THE TERRIBLE TRUTH
Robert Finch willingly accepted Stone’s invitation to return to
Greatlarch with him. The clerk felt that he must do all in his power to
ferret out the mystery of his employer’s disappearance, and surely his
way lay in the direction of Hilldale.
On the journey up, Stone had told his companion of Fibsy, his young
assistant, so Finch was not surprised to see the red-headed lad waiting
for them on the steps of the inn.
“I have some finds,” announced Fibsy. “Have you any, F. Stone?”
“Well, yes, Terence, I think I may say I have,—though I haven’t yet quite
made out what they mean.”
After the three were settled down in Stone’s sitting-room, and after
Stone had told the boy a general sum-up of what he had learned from Finch
and from the jewelers, Fibsy took his turn at recital.
“Well, sir,” he announced, “I found out who plays that Spook Harp, and
as I just felt sure, F. Stone, it’s none other than Friend Butler.”
“Mellish!”
“The same. He has a wireless telephone—”
“From the house?”
“Yep, from the house, and, well, I can’t ’zackly explain it, but it’s
this way. He connected a phonograph with a wireless sending set in his
workshop, and then he transmits the music to a large horn connected with
an amplifier which is concealed in a tree down in that Spooky Hollow.”
“I understand,” Stone said, “you needn’t try to explain the details of
the mechanism, Fibs; I see how it is done. But—Mellish never contrived
that himself!”
“That’s what I think, F. S. I think His Nibs is at the back of it—”
“Mr. Vincent! Nonsense! More likely that chauffeur, he’s a clever
mechanician. However, I’ve felt all along that the Wild Harp had nothing
to do with the real mystery or the tragedy; so work on that, Terence, if
it amuses you, but if you’ve any news of real importance, let’s have it.”
“Well, sir, I have. I found the bottle that belongs to that atomizer
thing.”
“You did! Now that’s something worth while. Let’s see it.”
Proudly the boy produced a small vial. It was half full of an antiseptic
preparation, and its label bore the address of a Chicago chemist.
“That’s his,” Robert Finch said at once. “That’s Mr. Haydock’s—I’ve often
seen him use it in his atomizer, during business days, when his catarrh
troubled him. Where did it come from?”
Stone looked at Fibsy.
“Now that’s the queer part,” the boy said. “I burgled Greatlarch, you
see—”
“How?” Stone asked.
“I took a chance when Mr. Vincent was playing on his big organ so hard he
wouldn’t have noticed the German army if they’d marched through him! Yes,
sir, he was just absorbed,—he was what you call it? improverising, yes,
that’s it, improverising. And I slipped into his Tower room, it’s never
locked, and I investigated that panel. You know he told us himself how to
open that panel.”
“Yes, McGuire.”
“Well, sir, I felt sure there was more to it than he told us about. And
there was. By pokin’ around good and plenty, I found another little
weeny knob and I pressed it, and there was another secret panel,—you
know—inside the first one, way at the back part.”
“And this bottle was in there?”
“Oh, Lord, no, sir, that bottle wasn’t in there! I got my yarn mixed up,
I’m that excited! No, sir, that bottle was in Mr. Vincent’s own little
medicine chest in his bathroom, just a settin’ there.”
“In Mr. Vincent’s chest, then what has it to do with the Johnson man?”
“Well, it’s a bottle of stuff that could belong to that atomizer thing.
It’s a Chicago prescription, so maybe it ain’t Mr. Vincent’s, and it
was sorta hidden away at the back, so I take it, it was meant to be
concealed.”
“McGuire, your zeal has run away with you.” Fleming Stone smiled
good-naturedly. “More likely, one of the housemaids saw this on Mr.
Johnson’s washstand, and thinking it belonged to Mr. Vincent, she put it
in his bathroom.”
“Maybe, sir,” Fibsy’s freckled face fell, “only, Mr. Vincent hasn’t one
snipjack of catarrhal trouble,—I asked Mellish,—and the other man had.
And there’s the Chicago label.”
“But what are you getting at? You can’t mean that Mr. Vincent concealed
this thing, purposely—”
“Well, somebody did. That Chicago bottle, that just fits up with the
atomizer, has no right to be in the back part of Mr. Vincent’s medicine
chest—”
“That’s so, Fibs,” and Stone looked more thoughtful. “Well, what was in
the back part of the inner secret cupboard?”
“Why, in there, sir, there was nothing but a lot of keys and tags and
such things.”
“What do you mean by such things?”
“Well, there was a key to what is most likely a safety deposit box,—you
know how they look. Then there was the key to the wine closet,—I know,
for it was labeled. And a key to the big organ,—a duplicate, I suppose.
And an old-fashioned watch-key,—oh, quite a lot of keys, mostly tagged
with brass tags or pasteboard labels.”
“Any of definite importance to us?”
“There was, sir. That one, though, wasn’t a key at all.”
“Go on.”
“It was a check,—a metal trunk check, from the Hotel Vandermore.”
“Well, any one can have a check from any hotel, can’t he?”
“Oh, F. Stone, I thought it was a check Johnson had for his trunk, you
know, and he brought it up here, and—somehow he—it had got hidden away in
there,—and I sent for it—”
“You didn’t! Fibs, you’re crazy! Whom did you send?”
“I sent Prout, the taxi man—”
“Good Lord, child, I’ll never dare go off and leave you again! It’s
probably a suitcase with Mr. Vincent’s dress clothes, that he keeps in
New York to go to a party now and then. Lots of men do that.”
But Terence McGuire was so evidently on the verge of tears, that Stone
tried to cheer him up.
“Never mind, old chap,” he said, “I’ll take the blame. If it’s Mr.
Vincent’s property, as it must be, I’ll tell him I sent for it in an
overzealous endeavor to find a clue!”
But Fibsy would not be comforted. He felt he had done a crazy,
unpardonable act, and Stone knew he would brood over it for a time.
“All right, little chum,” the detective said, “you sit here awhile, and
think out some more bright clues to follow up, and I’ll take a run over
to Greatlarch.”
Though this speech sounded sarcastic to Finch, it comforted Fibsy, for he
knew when his chief jollied him to that extent he was not displeased with
him. So he sat thinking, while the other two started off for the Vincent
home.
First of all, Stone went for the butler, as that worthy admitted the pair.
“So you’re the Spook that plays the Harp, are you, Mellish?” he said, and
though his tone was light, he spoke in earnest.
“Well, yes, sir,—and yet, I may say I see no harm in it.”
“No harm, of course, Mellish, but you never rigged up that contraption
alone. Who did it for you? The chauffeur?”
“Not he! He hasn’t brains enough to play a jews’-harp. No, sir, I—I just
did it by myself—to tease my old woman, you see.”
“And you turn it on and off as you like?”
“Yes, sir,—see, here’s the thing.”
Deeply interested, Stone and Finch followed the butler into a small
entry, where, sure enough, was rigged up a rather elaborate bit of
mechanism.
“Mellish,” said Stone, sternly, “you never did that yourself in this
world! Moreover, only a very ingenious inventor could have done it. And
I know who it was. It was Homer Vincent! He’s the man who rigged up the
wireless and the phonograph, and he’s the man who makes the records on
his organ! Too easy, Mellish,—own up.”
“Well, sir,—I may not be free of speech—”
“I’ve heard you use that phrase before. I know now what you mean by it.
You mean you’re not free to tell—”
“Yes, sir, that’s it. My master, he’s a man of strict orders, and I am
not allowed to babble, sir.”
“Your master is a strange jumble of talents,” and Finch looked curiously
at the wires and strings of the device.
“Mr. Vincent is a man of luxuriant temperament, sir,” and Mellish raised
his hand as if to ward off further remarks. “And nothing disturbs him
more than to have me chatter. So, if you will excuse me, gentlemen,—” and
Mellish simply faded away.
As Stone had supposed, he found Homer Vincent in his Tower room, and
unannounced, he led Finch there.
“I know you will be glad to meet this man, Mr. Vincent,” he said, “for he
is the confidential clerk of the man we have been calling Henry Johnson,
but whose name, as it turns out, is John Haydock.”
Vincent looked up interestedly.
“Take seats, gentlemen,” he said, pleasantly, and then acknowledged
Stone’s more definite introduction of Robert Finch.
“John Haydock,” he repeated, and it was plain to be seen from his manner
that the name meant nothing to him. “And why did your employer, my dear
sir, come to me under an assumed name?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out,” returned Finch, not so much bluntly
as determinedly. “Suppose, Mr. Vincent, we all put our cards on the
table, and see what conclusions we can come to.”
“By all means, Mr. Finch. Only, I may say, I have already put all my
cards on the table. If I haven’t, ask any questions you like.”
“I’ll do that, then,” Stone said, quickly. “Why did you not tell us that
you were responsible for the music of the Wild Harp?”
Vincent gave a little smile.
“That’s true, Mr. Stone, I haven’t been quite frank about that. But it
is a case of in for a penny, in for a pound. I rigged up that thing
merely for the amusement and bewilderment of my friends and my servants.
There were stories of hauntings and weird sounds and sights in the wild
garden they have named Spooky Hollow, and I thought I’d just give them a
jolt now and then. And, later, when it began to affect my household and
family, I still kept on, to surprise and astound them. Mellish helped me,
he turned on the instrument when I ordered him to. And he enjoyed his
wife’s thrills at the seemingly supernatural music.
“Then, Mr. Stone, when tragedy came to me, I didn’t feel like revealing
the secret of my joking deceit, so I let the matter rest, even using
it now and then when I felt inclined. I am a strange man, Mr. Stone,
many call me a freak or an eccentric. But, really, all I ask is to be
let alone, all I wish to do is to enjoy myself in my own way, which
never interferes with the doings of any one else. I am perhaps a slave
to my creature comforts, I own I like luxurious living and beautiful
appointments, but surely those are innocent hobbies if a man can afford
them.”
“Entirely so,” Stone said; “now, Mr. Vincent, we are striving to find
this Haydock, as we now call him. You never heard of John Haydock?”
“Never, Mr. Stone. Who is he?”
“A Chicago broker. Will you please let me see those cards he brought you?”
“Certainly, here they are.”
Stone scrutinized them and noted that one was considerably soiled, the
other comparatively fresh.
“Mr. Vincent,” he said, “these cards were given you by Mr. Markheim, who
came first to see you about synthetic rubies. Not by Mr. Johnson, as he
then called himself.”
“I daresay,” Vincent spoke disinterestedly. “I don’t remember saying that
Johnson left the cards here. I only said Johnson gave those references,
and I gave the cards to the detectives as a memorandum of the jewelers’
addresses.”
“I see. Now, as John Haydock was not interested in making rubies, so Mr.
Finch tells me, and as he gave you a wrong name, do you not think the
man’s motive in coming here was something other than ruby making?”
“Good heavens, man, of course I think so. He came here to kill my sister,
to steal her ruby, and perhaps to kill me, too! Of course, his ruby
story was a blind! Probably in order to induce my sister to exhibit her
wonderful jewel.”
“But I think he knew you before he came, Mr. Vincent.”
“Impossible, or he would never have given the wrong name.”
“Perhaps you knew him by both names.”
“I never knew him by either name. He was a total stranger to me. They say
he knew of my broken leg, some years since. That he knew of my sister and
my niece. These things may all be so, but he never knew me, nor did I
know him.”
“Well, here we are!” and a young voice announced the arrival of Fibsy,
accompanied by Prout, the taxi man, lugging an enormous suitcase.
They were followed by Rosemary and young Collins, who were anxious to
learn the cause of the excitement.
Prout set down the suitcase, which bore the initials J. H., and Finch
said, at once, “That is Mr. Haydock’s.”
“Aha,” said Fibsy, with a side wink at Stone, knowing full well that if
the thing turned out to be of importance, Stone would be the first to
praise him.
“It’s locked,” said Stone, “call your butler, please, Mr. Vincent.”
Homer Vincent pressed a button, and Stone dismissed the taxi man, saying
he would be paid for his time and trouble later on.
“We don’t want him about,” he said, “this may be of importance as
evidence.”
Without asking permission, he ordered Mellish to bring a wrench and
hammer, and in a few moments the suitcase was opened.
It appeared to be filled with the ordinary clothing of a plain business
man, and nothing of interest was seen until near the bottom they found a
small thick book.
“That is Mr. Haydock’s diary,” Finch said. “Give it to me.”
Without a word, Stone handed it over, but he gave a look at Finch that
said volumes.
In a moment Finch was absorbed in the contents.
“I feel,” he said, “that though this is not meant for other eyes than his
own, yet because of the stigma already cast upon him, and his inability
to speak for himself, this diary,—some parts of it, at least, should be
read aloud.”
“By all means,” said Homer Vincent, seeming truly interested at last,
“let us hear it.”
The portions that Finch read were written during the days just preceding
Haydock’s late departure from Chicago for New York.
And to the amazement of everybody, he had gone to New York, and from
there to Hilldale, to see Rosemary Vincent!
It transpired that five years ago, at the time of Carl Vincent’s death,
Haydock had been Carl Vincent’s clerk. He had seen and admired Rosemary,
though she had never specially noticed him. He was eight or ten years
older than the girl, but he had never outgrown the infatuation that he
felt for her. He determined to work hard and earn a fortune, and when
this was accomplished, he proposed to go in search of Rosemary and try to
win her for his own.
All this he did, and the diary detailed his journey to New York, his
outfitting himself with new clothing, and his departure for Vermont.
He had left the diary in his large suitcase, checked at his hotel, and
it was the check for this that Fibsy had found in Homer Vincent’s second
secret panel and had sent down to the hotel by Prout.
The advent of John Haydock was explained. There was no further doubt
about that. For nobody could question the sincerity of those entries in
the diary that told of his never-forgotten admiration and his hopes of
yet winning sweet Rosemary Vincent.
The tears came to the girl’s eyes as she heard the simple, homely tribute
to her charms. She almost wished she could see and thank the man who
admired and loved her like that.
Bryce Collins looked stupefied. Who was this man coming to seek his
Rosemary? But even these thoughts were quickly supplanted by Fleming
Stone’s stern query, “How came the check for this suitcase in your secret
cupboard, Mr. Vincent?”
“Bless my soul, I don’t know!” and the man looked utterly bewildered. “I
can only suspect some of my servants—or some intruder—”
“The same one that put the Chicago man’s bottle of medicine in your
bathroom, maybe,” suggested Fibsy.
“Here’s another reference to your father, Miss Vincent,” Finch said, as
he skimmed through the diary.
The item referred to some papers of Carl Vincent’s that Haydock had
only recently found. He mentioned coming across an old box, that he had
thought contained merely old check-books, but on turning them out, he had
discovered underneath a packet of papers which he thought would be of
interest to Rosemary and he proposed to take them to her.
“Where are they?” asked the girl, looking wonderingly about.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” her uncle said. “I, too, am interested in
anything pertaining to my brother, Rosemary.”
“Yes, Uncle, of course you are. Oh, where do you suppose Mr. Haydock is?
Uncle, the man that wrote that diary, never could have killed Antan!”
“It doesn’t seem so, certainly,” said Vincent, seeming nonplussed. “Mr.
Stone, here’s a big problem for you now. Can you work it out?”
“I can,” cried Fibsy, “at least, I can help. I can tell you where Mr.
Haydock is,—probably.”
The lad looked solemn, and Stone gazed at him curiously. Was he getting
greater than his master? This was no feeling of jealousy or rivalry on
the part of the older detective. He loved the boy, and took pride in all
his successes. But he was afraid, in his eagerness and intrepidity,
Fibsy might over-reach himself.
“He’s down in Spooky Hollow,” he said, with such a lugubrious face that
they all felt horrified.
“Sure, McGuire?” asked Stone.
“No, sir, I ain’t quite sure,—but I don’t see where else he can be.
First off,” he looked round solemnly at his hearers, “there’s a fearful
quagmire down in that hollow. It’s about six feet from the east border.
And, you remember, that cigarette-holder was found on the east lawn.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” exclaimed Collins.
“Well, now,” Fibsy went on, too earnest to note the interruption, “I
tried tying up a stone in my coat, and it sunk in the place. Yesterday
after dark, I—” he seemed to hesitate to tell of his deed,—“I bought a
whole pig of the butcher, as big a one as I could manage, and I pushed
that in. It went down in the quicksand of that swamp in less time than
it takes to tell it! The muck is all dark-brown and quivering. The
approach to it is slippery and treacherous, but there it is. Now listen
here. After Mr. Vincent left that man to go to bed that night where’d
he go? He never prowled the house all night long. He went out in the
grounds and he—he fell into that place. As he went down, he flung his
cigarette-holder as far as he could, as a sort of guide to where he met
his death.”
“That’s why he had no hat or coat,” Stone said, musingly. “Probably
stepped down off the verandah, not meaning to stay out long.”
“Poor fellow!” said Vincent, “how horrible. I had no idea that pit was as
bad as that! I’ve been intending to have it drained and dried; I shall
certainly do so. At least, we can avert another such tragedy.
“But, do not avoid the issue, gentlemen. Did not Haydock necessarily come
to his death after he had killed my sister?”
“Mr. Vincent,” Stone said, “you know I told you the man who came to see
you was not named Johnson, was not initialled H. J., did not come to
discuss making rubies, did not kill your sister, and did not steal her
ruby. To all of those statements I adhere.”
“You do? Then find the murderer! Find the man who killed my sister! Can
you do that?”
“I think I can,” and Stone nodded his head, thoughtfully.
“Listen, please, all of you. This murder of Miss Vincent is in every
respect the worst I have ever known—the most fiendishly contrived and the
most brutally carried out. The murderer is—Homer Vincent.”
Vincent stared at the speaker, but smiled a little indulgently, as one
might at a harmless maniac.
“Then,” Fibsy spoke in an awed whisper, “then he’s a double-dyed dastard,
for he murdered John Haydock!”
“What?” cried Finch.
“Yes, he did. Out there beside the quagmire is a piece of planking that
has footprints on it. Those are Mr. Vincent’s prints, but Lord, there’s
enough else to prove everything!”
“There is indeed,” Stone added, “and here is the motive. After you found
the second secret panel, McGuire, I thought there might be a third. There
is. The tiniest speck of a pinhead knob, when pressed sideways, opens a
third concealed recess, and in it I have found,—first, Miss Vincent’s
ruby, now Miss Rosemary’s property, and what is even more valuable to
her,—is this.”
He gave her a folded paper, while Homer Vincent sat as if turned to stone.
“You fiend!” he said to Stone, “you devil incarnate!”
“Keep those epithets for yourself,” the detective said, coolly. “Are you
going to confess?”
“I am.” Homer Vincent’s voice rang out. “I’m going to tell the truth for
the last time in my life. I did kill John Haydock, because he knew the
secret of my niece’s birth—knew that she is the legitimate daughter of
my brother and his wife, Mary Leslie. They were married twice, really.
The first time, secretly, because her mother objected. Her little girl
was born and baptized, also secretly, but entirely legally, in France,
and put in an asylum there, because Mary’s mother would not have forgiven
them had she known of it.
“Later the mother died, and my brother and his wife were married again,
publicly. Then, when their baby was born and died, they adopted from the
asylum the little Rosemary, who was their own legitimate child. But,
when my brother died, five years ago, and left me trustee of Rosemary’s
fortune, I was tempted and fell. I took it all myself, bought this
splendid house, and have lived here in the luxury I love ever since.
“When Haydock came,—yes, the ruby story I made up entirely
myself,—Haydock never spoke to me of rubies,—he talked only of Rosemary’s
parentage, so I, remembering the other ruby man, pretended Johnson came
on the same business. He told me himself that he sent in his name as
Johnson, for fear I would refuse to see Haydock. Lord, I had forgotten
him entirely! Well, when he told me that he knew all about Rosemary, and
threatened to expose the whole story unless I forced her to marry him, I
couldn’t see any way to keep my beautiful home and to save the girl from
a loveless marriage except by putting Haydock out of the way.
“It was not difficult. We strolled in the garden, went down to inspect
Spooky Hollow, and—I pushed him in. He struggled like fury,—flinging his
arms about. You know the more they struggle, the quicker they sink.”
“And your sister?” said Stone, hardly able to overcome his repugnance at
speaking to this creature, scarce human he seemed.
“Well,” Vincent looked reminiscent. “I didn’t want to—but she declared
she was going to tell the truth about the girl. I couldn’t have
that,—can’t you understand”—he spoke almost pettishly—“I couldn’t live
elsewhere than in this house,—and of course I couldn’t live here if
Rosemary took all her money. I have no money at all. I spent all mine for
this place; it is what my brother left that runs the establishment.”
“How did you kill your sister?” asked Stone, his dark eyes fixed
inexorably on Vincent’s face.
“That you will never know,” and, with a smile of diabolical cunning,
Vincent slipped into his mouth a small object which Stone knew to be a
poison tablet.
But it was too late to stop him, and Stone thought pityingly of Rosemary.
Perhaps that death for her uncle was easiest for the niece.
And while there was yet life in the body of the wicked man, Stone shouted
the truth at him.
“I do know. You stabbed her yourself, after the door was burst open. You
gave her extra sleeping drops to be sure of her sleeping late in the
morning. When they couldn’t waken her, you broke through the door, rushed
in, and bending over the living woman, stabbed her to the heart, and with
the protection of her long, heavy bed-curtains, you were able to draw out
the knife unseen. The knife you probably threw into the quicksand. Also,
you stole her ruby! Am I right?”
And with a smile, still horrible, even demoniacal, the dying man
murmured, “You are right.”
He never spoke again.
At a gesture from Stone, Bryce Collins led Rosemary away.
“Don’t cry so, dearest,” he said, tenderly. “Such a fiend isn’t worth
your tears. Come, I will take you at once to my mother—oh, darling, just
think, there is no reason, now, why she won’t receive you!”
“Thank God for my birthright,” said the girl, reverently. “And,” she
added, looking into his eyes, “for your love, dear heart.”
“My beloved,” he whispered, as he held her close, “as you know, I wanted
you with any name or no name, but I am glad,—_glad_, dear, that we can
give our children a goodly heritage. Bless you, my Rosemary, my darling.”
THE END