FLEMING STONE COMES
“Terence.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re off for New England.”
“New England it is.”
“Start this afternoon, stay a few days, maybe a week among the classic
shades of Corinth.”
“Corinth it is.”
This somewhat laconic conversation was all that was necessary for Fleming
Stone’s assistant and general factotum to make preparations for the trip,
achieve tickets, and arrive, with his chief, at the train gate at the
proper time.
Terence McGuire, sometimes called Fibsy, because of a certain tendency to
mendacity, had begun as Stone’s office boy, and, by virtue of his general
aptitude for detective work and his utter devotion to Stone, had become a
worthwhile and much appreciated assistant. Not only did the lad look
after all details of their trips as well as taking care of the offices,
but many times his ingenious mind so stimulated or aided Stone’s own,
that more often than not they were practically colleagues.
They had a compartment to themselves at the end of the car, and they were
no sooner started than Stone began to discuss the case with the boy.
“I don’t know all the details, of course,” he began, “but it’s a setting
after my own heart.”
“Then I can guess it,” put in the wise Fibsy. “Man found dead in sealed
room.”
“You’re a wizard! What made you think of that?”
“’Cause that’s the problem you like best, F. Stone. Wise me up some
more.”
“It’s further interesting, because the victim is a great and good man, in
fact, the President-elect of the University of Corinth.”
“My! Somebody didn’t want him for president? That the idea?”
“Apparently not. Nothing in the letter about that.”
“Who wrote the letter?”
“The relative who inherits the whole estate.”
“He do the job?”
“No reason as yet to think so. But the criminal mustn’t be guessed at.
The point is, the locked room.”
“How was the killing done?”
“Stabbed. No weapon found and no way to get in or out of the locked room.
Fine problem.”
“Yes—if we don’t find a secret stairway—or, a lying servant. Such cases
generally fizzle out that way.”
“Fibs, you’re a Boy Cassandra.”
“What’s that?”
Stone explained, for it was his habit to supplement McGuire’s very scant
education by bits of information now and then, when time served.
“But, there’s a queer clause in the arrangement,” Stone went on, “if we
find the evidence leading in a certain direction, the chase is to cease.”
“That won’t do.”
“Of course not, and I’ll soon make that clear. But I can’t think it will
lead in the given direction as that implicates a young girl, and rarely
indeed, have I found a criminal answering to that description.”
“’Tisn’t usual—but, you know, F. Stone, since the war, girls are so
independent and so cocky that there’s no telling what they’ll do. Me for
the girl—as a suspect.”
“Fibsy, you’re a fool.”
“No, sir. I don’t admit it. See here, sir, if they’re so ’fraid s’picion
will turn to that girl, there’s reason for it. Yet, as you can guess, if
she didn’t do it, they want her skirts entirely cleared.”
“Pretty good deduction so far. But we can’t judge rationally until we
know the facts.”
The facts were told them, when, some hours later, they sat, alone with
Maurice Trask in the room where John Waring breathed his last.
“I’m a plain man,” Trask said, for he didn’t care to pose unduly before
an astute detective. “I’ve come into this estate of my cousin’s—my second
cousin, he was, and I started out with a firm determination to find the
villain who killed him. But, there is some cause for suspicion of the
young lady I expect to marry. And here’s the situation. If you can solve
the mystery of Doctor Waring’s death, and free that girl from any taint
of blame, go ahead. But if your investigation leads to her—stop it. I
want to marry her just the same, whether she killed anybody or not. But
if she didn’t do it, I want to know it.”
“Can’t you learn the truth from the young lady herself—if she is your
fiancee?” asked Stone.
“Oh, she says she didn’t do it, of course. But there’s such an
overwhelming mass of evidence—or, apparent evidence against her, that
it’s the deepest sort of a mystery.”
“Main facts first. Where was the body found?”
“In that desk chair, seated at his desk, as he often was evenings.
Reading in a Latin book, so you see, he wasn’t looking for trouble.”
“Found dead in the morning? Been dead all night?”
“Yes, to both those questions. And locked in his room. Had to break in.”
“And no weapon about?”
“Not a sign of any—”
“Then that cuts out all suicide idea.”
“It does and it doesn’t. You may as well say the locked up room cuts out
all idea of a murder.”
“But it must be one or the other. And isn’t it more plausible to look for
some way that the murderer could have gone away and left the room locked,
than to think up a way that the suicide could have disposed of this
weapon?”
“Yes, that’s so, but I want you to investigate both possibilities. You
see, if you could prove a suicide, that would free Miss Austin at once.
And—if things go against her—I want you to—oh, hang it, it’s hard to put
into words—”
“I’ll do that,” said Fibsy, “if things go against Miss Austin, you want
Mr. Stone to frame up suicide, and declare it the truth.”
“Exactly that,” and Trask looked relieved at the thought all his cards
were on the table. “I don’t want Miss Austin suspected, but I do want to
know if she’s innocent.”
“Any other suspects?” asked Stone.
“Not definite ones. There’s the Japanese who absconded that same night,
and of course, there’s the secretary, Gordon Lockwood. I’d like to
suspect him, all right, and he has a round silver penholder that just
fits the wound that killed Waring. But it doesn’t look like he did it, he
never would have left the penholder in evidence, and he would have
arranged matters to look more like a suicide. Then, too, how could he
lock the door behind him?”
“That question must be answered first of all,” said Stone. “I’ll examine
the room, of course, but after the local police and detectives have done
that, I doubt if I find anything enlightening. So far as I can see, this
whole affair is unique, and I think we will find some surprising evidence
and soon. Tell me more of this Miss Austin. Who is she?”
“Nobody knows. In fact, they call her Miss Mystery, because so little is
known of her. She appeared here in Corinth from nowhere. She knew no one,
and as she began to make acquaintances somebody brought her over here.
She met Doctor Waring, and inside of twenty-four hours had so bewitched
him that it would seem he had her visiting him in his study late at
night. She said at first, she wasn’t here, but as she left the impress of
her dress trimmings on that chair-back, and as she has a ruby pin and a
lot of money that were in the Doctor’s possession, it looks, one might
say, a bit queer.”
“Weren’t the valuables planted on her?” put in Fibsy.
“That’s what she says—or rather, that’s one of the things she said. The
girl contradicts herself continually. She says one thing one day and
another the next.”
“Is she pretty?” This from Fibsy.
“Pretty as the devil! And that’s not so bad as a description. She has
great big dark eyes, with straight black brows that almost meet. She has
a jaunty little face, that can be roguish or scornful or merry or
pathetic as the little rascal chooses. She has completely bowled me over,
and I’d be glad to have her on any terms and whatever her past history.
But, there it is. If she has a clean slate in this murder business, I
want to know it.”
“And if she hasn’t?”
“Then I don’t want anybody else to know it. If you find, Mr. Stone, real
evidence that Anita Austin killed John Waring, or if she confesses to the
deed, then you whip around and prove a suicide, and I’ll double your
charge. You needn’t do anything wrong, you know. Just sum up that all
indications point to a suicide, and let it go at that. Nobody will arrest
Miss Austin if you say that.”
“You must be crazy, Mr. Trask,” returned Stone, coldly. “I don’t conduct
my business on any such principles as those. I can’t perjure myself to
save your lady love from a just condemnation.”
“You haven’t seen her yet.” Trask nodded his sagacious head. “Wait till
you do.”
“Give me all the points against her,” the detective suggested.
“I will. I’d rather you knew them from me. Not that I’ll color
them—they’re facts that speak for themselves, but other people might
exaggerate them. Well, to begin with, this girl, a day or so after she
arrived here was seen kissing the picture of Doctor Waring which she had
cut from a newspaper. I tell you this, ’cause you’ll hear it anyway, and
the gossips think it shows a previous acquaintance between the two. But I
hold that as girls have matinee idols and movie heroes, this girl might
easily have adored the scholarly man, though she had never seen him.”
“It is possible,” Stone agreed, “but not very probable. She denies they
were acquainted?”
“Yes. Vows she never saw him until one night she went to his lecture,
soon after her arrival here.”
“What is she in Corinth for?”
“To sketch—she’s an artist.”
“Go on.”
“Well, as I said, she must have come here that Sunday night, for one of
the boarders at the house she lives in saw her cross the snowy field.
Also, the footprints just fitted her shoes. Also, the tracks led right up
on the side porch here to that long French window. And led right back
again to the Adams house.”
“Whew!” Fibsy exploded, “aren’t you rubbing it in?”
“Well, that’s what they tell me—” Trask asserted, doggedly, “and I want
you to know it all, Mr. Stone, before the other people tell you a garbled
version.”
“Go on.”
“Then, they say, the girl left marks of her dress trimming on that chair,
and Lockwood, the secretary, rubbed them off next morning, as soon as the
body was discovered. We have the word of two witnesses for this episode.”
“Who are the witnesses?”
“Ito, the Japanese butler, and Miss Peyton, who lives in this house.”
“Go on.”
“Well, then, ever since the tragedy, Miss Austin has acted queer. Queer
in all sorts of ways. She is sad and desolate one minute, and saucy and
independent the next. I can’t make her out at all. And she is more than
half in love with this Lockwood. I have to cut him out, you see. And I
figure, if you prove the case against Miss Austin, and if I agree to
marry her and hush up the whole matter, and make it seem a suicide—”
“You figure that she’ll throw over the secretary for you,” cried Fibsy,
his eyes aghast at the man’s plan.
“Exactly that. You see, Mr. Stone, I don’t try to deceive you. While I
have a natural sorrow at my cousin’s death, yet remember that I never
knew him in life, and that, while I want to avenge his death in any case
but one, I do not want to if it implicates Anita Austin.”
“I understand,” said Stone, seemingly not so shocked at the conversation
as his assistant was.
“There’s another queer thing,” said Trask. “They tell me that when the
body was found there was the impress of a ring on the forehead.”
“A seal ring?”
“Oh, no. Not a finger ring, but a circle, about two inches across, a red
mark, as if it had been made as a sign or symbol of some sort.”
“It remained on the flesh?”
“Until the embalming process took place. That removed it. I didn’t see
it, but I’m told it was a clearly defined circle, quite evidently
impressed with some intent.”
“Sounds like a sign of a secret society,” Fibsy suggested, but Stone paid
no heed.
“Let’s reconstruct the case,” he said; “Waring sat at his desk his
secretary outside in that hall?”
“Yes; the Japanese, the other one, the one that disappeared, brought in
water, and then Doctor Waring closed the door and locked it.”
“Immediately?”
“I don’t know that, but anyway, no one that we know of saw him again
alive. Nogi is under no suspicion, for after he came out of the room, the
Doctor rose and locked the door. Lockwood can’t be suspected, as he heard
the door locked, and couldn’t get in. He _is_ more or less suspected
because of his penholder, but much as I should like to think him the
criminal, I know he isn’t.”
“You’re very honest, Mr. Trask.”
“Yes, because I want the truth. Can you get it?”
“I think so.”
“You still eliminate suicide?”
“I can’t see how I can think it, with no weapon. You say that death was
instantaneous—?”
“Yes; the doctors agree that it was. Positively he had no chance to hide
or dispose of the instrument of death.”
“And why should he? Suicides never make their death seem a murder, though
often a murderer tries to simulate a suicide.”
“Yet that wasn’t done in this case, or the murderer would have left the
weapon.”
“That may be the very point he neglected. Now, how did the murderer get
out? Get busy, Fibs.”
For nearly half an hour, the three men searched the room. Had there been
any secret exit, or any concealed passage, it must have been found.
Fleming Stone’s knowledge of architecture would not let him overlook any
thing of the sort, and Fibsy’s alert eyes and quick wits would have found
anything out of the ordinary.
“No way out,” Stone concluded, finally; “and no way of locking a door or
a window after departure from the room. Looks as if the murder theory was
as untenable as the other. No chance of a natural death?”
“With a round hole in his jugular vein? No, sir. The doctors here won’t
stand for that. Try again.”
“I shall. I don’t know when I’ve had such a baffling, intriguing case, as
this appears to be at first sight. It may resolve itself into a simple
problem, but I can’t think so now. Even if it were the work of your Miss
Austin—how did she get in and out?”
“Oh, she got in, all right. Waring let her in, at the French window.
Probably that’s when he locked his door. But—say she killed him—how did
she get out and lock the room behind her?”
“She couldn’t. The window locks are bolts, and could not be shot from
outside. For the moment I see no explanation. It is blank, utter mystery.
When can I see Miss Austin?”
“Too late tonight, tomorrow morning will have to do. But she won’t run
away. The police won’t let her.”
“Yet they can’t hold her.”
“They are doing so. They claim she was the last one to see the victim
alive—”
“Does she admit that?”
“Not she! She admits nothing. You’ll get nothing out of that little
Sphinx!”
“All right, then, Mr. Trask, if you’ve finished your tale, suppose you
leave me here to ruminate over this thing, and I’ll go up to my room when
I wish.”
Trask went off to bed, and Stone and his young assistant sat and looked
at each other.
“Up against it, F. Stone?”
“I certainly am, Fibs. And yet, the thing is so absolutely impossible
that there must be a solution within easy reach. It can’t be suicide,
with the weapon gone, and it can’t be murder with the room locked up.
Now, as it must be either suicide or murder, then it follows, that either
the weapon isn’t gone, or the room isn’t locked up.”
“Wasn’t, you mean.”
“Yes, wasn’t. But I don’t yet think that any one disturbed the conditions
purposely. For why would the secretary take away the weapon to make it
seem a suicide—”
“He would if he did it.”
“He didn’t do it. Trask sees that. The man Trask is a sharp one. He sees
all there is to see, and since there’s practically nothing to see that
solves the mystery, he sent for me. It would be a good one on me,
Terence, if I have to give the thing up as unsolvable.”
“That won’t happen, F. Stone, but I’m free to confess, I can’t see any
way to look.”
The next morning, Maurice Trask went over to the Adams house, and brought
Miss Mystery back with him.
She came willingly enough, and the interview with the detective took
place in the room of the tragedy itself.
Stone noticed that the girl showed no horror or distaste of the scene,
and even sat in the chair he placed for her, which was the same
plush-covered one that had received the tell-tale imprints.
Fleming Stone regarded Miss Austin curiously. Not only was her beauty all
that Trask had described it, but there was an added quality of fineness,
a trace of high mentality, that naturally enough Maurice Trask quite
overlooked.
At first glance, Stone’s thought was—“That child commit murder? Never!”
But a few moments later, he was not quite so sure of his negation.
Fibsy just sat and looked at her. He had no occasion to speak, unless
addressed, so, in silence he merely let his eyes feast on the piquant
face with its ever changing expressions.
After casual questions, Stone said directly, “Did you know Doctor Waring
before you came to Corinth, Miss Austin?”
“No,” she said, a little hesitantly; “I had heard of him, but I had never
before seen him.”
“How had you heard of him?”
“There was much in the papers about his election.”
“And that interested you?”
“Not specially,” she said, with a sudden accession of hauteur.
And thereupon, she became a most unsatisfactory witness. She listened to
Stone’s questions with an absent-minded air, answered in monosyllables,
or by a movement of her head. She even gave a side smile to Fibsy, which,
though it amazed him, also filled him with a strange exultant joy, and
made him her abject slave at once.
Stone went on, drawling out a string of unimportant questions in a
monotonous voice, and at length, he said, in the same unimportant way,
“And when you saw Doctor Waring that night, was there a red ring on his
forehead?”
“No,” said Miss Austin, and then, suddenly awakening to what she had
done, she cried impetuously, “I mean, I don’t know. I wasn’t here.”
Stone smiled gravely. “You were here,” he said. “Now let us talk about
what happened during your visit.”
An interruption was caused by a tap at the closed door.
Impatiently, Trask rose and went to the door. It was Ito, bringing a
telegram for Miss Austin. It had arrived at the Adams house, and had been
sent over.
Miss Mystery read it, with great difficulty controlled her agitation, as
she quickly went to the blazing log fire and dropped the paper in.
“Skip over to the Telegraph office and get a copy,” said Stone quietly,
and Fibsy obeyed.
Then to Miss Austin’s continued distress, Stone read the message aloud.
It was from San Francisco, and it said:
“Better own up and tell the whole truth. I have annexed Carl.” It was
signed merely “A” and apparently it was of dire import to its recipient.
Miss Mystery sat silent, and wide-eyed in desperation, as she looked
hopelessly from one to another.
“Don’t you think,” said Stone, not unkindly, “that you’d better follow
A’s advice and make a clean breast of the whole matter?”