on his face over the cheek-bones.
"Don't you think you have done enough, hounding Mrs. Wilford with your
confounded science?" he demanded.
"I cannot say," replied Kennedy, coolly, reaching for his hat and
deliberately turning away. "I am telling you this only for your own
benefit. Good morning, sir."
Just what Kennedy was attempting I began to understand as we closed
the door to the hall and turned again to the elevator. The seeking out
of Shattuck was quite in keeping with the plan of campaign Craig had
mapped out at the start.
I saw that he was counting on planting something that would make
Shattuck fear for Honora, if not for himself. And, it was evident that
behind his bravado Shattuck did have a fear for Honora.
XVII
THE SUPPRESSED DESIRE
Even before Kennedy announced where he was going, I outguessed the next
step in his scheme.
He would end by planting something that would make Honora fearful for
Shattuck, as well as for herself. The effect would be to bring to light
her suppressed desires, to make the Freudian theory play detective for
us. And then? Almost anything might happen.
Looked at in this light, I could see that Craig would have done a very
profitable day's work. It was, in short, merely playing one against the
other--first Lathrop against Vina; now Honora against Shattuck.
We rode back again up-town and prepared to make our daily excuse for
visiting Mrs. Wilford. In spite of the distastefulness of our duty, I
felt sure that still our position with her was superior to that of the
other inquisitors who were always on her trail.
"Before we go in," cautioned Kennedy, as we entered the main entrance
to the apartment, "I want to see McCabe. He must be back on the job by
this time."
Careful to cover ourselves, we sought out the ostensibly empty
apartment which Doyle had hired as a dictagraph room. McCabe was there
and seemed to be glad to see us. Evidently he had some news to report.
"What's on your mind, McCabe?" greeted Kennedy.
"Why, sir, he's been calling her up again."
"Who?"
"Mr. Shattuck, I mean."
Kennedy merely glanced at me. The virus had begun to work.
"What did he say?" asked Kennedy, quickly.
"I couldn't just make out what it was about. He wasn't very definite.
Said he wanted to see her alone."
"And Mrs. Wilford?"
"Said she couldn't--that she was afraid--afraid for him, she said. I
guess she knows pretty well how we're watching her."
"What did Shattuck say to that?"
"Well, I should say he was trying to warn _her_," replied McCabe,
"without coming out too definitely. You see, they were both pretty
careful in the words they used. There's something strange between that
pair, you can be sure of that."
"What were the exact words?" asked Kennedy. "Did you get them down?"
McCabe nodded and referred to his notes.
"When Mr. Shattuck called up, he asked her first, 'I suppose they're
watching you yet, Honora?'
"'Oh, Vance,' she answered, 'it gets worse every day.'
"There's some more--and then he suddenly said, 'Honora, Kennedy has
just been here to see me again.'
"She seemed to be rather alarmed at that news. 'To see you again,
Vance? What about?'
"'I don't know what he's up to,' Shattuck replied. 'I wish I did. It's
something about that poisoned bean--you know, the thing they've been
talking about.'"
"Pretending ignorance!" I exclaimed. "He knows. Go on."
"They talked about that a little while, without saying anything
important. The next was Honora: 'He keeps asking me all sorts of
questions about dreams and trying psychological experiments. I don't
dare refuse to answer. But what do you suppose it is all about, Vance?'"
"What did Shattuck tell her?" asked Kennedy, interested.
"Here, I'll read it, exactly. 'More of that Freud stuff, I guess,
Honora, from what you've already told me. That may go all very well in
a book--or in Greenwich Village. But it's a fake, I tell you. Don't
believe it--too much.'"
"That's a remarkably reassuring statement," commented Kennedy. "Don't
believe it--and then he takes it all back by adding, 'too much.'"
"Yes, sir," agreed McCabe, to whom this angle of the case was a
mystery. "I don't know as he believed what he said himself. You see,
he next asked her: 'Can't you see me? I _must_ try to help you.' And he
meant it, too."
"Did she say she would?" hastened Kennedy.
"Not directly. 'Vance, I'm so afraid--afraid to drag you into this
thing. You know they're watching me so closely. I don't see them
around--yet they seem to know so much.'"
"You don't suppose she suspects anything of this?" I interrupted,
indicating the dictagraph and the tapped telephone.
"Hardly," answered McCabe. "She wouldn't talk at all over the wire, if
she did, would she? Here's how it ended. Shattuck said, finally, 'Well,
I'm going to see you very soon, anyhow, to have a heart-to-heart talk,
Honora.' He seemed to be quite worried. And so did she over him."
"Have you told Doyle anything about it?" asked Craig.
"Haven't had a chance yet. It just happened."
Kennedy turned to go.
"Oh, just before that that detective called her up, too."
"Which one--Rascon or Chase?"
"Chase."
Kennedy smiled quietly. Everything was working.
"What of him?"
"He said you had been to see him. There was something about that
poisonous bean he told her."
"Did he mention Shattuck's name?" asked Kennedy.
"Yes, he questioned her about Shattuck--about his travels--I thought it
was pretty broadly hinting after he mentioned that Calabar bean."
"But did he say anything definite about it? I mean, anything connecting
it with Shattuck?"
"No--nothing definite."
Evidently Chase had never told Honora of his discovery in Shattuck's
apartments. Why? Was it because he was sure that she would not believe
it? Was he waiting for more conclusive evidence? What was the reason?
It had not been revealed even yet.
We thanked McCabe, made our exit, and arrived on Honora's floor in such
a way that it would not be suspected that we had been anywhere else in
the building.
As we met Mrs. Wilford, I cannot say that we were quite as welcome as
on some previous encounters with her. It seemed that she was repressing
her excitement not quite as easily as on previous occasions.
Yet she seemed not to dare to refuse to see us. Perhaps, too, there was
an element of curiosity to know whether anything had been discovered
beyond what Doyle had already told her.
If that were the case, she had not long to wait. Kennedy did not plan
this time to keep her in suspense long.
In fact, it seemed as if it were part of his plan to fire the
information he wished to impart as a broadside and watch the effect,
both immediate and ultimate.
"I suppose you have read in the newspapers about the troubles of the
Lathrops and what has happened?" he opened fire.
"Nothing about that woman interests me," Honora returned, coldly.
"That's not exactly what I came to tell you, though," remarked Kennedy,
briskly.
Honora was on the alert in an instant, although she tried to hide it.
"I've discovered just what it was that caused the death of your
husband," hastened Craig.
I watched her closely. She was trying to show just enough and not too
much interest.
"Indeed?" she replied, veiling her eyes as a matter of self-defense.
"Was it belladonna?"
"No, it was not atropin," returned Craig, giving the drug its more
scientific name. "It was physostigmine."
I was watching her narrowly. Evidently she had been expecting some
repetition of the psychological tests and Kennedy's more direct attack
almost swept away a defense as she tried to adjust herself to the
unexpected.
Before she could recover from the shock that the bald statement seemed
to give her, Craig shot out, "Has Doyle told you?"
"Yes," she replied, endeavoring to remain calm and at the same time
appear frank, "something about a bean which either you or Mr. Jameson
discovered down in the office."
"Then why did you mention belladonna?" asked Craig.
She avoided his gaze as she answered, quickly, "Because it was the
first thing that the police mentioned--the first thing that came into
my head--like some of your psychological tests, I suppose."
The last sentence was uttered with a sort of sarcastic defiance which I
did not relish in Honora.
"So," she continued in the same defiant tone, "it's another poison,
this time--this physostigmine?"
"Yes," reiterated Kennedy, quietly. "The Calabar bean. I suppose Doyle
described it to you--its devilish uses in the Calabar--the way the
natives use it in ordeals--and all that sort of thing?"
"Yes--briefly," she replied, evidently steeling herself into a
nonchalance she did not feel.
"Of course, the drug has a certain medical importance, too," continued
Craig, as though eager to hammer home the information about it which he
wished to have stick in her mind. "It is physostigmine."
Honora was evidently about to ask some question about the drug, perhaps
such a question as would have portrayed ignorance, but Kennedy caught
her eye and she closed her parted lips. There was no use camouflaging
before this man. She knew it--knew the drug, I decided, and knew he
knew she knew of it.
"But it wasn't the drug, physostigmine, in this case," went on Kennedy.
"It was the Calabar bean itself. I found traces of it in Mr. Wilford's
stomach--starch grains from the beans themselves. You know you can
recognize various starch grains under the microscope by their size,
formation, and so forth. I've clearly demonstrated that."
"You did? Why--I--I--er--thought that was Doctor Leslie's work."
Evidently she did not realize that Kennedy was anything more than a
dilettante scientist, dabbling with his psychological tests.
Kennedy was now coming into the open more and more with her and she
could not place him. On her part she saw that she must be more and more
on guard, yet with fewer weapons on which to rely.
"Oh no," returned Kennedy, easily. "I mix up in all sorts of queer
investigations. Toxicology is a hobby with me. Doctor Leslie did indeed
confirm my results, working independently."
He paused to let her get the full significance.
"But about these beans. They come from Africa, you know. Travelers,
people who have hunted over Africa, often bring them back as curios."
Honora shot a covert glance at Craig. Did she know that Shattuck had
possessed some, after all?
I saw at once the trend of Kennedy's remarks. There was quite enough in
what he had said to arouse in her the fear that Shattuck was suspected
by him.
And, as I studied Honora even more closely, I could see now that she
was making a great effort to conceal her anxiety.
If the anxiety concerned solely herself, I could have understood it
better, perhaps.
But was it about herself? Would she have acted in just this manner if
it had been that she believed Kennedy to be making a direct accusation
against her?
I could not decide. But, as I thought of it, I saw how cleverly Kennedy
was leading his trumps.
If she were consumed with anxiety for Shattuck, the traveler in Africa,
she must be heroically suppressing her own real feelings toward him, as
she had done for so long.
I felt sure that the added pressure, day by day, was having its effect
on her.
"I suppose you know," pursued Kennedy, deliberately, without letting
up on the pressure, "that traces of belladonna were found in one glass
on Mr. Wilford's desk at the office and that an almost empty bottle of
belladonna was found by the police here in your apartment?"
"It was mine," she asserted, calmly, as though prepared. "It had been
nearly used up. Celeste knows all about how I used it for my eyes. Many
women do. She can tell you that."
She said it boldly, and yet, since Kennedy had mentioned the Calabar
bean, I had an indefinable feeling that Honora was concealing
something--perhaps not only a fact--but also a great fear.
No longer, now, did Kennedy seem to care whether he antagonized her or
not. More and more, it seemed, it was his purpose to drop the mask with
her, to fight her with other weapons than those psychological.
"Both physostigmine and belladonna are used by oculists, you know,"
hinted Kennedy, broadly.
The face of Honora was a study as she listened to this direct
insinuation. She bit her lips at the thought that she had betrayed her
knowledge of the use of belladonna.
For an instant Honora gazed at Kennedy, startled at the penetrating
power of his eyes, as she realized that the finding of the bean had, in
his mind, perhaps, some connection with herself.
What must have been the conflicting emotions in her mind as, now, for
the first time, she realized that Kennedy had gone deeper into the
case than Doyle or Leslie, that, while she might be a match for them,
she could not possibly hope to be a match against the new weapons of
science that Kennedy had brought to bear? Even though she might not
fully appreciate them, Honora was too clever a woman not to know,
merely by intuition, that she was faced with a battle in which the old
weapons were unavailing.
I know the thoughts that were surging, by Kennedy's suggestion, through
her mind--the past of her life, her father, Honore Chappelle; the old
love-affair with Shattuck; the attainment of social ambitions with
Wilford--and back again to the life of her girlhood and the profession
of her father.
I thought for the moment that Craig had broken through her reserve. I
knew that Kennedy was in reality fishing--at least I thought so. But it
was evident by her actions that Honora did not know it.
"Why do you make these--these accusations?" she demanded. "You knew
that my father was an optician--one of the best known in the city," she
cried, searching Craig's face.
Kennedy nodded implacably.
"I haven't made any accusations," he returned, then added, directly,
"But I assumed that you knew something of his business while he was
alive."
"I do not know by what right you assume that I knew anything of
the sort," she fenced. "Girls were not supposed to learn trades or
professions in those days."
Honora, in spite of her assumption of a quiet tone, was almost
hysterical. The mounting flush on her face showed that she was keen
with emotion, that it was only by an almost superhuman effort that she
controlled the volcano of her feelings.
Kennedy could see that it was only by such an effort that she managed
to maintain her composure. He must have known that to press the
case would have resulted in a situation such as might have advanced
us fairly far toward the truth. Yet he did not follow farther any
advantage he might have.
Evidently, Kennedy was content to let the seed which he had planted
during this visit germinate. Or was he reluctant to allow McCabe over
the dictagraph hear more that might be reported to Doyle on which Doyle
might continue to base wrong conclusions? Desperately I clung to this
last explanation.
As far as Honora was concerned, now, there was no use in our staying
longer. Kennedy had deliberately thrown away a chance to drive her into
further admissions. The interval had given her the time she needed. Now
she was keenly on guard and mistress again of herself.
Secretly I was rather glad. It was better to let the information and
suspicion that had been aroused work of itself.
"You are not yourself, Mrs. Wilford," suddenly apologized Kennedy. "It
is not fair to you. Think over some of the things I have been forced to
say to you. Perhaps you will see matters in another light. Good-by."
I do not know whether his keen questioning or this sudden quiet change
of tone and the idea of leaving her at such a time had a greater
effect. She shot him one startled look, then bowed in silence as we, in
turn, bowed ourselves out. She even denied herself the final glance of
curiosity, lest she might betray sudden relief changed to deep-seated
fear at the sudden departure of Kennedy, with his cool assumption of
power.
Outside, we encountered Celeste, who had been hovering in the hall,
apparently listening. Quietly Kennedy beckoned her down the hall, away
from the door we had just left, while he paused a moment to question
her.
"I wish you would refresh your memory, mademoiselle," he began,
suddenly. "Are you sure--absolutely sure that on the night Mr. Wilford
was murdered madame was here--that she was not out--at all?"
His tone was such as to imply, not suspicion, but certainty that
Celeste had been lying, that Mrs. Wilford had been out.
"Oh, but yes, monsieur," Celeste replied, glibly. "I was with madame
all the evening. No--no--she was not out. She was here--all the
evening--waiting for him. I can swear it. How many times must I swear
it--to you--to those--those beasts!"
Celeste nodded outside. Kennedy smiled.
"Who should know better than I what madame was doing?" continued
Celeste, vehemently.
Kennedy did not pursue the subject.
"You love madame, don't you, Celeste?" he asked, simply.
"Why--yes!" replied the girl, startled by the unexpectedness of the
question.
"Good day," nodded Kennedy, simply, as a lawyer might dismiss a witness.
"Methinks she doth protest too much," I quoted, as I remembered the
"Aussage test" again and its proof of the unreliability of Celeste.
Kennedy did not attempt further to shake the girl's story, and I was
forced to conclude that he had another purpose in view. Perhaps it was
that he knew that she would report to Honora what he had asked.
Kennedy turned to go out. But he did not close the door tightly as we
went out. Sure enough, no sooner had he seemed to shut the door than he
could see that she had darted into the room we had just left.
Kennedy smiled and closed the door softly.
XVIII
THE CONFESSION
Little happened during the rest of the day, which I spent in the
laboratory, while Craig checked up the results of his previous
observations on the case.
Toward the end of the afternoon I strolled out, uncertain just what to
do. On the street I saw a boy selling papers and I called to him.
As my eye fell on a black head-line I fairly jumped with surprise. I
read it again, hardly able to believe it. It was a startling bit of
news that stared me in the face.
Vina Lathrop had committed suicide at the Sainte-Germaine!
Practically the whole story was told in the head-lines--that is, all
except what little we knew. I turned the pages quickly. Belle Balcom
had got in her brief interview with Vina, but it contained nothing new,
either.
As I hastened back to the laboratory there ran through my mind the
swift succession of events of the morning--our learning of the
separation, the visit to the hotel, the meeting, the coming of Belle
Balcom, and finally the appearance of Doyle. Without a doubt it was
this succession of events that had convinced Vina that there was no
escape from the social disgrace that awaited her after the action of
Doctor Lathrop.
"What do you think?" I almost shouted, as I burst into the laboratory
and threw the paper before Craig, who was still at work in his
acid-stained smock. "And, do you know, often I had almost come to
regard Vina as a possible suspect in the case, too! Could I have been
right? Is it a confession?"
Kennedy read the news item, then tore off his smock and reached for his
hat and coat.
"I'll admit that suicide might be taken as a confession, as a general
rule," he exclaimed. "But it's not so in this case. Come--we must get
over to the hotel. I doubt whether half the story can be known, even by
this time. I wish I had been informed of this earlier. However, maybe
it won't make any difference."
It did not take us many minutes to get down to the fashionable hotel,
nor long to get up to the room from which, in spite of the demands of
the hotel people, the body had not been removed.
Leslie, already notified in the course of the city routine, had arrived
perhaps five minutes before us.
"I was out on a case," he explained. "When I got back to the office I
saw the police notification. But you had already left when I tried to
call you up."
I looked about. There was great excitement among the guests and
employees on the floor on which Vina had taken her rather cheap and
unpretentious room. But in all the group I could not see one familiar
face, except that of Doyle, who had arrived just a few moments before
Leslie.
"Has Doctor Lathrop been told?" asked Kennedy.
"Yes, but he didn't show any emotion. He has given orders that
everything necessary must be done. But he absolutely refuses to allow
the funeral to take place from his apartment. He insists that it must
be from a private establishment. Even in death he will not forgive her.
Said he would be over--but he hasn't come yet. I doubt whether he will.
Her relatives live in the Middle West. He did give orders that they
were to be notified."
"What was the cause of death?" asked Craig.
Leslie looked at him significantly. "I wanted your advice on that," he
remarked. "Look."
He had led Kennedy over to the white bed on which the body of Vina lay.
"The eyes show the characteristic contraction of the pupils that I have
come to recognize as from physostigmine. In fact, I don't think there
can be much doubt about it in this case. What do you think?"
Kennedy bent over and examined the body.
"I quite agree with you," he added, as he rose. "It is a case of the
same poisoning--only I think not by the bean this time, but by the pure
drug."
"Where do you suppose she got it?" asked Doyle. "I'll try to trace it
in some of the drugstores to make sure."
"Craig," I exclaimed, "do you recall that Doctor Lathrop said he had
no use for the bean itself, but that naturally in his medicine-chest
he had the drug? She heard us talking the thing over that time when
we visited them. Without a doubt it was where she got it--that is," I
corrected, "where she might have got it."
Kennedy nodded.
"No doubt you are right. It's a case of suicide by suggestion. She
heard of the drug--and tried it. It's the way they all do. Suicide is a
sort of insanity. If one person uses bichloride tablets, you find that
a dozen, learning of it, do the same. It's a curious bit of psychology."
"I agree with you," chimed in Leslie. "This was a case of the use
of the pure alkaloid. Nothing else could have acted so swiftly--and
everything indicates swift action. The chambermaid had been in the room
only a few minutes before. Then when she knocked on the door again she
got no answer. She thought there was something strange about it, for
she was sure that Mrs. Lathrop had not gone out. So she tried the door.
It was locked. But through the keyhole she could see that Vina had
fallen across the foot of the bed. She screamed and then they got the
pass key and opened the door."
Kennedy had gone over to the window and was looking out. On a little
roof below he pointed out something gleaming. Even from where we were
we could see that it was a plain little vial.
"More than likely she took some of the drug from her husband's office,"
he commented. "By every indication the act was premeditated--or at
least she contemplated doing it."
We glanced at each other, then at the former lovely form on the lonely
bed, as the undertaker, sent by her husband, prepared to carry out the
last offices, now that Doctor Leslie had given his permission.
"What about this new development?" asked Leslie at length of Kennedy.
"Does it affect your plans at all?"
"Very much," asserted Kennedy, energetically. "It forces my hand. Now I
must act immediately."
For a moment he stood, planning hastily just what to do.
"I'm going to try a little piece of psychology," he decided, finally,
turning to us. "There are many things I need to know yet. For one
thing, I'm not exactly sure just how much Mrs. Wilford actually knew
about her husband and Vina Lathrop--not what she suspected or guessed.
Oh, there are innumerable points that must be cleared up. I know no
better or quicker way than to get them all together at once at my
laboratory. Then I am sure that we can straighten this thing out
quickly."
He paused and looked about us.
"Now," he added, assuming direction of affairs, with the tacit consent
of both Doyle and Leslie, "I want each of you to help me. You, Walter,
perhaps will be the best one to go after Mrs. Wilford. But don't, for
Heaven's sake, tell her anything--except that it has been discovered
that Vina Lathrop is a suicide.
"Doyle, you have worked some parts of the case up to a final point--in
your own mind. I delegate you to go after Mr. Shattuck and bring him to
the laboratory."