SPOOKY HOLLOW
Twenty-four hours had elapsed since the funeral of Anne Vincent, and the
mystery of her death was no nearer solution than it had been the moment
her body was found.
None of the relatives or friends who had attended the simple but
beautiful services had been asked to tarry at the house.
Homer Vincent had no desire to have them do so, and though several had
dropped hints betokening their wish to stay on for a visit, they had met
with no responsive invitation and had reluctantly taken their departure.
He sent for Brewster and Brown and asked for their report.
“I have to confess, Mr. Vincent,” Brewster said, “that we are up
against it. We are convinced that the strange visitor, Mr. Johnson, is
responsible for the death of your sister, but we can form no theory that
will fit the facts. We have examined the bedroom, and we find there is
absolutely no means of entrance or exit, save that one door. The windows
have patent ventilators that admit air without leaving possible space
for an intruder. The lock of the door is burst in such a fashion as to
show clearly that it was locked on the inside and could only be opened by
force. We have tried every possible suggestion of suicide, and find that
theory untenable, because there is no weapon in evidence. Miss Vincent
could not have killed herself and then disposed of the dagger, for the
death blow was instantly fatal,—we have the doctor’s assurance for that.”
“I am very sure,” Homer Vincent said, “that my sister did not kill
herself. She had no motive for such a deed,—I left her that evening in
the best of spirits and she was looking forward to the matter we were
to confer about the next day. And, as you say, it could not have been
suicide, as there has been no weapon found. I assume you made a thorough
search of the bedding—”
“Oh, yes, I attended to that myself. No, suicide is out of the question.”
“I suppose,—” Vincent spoke a little diffidently, “I suppose you
hard-headed detectives wouldn’t consider the—er,—the supernatural for a
moment.”
“No, sir!” declared Brown, “not for a moment! I’ve been a detective
too long to suspect a spook as long as there are human beings upon this
earth. Miss Vincent was murdered by a knife held in a hand of flesh and
blood! The motive was robbery,—robbery of her valuable ruby. The criminal
is, of course, the man named Johnson, the ruby manufacturer. I can
reconstruct the crime as it must have been—but, I confess, I can’t see
how it could have been so!”
“What do you mean by ‘reconstruct the crime’?” Vincent asked, curiously.
“Why, I mean, that evening, after you left Mr. Johnson in his room,
he came out of it, later,—probably walked round the house a bit,
reconnoitering, and laid his plans to murder Miss Vincent as soon as the
first faint light of dawn gave him opportunity. He did this, and then
slipped out of the house, while the watchman was at his breakfast and the
other servants about their work.”
“Logical enough,” Vincent said, “except for the seemingly impossible feat
of getting in and out of that locked room.”
“There you have it, Mr. Vincent,” Brewster exclaimed. “That’s
right,—_seemingly_ impossible feat. It wasn’t impossible, because he did
it,—he had to do it, there’s no other explanation. Now, the thing is to
find out how he did it, and the only way to do that is to catch him and
ask him. Nobody knows but himself, so he must do the explaining.”
“That sounds plausible, Mr. Brewster. Now, can you find him? He has four
days’ start. May he not be far away by this time,—perhaps out at sea?”
“That’s true, Mr. Vincent, but all we can do is to hunt him down.
Perhaps he can be found even if he is on an ocean steamer. Indeed, that
would be one of the easiest hiding-places to track down. But, and this
is not an easy thing to say,—we can’t do it. Mr. Brown and I have done
all we could, so far, but for a big hunt like this must be, we require
the machinery, the facilities of a larger police department, of more
experienced investigators.”
“I daresay,” Vincent nodded in agreement. “In fact, I had thought of
proposing the plan of putting the matter up to some one else. Whom do you
suggest?”
“The Burlington police. Not only have they a well-equipped Detective
Bureau, but they have one man in especial, whose forte seems to be
delving into mysteries that defy solution by others. His name is
Prentiss, but so keen is he, so sharp-sighted, he is called the
Burlington Hawkeye.”
Homer Vincent gave an involuntary smile. “Why, that is a celebrated paper
of quite another Burlington!”
“Yes, it’s only a nickname. Well, what do you say, sir? Shall we call him
in?”
“By all means. As I told you, I wish to spare no effort, no expense, in
my endeavor to avenge my sister’s death. I suppose this man will come in
the interests of the Police, but if it is any better or more advisable to
engage him personally, I will do so.”
“We’ll see about that, sir. If he succeeds, you can, of course, give him
an honorarium. He is a wizard,—I’ll say that for him, but I can’t see him
solving this case,—it’s too strange!”
However, when Prentiss arrived, he gave the impression that he certainly
could solve that case or any other.
Not that the man was bumptious or unduly conceited, but he had an air
of self-reliance, of self-assuredness, that carried weight by its mere
physical effect.
Homer Vincent regarded him with curiosity, that turned to respect and
then to entire satisfaction.
He had a long talk with him, and Prentiss earnestly declared his ability
to find the murderer.
“There’s a mystery,” he said; “I am here to solve it. There’s a seeming
impossibility,—I am here to explain it. There’s a missing man,—I am here
to find him.”
If Vincent thought the man too sure of himself or his powers, he did not
say so, and merely nodded approval of such determination.
The Burlington Hawkeye was not an impressive-looking man, in fact, he
was rather inconspicuous. Medium height, average figure, unimportant
coloring, his appearance was saved from absolute non-entity by his
piercing, darting eyes. These eyes were of the color sometimes called
beryl or topaz. Also, they were a trifle prominent, and were so quick
of motion, so glinting of shine, that they made remarkable an otherwise
negligible face.
He shot a glance of inquiry at Vincent, as if to ask his recognition of
his powers.
But Homer Vincent was not accustomed to bestow praise.
“I am glad to learn of your enthusiasm,” he conceded, “and I am ready and
willing to do anything at all I can to help you. But I must ask that you
will not disturb me unnecessarily. While I am most anxious to have the
mystery of my sister’s death solved, most eager to find that man Johnson,
yet I am not at all interested in the details of the search, nor do I
want uncertain or partial reports. When you have learned beyond doubt
some important fact, acquaint me with it, but do not come to me with
trifling discoveries that may or may not mean anything. Am I clear?”
“Yes, Mr. Vincent, perfectly so. I understand. In fact, I have been
told you are a recluse and wish no unnecessary communications with your
fellow-men.”
“That is perhaps an exaggerated way to put it,” Vincent observed, calmly,
“yet for your own edification, it is perhaps the best way. Yes, you
may look upon me in that light, Mr. Prentiss. However, that does not
mean that I do not want to be told of anything you may discover of real
importance. And if you are uncertain as to the value of your news, refer
it to Mellish, my butler. He is entirely in my confidence, and often
stands between me and what you have termed my fellow-men.”
If Prentiss had expected to jar the calm of Homer Vincent by his
outspokenness, he must have been disappointed, for Vincent seemed rather
pleased than otherwise at the implication of retirement.
Sensing this, the detective resolved to get all the information possible
at this time, for it might prove difficult to get future interviews.
“Will you describe Johnson, please?” he asked.
“He is a very dark man, both as to hair and skin. He is as good-looking
as the average citizen and has an air of business alertness and executive
ability.”
“What is his business?”
“Aside from this plan of manufacturing synthetic rubies, I know of none.
It is probable he has some other calling, for he appeared a well-dressed,
well-set-up man, as if accustomed to a competency but not wealth. He put
his business proposition to my sister and myself with a straightforward
manner and a fair and equal arrangement of profits.”
“You were to finance the thing?”
“Yes; and my sister wished also to take a share in it. She had a fortune
equal to my own, and was anxious to invest in this new scheme.”
“What disposition did your sister make of her fortune?”
“She left no will. Neither she nor I have ever made one. We agreed that
as whichever of us died first would legally inherit the estate of the
other, a will was unnecessary for either of us.”
“And Miss Rosemary Vincent?”
“The question of her inheritance has not yet been brought up. It is true
that my sister intended our niece should have her great ruby,—but alas!
that gem is missing. It may be, however, that if you find Johnson you can
recover the ruby. In that case, it will, of course, belong to my niece.
As to my niece’s fortune or prospects, we need not take up that subject
at this time. Sufficient to say that she is under my care, and I shall
guard and protect her interests. Now, Mr. Prentiss, I will ask you to
excuse me from further conversation. Mellish will show you the room Mr.
Johnson occupied; it is still untouched, I think. He will also show you
my sister’s room and the rest of the house and grounds. Or he will depute
some one to do so. You may command him in any way you choose.”
“Thank you, Mr. Vincent. I can’t help hoping for success in this
investigation. It is conceded among our profession that the more strange
and bizarre conditions appear, the more impossible the correlation of
facts seems to be,—the easier of solution a mystery is. This may or may
not be literally true, but at any rate it is true in part.”
“You most certainly have contradictory conditions in this case; you
surely have strange and bizarre situations. Go to it, then, Mr. Prentiss,
and advise me when you have achieved some definite success.”
But the Burlington Hawkeye was not so easily shaken off.
“One more thing, Mr. Vincent,” he said. “What about this Wild Harp? Have
you ever heard it?”
“I should be sorry to put myself on record as a believer in the
supernatural,” Vincent looked as if the matter were distasteful to him,
“but I will say this much. If there are occult forces, if there are
deeds done without the intervention of human agency, then, Mr. Prentiss,
then I must say this looks like such a case. But, mind you, I do not say
that there are. I do not state that I believe my sister met her death
by supernatural means,—but I own I cannot explain the circumstances by
any natural procedure. Also, I think you ought to know that the place is
reputed haunted, and that the room my sister occupied was the room of
a previous mistress of the house, who was also found dead in her bed
there. It is said that her spirit has haunted this place ever since her
death, but of these tales I am no sponsor. I merely mention them because
I think you ought to hear of them from me, rather than from the silly
townspeople. They have dubbed the place ‘Spooky Hollow’ and they claim to
have seen ghostly figures and to have heard ghostly voices.”
“This brings us back to the Wild Harp. Have you ever heard it?”
Homer Vincent hesitated. Then he said, “Mr. Prentiss, I am no authority
on the subject. The truth is, music is my passion. Not only do I play on
my organ frequently, but when I am not playing I seem to hear the strains
of my favorite compositions. They ring in my ears to such an extent that
I am as conscious of them as when I am actually hearing them. And so, if
I say that I have heard, or think I have heard, this so-called Wild Harp,
you must remember that I am also willing to admit that it may easily
be only my memories of music I have played, or that it is some of the
harmony with which my brain is always teeming.”
“I see—and yet you are willing to say that at times you have thought or
imagined that you heard the Harp music?”
“Yes, I am willing to say that. But I insist that you do not lay too much
stress upon it in your deductions. For I object to being set down as a
spiritualist when I am far from certain that I really do believe at all
in such things.”
“I see. Now, one thing more, Mr. Vincent. Will you describe to me this
woodland down back of the Temple—the part of your estate that they
definitely call Spooky Hollow? What is it like?”
“It is a densely wooded area, full of low, tangled underbrush and
containing, also, tall pines, larches, and spruces. There are, too, some
white birches, which, I make no doubt, are the shapes the frightened
townsfolk have diagnosed as spooks.”
“Doubtless that is true. And the ground—is it wet—swampy?”
“A little marshy, I believe. I’ve never been down in it, but I think it
is wet, and I purpose having it drained and reclaimed.”
“Is it damp enough, marshy enough, to have bogs or quagmires? I’m
wondering, you see, if Johnson could have wandered down there and could
have gone into the swamp and have been sucked in by the quaking bog.”
Vincent looked up in surprise.
“Oh, I don’t think the swamp is as bad as that! Hardly of the quicksand
variety,—if that is what you mean. But ask Mellish about it, he will know
the details of it far better than I do. And I scarcely think Johnson
would have gone out of doors,—I mean to walk about. He was entranced with
my house, and wished to examine its architecture and marbles. But I can’t
think he went outside until, his fell aim accomplished, he went out to
run away.”
“He left coat and hat behind him?”
“Yes, that is one of the strange features of the case.”
“Had he an umbrella?”
Vincent pondered. “I really don’t know. If so, doubtless Mellish took it
from him and cared for it. Can you gather nothing from his hat or coat? I
thought such things carried meanings for detectives.”
“Possibly. I haven’t examined them yet. Now, Mr. Vincent, you don’t know
of any other possible reason for Mr. Johnson to kill your sister except
robbery? Could he have been an old-time suitor of hers, or a crank, an
anarchist, or even a homicidal maniac? Did his conversation hint any such
thing?”
“I never thought of such explanations,” and Vincent looked bewildered.
“No, of course he was not an old beau,—ridiculous! My sister never saw
him before,—of that I am positive. Nor did he seem like an anarchist,—or
a homicide. He was normal in manner and conversation. I object to
talking of business affairs at the dinner-table. I do not think it good
for digestion. But our conversation was on usual, ordinary subjects.
Mr. Johnson did not seem an educated man, in a cultural sense, but he
seemed a thorough man of the world, of fairly wide experiences, and good
judgment.”
“He said nothing of his life or affairs, outside the ruby business?”
“No; our talk was impersonal. He knew little of music, and I know of no
subject that specially interested him. I’m sorry, Mr. Prentiss, but I
can tell you nothing definite concerning his personality. If I could, I
should have told it long ago.”
“Of course, of course. Well, Mr. Vincent, I will go about my work. By the
way, you have confidence in all your servants?”
“Absolute confidence in Mellish, my butler, and his wife, who is my cook.
Also in Francine, the little French girl who was maid to my sister, and
who also attends on my niece. She may seem like a shallow-pated little
thing, but she was devoted to Miss Vincent and truly mourns for her now.”
“Yes, yes, I will talk with her. Good morning, Mr. Vincent.”
“Ah, one moment, Mr. Prentiss. I shall not ask you to make your home at
Greatlarch while you are conducting your investigations. It would not
please me to know of your continued presence here. But, pray feel free to
come and go as you like, and refer all questions to Mellish.”
Assenting to this, the Burlington Hawkeye took his leave of the master of
the house and went in search of the servants.
“Umbrella, sir? yes, sir,” said Mellish, in response to the inquiry of
Prentiss. “Mr. Johnson did carry an umbrella and I did take it from him
that day, and never again did it occur to my rememory! I put it, of
course, in the coat room, in the umbrella cupboard, and there, I make me
no doubt, it still is. I’ll see, sir.”
In a moment, Mellish returned, bringing triumphantly a good-looking and
carefully-rolled umbrella.
Prentiss looked at it with interest.
“You can learn a lot from an umbrella,” he said. “First, I deduce a
careful, tidy sort of person, accustomed to take good care of his
belongings. A knob handle, not a crook, denotes a fastidious or
particular person. Nine out of ten umbrellas have crook handles.”
“Do they now, sir?” asked Mellish, much interested.
“Of good quality silk,” Prentiss went on, “black, fairly new, made by—”
He opened it and read the name of a well-known New York haberdasher.
“H’m, we ought to trace it through that firm—”
“Trace an umbrella, sir, as any one might buy—”
“Ah, but you see our man had this marked. See, H. J., the initials
intertwined. Now, if we can trace up that order—”
“You’ll find out that Henry Johnson had his umbrella marked there, but
how will that tell you where to look for him now?”
“Every bit of information we can get is important when hunting a missing
man. Put it away, Mellish,—or suppose we take it up to the room Johnson
had when he was here. Yes, that will be best.”
The two went up to the room Johnson had occupied. But as he had only
tidied up for dinner, not having evening clothes with him, there was
little to notice and but few things disturbed at all.
Prentiss went over the scanty array of clothing in the bag.
“Come now, Mellish, you’re by way of being a valet, wouldn’t your master
take more than that when going on a journey?”
“That he would, sir. Mr. Vincent’s overnight bag holds as much as a small
trunk.”
“Just so, and I deduce our friend here didn’t expect to stay the night.”
“Maybe so, sir. Maybe he thought he could do up the business in a short
time.”
“Yes; strange he left no papers, no letters, or memoranda of any kind.”
“Mr. Vincent has all the papers about the ruby construction business,
sir. Mr. Johnson left all those with Mr. Vincent that night.”
“Yes, but I mean other papers. You’ve not cleared out any, Mellish?”
“Oh, no, sir. Not a thing in this room has been disturbed. Orders, sir.”
“And that turned-down bed is just as the housemaid left it?”
“Exactly, sir. But she’d be for tidying up his brushes and that, at the
same time. So as one of the brushes is out of line, and there’s a towel
or so rumpled up in the bathroom, I take it the man was in his room after
the confab with Mr. Vincent in the evening.”
“Oh, yes, and beside, Mr. Vincent brought him up to his room, you know,
and said good night to him.”
“Did he now? That’s a deal for the master to do for any guest!”
“Mr. Vincent not given to putting himself out for anybody?”
“That he is not. Mr. Vincent prefers that people put themselves out for
him.”
“But a good master, eh?”
“Never a better. Given that things go right.”
“The place will go on just the same, now that the lady is not here?”
“Oh, yes; leastways, I suppose so. My wife, now, she can run the house as
Mr. Vincent wants it, and I doubt not Miss Rosemary will help look after
things.”
“Miss Rosemary? She’s a niece?”
“Yes, sir; her father, Mr. Vincent’s brother, died five years since, and
Miss Rosemary then came here to live.”
“She has money of her own?”
“I take it she has, sir. She never lacks for anything she wants. But
money is not talked of in this house. They are no purse-proud upstarts.
Mr. Vincent wants only what’s comfortable and to his wishes, naught for
show or ostentationary purposes.”
“That’s fine. And Miss Anne was the same?”
“The very same, sir. Though whatever Mr. Vincent was, of course Miss Anne
would be. And Miss Rosemary, too.”
“Yes. And, now, Mellish, what about the Wild Harp?”
A slight smile hovered on the man’s features.
“Well, sir, I’d not say as there is any truth in them stories. They are
what you might call—imaginatious,—yes, sir, merely imaginatious.”
“But some people have heard the weird strains.”
“They think they have, sir,—but, well, you know yourself, it couldn’t be.
How could a harp be for making music, when there’s no harp there and no
hand to pull its strings?”
“But a phantom harp,—and a phantom hand to touch the strings—”
“Nay, nay, sir. Nothing of the sort. All old woman’s tales. All made-up
yarns,—that’s what they are.”
“And all made up about the visitations of Mrs. Lamont’s spirit?”
“Of course, sir. Take it truly, sir, you waste your time a looking for
the spooks of Spooky Hollow.”
“Then, Mellish, then who killed Miss Anne?”
“It was that Johnson, sir. Yes, sir, he’s the villain, the criminal, the
anathema maharajah!”
And Mellish’s solemn face and tense, strained voice kept Prentiss from
laughing at his queer, mistaken words.