A LONE HAND
"There's little any man can tell about a woman whether he's married to
her or not," observed Dennis sententiously. "'Tis well for us, Mac,
that we've always steered clear of them. Look at Mrs. Jarvis, now, with
all her good works and the sweet ways of her that everyone who knew her
talks about; who'd think she could have been mixed up with the murder
of a dirty roystering Dago ten years gone? For she was mixed up in
it, I'd bet the half of my insurance policy that you've struck it! No
matter if she was only a girl then and never North in her life, 'twas
to keep that business on the yacht secret, no less, that she was paying
out hush money."
It was Tuesday morning and by special condescension on the part of the
Lieutenant, McCarty and Dennis were seated in his private office at the
engine house where the ex-Roundsman had been regaling his friend with a
résumé of the previous day's discoveries.
Dennis' enthusiastic acceptance of McCarty's theory brought an
expansive glow to the latter's heart, but he merely nodded in
affirmation.
"It fits in with what little evidence we have, leaving out the
ransacking of the dressing-room," he responded. "You mind the sudden
collapse that came to her on Wednesday night after her dinner party,
and Mr. Norwood's remark that she'd been gay at first and then kind of
quiet for a while? 'Twas no message from the blackmailers that reached
her, Denny, but Mr. Norwood's own words, when he told her of the Hoyos
wallet and the letters that were in it, that struck her all of a heap
in the midst of her pleasant little party, and she was quiet because
she was thinking, and thinking hard. She made up her mind then to get
that wallet, and 'twas that she was after when she went to her death in
the Norwood museum!"
"By the powers! Then 'twas not to meet anybody at all----"
"No. The meeting was an accident, like, to both of them, whoever the
other party was."
"A mortal accident to her, poor thing." Dennis hesitated. "If 'twas
not the blind young secretary who met her and killed her--and what you
heard him say yesterday in his sickness goes to show that he didn't do
it--who was it? What was the other one doing in the museum and how did
he get in?"
"You're not asking much, are you?" McCarty demanded witheringly. "I've
the answer to your last question, though it slipped my mind to tell you
before. On Saturday morning before I experimented with the ladder, I
gave a look to the lock on the museum door. There were some little fine
scratches around the keyhole; I'd seen the like when I was on the force
in more than one housebreaking case and I was on in a minute. There's
only one thing that makes scratches like that, and only one thing in a
burglar's kit of tools that'll open a Yale lock; a 'spider.' Whoever
it was got into the museum, broke in, in spite of Marchal there in the
library, and he knew just how to go about it. I think from Marchal's
ravings that he heard something of what went on, and why he didn't butt
in and stop the murder is a mystery to me, but there's more than that
to be cleared up."
"There is that!" Dennis agreed. "Why would anybody break into that
museum? There's nothing there that anybody but a nut like Mr. Norwood
would want for a keepsake! And why didn't he just beat it when Mrs.
Jarvis found him there, instead of killing her?"
"You'll remember there was something there that Mrs. Jarvis wanted bad
enough to break in for," McCarty reminded him. "It may have been for
the same thing that the man came."
"The wallet!" Dennis wriggled to the edge of his chair. "Mac, maybe it
was for the letters that was in it she was being blackmailed! The woman
that sold them to Mr. Norwood may have double-crossed the blackmailer
and he went to get them back and fought Mrs. Jarvis for them----"
"Hold on, Denny! He wouldn't have killed her," McCarty interrupted.
"Terhune was right on that. You mind he said the fellow wouldn't kill
the goose that laid the golden eggs? If we could find out what was
in those letters, we'd be a long way toward learning the truth. Mr.
Norwood knows, all right, but he'll not say another word; when he saw
the way my questions were leading, he got a suspicion of the truth
for himself and shut up like a clam. Whatever old scandal there is
connected with the death of his friend's wife, he'll not be the one to
give it away."
"Then how will you find out?" asked Dennis. "You've gone further than
Terhune and the Inspector put together but you're a good ways yet
from clapping your hands on the murderer. Now if you could get that
Frenchman to explain what he overheard----"
"Not a chance. He was in love with her, and from his last remarks
before I gave him the medicine, he's out for a private revenge. I've
got to begin at the other end and locate the woman who sold Mr. Norwood
the letters. Before he suspected anything, he told me she claimed to
have been a stewardess on the Hoyos yacht at the time of the murder
ten years ago. The records of the Coroner's inquest make mention of
only one woman employed on board, a stewardess named Kate Stricker, and
if it's the same I've a good personal description of her from Billings,
who let her in when she brought the letters to the Norwood house last
Tuesday afternoon."
"But what good'll that do you?" Dennis objected. "'Tis a week ago
to-day, and she's probably beat it somewhere with the money Mr. Norwood
paid her."
"I'm going to try it, anyway." McCarty rose. "I'll have a word with the
Inspector first and maybe put a flea in his ear, for the fellow that's
on his way to New Orleans could find out more if he knew what he was
looking for. Many a person in this world is paying blackmail to protect
another, or their memory, and Mrs. Jarvis, God rest her soul, may be as
innocent as a babe of any connection herself with what she was trying
to keep quiet, and yet the disgrace of it coming out might reflect on
her in some way. The Inspector can only tell me I'm an old fool for my
pains; he's likely to at that, for he's all swelled up over his own
notion of the murder, but if he does----"
"What'll you do?" asked Dennis with a sly grin as the other paused.
"You're not Officer 804 now, my bucko; you're a gentleman, with a
landed estate on your hands----"
"I'll go it alone, and ask odds of nobody!" McCarty retorted grimly.
"On the force or off it, I'm going to see the case through! Why was I
there on the spot when the dead woman's body was found if it hadn't
been meant for me to take a hand in finding out who killed her?"
To this fatalistic query Dennis had no reply and McCarty sallied forth
to Headquarters.
He found Inspector Druet in a jubilant frame of mind.
"Well, Mac, I guess we'll land our fish, all right!" the latter
exclaimed. "You wouldn't listen yesterday, but I knew I hadn't made
any mistake! Oliver Jarvis is the man!"
"Is that so, sir?" McCarty remarked, unmoved. "You've found out what
he's been doing with his wife's money, then?"
"Better than that! We've got a witness who saw him leaving his own
house at six o'clock on Friday afternoon, and located the taxi
chauffeur who picked him up five minutes later just around the corner
and drove him to the French consulate at top speed. What do you say to
that?"
"'Twas good, snappy work, sir, but it don't prove anything." McCarty's
chin was a trifle out-thrust. "He may have been in the house and yet
not seen his wife or gone near her dressing-room----"
"Mac, what's the matter with you?" the Inspector demanded, disgustedly.
"You're getting to be as stubborn as a mule! You can't get around
facts, man, and every fact we've got hold of points to Oliver Jarvis."
"Except that according to your one witness, the dressing-room was in
order until eight o'clock or after," McCarty remarked.
"Margot's story was a lie!"
"Was it so, sir?" McCarty's tone was quiet, but his blue eyes snapped.
"Have you considered it for a minute as maybe true, in spite of the
fact that it would upset your theory? Suppose Mrs. Jarvis was not
carried out of that house, but walked out, after getting rid of her own
servants so that nobody should know where she'd gone; suppose she took
one of husband's gloves with her, meaning to take the pair, so that her
finger marks would not show in what she was going to do? Suppose she
went through the yards, put up the ladder and climbed it, forced the
museum window----"
"You're crazy, Mac!" the Inspector stared. "Why should Mrs. Jarvis
have gone secretly to a place where she was always welcome? What could
she have been after?"
"I'm thinking it was a black wallet with a couple of letters inside,"
McCarty responded simply.
"Look here! What are you getting at?" The Inspector struck his desk
smartly with his open hand. "It's a fool notion, but you'd better come
across with what is on your mind. I suppose you mean that she was
murdered in the museum, after all?"
McCarty nodded solemnly.
"Well, she wasn't," the other asserted flatly. "You'll be as bad as
Terhune next, trying to say that Marchal killed her! What is this
rubbish about a black wallet?"
"'Tis not rubbish about her being blackmailed, is it, sir? Nor yet that
she seemed to be happy lately, as if a load were off her mind, only to
collapse on Wednesday after the dinner party; after learning from Mr.
Norwood that he'd just bought a wallet that held the only clue to a
certain crime that's never been cleared up. Unless I've got the wrong
bull by the horns, that wallet had something to do with why she'd been
blackmailed, and she made up her mind to get it if she had to steal
it. That's all, Inspector. I don't pretend to say who killed her, nor
why, but whoever it was, he picked the lock of the museum door with a
spider; the marks are there for you to see."
Inspector Druet snorted in good-natured contempt.
"There were letters in this wallet? What was the crime they were
supposed to furnish a clue to?"
"The Hoyos matter, sir. You asked me yesterday what souvenir of it Mr.
Norwood has and I told you none. It's gospel truth, too, for the wallet
has disappeared. He swears it was there in the museum at three o'clock
on Friday afternoon, before he left for the professor's house."
"The Hoyos case! Ten years back, and Mrs. Jarvis only came to New
York five years ago!" laughed the Inspector. "You'll have to think up
a better one than that, Mac! Old Norwood probably mislaid the wallet
himself, if it ever existed. When did he miss it?"
McCarty hesitated.
"Only yesterday, sir," he admitted. "But none except your own men
and the medical examiners were in that room till it was locked up
on Saturday night. 'Twas taken away by the fellow that killed Mrs.
Jarvis----"
"No, Mac. You're away off," the Inspector interrupted, shaking his
head. "You had good common sense when you were on the force, but you're
letting your imagination run away with you. Whatever Mrs. Jarvis was
blackmailed for, it had nothing to do with any crime nor with her
death."
"Well, sir, I've nothing to do with the case; I'm only giving you a tip
and you can take it or leave it, as you see fit." McCarty spoke with
dignity. "If your operative that's gone to New Orleans would work along
the lines I've told you, and try to find out what connection there was
between this man Hoyos and Mrs. Jarvis or her family you might learn
something that would bring you around to my way of thinking."
"I'm afraid not, Mac. There isn't a shadow of evidence to support such
a theory and a million reasons why it would be impossible on the face
of it. I thought you had something up your sleeve yesterday, when you
came nosing around about that old Hoyos record; but I didn't think
you would fall for any such wild idea as this. Old Norwood must have
hypnotized you with his fool collection, but if you want to monkey with
the case at all, come down to earth! Facts are what we're after, not
crazy theories, and we're working for practical results."
"Well, sir, I'll be getting on." McCarty rose, his face expressionless.
"I've had my say and I'll take up no more of your valuable time, only
I'll ask you to remember that I gave you the word. If you want me
you'll know where to find me."
He clapped on his hat and strode out, unmindful of the look of amused
affection which his former superior cast after him. He was more hurt
than he would admit even to himself. It was not so much the fact that
his theory had been rejected but the manner of it that stung him like
a whip-lash. The tolerant indulgence of the Inspector's attitude he
recognized from long association as that which the official habitually
adopted toward harmless cranks and the army of amateur sleuths who
besieged Headquarters with weird suggestions and theories during the
investigation of every case to which wide publicity had been given.
The long friendship and camaraderie which had existed between them was
forgotten in that bitter moment and McCarty's honest heart swelled with
wrathful indignation. So the Inspector thought him an old has-been,
past his usefulness, who had to be humored because of his past record,
like a horse turned out to grass! He'd show him! Into the purely
professional aspect of the investigation there had entered a new and
personal element; his vindication, his reinstatement in the eyes of
his former superior and his own self-respect depended alike upon the
result of his efforts now. The Jarvis case had assumed all at once the
proportions of a challenge and McCarty's spirit rose doggedly to meet
it. As he had assured Dennis, he would ask odds of nobody, least of all
the Inspector; he would go it alone and prove his case or forever more
mind his own business and eschew the affairs of the department.
The rest of the morning was spent in a fruitless round of the agencies
which specialized in supplying stewardesses for yachts and passenger
liners. The name of Kate Stricker was not upon their books, nor
known save in one instance, when the manager recalled her as having
unsuccessfully attempted to obtain a position two years before. She had
besieged the office for weeks during that period and seemed a capable
woman with first-class references, but war conditions had cut down the
maritime passenger service and even yachting had declined.
A judicious display of liberality on McCarty's part caused the canceled
register to be laid before him and he ascertained Kate Stricker's
address at that time to have been in West One Hundred and Thirty-sixth
Street.
His ire at the Inspector's attitude had given place to a philosophical
mood, but his determination was undaunted and after a brief respite
for lunch, he hied himself to the address given at the agency, not
forgetting the admonition to "ring Meggs' bell."
The house proved to be one in a row of cheap apartments and Mrs. Meggs,
a trim but worn little wisp of a woman, ushered him into a brightly
scoured kitchen and readily met his query.
"Kate? Oh, yes, sir. She doesn't stop with me now; hasn't for more than
a year, but we're great friends and she drops in often to see me. She
was here only last week. What was it you wanted of her, sir?"
"If she's not working now, there's a berth open on a big private yacht
that I'd like to engage her for," McCarty lied glibly. "The agency
where she registered two years ago sent me here and I'll be thankful to
you if you'll tell me where I can find her."
Mrs. Meggs shook her head.
"Kate's not looking for anything to do right now," she remarked. "She's
come into a bit of money and she's resting for awhile. Times have been
hard with her lately, especially since the war started, and for a long
while she was out of a position. That was when she lodged here with me.
She couldn't get anything to do at sea and finally she took a position
as assistant to the matron of the orphan asylum over on the heights.
She lost it, though, three or four months ago and I never laid eyes on
her until she came last week and paid me every cent she'd owed me. I
don't believe she would go to sea again now, sir."
"Still, this is such a fine easy berth that she might consider it,"
McCarty urged discreetly. "The manager of the agency said she was just
the one for the job and you'd like to put it her way, I'm sure. She can
do no more than refuse it."
"That's true," the woman agreed. "She told me she was staying with
a friend, a Mrs. Williamson over on Park Avenue near a Hundred and
Seventeenth Street, but that she was going away somewhere for a rest
at the seaside. Kate has a rare craze for the ocean, sir, which is
natural, since she's spent most of her life on it. That's why I think
perhaps she might ship with you in spite of the money that's come
to her, but I can't tell you rightly where to find her, for I don't
remember the house number she gave me. She said she'd write, anyway,
when she got settled somewhere."
McCarty thanked his informant and took his departure, threading a
devious way across the city to Park Avenue. There a prolonged scrutiny
of the mail boxes in various vestibules in the neighborhood of One
Hundred and Seventeenth Street at length vouchsafed the name he sought,
and he pressed the bell.
The entrance door clicked promptly in response, and he mounted the
stairs to find a buxom young woman facing him in the dim hallway, with
a baby in her arms and a toddler clinging shyly to her skirt.
"Miss Stricker's gone away," the young woman simpered in reply to his
question. "Are you a friend of hers?"
"Yes, ma'am," McCarty responded promptly. "I've lost track of her
lately, since she quit the orphan asylum and I thought I'd look her up.
My name's Carter; I make no doubt you've heard her speak of me."
Mrs. Williamson shook her head.
"No, I can't say as I have, but Kate was always sly about her gentlemen
friends. If you want to write to her, she's at the Oceanside Cottage,
at Atlantic City. I suppose you know she's had money left her?"
"I did not, but I'm glad to hear it," retorted McCarty, avoiding the
shrewd glance of the woman's small, mercenary eyes. "Thanks for the
address, ma'am, and if you write to her, I'll be grateful if you'll say
that John Carter was asking after her."
He bowed and turning, strode down the stairs and out into the wintry
day once more, his steps buoyant with elation. He had scarcely dared
hope for such definite news at the outset of his quest, but the old
luck still held as an augury of ultimate success, and he resolved to
put it to the test without loss of time.
He hastened home to look up trains and pack a bag, but as he paused on
the steps outside the street door fishing for his keys, a voice hailed
him from the threshold of the antique shop.
"Oh, I say, there you are, McCarty! We've had a jolly good wait for
you!"
Wheeling about, he beheld the Englishman, Eric Vivaseur.
"You were wanting to see me, sir?" he asked in astonishment.
"Right-o. Miss Norwood is here. She would like a word with you."
At that moment the face of Joan Norwood, pale now and clouded with
troubled agitation, appeared over his shoulder and she cried:
"Oh, Mr. McCarty! I'm so glad you've come! I--I want your help!"