FLEMING STONE ON THE CASE
Bryce Collins did think twice before he made up his mind to run counter
to Homer Vincent’s advice, but as his second thoughts coincided with
his first ones, he carried out his plan of employing the celebrated
detective, Fleming Stone, to investigate the mystery of the death of Anne
Vincent, and to endeavor to recover the stolen ruby.
On receiving word from Stone that he would come to Hilldale, Collins told
Vincent of his expected arrival.
“Very well,” Vincent returned, “I have no real objection, of course,
since you are willing to assume the expenses of the investigation. As I
told you, I have spent all I care to on the work, and, moreover, I am
convinced that my dear sister has advised me to do nothing further.”
Collins wondered at this, to him, utter foolishness, but he remembered
that, as Vincent had told him, greater minds than his own had gone over
to spiritualism, and there was no reason why Homer Vincent should not do
so.
Now and then, Vincent would tell Rosemary or Bryce Collins that his
sister had told him she would play on the Wild Harp, and always at the
appointed hour they could hear,—or imagined they heard, faint strains
from the direction of the Temple.
Collins pooh-poohed at this, but he was obliged to admit that he did hear
the sounds. Mrs. Mellish, a firm believer in the supernatural, often
heard them, whether others did or not, but the old butler only shook his
head with a patronizing grin, that seemed to pity such foolishness.
Francine, who was very quick of hearing, declared the sounds came
frequently.
“And I can tell,” she volunteered, “when it is that my adored Miss Anne
touches the strings, and when it is the music made by the dead Madame
Lamont.”
And it was into this moil of inexplicable circumstances, into this jumble
of supernaturalism and crime, into this mystery of robbery and murder,
that Fleming Stone was expected to throw himself and, by the skill of
his experienced wisdom and judgment, solve the mystery and expose the
criminal.
The police had become apathetic in the matter. One and all they agreed
that nothing could be done until the missing man, Henry Johnson, was
found. And as there was not the slightest trace of him, as there was
positively no clue or bit of evidence to show which way to search, the
police contented themselves with vague promises and hints of discoveries
that they could not yet make public.
They had done their best. They had worked on numerous theories, had
gone off on several wild-goose chases, had quizzed many people, but no
definite conclusions were forthcoming, except that Henry Johnson was the
criminal and Henry Johnson could not be found.
The few things he had left behind him were now at Police Headquarters;
the room that had been assigned to him at Greatlarch had been cleaned and
put in order, as also had Miss Anne’s room.
So, Homer Vincent advised Collins, there was no occasion, as he could
see, for the new detective to be a guest at his house. Indeed, he must
refuse to have Stone quartered there, as he felt sure he could not stand
such an intrusion on his home routine.
“But he may consider himself free to come and go as he chooses,” Vincent
conceded; “he may make all the investigations he desires, he may
question my servants or myself, or Rosemary, all he wants to. But, I beg
of you, Bryce, do make him hurry up the thing. Don’t have him dawdling
here for weeks, accomplishing nothing. It’s six weeks and more now, since
my sister’s death,—nothing has been done,—nothing will be done to solve
the mystery. But I shall put no obstacle in the way of any one’s effort,
only, do make the man work as expeditiously as possible.”
Collins understood the distaste of Homer Vincent for the thought of the
dreary repetitions of question and answer that they all knew by rote, but
which Fleming Stone must ask and learn for himself.
“I appreciate your feelings, Mr. Vincent,” Bryce assured him, “and I will
do all I can to facilitate Stone’s work and to save you all unnecessary
participation in the whole business. If you wish, I’ll take him over the
house, take him to the servants and all that. You need only answer the
questions he wishes to put directly to you.”
“Good for you, Bryce. Save me all the annoyance you can. Rosemary will
help you, and the two Mellishes. Of course, he’ll want to poke about all
over the house. Let him do so, but keep him away from me, whenever you
can.”
Bryce Collins agreed, and relieved that Vincent was even fairly affable
about it, he went off to the station to meet the detective.
It was nearing the Christmas holidays now, and though Vincent had given
no hint of his recognition of that fact, yet Collins knew that he would
be grateful if Stone could make his investigations and announce either
success or failure before the Christmastide should arrive.
Not that there would be any celebration at Greatlarch this year, but
Vincent’s nature leaned toward religious observances, and Collins knew
the season would be a sacred one to him.
Rosemary took little interest in the advent of Fleming Stone. She had no
hope that any one would ever find Johnson now. She felt that as six weeks
had elapsed, no further search could result in a discovery of the missing
man. And she was so disheartened at her own sad fate that, while she
mourned her aunt and missed her sorely, yet the avenging of her tragic
death meant less to the girl than the tragedy of her own life.
Night after night she cried herself to sleep, now resolving she would
never marry, and then almost yielding to the temptation of consenting to
Bryce’s plea that they be married at once.
But she knew Bryce’s mother, and she was not brave enough to face the
angry scorn of that haughty and aristocratic dame.
Mrs. Collins had learned of Rosemary’s refusal to marry her son, and
thoroughly approved of the girl’s decision. But should Rosemary change
her mind, Mrs. Collins was quite ready to put up a fight.
Bryce Collins was of a sanguine, hopeful nature. His strong will and
his unflinching determination were supplemented by a sublime optimism
that never gave way until forced to do so by absolutely unconquerable
circumstances.
And, quite aside from his firm belief in Stone’s ability to find the
murderer, he also was sure that the detective could be of help in
discovering the mother of Rosemary. And he had a blind faith in that
mother.
For Rosemary’s sake even more than his own, he wanted to prove her mother
of gentle birth,—perhaps a young and innocent girl led into error because
of ignorance or too blind confidence in her lover. Perhaps she had been
deceived by Carl Vincent—tricked by a false marriage, or,—Bryce couldn’t
always formulate his hopes, but at any rate he meant to have Stone look
up the matter thoroughly. It might necessitate another trip to France,
but this thought was no impediment to Collins’ flights of fancy.
He was musing on these things when the train came to a stop at the
station and a tall, good-looking man stepped off, who was, Collins felt
sure, the detective.
He was accompanied by a red-headed, eager-faced boy, whose alert blue
eyes darted comprehendingly about.
“That’s our man, F. S.,” the boy said, “that’s Mr. Collins—aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Collins said, smiling at the lad, whose cap sat saucily aslant on
his thick red hair, but who pulled it quickly off as the two men greeted
one another, and Fleming Stone added, “and this is my young assistant,
McGuire.”
“How’re you, Mr. Collins?” the boy responded, “and to people I like I’m
Fibsy. I like you.”
“Thank you, Fibsy,” Bryce smiled at him. “I hope I shall like you.”
“You bet you will. Where do we go from here?”
Bryce Collins conducted them to the village inn, which was so near-by
that they walked the short distance.
He had already engaged rooms for them, and very soon they were in
a private sitting-room and Collins was earnestly telling Stone the
principal facts of the case.
“I know a good deal from the newspaper accounts,” the detective said;
“what I want to learn is the knowledge they seemed so carefully to
withhold. Who was this Johnson man? Why did they never pick him up again?
Where is he now?”
“That’s just the point of the whole thing, Mr. Stone. Get Johnson,—and
you’ve done it all. He’s the murderer beyond all doubt—”
“How did he get in and out of the locked room?”
“That’s the question. But get Johnson and he can answer that himself.”
“Of course. Perfectly true. Now, to get a missing man, we have to trace
him. Did he leave any indicative clues?”
“That he did not! He went like a wraith—he dissolved like a mist—no one
saw him go, no one has seen him since. He made no tracks, he left no
clues.”
“Oh, come, now, I’ll bet he left clues. Only, those who saw them failed
to recognize them as such.”
“That’s what I think, Mr. Stone,” Collins spoke eagerly. “I believe
that’s right.”
“But of course there are no signs of those clues now,” Fibsy said, with
a deep sigh. “Six weeks must have obliterated all the footprints and
fingerprints there were in the first place.”
“I don’t think anybody thought of fingerprints,” Collins said, looking at
Fibsy with dawning respect. He had thought him merely Stone’s clerical
assistant, or perhaps valet, and was amazed at the boy’s intelligent gaze
and perspicacious remark.
“Not much chance for ’em, anyway,” Fibsy went on. “No use getting
Johnson’s fingerprints, if you can’t get the mitt that made ’em! No use
in getting the prints of the family and friends,—or even the servants. No
s’picion of the butler person, is there?”
“Good gracious, no,” and Collins smiled at the bare thought of suspecting
Mellish.
“No offence to His Nibs,” Fibsy offered, “but you know, quite frequently
sometimes it is Friend Butler.”
“Hush up, Fibs,” Stone admonished. “Now, Mr. Collins, I have, I think,
all the information you can give me. The rest I must get for myself. Can
I go to the house this afternoon? After I’ve had some luncheon here?”
“Yes, surely. You’ll find Mr. Vincent a reserved and perhaps curt man,
but you can depend absolutely on his sense of justice and his willingness
to have you investigate his premises. He prefers to be left out of it all
himself, as much as possible. But I assure you that he is ready to do his
part, and usually, his bark is worse than his bite.”
“Gruff old codger?” asked Fibsy.
“Not a bit of it!” and Collins smiled. “A most polished gentleman. But
bored by people and weary of the futile efforts of detectives.”
“We’re accustomed to that type,” the boy said, winking at Stone; “they
come off their perch, though, when F. Stone really gets busy. Will this
guy mind my goin’ along?”
“I think not,—but I assume you’d go just the same if he did.”
“Sure I would. F. Stone can’t do a thing without his little Fibsy by his
side. He’s that dependent on me, you wouldn’t believe!”
“Why the cheerful nickname?” Collins couldn’t help liking the boy.
“That’s just it! ’Cause I’m such a cheerful liar. Why, it’s no more
trouble for me to tell a whopper than for F. Stone to tell the gospel
truth!”
“There now, McGuire, keep quiet. You’re too chatty this morning.”
“Gotta stop!” and the lad made a wry face. “When he calls me McGuire, he
means business. No more funny chatter from this baby. All right,—here’s
where I shut up.” And from then on, the boy made no remark, but his sharp
eyes showed perception and comprehension and his wise little head nodded
now and then, as Collins discussed the matter somewhat further with
Fleming Stone.
That afternoon the pair of detectives went to Greatlarch.
Collins was there before them and introduced them to Homer Vincent and
Rosemary.
Fibsy was very quiet, acknowledging his presentation by a respectful nod
of his red head, but Fleming Stone was a little more self-assertive than
was usual for him.
Fibsy looked at his chief in silent wonder as Stone shook hands a little
effusively with Homer Vincent, and said, “How do you do, my dear?” to
Rosemary.
It was quite foreign to Stone’s custom to be so familiar, and when he
followed it up by settling himself, unasked, in an easy chair, Fibsy’s
self-addressed “Gee!” was almost audible.
“Wonderful house, Mr. Vincent,” was Stone’s appreciative comment, as he
gazed around him.
They were in the reception room, which was also a Tower room, opposite
the room that Vincent used for his own.
“Yes,” the host replied, a bit curtly, and waited for further speech from
his guest.
Suddenly Stone’s manner changed.
“I am here, Mr. Vincent,” he said, “to discover, if I can, who killed
your sister. But I am told by Mr. Collins, that you do not wish to pursue
this inquiry further, because of supernatural revelations you have had.
Is this true?”
“Quite true, Mr. Stone.” Vincent spoke courteously but wearily, as if
wishing to be done with the interview. “I daresay you do not believe in
the occult—”
“Pardon me, do you consider the occult and the supernatural synonymous
terms?”
“I don’t care to go into the technical definitions of those terms,”
Vincent returned; “my belief in the revelations I have received from the
spirit of my dead sister is not based on study or research into these
questions. It is solely based on the evidence of my own senses and an
inner conviction that my senses in no way deceived me.”
“I am interested,” Stone said; “how were these messages received, may I
ask? Through the assistance of a Ouija Board or a human medium?”
“Neither, sir. The messages were spoken to me by my sister’s voice in the
dead of night—”
“You’re sure you were awake?”
“As wide awake as I am this minute. She spoke low but clearly to me,
and begged me, for her sake, to desist from these futile delvings into
what must ever remain a mystery. Now, Mr. Stone, I am not asking you to
desist nor am I desirous of hindering your search,—only I do want you to
understand my attitude, and be good enough to leave me out as a factor of
your plans.”
“I will do so, Mr. Vincent, as far as I can, without too much hampering
my own work. If, however, you give me your permission to examine the
house, and grounds,—to interview your servants—and to ask you a question
or two, if and when necessary, I think I may safely promise you immunity
from annoyance.”
“Thank you,” and Vincent looked relieved. “I will then, if you please,
excuse myself now, and leave you to your own procedure. Touch the bell
for my butler, and he will arrange for your interviews with the other
servants.”
Homer Vincent rose and left the room, his slight limp appearing a little
more in evidence than usual.
After Vincent’s departure, the detective sat a moment in deep thought.
Bryce Collins put this down to a desire to appear profound and weighted
down by care.
Rosemary thought it was merely the habit of any detective to sit and
ponder at intervals.
But Fibsy knew at once that, somehow, somewhere, Stone had seen or heard
something indicative. Something had demanded immediate and serious
thought. Not for worlds would the boy have spoken then. Nothing would
have induced him to blurt out some of his saucy speeches. He watched
the play of Stone’s features, he gazed eagerly in his face for a sign
of what was passing in his mind. But though grave and preoccupied, the
detective’s face gave no hint of the trend his thoughts were taking.
After a few moments, however, he roused himself and with a brisk air
turned to Collins.
“Now, for an examination of the house,” he said; “though I fear I may
become so engrossed in the marvels of architecture and decoration as to
forget my main business here.”
“That’s what Mr. Johnson did,” Rosemary said.
“You didn’t see him?” and Stone turned to her quickly.
“No,” Rosemary was almost frightened at his suddenness, “no, the butler
told me. He said Mr. Johnson was overcome with admiration and wonder.
Indeed, he must have been, to have wandered about nearly all night.”
“Where do you suppose he wandered?” Stone said, musingly.
“I don’t know, I’m sure, but he couldn’t have been in his room long, as
it was so undisturbed.”
“Oh,” Stone sighed deeply, “if I’d only been here at once. I suppose all
the rooms he might have visited that night, in his tour of admiration,
have since been swept and garnished, dusted and polished to the last
degree!”
“Yes, they have,” said Rosemary. “The detectives looked them all over and
said Mr. Johnson left no clues.”
“Ugh-h-h!” Fibsy’s grunt was one of utter disdain for the detectives who
could find nothing to detect. Without a word, he conveyed the idea that
Fleming Stone would have found plenty of evidence from those cursorily
examined rooms.
“Here’s one clue they found,” Rosemary said. She was anxious to help and
she was deeply interested in the new detective.
Aside from his chivalrous courtesy, Fleming Stone had great charm when
he chose to exercise it, and feeling exceedingly sorry for the girl,
whose story Collins had already told him, he paid her such pleasant and
deferential attention that she was glad to offer any information.
From a table-drawer she took the long-handled cigarette-holder which had
been found out in the grounds.
“This is known to be Mr. Johnson’s,” she said, “and as it was found
outside, we assume he strolled round the grounds.”
“Wasn’t it a cold, snowy night?”
“Not after midnight. I came home about twelve—or, nearer one,—and it had
stopped snowing, though it was cold. But not too cold for a walk.”
“Yet remember he had on no hat or overcoat.”
“Oh, he may have had,” Collins interposed. “He wore none when he went
away, after the crime. But he may have strolled round the grounds before
that, with his hat and coat on, and then he dropped his cigarette-holder.”
“Odd thing to do,” Stone observed. “Yet he may have thought he slipped it
in his pocket and it fell to the ground. You’re sure it is his?”
“Yes, Mellish recognized it as the one he used after dinner,” Rosemary
answered him.
“Let me see Mellish,” Stone said, abruptly, and the butler was called.
“Now, I don’t want a lot of information, Mellish,” Stone said,
pleasantly. “Just tell me anything you can remember of Mr. Johnson’s
conversation at dinner that evening he dined here.”
Mellish looked blank. Evidently he had expected quite different inquiries.
“Well, now, sir, I’m not sure I can remember much of that. I opine
it’s as evidence you want this, and I must have a care that I do not
undervalue its importance.”
Stone suppressed a smile at the rather grandiloquent air of the speaker
and Fibsy stared at him, fascinated.
“Yes, it is important,” Stone assured him, “so tell it as accurately as
you can. What subjects did the visitor choose for conversation?”
“Well, sir, he didn’t do much of the choosing. I should say Mr. Vincent
selected the topics of dissertation. And, as I recollect, two or three
times, Mr. Johnson began a sentence, and Mr. Vincent would say, ‘No,
no, we must not discuss business at the table.’ It is a sovereignal
rule of Mr. Vincent, sir, never to talk on business or any serious
matters at meal-times. He held that table-talk must ever be light and
agreeable,—yes, sir, light and agreeable.”
“And you think the subject of Mr. Johnson’s business with Mr. Vincent was
not an agreeable subject?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sir. I opine it was agreeable enough, but of a
serious nature,—yes, sir, of a serious nature.”
“Just what did Mr. Johnson start to say, when Mr. Vincent asked him not
to introduce the subject? Anything regarding rubies?”
“No, sir—it was more in the line of remingincence,—yes, sir,
remingincence. Once, I recollect, Mr. Johnson said, ‘You see, I was his
confidential clerk—’ he said that just as I was entering the room with
my tray, and I heard that much, and then Mr. Vincent said, ‘No, no, my
friend, no reference to business just now, if you please,’ or something
like that.”
“Never mind the exact words of Mr. Vincent, but try to remember more of
the speeches of Mr. Johnson. You see, Mellish, it is most important that
we get a line on what sort of a gentleman he was. And I don’t want to
trouble Mr. Vincent in these matters unless necessary.”
“Yes, sir, I see. Well, Mr. Johnson was remarking on the beauty of the
house, you see, and he said, quite impressive like, ‘but it doesn’t make
me forget my real errand here,—I am here for a purpose,—’ and then again
Mr. Vincent told him to wait till after dinner to discuss the business
that brought him here.”
“Any more?”
“Well, he spoke of a trust—”
“Do you think he meant a great jewel trust? Or Jewelers’ Union?”
“Oh, no, sir! Not at all. He meant a trust had been given to him—a sacred
trust, he called it.”
“Oh, then that had nothing to do with the business in hand.”
“Well, I don’t know, sir. Mr. Vincent shut him off again, just the same
way.”
“Perhaps it referred to Miss Anne’s ruby. Was that a trust to her for any
one else?”
“Not that I know of, sir.”