A LIE
‘Much better, Mrs. B.,’ Sylvia Hawley answered her inquiry. ‘I’ve
slept for hours. I don’t think I’ll attempt getting up just yet,
however. If Inspector Sewell wants to ask questions as you say, bring
him up now and I’ll answer them.’
It was mid-morning. Sylvia had just finished the breakfast Mrs.
Bascom had solicitously brought her and now sat propped up in
bed. Beyond its pallor, her face showed scarcely any traces of
the ordeal through which she had so recently passed. A becomingly
ruffled negligee had been thrown over her shoulders and she seemed
even younger than her twenty-six years, the slight disarray of her
bobbed hair adding to the effect of careless youth and softening an
expression which, to the observant Mrs. Bascom, was a trifle too
tense and nervous.
Tactfully, Mrs. Bascom set about to relieve this strain as well as to
caution Sylvia about certain matters, such as any reference to the
presentiments she had felt while in the chute.
‘What it is to still have youth!’ she began cheerfully. ‘One would
scarcely suspect you’d even been up to a late party, much less a
harrowing adventure.’
‘I do look--normal?’ responded Sylvia, quite too seriously.
‘And bewitching, my dear, to say the least. You certainly do not look
as if you needed any help, especially mine, but I’m going to offer
it, nevertheless. Not only do I want to help you, but also Mr. King.
He was my friend and I----Oh, I suppose it’s all quite foolish of me,
but it seems as if I had a personal responsibility to discharge.
‘You know I was the one to solve the pseudo-mystery of the play as
well as find he was really dead. In the cryptogram jingle he left,
telling it was Basil who was supposed to have killed him, there was a
line--“I’m dead, but you can avenge me.” I can’t get that out of my
head, somehow.’
‘Why, Mrs. B., I didn’t know you felt--that way.’ Sylvia hesitated,
seemed about to continue with some important remark from the
seriousness of her expression, but instead she patted the older
woman’s arm affectionately.
‘I know. You think it’s foolish of me and sentimental--to take those
words literally--but I do.’
‘I’m sure you’ll help us--me, Mrs. B. It’s not going to be easy, but
I----’
‘That’s what I wanted to speak to you about, Sylvia dear. There are
some things you don’t already know and I want to advise--to help you
about them. For instance, when you used the typewriter during the
play, what did you write?’
‘I don’t remember--some jumble or other that occurred to me there in
the dark. It was quite mechanical and--Yes, I do recall part of it.
I started to write off that practice line all stenographers learn,
about being the time for all good men, and so on. But I wrote only a
few words, as I remember, then tapped whatever keys happened to be
under my fingers to finish out the line.--But why do you ask that?’
Briefly, Mrs. Bascom told of the finding of the similar numbers on
that sheet to those on the paper in King’s dressing-gown pocket.
‘But I never heard of them before!’ exclaimed Sylvia. ‘I didn’t even
know I was making figures at all.’
‘You’ll have to explain that coincidence to Inspector Sewell,
however. Frankly, he suspects you of--well, complicity!’
Sylvia closed her eyes suddenly, thus robbing her face of an
expression which Mrs. Bascom was trying to catalogue. It seemed
almost as if a look of relief had showed briefly in her eyes, but
that was impossible under the circumstances. It should have been fear
or anger at being suspected. Yet Sylvia’s mouth, instead of drooping,
was set into a misleading willfulness and satisfaction.
‘Of course, he is only a muddle-headed fool to believe such a thing
about you--or Ruel, for that matter, but----’
‘I’ve changed my mind. I shall get up and see Sewell and the others,
since you say they are here, at once.’
Sylvia’s eyes flew open again, but they were expressionless and only
added strength to the determined set of her mouth, almost a bitter
hardness. Her voice cut into Mrs. Bascom’s soothing murmur with an
abrupt rudeness.
‘But, my dear, you don’t seem to understand. He suspects you, and I
want to warn you about certain----’
‘Thank you, I don’t need your warning.’
Startled at this brusque dismissal of her aid, Mrs. Bascom again
protested, but Sylvia did not listen, throwing back the bedcovers and
awkwardly swinging her feet to the floor. Seeing this determination,
Mrs. Bascom closed her lips sternly and did not offer to assist
Sylvia as she dressed. The latter seemed in a nervous haste to put on
her clothes, so much so that she fumbled with them and bit her lip
in annoyance as her fingers seemed to become all thumbs. When she
was ready, she stooped to secure the cane which she had thrust under
the bed after the disturbance of the night, and, as she straightened
again, their eyes met and held for an instant. Mrs. Bascom’s showed
her hurt and resentment, yet Sylvia’s did not change or appear to
take notice of this obvious appeal.
In spite of her pique, Mrs. Bascom could not endure the sight of
Sylvia’s halting progress toward the door, so drew the latter’s free
arm over her shoulder and thus bore much of her weight as they moved
toward the stairs. Here she called to Basil and Dr. New for aid. The
two men hurried up the stairs and, learning her wish, carried Sylvia
between them to the smoking-room where the judge and Sewell were
talking together.
It was an oddly comfortable room, which had formerly served as the
kitchen in the old-fashioned house. A huge brick fireplace with a
built-in oven filled its longer wall. This had been kept intact even
to the utensils which still hung about it, including a more modern
corn popper and toast rack. A variety of low chairs mutely beckoned
with lazy allure to any man who desired to smoke, spill his ashes
carelessly into the fireplace, or even prop up his feet on the low
brick oven for sheer comfort.
When Sylvia had been established in a winged chair and her injured
foot placed on another before it, Dr. New bent for a brief,
professional examination of the ankle. Running his fingers over the
surgeon’s plaster that encased it, he nodded to show his approval,
then resumed his seat.
‘Well, Miss Hawley,’ said Sewell with a cordial smile of greeting,
‘I’m right glad to see you again. I was kind of beginnin’ to worry
about you, till Mrs. B. here decided to show up the whole durned
constabulary by listenin’ to a ghost an’ takin’ him--or rather
her--serious.’
‘At least I can use the common sense the good Lord gave me,’ retorted
Mrs. Bascom tartly.
‘Yep--only you took your time about it,’ murmured Sewell slyly.
Mrs. Bascom understood this reference to her telephone message and
began to bridle with another retort, but she did not get a chance to
use it.
Sylvia had not smiled at this brief exchange of amenities, though
normally she had always been the first to appreciate and even abet
their word battles. Her attitude confirmed her serious expression and
Ezra Sewell, responsive to a mood, though apparently taking no notice
of it, met it squarely after having thus tested it.
‘Now, Miss Hawley, let’s get right down to the road-bed, as you might
say. There’s some interestin’ things you can tell us an’ if you’re
feelin’ up to it--’
‘Of course I am.--Shall I tell you what I know about--about the
play and all, or do you prefer to question me first?’ She spoke in
a level, quick tone as if it were some sort of a formal business
interview with strangers.
‘You go ahead, an’ I’ll pick up the leavin’s afterwards.’
‘There isn’t much I know. Of course you’ve been told all about the
entertainment Mr. King planned. My part in it was quite obvious up to
the time I was supposed to frighten away the intruder by writing on
the typewriter. I wrote what was on that paper you found, according
to Mrs. Bascom. Then I stepped back, wrenched my ankle, and fell
into that hole--the feed chute. I heard the confusion, but could not
make myself heard. Then some one replaced the cover to the chute and
I fainted. I was in a sort of stupor from then on until Mrs. Bascom
found me.’
‘Land o’ Goshun! An’ they say a woman can’t be brief!’ chuckled the
inspector when she stopped speaking. ‘Why, you ain’t told us nothin’
yet.’
Sylvia sat silent, waiting for him to continue and totally
unresponsive to his efforts to draw her into a more freely
conversational mood. Desisting in this attempt, Sewell began to ask
questions in rapid succession.
‘Before the play, now. Mr. King seemed happy, not scared or anythin’?’
‘Apprehensive? Not at all. He’d worked up the scheme of the play
carefully and was anxious for it to get over successfully.’
‘Anybody know about it, except you ones that was in it?’
‘Not to my knowledge. He swore us to secrecy to insure its success,
so I doubt if he told any one else.’
‘The blotter on his desk, was it a new one?’
‘Yes, I changed it just before the play. But why do you----’
‘Had the room been cleaned recently?’
‘That afternoon. I helped Mrs. Dobson air it of tobacco smoke, dust
and generally clean it.’
‘So she said.--An’ all the windows were opened?’
‘For a time. I was the one who closed them before Mr. King hung the
draperies.’
‘Did you lock ’em?’
‘I did.’
‘Did you happen to notice the sills?’
‘Not particularly, though I swept them just before closing the
windows.’
‘In the show, now. Could you see anythin’ when you came in to open
the safe?’
‘No, but I did not look specially. I knew Basil, or Ruel as it turned
out to be, was there in the darkness, of course.’
‘An’ when you did that writin’, why did you choose them words an’
figures?’
‘I wrote without thinking. It was part of a sentence we typists used
to practice on for speed. “Now is the time for every good man to come
to the aid of the party.” I started that, then tapped a few keys
haphazardly, just as my fingers happened to be above them. I don’t
even remember how much of that sentence I wrote. I mean, I didn’t
until I was told about that paper.’
‘Perhaps you’d seen those figures before somewhere an’ they came to
your memory automatic, eh?’
‘Possibly, but I don’t recall ever having seen or heard them.’ She
looked away in an obvious attempt to avoid his eyes, and her fingers
plucked at her dress nervously.
‘Certain sure, Miss Hawley? It’s kind of important, you know.’
‘I know. Mrs. Bascom explained that to me.’
He waited for a more direct reiteration of her denial, but when
none came, he did not press the question, glancing sidewise at Mrs.
Bascom’s face. She was intently watching Sylvia, her mouth gaping
slightly in astonishment, a look of incredulity in her eyes.
‘Now, then. When this cover to the chute was put on again, what’d you
hear?’
‘Nothing. I was waiting for the confusion to stop so I could call
out, when suddenly it was muffled and I saw the cover had been
replaced, that’s all.’
‘No footsteps, like?’
‘Possibly, but very faintly.’
‘An’ that was all you knew then?’
Sylvia nodded in the affirmative, her eyes darting a swift look at
Mrs. Bascom. The latter exhaled her breath with a whistling sound
as if she could hold it no longer, then, meeting Sewell’s gaze, she
flushed and spoke with an asperity that was not altogether genuine.
‘What would you expect an injured person, shut up in that chute, to
hear, I’d like to know?’
‘Dunno. I was just askin’ that question to find out,’ retorted the
inspector dryly. ‘Now, about yourself, Miss Hawley. If you’d tell
us----’
‘My life history?’ she interrupted listlessly. ‘I’m an orphan,
working for my living and have since I was twelve. I can give you the
usual references, of course, but there’s nothing much to say.’
‘I’d like to have ’em later, just for form, sort of.--Where’d you
meet Mr. King?’
‘In Mr. Stacey’s office where I was working at the time.’
‘I see. An’ you left him to become King’s secretary?’
‘I can answer that,’ broke in Basil, speaking for the first time. ‘It
was the only thing I have against King. He stole my one competent
secretary.’ Basil smiled at Sylvia, but she did not respond to his
flattery. ‘She’d only been with me a few weeks--just long enough
to be indispensable--when I did some work for King. He spotted her
ability even when I tried to hide her, and bribed her away.’
‘It was a generous offer I could not afford to let pass,’ added
Sylvia stiffly.
‘So you didn’t know King before Basil did, eh? But you must have
heard somethin’ about his life, King’s, I mean, before he came to New
York?’
‘He never mentioned it directly. Our arrangement was strictly a
business one, of course, though he treated me like a daughter. I
took his dictation and helped him with social affairs, but never
inquired into his life. He was reticent about that--quite naturally,
I thought. His friends can tell you----’
‘No, they can’t, seems like. No one appears to know much about
him--before he came to New York--unless you gentlemen do, eh?’
‘Not I,’ responded Dr. New, ‘though I’d never thought of it before. I
attended him as his physician, though I gave rather nominal advice,
medically speaking. He was sound as an oak. I liked him from the
start and we simply dropped in upon one another quite naturally. I
admired him and accepted him at face value, but as for his past----’
He spread out his slender fingers in a deprecating gesture.
‘It’s extraordinary,’ added the judge. ‘I met him when he came to me
as a client, but even as his lawyer, he told me nothing. It was never
necessary or pertinent to ask, you see. As a judge of character, I
considered him a----’
‘Oh, I ain’t castin’ no slurs on him. Guess we all know he was an
exceptional man. But it’s queer, though it’s human. We accept some at
face value, an’ require nothin’, an’ others we just naturally never
accept, for no reason at all except likes an’ dislikes.--Anybody know
where he lived before New York?’
They all shook their heads.
‘Well, now, comin’ to this burglary business of last night. He was
kind of well off, I guess?’
‘More than “kind of,”’ said Basil to whom the question seemed
addressed. ‘I handled some of his business--bonds, you know--but even
that was enough to insure a moderate income. Besides, he did quite a
bit of writing and publishing, I believe.’
‘Keep any cash here as you know about--or valuable papers an’ things,
Miss Hawley?’
‘I should say so, although I don’t know accurately. He attended to
all money matters himself. He was generous and liberal, and always
seemed to have money on hand when it was needed.’
‘Guess I know he was generous an’ so does most of the village.--Well,
probably ’twas thievin’, then. Of course when you, as knows most
about his things, get a chance to check up, we can tell for sure.
Where did he keep his valuables?’
‘In a safe behind a panel in the library.’
‘Not in his desk, hey? Then seems like the thief didn’t get much
after all.’
‘There were some important papers in the desk,’ volunteered Sylvia,
looking away pointedly. ‘I’m not sure what they were, but he spoke of
attending to them after the house-party.’
‘Well, let’s quit for a while an’ let you look ’em over,’ decided
Inspector Sewell. ‘Guess you’ve told us about everythin’, Miss
Hawley, an’ helped a bit, leastwise about some things.’
‘May I ask a question or two?’ interrupted the judge.
Sylvia nodded, fixing her eyes on his face and bracing herself as if
for something she had dreaded and expected. Inspector Sewell noticed
that her hands clenched until the knuckles showed white as the dress
that almost concealed them.
‘It’s about that will. You’ve been told about the one King used in
the play?’
Sylvia moistened her lips and nodded slowly.
‘There’s one thing that has occurred to me in that connection. In the
sequence of the play, you tore up something you took from the safe.
Was it supposed to have been the will?’
‘Yes. He’d planned----He forgot to put it there as he’d planned. I
saw this--from the door--so carried in a blank sheet--tore it up.’
Her words jerked as if forced out by an effort of will power.
‘Then but for a chance mistake, it would have been destroyed!’
muttered Judge Brant. ‘Did you know it was a real, legally executed
will?’
‘No--that is, not until Mrs. Bascom told me.’
‘Well, I’ve interviewed the witnesses to it, and it was quite in
order. Yet I can’t understand it. I know the contents of his previous
will, made less than a month ago, and he said nothing about altering
it so radically. This one is his last, hence stands, unless----’
‘I want it to be probated!’ interrupted Sylvia in a small, dry voice.
‘No, no, my child, that’s the term you mean for putting it into
force. Now I’m sure you----’
‘I do understand, and that’s what I shall insist upon!’
‘What?’
They all stared incredulously at her, the judge leaning forward and
cupping a hand behind his ear as if he had not heard her words.
‘The will in my favor--I want you to probate it.’ Her voice steadied,
her eyes met his inflexibly.
‘But I can’t do that! I’m sure it was somehow just a mistake--a part
of his plan for the play. I thought of course you’d understand and
help us show that----’
‘He told me he would provide for me in his will,’ interrupted Sylvia.
‘And he did, handsomely, but naturally he did not mean to give you
everything.’
‘He has left me everything. You yourself said it was legally drawn
up.’
‘Sylvia, you don’t know what you’re saying!’ cried Mrs. Bascom,
suddenly recovering from her astonishment. ‘You know Mr. King had
other plans. He’d told us all about them--many times. You know there
must be some mistake about this will.’
‘Let’s hear what she has to say,’ suggested Basil. ‘She must have
some foundation for all this. I think I’ve a right to say this, as
I’m an interested party, you know. He read the clause in his previous
will that included me.’
‘One thing at a time,’ said Sewell slowly. ‘Just explain a bit, Miss
Hawley.’
‘There’s nothing to explain. I knew about that will. He told me he
was going to make it--in my favor.’
‘When?’
‘A--a few days ago. I--I don’t remember exactly,’ stammered Sylvia,
her assurance suddenly collapsing, her pale face working, her eyes
restless and avoiding theirs. It was scarcely a tone of conviction or
the manner of one who told the truth.
‘What did he say, exactly? Were there any other witnesses to the
interview?’ snapped the judge.
‘I don’t remember--No,’ she answered both questions at once.
‘But, Miss Hawley, think. If you insist upon this, it will
seem--people will think----’
‘I don’t care what people think,’ she cried wildly. ‘The money is
mine--mine, and I intend to have it.’
She broke down completely, sobbing and wringing her hands. It was
then Dr. New interrupted quietly but firmly.
‘Wait. She’s not strong enough for this sort of thing yet, Sewell. We
must get her to bed again at once, or she’ll become hysterical and
have a bad relapse.’
At a gesture from him, Basil assisted, and together they carried
her to her room, Mrs. Bascom following in a daze, shaking her head
from side to side and moving automatically, though she carried out
the doctor’s instructions quite capably. When Sylvia had been put to
bed, he procured a sedative and watched over her until she had become
calm and fallen into a doze. Then he arose to leave, and Mrs. Bascom
followed him into the hall, stopping him with a touch on his arm.
‘You don’t suppose--the shock and all, I mean--could that have
affected her--made her temporarily forget things?’
‘It’s quite possible. Of course the shock and strain were severe,
yet she did seem rational enough when she first started answering
questions,’ he replied, not suspecting all that prompted this
question.
It was not only Sylvia’s determination about the will that troubled
Mrs. Bascom. She had heard her story the night before, had just
listened to her answers which omitted several details and avoided
other pitfalls with evasions that amounted almost to lies. True,
she herself had not been entirely straightforward with Ezra Sewell,
but that was different. At least she had not told direct lies,
while Sylvia----Yet what was right? Had Sylvia been so confused and
bewildered that she had not realized what she was saying? No, not
entirely, at least. The presence of the knife, the cut and stained
dress proved the account of the tap on the shoulder. And if that much
was true, it seemed evident the rest was also clear.
Mechanically she heard what the doctor was saying to the other men as
she followed him into the smoking-room once more.
‘Miss Hawley has been walking on that foot, Sewell. I think in view
of that fact you should tell about what occurred in your room,
Judge,’ he said sternly.
‘I’ve already done so. But are you sure she’s walked on it?’
‘I can tell by the bandaging--yes.’
‘You went into his room, Doctor? You saw that wallet was lyin’ on
the floor an’ its papers scattered about as if some one had been
searchin’ ’em?’
‘Yes, Inspector.’
‘But she stepped on her foot before I called you up to help her down
the stairs!’ interrupted Mrs. Bascom, coming to Sylvia’s aid without
stopping to think of her words. ‘I don’t see what you are trying to
insinuate--why you----’
‘There now, Ellen B. Let’s not argue about such things now. Wait till
we kind of digest like what everythin’ means. What looks simple,
ain’t, and t’other way round. There’s Ruel in jail with enough
evidence to make him out guilty, an’ there’s her with a lot of queer
goin’s on. Seems like Dr. New, the Judge, an’ me are the only ones
that can tell straight stories, so far.’
‘You left me out of that,’ grinned Basil.
‘So I did!’ answered the inspector quizzically. But he did not amend
his statement.
His eyes, half mocking, half serious, met Mrs. Bascom’s and held them
for a moment. No one noticed, however, that she did not try to add
her name to the list of omissions!