PINCKNEY, THE REPORTER
“There’s no use mincing matters,” said Mrs. Black, as she and Avice sat
at breakfast next morning: “I was your uncle’s promised wife and I feel
that it is, therefore, my right to assume the head of the household and
give orders.”
Avice looked at her sadly. “I have no objection to your giving orders so
long as they in no way interfere with _my_ plans or wishes. But I think
it would be pleasanter for us both if you were to drop that defiant air,
and let us be on a more friendly footing. I quite appreciate your
position here, but you must remember that though you were engaged to my
uncle you were _not_ married to him and that——”
“That makes no difference in reality! As his future wife, I have every
right of a wife already, so far as this house is concerned. Indeed, it is
already mine, by will as you are soon to find out.”
“Very well, Mrs. Black,” said Avice, wearily, “let’s not quarrel over it.
I’m sure _I_ don’t want this house, and I am not at all afraid that my
uncle’s will leaves me unprovided for. I wish the coroner would come! I
long to get to work on the solution of the mystery.”
“How you talk!” and Mrs. Black shuddered delicately; “I don’t see how you
can bear to have to do with those awful investigations!”
“Would you sit calmly down, and let the murderer go scot-free?”
“Yes, rather than mix in with that awful coroner man, and worse still,
detectives!” Mrs. Black brought out the word as if she had said
“scorpions.”
Avice was about to make an indignant reply, when the bell rang, and the
card was brought in of Mr. Pinckney, a reporter.
“Don’t see him,” said Mrs. Black, looking scornfully at the card.
“Indeed I shall,” and Avice rose determinedly. “Why, if I don’t set him
straight, there’s no telling what he’ll print!”
Realizing this, Mrs. Black followed the girl into the library, and
together they met the reporter.
“Awfully sorry to intrude,” said a frank-faced, nice-voiced young man.
“Often I wish I’d chosen any other career than that of a reporter.
Downright good of you to see me, Miss Trowbridge,—isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Avice, “I am Miss Trowbridge and this is Mrs. Black.”
“What can we tell you?” said Mrs. Black, acknowledging the visitor’s bow,
and quickly taking the initiative. “There is so little to tell——”
“Ah, yes,” and the interrupting Pinckney deliberately turned to Avice.
“But you will tell me all you know, won’t you? It’s so annoying to the
family to have details made up—and—we must get the news somehow.”
His youthful, almost boyish air pleased Avice, who had thought reporters
a crude, rather slangy lot, and she responded at once.
“Indeed I will Mr. Pinckney. It’s horrid to have things told wrongly,
especially a thing like this.” Her eyes filled, and the reporter looked
down at his still empty notebook.
“But, don’t you see, Miss Trowbridge,” he said, gently “if you tell me
the details it might help in unearthing the truth,—for you don’t know who
did it, do you?”
“No, we don’t” broke in Eleanor Black; “you’d better not try to talk
Avice, dear, you are so unstrung. Let me answer Mr. Pinckney’s
questions.”
“I’m not unstrung, Eleanor, at least not so much so that I can’t talk.
Mr. Pinckney, if you can be of assistance in any way of solving the
mystery of my uncle’s death, I shall be very grateful. The inquest will
be held this morning, and I suppose,—I hope that will throw some light on
it all. But just now I know of no way to look.”
“Oh of course, it was a highway robber,” said Mrs. Black. “There can be
no doubt of it.”
“But is there any proof of it?” and the reporter looked at her
inquiringly. “No doubt is not sufficient, proof positive is what we
want.”
“Of course, we do,” agreed Avice. “Just think, Mr. Pinckney, we know
_nothing_ but that my uncle was stabbed to death in the woods. We don’t
even know why he went into the woods. Though that, of course, is probably
a simple reason. He was a naturalist and went often on long tramps
looking for certain specimens for his collections.”
“Yes, that would explain his being there,” said Pinckney, eagerly. “Did
you know he was going?”
“No; on the contrary he said he would be home at five o’clock.”
“He told _me_ he might be home earlier,” said Mrs. Black, looking
sorrowful. “I expected him as early as three or four, for we were going
out together. You see, Mr. Trowbridge was my fiancé.”
“Ah,” and Pinckney looked at her with increased interest. “Are there
other members of this household?”
“No,” replied Mrs. Black. “Just Mr. Trowbridge and myself, and our dear
niece, Miss Trowbridge. We were a very happy family, and now——” Mrs.
Black raised her handkerchief to her eyes, “and now, I am all alone.”
“You two will not remain together, then?” the reportorial instinct
cropped out.
“We haven’t decided on anything of that sort yet,” broke in Avice.
“Eleanor, don’t be ridiculous! Mr. Pinckney is not interested in our
domestic arrangements.”
“Indeed I am. The readers of _The Gazette_ are all anxious to know the
least details of your life and home.”
“They must be disappointed then,” and Avice’s haughty look forbade
further personal questions.
“Tell me more of the—the tragedy, then. Was the weapon found?”
“No, not that I know of,” and Avice looked surprised. “I never thought of
it.”
“No, it was not,” affirmed Mrs. Black. “The police were unable to find
any weapon.”
“Too bad,” frowned Pinckney; “the dear public loses a thrill.”
“The public? Do they care?” and Avice started.
“Rather! New Yorkers love a murder mystery if there are gruesome elements
here and there.”
“All I want is justice,” and Avice’s big, brown eyes turned full on
Pinckney’s face. “You know about such things. Do you suppose we can trace
the murderer with so little to go on?”
“Can’t tell yet. May be lots of evidence forthcoming at the inquest.”
At this point Mrs. Black was called from the room by a servant, and
Pinckney said quickly, “Who is she? and why don’t you like her?”
For some reason, Avice did not resent the man’s directness, and answered,
slowly. “She is housekeeper, and was engaged to my uncle. I don’t dislike
her,—not altogether.”
“Is she Italian? She looks so.”
“Of Italian descent, yes. Why?”
“Nothing. She’s a stunner for looks, but she’s entirely able to take care
of herself. I say, Miss Trowbridge, are you alone,—in this matter, I
mean.”
“In a way, I am. There is no one in the house but the housekeeper and
myself. But Judge Hoyt, my uncle’s lawyer, looks after all business
affairs for us.”
“Judge Hoyt?”
“Yes, Leslie Hoyt.”
“You’re fixed all right that way, then. But I say, Miss Trowbridge, I
don’t want you to think me impertinent, but if I can help you at all in
looking about,—investigating, you know,——”
“Do you mean detecting?”
“Yes, in a small way. I’ve opportunities to go into the world and inquire
into things that are a sealed book to you. But I suppose you’ll have
detectives, and all that. And any way, it’s too soon to think about it.
But remember, if you want any sleuthing done,—on the side, in an amateur
way I’d be awfully glad to help you out.”
“That’s kind of you Mr. Pinckney, and I’ll be glad to take advantage of
your offer. But do you have to put everything in your paper?”
“Just about. Oh, of course, if I unearth anything of importance,—like a
clue, you know, I’d tell the police first but I’d want the scoop for
ours.”
“How can there be any clues when it happened in the lonely woods? I
thought clues were little things picked up off the floor, or found in
people’s pockets.”
“Well, mightn’t they pick up little things off the ground? Or find them
in your uncle’s pockets?”
“Do you think they will? Mr. Pinckney, you’ve no idea how I want to find
the murderer! I never knew before that I had so much revenge in my
nature, but I feel now I could devote my whole life, if need be, to
tracking down that villain! I loved my uncle almost like a father. Most
girls, I suppose, would be so broken up with grief that they couldn’t
talk like this, but I seem to find the only comfort in the thought of
avenging this horrible deed!”
“Don’t bank on it too much, Miss Trowbridge. They say only one murderer
in six is convicted, and in only a small fraction of murders is anybody
even suspected of the crime. But this case will be ferreted out, I’m
sure, both because of the prominence of your uncle, and the fact that
there is money enough to hire the best talent, if desired.”
“Indeed it is desired! I shall, of course, inherit much of my uncle’s
fortune, and I would spend every penny rather than fail in the search!”
“You won’t mind my reporting this conversation, will you, Miss
Trowbridge? I’m here for a story, you know,——”
“Oh, must you put me in the paper? Please don’t!”
“I won’t put anything you won’t like. But our readers want you. You know,
all the men want now-a-days is a graft yarn, and the women, some inside
society gos—information.”
Avice would have made further objection to newspaper publicity, but
people began to arrive, and, too, Pinckney was content to leave off
conversation at that point.
He was young, and enthusiastic in his chosen career. Moreover, he was
canny and clever. He had further chat with Mrs. Black, and he managed to
get a few words with the servants. And somehow, by hook or crook, he
secured photographs of both women, and of the house, as well as of the
victim of the tragedy himself.
Aside from reportorial talent, Pinckney had a taste for detective work.
He was, or fancied himself, the stuff of which story-book detectives are
made, and he was more than glad to have the press assignment of this
case, which might give him wide range for his powers of deduction.
When Judge Hoyt arrived, he at once sought out Avice, and his fine,
impassive face grew infinitely gentle as he greeted the sad-eyed girl.
In her black gown, she looked older, and her pale cheeks and drawn
countenance told of a sleepless night.
“How are you dear?” asked Hoyt, taking her hands in his. “I’ve been so
anxious about you.”
“I’m all right,” and Avice tried to smile bravely. “But I’m glad you’ve
come. I feel so alone and responsible—Mr. Pinckney says I have a splendid
lawyer—but I don’t see anything for a lawyer to do.”
“There may be. I believe the police have made quite a few discoveries,
though I know nothing definite. Of course, all my legal powers are at
your disposal, but I too, doubt if the criminal is ever apprehended.”
“Oh, don’t say that! We _must_ find him! You will, won’t you?”
“I’ll do my best Avice. But I am a lawyer, not a detective, you know.”
“But you’re a judge, and you have been district attorney, and you’re the
greatest criminal lawyer in the state!”
“Yes, but a criminal lawyer must have a criminal to convict. Rest assured
if the criminal is found, he shall have full punishment.”
“Of course, but I want help to find him. I want to employ detectives
and——”
“And so you shall, but wait Avice, until the inquest is over. That may
bring developments. I wish I had been here in New York yesterday.”
“What could you have done?”
“Perhaps nothing to prevent or help, but I would have been at your
uncle’s office during the day, and I would have known of his plans. Who
is this Pinckney you mentioned?”
“A reporter for _The Daily Gazette_? I didn’t want to see him at first,
but I’m glad I did. He’s going to help me detect.”
“Avice, dear, ‘detecting’ as you call it, isn’t a casual thing, to be
done by anybody. It’s a trade, a profession——”
“Yes, I know. But Mr. Pinckney knows something of it, and he is very
kind.”
“When a reporter is kind, it’s only for his personal benefit. The moment
crime is committed, Avice, the reporters are on the job, and they never
let go of it, until all suspects are freed or sentenced. But what they
learn by their ‘detection’ is only for their paper; it is rarely given in
testimony, or turned to real account.”
“Mr. Pinckney will help me, I’m sure,” Avice persisted. “And besides, he
was in college with Mr. Landon, uncle’s nephew out West.”
“Landon? The chap you used to be in love with?” and Judge Hoyt made a wry
face.
“In love! Nonsense! I’m as much in love with him now as I ever was.”
“And how much is that?”
“It’s so long since I’ve seen him, I’ve forgotten,” and Avice, who
couldn’t help an occasional flash of her innate coquetry, smiled up into
the stern face regarding her.
“Beg pardon, Miss Avice,” said Stryker, the butler, coming toward them;
“but do you want to be in the drawing-room for the—the inquest, or
upstairs?”
“I want to be right near the coroner and the jury. I want to know
everything that goes on. Shall we go in there now, Leslie?”
“Yes, in a moment. What do you know of Mr. Trowbridge’s death, Stryker?”
“Me, Judge Hoyt? Nothing,—nothing at all, sir. How should I?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. I merely asked. Where were you yesterday
afternoon, Stryker?”
“It was my day off, sir. I was out all afternoon.”
“Oh, all right. Don’t take my question too seriously.” Hoyt spoke kindly,
for the butler showed considerable agitation. He started to say
something, paused, stammered, and finally burst out with, “_I_ didn’t
kill him, Sir!”
“Good Lord, Stryker, nobody thought you did! But don’t show such a scared
face to the coroner when he questions you, or he may think all sorts of
things.”
“What c—could he think?”
“Nothing that I know of. By the way, Stryker, now that Mr. Trowbridge is
gone, you can take out that insurance policy, can’t you?”
“Oh, Mr. Hoyt, don’t speak of such things now!” and the old butler fairly
wrung his hands.
“All right, I won’t. But when you want to talk it over, come to me. Is
that your Pinckney, Avice, talking to Mrs. Black?”
“Yes; why, he’s interviewing her! See his notebook. She is telling him
lots!”
“He’s getting what they call a ‘sob story.’ She’s working on his
sympathies by pathetic tales of her loss. How does she treat you? All
right?”
“Yes, except that she wants to be head of the house, and——”
“That will settle itself. You won’t stay here, dear, you will come to me.
We will——”
“Please don’t talk like that now. I can’t bear it.” Avice’s brave,
determined air forsook her, and with quivering lip, she looked
imploringly at the man who gazed passionately into her troubled eyes.
“Forgive me, dear, I should have known better. But when I think of you,
here, alone, save for a woman who is nothing to you, I want to carry you
off where I can protect you from all annoyance or trouble.”
“I know you do, and I ought to feel more grateful, but I can’t seem to
think of anything just now but——”
“Of course, my darling, I understand, and it is all right. Only tell me
what you want and I am at your orders, always and forever.”
“Then come with me to the other room, stay by me, and tell me what things
mean, when I don’t understand. Listen, too, yourself, to everything, so
you’ll know just what to do when the police fail.”
“Why are you so sure they will fail?”
“Because the case is all so mysterious. Because it will take a clever and
skilled brain to find my uncle’s murderer.”
Avice spoke in low, intense tones, as if she were stirred to the very
soul by her harrowing anxiety.
“Avice,” said Hoyt, suddenly, “have you any suspicion of anybody—anybody
at all?”
“No! oh, no! How could I have?”
“But have you?” Hoyt scanned her face closely, noting the quickly dropped
eyelids and firm, set mouth.
“Not a suspicion—oh, no!”
“A premonition, then? A vague idea of any way to look?”
“No—no. No, I haven’t.”
The first negative was hesitating, the second, positive and decided. It
was as if she had instantly made up her mind to say nothing more.
Leslie Hoyt looked at her, and then with a gentle smile, as of one
humoring a child, he said: “All right, dear. Come now with me.”
And together, they went to listen to the inquest held to determine the
circumstances of the death of Rowland Trowbridge.