "Look
here, Dundee! I didn't mean to say that, but I suppose you'll find out
sooner or later.... Well, the fact is, the whole crowd knows Ralph
Hammond was absolutely mad about Nita Selim. Wanted to marry her, and
made no secret of it, though we all thought or hoped it would be little
Penny Crain. He's been devoted to Penny for years, and since Roger Crain
made a mess of things and skipped out, leaving Penny and her poor mother
high and dry, we've all done our best to throw Penny and Ralph together.
But since Nita came to town--"
"Was Nita in love with Ralph?" Dundee cut in, rather curtly, for he had
a curious distaste for hearing Penny Crain discussed in this manner.
"Sometimes we were sure she was," Miles answered. "She flirted with all
of us men--had a way with her of making every man she talked to think he
was the only pebble on the beach. But there was something special in the
way she looked at Ralph.... Yes, I think she _was_ in love with him! But
then again," he frowned, "she would treat him like a dog. Seemed to want
to drive him away from her--but she always called him back--Oh, Lord!"
he interrupted himself with a groan. "Now I suppose I _have_ put my foot
in it! You've got the damnedest way of making a chap tell everything he
would cut his tongue out rather than spill, Dundee! But just because a
young man's in love, and happens not to show up at a party, is no reason
to think he sneaked up to the house and killed the woman he loved and
wanted to marry. For I'm not so dumb that I haven't seen the drift of
your damnable questions, Dundee!... Do you know Ralph Hammond, by any
chance?" he concluded, his round face red with anger.
"No--but I should like to meet him," Dundee retorted. "He seems quite
hard to locate this evening."
"Well, when you do meet him," Tracey Miles began violently, his blue
eyes blazing with anger, "you'll soon find you've been barking up the
wrong tree! There's not a cleaner, finer, straighter--"
"In fact, he is a friend of yours, Miles," Dundee answered soothingly,
"and I respect you for every word you've said.... By the way, did all of
you go to the Country Club for dinner after you left here?"
Somewhat mollified, Miles answered: "All of us but Clive Hammond. He
said he was going to have a look around for Ralph himself. Seemed to
have an idea where he might find him.... And, oh, yes, Sprague
disappeared in the scramble. He hasn't a car and nobody thought of
offering him a lift. Guess he took a bus into Hamilton.... Ah! Here's
Lydia!... Hello, Lydia!" he called heartily to the woman who was
standing, tall and gaunt, in the doorway. "Mighty glad you're coming to
look after the kids!"
From behind the black veil which draped her ugly black hat and hid her
scarred face, Lydia answered in the dull, harsh voice that was
characteristic of her:
"Thank you, sir. I'll do my best."
She made no protest when Dundee, with a word of embarrassed apology,
went rapidly through the heavy suitcase she had brought up from the
basement with her. And when he had finished his fruitless search, she
knelt and silently smoothed the coarse, utilitarian garments he had
disarranged.
Five minutes later Dundee was alone in the house where murder had been
committed under such strange and baffling circumstances that afternoon.
He was not nervous, but again he made a tour of inspection of the first
floor and basement, looking into closets, and testing windows to make
sure they were all locked. Everywhere there were evidences of the
thoroughness of the police detectives who had searched for the weapon
with which Nita Selim had been murdered. In the basement, as he had
subconsciously noted on his headlong dash to question Lydia Carr, the
furnace doors swung open, and the lids of the laundry tubs had been left
propped up, after the unavailing search....
He plodded wearily up the basement stairs and on into the kitchen.
Perhaps the ice-box had something fit to eat in it--the fruit intended
for Nita's and Lydia's Sunday breakfast. Those caviar and anchovy
sandwiches had certainly not stuck with him long....
He was making his way toward the electric refrigerator when he stopped
as suddenly as if he had been shot.
The kitchen door, which he had taken especial pains to assure himself
was locked, when he had made the rounds immediately after the departure
of Captain Strawn and his men, was standing slightly ajar!
_Someone had entered this house!_
Dundee stared blankly at the door, which was equipped with a Yale lock.
Someone with a key.... But why had the door been left ajar? _To make
escape more noiseless?_
With the toe of his shoe Dundee pushed the door to and heard the click
of the lock, then, all thought of food routed from his mind, made a
quick but almost silent dash into the dining room to secure one of the
pair of tall wax tapers, which, in their silver candlesticks, served as
ornaments for the sideboard.
If the intruder was still in the house he could be nowhere but in that
unfinished half of the gabled top story. The nearer stairs were those in
the back hall, and Dundee took them two at a time, regardless of the
noise. Who had preceded him stealthily?... By the aid of his lighted
candle he discovered an electric switch at the head of the stairs,
flicked it on, and found himself in a wide hall, one wall of which was
finished with buff-tinted plaster and with three doors, the other of
rough boards with but a single door.
With his candle held high, so that its light should not blind him, and
well aware that it made him a perfect target, Dundee opened the
unpainted door and found himself in the dark, musty-smelling room that
had served Nita Selim and the Crains before her as a storeroom. From the
ceiling dangled a green cord ending in a cheap, clear-glass bulb, but
its light was sufficient to penetrate even the farthest low nooks made
by the three gables. He blew out his candle and dropped it, as useless
now.
A quick tour convinced him that nothing human was concealed behind one
of Nita Selim's empty wardrobe trunks, or behind one of the several
pieces of heavy old furniture, undoubtedly left behind by the
dispossessed Crain family.
Big footprints on the thick dust which coated the floor showed him that
he was being no more thorough than Captain Strawn's brace of
plainclothes detectives had been much earlier that evening. Two pairs of
giant footprints....
With an exclamation he discovered a smaller, narrow pair of prints, and
followed their winding trail all around and across the attic. And then
he remembered.... Ralph Hammond's footprints, of course, made that
morning as he went about his legitimate business of measuring and
estimating for the job of turning the storeroom into bedrooms and
bathrooms.
Dundee had not realized that he was frightened until he was in the hall
again, facing one of the three doors in the plastered wall. With
surprise, and some amusement, he became aware that his hands were
trembling, and that his knees had a curious tendency to buckle.
The fact that the door directly in front of him was open about two
inches served, for some odd reason, to steady his nerves. Pushing the
door wide open with his foot--for he never forgot the possibility of
incriminating fingerprints which might easily be obliterated, he
discovered a light switch near the door frame.
The instant illumination from a ceiling cluster revealed a large
bedroom, and less clearly, another and smaller room beyond it, facing as
the house faced--toward the south. Knees and hands steady again, he
investigated the finished portion of the gabled story swiftly. A
charming layout, he told himself. Had Penny Crain once enjoyed this
delightful little sitting-room, with its tiny balcony built out upon the
sloping roof?... And it gave him pleasure to think that this big,
well-furnished but not fussily feminine bedroom had once been hers, as
well as the small but perfect bathroom whose high narrow window
overlooked the back garden. The closets, dresser drawers and highboy
drawers were completely empty, however, of any traces of her occupancy
or that of any other....
With these rooms going to waste, why--he suddenly asked himself--had
Nita Selim coaxed Judge Marshall to have the unfinished half of the
gabled attic turned into bedrooms and baths? Why couldn't Lydia have
slept up here, if Nita thought so much of her "faithful and beloved
maid"?
But even as he asked himself the question Dundee realized that the
answer to it had been struggling to attract his attention.
_These rooms had not been wasted!_ Someone had been occupying them as
late as last night! Weaving swiftly through the three rooms, like a
bloodhound on the scent, Dundee collected the few but sufficient proofs
to back up his intuitive conviction. A copy of _The Hamilton Evening
Sun_, dated Friday, May 23, left in an armchair in the sitting-room. All
windows raised about six inches from the bottom, so that the night
breeze stirred the hand-blocked linen drapes. And, clinging to these
drapes, the faint but unmistakable odor of cigarette smoke. Finally,
with a low cry of triumph, Bonnie Dundee flung back the colored linen
spread which covered the three-quarter bed and discovered that the
sheets and pillow cases, though clean, had, beyond the shadow of a
doubt, been slept upon.
Bending so that his nose almost touched a pillow case he sniffed.
_Pomade!..._ Who was the man who had slept in this bed last night?