like to talk to you about it. May I?"
There was a bit more of conversation, then he hung up with satisfaction.
"She did not welcome it," he reported. "Yet she could scarcely refuse
to see us under the circumstances. I have made an appointment to meet
her."
There was a noise at the door and I opened it upon Doyle, who entered,
his face showing great perplexity.
"What seems to be on your mind. Doyle?" greeted Craig.
"Enough. We've been questioning the night watchman down at the building
where Wilford's office is," he informed. "You remember the two glasses
on the desk when they found him?"
Kennedy nodded.
"From them," continued Doyle, "I went on the assumption that somebody
else had been there at the time. There _was_ a visitor.... We are
convinced of it now. The fact is that the building is an old one,
built before elevator days, not tall. One can walk up to the office of
Wilford easily. People do. And the confounded watchman, a man they
call Pete, confesses that he was off the job, at least part of the
time, last night. There was plenty of chance for a visitor to have got
in and got away."
"Who?" I asked.
Doyle shrugged.
"We can't find out--at least, we haven't found out."
"Was it a man or a woman?" asked Craig.
"We don't even know that," confessed Doyle, in despair. "That fellow
Pete is a dub."
"How about your suspects?" prompted Kennedy. "You must have traces of
their movements last night."
"I have. I have been questioning Celeste, the maid, for instance. She
swears that Mrs. Wilford was at home in the apartment all the evening
of the murder. The worst of it is, I can't prove yet that she wasn't.
But just give me time--give me time. I'll get something on that maid
yet."
I glanced significantly at Kennedy. He nodded back. His "Aussage test"
had effectually disposed of any reliance that might be placed on what
Celeste might say. However, Kennedy said nothing of that to Doyle.
To have done so would have been to invite a tirade of laughter. The
only way with Doyle was to let him go along his sweet way of being
wrong--then let him in when we were right. Yet, I must say that I liked
Doyle in his way, even if he was only a plugger.
"Another thing," brightened Doyle. "I'm getting a line on that business
of Wilford's having his wife watched. You know, he did that. He hired
a private detective to watch her. If I can get that fellow I may learn
something. But that Celeste is clever. She sticks to it that her
mistress wasn't out. We'll see if the detective knows when we find him."
"Where were Shattuck and Lathrop last night?" asked Craig, quickly.
"Shattuck has given a detailed account of his doings last night. I'll
tell you better about him when it's verified. Doctor Lathrop had
two cases that night, which kept him out late. I believe they are
bona fide. So far there's been no flaw in either story. That's what
perplexes me. I thought I was on the trail of something."
"And when you find yourself up against it, you come to me?"
"Don't get peeved, Kennedy," mollified Doyle, though he himself had
winced at the telling thrust of Kennedy.
"What about Lathrop's wife, Vina?" asked Craig. "Is she clear for that
night?"
"I hadn't thought much about her," confessed Doyle. "Want me to find
out?"
"Never mind. I am going to see her soon. I'll attend to that."
VI
THE "OTHER WOMAN"
Vina Lathrop received us a few moments later with a question in her
eyes. Yet she discreetly did not hint at it in anything she said.
I have said that she was a woman of quite opposite type from Honora.
Like her, however, she was a woman of rare physical attraction. Yet
it needed only a glance to see that men interested Vina, and in that
respect she gave one a different impression from Honora. And I am quite
sure, also, that few men could have withstood the spell of her interest
if she chose to bestow it. There was, no doubt, much in her life that
that accounted for.
"I've been thinking of what you said about Mrs. Wilford this morning,"
began Kennedy, after a few remarks that explained our interest in the
case, without telling her anything that would put her too much on guard.
"My remark about Mrs. Wilford?" she repeated, naïvely.
"Yes. You remember when you were talking to Doctor Lathrop about the
case, you said, 'I don't think that Honora is capable of either deep
love or even deep hate'? I've been wondering just what you meant by
it."
Vina seemed to be careful lest an unwary word might escape.
"Why, really," she murmured, as though feeling that the question
called for an answer she did not wish to give. "I don't think that
Honora--well--understood Vail Wilford, if you get what I mean. He was
not difficult to understand. He would have been devoted to her--if
only--"
She paused and stopped.
"If only what?"
"You wouldn't understand," she answered, quickly, shaking her head.
To me it seemed as though the implication she wished to convey was the
usual specious refuge of the "other woman," when cornered, that it was
she, not the wife, who really understood the man in the case.
"You see, I don't know Honora Wilford well," encouraged Kennedy. "I
can't say that I do understand. I guess that's just it. I thought
perhaps you might enlighten me."
Vina gave a pretty little shrug to her attractive shoulders, then
leaned forward, as if suddenly deciding to become confidential with
Craig.
"It's a long story," she replied. "I don't know how to tell it. Honora
was like her father--in fact, her family are all the same--always
seeking the main chance. You remember old Honore Chappelle? No? Out of
even the business of an oculist he managed to make a tidy fortune. She
was ambitious--ambitious in marriage, ambitious to get into 'society,'
you know. Don't you see now what I mean? Besides, you know, daughters,
they say, inherit from their fathers--and she seems to have been no
exception. I think Mr. Wilford came to realize why it was she married
him, only, of course, in such cases, it comes too late."
I set the remark down as that of a "catty" woman. Yet there was
something to think about in it. For, at the time of Wilford's marriage,
the young lawyer was already wealthy and in the smart set, while Vance
Shattuck had not inherited the fortune of his uncle, who had often
threatened to cut him off without a penny as a reward for his numerous
escapades. There could be no doubt that, at the time, Wilford was the
greater "catch" of the two.
As we talked with Vina about the death of Wilford, she spoke with
ill-concealed emotion. I could not escape the impression that she
seemed to be more deeply affected by it than even Honora herself had
been. Was it due to her more emotional nature?
I would have thought it strange, even though Kennedy had not already
surmised from his psychanalysis of Honora that Vina was the "other
woman" in the case.
It was apparent that, whatever might be Vina's own story, she reacted
sharply against the very type of woman that Honora was. There was
plainly some rivalry between them, some point of contact at which
there had been friction. It was most assuredly Kennedy's job to find
out what that was.
"I don't know whether you are aware," he suggested, taking a slightly
different angle, "but in Mr. Wilford's office they found evidence that
you yourself were preparing a divorce suit."
The transition from Honora to herself was sudden. Yet Vina did not
seem confused by it. She did not deny it, or even attempt to deny it.
Perhaps she realized that it was of no use, that her best defense was,
as the lawyers would say, confession and avoidance.
"Oh," she replied, airily, "the suit was never started, you know--just
talked about."
I could not but wonder at her callousness. Evidently this woman was of
a type all too common in a certain stratum of society, to whom marriage
is a career to be entered into either for the sake of bettering oneself
or for the sake of variety.
"What, may I ask, were the grounds?" probed Kennedy, growing bolder as
he saw how frankly she elected to discuss the subject when cornered.
She colored a bit, as she strove to decide whether to get angry or to
answer, then chose the latter course.
"Incompatibility, I suppose you would call it--at least that's what I
call it. I believe every woman should live her own life as she sees
fit. I hadn't even decided what state I would acquire residence in, in
order to bring the suit, if I decided to go on with it. Nothing was
settled, you know."
"And now you are going to--?" inquired Kennedy, stopping to let her
fill out the answer.
"Drop it, of course," she supplied. "I suppose the doctor and I shall
continue to agree to disagree."
"Had Mrs. Wilford contemplated similar action on her part, do you
think?"
Vina avoided answering, but Kennedy pressed for a reply, asserting that
Vail Wilford must have given some hint of it, either by his words or
actions.
"I don't know," she repeated, firmly.
"Did she know of your--er--acquaintance with Mr. Wilford?"
If looks had been poisonous, Kennedy must have been inoculated with
venom right there. He paid no attention to her scornful glances as,
again, there was no avoidance of an answer, no matter how much she
tried.
"Why do you think you know so much?" Vina veiled her sarcastic reply.
"Mrs. Wilford had been having her husband watched, I learn," prodded
Kennedy, with brutal directness.
I glanced covertly over at him. Doyle had told us Wilford was watching
his wife. But no one, as I recalled, had given us an inkling of a
reverse state of affairs. I realized that Kennedy had made it up out of
whole cloth. He was trying it out to see its effect. At any rate, there
was nothing unreasonable about it. It might have been true, whether it
actually was or not.
For a moment Vina was sorely tried to hold back a quick reply. Then she
shrugged again.
"Most women of the sort have to do that," she snapped.
It was a mean remark, besides being glaringly untrue, except in the
limited ken of certain New-Yorkese women. Moreover, I saw that Kennedy
had slipped past her guard. Each sentence she replied betrayed the keen
feeling between the two.
Kennedy seemed to be observing Vina as he might a strange element in a
chemical reaction. On her part she seemed intuitively to recognize that
there was a challenge to her in Craig's very personality.
Arts which she might have tried with success on another seemed not to
impress this man. He seemed to penetrate the defenses which she had
against most men. And I could not help seeing that she was piqued by it.
While they were fencing in their verbal duel, Craig had casually drawn
a pencil from his pocket. A moment later I saw that he had begun
scribbling some figures, apparently aimlessly, on a piece of paper.
From where I was sitting beside him I could see that he had written
something like this:
5183
47395
654726
2964375
47293825
924783651
2146063859
For some time he regarded the figures that he had written as the
conversation went on.
"Here's a little puzzle," he remarked, offhand, breaking into the chat.
"Did you ever try it?"
Vina looked at him in surprise at this unexpected turn of the
conversation. I am sure that she was in doubt as to the man's
sanity. However, there was a certain relief in the new turn of the
conversation. At least he was not treading on the dangerous ground
which he had trod upon.
"Er--no," she answered, doubtfully. "That is--I don't know what you
mean. What are the numbers?"
"Oh, it's nothing much," he disarmed. "It's simply a matter of seeing
whether a person can repeat numbers. I've found it rather interesting
at times."
Without waiting for either comment or excuse from her he said, quickly:
"For instance, take the first one--five, one, eight, three. See if you
can repeat that."
"Of course--five, one, eight, three," she replied, mechanically.
"Fine--four, seven, three, nine, five," came in rapid succession.
To it she replied, perhaps a little slower than before, "Why, four,
seven, three, nine, five."
"Good! Now, six, five, four, seven, two, six."
"Er--six, five, four, seven, two, six," she repeated, I thought, with
some hesitation.
"Again--two, nine, six, four, three, seven, five," he shot out.
"Two, nine, six"--she hesitated--"four, three, seven, five."
"Try again--four, seven, two, nine, three, eight, two, five," he read.
"Four--two--seven," she returned, slowly, then stopped,
"three--nine--what was the next one?--er--two--two--"
It was evident that she was hopelessly muddled. It was not because she
had not tried, for the diversion had come as a welcome relief from
the quizzing on delicate subjects and she had seized upon it. She had
reached the limit.
Kennedy had smiled and was about to go on, although it was evident that
it was useless, when there was a noise in the hall, as though some one
had been admitted by the maid and had entered. It seemed to be a man's
voice that I heard and I wondered whether it was Doctor Lathrop himself.
A moment later the door opened and disclosed, to my astonishment, not
Lathrop, but Shattuck.
If he was embarrassed at finding us there he did not betray it in the
least. Quite the contrary. He greeted Vina Lathrop cordially, then
turned to us.
"Oh, by the way," he began, "you're just the man I wanted to see,
Kennedy."
I thought that there was a note of indignant protest in his voice as
he said it, then, before Kennedy could make reply, went on, rapidly:
"About Mrs. Wilford--it's an outrage. Doyle and McCabe and the rest
of that precious crew are thugs--thugs. I called there to express my
sympathy. Of course she couldn't say much--but I have eyes. I could
see much, without being told. There she is, harassed and hounded and
practically a prisoner in that place--no one to go to--her husband
foully murdered--at least that's what _they_ say. I don't know. She's
spied on, listened to--I tell you, it's a shame. They're driving that
poor woman insane--nothing short of it."
Shattuck was evidently genuinely angry and, indeed, I felt that he was
making a good case of it. I looked toward Vina. She merely tossed her
head. Evidently she was piqued that Shattuck should think so much of
"that woman," as she doubtlessly would have liked to refer to her.
I wondered what might have been the connection between Vina and
Shattuck, and determined to watch. More than that, I wondered what
could be his purpose in bringing up the name of Honora before Vina. Had
he a reason?
"Did you finally sell the stock?" inquired Vina of him, abruptly, as
though wishing to change the subject.
"Of course," he returned. "Only to complete the thing you will have to
indorse this paper," he added, drawing a document from his pocket for
her to sign.
I wondered whether this reference to a business transaction was a blind
to make us believe their relations were merely those of a broker and
client.
Shattuck excused himself to us while Vina signed with his fountain-pen
and as they talked in a low tone I saw that she was appealing to him
with all her feminine arts.
Was Shattuck proof? Or was he dissembling so as not to betray anything
to us? I remembered the old gossip about Shattuck. Was he still
woman-crazy? Had Vail Wilford stood in his way with both women? It was
a queer tangle at best. Anything, I felt, might prove to be the case.
At any rate, I was sure that the transaction covered their
embarrassment at meeting us. More than that, it convinced me that there
was some connection between Shattuck and Vina all along. I had wondered
whether it had been she who had telephoned to him while we were at his
place that morning. I had not thought of the possibility at the time.
But now I was sure of it.
Kennedy rose to go, and at the same moment Shattuck also excused
himself. We departed, leaving Vina, I am positive, still all at sea as
to the purpose of our visit.
We departed, and at the street corner stood talking for a moment with
Shattuck. Again, as though taking the thing up just where he had left
it off, he complained about the shame of the persecution of Honora.
Kennedy was non-committal, as indeed he was forced to be over Doyle's
work, and after promising nothing, we parted.
In fact, Craig said very little even to me as we started around the
corner for the laboratory.
"What was all that rigmarole of the numbers?" I inquired, finally,
my curiosity getting the better of me, as we entered the Chemistry
Building and Craig turned the key in the lock of his private
laboratory, admitting us.
"Part of the Binet test," he answered. "It is seeing how many digits
one can remember. You're not acquainted with the test? It's used
commonly in schools and in many ways. Well, an adult ought to remember
eight to ten digits, in any order. A child cannot, ordinarily. Between
these, there are all grades. In this case, I do not think we have to
deal with a mentality quite up to the intellectual standard."
"It's well Vina Lathrop isn't here to hear you say it," I commented.
Kennedy smiled. "True, nevertheless, whatever outward looks may
show. To tell you the truth, Walter, here we have to deal with two
quite opposite types of women. One, intellectual, as we know, does
not yet know what love really is. In the other I fancy I see a wild,
demi-mondaine instinct that slumbers at the back of her mind, all
unknown to herself. She knows well what love is--too well. She has had
many experiences and is always seeking others--perhaps the supreme
experience."
He paused a moment, then added, estimating: "Vina is beautiful, yet
without the brain that Honora has. She is all woman--physical woman.
That was what probably attracted Wilford, what she meant by saying
that I wouldn't understand, although I did. In Wilford's case it
may have been the reaction from the intellectual woman. She knows
that power which her physical charms give her over men; Honora does
not--yet."
"But, Craig," I remonstrated, "you do not mean to tell me that you
believe that you could sit here in a laboratory and analyze love as if
it were a chemical in a test-tube."
"Why not?" he replied. "Love is nothing but a scientific fact--after
all."
"Then explain it."
He shrugged. "True, you ask me to explain love and I must tell you
that I cannot. For the moment it looks as though you had me beaten.
But think a moment. I cannot tell you why a stone falls or a Morse
signal flashes over a wire. Still, they do. We know there is a law of
gravitation, that electricity exists. We see the effects gravity and
electricity produce. We study them. We name them--though we do not
understand them. You would not say they were not scientific facts just
because I cannot explain them."
I nodded, catching his idea.
"So with love," he went on. "We know that there is an attraction--that
is a scientific fact, isn't it?--which two people feel for each other.
Society may have set up certain external standards. But love knows
nothing of them. Our education has taught us to respect them. But above
this veneer every now and then crop out impulses, the repulsions and
attractions which nature, millions of years back, implanted in human
hearts as humanity developed. They have been handed down. Yes, Walter,
I know nothing more interesting than to put this thing we call love
under the microscope, as it were, and dissect it."
I regarded Craig with amazement. Was he inhuman? Had he suddenly taken
leave of his senses?
"You mean it?" I queried. "Really?"
"Certainly."
"Why, Craig," I exclaimed, "some day you, too, will meet your
fate--you, the cold, calm, calculating man of science who sits here so
detached, analyzing other people's emotions!"
"Perhaps," he nodded, absently.
"Like as not she will be some fluffy little creature from the Midnight
Frolic," I added, sarcastically. "It would be poetic justice if
she were. And what a life she would lead you--with your confounded
microscope and your test-tubes!"
Kennedy smiled indulgently. "If it should be the case," he replied,
coolly, "it would only prove my theory. It's very simple. Two atoms are
attracted like the electrically charged pith-balls--or repulsed. In
love very often like repels like and attracts unlike--the old law, you
know, as you saw it in the physics laboratory. We see it in this case,
with these very people. All your fine-spun theories and traditions of
society and law do not count for the weight of a spider thread against
nature. That is precisely what I mean by my theory. We are concerned
with deep fundamental human forces."
"You talk as though you had been reading some of the continental
writers," I remarked.
"Perhaps. It makes no difference. Often much of our own Puritanism in
literature covers a multitude of facts, as Puritanism does in life.
Here's a case in point. Facts may be ugly things, we may not like them.
Just the same they have to be faced. It won't do just cavalierly to
reject things as Doctor Lathrop does with the Freud theory, which he
does not like, for instance. And who is he that he should set himself
up to determine fact and fake? Maybe, if we studied him we'd find he
was no different from anybody else. I'll warrant it."
"I don't care about him," I hastened. "But it does rather jar on me to
have you speak so positively on affairs of the heart," I protested.
"You think I can't observe them without experiencing them? I don't have
to commit a murder in order to study and understand the murderer, you
know. The fact is I am perhaps a better judge of some subjects for the
mere fact that I can observe them from the outside, as it were. I am
not grinding my own ax."
I shook my head at Kennedy's, to me, novel theories of love. In fact,
the whole thing, from his dream interpretation down through each step
he took in the case, seemed almost revolutionary. Convinced against
my will, I was of half, at least, my own opinion still. Yet I did not
feel in any position to combat him. The case would ultimately speak for
itself, anyhow, I reflected.
"Now," he concluded, before I could think of a retort, "to get back
to the case. Here are two women who no more understand the impulses
that sway them than do the moon and sun in their courses. As I said,
fundamental forces of sex are at play here. Perhaps even if you were
able to get the truth from the various actors in this little drama they
themselves could not tell you. Therefore, it is for me to unravel what
is a closed book, even to them.
"And, strange as you may think it, Walter," he concluded, "the Freud
theory will do it. Already I know more than even you suspect. There
remains, however, the working out of the drama to its climax before I
can be sure I have the truth, beyond mistake."
VII
THE CROOK DETECTIVE
We were interrupted by the arrival of Doyle at the door. With him was a
stranger whom he seemed to be virtually forcing along ahead of him.
As they entered, I regarded the man carefully. He seemed to have a sort
of hangdog look.
Doyle led him over beside the laboratory table, near which Kennedy was
standing, and Kennedy glanced at Doyle questioningly.
"This is Mr. Rascon, a private detective," growled Doyle, stressing the
Mister insultingly, and continuing to push the man forward. "Meet Mr.
Kennedy, Rascon."
Doyle had evidently the official contempt for the very breed of private
detectives. The man bowed stiffly and nervously to Craig, who extended
his hand, which the man took rather spiritlessly. Altogether I thought
it a very peculiar circumstance.
"Meet Mr. Jameson, of _The Star_," added Doyle. "It might be well for
you to have a few newspaper friends. They might come in handy some day.
They tell me a press agent's job is to keep things _out_ of the papers
as well as to get them in."
Rascon smiled weakly as he shook my hand, and by the clammy touch of
his hand I knew that he was either very nervous or very ill--perhaps
both.
"Tell Mr. Kennedy what you've been doing, Rascon," commanded Doyle in
his best gruff manner.
Rascon hesitated, but Doyle repeated his command, and in the repetition
there was a thinly veiled threat that at once aroused the interest of
both of us. What could be the purpose of bringing the stranger to us
now?
Rascon cleared his throat.
"I've been employed by Mr. Wilford," he remarked a bit huskily, "to
watch Mrs. Wilford."
"What--to trail her?" asked Kennedy with increased interest.
"Yes," admitted the man, reluctantly.