TRAGEDY
King’s guests jumped to their feet, moving toward Basil and Ruel and
all talking at once.
‘Of all the ham actors I ever saw----’
‘The trained dog act was quite human----’
‘My dear, if he doesn’t move this minute to prove he isn’t dead, I
think I shall scream!’
‘Come on, let’s lynch the murderer!’
‘All right, but who is he?’ Basil laughingly challenged this last
speaker.
His question precipitated a chorus of shouts, some crying ‘Ruel,’
others ‘Basil,’ and trying to make the reason for their conclusions
heard above the din.
It was a cosmopolitan gathering of men and women, ranging, as King
had remarked earlier in the evening to his secretary, ‘From youth,
almost to senility and back again.’ The former might best be typified
by Mrs. Tenney, vivacious and sophisticate from the tips of her smart
pumps to the remarks that gushed from her carmined lips; the latter
by Mrs. Bascom or ponderous Judge Brant, who said nothing, but smiled
with a tolerant, superior air.
The hubbub continued as they milled about Basil until he held up both
hands in a plea for silence.
‘For the love of crime, you’re making enough noise to wake the dead
there, but you haven’t a scrap of evidence on which to base your
judgments. How about searching for the clues first?’
‘May we question the suspects, you and Ruel?’ asked some one.
‘Certainly not. We’d only deny our guilt, and besides you’re supposed
to know all and more than a detective would when called upon the
scene. Haven’t you just _seen_ the murder committed?’
‘Insinuating I have cat’s eyes?’ laughed Mrs. Tenney.
Basil ignored the remark.
‘Now remember your instructions, and obey them as the last words of a
dying man--Ruel, the papers!’
The latter distributed to each of the guests a pencil and a sort of
handbill on which was drawn a plan of the room with a red ink ‘X’ to
mark the position of the body, as in a newspaper diagram. Below this
were tabulated spaces to be filled in with the name of the murderer,
list of clues found, deductive reasoning, and such details, ending
with a line for the signature of the person submitting it.
When these had been received, they all began to scurry about the
room, utterly disregarding most of the rules that had been imposed by
King, moving the few furnishings and looking in corners and under the
rugs as if a clue might be found like a lost jewel or elusive collar
button. The curtains over the windows were jerked aside until they
hung askew; they jostled one another in laughing eagerness, ran in
and out of the open window looking for footprints--and discovering
their own! Only the realistically crimson-daubed paper-cutter on the
floor and the motionless figure crouching over the stained blotter
escaped their onslaught.
The two actors in the play watched them for a time in smiling
derision. Standing together, they were much alike in height and
general build, save that Ruel’s body was thickset with hardened
muscles, Basil’s with flabbier flesh. But there the similarity
ended. Basil Stacey’s face, upon closer scrutiny, lost some of its
geniality in the weakness of its pointed chin that lacked strength
of character; his cheeks were too flaccid, and his eyes were faintly
underlined with telltale shadows. Ruel Moore, on the other hand,
seemed serious even when smiling, and his features, each in its own
way, emphasized the virile force that his companion’s lacked. Sun and
air had tanned them a healthy brown that accentuated the firmness of
his jaw against his white collar, while his clothes, donned to be in
keeping with his rôle in the play, were shabby and ill-fitting in
comparison with Basil’s immaculate evening dress.
After a brief word or two with Ruel, Basil crossed over to the safe
upon which he stepped for a platform and began to speak.
‘Now that the room looks as if an excavating party had done its
best,’ he shouted, ‘I should hope some one has found the missing
link. If that’s your idea of detectives at work----’
His further words were drowned in a roar of laughing denials, while
the guests, by common consent, crowded closer to him.
‘Every one satisfied he’s seen all there is to be seen?’
There were cries of ‘Yes,’ ‘No,’ and ‘But there wasn’t a darned clue
anywhere!’
‘All right, then who has solved the mystery?--No, don’t answer aloud.
Say it with words. Fill in your blanks and sign on the dotted line.’
So many objections were raised to this long-winded process that Basil
acceded to their wishes.
‘Very well. Those in favor of Ruel as the arch-criminal, say
“Aye”--contrary minded, “No.” The “Ayes” have it and Ruel seems to be
elected. “Ayes” two paces to the right of me, “Nos” to the left.--So.
Now, how did you know Ruel did it? Answer in rotation.’
‘He had the motive. You see, he wanted to kill King before the will
was altered, and naturally thought it would be in the safe, so----’
‘That may be feminine intuition, but it’s no proof. Next!’ cut in
Basil imperiously.
‘Ruel is the stronger of you two and the victim died with scarcely
a sound from a single blow. Besides, you wore a slicker and the
murderer didn’t. That proves----’
‘Nothing, my dear Watson. I would have taken off the slicker before
killing him--if I had done it.’
‘I found a pebble on the floor, but darned if I see how that helps,
though of course I know Ruel did it,’ was Mrs. Tenney’s contribution.
‘In the name of justice, can’t any one produce some real evidence?’
exclaimed Basil in mock despair.
‘I can,’ spoke up Judge Brant confidently, elbowing his way to the
front of the group. ‘The proof is to be found in the characters of
the two suspects. Ruel opposed King openly; Basil was cowed by him.
Now, my experience, if I might say so, has dealt with many similar
cases and I could cite numerous instances to prove my contention. The
man who would take such a chance to kill another is certainly not
the one who cringes in his presence as Basil did, or was supposed to
do, let us say. That’s conclusive, so----’
‘It would never convict him in this court, Judge.--What do you say,
Dr. New?’
The man Basil addressed was thin, almost emaciated, with a narrow
face and jet black beard. It was a keen, alert face, however, and
when he spoke his voice was curtly authoritative.
‘I believe the real clue might be found on the paper-cutter, though
I haven’t examined it closely. There must be finger-prints on it
because he didn’t put on gloves until after he had used it for the
murder.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere!’ encouraged Basil. ‘Look it over,
Doctor.’
One of the elder women gasped audibly as the latter picked up the
paper-knife by its pointed blade and studied the handle critically.
‘They’re here, but blurred. Can’t make them out enough--too faint.’
‘Then even you fail as a witness.--Who’s next?’
One by one the other members of the group made suggestions,
elaborated theories, only to have them tossed aside by Basil as
unsubstantiated by conclusive facts, hence unqualified to compete for
the prize. At last he turned to those who had selected him as the
criminal. There were only two: demure Mrs. Bascom who looked like
the wife of a country clergyman, and a pert young matron dressed in
a startling costume of cerise and blue silk. The latter spoke first
with the studied carelessness of one used to holding the center of
attention quite facilely.
‘I know you did it, Basil, simply because every one else believes
Ruel guilty! In detective stories, it’s always the one you least
suspect!’
She received a laugh of applause, but Basil shook his head.
‘And you, Mrs. Bascom?--You’re my last hope, I’m afraid.’
The elderly woman flushed slightly as so many eyes fixed on her, but
she spoke in a soft, precise tone, nipping off each word crisply.
‘I have three reasons for knowing you are guilty. In the first
place, the--the murderer put on his gloves before touching the safe
so as not to leave incriminating marks, presumably, in the heat of
his anger, forgetting to do so before. A man like Ruel, if bent on
revenge, would not have thought of this at all. In the second place,’
she checked it off on her fingers unconsciously, ‘you had the only
real motive--to regain those papers. No rational man would murder
the relative of the woman he was about to marry, especially when he
declared money was no object to him.
‘Finally, I noticed that you are left-handed. I saw this before the
play. The paper-knife was on the floor to the left of--of Mr. King,
exactly where it would have fallen after a left-handed man struck the
blow.’
A cheer went up from the guests, but she scarcely noticed the
interruption in the flush of her eagerness.
‘A lot depends upon what those papers were, of course, and I’d like
to look in the safe at them. The murderer left empty-handed, so they
might prove to be a valuable clue----’ She hesitated questioningly,
adding, ‘That is, if they were really part of the play as I think.’
At Basil’s nod of acquiescence, she stepped forward and swung open
the half-shut door which no one had bothered to touch. The others
pressed closer to see what would be revealed.
A thin sheaf of papers held together by an elastic band lay on the
floor of the inner compartment. It was obviously the one that Basil
had given to King in the play. At first glance, the sheets seemed to
be blank, but the central one bore upon its outer fold the words--‘To
Whom It May Concern.’
Mrs. Bascom read this aloud, then faced Basil.
‘It is part of the plan, then, not something personal? Shall I open
it?’
‘Search me! I’m sure I never heard of a detective stopping to ask
such a question, though,’ he countered, stepping down from the
impromptu pedestal as if anticipating the dénouement that would
follow. ‘Open it first and ask questions after, would be my advice.’
There was a breathless silence as she unfolded the paper and began to
read its contents to herself, a smile of satisfaction spreading out
from the corners of her mouth.
‘Read it--read it aloud,’ clamored the others, surging about her in
an attempt to read over her shoulder.
Two men laughingly seized her by the elbows and lifted her to the top
of the safe before she could demur. She flushed again, cleared her
throat, then began to read:
‘Be you so keen as you seem
And so wise as this paper to find,
Some inkling of truth’s in your mind.
I’m dead, but you, Sleuth, can avenge me;
Let others now see why they’re blind!’
‘A cryptogram!’ wailed one of the women in the crowd. ‘That’s not
fair. After we worked so hard----’
Basil snorted aloud at this, but Mrs. Tenney interrupted with an
exclamation.
‘The old plotter! Now I understand about that will! I’ve been
wondering why he picked on me as a witness.’
‘What will? What do you mean?’ cried several in unison.
‘Why, he called three of us to witness a will this afternoon with
great formality. Of course I didn’t read it, but now I doubt if it
was a will at all. Probably some gibberish--part of his scheme to use
it in the play, I imagine.’
‘And that’s why Basil has been flaunting his left hand--doing things
to attract attention to the fact he is left-handed, I mean,’ added
another.
‘But this doesn’t help us to solve the cryptogram.--Have you any idea
what the jingle means, Mrs. Bascom?’
‘Surely. It’s the key to the murder or the corroboration of it,’
answered the latter, smiling down jubilantly upon their upturned
faces.
‘Then you were right? It was Basil?’
‘Of course. See, the first letter of each line, read downward, spells
his name!’ She held the paper facing them to prove her statement.
‘So you think you have me cornered, eh?’ mocked Basil suddenly. ‘Yet
what if I denied it? What if I told you that paper was only a false
scent and not a true clue at all?’
‘Why--why that’s not fair! You’ve got to confess,’ gasped Mrs.
Bascom, her triumph wilting at the very thought of all her careful
deductions being overthrown.
‘I won’t, though!’
‘If you don’t, the--the corpse will rise up to accuse you!’ she
retorted with a flash of inspiration.
The guests laughed and applauded her challenge, turning expectantly
toward Gerard King. But he did not stir.
‘Now, you see? He said he’d not move until the murderer was _proved_
guilty, so you’ll get no help from him!’
Mrs. Bascom became a beet red. She was normally a timid, rather shy
woman in a crowd, though _tête-à-tête_ she could hold her own with
the most agile-witted. A resident of the village of Crookshaven a
mile away, she had always amused King by her good nature and rather
tart common sense. He included her in all his house-parties, both
because she enjoyed them, and because she made herself useful as a
sort of hostess.
The necessity of playing up to her share in the game had, until now,
overcome her timidity, even elated her to such an extent that she
was positively enjoying her triumph. But this doubting and defying
of her proof upset her, brought back a consciousness of her former
diffidence in a devastating rush.
She felt she must say or do something, if only to end this torment
and turn their eyes away from her. Twice she tried to speak, but a
hot lump choked her voice, and she could think of no adequate retort.
Then anger, half at her own foolishness, half at Basil’s insistence
upon prolonging the cross-examination, came to her rescue. She jumped
down from the safe, starting over toward King’s motionless figure.
‘We’ll see if he won’t help me!’ she muttered as she advanced, laying
her hands on his shoulders and shaking him. ‘Mr. King, I----’
Her appeal stopped short. The flush swirled from her cheeks and her
outstretched hands drew slowly back from his shoulders. Her eyes
dilated as she stood there motionless, and her voice quavered as she
whispered, ‘Look--look!’
Her gentle shake had moved King’s head so that now it peered out
above his elbow. The face was bloodless, the eyes glazed and staring.
It was the face of a dead man!
Dr. New pushed rudely forward, halting at the corner of the desk and
turning to face the guests, his expression alertly professional.
‘Some of you men carry chairs into the next room for the ladies.
Escort them there and return immediately.’
His crisp words broke the spell, were punctuated by gasps and indrawn
breaths.
‘Mrs. Bascom, if you----’
‘I--I’m all right. I won’t faint, Doctor,’ she whispered, swaying
slightly, but gaining control of herself and resolutely leading the
way toward the door.
‘Please go there and wait, all of you ladies. Remember, we don’t know
anything certain as yet,’ soothed the doctor, shielding King’s body
with his own while the women, in a daze, moved out of the room. ‘We
will join you in a few moments.’
When they had gone and the men were reassembled, he turned swiftly
toward the body, bending closer to examine it. There was no need to
touch it. Gerald King was dead.
Dropping to his knees beside the chair, the doctor scrutinized the
stain on the dressing-gown, hidden from casual glance by the position
of the body as it bent forward toward the desk. It was a dark blotch
that surrounded a short slit in the cloth just over the victim’s
heart. Gingerly he untied the cord that belted it in at the waist,
folded it back enough to reveal the pleated dress shirt clotted with
blood about a small, deep wound.
His eyes darted from one face to another as he slowly stood up and
spoke.
‘Gentlemen, Mr. King died almost instantly while we were present in
this room. He was killed by some sort of a knife thrust that pierced
his heart. That, and his tight vest, account for the comparatively
small bleeding, for, of course, his heart ceased pumping the blood
almost instantly. The weapon was much the same size and shape as
that paper-cutter, I should say.’ He pointed toward the knife that
he had replaced on the desk a few minutes ago. ‘Obviously that is
not the one, however. Its stains are red ink or paint, certainly not
blood. Aside from that, I would have unhesitatingly named it as the
murderer’s weapon.’
‘You’re sure--he’s dead?’ muttered one of the men, unaware of the
incongruity of his question.
The doctor nodded silently as his gaze still searched their faces,
becoming fixed at last on Basil’s--pale, aghast, its lips gaping in
horror.
‘I am rather a stranger to most of you,’ began Dr. New, choosing
his words with care. ‘Perhaps that is fortunate, in a way, for
it will allow me to ask some questions impersonally--without any
accusation of prejudice. You see, I was King’s friend, and if there
is anything--if any of you can tell me----’
‘What’s that paper?’ interrupted one of the men quickly, pointing to
a sheet which lay just beyond King’s elbow on the desk.
‘The fake will he used in the play, I suppose.’
The doctor was about to continue when Judge Brant gave a startled
exclamation. He had leaned forward to glance at the paper and now
straightened up with a look of incredulity.
‘Fake will?--That remains to be seen. It looks like a formal will
in his own handwriting, duly signed by witnesses, and it makes Miss
Hawley his heiress.’
‘You mean--it’s not a fake? It’s legal?’ The question was Basil’s as
he pressed forward, hardly realizing he had spoken aloud.
‘It appears so. If it was signed knowingly as a will, witnessed by
the three parties each in the presence of the others, it would be
legal. Yet it can’t be! He said nothing to me about drawing such a
document. And no man in his senses would have written such a will
simply to use as a stage prop in a play.’
‘But Mrs. Tenney, I think it was, intimated that was exactly what
did happen!’ said Dr. New, still watching Basil’s face.
‘Then--then it stands. But I can’t understand----’
‘Is her real name and all given?’ asked Basil in a whisper.
‘Yes. On the surface, everything seems quite in order. I know it’s
King’s signature and if the others are _bona fide_----’
‘This all appears to upset you strangely, Mr. Stacey,’ interrupted
Dr. New suddenly. ‘May I ask you why?’
‘Nothing--it doesn’t. The surprise--the thought of all his plans for
distributing his wealth----’ He paused in confusion.
‘Well?’
‘Dr. New, I--It was because I am an interested party to King’s
estate. He had told me I was to receive a small share in it.
Naturally, I was--astonished.’
‘So? Well, tell me about your part in the play,’ replied the doctor
levelly.
‘Of course. I was so stunned for a moment, I’d forgotten that.’
‘Yet not so stunned as to wonder and ask questions about the will,
eh?’
‘I’ve explained that already.’
‘Go on, then, about the play.’ Dr. New sounded skeptical.
‘It was this way: Ruel and I----Where is Ruel now?’
For the first time the men noticed Ruel Moore was the only one absent
from the group.
‘He was here a moment ago, I’m sure,’ said one.
‘I saw him go out of the room just before Basil started to----’
‘Never mind that. He’s not here now,’ broke in the doctor curtly.
‘Some one see if by chance he is outside anywhere.’
He was not found.
‘Let us hear the rest of Mr. Stacey’s story. We’ll make a more
thorough search in a moment. Go on, please.’
‘Why, he did it--the pseudo-murder, I mean. You see Mr. King
concocted the scheme of the play, mapped out the parts and so on,
though some of the details, such as the will, the note in the safe,
and such clues, he kept to himself. I was supposed to act the--the
murderer just as Mrs. Bascom deduced. My finger-marks were all
planted on the paper-cutter in advance as one of the main clues--that
and the way I was to drop it on the floor. But Ruel and I planned a
little joke of our own. We decided to switch rôles just to confuse
things and fool King himself. Ruel was to drop the knife on King’s
right instead of----’
‘But it was found on his left!’
‘That’s what I can’t understand. We thought----’
‘Keep to what you did, please.’
‘I’ve told you all I know. We did as planned.--That’s why Ruel’s
fingers confused the prints of mine, why I challenged Mrs. Bascom
and all. But of course he can explain. He wouldn’t--couldn’t have
done--this,’ Basil added in defense of his absent friend.
‘Then who did?’ The judge’s voice unconsciously snapped. ‘We saw with
our own eyes--that is, we--er----’
‘We must find Ruel Moore at once,’ Dr. New interrupted the judge’s
floundering. ‘Have you any idea where he might have gone, Stacey?’
‘Perhaps he--No!’
‘Well?’ prodded the doctor as Basil closed his lips firmly.
‘I don’t know where he went.’
‘Come, Stacey. This is not the time for hedging. Where do you think
he went then?’
Basil looked away in indecision, then answered slowly, ‘I was only
guessing, but it occurred to me he might have gone after----’
‘Basil--Basil!--Oh, there you are. I want a word with you.’
The men whirled about to face Ruel who had just entered by the open
window. He was breathing rapidly.
‘Why--Is anything the matter?’ he called tensely as no one spoke. His
face was already pale under its tan; his muscles were taut, and he
seemed to be under some strain.
‘Mr. King is dead--murdered!’ cut in Dr. New sharply. ‘He was stabbed
in the heart.’
‘King--dead--murdered?’ muttered Ruel, swaying forward and gazing
blankly from one to another. ‘But it’s impossible! I scarcely touched
him at all. I----’
‘Then you admit you acted the part of the murderer in the play?’
‘Of course. Basil and I----’
‘Stacey told us about that.’
‘But King was alive then. He whispered to me.’
‘Before you struck the fake blow?’
‘Yes.’ Ruel did not seem to understand the purport of these
questions. ‘He can’t be dead!--If this is another joke----’
‘See for yourself!’ The doctor stepped aside abruptly, and Ruel’s own
eyes confirmed his doubts.
‘You don’t think--you don’t mean _I_ did it?’
‘You were the only one near him by your own confession,’ pointed out
the doctor.
‘But I tell you, I didn’t kill him! It’s preposterous.’
‘Words, Mr. Moore--your denials against the evidence of our own eyes.’
‘It was dark. You couldn’t actually see what happened.’
‘All the more reason the burden of proof rests upon you.’
‘Proof? How can I prove it, except to give you my word! I never
killed King. I swear it.’
He was about to deny his guilt vehemently again, when it suddenly
seemed to dawn upon him that the ladies were not in the room. This
recalled the matter about which he had been seeking Basil. He became
still more agitated as he spoke.
‘Basil, have you seen Sylvia--Miss Hawley?’
‘Why, no, not since the play.’
‘She’s disappeared--vanished!’ muttered Ruel in a flat, lifeless
voice. ‘I’ve been looking for her everywhere. That thumping noise--as
if something were being dragged along the floor just after she
stopped typing in the play. It sounded queer. I looked for her to ask
about how she made it. I couldn’t find her--anywhere. The servants
were below in the barn, preparing the supper King had planned to
serve there, but they swear she did not come down the stairs. She
didn’t come out the window, so----’ He gestured vaguely, hopelessly.
But no one followed his gesture. All eyes automatically turned to
rest upon the will--the will that made Sylvia Hawley an heiress!