THE TWENTY-SIXTH OF MAY
Inspector Druet was seated at his desk at Headquarters, scowling over
a voluminous sheaf of reports when ex-Roundsman McCarty put in an
appearance at the close of the day. To an observant eye, the latter's
extreme affability of manner would have savored of blandishment, but
the official was too engrossed in his own perplexities to heed.
"I thought I'd just drop around and see how things were coming,"
McCarty announced, appropriating a chair by the desk and producing two
opulently banded cigars from his pocket. "Try one of these, sir. You'll
not find it bad."
"Since when are you smoking perfectos, Mac?" inquired the Inspector
with a shrewd smile at his former subordinate.
"Since I've been hobnobbing with society." McCarty regarded the glowing
tip of his own cigar somewhat dubiously. "They've a cool, sweet pull to
them but they've not the body that I'm used to. However, I've no doubt
Mr. Norwood's a judge and if Billings can educate himself up to them, I
can."
"Norwood!" the Inspector snorted. "His meddling is one of the worst
nuisances we have got to contend with in this case! Has he been
regaling you with one of his pet theories?"
"No, sir, though you'd hardly blame a man that's had the body of one
of his best friends dumped down on his doorstep, as you might say,
for wanting to take a hand in finding out who's responsible for it,"
McCarty paused and added slyly: "especially if he and his relations are
being trailed whenever they poke their noses out of doors."
"We've drawn a blank there so far, I'll admit." Inspector Druet thrust
the sheaf of reports which he had been fingering into a pigeonhole.
"Not that I expect to learn anything incriminating from that quarter,
but I'm taking no chances on overlooking a possible clue. Jarvis is
the man I'm after, Mac; I have no direct evidence as yet, but I am
having his record looked up and to-day I requested from him a detailed
accounting of his wife's estate. If I'm not mistaken, he won't find
that an easy thing to produce."
"You mean that he's taken her money?" McCarty asked.
"I can't call it that, since she gave him power of attorney; turned
the whole thing over to him, in fact, although last spring she did get
about twenty thousand back on the plea of war charities, he says. But
I have discovered that during the past two years he had lost heavily
in stocks; been on the wrong side of the market almost continually and
his broker's books show that he has made desperate efforts to recoup
lately. This proposed trip to France was in my estimation only a stall
to keep his wife in ignorance of the true state of their finances
as long as possible. He didn't dare refuse to turn over the twenty
thousand to her, of course, for fear of arousing her suspicions, but
that money which she has been paying out to blackmailers, comparatively
small as the amount was, considering her original fortune, might have
been a life-saver for him."
"And what do you think of the blackmail part of the business?"
"One of the boys started for New Orleans on Saturday night, and I
have two female operatives working now among Mrs. Jarvis' friends
and associates," the Inspector responded significantly. "Whatever
the affair was which she went to such lengths to keep under cover, I
am satisfied that it had nothing to do with the murder. I'm with our
friend Terhune there, but the rest of his theory is all rubbish. I mean
to have a talk to-morrow with Miss Norwood; she may know something as
she was the dead woman's closest friend."
"She's got money, hasn't she?" asked McCarty irrelevantly. "The old
man--her uncle--said something to-day about her inheritance."
"Yes. We got a line on both families. Calvin Norwood's brother married
the daughter of old Wexley, the steel rail magnate, and Miss Norwood is
quite an heiress. But what took you there to-day, Mac?" Inspector Druet
bent a quizzical eye upon his visitor. "Have you got anything up your
sleeve? I knew you couldn't keep out of the case if your life depended
on it! You wouldn't bother with Norwood, though, if you didn't think
there was some clue to be found in that house which we had overlooked."
McCarty smiled broadly.
"Not in this case, sir, but in some that are long past," he replied
with a show of candor. "You know it was to show us through his museum
that Mr. Norwood got Mr. Terhune to bring Denny and me there to dinner
the other night and almost the first thing we came on was that body
under the blanket and it was all off. I wanted to see what he has in
his collection, though, and hear the story of it and this afternoon
I got him to give me what you might call a private view. Some of the
stuff he's got there is mighty interesting; I'd like to get the dope on
one or two of those old cases, even if they are dead ones. That Hoyos
matter, for instance. I don't suppose, now, you could let me have a
peep at the records? It's ten years past, and well I know you've enough
and to spare on your hands with this murder and all but I was on the
force then, you mind, sir, and it kind of brings it all back to me."
The Inspector's gaze narrowed in suspicion, but McCarty met it with an
air of such childlike wistfulness that he laughed good-naturedly and
pressed a button in his desk.
"Sure you can see them; I'll have Yost look up the files. You are not
fooling me for a minute, though, Mac! It isn't the Hoyos case, or any
other old crime which Norwood may have docketed in his museum that is
interesting you. I've had both of those households watched, you know,
and I got a report on where Etta Barney, the Jarvis' housemaid, spent
Saturday evening. I had an idea myself that she might have known who
broke into Mrs. Jarvis' dressing-room, but I couldn't make her come
across. Did you manage to wheedle anything from her?"
"No, sir," responded McCarty frankly. "If she did hear a noise and
suspect who it was she would hardly be telling me when she knew I
was in with you. Is Margot still sticking to her story that the
dressing-room was all in order at eight o'clock that night?"
The entrance of Yost in response to Inspector Druet's summons prevented
an immediate reply from the latter, but after his instructions were
given and the door had closed he swung about in his chair.
"I can't make that girl out. There is every indication to make me
believe she is on the level and yet the facts as we know them show
that her statement must be a lie. Mrs. Jarvis was murdered before six
o'clock and her body spirited across to the other house; that is the
plain truth of the matter, in spite of Terhune's elaborate theory.
Margot could have only one reason for trying to fix the time when the
dressing-room was ransacked at a later hour, and that is loyalty to
the husband of the dead woman. If she knew or suspected that it was
he who returned to the house during her absence upon her errand and
guessed what took place then she may be trying to make us believe that
the dressing-room had not been entered until evening because she knew
that her employer's alibi after eight o'clock that night could not be
assailed. I don't know whether self-interest or a desire to shield the
memory of the woman who had been good to her prompted that loyalty, but
she can't be shaken in her story at this stage of the game. I tell you,
Mac, we've the hardest proposition ahead of us that the department has
ever tackled, but if I can once get the goods on Oliver Jarvis I can
force him to come through."
McCarty shook his head.
"In spite of that glove, and the fact that he can't or won't account
for the time between his visit to his lawyer and to the consulate, sir,
I can't see your case against him," he remarked. "What if he did lose
his wife's money? If she cared for him she'd stick just the same, and
anyway, he'd have no need to go to the length of killing her when she
found it out. Why should he have sneaked into his wife's dressing-room
in the afternoon like that? He could have gone in any time at night
while she was asleep and none the wiser, if there was anything there he
wanted. How did she come to be dressed as the body was when we found
it, if the maid had left her in a wrapper and slippers?"
"Oh, I know the difficulties I'm up against, but I'm going to prove my
case, for all that!" the Inspector retorted. "Of course, I'll have to
wait until I get a full, detailed report on their joint finances, but
I have a suspicion that Jarvis has gone through more money than his
speculations on the stock market will explain and although I haven't
found out where it went yet, there could be more than one reason why it
would be vital to his happiness that his wife should not discover the
use to which it had been put."
"He was in love with her," observed McCarty. "I'd bet anything I had
on that. There was no other woman in the case and that's the only thing
the wife would perhaps have not forgiven, sir."
"As a wife, but there are other kinds of disgrace, that she might have
repudiated him for." The Inspector paused. "I won't go into that until
I have something definite to work on, but Jarvis' mother was a von
Rohne, of the family of Berlin bankers, and if you take a look at some
of the records of the Department of Justice, Mac, you'll find that the
German taint in the blood of more than one supposedly solid American
family is working for treason. Understand, I have no proof, but if it
develops that Jarvis was actually giving financial aid here to some
underground work of his mother's people, he might well be afraid of his
wife's knowledge. Remember, he was unaware of any secret in her own
life; he thought her above reproach in every way and knew her to be
intensely patriotic. That is only one supposition of mine, but other
motives would cover that point.
"As to his going to his wife's dressing-room at that hour instead of
at night, it may be possible that he could not wait. He may not have
placed her jewels in the safe deposit vault a few days earlier as he
claimed, but have taken them then to realize money on, and she came
upon him in the act. He may have had desperate need of that money
before night. I know this sounds as if I were trying to build up the
wildest sort of evidence to support my theory, but every slight clue
in our possession points to him and we cannot afford to overlook any
possibility."
McCarty's manner showed that he was still unconvinced.
"Why did she get up and put on that plain, dark dress and how did the
blue silk veil or scarf or whatever it was happen to be so handy to
strangle her with?" he asked. "If you ask me, sir, it looks suspicious;
her giving the servants the afternoon off and getting her own maid out
of the way on an errand and making that excuse about the headache and
all."
The Inspector nodded.
"I think you are right there, Mac," he agreed. "If it was her husband
she found ransacking her dressing-room, the surprise must have been
mutual. You remember Margot's story of her mistress' sudden collapse
on Wednesday night after her dinner guests had gone? I think that
in some way we haven't discovered yet imperative word reached her
from the blackmailers, hinting at some drastic steps to be taken
before she sailed for France and perhaps making an appointment for
Friday afternoon which she did not dare to ignore. She arranged that
no one should know of her errand and was preparing for it when the
interruption came."
"And what's your own idea, sir, as to how the murderer got her body
to the museum and why he went to all that trouble for nothing?"
McCarty demanded bluntly. "Wouldn't he know that when the state of the
dressing-room was seen 'twould be supposed the murder was committed
there? If 'twas Mr. Jarvis himself, what did he take his old automobile
gloves along with him for, much less drape one over the ladder to
advertise the fact that he'd been there?"
"Well, this is what happened, as I figure it out now." The Inspector
relighted his cigar and settled forward in his chair. "When he had
killed her, his first thought was naturally to save himself and divert
suspicion from the actual scene of the crime. It isn't easy to hide a
human body, but he thought of old Norwood's museum, which sometimes
wasn't entered for days at a time. It was too dark for anyone in the
rear of the adjoining and opposite houses to see the outlines of a
person passing through the yards and he chanced it. He carried the
body to the Norwood yard, hid it under a bush, entered the museum
by means of the ladder, opened the door and coming down the stairs
and out through the passageway, carried the body back up that way to
the museum. That glove is a nice bit of detail, but I think I know
the answer to it. Jarvis knew what a shark Norwood is on fingerprint
evidence and he took the gloves along to prevent leaving any traces
when he forced the catch of the window. Something--perhaps hearing the
blind secretary moving about--must have frightened him away before he
could remove the ladder and retrieve the glove which he'd dropped."
McCarty brought his hand down on the arm of his chair with a resounding
thwack.
"You've hit it, sir!" he exclaimed. "It's been in my mind from the
first that the one who climbed the ladder to the museum brought the
glove to keep from leaving finger marks behind, but in their hurry I
thought they only snatched up one glove instead of the pair, and then
got excited and dropped it. If 'twas Jarvis, as you say, why did he
take a chance on Mr. Norwood, perhaps, coming in and catching him in
the museum with the body?"
"He probably knew that Norwood had gone to Professor Parlowe's, just
as he might have learned from his wife during lunch that all their own
servants would be out for the afternoon." The Inspector's mollified
tone betrayed his gratification at McCarty's belated approval. "I don't
think, however, that he knew of Norwood's little dinner party that
night or that he meant to exhibit his museum to two such celebrated
sleuths as you and Terhune, to say nothing of Riordan; I think Jarvis
banked on the hope that the body would not be discovered until the
following day, and that after he had established an alibi against
any possible future questioning he could get home and put that
dressing-room in order before Margot or any of the other servants
entered it. That would leave him with a clear slate. I don't deny that
he is in very apparent grief now, but remorse would account for it,
whether he was in love with his wife or not. He killed her all right,
Mac; there's no doubt in my mind as to that."
"Here is the old Hoyos report, sir." Yost appeared in the doorway. "I
brought the minutes of the inquest, too, and a copy of the statements
made by the crew on the yacht."
"Give them to Mac," the Inspector laughed. "Everything is so tame now,
that he has to go back ten years in the history of the department
to dig up a little excitement. The cases we've got on hand are too
trifling for his consideration since he's become a man of means and his
own boss!"
Yost grinned and McCarty chuckled in perfect good nature at the thrust.
"I'm a has-been," he announced. "And like the most of them I'm harking
back to the days of my usefulness. Not that I was in on the Hoyos case,
but I'd like to know more about it than I remember."
"What kind of a souvenir of the affair has old Norwood got hold of?"
the Inspector asked. "If it was of any importance he should have turned
it in at the inquest. We never took him seriously, but he may put
something over on us some day, for all that."
"He has nothing, sir," McCarty responded, truthfully enough. "He was
just talking about it and got me curious to read up the details."
"Well, stay here and amuse yourself with it as long as you like." The
Inspector rose. "I've got to get up to the District Attorney's office.
I wish you would hang around old Norwood all you can, and if you get
any real dope on the Jarvis case let me know."
McCarty promised and as the Inspector departed, settled himself to a
perusal of the closely typed sheets which Yost had placed upon the desk
before him.
The first which came to his hand was a personal description of the dead
yachtsman.
"Leonidas Hoyos, aged approximately thirty, nationality unknown but
believed to be of Greek-Hungarian extraction," he read: "Medium height,
smooth shaven, black hair, fair complexion, gray eyes, full red lips,
straight nose, rounded, slightly receding chin. Flashy clothes,
expensive jewelry. No scars or other identifying marks."
There was at first glance nothing to arrest his attention in that, yet
McCarty read it carefully several times over before laying it aside.
The next document was a report of the official investigation into
Hoyos' antecedents. Nothing could be learned of him prior to the summer
of 1906 when he had presented himself at a prominent brokerage house in
Wall Street as a prospective client, with credentials and letters from
equally noted concerns on the Bourse and London Exchange. He maintained
luxurious bachelor apartments on Madison Avenue, kept two cars and
a retinue of servants and during the following winter succeeded in
gaining admittance to membership in one or two of the clubs noted more
for their sporting tendencies than their exclusiveness. He plunged
heavily in Wall Street, netted huge profits and early in the spring
of 1907 purchased from the Carmichael estate a steam yacht which he
re-christened _The 'Muette.'_
Then followed records, attested to by the captain, stewards, stewardess
and members of the crew of several coastwise trips in which men about
town and women known to the festive bright-light district had figured
conspicuously and champagne and gambling for high stakes had been the
order of the day. In May _The Muette_ had anchored in the Hudson a few
miles north of the city and its owner had given only occasional dinner
parties on board.
The report ended abruptly with a list of Hoyos' financial holdings;
stocks, bonds, securities and deposits in various banks. McCarty
glanced over them casually, noted the total and then took up the
minutes of the Coroner's inquest. It was a voluminous record and he
turned first to the verdict; accidental death. That, he remembered, had
ended the case officially as far as the public was concerned, but he
had not forgotten the storm it aroused in the press, nor rumors in the
department that the investigation was not to be immediately shelved.
He skipped the verbatim testimony of the witnesses and had settled back
in his chair to read the final summary when the opening sentence made
him start forward in astonishment with round eyes and quickened breath.
On the twenty-sixth of the month, in the late afternoon, Hoyos had come
aboard, ordered dinner for two and sent the dingey back to the wharf to
meet his guest. At eight o'clock a woman arrived, heavily veiled, and
was ushered to the saloon where Hoyos awaited her. The steward withdrew
and no one witnessed their meeting nor could anyone subsequently
furnish a description of the woman, for Hoyos took extraordinary
precautions against having her seen from the moment of her arrival. He
countermanded the order for an elaborate dinner which he had given,
directed that a single course with several bottles of champagne be
placed in the dining-saloon, and then dismissed the stewards for the
night.
Sounds were heard later of a bitter quarrel, with the woman weeping and
Hoyos fairly shouting in rage. The noises ceased, however, and quiet
ensued until close on to midnight when two pistol shots were heard,
followed by two heavy splashes in the water.
Investigation showed that the saloon was empty, the man and woman had
both disappeared and an open window with blood upon the sill and Hoyos'
own pistol lying on the floor nearby were the only indications of what
had occurred. The authorities were notified and an investigation was
instituted but there was no trace of either Hoyos or the woman until
about three weeks later, on the fourteenth of June when a police boat
patrolling the lower bay picked up a man's body which was identified
by means of the clothing and initialed jewelry as that of Leonidas
Hoyos. The body itself was greatly mutilated, presumably by contact
with passing river craft, and an autopsy was unable to determine the
presence of a bullet wound but the conditions of the lungs did not
indicate death by drowning. The woman's body was not recovered.
For long after he had finished, McCarty sat staring at the papers
clutched in his hand, while two sentences formed of macaroni paste
letters danced before his mental vision. "Does lady forget date of next
Saturday night?" and "1000 under bush 26 each month small price safety."
The twenty-sixth of each month! And it was on the twenty-sixth of May,
ten years before, that the mysterious tragedy of _The 'Muette'_ had
occurred. The wife of Oliver Jarvis had been a mere child then, in far
away New Orleans. What connection had there been between her and the
unhappy woman who had been Hoyos' guest, or Hoyos himself? Was it only
a strange and unlooked-for coincidence, or had he indeed stumbled upon
a real clue? Was he alone upon the right path which should lead through
the maze of evasions and contradictions to the truth?