CONFLICTING CLUES
FIVE minutes later James Palmer and Dan Maynard stood on the steps of
the Treasury Department.
“It’s a rum go,” the former remarked. “Who’d have thought Jones, as
old and good a servant as he is, would have tried to get Burnham into
trouble by reporting him to the Secret Service? It shows we are all at
the mercy of some fool, spy-mad.”
Maynard’s eyes twinkled as he adjusted his tie which was slightly awry.
“It was our German spy theory regarding the dead man which took us to
see Chief Connor----”
“But we had some ground to go on,” interrupted Palmer. “Whereas, poor
Burnham never uttered any seditious sentiments, I am confident. That
old fool, Jones, has muddled things nicely.” They had approached the
corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Fifteenth Street as they talked and
Palmer stopped at the curb. “Are you going to speak to Burnham about
Jones’ behavior?”
“Certainly not; Chief Connor requested us to mention it to no one.”
Maynard shot a questioning look at his companion who stood with one
foot in the street and the other on the curb stone.
“But it seems unfair to Burnham not to warn him that Jones is a
meddlesome, untrustworthy old fool,” objected Palmer. “After all,
Burnham is our friend.”
“And we can prove our friendship by holding our tongues,” replied
Maynard warmly. “Burnham seems laboring under a severe nervous strain;
it won’t take much more excitement to break him down. The Secret
Service will weed out the lies; Jones’ statements about his employer
will be taken for what they are worth; so don’t worry.”
Palmer frowned. “I don’t like it,” he said, shaking a puzzled head.
“However, while I’ll say nothing about the matter, I’ll keep my eye on
Jones. Are you coming over to the club?”
“Not now.” Maynard glanced up at the clock tower of the building
diagonally across the street from where they stood. “I have just time
to do several errands before the shops close. I’ll stop at the club on
the way home.”
“All right, be sure and look me up,” and Palmer dodged an on-coming
motor truck and hurried across the street.
Maynard again consulted the clock in the tower and then crossed over
to a drug store. Entering a telephone booth he finally succeeded in
getting the Burlington apartment; the Central there, however, informed
him that Captain René La Montagne had not returned and had not left
word when he would be in. A telephone call to the Frenchman’s office
elicited no more information. Where in the devil’s name was La Montagne?
Maynard left the drug store in a disgusted frame of mind and with the
question unanswered. He had spent the morning trying to find first
Palmer and then La Montagne in between attending the rehearsals for the
Red Cross benefit at the Belasco Theatre. His offer to take part in the
tableaux had been eagerly accepted and a telephone call before he left
the Burnhams’ had apprised him that his presence was very much needed
at the theater. He had hoped to find Evelyn and Marian rehearsing their
rôles, but neither had turned up, although he had waited long after
his tableau had been tried out and thereby missed his luncheon at
the Burnhams’! The thought of luncheon reminded him that he had been
exceedingly rude to Mrs. Burnham, having, in his absent-mindedness,
forgotten to telephone her that he would not be there for that meal.
Turning on his heel he walked up the street until he came to a florist;
after his errand there was completed he walked up H Street intending
to go to the club, but on reaching Connecticut Avenue he decided
to return home and started briskly off up the Avenue. As he crossed
Farragut Square he heard his name called and glancing around saw Evelyn
Preston sitting on one of the park benches. He quickened his steps and
sat down by her.
“You are just the person I want to see,” he announced. “Tell me where
I can find René La Montagne. I have tried both his office and his
apartment without success.”
“Then I am afraid I cannot help you,” she said. “René told me last
night that he might be called out of town for a short time; he said
that he could not be more explicit.”
“Oh!” Maynard drew his cane up and down the gravel path in deep
thought. As the silence lengthened Evelyn stole a glance at him; he was
certainly one of the handsomest men who had ever been a matinée idol.
“I want to ask you a question,” she began, and Maynard awoke from his
abstraction. “Why did you and James Palmer come into Marian’s apartment
last night?”
“To call on Mrs. Van Ness.”
“That is the obvious answer.” Evelyn’s color rose. “Now, don’t be
angry,” laying an appealing hand on his coat sleeve. “Didn’t James
Palmer come up there just to spy on me?”
Maynard smiled. “No. Frankly, we did not know you were there.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Evelyn. “Marian and I thought perhaps Mr. Burnham had
suggested your calling, not you personally,” coloring warmly as she
remembered her use of the word “spy,”--“but James Palmer.”
“So you think James Palmer wouldn’t be above spying?” Maynard twisted
about on the bench and faced her.
Evelyn nodded. “I don’t like him,” she admitted honestly. “I’ll admit
I’m prejudiced, but I couldn’t think, no matter what happened, any
worse of him than I do. He’s--he’s always under my feet.”
Maynard laughed outright. “And that’s what a man gets for being devoted
to a girl,” he said. “I declare, Evelyn, you are a trifle discouraging.”
“Don’t make fun of me.” Evelyn looked downcast. “You don’t know how
I have had James Palmer preached at me by my step-father;” she half
shuddered. “That’s why I didn’t spend the summer at home. Were you with
them all the evening?”
“With them?--with whom?”
“Mr. Burnham and James Palmer.”
“No, I only joined them at Palmer’s apartment about nine o’clock or a
little later.”
“Then you can depend upon it that Mr. Burnham asked James to call
on Marian last night just to find out if René La Montagne and I were
there.” Evelyn nodded her head wisely. “Marian and I were right in our
conclusions, I am sure.”
“Sorry, but you are wrong,” stated Maynard. “We called on her on
impulse so to speak,” he hesitated; no mention had been made to Evelyn
of the occurrences in Palmer’s apartment the night before and he could
not be more explicit regarding the reason for their visit to Marian’s
apartment. “What harm was done by Palmer seeing René calling on you and
Mrs. Van Ness?”
“He told Mother and she has forbidden my visiting Marian,” Evelyn
stamped her pretty foot. “It was perfectly horrid of James Palmer to go
and make trouble.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I am sitting here now
hoping to see Marian on her way from the State Department and tell her
of Mother’s edict.”
“It’s a shame!” There was honest indignation in Maynard’s voice.
“Suppose I try and persuade your mother to reconsider----”
“Would you--could you?” Evelyn was a trifle incoherent. “Oh, but _you_
can do anything. Do say a good word for René.”
“I will, indeed,” and Maynard, touched by her emotion, took her hand in
a firm clasp. “I will aid you in every possible way.”
Evelyn smiled through her tears. “Then will you see that this letter
reaches René?”
“I will; to-night if possible.” Maynard placed the envelope in an
inside pocket. “Tell me, Evelyn, did René appear agitated when he
reached Mrs. Van Ness’ apartment last night?”
“Agitated--no.” Evelyn laughed softly at a sudden recollection. “Only
pleasurably excited,” she added demurely, and Maynard chuckled.
“Can you tell me why Burnham dislikes René?” he asked.
“He hasn’t any grounds for disliking him,” retorted Evelyn loyally. “It
is just his natural cussedness.”
Again Maynard chuckled. “You don’t show any great fondness for your
step-father,” he said, and Evelyn colored, this time with indignation
as unhappy memories rose.
“Why should I?” she demanded. “He has tried repeatedly to prejudice
Mother against me. Oh, how could she marry him? She must have
remembered my dear splendid father.”
“There is no accounting for taste, Evelyn.” Maynard felt himself on
delicate ground; widening the breach between the Burnhams and Evelyn
would be like applying a match to a keg of gunpowder. “It didn’t strike
me that Burnham was such a bad sort when I first knew him.”
“You haven’t got him in the family,” exclaimed Evelyn shrewdly. “It
makes all the difference between tolerance and active dislike. I wish
Mother wasn’t so under his influence.”
“You think she is?”
“I do. I left her fretting about him because his temperature had gone
up and sending frantically all over town for Dr. Hayden.”
Maynard looked serious. “Has it occurred to you, Evelyn, that your
step-father is an ill man? Perhaps his irritability and peculiar
behavior is due to some chronic disorder.”
“I’ll ask Dr. Hayden to give him a liver pill.” Evelyn declined to take
her step-father’s health seriously. “He used to go out a great deal,
now he sits around the house hour after hour, doing nothing, or else
playing chess; he seems to live for his chess problems alone.”
“It is an absorbing study,” replied Maynard. “Do you know the game?”
“Indeed I don’t,” promptly. “One chess player in the family is quite
enough.” Evelyn’s active mind flew off at a tangent. “You missed a nice
row by not coming home for luncheon.”
“Row!” Maynard looked at her in astonishment. “I was unpardonably rude
not to telephone your mother that I was detained at the theater and not
to wait luncheon for me, but surely a row----”
“Oh, bless you, the row wasn’t about you,” Evelyn chuckled. “Dr.
Hayden read the riot act to Mrs. Ward and made her get up; she was
malingering, you know.”
“No, not really?” Maynard was all attention; he had ceased watching the
children playing about the base of the Farragut monument. “Have you had
a talk with Mrs. Ward since her illness?”
“I only exchanged a few words with her when I went to inquire how she
was,” answered Evelyn. “Matilda has always been a silent, morose woman,
a good worker, and for all her peculiarities she gets on well with the
servants.”
“Have you had all your servants a long time?”
Evelyn reflected before she answered. “The chambermaid and mother’s
maid and the second man are new; only came this summer; but Mrs. Ward
has been with us over three years, while Jones came over ten years ago.”
“Is Jones a trustworthy servant?”
“Well, rather,” Evelyn laughed merrily. “He is the oddest character.
Hasn’t he confided to you about the Missions and his ‘human derelicts’?”
“His what?”
“Reclaimed souls. A year ago mother got very much wrought up over
the ex-gamblers, ex-thieves, ex-swindlers--there may have been a few
ex-murderers among his friends, to whom he offered the hospitality
of our servants’ hall, so she suggested that the Lord had called him
to join a mission, and now he is entirely happy in his new field. He
levies contributions on us once and so often to help support it; I
shouldn’t be a bit surprised if mother has to adopt the mission in
order to keep Jones.”
“You think he is worth keeping?”
Evelyn looked at Maynard in great surprise. “Yes, indeed. Jones really
is an excellent butler, and kind and considerate to the other servants.
His eccentricities are growing on him, I’ll admit. He infuriated my
step-father last winter by using religious mottoes on the icing of
cakes and having the floral decorations made in the shape of crosses. I
rather enjoyed their rows.”
“Oh, so Mr. Burnham and Jones don’t hit it off?”
“Not very well. But mother really is attached to Jones and declined to
discharge him even after the birthday dinner--you heard about that?”
she broke off to inquire.
“No.”
Evelyn’s eyes danced. “It was Mr. Burnham’s birthday and mother gave
a large party. The cook, a wonderful cake-maker, was told to make the
birthday cake instead of getting it from Rauscher’s. Unfortunately
she left the icing of the cake to Jones.” Evelyn paused dramatically.
“Jones brought in the cake with the candles all lighted, and before
it was cut the guests examined the decorations. In the center, done in
chocolate, was the date of the day of the dinner, then Mr. Burnham’s
initials, and right around the cake Jones had put in large lettering:
‘Prepare to meet thy God.’
“Mr. Burnham hasn’t any sense of humor,” added Evelyn. “And he hates to
be made ridiculous; I don’t believe he has ever forgiven Jones and he
is always pestering mother to discharge him.”
“Does Jones know it?”
“Oh, yes,” Evelyn laughed mischievously. “There is not much love lost
between them.”
Maynard lowered his voice. “Is Mr. Burnham a pacifist, Evelyn?”
“I believe so, but I don’t pay much attention to his arguments,” she
answered. “At one time he was a pronounced admirer of the Germans’
efficiency, but that was before we entered the war.”
Maynard thumped the neat pile of gravel he had raked up with his cane
back into place before he again addressed Evelyn.
“I am wondering,” he began finally, “if you can recall how Mrs. Ward
appeared when you found her on your doorstep after discovering the dead
man in the library?”
Evelyn wrinkled her brow in thought. “I am afraid I can’t,” she
admitted. “I was in a blue funk and I just clutched her; I think
I would have clutched almost any one whom I found there--even the
murderer!”
Maynard shot a quick look at her. “There is a point which has been
bothering me a good bit,” he said slowly. “It occurred to me that
perhaps----” he stopped, to add hastily: “Please treat what I am about
to say as confidential----”
Evelyn nodded. “Certainly, I promise.”
“Did Mrs. Ward have keys to the house?”
“I suppose so; no, come to think of it she must have given the keys to
Jones.” Evelyn rubbed her forehead. “Mrs. Ward was to close the house
at Chelsea after the servants had left and join them here.”
Maynard drew out an envelope and pencil and jotted down several words.
“Do you recall, Evelyn, hearing the front door bell ring while you were
in the library with the dead man?”
Evelyn’s eyes opened. “I didn’t hear any bell--then,” she stated with
positiveness. “But a thousand bells might have rung and I would never
have heard them in my condition of mind. Oh, if we only knew who rang
the library bell we’d know who killed the man in the room.”
Maynard did not answer at once. “I imagine developments in the case
depend upon the identification of the dead man,” he said. “When that
mystery is solved the other details will follow in their sequence.”
“Have the police made any headway in establishing the man’s identity?”
“Apparently none.”
Evelyn hesitated and glanced around. The little path, where they sat,
an off-shoot from the broad walks encircling Farragut’s statue, was
deserted except for themselves.
“There is something I have wanted to speak to you about, and then
I feared you would think me silly so I never mentioned it,” Evelyn
commenced. “You recall that all the coroner found in the dead man’s
pockets was a piece of string.”
“Yes.”
“The string was so odd--like a snake,” she shuddered. “It sort of
twined in and out of the coroner’s fingers as he stood there, I mean
just before Mrs. Ward fainted, and the string made a deep impression on
me, so much so,” she added hesitatingly, “that when I saw that piece of
string dangling from your coat sleeve yesterday morning it looked to me
identically the same as that found in the dead man’s pocket.”
“It did?” Maynard straightened up.
“Yes. I meant to have spoken to you about it before, but at first
it seemed so absurd.” Evelyn colored. “Thinking it over I grew more
positive that the strings were alike. You haven’t, by chance, kept it?”
eagerly. “You thrust it in your pocket.”
Maynard searched first one pocket and then the other. “My Yankee thrift
makes me keep odds and ends,” he said. “Ah, here it is,” pulling it out
of his trousers’ pocket.
Evelyn took the gayly colored piece of twine almost with repugnance.
As it swayed in the gentle breeze it seemed, as she had said, snaky in
appearance.
“Do you think it would help in identifying the dead man?” she asked.
“The original piece, I mean.”
“Yes, if we knew where he had gotten it and how it came to be in his
pocket,” responded Maynard. “Perhaps I had better give this piece to
the coroner. Where did you get it?”
“It came off one of my packages, you remember,” she answered. “You
helped me carry the bundles out of the taxi-cab.”
“That’s so.” Maynard again took out his pencil and envelope. “Where did
you shop that day?”
“Let me see--Woodward and Lothrop’s, Huyler’s; oh, but what is the use
of going on with the list, the only packages which had come untied
were some writing paper, a box of candy, and a package of papers
belonging to Marian Van Ness.”
A shadow fell across the envelope and Maynard looked up from his
writing. Marian Van Ness stood at his elbow.
“I never saw two such absorbed people,” she remarked as he rose. “I saw
you from the sidewalk, Evelyn, and called to you, then in desperation
walked across the grass. If I am arrested for trespass by the park
policeman you will have to bail me out.”
“Take my seat,” and Maynard stepped back from the bench, but Marian
shook her head.
“I can’t loiter for I have an appointment at the hair-dresser’s across
the street,” she said. “I am late now.”
“Wait, Marian, and I’ll go with you, I have so much to tell you,”
Evelyn sprang up and promptly dropped the string; before she could
stoop for it Maynard had picked it up.
“Shall I keep it or will you?” he asked. He held the string toward
Evelyn but his eyes never left Marian who looked mildly curious as her
glance fell on the dangling string.
“I’ll take it.” Evelyn opened her bag and dropped the string inside it.
“Was the package of papers which René carried off by mistake tied with
that piece of string, Marian?” she inquired.
“No.” Marian walked beside Maynard, who suited his long stride to
her shorter step. “When I gave the package to Captain La Montagne to
carry for me it was secured by a rubber band. Do look out, Evelyn, or
you will be run over,” as the younger girl, not heeding a speeding
automobile, stepped off the curb. It was some seconds, owing to the
congested traffic, before Maynard guided them safely across the street.
Once on the other side Marian gave him no opportunity to resume
conversation, but walked rapidly toward an old residence which had been
remodeled and given over to physicians’ offices and a hair-dresser’s
establishment on the first floor.
“We must hurry,” Marian explained. “Sorry, good-bye,” and slipping
her hand inside Evelyn’s she hastened toward the shop. At the door,
however, they both drew back to let several people pass and looking
over her shoulder, Marian caught Maynard staring at her. A wave of
color mantled her cheeks and turning in some confusion she ran into Dr.
Hayden.
“I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed, drawing back. “I thought you saw me
and waited for me to pass.”
“I am very stupid,” she laughed and bit her lip. “Don’t let me detain
you.”
“I only wanted to catch Mr. Maynard, pardon me,” and the busy physician
ran down the steps to where Maynard, having seen his beckoning hand,
stood waiting.
“Have you seen Palmer?” asked Hayden.
“Yes.” Maynard pulled his companion toward the curb where they were
out of earshot of passers-by. “Palmer has been unable to locate the
taxi-driver, Sam.”
Hayden looked worried. “Too bad,” he muttered. “I saw Burnham this
morning and urged him not to press the charge against Captain La
Montagne until he had time to investigate the Frenchman’s assertion
that Sam, the taxi-driver, had run out of the apartment and up the
stairs just before he approached.”
“Well, that is reasonable,” commented Maynard. “I trust Burnham
listened to you.”
Hayden waited until several women had passed out of hearing distance
before he answered. “Burnham will not see reason,” he said. “He has
become obsessed with one idea and he will apparently go to any lengths
to see that Captain La Montagne is punished for his attack upon him--he
calls it a murderous attack.”
Maynard frowned angrily. “Burnham is a----” he checked his hasty
speech. “It looks as if it was up to us, doctor, to locate Sam, the
taxi-driver, and wring the truth out of him.”
“That is the size of it,” agreed Hayden. “And we won’t find it easy.
Remember, if Sam clears La Montagne of doing the shooting he virtually
proves himself guilty.”
“I see your point,” agreed Maynard. “You mean----”
“That, unless Sam saw another person leave the apartment when he was
there--and it seems on the face of it highly improbable that three men
should have dashed away from our door in the space of a few seconds,”
interpolated Hayden, “one of these two men, Sam or La Montagne, shot
Burnham.”
“It was Sam,” declared Maynard with conviction. “Never La Montagne.”
“I agree with you,” added Hayden. “Patients are waiting for me in my
office, Maynard; after they go I must see Burnham. In the meantime will
you interview La Montagne and ask him if he noted anything unusual
about the taxi-driver, any undue haste, signs of horror, fear, or
indication that he carried a revolver, though the last is not likely.”
“I’ll ask La Montagne,” promised Maynard as the physician moved away
with a farewell nod.
Turning about Maynard continued thoughtfully up Connecticut Avenue.
He had reached the juncture of M Street and Rhode Island Avenue when
his progress was stopped by passing motors. He was just about to step
off the curb when a taxi-cab turned out of Connecticut Avenue and
shot down M Street, but not before Maynard had a good view of Sam, the
taxi-driver, who had half turned to address his passenger, Captain René
La Montagne.