"What are you laughing at?" Dundee demanded indignantly, but the
sustained ringing of the telephone bell checked Penny Crain's mirthful
laughter. "My Chicago call!... Hello!... Yes, this is Dundee.... All
right, but make it snappy, won't you?... Hello, Mr. Sanderson! How is
your mother?... That's fine! I certainly hope--Yes, the inquest is
slated for tomorrow morning, but there's no use your leaving your mother
to come back for it.... Yes, sir, one important new development. Can you
hear me plainly?... Then hold the line a moment, please!"
With the receiver still at his ear, Dundee fumbled in his pocket for a
folded sheet of paper. "No, operator! We're not through! Please keep off
the line.... Listen, chief!" he addressed the district attorney at the
other end of the long distance wire. "This is a telegram Captain Strawn
received this afternoon from the city editor of The New York Evening
Press.... Can you hear me?... All right!" and he read slowly, repeating
when necessary.
When he had finished reading the telegram, he listened for a long
minute, but not with so much concentration that he could not grin at
Penny's wide-eyed amazement and joy. "That's what I think, sir!" he
cried jubilantly. "I'd like to take the five o'clock train for New York
and work on the case from that end till we actually get our teeth into
something.... Thanks a lot, and my best wishes for your mother!"
"Why didn't you tell me about this 'Swallow-tail Sammy'?" Penny demanded
indignantly. "Tormenting me with your silly theory about poor Flora and
Tracey, when all the time you knew the case was practically solved--"
"I'm afraid I gave the district attorney a slightly false impression,"
Dundee interrupted, but there was no remorse in his shining blue eyes.
"But just so I get to New York--By the way, young woman, what _were_ you
laughing at so heartily? I didn't know I had made an amusing remark when
I asked you if you thought Tracey Miles loved his wife well enough to
commit murder for her."
Penny laughed again, white teeth and brown eyes gleaming. "I was
laughing at something else. It suddenly occurred to me, while you were
spinning your foolish theory, how _flattered_ Tracey would have been if
Flora had confessed to him Saturday night that she had killed Nita
because she was jealous!"
"Which was _not_ my theory, if you remember!" Dundee retorted. "But why
is the idea so amusing? Deep in his heart, I suppose any man would
really be a bit flattered if his wife loved him enough to be that
jealous."
"You don't know Tracey Miles as well as I do," Penny assured him, her
eyes still mirthful. "He's really a dear, in spite of being a dreadful
bore most of the time, but the truth is, Tracey hasn't an atom of sex
appeal, and he _must_ realize it.... Of course we girls have all
pampered his poor little ego by pretending to be crazy about him and
terribly envious that it was Flora who got him--"
"But Flora Hackett _did_ marry him," Dundee interrupted. "She must have
been a beautiful girl, and she was certainly rich enough to get any man
she wanted--"
"You would think so, wouldn't you?" Penny agreed, her tongue loosened by
relief. "I was only twelve years old when Flora Hackett made her debut,
but a twelve-year-old has big ears and keen eyes. It is true that Flora
was beautiful and rich, but--well, there was something queer about her.
She was simply crazy to get married, and if a man danced with her as
many as three times in an evening she literally seized upon him and
tried to drag him to the altar.... Her eagerness and her intensity
repelled every man who was in the least attracted to her, and I think
she was beginning to be frightened to death that she wouldn't get
married at all, when she happened to meet Tracey, who had just got a job
as salesman in her father's business. She began to rush him--there's no
other word for it--and none of the other girls minded a bit, because,
without Flora, Tracey would have been the perfect male wallflower. They
became engaged almost right away, and were married six months or so
later. All the girls freely prophesied that even Tracey, flattered by
her passion for him as he so evidently was, would get tired of it, but
he didn't, and there were three marriages in 'the crowd' that June."
"Three?" Dundee repeated absently, for his interest was waning.
"Yes.... Lois Morrow and Peter Dunlap; Johnny Drake and Carolyn Swann;
and Tracey and Flora," Penny answered. "Although I was thirteen then and
really too old for the role, I had the fun of being flower girl for Lois
and Flora both."
"Do you think Flora was really in love with Tracey?" Dundee asked
curiously.
"Oh, yes! But she'd have been in love with anyone who wanted to
marry her, and the funny thing is that, with the exception of Peter
and Lois, they are the happiest married couple I have ever known.... You
see, Tracey has never got over being flattered that so pretty and
passionate a girl as Flora Hackett wanted _him_!... And that's why I
laughed!... Tracey, with that deep-rooted sexual inferiority complex of
his, would have been so flattered if Flora had told him she killed Nita
out of jealousy that he would have forgiven her on the spot. On the other
hand," she went on, "if Flora had told him that Nita had documentary
proofs of some frightful scandal against her, can't you see how
violently Tracey would have reacted against her?... Oh, no! Tracey would
not have taken the trouble to murder Sprague, when Sprague popped up for
more blackmail!"
"Perhaps he might have, if the scandal dated back to before the
marriage," Dundee argued. "Let's suppose Sprague did pop up, and Flora
turned him over to Tracey. When Sprague appeared apparently uninvited
last night, Flora must have been on pins and needles, trying to make
Tracey treat him decently and hoping against hope that Tracey would
simply pay the scoundrel all the blackmail he was demanding----"
"Which is exactly what Tracey would have done, instead of taking the
awful risk of murdering him in his own home," Penny cut in spiritedly.
"Besides, Tracey wasn't gone from the porch long enough to go outside,
signal to Sprague in the trophy room, shoot him when Sprague raised the
screen, and then hide the gun. I told you Tracey was gone only about a
minute when he went to see if Sprague's hat and stick were gone from the
closet."
"Did Tracey and Flora both step outside to see their guests into their
cars?" Dundee asked suddenly.
"Tracey did," Penny answered. "Flora told us all good night in the
living room, then ran upstairs to see if Betty was still asleep.... But
remember we didn't leave until midnight, and Dr. Price says Sprague was
killed between nine and eleven last night."
"Dr. Price would be the first to grant a leeway of an hour, one way or
another," Dundee told her. "Of course, if Tracey did kill him, he let
Flora believe that he had given Sprague the blackmail money he was
demanding. For it is inconceivable that a woman of Flora Miles'
hysterical temperament could have slept--even with two sleeping
tablets--knowing that a corpse was in the house."
"Oh, I'm sick of your silly theorizing!" Penny told him with vehement
scorn. "Listen here, Bonnie Dundee! You probably laugh at 'woman's
intuition', but take it from me--_you're on the wrong track_!"
"Oh, I'm not so wedded to that particular theory!" Dundee laughed. "I
can spin you exactly six more just as convincing--"
"And I shan't listen! You'd better dash home and pack your bag if you
want to catch the five o'clock train for New York."
"It's already packed and in my office," Dundee assured her lazily. "Got
lots of time.... Hullo! Here's the home edition of _The Evening Sun_,"
he interrupted himself, as a small boy, making his rounds of the
courthouse, flung the paper into the office. He reached for it, and
read the streamer headline aloud: "ITALIAN GANGSTER SOUGHT IN BRIDGE
MURDERS ... I wager a good many heads will lie easier on their pillows
tonight."
"Let me see!" Penny commanded, and snatched the paper unceremoniously.
"Oh! Did you see this?" and she pointed to a boxed story in the middle
of the front page. "'Bridge Parties Cancelled'," she read aloud. "'The
society editor of _The Evening Sun_ was kept busy at her telephone
today, receiving notices of cancellations of bridge parties scheduled
for the remainder of the week. Eight frantic hostesses, terrified by
Hamilton's second murder at bridge----' Oh, that's simply a _crime_! The
newspapers deliberately work up mob hysteria and then----"
"I'd rather not play bridge for a while myself!" Dundee laughed, as he
rose and started for his own office. "And don't _you_ dare leave the
room when you become dummy, if you have the nerve to play again!
Remember, that gun and silencer are still missing!"
"What do you mean?.... You don't think there'll be more----?"
Dundee became instantly contrite before her terror. "I didn't mean it,
honey," he said gently. "I think it is more than likely that the gun is
at the bottom of Mirror Lake. But do take care of yourself, and by that
I mean don't work yourself to death.... Any messages for anyone in New
York?"
Penny's pale face quivered. "If you--happen to run across my father,
which of course you won't, tell him that--Mother would like him to come
home."
At intervals during the sixteen-hour run to New York, Penny's faltering
words returned to haunt the district attorney's special investigator,
although he would have preferred to devote his entire attention to
mapping out the program he intended to follow when he reached the city
which, he fully believed, had been the scene of the first act of the
tragic drama he was bent upon bringing to an equally tragic conclusion.
As soon as he had registered at a hotel near the Pennsylvania Station,
and had shaved and breakfasted, he took from his bag a large envelope
containing the photographs Carraway had made of Penny alive and of Nita
dead, both clad in the royal blue velvet dress. In the envelope also was
the white satin, gold-lettered label which the dress had so proudly
borne: "Pierre Model. Copied by Simonson's. New York City."
Half an hour later he was showing the photographs and the label to a
woman buyer, in the French Salon of Simonson's, one of New York's most
"exclusive" department stores.
"Can you tell me when the original Pierre model was bought, and when
this copy was made and sold?" he asked.
The white-haired, smartly dressed buyer accepted the sheaf of
photographs Bonnie Dundee was offering. "I'll do my best, of course,"
she began briskly, then paled and uttered a sharp exclamation as her
eyes took in the topmost picture. "This is Juanita Leigh, isn't
it?... But--" she shuddered, "how odd she looks--as if--"
"Yes," Dundee agreed gravely. "She was dead when that picture was taken.
Did you know Mrs. Selim?"
"No," the woman breathed, her eyes still bulging with horror. "But I've
seen so many pictures of her in the papers.... To think that it was one
of _our_ dresses she chose for her shroud! But you want to know when the
dress was sold to her, don't you?" she asked, brisk again. "I can find
out. We keep a record of all our French originals and of the number of
copies made of each.... Let me think! I've been going to Paris myself
for the firm for the last fifteen years, but I can't remember buying
this Pierre model.... Oh, of course! I didn't go over during 1917 and
1918, on account of the war, you know, but the big Paris designers
managed to send us a limited number of very good models, and this must
have been one of them. Otherwise, I'd remember buying it.... If you'll
excuse me a moment----"
When she returned about ten minutes later, Miss Thomas brought him a
pencilled memorandum. "This Pierre model was imported in the summer of
1917, several months in advance of the winter season, of course. Only
five copies were made--in different colors and materials, naturally,
since we make a point of exclusiveness. The royal blue velvet copy was
sold to Juanita Leigh in January, 1918. I am sorry I cannot give you the
exact day of the month, but our records show the month only. I took the
liberty of showing a picture of the dress to the only saleswoman in the
department who has been with us that long, but she cannot remember the
sale. Twelve years is a long time, you know."
"Indeed it is," Dundee agreed regretfully. "You have been immensely
helpful, however, Miss Thomas, and I thank you with all my heart."
"If you could just tell _me_--confidentially, of course," Miss Thomas
whispered, "what sort of clue this dress is--"
"I don't know, myself!" the detective admitted. "But," he added to
himself, after he had escaped the buyer's natural curiosity, "I intend
to find out!"
Before he could take any further steps along that particular path,
however, Dundee had an appointment to keep. Upon arriving at his hotel
that morning he had made two telephone calls. He smiled now as he
recalled the surprise and glee of one of his former Yale classmates, now
a discouraged young bond salesman, with whom he had kept in touch.
"You want to borrow my name and my kid sister?" Jimmy Randolph had
chortled. "Hop to it, old sport! But you might tell me what you want
with such intimate belongings of mine."
"You may not know it," Dundee had retorted, "but young Mr. James
Wadley Randolph, Jr., scion of the famous old Boston family, is going
to visit that equally famous school, Forsyte-on-the-Hudson, to see
whether it is the ideal finishing school for his beloved young sister,
Barbara.... She's about fifteen now, isn't she, Jimmy?"
"Going on sixteen, and one of Satan's prize hellions," Jimmy Randolph
had answered. "The family would be eternally grateful if you could get
Forsyte to take her, but make them promise not to have any more chorus
girls who plan to get murdered, as directors of their amateur
theatricals. Bab would be sure to be mixed up in the mess.... I suppose
that's the job you're on, you flat-footed dick, you!"
The second telephone call had secured an appointment at the Forsyte
School for "Mr. James Wadley Randolph, Jr., of Boston," and Dundee,
rather relishing his first need for such professional tactics, relaxed
to enjoy the ten-mile drive along the Hudson.
It was a quarter to twelve when his taxi swept up the drive toward the
big grey-stone, turreted building, sedately lonely in the midst of its
valuable acres.
"Miss Earle says to come to the office," a colored maid told him, when
he had given his borrowed name, and led him from the vast hall to a
fairly large room, whose windows looked upon a tennis court, and whose
walls were almost covered with group pictures of graduating classes,
photographs of amateur theatrical performances, and portrait studies of
alumnae.
A very thin, sharp-faced woman of about forty, with red-rimmed eyes
which peered nearsightedly, rose from an old-fashioned roll-top desk and
came forward to greet him.
"I am Miss Earle, Miss Pendleton's private secretary," she told him, as
he shook her bony, clammy hand. "I should have told you when you
telephoned this morning that both Miss Pendleton and Miss Macon sailed
for Europe yesterday. We always have our commencement the last Tuesday
in May, you know.... But if there is anything I can do for you----"
"I should like to know something at first hand of the history of the
school, its--well, prestige, special advantages, curriculum, and so on,"
Dundee began deprecatingly.
"I should certainly be able to answer any question you may wish to ask,
Mr. Randolph, since I have been with the school for fifteen years," Miss
Earle interrupted tartly.
"Then Forsyte must take younger pupils than I had been led to believe,
Miss Earle," Dundee said, with his most winning smile.
"I was never a pupil here," the secretary corrected him, but she thawed
visibly. "Of course, I was a mere child when I finished business school,
but I _have_ been here fifteen years--fifteen years of watching rich
society girls dawdle away four or five years, just because they've got
to be _somewhere_ before they make their debut.... But I mustn't talk
like that, or I'll give you a wrong impression, Mr. Randolph. Of its
kind, it is really a very fine school--very exclusive; riding masters,
dancing masters, a golf 'pro' and our own golf course, native teachers
for French, Italian, German and Spanish.... Oh, the _school_ is all
right, and will probably not suffer any loss of prestige on account of
that dreadful murder out in the Middle West----"
"Murder?" Dundee echoed, as if he had no idea what she was talking
about.
"Haven't you been reading the papers?" Miss Earle rallied him, with a
coquettish smile. "But I don't suppose Boston bothers with such sordid
things," she added, her thin-lipped mouth tightening. "Miss Pendleton
was all cut up about it, because Mrs. Selim, or Juanita Leigh, as she
was known on Broadway, had directed our Easter play the last two years,
and the reporters simply hounded us the first two days after she was
murdered out in Hamilton, where a number of our richest girls have come
from----"
"By Jove!" Dundee exclaimed. "Was the Selim woman connected with this
school, really?... I only read the headlines--never pay much attention
to murders in the papers--"
"I wish," Miss Earle interrupted tartly, fresh tears reddening her eyes,
"that people wouldn't persist in referring to her as 'that Selim
woman'.... When I think how sweet and friendly she was, how--how
_kind_!" and to Dundee's surprise she choked on tears before she could
go on: "Of course I know it's dreadful for the school, and I ought not
to talk about it, when you've come to see about putting your sister into
the school, but Nita was _my friend_, and it simply makes me _wild_----"
"You admired and liked her very much?" Dundee asked, forgetting his role
for the moment.
"Yes, I did! And Miss Pendleton liked her, too. And you can imagine how
clever and popular she was, when a wonderful woman like Mrs. Peter
Dunlap, who was Lois Morrow when she was in school here, admired her so
much she took her to Hamilton with her to direct plays for a Little
Theater.... Why, I never met anyone I was so congenial with!" the
secretary went on passionately. "The girls here snub me and make silly
jokes about me behind my back and call me nicknames, but Nita was just
as sweet to me as she was to anyone--even Miss Pendleton herself!"
"Were you with her much?" Dundee dared ask.
"_With her much?..._ I should say I was!" she asserted proudly. "I have
a room here, live here the year 'round, and both years Nita shared my
room, so she would not have to make the long trip back to New York every
night during the last week of rehearsals. We used to talk until two or
three o'clock in the morning--Say!" she broke off, in sudden terror.
"You aren't a reporter, are you?"
"A reporter? Good Lord, no!" Dundee denied, in all sincerity. Then he
made up his mind swiftly. This woman hated the school and all connected
with it, had grown more and more sour and envy-bitten every year of the
fifteen she had served here--and she liked Nita Leigh Selim better than
anyone she had ever met. The opportunity for direct questioning was too
miraculous to be ignored. So he changed his tone suddenly and said very
earnestly: "No, I am not a reporter, Miss Earle. But I am _not_ James
Wadley Randolph, Jr. I am James F. Dundee, special investigator attached
to the office of the district attorney of Hamilton, and I want you to
help me solve the mystery of Mrs. Selim's murder."
It took nearly ten precious minutes for Dundee to nurse the terrified
but obviously thrilled woman over the shock, and to get her into the
mood to answer him freely.
"But I shan't and _can't_ tell you anything bad about Nita!" she
protested vehemently, wiping her red-rimmed eyes. "The papers are all
saying now that she got $10,000 for double-crossing some awful racketeer
named 'Swallow-tail Sammy', but I _know_ she didn't get the money that
way! She was too good----"
"From Nita's confidences to you, do you have any idea how she did get
the money?" Dundee asked.
Miss Earle shook her head. "I don't know, but she got it honorably. I
know that!... Maybe she found her husband and made him pay alimony----"
Dundee controlled his excitement with difficulty. "Did she tell you all
about her marriage and divorce?"
Again Miss Earle shook her head. "The only time she ever spoke of it was
last year--the first year she directed our play, you know. I asked her
why she didn't get married again, and she said she couldn't--she wasn't
divorced, because she didn't know where her husband was, and it was too
expensive to go to Reno.... Of course she may have found him or
something--and got a divorce some time this last year, and this money
she got was a settlement----"
"She must have got a divorce, since she was planning to be married again
to a young man in Hamilton," Dundee assured her soothingly.
"The way everybody puts the very worst interpretation on everything,
when a person gets murdered!" Miss Earle stormed. "If poor Nita had
belonged to a rich family, like the girls here, they would have spent a
million if necessary to hush up any scandal on her!... I've seen it
done!" she added, darkly and venomously.