OUT OF THE MAZE
WITH a bound Detective Mitchell was by the footman’s side; a click, and
handcuffs dangled from his wrists. It seemed a useless precaution, as
Murray evinced no desire to be troublesome but sat and regarded them
with a sardonic grin.
“What’s the charge?” he demanded, ignoring Anthony’s presence at his
other elbow.
“The murder of Bruce Brainard on Tuesday morning,” responded the
detective. “I warn you that anything you say will be used against you.”
“Thanks.” Murray grinned again. “Between Miss Dorothy and Mr. Craig
you’ve got evidence enough to convict me.”
Mrs. Porter, who had been gazing at the pseudo-footman in horrified
amazement, found her voice.
“Do you mean to say that you killed my guest, Bruce Brainard?” she
demanded.
“That is what your son claims,” answered Murray.
“Why did you kill him? You had seen him at my house many times before?”
Mrs. Porter sat down in the nearest chair; she was weak from nervous
strain and its reaction.
“Why did I kill Bruce?” Murray cleared his throat. “We had worked
together years ago at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, and he
was the only man living who knew something of my subsequent career.”
Murray’s handcuffs jingled as he moved uneasily. “But Brainard never
penetrated my disguise until Monday night when I assisted him into the
library. He had overheard Miss Millicent’s quarrel with Dr. Noyes, and
it brought on some sort of an attack. I was in my shirt sleeves, and in
helping him inside the library he tore my sleeve and saw a tattoo mark
which he had made on my arm while we were working together. He knew
my record up to ten years ago. I told him that I had reformed and was
trying to live a different life; and he promised to give me a chance,
but I could see by his manner that he was planning to give Mrs. Porter
a tip as to my real character.”
“I hardly think I would have believed him,” affirmed Mrs. Porter
faintly. “You have been a model servant all these years, Murray.”
Murray looked gratified. “I flatter myself I played my part well, and
in my leisure hours I fitted up the cabin and perfected a wonderful
counterfeit.”
“You did,” agreed the Secret Service agent, “but you slipped up when
you lost Miss Deane’s bag in the street car.”
Murray shifted his position to look directly at Vera who stood somewhat
behind Mrs. Porter and in the shadow of a high-back chair.
“It wasn’t Miss Deane’s bag,” he admitted. “It was one I gave Cato--”
Thorne started and gazed blankly at the counterfeiter.--“Don’t blame
Cato, Dr. Thorne; he’s a faithful old darky with a fondness for
collecting money. He believed me an eccentric inventor, and I paid him
well for doing errands for me, as well as pledging him a share in my
‘patent rights,’ and it was by his aid that I got my material to the
cabin. By the way,” addressing Anthony, “the first shot you heard at
the cabin today was fired by one of your sentries higher up the ridge
at Cato, and I suspect the old man’s running yet. I was looking in
that direction while you were staring at the cabin and I saw the whole
thing.”
“How did my card come to be in the bag, Murray?” asked Vera.
“I found it among some old papers in Brainard’s overcoat. I burned the
papers at the cabin, but your card was inadvertently slipped into the
bag with the money Cato was taking to-- That doesn’t interest you,”
with a sidelong glance at the detective, “so I won’t mention names.”
Mitchell regarded him sourly for a second. “Cato can talk,” he said
meaningly, then turned to Vera. “Did you observe Murray’s flashlight in
Brainard’s bedroom on Monday night, Miss Deane?”
“No.” Vera moved a little forward and addressed them all. “I went
some time after midnight to see how Mr. Brainard was getting on, and
after my return to Craig’s bedroom I sat almost with my back to the
mirror and sideways to the bed in a big wing chair. I did not glance
upward toward the transom but recall staring steadily at Craig, whom I
could see but dimly, and all the while I thought of nothing but Bruce
Brainard’s treatment of my sister.” Vera paused a second to steady her
voice, then continued: “It seemed bitter irony that I should be nursing
him. The news that he and Millicent might be engaged shocked me, and I
was only waiting until the morning to tell Mrs. Porter all that I knew
about Bruce.” She stopped to clear her voice which had grown husky.
“At about three o’clock or a little after I went into Bruce’s room and
was astounded to find the night light out. I felt my way to the bed
and over to the table, found a box of matches and relit the candle.”
Her eyes grew large with horror as the gruesome scene came vividly
before her. “The sight of Bruce lying there dead deprived me of my
voice, almost of my reason. Some minutes passed before I could pull
myself together, then glancing down I saw that in searching for the
matches I had brushed against the side of the bed and that my skirt was
blood-stained.” Vera stumbled in her speech. “The last time I saw Bruce
I told him that I hoped he would meet with a violent death--that was
five years ago--and my spoken wish had been fulfilled.”
“Vera,” Dorothy approached her sister and clasped her tenderly, “don’t
talk any more.”
“I must,” feverishly. “My first coherent idea after discovering that
Bruce was really dead and beyond human assistance was to remove the
bloodstains from my skirt; later I went to summon Dr. Noyes and found
him gone. Mr. Mitchell,” turning to him, “when I realized that you and
Dr. Thorne suspected that I had discovered Bruce’s murder some time
before I went in search of assistance, I dared not tell you about the
bloodstains, fearing you would think that I had killed him. God knows
I had sufficient motive, knowing all that my sister had endured at his
hands. Frankly, I believed that Hugh, knowing all this, had killed
Bruce, and I tried to shield him--forgive the suspicion, Hugh--”
Without speaking, Wyndham wrung her hands warmly. “Don’t ask my pardon;
I thought _you_ guilty,” he confessed shamefacedly, “and from the same
motive.”
Mitchell was about to speak when Millicent rose and approached Murray.
She shrank slightly on meeting the counterfeiter’s eyes, but asked
gently:
“Murray, I have always been kind to you. Will you not do me the
justice to state that I was not in the room--that Craig was mistaken
when he saw me just before you killed Bruce?”
“But you were there,” objected Murray.
“I was not,” and she stamped her foot. “I would have been aware of it,
Murray.”
“No, you wouldn’t, because you were sleep-walking.” Murray’s statement
brought a cry, a glad cry from Noyes.
“I caught a glimpse of you, Millicent,” he broke in before the amazed
girl could speak, “just as I went down to the library to wait for my
telephone call. You were coming out of your mother’s boudoir and I saw
something glitter in your hand, but was too far away to make out in the
dim hall light what you were carrying. Thinking you were going to your
brother’s room I went downstairs.”
“How long did you remain in the library?” asked Mitchell.
“Until nearly four o’clock. Before returning to my room I went to see
how Brainard was getting along, and was stupefied to find him dead.”
Noyes chose his words with care. “I recognized the razor as one of a
set which Mrs. Porter had given me that morning. I remembered that I
had left the set in her boudoir, and recalled my glimpse of Millicent,
and that she was advancing toward Brainard’s door; I feared that in a
moment of mental aberration she had killed him. The thought was agony.”
Noyes almost broke down as he met Millicent’s adoring eyes. “I decided
that if I left the house I might be thought guilty; the razor was mine,
I had threatened to kill Brainard, so I went--”
“But not before I saw you coming from Bruce’s bedroom,” added
Millicent. “I had no idea I had been walking in my sleep, for I awoke
in my bed, and being unable to sleep I got up and partly dressed,
intending to go in and sit with Vera and my brother. Your expression,
Alan, as you walked away from Bruce’s bedroom terrified me, and
gathering my courage I went there--saw Bruce--the razor--” She caught
her breath--
“Recalling your threat to kill Bruce, I imagined you had carried it
out,” she went on, as no one spoke. “I crept back to my bedroom,
horrified beyond words, and later it occurred to me that perhaps Bruce
was not beyond medical aid, and I rushed downstairs to telephone
Dr. Thorne--” She stopped, unable to go on. “I secured the set of
razors and first hid them in an old trunk in the attic, then in the
cannon--the rest you know.”
Noyes, rising with some difficulty, stepped forward, and with a manner
not to be denied, slipped his one arm about her waist, and led her
across the room. Dorothy, standing nearest the heavy mahogany door as
it slowly closed behind the pair, saw Millicent’s head droop forward
and her discreet ears alone caught Noyes’ low whisper:
“Mine, at last!”
Silence prevailed in the library for some minutes after the departure
of Millicent and her lover, then Thorne turned to Murray.
“Was Miss Millicent in the room when you killed Brainard?” he asked.
“No, she had gone out some minutes before,” answered Murray, his voice
slightly strained. “I went in to see Brainard just to talk things over
with him. He was lying half asleep, and when Miss Millicent appeared
I was waiting in one corner of the room. Brainard must have heard her
entrance, for he looked at her, half terrified and half hypnotized.
Finally, after staring at him, she dropped the razor on the bed and
left the room. Then I crept over to the bed, and the sight of the
razor put the devil into me. I knew Brainard would squeal on me as soon
as he felt well enough to think things over; he would never believe
that I had reformed, and my blood boiled at the prospect of arrest
and losing the results of my work at the cabin and in Mrs. Porter’s
town house. I got the razor--” He shuddered, and did not complete the
sentence.
Mitchell stirred uneasily and eyed Murray askance. “When you found the
cabin was in the hands of the Secret Service why didn’t you clear out
instead of coming back here?” he demanded.
“Because it never dawned on me that Brainard’s murder could be traced
to me,” admitted Murray; dejection as well as fear had crept into his
manner. “I knew you would find no incriminating papers at the cabin,
and old Cato is faithful--he would not have told on me. I could not
bear to run away, in itself a confession of guilt, and leave my life
work behind me.”
“So much for over-confidence,” commented Mitchell dryly. “Come along,
Murray.”
Murray got to his feet slowly, and his bow to the company was not
without a certain dignity. “Good-by, ma’am,” he said, addressing
Mrs. Porter. “You’ve always treated me well during the seven years
I’ve lived with you. Tell Mr. Craig I don’t bear him malice.” And he
vanished through the door as Mrs. Porter, her overwrought feelings
mastering her, fainted for the first time in her life.
An hour later Dorothy, speeding through the lower hall, was intercepted
by Thorne.
“Will you please tell your sister that I would like to see her for a
few minutes?” he said. “I will wait in the drawing-room.”
Without wasting words, Dorothy, a mischievous smile dimpling her
cheeks, hurried upstairs. As she turned from delivering Thorne’s
message to Vera she encountered Hugh Wyndham, who was waiting for her
in his aunt’s boudoir.
“Dorothy”--Wyndham stood tall and straight before her--“Jacob served
seven years for Rachel--the desire of his heart; how long must I serve
for mine?”
Dorothy’s roguish smile, so long lost in the care and turmoil of her
daily life, lit her charming face as she answered:
“Just as long as it will require to get Vera’s permission. No, wait,”
as Wyndham, hardly able to believe such swift capitulation, sprang
toward the door. “_You_ may set the date, Hugh.”
Down in the drawing-room the minutes passed on leaden feet for Thorne.
Would Vera never come? He finally turned in despair and found her
watching him from the doorway.
He was by her side instantly, and held out a black-edged visiting-card.
“You sent me this, Vera, as you said--‘In grateful remembrance’--for
the little aid I was able to render your mother when she was stricken
in the street with heart failure. Later, in Philadelphia I saw you, but
was too shy to introduce myself, but I have never forgotten my first
glimpse of you. I have always treasured the card and your picture,
possessed by a strong conviction that we should some day meet again.
“Two months ago I heard that Bruce Brainard had eloped with a Miss
Deane of Washington, and I stupidly jumped to the conclusion that
it was you. It never occurred to me that it might be your sister.
The thought that you were innocently involved in Brainard’s murder
was torture to me, and I could not rest until the real criminal was
arrested and you were entirely exonerated.
“You must know and realize how passionately I love you.” His voice was
very tender, and her eyes fell before his ardent look. “I have little
to offer, Vera. Is there any hope for me?”
Vera’s lovely eyes were alight with happiness as she looked up at
him. “There’s more than hope,” she whispered, and the words were lost
against his shoulder; then she looked bravely upward and their lips met
in the first kiss of love.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.