CONFLICTING CLUES.
Once the young man opened his lips to reply to the question, but he
changed his mind, evidently, and remained silent for a time.
“Give me time to think,” he said, after a pause. “I don’t seem to
remember.”
“Did you come up here before your mother and Mr. Maynard came up for
the night?”
“Oh, yes; I heard them come up and go to their rooms.”
“Did they engage in conversation?”
“They did not,” was the hesitating reply. “To tell the truth, they were
not on good terms with each other last night. That makes this affair
all the more terrible for mother.”
“Do you know the nature of their quarrel?”
“I do not.”
“Did you leave your room for any purpose after they came up here?”
“I did not.”
“Until when?”
“This morning.”
“Then you went to Mr. Maynard’s room?”
“I went to mother’s room first. You see, I had been attacked, and my
first idea on regaining consciousness was that some one else might have
been wounded.”
“That was quite early?”
“Just after daylight.”
“Where did you find your mother?”
“Lying on the floor. I placed her on the bed and went on to Mr.
Maynard’s room. I found him dead, as you know.”
“Did you move the body?”
“I did not.” This with a shudder of horror.
“Were you dressed?”
“I was not. I had just tumbled off the bed, where I had fallen, or been
thrown by the robbers. I think I had my trousers and socks on, that
is all. You must understand that about this time I was hardly myself,
and was laboring under strong excitement. I hardly know what I did
after that. I remember of going to Charley’s room, and of hearing him
cry out that the diamonds had been stolen. You know I had lain in an
unconscious condition all night from this wound on my head. I asked
that Sheriff Walton be sent for, and again became unconscious.”
“Did you succeed in arousing your mother from her stupor?”
“I called to the servants to assist her.”
“How was she dressed?”
“In a nightrobe.”
“How about her feet?”
“They were bare.”
“Where was she taken, then?”
“Directly downstairs.”
“She was not able to walk about?”
“Oh, no, she was carried down.”
Young Sawtelle closed his eyes as if from weariness, and, quick as a
flash, Nick lifted something from under the edge of the bed and thrust
it into his pocket.
“Now, about the burglars,” said the detective. “Do you know about what
time it was when they entered?”
“I have no idea.”
“What was the first sound you heard?”
“I thought I heard a window rattle, and arose to a sitting position.”
“And then?”
“I could see that there was some one in the room, and I sprang out of
bed to get a revolver which I keep in the closet.”
“You did not reach the closet?”
“No. I met an iron knuckle and dropped to the floor.”
“Did you visit the closet at all last night?”
“No; I am sure that I did not.”
“You caught no parting glimpse of the intruder’s face?”
“No. There were two.”
“How do you know that?”
“I could see two forms outlined against the window.”
“You heard them moving about the room?”
“Only for a moment.”
“Did they make much noise in moving about?”
“Very little.”
Nick now turned to the windows opening on the roof of the lean-to to
the west. The structure was covered with a gravel roof, and during the
rain of the night of the murder little pools of water had formed. Into
these sand had been swept. Nick examined every one of these closely. In
a moment he called Chick to his side.
“Here is the autograph of one of the burglars,” he said, pointing to an
impression in one sandy pocket of the roof.
“Rubber shoes,” said Chick.
“Exactly, with a tear in the sole of the right shoe. It ought to be
easy enough to follow this fellow.”
Chick made a circuit of the little roof and came back to his chief.
“The cut in the shoe which shows there,” he said, “was made after the
robber got to the roof. The tin strap which supports the eave trough
at the west, where the ladder was raised, is broken, and Mr. Burglar
stepped on the sharp, upturned edge.”
Nick descended the ladder, which remained as the robbers had left it,
and walked about the grounds for a few moments, after which he returned
to the west room.
“They came from the orchard,” he said, “and after the rain.”
“The rain fell at two o’clock,” said Chick.
Nick turned to Sawtelle.
“It is your notion that you were knocked down as soon as the thieves
entered the room?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Isn’t it remarkable that Charley was not awakened?”
“He is a heavy sleeper.”
“What did he say in the morning?”
“I don’t remember.”
The young man was becoming nervous and impatient, and Nick and his
assistant left the room, first asking permission to return later and
search for further traces of the burglars. In five minutes’ time,
however, the young man passed them in the hall and went downstairs.
The detectives looked at each other in silence for a moment.
“He lies!” said Chick. “Mr. and Mrs. Maynard did walk in the hall last
night after they were ready for bed, and he knows it, for he was not
asleep. I say he was not asleep because he came out after them. Notice
that the marks leading from his door are over the ones made by naked
feet, and were therefore made last.”
“That looks all right on the face of it,” replied Nick, “but he says he
passed through the hall this morning.”
“I overlooked that point,” said Chick, “but, anyhow, he lied about the
old people not moving about.”
“He might have been asleep,” said Nick. “Don’t jump at conclusions, my
son.”
Chick bent over the floor.
“What is it?” asked Nick.
“I am looking for the marks made by the burglars in passing from the
rear room to the front one,” was the reply.
An inscrutable smile appeared on the face of the detective.
“Look sharply,” he said. “Perhaps you may be able to find what you are
looking for.”
Chick arose and faced his chief with excitement showing in his manner.
“They are not here,” he said. “What does it mean?”
“There are the marks of stockinged feet,” suggested Nick.
“But these two sets of tracks are the same,” said the assistant, “and
were, of course, made by Anton. You have, I think, the socks he wore
last night in your pocket,” added Chick, with a smile. “Suppose we
compare them with the tracks?”
“You saw what I took from under the bed, then?”
“Certainly. I had had my eyes on them for some time.”
Nick took the socks from his pocket. They fitted the tracks exactly.
“You see,” said Chick, “the burglars never left that back room. Now,
who murdered Alvin Maynard? Who stole Charley Maynard’s diamonds?”
What Chick stated was the truth. There were no indications that the
burglars had left the threshold of Anton’s room. And yet the old man
had been murdered at the other end of the hall and the diamonds had
been stolen from a room which could be reached only by way of the hall!
Nick made no reply. Instead, he turned from the hall and entered the
room from which the gems had been stolen. Everything was in order
there. The diamonds had been taken from a trunk, and this stood near
the head of the bed, the cover swung back against the wall.
In the compartment at the right end of the till was a casket, the one
in which, under coarser covering, the diamonds had been shipped to New
York. Nick took out his glass and inspected the packing. Then he placed
some of the cotton and some of the paper in his pocketbook.
The trunk was of metal surface, and at the top of the box the iron had
been worn through to the wood. Jagged edges of metal showed all along
the edge of the box. On one of these edges Nick found a shred of pink
wool, which he placed in his pocket with the other articles.
Nick now entered the room which had been occupied by Mrs. Maynard,
going directly to the dresser.
“What do you find?” asked Chick.
“Record of last night’s proceedings,” was the reply. “It is as plain
as if written in ink. I have heard it said,” continued the detective,
“that no person can enter a room without leaving some evidence of the
visit. This may be putting it too strongly, but I am convinced that no
person can commit a crime without leaving behind a record of the deed,
as plain as printing, if we only know how to read the language in which
it is written.”
“That has often been proven,” said Chick.
The little right-hand drawer of the dresser stood half open, disclosing
a collection of rumpled handkerchiefs of fine texture. The top of the
dresser was half covered with toilet articles. There were powders and
liquid preparations for the face and hands, and many other articles
designed to keep the marks of advancing years from showing too plainly.
Nick picked up a jar of yellowish paste and turned his glass on it.
Then he took the pieces of packing from his pocket.
“See here,” he said, “the woman went to Charley’s room last night,
after all was still in the house, and took the diamonds and brought
them to this room.”
“Impossible!” cried Chick. “That silver-haired old lady a thief—never.”
“I did not say that she stole the gems,” said Nick. “I said that she
brought them to this room. First, how do I know that she took them from
the trunk? Notice this jar of toilet paste. When she got ready for bed
she used that on her hands and face—a common thing for women to do.
Then, after her light was out, and after Charley was in bed and asleep,
she entered his room and took the diamonds from the casket.”
Chick listened, with wonder showing in his eyes.
“I presume you know where all this points?” he said.
“I know that she extinguished the light before she left her room,
because she groped her way in the darkness and felt along the door for
the knob. She left traces of this toilet paste on the panels. She did
the same thing in Charley’s room—groped her way in the darkness. More
traces of the toilet paste on the door and on the trunk. This shows
that Charley was not only in bed, but asleep. Lastly, she left traces
of the paste on the packing from which she removed the gems.”
“Poor old woman!” said Chick.
“Wait a moment,” said Nick. “There is no knowing what her motive was.
She brought the diamonds here and placed them in that little drawer at
the right of the dresser. See, some of the packing clung to them, and
it is still in the drawer.”
“It seems to be a clear case,” said Chick.
“But the diamonds did not remain in the drawer for any length of time,”
said Nick. “Did you know Alvin Maynard in his lifetime?”
The assistant shook his head.
“Then you do not know what an inveterate snuff taker he was. Well, he
came in here last night, after the return of his wife, and removed
the gems from that drawer. His fingers were soiled with snuff at the
time, and he left traces of it on the handkerchiefs in the drawer. The
handkerchiefs are also crumpled, showing that the diamonds were not
taken out in a calm manner.”
“I see,” said Chick, more surprised than ever.
Nick now went to the old lady’s closet, which opened from the sleeping
room, and came out with a pink nightrobe thrown over his shoulder. He
attempted no explanation until they both stood in the front room, by
the side of the bed whereon the dead man lay.
“It is certain that the old lady followed her husband to this room,”
Nick said, then, “and that a quarrel took place here. Observe how the
gathers are torn out at the neck of this nightrobe. It all ended in
her being pushed down or falling in a faint. At any rate, the woman
received her wound in this room, and not in the doorway of her own
chamber, from the fist of a burglar, as she is said to claim.”
Nick walked over to a couch which stood by a front window. The head
of the couch was composed of a straight, sharp-cornered piece of
quarter-sawed oak, without upholstery of any kind on the edge. On the
outer corner of this headpiece was a bruise and a stain of blood.
“It looks to me,” said Chick, “as if the burglary was a put-up job, and
that the diamonds are still in the possession of some member of the
Maynard family. Why, for instance, should the old lady lie about the
way in which she received her wound, if all is on the level here?”
Nick smiled and pointed to the couch.
“No woman,” he said, “would admit a quarrel with her husband, much less
a blow. It is therefore easy to understand why she lays the wound to
the burglar. Besides, the diamonds she handled last night have been
stolen, and it would be indiscreet for her to admit having them in her
possession, even for a minute, just before the robbery. And, then,
there is the murder. It is hard to believe that any member of the
family would murder the old man.”
Nick turned to the bed again and regarded the body carefully.
“The blow which killed Maynard,” he said, “was not delivered while he
lay or sat on the bed. The body was placed there after the blow was
struck, and what blood came from the fatal wound was wiped away. We
ought to find traces of that somewhere here.”
“There you are!” cried Chick. “No burglar would stop to place a victim
on the bed, or to wipe away the blood! Now, how is your theory?”
“The woman was revived here,” said Nick, “for this nightrobe is still
damp, so her son did not find her unconscious in her room this morning,
as he claims.”
“I wonder how Anton got along with his stepfather?” asked Chick.
“They never had any trouble that I know of,” replied Nick.
“It is my notion,” said Chick, “that, as you say, the woman was revived
in this room, and also that she witnessed the murder. Yet, according to
all accounts, she says nothing of it, which is unnatural, unless it is
true that the murderer is known to her and entitled to her protection.
And, another thing, both Anton and his mother know more about the
doings of last night than they are willing to admit, and they will
remain under suspicion in my mind until several points are cleared up.”
Nick made no reply. There was a lot of sense in what his assistant
said, and yet he was not ready to admit the truth of his deductions. He
returned to Anton’s room and entered the closet, which the young man
had stated he had not visited the night before.
While Nick searched in the closet, Chick remained by the outer door
leading into the hall. Presently he heard soft steps at the front of
the building. Whoever was moving about there was doing so with attempt
at secrecy. As the assistant stood listening, the rustle of skirts was
added to the sound of the footsteps.
The steps seemed to enter the east room, where the body lay, to return
to the hall, pass into Charley’s room, across into the old lady’s room.
Nick came to the door of the closet and pointed toward the hall.
“Watch there,” he said. “You know a girl came up here a little while
ago and ducked away as soon as discovered. This may be the same one.”
Chick darted down the hall and entered the old lady’s room. Standing
in the middle of the floor there he saw a rather pretty girl, with
black hair and eyes and regular features. She was tall and slender, and
seemed to be about twenty years of age. She curtsied and blushed as
Chick entered the room.
“What do you want here?” asked Chick.
“You are the famous Nick Carter?” asked the girl, speaking in French, a
language which Chick understood perfectly.
“Why are you here?” continued Chick. “And why were you here a short
time ago?”
“I was not here a short time ago,” was the reply, “and I come now at
the command of my mistress. Why should you say I was here a short time
ago, when I have been with my sick mistress all morning?”