Zizi
“Mrs Lindsay?” Zizi said, by way of interrogative greeting, and, with
a second nod to Louis, she crossed the room and sat down by Phyllis.
“Miss Lindsay,” and the visitor took both Phyllis’ hands in her own.
“I am so glad to know you. May I help you?”
“Oh, I hope you can,” Phyllis said, fascinated by the strange child.
For Zizi looked like a child. Little, slim, and of a lithe, nervous
personality, her big, dark eyes gazed into Phyllis’ with an expression
of intense interest in her and her affairs.
“You’re troubled,” she went on, as Phyllis responded to her evident
friendliness. “But it will be all right; Pennington Wise will clear up
the mystery and you will be glad again.”
“You queer little thing!” Millicent exclaimed. “Turn around here and
let me look at you.”
Zizi, turned, smiling, her white teeth just showing between her
scarlet lips, her eyes dancing, cheeks glowing, and her black hair
muffed over her ears—a highly-colored picture of vivid, restless
vitality.
“Yes, Mrs Lindsay,” she responded in her low, yet clear voice, “and
please like me, for I’m going to stay here.”
“Stay here!”
“Yes, please, during the investigation. Mr Wise will come and go, but
I have to be here all the time.”
“Why, certainly—of course, if you wish——”
“Good!” Louis cried; “glad to have you stay, Miss——”
“Zizi,” she said, “just Zizi.” And the smile she flashed on Louis was
the complete undoing of that impressionable young man.
“And now to business,” Zizi went on, her manner changing subtly from
the witch-like, fascinating child to the energetic young woman. “Tell
me things.”
“We’ve already told Mr Wise about the case——” Millicent began.
“Not the kind of things you tell him—other things. About this Mr
Barry, now. Has he a high temper?”
Phyllis stared-What had Phil Barry’s temper to do with the murder of
Robert Gleason?
“You see,” Zizi explained, “if he had, the note might have meant he’d
kill his rival—if not it might have meant a lesser threat.”
“He has a high temper,” Phyllis admitted, reluctantly; “I may as well
say so, for others would tell you that. He’s a mild, equable nature as
long as things go his way. But if he’s thwarted or crossed, even in
trifles, he flies in a rage at once. I oughtn’t to say this——”
“Because it seems to incriminate him,” Zizi nodded her little head;
“but I compel the truth—don’t I?” she smiled at Phyllis. “I’ll bet
you wouldn’t have said that to any other detective. Well, now, with
the knowledge that Mr Barry is quick tempered, that he was jealous of
Mr Gleason and that he wrote the threatening letter, and that he has
given no positive account of what he was doing at the critical
moment—shall we suspect him? Answer, no.”
“Why?” Phyllis spoke breathlessly, relieved but anxious to know more.
“Well, principally for the reason that he has confessed.”
“Don’t murderers ever confess?” Louis asked, his eyes on the beautiful
young thing that was of a type hitherto unknown in his experience.
Zizi was not really beautiful, but her magnetic charm was so great,
her ways so winsome, and her mysterious eyes so full of changing
expression and half-veiled witchery that she enthralled them all.
Wise watched her. He was accustomed to have his clients surprised at
his strange little assistant, but oftener they were critical than
wholly admiring. Tonight, however, Zizi was at her best—she was more
than usually attractive, and her manner was gentler than she often
chose to make it.
“Oh, yes,” she said, in reply to Louis’ query, “but you have to know
why they confess. You see Mr Barry confessed to shield some one else.”
“Who?” Louis asked, but he flushed and looked embarrassed.
“You know who,” Zizi returned, “and maybe it wasn’t only yourself, but
Phyllis, too. You see—you must see, all of you, that the situation is
serious. Louis was there very shortly before the crime took place.
Phyllis is said to have been there—whether she was or not—no one can
be found who saw or spoke to Mr Gleason after that—so it would be
just like the detectives to fasten the crime on one or both of the
Lindsays. Anyway, that’s the way it looked to Mr Barry, and in his
quick tempered—which means impulsive way—he gave himself up.
Although he is as innocent of the crime as you two are.”
“My goodness!” Millicent exclaimed, “you start out by clearing all
those who have been suspected!”
“Not all. There still remain several of the Club men—also the
possibility of a stranger—I mean a stranger to you people who are
interested. Mrs Lindsay, where did your brother live before he went to
Seattle?”
“In a little village in New Hampshire—Coggs’ Hollow.”
“Lovely name! Did you live there, too?”
“No; I lived in Ohio with my parents. An uncle, my mother’s brother,
took Robert to live with him, in New Hampshire, when the boy was quite
small. That’s why Robert and I never saw much of each other. We were
affectionate enough when we met, but living apart, we were not really
intimate. I was surprised when he came East, and we renewed our family
relations. Then——”
“Then he fell in love with Phyllis”—Zizi interrupted. “And it wasn’t
reciprocated.”
“Quite true,” Phyllis said, calmly.
“Yes,” Millicent agreed, “it was really love at first sight. And as
Phyllis had any number of suitors, Robert tried to cut them out by
promises of such luxuries and dazzling prospects as his wealth could
offer. But Phyllis couldn’t seem to bring herself to say yes——”
“But she had, hadn’t she?” Zizi didn’t look at Phyllis. “Wasn’t the
dinner party to be an announcement?”
Millicent shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t know,” she said: “ask her.”
Zizi turned. “How about it, Phyllis?”
“I don’t know, either,” Phyllis said, slowly. “I had half
promised—because—oh, why not tell? because Mr Gleason had promised
me a lot of money—which I very much needed—at once—if I would make
the announcement that night.”
“Go on, tell it all,” Pennington Wise put in; “you wanted that
money——”
“To pull me out of a desperate hole,” Louis burst forth. “I got in
bad—very bad—with some gamblers and some loan sharks—and Sis was
good enough to try to get me out of it. She—she didn’t have to marry
old Gleason—even if she did announce an engagement.”
“Hush, Buddy,” said Phyllis, looking at him reprovingly; “I never
thought of saying yes to him, and backing out afterward. I wouldn’t do
such a thing. But I planned to go there that afternoon and try once
more to persuade him to give me the money, without a definite promise
on my part. I hoped that for the sake of Louis’ good name I could
persuade him. But—I didn’t go.”
“Never mind all that,” Zizi said, impatiently, “it won’t get us
anywhere to mull over that. Now, Penny Wise, here’s where I stand. All
people here present are innocent of this crime. Philip Barry—I
think—is also innocent. I’ve no reason to suspect a stranger—an
acquaintance of Mr Gleason’s—and I think if there were such an
individual, there must have been some trace of him. People don’t glide
in and out of a situation like shadows.”
“Go slow, Ziz,” cautioned the detective, looking at her thoughtfully.
“Keep your imagination in leash.”
“Yes, sir,” and she bowed with mock docility. “Now, if you’ll excuse
me, I have to go to Coggs’ Hollow.”
“To-night!” gasped Millicent, as Zizi rose, and began pulling on her
gloves.
“Yes; there’s a train at midnight, I can easily catch it. Good-by,
all.”
She drew her cloak together and fastened it, and held out her hand to
Wise with a demanding gesture.
Understandingly, he took out his pocketbook, and gave it to her
without a word.
She tucked it into her roomy handbag, and turned to the door.
“I’ll go with you,” Louis cried, already in the hall, and getting into
his overcoat.
“To the station? Thank you,” Zizi smiled.
“No; all the way. To New Hampshire.”
“Nixy!” she laughed, flashing her white teeth. “He travels the fastest
who travels alone. But I’ll be glad to have you entrain me.”
The two went out together, and hailing a taxicab, Louis delightedly
put Zizi in.
“Anyway, I’ll have you to myself for an hour,” he exulted. “What are
you, I can’t make you out. A sprite, a witch, an elf?”
“Oh, yes, all those things, and a girl beside. And you needn’t fall in
love with me—it would be a foolishness.”
“But I’ve already fallen.”
“Oh, well, all right. It doesn’t matter.” Zizi was absorbed in
thought, and seemed really to care nothing at all for Louis’ state of
mind.
Meantime, Millicent was demanding of Pennington Wise an explanation of
the astonishing Zizi.
“Don’t worry about her,” he said, smiling. “Don’t think about her.
She never does a wrong thing—in detective work, I mean. She will some
day—I daresay—and it may be she has now. But she acts on impulse, on
intuition, on what some people call a hunch. And I’ve never known her
to slip up. She is a wonder—but don’t try to understand her—for you
can’t.”
“But will she go to New Hampshire—all alone by herself? At night!”
“Oh, yes, and she’ll take care of herself.”
“Louis will go with her,” Phyllis said, “I know he will.”
“No, Miss Lindsay, you’re mistaken there. Zizi won’t let your brother
accompany her.”
“I’m sure it would be all right,” Millicent observed; “at work on a
case, you know.”
“Right enough, but Zizi won’t let him go because she doesn’t want him
to. Now, as to Mr Gleason’s will. Did you two ladies know about its
terms?”
“We weren’t certain,” Millicent said, “for my brother changed it quite
often. He was ready to settle a large amount on Phyllis at once if she
would consent to marry him, but he had already made a will leaving his
fortune equally divided between us two. He never liked Louis, rather,
he disapproved of him. Of late, Louis has run wild——”
“It isn’t his fault,” Phyllis defended; “he has been duped and deluded
by a lot of men with whom he had no business to associate at all. But
let’s leave Louis out of it, for Mr Wise has declared he doesn’t
suspect him, and he is in no other way concerned in this business.”
“That’s true, Miss Lindsay. Now, tell me, did Mr Gleason contemplate
changing his will again in case Miss Lindsay refused him definitely?”
“Yes, he did,” Phyllis stated; “he told me unless I made the
announcement at the dinner party, he would change his will and cut me
out of it entirely.”
“Did he, then, assume that you could be bought in that fashion.”
Phyllis colored, but she replied, “Yes, he did. But, mostly because he
knew how desperately I wanted money for my brother. And, too, it isn’t
a gracious thing to say—but Mr Gleason was not such an attractive man
that he had much reason for being accepted outside of his wealth.”
“I see; and he had made the existing will recently?”
“Within a month or so.”
“Who knew of it?”
“No one, I believe,” Millicent said, “but Phyllis and Louis and
myself—except, of course, the lawyer who drew it.”
“Mr Fred Lane?”
“Yes.”
“Wasn’t he one of that group of men who were discussing murder at the
Club that day?”
“Yes,” Millicent looked inquiringly at him; “but you don’t dream that
Mr Lane——”
“Why not?”
“Oh, nonsense, Fred Lane and my brother were good friends.”
“At any rate, it is to the men of that group that I shall first direct
my investigations. Few of them really liked Mr Gleason. Forgive me, if
I seem unkind, Mrs Lindsay, but I cannot work if trammeled by too
great consideration for your feelings.”
“Don’t stop for that, Mr Wise. I quite understand. And I know my
brother was not a favorite with the Club men. He was too different. He
was out of the picture. They had little in common. Now, in so far as
that is of assistance to you in forming your theories, use it, for it
is quite true. My brother was a far better and worthier man than most
of them, but his ways were different and he did not show to advantage
when among them. If Phyllis could have cared for Robert he could have
made her very happy, I know. But that’s all past. What I want now, is
to avenge my brother’s death. To discover and punish his murderer, no
matter who he may be. I beg of you, Mr Wise, spare no time, pains or
expense to ferret him out.”
“Indeed I shall not. Can you think of any grievance or reason for
enmity toward Mr Gleason on the part of those men I refer to?”
“Only one reason, Mr Wise, and that applies to several. They were
jealous of his attentions to Miss Lindsay.”
“Oh, Millicent!” Phyllis cried, in protest.
“It is true. Miss Lindsay is a belle, and all the men of that group
were her admirers—or almost all. Doctor Davenport, is, of course,
excepted, and Mr Lane. They are married men.”
“Leaving Mr Barry, Mr Pollard and Mr Monroe.”
“Yes; and they surely cannot be suspected. You have declared Mr Barry
innocent, Mr Pollard was in his own home at the time of the crime, and
Dean Monroe—why, he hasn’t even been thought of.”
“Has he been inquired of as to his whereabouts at the time?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. Has he, Phyllis?”
“I don’t know. But it’s silly to think of Dean! Why, he scarcely knew
Mr Gleason.”
“But he is devoted to you?” Wise asked the question so casually that
Phyllis answered, frankly, “Yes, he is. That is, he has asked me to
marry him.”
“And you refused?”
“I did. But, Mr Wise, is it necessary to tell you such things?”
“It is, Miss Lindsay. I fully believe that you are the innocent cause
of this murder. This attaches no blame to you, in any way, but it
makes it imperative for me to learn these details. Probably nine
crimes out of ten are committed because of a woman—so don’t let it
disturb you.”
“Not disturb me!” Phyllis cried; “of course it disturbs me! If there
are women so foolishly vain as to enjoy stirring up strife among their
admirers, I am not of that sort. I wish I were dead!”
“There, now, Phyllis,” Millicent said, “don’t act like that. I, too,
believe the murderer was somebody who was jealous of Robert because of
you, but you can’t help that. I’m sure my brother had no enemy who
would come from the West to kill him.”
“You can’t be sure of such a thing as that, but we can prove up where
the people were who might be suspected here.”
Methodically Wise went about the job.
Although he had told the Lindsays he was sure of Philip Barry’s
innocence, none the less did he look into his alibi.
And it seemed to be all right. The doorman and the desk clerk at the
small hotel where he lived were almost certain that he had came in
that afternoon, just about six, as he said he did. They were not
willing to swear to it, but they were reasonably certain, and Wise
felt pretty sure they were right.
Next he went to the nearby hotel where Pollard lived.
“Yes, sir,” declared the doorman there, “I saw Mr Pollard come in—he
nodded to me just like he always does. And later, I saw him when he
went out again. I put him into his taxi myself.”
“At what time, about?”
“No about about it. It was just twenty-five minutes to seven——”
“How do you know?”
“I’ll tell you how I know. Mr Pollard glanced at his wrist watch as he
got into the cab. It had a radium dial, and I saw it plain.”
“Mr Pollard wears a wrist watch, then?”
“Yes, he’s worn it ever since the war. Got used to it over there, I
s’pose. Well, anyway, that’s what happened, so—if the watch was
correct—it was seven-twenty-five.”
“Good,” said Wise. “And, as I understand it, one or two people saw Mr
Pollard in his room, or heard him telephone during the hour or so he
was here?”
“Yes, sir,” the desk clerk rehearsed the story a little wearily. The
employees of the hotel had told the tale often, for owing to Manning
Pollard’s threat—which had passed into history—he was frequently
being suspected by somebody, detective or amateur, and the hotel
people had been called upon to rehearse the story until they were
letter perfect in their parts.
Next, Pennington Wise investigated the doings of Dean Monroe.
And the result was that he learned that Monroe had gone from the Club
that day straight to the home of his mother, and had remained with her
until so late that he had to make great haste dressing for dinner in
order to reach the Lindsay house on time.
“H’m,” said Penny Wise, profoundly, to himself; “h’m.”
Three days later, Zizi returned. She went to Wise’s apartment before
going to the Lindsay house.
“Find out much?” he asked her, as she flung off her wraps, and
deposited her small person in a very large easy chair.
“I sure did! But I’m glad to get back! New England is no paradise in
winter. Get me something to eat, there’s a bright Penny.”
“All right,” and Wise rang a bell. “Take your time, Ziz, but have a
little pity on a mere man, consumed with curiosity.”
“I will. Coggs’ Hollow is exactly what its name sounds like. A tiny,
primitive village, just the same now as it was a quarter of a century
ago, when Robert Gleason lived there, with his uncle.”
“You found people who knew him, then?”
“I did.”
“Could they throw any light on the murder—or its cause?”
“Not light—but a sort of a glimmer of a glow of a hint of dawn.”
“Good! That’s enough. You succeeded, then!”
“Oh, yes; and, Penny Wise, whom do you suppose I saw up there, also
nosing about?”
“Who?”
“Mr Manning Pollard.”
“Ziz, you’re crazy. He wasn’t there. I’ve seen him myself every day
you’ve been gone.”
“Seen him! Seen Manning Pollard? Penny, _you’re_ crazy!”