UNMASKED
MAYNARD, swinging his cane jauntily as he strode along, paused a few
steps from the Bellevue Apartment House and swore softly; he had
entirely forgotten the errand which had, ostensibly, taken him to see
Marian. Retracing his footsteps he persuaded the telephone operator to
give him a small envelope and writing on his visiting card: “Evelyn
wishes to see you at your earliest convenience,” he enclosed it in the
envelope, and insured its immediate delivery by a liberal tip to the
grinning elevator boy.
His conscience once again clear he hastened around to the Burnhams’ and
reached that hospitable home just as Jones appeared on the doorstep
intent on summoning a newsboy whose shrill shout of “_Sunday Times_”
could be heard a block away.
Maynard paused by the butler’s side. “Get a paper for me also,” he
directed, producing some pennies.
“Don’t bother, sir,” protested Jones. “I always gets four for the
house, sir; I have the money right here.” In hunting for his change
the butler resurrected a folded paper. His face fell at sight of it.
“Heavens, sir; I forgot to give you this,” he gasped in consternation.
“Mrs. Van Ness--that is----” Suddenly recollecting that Marian had
requested him not to mention her presence at the house the night
before, he pulled himself up short and under pretence of saving the
newsboy steps he went forward to meet him.
[Illustration: WHITE TO PLAY AND MATE IN TWO MOVES.]
But the maneuver was unnecessary. Maynard had forgotten the butler’s
existence. His entire attention was concentrated on the small piece
of paper which upon unfolding, proved to be a chess problem diagram.
Underneath it was written: “White to play and mate in two moves.”
For several seconds Maynard studied the position of the men, then
wheeling about he raced up the staircase and disappeared in his
bedroom, in his haste utterly ignoring Mrs. Burnham’s friendly greeting
as he passed her in the hall.
Mrs. Burnham frowned at his closed door in surprised indignation;
discourtesy in any form was like a red rag to a bull to her, and making
up her mind that she would exact full apology from Maynard later on,
she continued on her way to Evelyn’s bedroom. There she found Evelyn,
fully dressed, sitting on the edge of her bed, one hand pressed to her
side and her face the color of the bed sheets.
“Mother, please get me some aromatic spirits of ammonia,” she begged.
“I thought I was stronger----”
“I told you to remain in bed,” retorted Mrs. Burnham in marked
displeasure. “Remember, your promise----”
“Oh, mother, don’t argue,” gasped Evelyn. “I really think I am going to
faint.”
“Tut, nonsense!” responded Mrs. Burnham; she had small sympathy with
hysterics, and Evelyn seemed on the verge of indulging in them. She
raised her voice as footsteps stopped outside the door: “Who’s there?”
“Me, ma’am, Jones,” replied the butler, holding the door ajar. “Coroner
Penfield to see Miss Evelyn.”
A faint “Oh!” from the bed reached Mrs. Burnham and her hesitation
vanished.
“Tell the coroner we will see him shortly, Jones; show him into the
library; he has the key, I believe,” and as the butler closed the door
she approached the bed and handed Evelyn a glass of water. “Drink some
of that, dear,” she said more sympathetically. “I will bring you some
ammonia; lie down until I return.”
Not waiting to see her directions carried out, Mrs. Burnham went at
once to her dressing room and unlocked her medicine cabinet. The bottle
she sought was not in front, and in moving some of the phials to see
the better she was confronted with a small blue bottle bearing the
ominous red sign “POISON”, and the label:
Acid Hydrocynan dil Dose 1-3 minims
The bottle drew her hand as the North Pole attracts the magnet. Holding
it up to the light she tipped the bottle and the small amount of
hydrocyanic acid remaining in it showed plainly. She hesitated a long
moment, then secreted the bottle in her hand-bag. Spotting the ammonia
after a second search she hastened back to Evelyn and gave her a small
dose.
“Do you feel equal to seeing the coroner?” she asked.
Evelyn nodded. “It was foolish of me to make a scene,” she admitted.
“But I am weaker than I realized. Will you come with me, Mother?”
“Yes, my dear,” and slipping her hand within Evelyn’s she gently helped
her across the hall and into the library.
There was distinct rumbling of thunder and the darkness preceding the
heavy electrical storms, almost tropical in their violence, which visit
Washington occasionally, was creeping up; even the air was oppressive
and Mrs. Burnham shivered involuntarily as she entered the library with
Evelyn and greeted the coroner.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said graciously. “My daughter is not
very well, so you must excuse us.”
“I’ll not detain you long, Miss Preston.” Penfield noted Evelyn’s
haggard appearance with concern. “There are just one or two questions
I must ask you; for instance, did you on your arrival here Tuesday
morning wind that clock?” pointing to the mantel.
“No, but it was going,” replied Evelyn positively.
“Ah, then some one besides yourself wound it.” The coroner’s air of
triumph at having established his theory of the house being occupied in
the absence of the Burnhams was quickly dashed by Mrs. Burnham.
“The clock runs for a year,” she stated. “We wound it last June.”
“Oh!” The coroner stared at her in acute disappointment, then continued
more briskly: “Can you tell me, Mrs. Burnham, if you have any cherry
brandy in your wine cellar?”
“We had last year some cherry cordial--we call it ‘Cherry Bounce’,”
explained Mrs. Burnham; she winced slightly as a peal of thunder echoed
through the house. “Would you mind pulling down the curtains? I am
deathly afraid of lightning--one of my idiosyncrasies,” she added, and
the coroner hastened to pull the long curtains across the windows.
“Do you know whether any of this Cherry Bounce was left in your cellar
when you closed the house for the summer, Mrs. Burnham?” inquired
Penfield, returning to them.
Mrs. Burnham shook her head. “I really cannot inform you; Mrs. Ward, my
housekeeper, may be able to tell you.” Mrs. Burnham changed her seat
to one facing the doorway and with her back to the windows. “Why do you
want to know?”
“Because the dose of prussic acid, or to be exact, hydrocyanic acid,
which was used to poison the unknown man, was administered in cherry
brandy--or cordial; it is practically the same thing,” explained
Penfield. “I am trying to find out if it was possible for the murderer
to have gotten those ingredients in this house.”
Mrs. Burnham looked her astonishment. “By ingredients do you mean the
cordial or the poison?” she questioned suavely, laying one hand on her
bag as it threatened to slip off her lap.
“The cordial.” Coroner Penfield took out his memorandum book. “Not a
thing apparently was found out of place by you or any of your servants;
not even a chair misplaced; no soiled glasses, plates, or cups; and yet
the dead man and his companion or companions must have been carousing
together--it is most extraordinary.”
“It is very evident they were not carousing here,” replied Mrs. Burnham
tartly. “You will have to travel abroad to find the motive, the
criminal, and the scene of the crime.”
Evelyn looked up in quick rebuke. What did her mother mean by her
cryptic remark--to involve René?
“Travel abroad,” repeated the coroner thoughtfully. “To some extent we
have done that; a warrant has been issued for the arrest of that young
French ‘Ace’, Captain La Montagne, and we hope to have news of his
whereabouts before night.”
“You can have news of his whereabouts now,” declared Evelyn before her
mother could intervene. “My fiancé, Captain La Montagne, is dining with
us to-night.”
“Your fiancé!” Penfield stared, astounded. “Do you mean you are engaged
to the man your step-father accuses of the murder of this unknown man?”
“I am,” proudly, “Captain La Montagne is entirely innocent of any
crime; on that I will stake my reputation and if need be, my life.”
“_Mon coeur, mon coeur!_” exclaimed a passionate voice from the hall
and René La Montagne sped to Evelyn’s side regardless of their presence
and kissed her again and again. With one arm encircling her waist he
faced the staggered coroner and Mrs. Burnham, and addressed them in
English. “What Miss Preston states is true. I knew not of the crime
until I read of it in the newspapers; I knew not the victim; I knew not
this house until my arrival a few minutes ago.”
Another figure hovering in the hall just outside the door joined the
group in the library.
“What you say is true in every particular save one, Captain,” stated
Marian Van Ness clearly; she paused and stepped to one side to let
Detective Mitchell and James Palmer enter. “You knew the dead man.”
“I, madame?” La Montagne gazed at her incredulously.
“Yes.” Marian drew in her breath sharply; she was keeping herself well
in hand except for the nervous twitching of her fingers. Her eyes
roved around the group--Dan Maynard was not there. She passed her
handkerchief across her lips. “Yes, you knew him, Captain La Montagne,”
she continued. “He had often threatened your life.”
“Marian!” Evelyn’s anguish almost broke down the other’s composure, but
she continued to regard the Frenchman steadily. None of the group about
her were aware of the butler’s approach until he announced from the
doorway:
“Dr. Hayden to see Miss Evelyn,” and Jones stepped back to allow
the physician to enter, but curiosity kept him loitering near the
door within earshot. In his absorption in what was transpiring in
the library he never noticed the stealthy approach of Mrs. Ward. The
housekeeper, choosing her opportunity with care, slipped unseen behind
one of the portières of the library door.
Hayden stopped on the threshold of the library and gazed in amazement
at the tense attitude of Mrs. Burnham and her guests.
“Come in, doctor,” she said. “Mrs. Van Ness is about to tell us----”
her face was like paper--“the name of the dead man.”
La Montagne, paying no attention to the others, gazed intently at
Marian.
“The man’s name, madame,” he demanded impetuously. “Give us his name.”
“Count Fritz von Eltz,” responded Marian. An oath escaped La Montagne
while Mrs. Burnham collapsed on a chair.
“Marian--you don’t mean--your husband?” she gasped.
Marian’s face was like marble. “I do,” she said. “He was my divorced
husband; the courts permitted me to resume my maiden name. I never knew
he was in this country until this morning.”
“I was not sure he was in Washington,” volunteered La Montagne. “But
I had heard, no matter how, that he had come to America. Ours was a
quarrel of long standing, gentlemen; frankly, had I met him I would
have killed him at sight.”
“Hush, René!” and impulsively Evelyn clapped her hand to his lips.
“_Non, non, mon coeur_; it is best I tell these gentlemen of my
animosity to Von Eltz. He was a reptile; no crime was too revolting for
his infernal cunning to undertake. The world is better without him.”
“Was he a German spy?” asked Mitchell.
“But of course, monsieur.” La Montagne laughed at the question. “Pouf!
why waste time discussing his death? Let us congratulate ourselves and
this fortunate lady in being free of him,” and he bowed low to Marian.
“That’s all very heroic,” remarked Mitchell ironically. “But we
have laws in this country, Captain; and we’ve got to abide by them.
Somebody’s got to be punished for murdering Von Eltz.”
A sudden shout from the next room startled Evelyn and she swung about
just as Mrs. Burnham, her face ashen, started for the door leading into
her husband’s bedroom. A premonition of impending evil made Evelyn
follow her. The coroner, speeding ahead, unlocked the door.
“Come,” Evelyn called over her shoulder to the others and they flocked
after her; Jones, bringing up the rear of the little procession, almost
collided with James Palmer who lagged behind the others.
Peter Burnham, sitting up in bed, his hands clutching numerous papers
while others were scattered loose over the counterpane, glared at
his wife and those back of her until he saw James Palmer; then his
expression changed to one of impotent fury.
“You, Palmer----” his voice choked with rage--“it was you who shot at
me from the window in your apartment, you treacherous hound!”
Palmer stared over the heads of his companions and his expression
caused Marian to shrink back.
“What’s that you say?” he demanded. “Here, let me by,” and he pushed
Hayden to one side as he made his way to the foot of the bed. “Are you
out of your head, Burnham?”
“No. I’ve just found out to what use you have put my chess
correspondence. I have all the evidence,” shouted Burnham, his
excitement almost uncontrollable. “I have discovered the key----” A
sudden sensation of suffocation overcame him and he fell back on his
pillow speechless, the papers fluttering from his palsied fingers.
“Quick, doctor,” pleaded Mrs. Burnham, while Detective Mitchell, his
mind in a whirl, edged nearer Palmer, at the same time keeping an alert
eye on René La Montagne who had drawn Evelyn to one side and shielded
her from the sight of the pitiful figure on the bed.
Marian Van Ness started forward to aid Hayden, but the sight of Mrs.
Ward, her eyes agleam with excitement, perspiration streaming down her
face, as she crept into the room, diverted her attention. Back of Mrs.
Ward came Jones, intent only on watching the housekeeper.
Hayden, his quiet professional manner in striking contrast to the
excitement about him, prepared some stimulant and then bent over
Burnham. Slipping his arm deftly under the unconscious man’s head he
lifted him up and placed the small glass to his lips and tipped it
slowly upward.
The next instant the glass was plucked from his grasp and an iron hand
hurled him to the floor.
“Quick, Mitchell, there’s your prisoner!” shouted the man in the bed,
and with leaping pulses and reeling senses Marian recognized Dan
Maynard’s voice.
Tossing aside his make-up, Maynard set down the glass he still held and
collared the physician as he struggled to his knees. “Your prisoner,”
he said tersely, as Mitchell sprang forward. “Lewis Hayden, German spy
and would-be murderer.”