SIGNED, "VICTOR MARCHAL"
Calvin Norwood was seated in solitude before the hearth in his library
on Saturday night, trying to shut his ears to the occasional murmur
of voices from the drawing-room where Joan and her lover were making
plans for the future. He was trying hard not to listen too for another
familiar sound; the light, halting step of the blind secretary.
No light save the glow of the fire lifted the shadows of the room and
in a far corner the silent, shrouded typewriter loomed, a tangible
reminder of the brave spirit which had sought to carry on through the
darkness and fallen only when reason failed.
So deep was Norwood in his mournful reverie that he was oblivious to
the ringing of the front door-bell and glanced up only when Billings
appeared on the threshold.
"Mr. McCarty, sir."
"My dear fellow!" Norwood sprang up and extended his hand. "Where have
you been for the past week and more? I've tried twice to see you."
"Have you, sir?" McCarty shook hands and dropped a trifle wearily into
the chair his host indicated. "I've been out of town--only got back a
couple of hours ago--and I've not had a decent night's sleep but one
since I left. I thought I'd look in on you and hear the news."
"There is none." Norwood seated himself once more and sighed gloomily.
"Since poor Victor's death I seem to be losing my grip on things. I
cannot help a feeling of hopelessness about the investigation of Mrs.
Jarvis' murder, and it is my belief that it will never be solved."
He spoke with a shade too much eagerness, and McCarty asked:
"Has Inspector Druet been around, sir?"
"Yes. I've stood by and watched the department make blunder after
blunder for twenty years, but your Inspector has surpassed any of the
others for sheer idiocy in this case; first by trying to place the
guilt on Oliver, and now by nosing about after that Hoyos wallet of
which I told you. I suspect you must have mentioned it to him, but his
efforts to connect it with the murder are preposterous."
"Yes, sir," agreed McCarty equably. "Have you found it yet?"
Norwood stirred impatiently in his chair.
"No. I haven't looked!" he snapped. "It's there somewhere, of course.
I tell you, these tragedies following one upon another have made me
shudder at the very mention of crime! I shall never interest myself in
such work again and I feel like making a bonfire of my whole collection
in the yard!"
McCarty, remembering Joan's description of her uncle's frenzied,
night-long search of the museum after discovering the disappearance of
the wallet, smiled to himself at the tirade.
"What is Mr. Terhune doing, I wonder?" he queried.
"Terhune! Don't speak to me of him!" snorted the other indignantly. "He
has rested his case completely on poor Victor's suicide, smirching the
name of a dead man to hide his own incompetence, and more than all,
he has managed to half convince Oliver of the truth of his damnable
theory! Once let a man believe that another was secretly in love with
his wife and he will be ready to believe anything else of him! Victor
felt only a chivalrous and grateful admiration for Evelyn, that I
know. In spite of Terhune's sensational successes in the past, it is
my opinion that the man is a bluff, pure and simple. The case has
baffled him, just as it will everybody in the end, and he has taken
the easy way out by thrusting the blame upon a man who is no longer
here to defend himself. If Victor were only alive I would never cease
my efforts to learn the truth, for that is the only way his name can
be cleared. But I am an old man and I recognize the inevitability of
defeat, as Inspector Druet will in time. Mark my words, McCarty, the
mystery of Evelyn Jarvis' murder will never be solved."
"Perhaps not, sir. There's many another that hasn't been, like the
Hoyos case." He rose. "Well, I'll be getting on back to my rooms. It's
strange not to see Captain Marchal here, and his typewriter still there
in the corner and all!"
"Yes!" Norwood groaned. "I find myself constantly listening for his
step, and the click of the machine. I'm going to get rid of it at once;
I cannot bear to have it about!"
McCarty hesitated.
"I wonder would you lend it to me, sir, for a few days?" he suggested
at length. "I've a lot of letters to send out and I'm not handy with a
pen. I'll take good care of it and bring it back safe."
"Of course you may take it. Keep it, if you will; I never want to see
it again!"
"No, thank you, sir. It's just the loan of it I want, and if it's all
the same to you I'll get a taxi and take it right along with me now."
"By all means." Norwood, too, had risen and now he pressed the bell.
"Billings will send for one for you. I don't know what condition the
typewriter is in after its fall. However, if you will telephone on
Monday to the office of the company who manufactured it they will send
a man up to fix it for you."
"That'll be all right. I'll manage," McCarty assured him. "Good-night,
Mr. Norwood, and thanks for the loan of it."
Travel-worn as he was, the next day found McCarty once more upon a
train speeding southward, but this departure was of a comparatively
brief duration. He emerged again from the Pennsylvania station at
nightfall and this time he was not alone. A tall woman of majestic
figure accompanied him, clad in a black, fur-trimmed cloak and smartly
quilled hat and the two appeared to be on excellent terms with each
other.
McCarty escorted her to an address far uptown, then returned to his
rooms and uncovered the typewriter which stood upon the place of honor
on his desk. Next, he inserted a sheet of paper and tested the keys to
his satisfaction.
Thereupon he opened a lower drawer in his desk and after some fumbling
produced a package which he regarded with an expression of mingled
disparagement and respect. Unwrapped, it disclosed a small but powerful
microscope.
Through the long hours of the night, while the coals died upon the
hearth and the penetrating chill of a wintry dawn crept in at the
windows McCarty sat tirelessly at his task. With the aid of the
magnifying glass he studied a single sheet of paper before him upon
which appeared to the casual eye merely the signature of Victor
Marchal. The fruit of his examination was a series of strange and
seemingly incomprehensible hieroglyphics which he painstakingly noted
down. Then turning to the machine he touched a key here and there,
erasing and altering the result in conformity with his notes. The typed
sheet spun out from the roller at last and as he read the message which
he had evolved an expression of grim joy stole over his face.
Despite his sleepless night he was up betimes and nine o'clock found
him once more at Headquarters.
"Mac, you old rascal, where have you been?" the Inspector greeted him
with obvious relief and pleasure. "I don't mind telling you that I'm
stumped; the Jarvis case is one too many for me!"
"Is it, now?" McCarty asked solicitously. "How did your man make out in
New Orleans?"
"He drew a blank!" The Inspector smote his desk in exasperation.
"One of the best boys we have in the department, too. He interviewed
everyone who was in a position to know anything about Evelyn Beaudet
or her family; the Mother Superior of the convent where she was
educated, the attorneys who settled her guardian's estate, old business
associates of her father, friends of her mother and several people who
came in touch with the girl herself socially before her marriage. There
isn't the slightest evidence of any secret connected with her, and yet
we know she was paying blackmail!"
"And the female operative you've had working among her acquaintances
here?" McCarty probed. "Did she find out anything?"
"Nothing whatever. I've even given your theory a try-out but old
Norwood claims that the wallet is only mislaid and I can't find any
trace of the woman who sold it to him. She represented herself as a
stewardess on the Hoyos yacht and I'm having the original one looked
up, but she seems to have dropped completely out of sight."
"I saw Mr. Norwood on Saturday night," volunteered McCarty. "He don't
seem much interested in the proceedings since Captain Marchal is gone.
I don't suppose, sir, that there've been any new developments in that
case? It's settled the poor lad killed himself?"
"Of course he did; there has never been a doubt of that from the
first," declared the Inspector. "One shot might have been fired from
the pistol long ago, or it may not have been fully loaded."
"Then you didn't find where the other bullet went?" McCarty queried.
"No, and it was a waste of time looking. Before you appeared on the
scene I had picked up the ejected shell where it lay right at the feet
of the body but no other shell was found; that in itself would prove
that only one shot was fired there. He killed himself, all right, and
Terhune's a happy man that he solved the murder to suit himself, but I
won't accept his solution until every other possibility fails."
"You're thinking, then, there's a chance he may be right?"
"Damn it, man, I don't know what to think!" the Inspector cried. "It
is more than two weeks since the woman was done to death and I'm no
nearer the truth than when I started. You know what the department is,
Mac. There are plenty waiting for my head to fall, and I'm not getting
any younger! I can't afford to lay down on this. The papers are putting
up a howl as it is over the delay in nailing someone for the crime;
they're not particular who, but they need the copy. Besides that, the
Jarvises are too prominent and the case itself had too many sensational
details for the public to lose interest in it and let other things
crowd it out of mind until some explanation is made. The Commissioner
gave me a pretty broad hint the other day that it was time to show
results and you know what that means. If I don't make good on this I'm
a dead one!"
"You'll make good on it, sir!" McCarty burst out, the last trace of his
resentment gone before the look of despair on his former superior's
face. "I was going to spring it on you to get even with you for giving
me the laugh the other day, but after all it's up to the department to
pull it off."
"Mac!" The Inspector jumped to his feet, his worn face brightening with
an almost incredulous hope. "What do you mean? You haven't found the
man!"
"I'm thinking he'll call at my rooms this night," McCarty replied, his
face sobering. "I dropped in to ask you, would you come, sir, and bring
Martin and Yost with you. Unless I ball the whole thing up there'll be
work for them to do later on, but I'd like them there ahead of any of
the others."
"What others?" demanded the Inspector. "Mac, for God's sake if you've
got actual proof of the murder's identity and know where he is, tell me
now and don't take fool chances!"
"Excuse me, sir!" McCarty's jaw set in a manner the other recognized.
"I'm not on the force, if you mind, but only a private party that's
butted into the case and I'll tell what I've done in my own way or not
at all. I've been in the gallery at more than one of Terhune's little
shows and now I'm going to give a séance of my own. Besides you and him
I'll have Norwood and young Jarvis; Mr. Vivaseur can come too, if he
likes, since he's taken an interest in the case and 'twill do no harm
if Denny sits in a corner. There'll be a lady present, too, to keep
Martin and Yost company in the back room until they're wanted. 'Tis too
bad that Captain Marchal can't come back for the one evening, but he's
done the next best thing; he's left us a signed statement of the truth."
"A signed statement!" the Inspector repeated. "Where did you get it?"
"You let me have it yourself, sir," McCarty grinned. "But I'll tell you
no more now."
"Look here!" exclaimed the Inspector. "Except for the woman, whoever
she is, and Martin and Yost, you've only named the people who were
present at Terhune's experiment two weeks ago. You can't mean that one
of them murdered Mrs. Jarvis?"
"It is likely?" McCarty snorted. "I want them all there, though, when
the blackguard that did it shows himself. You'll come, sir?"
"Mac, I don't know whether to believe you or not, but you've got me
where you want me," the Inspector laughed somewhat uncertainly. "If you
won't speak now, you won't, and I'll have to trust you. I'll be there
with Martin and Yost."
"At eight then, sir, and see that they're heeled." McCarty picked up
his hat. "I don't expect any rough stuff, but you never can tell.
Good-by, sir."
Leaving Headquarters he telephoned to Wade Terhune tendering an
invitation to his séance that evening, and thoroughly enjoyed the
amused and skeptical tone of the great man's acceptance and promise
to bring his client. Next he journeyed across town to the private
detective agency of one James B. Shane, whom he familiarly addressed
as "Jim" and with whom he was in close consultation for more than an
hour. One o'clock found him consuming pie and coffee at a nearby lunch
counter, after which repast he presented himself at the Norwood house.
"Uncle Cal has gone with Oliver out to Mrs. Jarvis' grave." Joan
explained as she greeted McCarty in the drawing-room. "We were both so
sorry not to have seen you on Saturday night; weren't we, Eric?"
She appealed to the Englishman who exclaimed as he shook hands.
"Rather! We couldn't imagine what had become of you last week, but we
hoped you were working on the investigation. I say, were you?"
"A part of the time," McCarty responded. "I've not given up hope
yet, but I can't see my way to going on with it much further alone. I
thought that maybe if we all got together and talked it over--Terhune
and Mr. Jarvis and Mr. Norwood and the Inspector--and pieced out what
each of us knew or thought we knew, we might get something fresh
to start on. The rest have agreed to come to my rooms to-night at
half-past eight and I called to see if Mr. Norwood would mind being
there, too."
"Of course Uncle Cal will come." Joan's face had fallen. "But haven't
you any news for me, Mr. McCarty? Oh, I did so hope that you would be
able to discover the truth!"
McCarty flushed deeply.
"I tried, miss," he said simply.
"I say, mayn't I come, too?" Vivaseur asked impulsively. "I know I'm
a rank outsider but I've been doing a lot of thinking on the subject
and I've an idea or two which may be worth something. If I'm not
intruding----"
"Sure! Come if you like," McCarty said cordially. "You and Miss Norwood
gave me some good tips before and I'm thinking the Inspector is open
now to suggestions from any quarter."
"I suppose I mustn't invite myself?" Joan pouted. "I think you might
have held your conference here, Mr. McCarty, and permitted me to be
present!"
"I'm afraid that the Inspector----" McCarty began somewhat doubtfully
and Vivaseur came to the rescue.
"Not at a council of war, Joan dear; it isn't done," he said lightly.
"I'll come back with your uncle to-night if it is not too late and tell
you all about it. That will be best."
"Then that's settled." McCarty rose. "At half-past eight, Mr. Vivaseur."
Yet another call remained to be paid before he could return to his
rooms and prepare for what the evening would bring forth. He betook
himself to the firehouse where Dennis had returned to his duty and the
mask which he had worn all day slipped from him.
"It's done, Denny!" he cried gleefully. "It's all over but the
shouting!"
"Is it the murderer you mean!" Dennis spoke in an awestruck whisper.
"You've got him, Mac?"
"You mind Jim Shane, that was roundsman in my precinct when I was on
my first beat?" McCarty ignored the question. "Well, he's running a
private-detective bureau now and on the Thursday before we started for
New Orleans I put him to work on a little job for me that has turned
the trick!"
"Before we went to New Orleans!" exclaimed Dennis. "You knew then who
the fellow was that murdered Mrs. Jarvis?"
"I knew the truth of it when I stood beside that poor, blind
Frenchman's body, God rest him, but I couldn't have proved it, and if
I had spoken I'd have been put away for a lunatic," McCarty responded
gravely. "Instead of being like most cases, where you hold a million
loose threads and don't know where they lead to, I had the answer but
not the way to connect it up. Are you on day or night duty now?"
"Day," Dennis responded eagerly. "My nights are my own and if there's
anything doing this evening I'll be on the job. But who is he, Mac?
You've held out on me long enough----"
"You'll know to-night." McCarty regarded him quizzically. "Are you
wishful to take part in another little scientific experiment?"
Dennis quailed, then squared his shoulders doggedly.
"I'm not, and well you know it, but if it's going to be the finish, you
can count me in. What is it you are going to do now, Mac? Hand Terhune
all the credit, like you did in that other case last year?"
"Not this time," McCarty smiled. "I'm holding this séance myself in my
own rooms at half-past eight, and there'll be no dinky little machines
to take records of every breath you draw."
"'Séance'!" Dennis shivered. "Isn't that what they call it when some
medium throws a fit and brings back the spirits of the dead?"
"It is, and that's what I'm going to do." McCarty paused, and then
added: "Not throw a fit, I don't mean, but it's a spirit I'm going to
bring back from the dead all right; a spirit as evil and black as the
devil himself, Denny, with more than one murder on the vile soul of
him! 'Twas you yourself first put me on his track, though little you
knew it, and to-night we'll resurrect him."
Dennis crossed himself fervently.
"I always said you'd get whoever you were after, if you had to go to
the next world to find him, but I never thought to see you do it," he
said. "Spooks or no, I'll be there, Mac, with bells on!"