PHILIP VANTINE'S CALLER
It was a sordid story that Rogers gasped out to us; and, as it
concerns this tale only incidentally, I shall pass over it as briefly
as may be.
Eight or ten years before, the fair Julie--at least, she was fairer
then than now!--had come to New York to enter the employ of a family
whose mistress had decided that life without a French maid was
unendurable. Rogers had met her, had been fascinated by her black
eyes and red lips, had, in the end, proposed honourable marriage
--quite unnecessarily, no doubt!--had been accepted, and for some
months had led an eventful existence as the husband of the siren.
Then, one morning, he awakened to find her gone.
He had, of course, entrusted his savings to her--that had been one
condition of the marriage!--and the savings were gone, also. Julie,
it seems, had been overcome with longing for the Paris asphalt; no
doubt, too, she had found herself ennuied by the lack of romance in
married life with Rogers; and she had flown back to France. Rogers
had thought of following; but, appalled at the difficulty of finding
her in Paris, not knowing what he should do if he did find her, he
had finally given it up, and had settled gloomily down to live upon
his memories. Some sort of affection for her had kept alive within
him, and when he opened the door of Vantine's house and found her
standing on the steps, he was as wax in her hands.
Julie had listened to all this indifferently, even disdainfully,
without denying anything, nor seeking to excuse herself. Perhaps the
idea that she needed excuse did not occur to her. And when the story
was finished, she was quite herself again; even a little proud, I
think, of holding the centre of the stage in the rôle of siren. It
was almost a rejuvenescence, and there was gratitude in the gaze she
turned on Rogers.
"This is all true, I suppose?" asked the veiled lady.
"All quite true, madame," answered Julie, with a shrug. "I was
younger then and the love of excitement was too strong for me. I am
older now, and have more sense--besides, I am no longer sought after
as I was."
"And so," said madame, with irony, "you are now, no doubt, willing to
return to your husband."
"I have been considering it, madame," replied Julie, with astounding
simplicity, "ever since I saw him here the other evening, and learned
that he still cared for me. One must have a harbour in one's old
age."
I glanced at Rogers and was astonished to see that he was regarding
the woman with affectionate admiration. Evidently the harbour was
waiting, should Julie choose to anchor there.
"I have hesitated," she added, "only because of madame. Where would
madame get another maid such as I? No one but I can arrange her hair
--no one but I can prepare her bath...."
"We will discuss it," said the veiled lady, "when we are alone. And
now, perhaps, you will be so good as to tell us of your previous
visit here."
"Very well, madame," and Julie settled into a more comfortable
posture. "It was one day on the boat as I was looking down at the
passengers of the third class that I perceived Georges--M. Drouet
--strolling about. I was _bouleversée_--what you call upset with
amazement, and then he looked up and our eyes met, and he came
beneath me and commanded that I meet him that evening. It was then
that I learned his plan. It was to secure those letters for himself
and to dispose of them."
"To whom?" asked Godfrey.
"To the person that would pay the greatest price for them, most
certainly," answered Julie, surprised that it should have been
thought necessary to ask such a question. "They were to be offered
first to madame at ten thousand francs each; should she refuse, they
were then to be offered to M. le Duc--he would surely desire to
possess them!"
The veiled lady shivered a little, and her hand instinctively sought
her bosom to assure herself that the precious packet was safe.
"That night," continued Julie, "in my cabin, I tossed and tossed,
trying to discover a way to prevent this; for I had seen long since
that M. Drouet no longer cared for me--I knew that it was upon some
other woman that money would be spent. I decided that, at the first
moment, I would hasten to this house; I would explain the matter to
M. Vantine, I would persuade him to restore to me the letters, with
which I would fly to madame. I knew, also, that I could rely upon her
gratitude," added the girl. "After all, one must provide for
oneself."
She paused and glanced around the room, smiling at the interest in
our faces.
"You have at least one virtue--that of frankness," said the veiled
lady. "Continue."
"It was not until evening that I found an opportunity to leave
madame," Julie went on. "I hastened here; I rang the bell; but I
confess I should have failed, I should not have secured an entrance,
if it had not been that it was my husband who opened the door to me.
Even after I was inside the door, he refused to permit me to see his
master; but as we were debating together, M. Vantine himself came
into the hall, and I ran to him and begged that he hear me. It was
then that he invited me to enter this room."
She paused again, and a little shiver of expectancy ran through me.
At last we were to learn how Philip Vantine had met his death!
"I sat down," continued Julie. "I told him the story from the very
beginning. He listened with much interest; but when I proposed that
he should restore to me the letters, he hesitated. He walked up and
down the room, trying to decide; then he took me through that door
into the room beyond. The cabinet was standing in the centre of the
floor, and all the lights were blazing.
"'Is that the cabinet?' he asked me, and when I said that most
assuredly it was, he seemed surprised.
"'It is an easy thing to prove,' I said, and I went to the cabinet
and pressed on the three springs, as I had seen madame do. The little
handle at the side fell out, but suddenly he stopped me.
"'Yes, it is the cabinet,' he said. 'I see that. And no doubt the
drawer contains the letters, as you say. But those letters do not
belong to you. They belong to your mistress. I cannot permit that you
take them away, for, after all, I do not know you. You may intend to
make some bad use of them.'
"I protested that such a suspicion was most unjust, that my character
was of the best, that I was devoted to my mistress and desired to
protect her. He listened, but he was not convinced. In the end, he
brought me back into this room. I could have cried with rage!
"'Return to your mistress,' he said, 'and inform her that I shall be
most happy to return the letters to her. But it must be in her own
hands that I place them. The letters are here, whenever it pleases
her to claim them."
"I saw that it was of no use to argue further; he was of adamant. So
I left the house, he himself opening the door for me. And that is all
that I know, madame."
There was a moment's silence; then I heard Godfrey draw a deep
breath. I could see that, like myself, he was convinced that the girl
was telling the truth.
"Of course," he suggested gently, "as soon as you reached home you
related to your mistress what had occurred?"
Julie grew a little crimson.
"No, monsieur," she said, "I told her nothing."
"I should have thought you would have wished to prove your devotion,"
went on Godfrey, in his sweetest tone.
"I feared that, without the letters, she would misunderstand my
motives," said Julie, sullenly.
"And then, of course, without the letters, there would be no reward,"
Godfrey supplemented.
Julie did not reply, but she looked very uncomfortable.
The veiled lady rose.
"Have you any further questions to ask her?" she said.
"No, madame," said Godfrey. "The story is complete."
Julie resumed her veil, shooting at Godfrey a glance anything but
friendly. The veiled lady turned to me and held out her hand.
"I thank you, Mr. Lester, for your kindness," she said. "Come,
Julie," and she moved toward the door, which Rogers hastened to open.
Mr. Hornblower nodded and passed out after them, and Godfrey and I
were left alone together.
We both sat down, and for a moment neither of us spoke.
"Well!" said Godfrey, at last. "Well! what a story it would make! And
I can't use it! It's a bitter reflection, Lester!"
"It would certainly shake the pillars of society," I agreed. "I'm
rather shaken myself."
"So am I! I was all at sea for a while--I was dumb with astonishment
when I heard you and the veiled lady talking about the secret drawer
--I could see you laughing at me! I don't know the whole story yet.
How did she happen to come to you?"
I told him of Hornblower's visit, of the story he told me, and of the
arrangement we had made. Godfrey nodded thoughtfully when I had
finished.
"The story is straight, of course," he said. "Hornblower would not be
engaged in anything tricky. Besides, I recognised the lady. I suppose
you did, too."
"Yes, I have seen pictures of her. And I admired her for putting back
her veil."
"So did I. She has changed since the day of her wedding, Lester--she
was a smooth-faced girl, then! Three years of life with her duke have
left their mark on her!"
He fell silent, staring thoughtfully at the carpet. Then he shook
himself.
"And the maid's story was most interesting," he added. "Nevertheless,
there are still a number of things which are not quite clear to me."
"There is one thing I don't understand, myself," I said. "I hadn't
any idea this was the right cabinet. I didn't see how it could be."
"That's it, exactly. How did it happen, when the veiled lady went to
Armand & Son in Paris, that she was directed to Philip Vantine?
According to his own story, he did not purchase this cabinet; he had
never seen it before; it was presumably shipped him by mistake;
Armand & Son cable you that it was a mistake; and yet they cite
Vantine as the purchaser. There is something twisted somewhere,
Lester; just where I'll try to find out."
"Which reminds me that Armand's representative hasn't been around
yet. No doubt he can straighten the matter out."
"It won't do any harm to hear his story, anyway," Godfrey agreed.
"Now let's have a look at that drawer."
It was standing open as we had left it, and Godfrey pushed it back
into place, called my attention to the cunning way in which its
outline was concealed by the inlay about it. Then he worked the
spring, the handle fell into place, and he drew the drawer out again,
as far as it would come, and examined it carefully.
"The fellow who devised that was a genius," he said, admiringly,
pushing it back into place. "I wonder what its contents have been
from the days of Madame de Montespan down to the present? Love
letters, mostly, I suppose, since they are the things which need
concealment most. Don't you wish this drawer could tell its secrets,
Lester?"
"There is one I wish it would tell, if it knows it," I said. "I wish
it would tell who killed Philip Vantine. I suppose you will agree
with me that our pretty theory has got a knock-out blow, this time."
"It looks that way, doesn't it?"
"There is no poisoned mechanism about that drawer--that's sure," I
added.
"No, and never has been," Godfrey agreed.
"And that leaves us all at sea, doesn't it? It leaves the whole
affair more mysterious than ever. I can't understand it," and I sat
down in my bewilderment and rubbed my head. I really felt for an
instant as though I had gone mentally blind. "There is one thing
sure," I added. "The killing, whatever its cause, was done out there
in the ante-room, not in here."
"What makes you think that?"
"We believe that Drouet came here to get Vantine's permission to open
this drawer and get the letters, no doubt representing himself as the
agent of their owner."
"I think it's a pretty good guess," said Godfrey, pensively.
"Our theory was that, after being shown into the ante-room, he
discovered the cabinet, tried to open the drawer, and was killed in
the attempt. But it is evident enough now that there is nothing about
that drawer to hurt any one."
"Yes, that's evident, I think," Godfrey agreed.
"If he had opened the drawer, then, he would have taken the letters,
since there was nothing to prevent him. Since they were not taken, it
follows, doesn't it, that he was killed before he had a chance at the
drawer? Perhaps he never saw the cabinet. He must have been killed
out there in the ante-room, a few minutes after Parks left."
"And how about Vantine?" Godfrey asked.
"I don't know," I said, helplessly. "He didn't want the letters--if
he opened the drawer at all, it was merely out of curiosity to see
how it worked. Only, of course, the same agency that killed Drouet,
killed him. Yes--and now that I think of it, it's certain he didn't
open the drawer, either."
"How do you know it's certain?"
"If he had opened the drawer," I pointed out, "and been killed in the
act of opening it, it would have been found open. I had thought that
perhaps it closed of itself, but you see that it does not. You have
to push it shut, and then snap the handle up into place."
"That's true," Godfrey assented, "and it sounds pretty conclusive. If
it is true of Vantine, it is also true of Drouet. The inference is,
then, that neither of them opened the drawer. Well, what follows?"
"I don't know," I said helplessly. "Nothing seems to follow."
"There is an alternative," Godfrey suggested.
"What is it?" I demanded.
"The hand that killed Drouet and Vantine may also have closed the
drawer," said Godfrey, and looked at me.
"And left the letters in it?" I questioned. "Surely not!"
He glanced at the shuttered window, and I understood to whom he
thought that hand belonged.
"Besides," I protested, "how would he get in? How would he get away?
What was he after, if he left the letters behind?" Then I rose
wearily. "I must be getting back to the office," I said. "This is
Saturday, and we close at two. Are you coming?"
"No," he answered; "if you don't mind, I'll sit here a while longer
and think things over, Lester. Perhaps I'll blunder on to the truth
yet!"