WHERE WAS JOHNSON?
On the whole, Francine made a good impression. Though pert and saucy of
appearance, she laid aside all such attitudes now, and seemed desirous
only to be helpful and dutiful.
“Snappy chit, but devoted to her mistress,” was the way Brewster summed
her up in his mind, and Brown contented himself with musing: “Full of
pep, but honestly grieved.”
Brewster and Brown were themselves honest, hard-working detectives. Far
from brilliant, woefully inexperienced, they felt that now at last their
chance had come, and they were firmly resolved to make good.
Brewster was big and burly, and of a slow-going mind, while Brown
was small, wiry, and active, with what he considered a hair-trigger
intellect. They had often rejoiced in the fact, as they saw it, that they
thus complemented one another, and they felt that their team work would
be admirable should they ever get a chance to try it out. And now their
time had come.
Eagerly they listened to Archer’s inquiries, carefully they remembered
the answers, and frequently gave each other astute glances, indicative of
great mental activity.
“Now,” said Lane, “let’s take up next thing we know of Miss Vincent. Did
any one hear any sound from her or from her room during the night?”
All present,—and several of the servants had gathered in the
doorway,—declared they had heard no sounds from Miss Vincent’s room.
“There is a night watchman?” Archer asked.
“Yes,” replied Mellish, who saved his master in every way he could. “But
if he had heard or seen anything unusual, he would have reported it first
thing this morning.”
“Leave that for the moment, then. Now, who went first to Miss Vincent’s
door this morning?”
“Perhaps I did,” said Francine.
“Why do you say perhaps?” demanded Lane.
“Because how can I tell?” returned Francine, wide-eyed at such stupidity.
“Any one might have been there before me—indeed, some one must have been
there before me—the villain who killed my dear lady.”
“Very well,” said Lane, “go ahead. What time did you go there?”
“At something after eight, monsieur. Always Miss Vincent rings for me
earlier than that,—about seven-thirty, maybe. This morning she did not
do so, and I waited until eight, then I went and hovered near her door,
wondering at her sleeping so late. I listened closely, and hearing no
sound, I ventured to turn the knob, but the door was locked and would not
open. I called softly,—then louder, and then, listening intently, I heard
no sound of Miss Vincent moving about, and I feared she was indisposed,
and I greatly desired to get in to give her assistance, if need be.”
“What did you do?”
“But, naturally, I ran down the stairs for help. Forgetting my
discipline, I ran into the breakfast-room, where were Mr. Vincent and
Miss Rosemary, and I told them of the unusual condition,—and though
not alarmed, Mr. Vincent was concerned, and with Mellish, we all came
upstairs, and broke in the door.”
“Who broke it in?”
“Mellish and I together,” Homer Vincent answered for himself. “The door
is a light, temporary structure; my sister preferred it to the original
heavy oak door. We burst it in,—in fact, it opened so easily Mellish
was thrown to the floor. I went quickly to my sister’s bed, and the
first glance told me the truth. I saw in an instant that she had been
killed,—murdered. I admit I almost lost my consciousness. My senses
reeled, and I fell back involuntarily. But I quickly pulled myself
together, for my young niece was present, and forced myself to lean over
the body and discover if life was surely extinct. It was,—the flesh was
cold to my touch. I ordered Mellish to hold my niece back, as I wanted to
spare her the awful sight. But she insisted on looking at her aunt, and
for a moment we gazed together on the terrible scene. I think there is
no more to tell. Finding I could do nothing for my poor sister, assuring
myself that she was positively beyond human aid, I fear I gave way to
selfish grief for a few moments. Then I roused myself to a sense of duty,
and ever since I have been trying to do what is right and wise in the
matter.
“But I am all unversed in the course the law should take, or the manner
of efforts that should be made to find the murderer and avenge the crime.
Will you, therefore, gentlemen, take the case in charge, and do or advise
me to do, whatever is right and best. Let one thing be understood.
The murderer must be found. Spare no time, pains, or expense. I stand
ready to do anything I can, but as I said, I am ignorant of the proper
procedure, and I desire to relegate the work to more experienced hands.
“You think, do you not, Doctor Archer, that the criminal can be found and
brought to justice?”
“That is not quite in my province, Mr. Vincent. The inquiry is my duty,
but the real detective work must be done by men skilled in such things.”
Brewster and Brown looked duly important and capable, but they offered no
hint of their conclusions so far.
“Do you think, Mr. Vincent,” Lane asked, in his ponderous way, “that your
sister’s death could have been a suicide?”
“I should say positively not,” Vincent replied, slowly, “except for the
fact that she died in a locked room. I can see no way that a murderer
could escape and leave that door locked behind him. Yet, so far from
probability is the idea of suicide, that I am forced to believe it was a
murder, however impossible such a theory may seem. But all this business
of theorizing and of deducing and collecting evidence is so foreign to
my nature and to my experience, that I cannot pretend to decide any such
questions.”
“What weapon was used? Was any found?” asked Brewster, looking at Vincent.
“That I don’t know,” he replied, looking in his turn at Doctor Archer.
“Did you find any, Doctor?”
“No,” and Archer looked stern. “There was none in evidence. Was any such
thing removed before my arrival?”
“Of course not,” said Vincent; “who would do such a thing as that?”
“Did you see any knife or dagger, Mellish? or you, Francine?” Archer
asked of the servants.
But every one present denied having seen any weapon of any sort.
“Then,” said Brewster, “it must have been murder.”
“But the door was locked,” Brown reminded him, “so it must have been
suicide.”
“Those statements are both true, superficially,” Lane said, “but since
they contradict each other, either or both may be untrue. One must be.
Such points can only be settled after much more investigation than has
yet been made. Shortly we will adjourn to the scene of the crime and
gather what evidence we may up there. Just now, I’d like some more
information regarding this stranger, this Mr. Johnson who visited here
last night, and who, I understand, is now missing.
“That’s one of the strangest features,” said Lane. “Please tell us all
about him, Mr. Vincent.”
Rosemary, who had sat quietly listening to the talk, now showed signs of
curiosity. She wished herself to learn more of this strange visitor, but
the conversation about her aunt had filled her soul only with horror and
grief.
Rosemary Vincent was of a self-contained, self-repressed nature. Though
her uncle was kind, even generous to her in many ways, yet their tastes
were not congenial, and their ways more utterly dissimilar.
Indeed, this mutual sorrow that had just come to them had seemed to draw
them together more closely than they had ever been before.
And though Rosemary had earlier that morning inquired concerning the
mysterious Mr. Johnson, she had received no satisfaction, and now she
hoped to learn details.
“I had hoped not to be obliged to tell you of his business here,” Vincent
said slowly, “but his strange disappearance seems to make it advisable
that I should do so. Yet,” he still hesitated, “I cannot convince myself
that the man is really missing. I can’t help thinking he is about the
place or in the house somewhere. He was so intensely interested in the
architecture of this house, he was so eager to go into every nook and
cranny of it, may it not be possible that he has fallen asleep in some
unused room, or even, perhaps, met with an accident while climbing from
one place to another?”
“Are there such dangerous places?” asked Lane.
“Oh, yes; at least, they might be dangerous to an adventurous stranger.
You see, there are upwards of fifty rooms in the house, and there are
turret rooms, to enter which one must step out on the leads; also, there
are dark dungeon-like rooms down in the sub-cellar where if one were to
stumble and fall, perhaps breaking a leg or even spraining an ankle, his
cries might not be heard by the household.”
“You think Mr. Johnson, a transient guest, would go down in your
sub-cellar alone, at night, in utter darkness?” and Lane looked astounded.
“I merely suggest it,” Vincent said, looking harassed, “because he was
apparently out of his bedroom all night, and because he showed such
extraordinary interest in the construction of the house.”
“Very well, Mr. Vincent, if you wish to wait until further search can be
made for the gentleman before revealing the secret of his errand here,
we will wait. You had better send some of your people to look over the
house at once. But in the meantime, I will ask you for the details of his
arrival, and a description of the man.”
“He came here yesterday afternoon,” Vincent began, slowly. “He sent in
no card, but told my butler his name was Henry Johnson, and he wished to
see me on important and private business. I rarely see callers who are
not known to me, but I was not busy at the moment, and I had him shown
in. His errand was really a simple business proposition, which involved a
large investment of money if I saw fit to take it up. I called my sister
down to consult with us, as her fortune is about the same as my own,
and we usually made our investments together. I will tell you the full
details of this business plan later,—if Mr. Johnson cannot be found. If
he does turn up, I feel sure he would prefer the matter kept confidential.
“Well, Mr. Johnson proved to be a fairly agreeable guest, though not at
all distinguished in any way. As we had not come to final decisions, I
invited him to remain overnight. Also, as my sister and I had just about
concluded to accept his propositions, and as the man was so enthralled
with Greatlarch, I invited him to remain here a week and enjoy the
beauties of the place.”
“He was with you all the evening?”
“After dinner he sat with us in my own private room until our plans were
pretty well made regarding the venture he proposed. Then my sister grew
weary, and concluded to retire, all three of us agreeing to draw up
contracts and settle the business finally in the morning.”
“And you went upstairs with your sister?”
“Yes, as I always do. The doctor prescribes a certain sleeping draught
for her, which must be carefully measured. I have no doubt of her
carefulness and accuracy, but to be on the safe side, I have always
measured the medicine myself. Moreover, my sister appreciated my little
courtesy of escorting her to her room, so I have always made it a
practice. Sometimes I remain for a little chat, but last night, having a
guest, I went downstairs again after saying good night.”
“You rejoined Mr. Johnson?”
“Yes; I found him wandering about the halls, rapt in admiration of the
choice marbles, of which, it seems, he is a connoisseur. I led him about
through many of the rooms, even going with him nearly to the top of the
house,—there are nine stories, counting the basements. As we came down
from the upper floors, we reached the room destined for his use. It is
one of the south rooms.
“He duly admired it, and after asking him if he had everything he wanted
for the night, and being assured that he had, I bade him good night and
left him there; telling him, however, that if he wished to prowl about he
was at liberty to do so. In this house, no one is surprised or alarmed to
hear footfalls during the small hours. We are all wakeful, and frequently
go up or down stairs on various trifling errands.”
“And you heard Mr. Johnson prowling about in the night?”
“No, I can’t say that I did. Yet he may have done so, for the rugs are
thick and soft, and with care one may make no noise.”
“Then the last you saw of this man was when you left him in his bedroom?”
“Yes, that was the last I saw of him. He was in good spirits, for he had
achieved his purpose in coming here. He was satisfied with the agreement
we had come to, and he looked forward to the morning, when we would sign
the final contracts, and also, when he would remain as my guest for a
time.”
“And then, this morning, he has disappeared?”
“He is not here, certainly, but I can’t think it is a mysterious
disappearance. He may have gone for a very early morning walk, and met
with some untoward accident. Or he may have remembered some important
business matter, and walked down to the village to telegraph or something
of that sort. I only suggest these things, because they are to my mind
more probable than that the man has voluntarily or purposely gone away.
Yet there may be a mystery about it, and it may be we shall never see him
again. Those things I trust the detectives will delve into.”
Vincent leaned back in his chair, looking not so much physically wearied
with the conversation as mentally and nervously exhausted by the strain
of the situation.
“What does Johnson look like?” Lane asked.
“Describe him, Mellish,” Homer Vincent said, feeling he could delegate
this task to another.
“Well,” the butler said, speaking slowly, but concisely; “he is a
medium-size man, and a medium-weight man. He’s well enough shaped, but
he has no carriage—”
“Carriage?” interrupted Lane.
“Yes, sir, carriage, I said. Meaning he don’t bear himself with any
distinguishment,—as a gentleman should.”
A gleam of amusement passed across Vincent’s face at this, but he
immediately resumed his look of weary sadness.
“Not but what he knew how to behave proper; he was all right at the
table, and that,—but I should say he is not really an aristocrat.”
“Don’t be too severe, Mellish,” Vincent admonished him; “I think Mr.
Johnson had good manners.”
“Good manners, yes,” Mellish granted, “but, well, he was lacking in
cultural background.”
Some of the hearers stared at this phrase from the butler’s lips, but
those of the household knew Mellish’s trick of picking up phrases
overheard at his master’s table and, later, using them, either rightly or
wrongly, in his own conversation.
Vincent smiled outright, and even Rosemary’s sorrowful face showed amused
appreciation.
Lane repeated the phrase in bewilderment.
“Cultural background!” he exclaimed; “what do you mean?”
“What I say,” returned the unabashed Mellish. “Mr. Johnson, I feel sure,
is not accustomed to mingle in the best of social circles; he has no
phrases or allusions in his speech that betoken the college man or the
student of life and literature.”
“Perhaps you’d better confine yourself to his physical description,
Mellish,” Vincent suggested, “and omit your opinion of his mentality.”
“Yes, sir. Then, Mr. Johnson is a very dark-faced man,—dark hair, eyes,
and skin. He wears a small black moustache, and under it his white teeth
gleam like those of some ferocious animal. His countenance is what may be
called sinister,—yes, sir,—sinister. In a word, Mr. Henry Johnson has the
face of a murderer.”
Mrs. Mellish gave a sudden gasp, Rosemary turned white, and Homer Vincent
stared at his butler.
“Yes, a murderer,” Mellish repeated; “and he’s the villain what did
for our Miss Anne! How can it be otherwise? In comes a stranger, has
secret dealings with master and Miss Anne,—him all the time looking like
a murderer, if ever man did! Comes morning, he’d fled, his bed not
touched, his hat and coat left behind him, and the dear lady dead in her
bed! What else could be the exclamation?”
Mellish’s habit of miscalling a word provoked no smile this time, for
everybody was startled at his idea, and was turning it over mentally,
with deep interest.
At last, Doctor Archer said coldly, “Can any one suggest a motive for
such a deed on the part of Mr. Johnson?”
“No, and I can’t think of him as the criminal,” said Vincent,
thoughtfully. “And yet, if Johnson never appears again, it does seem a
way to look.”
“Of course it’s a way to look!” Brown cried eagerly. “The only way to
look, as yet. Who else could get into the house, with the night watchman
on duty? Who else is a possible suspect in a house of devoted servants
and loving relatives? Why else would Johnson disappear? What else would
explain his unused bed? A man doesn’t wander about the whole night,
admiring house decorations, however beautiful!”
“All true, Brown,” said Brewster, slowly, “but we must get more data
before we assume anything. This man’s room, now. Much could doubtless be
learned from examination of his belongings. Had he any luggage?”
“A kitbag,” Mellish informed. “A new one, not overly large. I laid out
his night things,—right and proper enough, but not elaborate or fine. And
all new.”
“That’s always suspicious,” declared the quick-witted Brown. “When a man
has a lot of new things, it means he wants to conceal his identity.”
“But Johnson didn’t,” Vincent told them. “He told his name and address
straightforwardly enough; he had to, for us to come to a business
agreement.”
“Yes, that’s so,” and Brown looked a little crestfallen. “Go on, Mellish,
as to his kit. Anything more personal than clothing and toilet things?”
“Not as I recollect. But the room hasn’t been touched, sir; you can go up
and deduce it whenever you wish.”
Mellish was sure of his word this time.
“Let’s go now, Brewster,” cried Brown; “the chap may come back any
minute.”
The two detectives went up to the room in question, while the others
remained downstairs.
The windows were not wide, but owing to the thickness of the stone wall
they were very deep.
Brown leaned far out of one, and drawing back into the room, informed
Brewster that nobody could get in or out by that means. The room was on
the third floor, and the stone wall was unscalable.
“Well, Pighead,” Brewster returned, amiably, “nobody has suspected Friend
Johnson of making his exit otherwise than by this door; why the fuss
about the window?”
“But how did he get out of the house by the front door without being
seen by the watchman? If he could have made any other getaway, it would
simplify matters a lot.”
“Don’t hope to simplify matters yet, my son. This is a stupendous case—”
“Don’t talk like that parrot-tongued butler! Stupendous is a silly word.
But the case is a corker! I’ll admit that!”
“Yes, that’s what I meant by stupendous. Now, as you can see for
yourself, there’s absolutely nothing to be learned from this bag or its
contents. It isn’t unpacked at all,—just as the man left it. Nothing
in it but a change of underclothing, a pair of socks, a timetable, a
clothesbrush—”
“Here are a few things on the dresser,” Brown said. “But nothing
personal. See, the brushes are plain black rubber, without monogram
or initials. Here in the top drawer, we see three or four clean
handkerchiefs, a necktie, and a pair of gloves. Doubtless the good
Mellish put these here, by way of arranging his wardrobe.”
“Yes, of course. Not a thing marked, not a thing personal or different
from hundreds of other men’s belongings.”
“Here’s his hat and coat. Old Sherlock would size him up perfectly just
from the hat alone.”
“Well, I can’t; I don’t see anything but a plain black Derby, this
season’s style, new,—like everything else!—and bought at Knox’s in New
York. Small help in that.”
“And his coat is no better. New, too, bought at Rogers, Peet and Co.’s,
also in New York. Does the chap hail from New York?”
“I don’t know. Mr. Vincent can tell us that. But I’ll say Johnson is the
one to look to as a potential murderer, at any rate. Think so?”
“Yes, but he doesn’t seem to be a man of any forceful personality, so
far.”
“That’s the beauty of it! You see, if he is the murderer he would come
here all togged out in clothes and things, new and unmarked, just to
prevent the disclosure of his identity.”
“Something in that, by Jove! Now, if we can circumvent his bright idea,—I
mean, find some purely personal thing that he has overlooked, we’ll hoist
him with his own petard!”
“Well, here’s the thing! See, an atomizer,—isn’t that what you call these
little sprayers? It was on the washstand.”
Brewster looked at the glass container and its black rubber spray with
interest.
“Good as far as it goes,” he said. “Where’s the bottle of medicine that
belongs with it?”
“Don’t see any. Well, I’ll leave it where I found it. Let’s go back
downstairs.”