BURNHAM PREFERS CHARGES
MRS. WARD, going about her work languidly, distracted Jones from his
usual duties; he was not quite certain what was expected of him, to
attend to the housekeeper’s whims or to valet Peter Burnham whose
continued indisposition had developed a fondness for being waited on.
The butler searched in vain for Mrs. Burnham to ask for orders, but the
only person he located on the second floor was Evelyn Preston.
“Indeed, Miss Evelyn,” he protested, “what am I to do? Mrs. Burnham
says Mr. Burnham is to stay abed, and Mr. Burnham says he wants his
clothes, and Mrs. Ward comes along and says I am to pack Mr. Maynard’s
bag.”
“Mr. Maynard’s bag!” Evelyn sat down in the hall chair. “What are you
talking about, Jones?”
“I don’t rightly know, Miss; I’ve moved Mr. Maynard’s things from the
room upstairs to the spare bedroom on this floor ’cause Mrs. Ward said
it was too hot for him up there; that was yesterday, and now----”
Jones wagged his head despondently. “A body can’t obey everybody,” he
grumbled. “I’d best be accepting the Mission’s offer----”
“Now, Jones, don’t talk nonsense,” interrupted Evelyn firmly. “The
person to be obeyed in this house is----”
“Who, Miss? That’s just what I want to know,” blurted out Jones as she
hesitated.
“Why--why, Mother.” Evelyn regretted the words the moment she had
spoken; whatever her private opinion of the extent or limitation of her
step-father’s authority it should not have found expression before a
servant. “Mother is the proper person for you to go to to settle that
question,” she added in haste.
“Where can I find Mrs. Burnham?” asked Jones.
Evelyn paused to reflect; where had she last seen her mother?
“I think she went down into the basement,” she said uncertainly. “Or
did she go to the garret?”
Jones concealed a smile behind a discreet cough. “Never mind, Miss
Evelyn, I’ll keep going until I find her,” he said as he moved off.
“Wait, Jones,” and the butler halted. “Has Mr. Maynard gone out?”
“Yes, Miss, about an hour ago; anything else, Miss?”
“No, that is all, thank you,” and the servant went down stairs.
Left to herself Evelyn stared reflectively down the hall. Was Dan
Maynard really leaving? He had said nothing to her at the breakfast
table about going; surely he would keep his word and help---- The sound
of an opening door made her look around just as Mrs. Ward stepped out
of the library. At Evelyn’s call she turned with reluctance, or so it
seemed to Evelyn, and approached her.
“Yes, Miss Evelyn,” she said, and stood waiting respectfully.
“Did Mr. Maynard mention at what hour he would return when he gave
directions to have his bag packed?” asked Evelyn.
“No, Miss.” The housekeeper’s voice, monotonous in tone, always grated
on Evelyn’s ear. She scanned the woman attentively; Mrs. Ward certainly
had more lines in her face, and her hair, already gray, had gained an
added whiteness in the past few days, which, contrasted with her sallow
skin, made her look for the first time old in Evelyn’s eyes. Mrs. Ward
moved restlessly under her continued staring, and her severe mouth
tightened as she pressed her lips more firmly together.
“Is there anything else, Miss Evelyn?” she inquired finally.
“No, thank you,” but as the housekeeper turned to leave, Evelyn asked,
“Why did you go in the library, Mrs. Ward? The coroner has forbidden
any one entering it.”
Not stopping her rapid walk Mrs. Ward looked back over her shoulder
and answered none too civilly: “I went in to straighten the room. Your
mother told me to; therefore the responsibility is hers.”
Without comment Evelyn watched the housekeeper’s tall spare form
disappear toward the back stairs, then she moved thoughtfully over to
the library door and turned the knob--only to find the door locked.
Evelyn stared at the closed door in a brown study. She recalled
distinctly seeing the housekeeper step into the hall and she had most
certainly not stopped to lock the door behind her. The lock was like
the others in use throughout the house, not a spring catch but one
which had to be turned by a key.
On sudden impulse Evelyn stooped over to see if by chance a key was in
the lock on the other side of the door. Before she secured a good look
at the hole the door was jerked open and Evelyn precipitated into the
arms of her step-father.
Peter Burnham regarded her in silent indignation as she recovered her
balance and released her hold of his arm which she had instinctively
clung to for support.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded and his voice betrayed his
excitement.
“I was trying to see if the door was locked on the inside.” Evelyn was
a trifle breathless as well as consumed with inward fury at having been
caught in so ignominious a position by her step-father. “I had no idea
you were in the room.”
“Oh, you hadn’t.” Burnham shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his
dressing gown. “Well, if you must know, I came in to find out what you
were doing in here. Don’t deny you were here,” as she started to speak.
“I heard you from my bedroom and came in to investigate.”
“You did not hear me,” Evelyn retorted. “Mrs. Ward was in here.”
“Mrs. Ward!” Burnham turned and gazed uneasily about the room, and back
at Evelyn. “What was she doing here?”
“She said she came in to straighten the room.” Evelyn paused in her
contemplation of Burnham and also glanced about the room. Mrs. Ward had
evidently arranged the shades and curtains so as to darken the library,
and Evelyn, her eyes accustomed to the sun-lit hall, made out the
familiar objects with some difficulty. “I hope Mrs. Ward did not dust,”
she added as Burnham kept silent. “Detective Mitchell expressly stated
we were not to dust in here.”
“And pray where have you seen Mitchell?” asked Burnham quickly.
“Here,” meeting his irate gaze calmly. “The detective spends a great
deal of time in and about the house. Don’t you think you had better go
back to bed?”
Burnham muttered something she did not catch. “Have you seen that
jackass, Jones?” he asked in a louder key.
“Yes, he is looking for Mother.” Evelyn’s eyes were growing more used
to the light and she saw that a drawer of the desk table was opened,
and an over-turned scrap-basket lay on the floor near at hand. “Why did
you lock the library door?”
“To prevent intrusions,” replied Burnham shortly. “The police have
ordered this room closed; very well, it shall remain closed. Please
notify Mrs. Ward to that effect, and also kindly tell Jones to bring
me my clothes. I’ll----” a coughing spell interrupted him. “Tell Jones
I’ll discharge him if he doesn’t,” he added as soon as he could speak.
“Also ask him if he sent that telephone for Dr. Hayden.”
“I heard him do that,” volunteered Evelyn. “The doctor said he would be
in after his morning office hours were over.”
“Oh, all right.” Burnham moved to the desk and picked up a pencil
sharpener from among the brass ornaments lying about. “Hurry, Evelyn,
and send Jones to my room with my clothes.”
But Evelyn did not start at once on her errand; there was a feverish
anxiety about Burnham which puzzled her. His explanation of his
presence in the room was plausible; it was a natural impulse to look
in the library if he heard any one moving about in the room closed
by order of the coroner, and perfectly proper to lock the door to
prevent others entering. But why had he not looked into the hall on
first entering the library to see who had left the room? Why wait
nearly five minutes, for that time at least had elapsed while she,
Evelyn, had engaged the housekeeper in conversation, before jerking
open the door? And why select the moment when she and not Mrs. Ward
was standing before it? Come to think of it, she had rattled the knob
in trying to open the door; of course, that would attract Burnham’s
attention and cause him to find out who was trying to enter. Satisfied
with the sudden solution which had occurred to her, Evelyn woke up to
the fact that Burnham was thumping nervously on the door which he held
invitingly open.
“Hurry, hurry,” he reiterated, and Evelyn sped out of the room.
Burnham waited a moment after closing the hall door and locking it
securely, then taking out his bunch of keys he slipped the key on
its silver ring and dropped them back in his pocket. Next he hurried
over to the desk and gathered some papers from the drawer, closed it,
picked up the scrap-basket and placed it under the desk, and taking a
pocket chess board from the table he returned to his bedroom through
the communicating door, closing it carefully behind him. After pulling
up the shades and pushing back the curtains and flooding the room
with light, he clambered back into bed and commenced reading over the
papers he still clutched in his hand. He was absorbed in working out a
difficult chess problem on the pocket board when a rap on his hall door
disturbed him.
“Come in, Jones,” he called, but instead of his butler, Dr. Hayden
walked in. Burnham’s worried expression changed to one of relief. “I
thought you would never come,” he exclaimed, pushing aside the chess
diagrams lying on the counterpane. “Draw up a chair and let’s talk;
don’t bother about that thermometer,” frowning. “My temperature is
normal, I’ve taken it,” pointing to a silver encased instrument lying
on the bed stand.
Hayden smiled as he sat down, having first, however, poured out a glass
of water from a carafe on the stand and put his thermometer in the
glass of water.
“Amateur diagnosticians make work for the physicians,” he said good
naturedly. “What are your symptoms to-day, Burnham?”
But Burnham did not smile. “I know what ails me,” he retorted doggedly,
his eyes shifting about the room and then back at Hayden. “Worry has
played the devil with my digestive organs. I’ll admit I had a beastly
night, but I am all right now. I don’t like the baby’s food my wife
insists on sending up to me, gruel and such stuff. I want a square
meal.”
“We’ll see.” Hayden laid his fingers on Burnham’s wrist. “Pulse all
right,” he said cheerily. “Stop worrying, Burnham, and give your
nervous system a rest. I have told you before that you work yourself
into these excitements.”
“Work myself up!” exclaimed Burnham bitterly. “Nothing of the sort.
Do you think a man of my temperament can keep calm after finding a
dead man in one of my rooms and being shot at two nights ago--and the
murderer still at large? Why, man, my life’s in danger any hour, any
moment until René La Montagne is put under restraint.”
Hayden held up a cautioning hand. “Hold on, Burnham, we do not know for
certain that La Montagne shot at you on Thursday night; your charge is
unsubstantiated.”
“I am morally certain of it,” declared Burnham, sitting bolt upright.
“Not only that he tried to get me then, but that he killed the unknown
man here on Monday night in mistake for me.”
“What!” Hayden regarded Burnham’s flushed countenance with keen
attention. “Come, come, Burnham, don’t talk nonsense; be sensible.”
“You can think me cracked if you like.” Burnham’s jaw protruded
obstinately. “Let me tell you something: La Montagne expected to find
me here Monday night because I wrote him to meet me here.”
“You did!” Hayden stared in astonishment at his patient. “Why did you
make an appointment with him if you did not like or trust the man?”
“Because I wanted him to understand, once and for all, that neither
Mrs. Burnham nor I would permit Evelyn to marry him.” Burnham cleared
his throat, his voice having grown husky. “Evelyn was expected in
Washington and I wanted the Frenchman told before they met.”
“Well, did you see La Montagne Monday night?” asked Hayden.
“No, business in Philadelphia upset my plans.” Burnham’s eyes again
shifted from his physician. “I did not reach Washington until Tuesday.”
“Oh!” Hayden stroked his chin reflectively. Burnham was certainly
working himself into a state of nervous agitation, and the astute
physician was wondering how much reliance to place upon his
statements. It was very obvious, however, that Burnham was bent on
talking to some one, and Hayden decided it was better to thresh the
subject out with him, rather than have him bottle up his spleen and
nurse his wrongs, fancied or otherwise.
“Let us look at the situation sensibly and without excitement,” he
said. “You believe La Montagne killed this unknown man in mistake for
you?”
“Yes.”
Hayden’s next question was checked by the entrance of Evelyn whose
over-bright eyes indicated suppressed excitement.
“Jones has gone,” she announced, hardly greeting Hayden as she walked
over to the bed.
“Gone! Gone where?” Burnham half rose.
“I don’t know--no one knows.” Evelyn waved her hands. “He just left.”
“Walked out?”
“I suppose so,” glancing in surprise at Burnham who had almost shouted
the question. He noted her expression and modified his tone. “What have
you in your hand, Evelyn?”
For answer she laid a small package on the bed and Burnham half
extended his hand and then drew it back.
“It’s been opened,” he exclaimed. “Who opened it?”
“I don’t know. I found the package on the hall table downstairs when I
went to answer the front door.”
Burnham pulled off the outer covering of the package with such vigor
that its contents fell in a shower over the bed.
“It’s only your chess problem diagrams from Europe,” exclaimed Evelyn,
picking up one which fell at her feet. “Why make such a fuss about
them?” observing Burnham’s growing wrath.
He changed the subject with abruptness. “Your mother has repeatedly
told you not to go to the door, Evelyn, but to wait for one of the
servants. It is not dignified for you to answer the door bell.”
“I only went because I did not wish to keep Detective Mitchell standing
on the steps any longer,” she protested, coloring under his rebuke.
“Mr. Mitchell said you had telephoned for him.”
“So I did. Why didn’t you say at once that he was here?” glaring at
her. “Ask him to come in,” and as Evelyn made for the door he added
in an aside to Hayden: “When I send important messages I telephone
from the library.” He leaned over and spoke in a confidential whisper.
“I know I’m watched; they can’t fool me. Come in, Mitchell,” he
called more loudly and frowned as Evelyn, her curiosity piqued by the
situation, walked determinedly in behind the detective; then his frown
changed to a smile and he dropped his eyes so that the others might
not see the sudden crafty malice which lit them.
“Draw up a chair, Evelyn,” he suggested politely, but disregarding his
remark she walked over to the bed and leaned against the footboard.
Detective Mitchell likewise remained standing by Hayden and waited for
Burnham to address him.
“Found the murderer yet?” asked Burnham.
“No, sir.”
“Identified the dead man?”
“Not yet, sir.” Mitchell shifted his weight somewhat and rested one
hand on the bed. “It is only a matter of hours now.”
“Ah, indeed. Well, I’ll assist in pushing the clock hands forward.”
Burnham paused to sip some water from a glass on the bedstand; his
throat was getting dry. When he addressed his companions he spoke with
deliberate impressiveness. “The dead man was murdered in mistake for
me,” he began. “And by the same man who on Thursday night again tried
to kill me, that time by shooting.”
Mitchell bent eagerly forward. “Who is this man?”
“René La Montagne of France.”
“You lie!” Evelyn, her eyes blazing with wrath, shook the bed to
emphasize her words. “You lie!”
“I don’t!” Burnham glared back at her and smiled triumphantly. “I can
prove my statement. Take down the charge, Mitchell.”
“One moment.” Hayden rose. “Let us talk this over a bit, Burnham. You
say that the unidentified dead man was murdered in mistake for you by
Captain La Montagne. Did Captain La Montagne know you by sight then?”
“Of course he did,” testily. “We met years ago in Paris.”
Hayden shook his head in bewilderment. “Then your theory that La
Montagne mistook this unidentified dead man for you, Burnham, hardly is
borne out by the medical evidence.”
“What d’ye mean?” The question shot from Burnham, down whose hot face
perspiration was trickling.
“Why, simply that the man was killed by a dose of hydrocyanic acid.”
Hayden spoke deliberately to make sure the excited man understood
him. “If these two men were drinking together, as seems a natural
supposition, La Montagne would have known his companion was not you and
would not have administered the poison. He wasn’t shooting at you in
the dark.”
“Not then, perhaps----” Evelyn, who had shot a grateful look at Hayden,
whitened as she caught the venom in Burnham’s tone. “Listen to me,
Mitchell; I want your full attention. La Montagne has great reason to
dislike me, to even fear me. Be quiet,” as Evelyn endeavored to speak.
“I had an appointment to meet La Montagne here on Monday night.”
“You did!” Evelyn stared astounded at her step-father.
“But I was detained and could not keep the appointment,” went on
Burnham. He moistened his dry lips before continuing. “I take back what
I said about La Montagne mistaking the dead man for me. He undoubtedly
brought the man here to assist in assassinating me and, finding I
did not arrive, killed the man from a double motive--to get rid of a
witness who might possibly betray him and to convict me of the crime.”
Evelyn stared at Burnham and then at her companions, her eyes half out
of her head.
“You are mad! Utterly mad!” she gasped.
“So that is your cue, is it?” Burnham laughed heartily, immoderately,
and Hayden edged nearer the bed, ready for any emergency. Mitchell was
the first to speak.
“That’s a very neat theory,” he said, and his calm manner had a
quieting effect upon Burnham. “You say you had an engagement to meet
Captain La Montagne here, sir, but that you did not keep it. Then how
did Captain La Montagne and this unidentified man--you claim, his
companion--get inside your house?”
Burnham slipped his hand under the pillow and dragged out a sheet of
note paper. “Here is a copy of my letter to Captain La Montagne making
the appointment for Monday night. In it you will see that I said that
my train might be late, and not wishing to keep him standing on the
doorstep in what might be inclement weather, I enclosed my latch key.”
Evelyn gazed aghast at Burnham and then vaguely about the room; its
familiar objects wavered and danced before her vision and with a
pitiful cry she sank fainting into Detective Mitchell’s arms.