WHO COULD HAVE DONE IT?
Coroner Berg came down stairs and joined the group in the drawing-room.
He was a bristling, fussy little man, with a decided sense of his own
importance and evidently inclined to make much of his office. His sparse,
sandy hair stood out straight from his head, and his light blue eyes
darted from one to another of the impatient people awaiting his report.
“Sad case,” he said, wringing his hands; “very sad case. Fine man like
that, struck down in the prime of life. Awful!”
“We know that,” and Avice looked annoyed at what she thought intrusive
sympathy. “But who did it? What have you found out?”
“Very little, Miss,” answered Berg. “Your uncle was killed by a dagger
thrust, while up in Van Cortlandt Park woods. His body was found in a
lonely spot up there, and there is no trace of the murderer. The police
were informed of the murder by telephone, which is a mighty queer
performance if you ask me! They say a Dago woman called up headquarters
and told the story.”
“Extraordinary!” said Hoyt; “an Italian?”
“Yes, sir; they say she sounded like one, anyhow.”
“And a dagger or stiletto was used,” said Doctor Fulton, thoughtfully;
“that looks like Italian work. Had your uncle any Italian enemies, Miss
Trowbridge?”
“Not that I know of,” and Avice spoke a little impatiently; “but uncle
had no enemies that I know of. At least, none who would kill him.”
“He had enemies, then?” spoke up the coroner, alertly.
“Uncle Rowly was not an easy-going man. He had many acquaintances with
whom he was not on terms of friendship. But I’m sure none of his quarrels
were grave enough to lead to this.”
“But somebody committed the crime, Miss Trowbridge, and who so likely as
a known enemy? Tell me any of your uncle’s unfriendly acquaintances.”
“Positively no one, Mr. Berg, who could be in the least suspected. I’m
thinking of such men as Judge Greer, who holds political views opposed to
those of my uncle. And Professor Meredith, who is an enthusiastic
naturalist, but who disagrees with my uncle in some of their
classifications. As you see, these are not sufficient grounds for killing
a man.”
“Of course, not,” said Hoyt. “I know those men, and their relations with
Mr. Trowbridge were really friendly, though differing opinions frequently
led to quarrels. Mr. Trowbridge was quick-tempered and often said sharp
things, which he forgot as quickly as he uttered them.”
“Yes, he did,” corroborated Avice. “Why, he sometimes scolded me, and
soon after was sunny and sweet again. No, I’m sure Uncle Rowland had no
real enemies, surely none that would seek his death. And the fact that an
Italian woman gave the message proves to my mind that he was struck down
by some horrid Italian society,—Black Hand, or whatever they call it.”
“That remains to be seen,” said Berg, with an air of importance. “I shall
conduct an inquest tomorrow morning. It is too late to get at it tonight,
and too, I want to collect a little more evidence.”
“Where do you get evidence, Mr. Berg?” asked Avice, eager interest and
curiosity shining in her brown eyes.
“Wherever I may pick it up. I must question the police further and I must
endeavor to trace that telephone call, though that is a hard matter
usually. Then, also, I must question all members of this household. As to
his habits, I mean, and his whereabouts today. He left home this morning,
as usual?”
“Quite as usual,” broke in Mrs. Black, before Avice could reply. “I was
probably the one who saw him last as he departed. I went to the door with
him, and he,—he kissed me good-by.” Mrs. Black’s handkerchief was pressed
into service, but she went on, clearly; “we were to have been married
next month. Our engagement had been announced.”
“And you heard nothing from Mr. Trowbridge during the day?”
“No,” said Avice, taking up the tale again; “uncle told me before he left
he would be home by five, as I was to help him with his work. He is a
naturalist, out of office hours, and I assist with his cataloguing. Then,
when he didn’t come at five, I was worried, and I kept on being worried
until—until—” and here the girl broke down and buried her face again in
the sofa pillows.
“And you weren’t worried?” asked Coroner Berg, turning his pale blue eyes
on the housekeeper.
“No,” and Mrs. Black’s voice was cool and composed; “I supposed he was
merely detained by some business matter. I had no reason to fear any harm
had come to him.”
“When did _you_ last see him?” went on the coroner, turning to Judge
Hoyt.
“Let me see; it was—yes, it was last Friday. I was at his office
consulting with him about some business, and promised to report today.
But as I was called to Philadelphia today on an important matter, I wrote
him that I would come here to this house to see him this evening, and
give him the report he wanted.”
“And you went to Philadelphia today?”
“Yes, I left there at three and reached New York at five. I intended
coming here this evening, but when Miss Trowbridge telephoned me soon
after six, I came right up at once.”
“Well, I think I’ll go now, for I may dig up something of importance at
the police station, and I’ll be here tomorrow for the inquest at ten or
thereabouts.”
As Coroner Berg left, the men from the undertaker’s arrived, and the
trying session with them had to be gone through.
“But I can’t make arrangements about the funeral now,” said poor Avice,
breaking down again. “Why, I can’t even realize Uncle Rowly is dead,
and——”
“Never mind, my dear,” said Mrs. Black, “don’t try to. Go to your room
now, and leave the funeral matters to me. I will arrange everything, and
Judge Hoyt will assist me with his advice.”
“Indeed you won’t,” said Avice, spiritedly: “I suppose I am still my
uncle’s niece. And I prefer to be consulted about the last rites for
him.”
“Then stay by all means,” and Mrs. Black’s voice was honey-sweet. “I only
meant to save you a harrowing experience.” She turned to the suave young
man who had with him a book of pictured caskets, and was soon deeply
interested in the choice of shape, style and number of handles that
seemed to her most desirable.
Avice looked at her with aversion. It seemed to the girl almost ghoulish
to show such absorption in a question of the quality of black cloth, or
the lettering on the name-plate.
“But it must be decided,” said Mrs. Black. “Of course, we want the best
of everything, and it is the last honor we can pay to dear Mr.
Trowbridge. You should be very thankful, Avice, that you have me here to
assist and advise you. You are too young and inexperienced to attend to
these matters. Isn’t that so, Judge Hoyt?”
“It seems so to me, Mrs. Black. These selections must be made, and surely
you are showing good taste and judgment.”
“Very well,” returned Avice. “Go on, and get whatever you like. As for
me, I’m far more concerned in hunting down my uncle’s murderer. And I
doubt if that coroner man will do it. He’s a perfect lump! He’ll never
find out anything!”
“Why, Avice,” remonstrated Hoyt, “what could he find out tonight? It is a
mysterious affair, and as we here know nothing of the crime, how could
Mr. Berg discover anything from us?”
“But he has no brains, no intelligence, no ingenuity!”
“Coroners rarely have. It is their province only to question and learn
the circumstances. ‘Sleuthing’ is what you have in mind, and that must be
done by detectives.”
“I know it,” cried Avice, eagerly; “that’s what I said at first. Oh,
Leslie, won’t you get the very best detectives there are and put them on
the case at once?”
“Wait a moment, Avice,” said Mrs. Black, coldly. “I am not sure you are
in absolute authority here. I have something to say in the decisions.”
“But surely, Mrs. Black, you want to spare no pains and no expense to
learn who killed Uncle Rowly!”
“You talk very glibly of expense, my dear Avice. Until your uncle’s will
is read, how do you know who will be in a position to bear these expenses
you are so ready to incur?”
Avice looked at the older woman with scorn. “I don’t quite follow you,”
she said, slowly; “but surely, whoever inherits my uncle’s fortune, owes
first the duty of bringing his murderer to justice!”
Leslie Hoyt looked very grave. “As Mr. Trowbridge’s lawyer,” he said, “I
know the contents of the will. It will be read after the funeral. Until
then, I am not at liberty to disclose it. I must go now, as I have some
investigations to make myself. By the way, Avice, I brought home a
Philadelphia afternoon paper, and it contains a glowing account of the
début of your friend, Rosalie Banks. But, perhaps, you don’t care to see
it, now?”
“Yes, leave it,” said Avice, apathetically; “I am fond of Rosalie and I’d
like to look it over.”
Hoyt found the paper where he had left it on the hall table, and gave it
to her, and then with a sympathetic, but unobtrusive pressure of her
hand, the lawyer went away and the doctor also.
“May I look at that Philadelphia paper a moment?” asked Mrs. Black, “I
want to see an advertisement.”
“Certainly, here it is,” and Avice passed it over. “Just think of Rosalie
having her coming-out party just now while I’m in such sadness. We were
at school together, and though younger than I, she was always one of my
favorites.”
“You didn’t care to go to the party?”
“No it was yesterday, and I had that luncheon engagement here, you know.
And oh, Eleanor, isn’t it fortunate I am here and not in Philadelphia!”
“Why? You can’t do anything.”
“I know it. But it would have been awful to be away making merry when
uncle was—was breathing his last! Who _do_ you suppose did it?”
“Some highway robber, of course. I always told your uncle he ought not to
go off, in those lonely woods all by himself. He ran a risk every time.
And now the tragedy has occurred.“
“It doesn’t seem like a highway robber to use a dagger. They always have
a club or a—what do they call it? a blackjack.”
“You seem to know a lot about such things, Avice. Well, I’m going to my
room, and you’d better do the same. We’ve a hard day before us tomorrow.
I think it’s dreadful to have an inquest here. I thought they always held
them in the court-room or some such place.”
“They do, sometimes. Inquests are informal affairs. The coroner just asks
anybody, hit or miss, anything he can think of. That’s why I wish we had
a cleverer coroner than that Berg person. I can’t bear him.”
“I don’t care what he’s like, if he’ll only get the scene over. Shall we
have to be present?”
“Gracious! You couldn’t keep me away. I want to hear every word and see
if there’s any clue to the truth.”
The two went up to their rooms, but neither could sleep. Avice sat in an
easy chair by her open window, wondering and pondering as to who could
have been the criminal. Mrs. Black, on the other hand, thought only of
herself and her own future.
She was a very beautiful woman, with finely cut features and raven black
hair, which she wore in glossy smooth waves partly over her small ears.
Her eyes were large and black and her mouth was scarlet and finely
curved. She was of Italian parentage, though born in America. Her husband
had been a New York lawyer, but dying, left her in greatly straitened
circumstances and she had gladly accepted the position of housekeeper in
the Trowbridge home. At first, she had rejected the advances of Rowland
Trowbridge, thinking she preferred a younger and gayer man. But the
kindness and generosity of her employer finally won her heart, or her
judgment, and she had promised to marry him. It is quite certain,
however, that Eleanor Black would never have come to this decision, had
it not been for Rowland Trowbridge’s wealth.
Late into the night, Avice sat thinking. It seemed to her that she must
by some means ferret out the facts of the case,—must find the dastardly
villain who killed her uncle and let justice mete out his punishment. But
where to turn for knowledge, she had no idea.
Her mind turned to what Mr. Berg had said about enemies. It couldn’t be
possible that either of the men she had mentioned could be implicated,
but mightn’t there be some one else? Perhaps some one she had never heard
of. Then the impulse seized her to go down to her uncle’s library, and
look over his recent letters. She might learn something of importance.
Not for a moment did she hesitate to do this, for she knew she was the
principal heir to his fortune, and the right to the house and its
contents was practically hers.
And her motives were of the best and purest. All she desired was to get
some hint, some clue, as to which way to look for a possible suspect.
Walking lightly, though taking no especial precautions of silence, she
went slowly down stairs, and reached the door of the library. From the
hall, as she stood at the portière, she heard some one talking inside the
room. Listening intently she recognized the voice of Eleanor Black at the
telephone.
“Yes,” Mrs. Black was saying: “keep still about it for the
present,—yes,—yes, I’ll do whatever you say,—but don’t come here tonight.
You see it was an Italian—yes, I’ll meet you tomorrow at the same time
and same place. No, don’t call me up,—when I can, I’ll call you.”
Hearing the click that told of the hanging up of the receiver Avice
quickly stepped aside into an alcove of the hall, where she could not be
seen.
But apparently, Mrs. Black had no thought of any one near her, for she
turned off the library table light she had been using, and softly went
upstairs. A low hall light was sufficient illumination for this, and
Avice saw her go.
After waiting a few moments, the girl went into the library, and first
closing the door, she switched on the light.
Taking up the telephone, she said to the operator, “Please tell me that
number I just had. I can’t remember it, and I want to preserve it.”
Sleepily the girl responded, telling the number and exchange.
“Thank you,” said Avice, and hanging up the receiver she went to the desk
and jotted down the number.
“Not that I have the least suspicion of Eleanor,” she said to herself,
“but if I’m going to investigate, I mustn’t leave a stone unturned,
especially anything so unusual as a midnight telephoning.”
And then Avice set herself to the task she had come for. But she found
nothing definite or incriminating. There were some old and carefully
preserved notes from men who were very evidently angry with her uncle,
but they were not sufficiently strong to point to anything criminal.
There was the usual collection of bills, business letters and memoranda,
but nothing to interest or alarm her, and finally, growing wearied, she
went back upstairs.
As she passed Mrs. Black’s door it softly opened, and the lady herself,
wrapped in a kimono, looked out. Her long black hair hung in two braids,
and her eyes were very bright.
“Avice, where have you been? At this time of night!”
“Just down in the library, looking after some matters.”
“Well, it’s time you were in bed,” and the door closed again.
“H’m,” thought Avice, “she is afraid I heard her telephoning! That’s why
she’s on the watch!”
And now, her momentary weariness gone, Avice was again widely awake.
“I’ve got to think it out,” she told herself. “I don’t for a minute
imagine Eleanor is implicated in Uncle Rowly’s death, but what was she
telephoning for? And she said ‘it was an Italian,’ and she’s Italian
herself, and there’s something queer. I’m glad I got that telephone
number, but I doubt if I’ll ever use it. It doesn’t seem quite right now,
though it did when I asked Central for it. I believe I’ll tear it up.”
But she didn’t.