that I loved Mr. Carleton even while Miss Van Norman was his affianced
bride. I tell you this simply, both because it is the simple truth and
because Mr. Carleton advised me to tell you, if you should ask me. And,
knowing this, you may be surprised to learn that when I heard of Miss
Van Norman’s death, I——” she raised her wonderful eyes and looked
straight at Rob—“I thought she died by Schuyler’s hand. Yes, you may
well look at me in surprise,—I know it was dreadful of me to think he
_could_ have done it, but—I did think so. You see, I loved him,—and I
_knew_ he loved me. He had never told me so, had never breathed a word
that was disloyal to Miss Van Norman,—and yet _I knew_. And that last
evening in this very rose-garden, on the night before his wedding, we
walked here together, and I knew from what he didn’t say, not from what
he did say, that it was I whom he loved, and not she. He left me with a
few cold, curt words that I knew only too well masked his real feelings,
and I saw him no more that night. He _had_ told me he was going over to
Miss Van Norman’s, and so, when I heard of the—the tragedy—I couldn’t
help thinking he had yielded to a sudden terrible impulse. Oh, I’m not
defending myself for my wrong thought of him; I’m only confessing that I
did think that.”
“And how did you learn that you were mistaken,” said Rob gently, “and
that Schuyler didn’t do it?”
“Why, the very next night he told me he loved me,” said the girl, her
face alight with a tender glory, “and then I _knew_!”
“And your embarrassment at the questions on the witness stand?”
“Was only because I knew suspicion was directed toward him, and I feared
I might say something to strengthen it, even while trying to do the
opposite.”
“And you didn’t care whether you told the truth or not?”
“If the truth would help to incriminate Schuyler, I would prefer not to
tell it.”
The gentle sadness in Dorothy’s tone robbed this speech of the jarring
note it would otherwise have held.
“You are right, Miss Burt,” said Rob, “and I thank you for the frank
confidence you have shown in talking to me as freely as you have done.”
“Schuyler told me to,” said the girl simply.
XXIII
FLEMING STONE
When Fessenden told Kitty of his interview with Dorothy Burt, she agreed
that he had now followed every trail that had presented itself, or had
been suggested by anybody.
Mr. Fairbanks, too, admitted that he was at his wits’ end, and saw no
hope of a solution of the mystery except through the services of Fleming
Stone. And so when the great detective arrived, both Fairbanks and
Fessenden were ready to do anything they could to help him, but had no
suggestions to make.
With her ever-ready hospitality, Miss Morton invited Mr. Stone to make
his home at the Van Norman house, and, as this quite coincided with his
own wishes, Stone took up his quarters there.
The first evening of his arrival he listened to the details of the case.
Fleming Stone was of a most attractive personality. He was nearly fifty
years old, with graying hair and a kindly, responsive face.
At dinner he had won the admiration of all by his tact and interesting
conversation. At the table the business upon which he had come had not
been mentioned, but now the group assembled in the library felt that the
time had come to talk of the matter.
It was a strangely-assorted household. Tom Willard, though the only
relative of the Van Normans present, was in no way the head of the
house. That position was held by Miss Morton, who, though kind-hearted
and hospitable, never let it be forgotten that she was owner and
mistress of the mansion.
Kitty French was an honored guest, and as Miss Morton had invited her to
stay as long as she would, she had determined now to stay through Mr.
Stone’s sojourn there, after which, whatever the results of his work,
she would go back to her home in New York.
Fessenden and Schuyler Carleton had been with them at dinner, and Mr.
Benson and Mr. Fairbanks had come later, and now the group waited only
on Mr. Stone’s pleasure to begin the recital of the case.
When Fleming Stone, then, asked Coroner Benson to give him the main
facts, it seemed as if the great detective’s work was really about to
begin.
“Would you rather see Mr. Benson alone?” asked Schuyler Carleton,
actuated, doubtless, by his own shrinking from any publicity.
“Not at all,” said Stone briefly. “I prefer that you all should feel
free to speak whenever you wish.”
Then Mr. Benson set forth in a concise way and in chronological order
the facts as far as they were known, the suspicions that had been
entertained and given up; and deplored the entire lack of clue or
evidence that might lead to investigation in any definite direction.
The others, as Mr. Stone had suggested, made remarks when they chose,
and the whole conversation was of an informal and colloquial nature. It
seemed dominated by Fleming Stone’s mind. He drew opinions from one or
another, until before they realized it every one present had taken part
in the recital. And to each Fleming Stone listened with deference and
courtesy. The coroner’s legal phrases, Fessenden’s impetuous
suggestions, Tom’s blunt remarks, Carleton’s half-timid utterances,
Kitty’s volatile sallies, and even Miss Morton’s futile observations,
all were listened to and responded to by Fleming Stone with an air of
deep interest and consideration.
As the hour grew late Mr. Stone said that he felt thoroughly acquainted
with the facts of the case so far as they could be told to him. He said
he could express no opinion nor offer any suggestion that night, but
that he hoped to come to some conclusions on the following day; and if
they would all meet him in the same place the next evening, he would
willingly disclose whatever he might have learned or discovered in the
meantime. This put an end to the conversation, and Mr. Benson and Mr.
Fairbanks went home. The ladies went to their rooms, and Carleton,
Fessenden and Willard sat up for an hour’s smoke with Fleming Stone, who
entertained them with talk on subjects far removed from murder or sudden
death.
The next morning Fleming Stone expressed a desire to be shown all the
rooms in the house.
“In a case like this,” he said, “with no definite clues to follow, the
only thing to do is to examine the premises in hope of happening upon
something suggestive.”
Kitty was eager to be Mr. Stone’s guide, and easily obtained Miss
Morton’s permission to go into all the rooms of the old mansion.
Fessenden went with them, and though the tour of the sleeping-rooms was
quickly made, it was evident that the quick eye of the detective took in
every detail that was visible. He stayed longer in Madeleine’s
sitting-room, but, though he picked up a few papers from her desk and
glanced at them, he showed no special interest in the room.
Downstairs they went then, and found Mr. Fairbanks in the library,
awaiting them. He brought no news or fresh evidence, and had merely
called in hope of seeing Mr. Stone.
The great detective was most frank and kindly toward his lesser
colleague, and made him welcome with a genial courtesy.
“I’m going to make a thorough examination of these lower rooms,” said
Fleming Stone, “and I should be glad of the assistance of you two
younger men. My eyes are not what they once were.”
Mr. Fairbanks and Rob well knew that this statement was merely an idle
compliment to themselves; for the eyes of Fleming Stone had never yet
missed a clue, however obscurely hidden.
But Kitty, ignorant of the principles of professional etiquette, really
thought that Fleming Stone was depending on his two companions for
assistance.
Tom Willard had gone out, and Miss Morton was looking after her
all-important housekeeping, so the three men and Kitty French were alone
in the library.
In his quick, quiet way Fleming Stone went rapidly round the room. He
examined the window fixtures and curtains, the mantel and fireplace, the
furniture and carpet, and came to a standstill by the library table. The
dagger, which was kept in a drawer of the table, was shown to him, but
though he examined it a moment, it seemed to have little interest for
him.
“There’s not a clue in this room,” he said almost indignantly. “There
probably were several the morning after the murder, but the thorough
sweepings and dustings since have obliterated every trace.”
Somewhat abruptly he went into the large hall. Here his proceedings in
the library were duplicated. “Nothing at all,” he said; “but what could
be expected in a room which is a general thoroughfare?”
Then he went into the drawing-room. The other three followed, feeling
rather depressed at the hopeless outlook, and a little disappointed in
the great detective.
Stone glanced around the large apartment.
“Swept, scrubbed, and polished,” he declared, as he glanced with
disfavor at the immaculate room.
“And indeed it was quite necessary,” said Miss Morton, who entered just
then. “After all those vines and flowers were taken away, and as a good
deal of the furniture was out, I took occasion for a good bit of
house-cleaning.”
“Well,” said Fleming Stone quietly, “there’s one clue they didn’t sweep
away. Here is where the assassin entered.”
As he spoke Mr. Stone was leaning against the mantel and looking down at
the immaculately brushed hearth.
“Where?” cried Kitty, darting forward, and though the others gave no
voice to their curiosity, they waited breathlessly for Stone’s next
utterance.
The hearth and the whole fireplace were tiled, and in the floor tiling,
under the andirons, was a rectangular iron plate with an oval opening
closed by an iron cover. This cover was hinged, and could be raised and
thrown back to permit ashes to be swept into the chute. The iron plate
was sunk flush with the hearth and cemented into the brick-work, and the
cover fitted into the rim so closely that scarce a seam showed.
“He came up through this hole in the fireplace,” said Stone, almost as
if talking to himself, “very soon after Miss Dupuy went upstairs at
half-past ten. Before Mr. Carleton arrived at quarter after eleven, the
murderer had finished his work, and had departed by this same means.”
While the others stood seemingly struck dumb by this revelation, Kitty
excitedly flew to the fireplace and tried to raise the iron lid, but the
andirons were in the way. Rob set them aside for her, while Stone said
quietly, “Those andirons were probably not there that night?”
“No,” exclaimed Kitty; “they had been taken away, because we expected to
fill the fireplace with flowers the next day.”
“But how could anybody get in the cellar?” asked Miss Morton, looking
bewildered.
“The cellar is never carefully locked,” said Fleming Stone. “I came
downstairs early this morning, and before breakfast Harris had shown me
all through the cellar. He admits that several windows are always left
open for the sake of ventilation, and claims that the carefully locked
door in the hall at the head of the cellar stairs precludes all danger
from that direction.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Mr. Fairbanks perplexedly. “If that
opening is an ash-chute, such as I have in my own house, it is all
bricked up down below, with the exception of a small opening for the
removal of the ashes, and it would be quite impossible for any one to
climb up through it.”
“But this one isn’t bricked up,” said Fleming Stone. “It was originally
intended to be enclosed; but it seems this fireplace is rarely used.
Harris tells me that the late Mr. Van Norman used to talk about having
the chute completed, and having a fire here more often. But the library
wood fire was more attractive as a family gathering place, and this
formal room was used only on state occasions. However, as you see,” and
Mr. Stone raised the iron lid again, “this opens directly into the
cellar, and, I repeat, formed the means of entrance for the murderer of
Madeleine Van Norman.”
Fleming Stone’s voice and manner were far from triumphant or jubilant at
his discovery. He seemed rather to state the fact with regret, but as if
it must be told.
Mr. Fairbanks looked amazed and thoughtful, but Rob Fessenden was
frankly incredulous.
“Mr. Stone,” he said respectfully, “I am sure you know what you’re
talking about, but will you tell me how a man could get up through that
hole? It doesn’t seem to me that a small-sized boy could squeeze
through.”
Fleming Stone took a silver-cased tape-measure from his pocket, and
handed it to Rob without a word.
Eagerly stooping on the hearth, Rob measured the oval opening in the
iron plate. Although the rectangular plate was several inches larger
each way, the oval opening measured exactly nine and one-half inches by
thirteen and one-half inches.
“Who could get through that?” he inquired, as he announced the figures.
“I’m sure I couldn’t.”
“And Schuyler Carleton is a larger man than you are,” observed Mr.
Fairbanks.
“That lets Tom Willard out, too,” said Rob, with a slight smile; “for
he’s nearly six feet tall, and weighs more than two hundred pounds.”
“The only man I know of,” said Mr. Fairbanks thoughtfully, “who could
come up through that hole is Slim Jim.”
“Who is Slim Jim?” cried Rob quickly. “Go for him; he is the man!”
“Not so fast,” said Mr. Fairbanks. “Slim Jim is a noted burglar and a
suspected murderer, but he is safely in prison at present and has been
for some months.”
“But he may have escaped,” exclaimed Rob. “Are you sure he hasn’t?”
“I haven’t heard anything about him of late; but if he is or has been
away from the prison, it can be easily found out.”
“Isn’t it unlikely,” said Fleming Stone quietly, “that a noted burglar
should enter a house and commit murder, without making any attempt to
steal?”
“He may have been frightened away by the sound of Schuyler’s latch-key,”
suggested Rob, and Kitty looked at him with pride in his ingenuity, and
thought how much cleverer he was, after all, than the celebrated Fleming
Stone.
Fessenden urged Mr. Fairbanks to go at once and look up the whereabouts
of Slim Jim, and the detective was strongly inclined to go.
“Go, by all means, if you choose,” said Fleming Stone pleasantly.
“There’s really nothing further to do here in the way of examination of
the premises. I do not mind saying that my own suspicions are not
directed toward Slim Jim, but my own suspicions are by no means an
infallible guide. I will ask you, though, gentlemen, not to say anything
about this ash-chute matter to-day. I consider it is my right to request
this. Of course you can find out all about Slim Jim without stating how
he entered the house.”
The two men promised not to say anything about the ash-chute to anybody,
and hot upon the trail of the suspected burglar they went away.
Miss Morton excused herself, and upon Kitty French fell the burden of
entertaining Mr. Stone. Nor was this young woman dismayed at the task.
Though not loquacious, the detective was an easy and pleasant talker,
and he seemed quite ready to converse with the girl as if he had no
other occupation on hand.
“How wonderful you are!” said Kitty, clasping her hands beneath her chin
as she looked at the great man. “To think of your spotting that
fireplace thing right away! Though of course I never should have thought
of anybody squeezing up through there. And Rob and I spent a whole
morning searching these rooms for clues, and that was only the day after
it happened.”
“What an opportunity!” Stone seemed interested. “And didn’t you find
anything—not _anything_?”
“No, not a thing. We were so disappointed. Oh, yes, Rob did find one
little thing, but it was so little and so silly that I guess he forgot
all about it.”
“What was it?”
“Why, I’ve almost forgotten the name. Oh, yes, Rob said it was a
cachou—a little silver thing, you know, like a tiny pill. Rob says some
men eat them after they’ve been smoking. But he asked all the men that
ever came here, and they all said they didn’t use them. Maybe the
burglar dropped it.”
“Maybe he did. Where did you find it?”
“Rob found it. It was right in that corner by the mantel, just near the
fireplace.”
Fleming Stone stood up. “Miss French,” said he, “if it is any
satisfaction to you, you may know that you have helped me a great deal
in my work. Will you excuse me now, as I find I have important business
elsewhere?”
Kitty smiled and bowed politely, but after Mr. Stone had left her she
wondered what she could have said or done that helped him; and she
wondered, too, what had caused that unspeakably sad look in his eyes as
he went away.
XXIV
A CONFESSION
Mr. Taylor, the landlord of the Mapleton Inn, showed a pleased surprise
when Fleming Stone walked into his hotel and approached the desk. The
men had never met, but everybody in Mapleton knew that Fleming Stone was
in town, and had heard repeated and accurate descriptions of his
appearance.
“Perhaps you can spare half an hour for a smoke and a chat,” said Stone
affably, and though Mr. Taylor heartily agreed, he did not confess that
he could easily have spared half a day or more had the great detective
asked him.
In the landlord’s private office they sat down for a smoke, and soon the
conversation, without effort, drifted around to the Van Norman affair.
Unlike detectives of fiction, Fleming Stone was by no means secretive or
close-mouthed. Indeed he was discursive, and Mr. Taylor marvelled that
such a great man should indulge in such trivial gossip. They talked of
old Richard Van Norman and the earlier days of the Van Norman family.
“You’ve lived here a long time, then?” inquired Mr. Stone.
“Yes, sir. Boy and man, I’ve lived here nigh onto sixty years.”
“But this fine modern hotel of yours is not as old as that?”
The landlord’s face glowed with pride. “Right you are, sir. Some few
years ago wife had some money left her, and we built the old place
over—pretty near made a whole new house of it.”
“You have many guests?”
“Well, not as many as I’d like; but as many as I can expect in a little
town like this. Mostly transients, of course; drummers and men of that
sort. Young Willard stayed here, when the Van Norman house was full of
company, but after the—the trouble, he went back there to stay.”
“Affable sort of man, Willard, isn’t he?” observed Stone.
“Yes, he’s all of that, but he’s a scapegrace. He used to lead this town
a dance when he lived here.”
“How long since he lived here?”
“Oh, he’s only been away a matter of three years, or that. ’Bout a year
before his uncle died they quarrelled. They both had the devil’s own
temper, and they had quarrelled before, but this time it was for keeps;
and so off goes Mr. Tom, and never turns up again until he comes to Miss
Madeleine’s wedding.”
“Was he in any business when he lived here?”
“Yes, he had a good position as engineer in a big factory. He was a good
worker, Tom was, and not afraid of anything. Always jolly and
good-natured, except when he’d have one of them fearful fits of temper.
Then he was like a raging lion—no, more like a tiger; quiet-like, but
deep and desperate.”
Soon after Fleming Stone rose to go. “Thank you very much,” he said
politely, “for your half-hour. And, by the way, have you any cachous? I
find I haven’t any with me, and after smoking, you know, before going
back to the ladies——”
“Yes, yes, I know; but I don’t happen to have any. But wait a minute, I
believe Tripp has some.”
He threw open the door and gave a quick whistle.
A boy appeared so suddenly that he could not have been far away, and,
moreover, his sharp black eyes and alert manner betokened the type of
boy who would be apt to be listening about.
His hand was already in his pocket when Mr. Taylor said to him, “Tripp,
didn’t I see you have a small bottle of cachous?—those little silver
pellets, you know.”
“Yessir;” and Tripp drew forth a half-filled bottle.
“That’s right. Give them to the gentleman.”
“Oh, I only want a couple,” said Fleming Stone, taking the vial which
Tripp thrust toward him. “Where did you get these, my boy?”
The boy blushed and looked down, twisting his fingers in embarrassment.
“Speak up, Tripp,” said the landlord sternly. “Answer the gentleman, and
see that you tell the truth.”
“I ain’t going to tell no lie,” said Tripp doggedly. “I found this here
bottle in the bureau-drawer of number fourteen a few days ago.”
“Fourteen? That’s the room Mr. Willard had,” said Mr. Taylor,
reflectively.
“Yessir, but _he_ didn’t leave them there. They were there before. I
seen ’em, and I knew that hatchet-faced hardware man left ’em; then Mr.
Willard, he come, but he didn’t swipe ’em, so I did. That ain’t no harm,
is it?”
“Not a bit,” said Fleming Stone, “since you’ve told the truth about it,
and here’s a dollar for your honesty. And I’m going to ask you not to
say anything more about the matter, for a few days at least. Also I’m
going to ask to be allowed to take a look at room number fourteen.”
“Certainly, sir. Tripp, show the gentleman up,” and Mr. Taylor fairly
rubbed his hands with satisfaction to think that he and his premises
were being made use of by the great detective.
“Yessir. It’s at the back of the house, sir. This way, sir.”
Mr. Stone’s survey of the room was exceedingly brief. He gave one glance
around, looked out of the only window it contained, tried the key in the
lock, and then expressed himself satisfied.
Tripp, disappointed at the quickly-finished performance, elaborately
pointed out the exact spot where he had found the cachou bottle, but Mr.
Stone did not seem greatly interested.
However, the interview was financially successful to Tripp, and after
Mr. Stone’s departure he turned several hand-springs by way of
expressing his satisfaction with the detective gentleman.
* * * * *
After dinner that evening the group of the night before reassembled in
the library.
A strange feeling of oppression seemed to hang over all. The very fact
that Fleming Stone had as yet said nothing of any discoveries he might
have made, and the continued courtesy of his pleasant, affable demeanor,
seemed to imply that he had succeeded rather than failed in his mission.
Although genial and quickly responsive, he was, after all, an
inscrutable man; and Mr. Fairbanks, for one, had learned that his gentle
cordiality often hid deep thoughts in a quickly-working mind.
Without preamble, as soon as they were seated Mr. Stone began:
“Employed by Coroner Benson, I was asked to come here to discover, if
might be, the murderer of Miss Madeleine Van Norman. By some
unmistakable evidence which I have found, by some reliable witnesses
with whom I have talked, and by some proofs which I have discovered, I
have learned beyond all doubt who is the criminal, and how the deed was
done. Is it the wish of all present that I should now make known what I
have discovered, or is it preferred that I should tell Coroner Benson
alone?”
For several minutes nobody spoke, and then the coroner said, “Unless any
one present states an objection, you may proceed to tell us what you
know, here and now, Mr. Stone.”
After waiting a moment longer and hearing no objection raised, Fleming
Stone proceeded.
“The man who murdered Miss Van Norman entered the house through a cellar
window. He climbed up through the ash-chute in the drawing-room
fireplace.”
Although some of Mr. Stone’s hearers had listened to this revelation in
the morning, the others had not heard of it, and every face expressed
utter astonishment, if not unbelief—with the exception of one. Tom
Willard turned white and stared at Fleming Stone as if he had not
understood.
“What?” he said hoarsely.
As if he had not heard the interruption, Fleming Stone went on:
“Who that man was, I think I need not tell you. Is he not already
telling you himself?”
Willard’s face grew drawn and stiff, like that of a paralyzed man, but
his burning eyes seemed unable to tear themselves away from the quiet
gaze of Fleming Stone. Then with a groan Willard’s head sank into his
hands and he fell forward on the table—the very table at which
Madeleine had sat on that fatal night.
There was a stir, and Schuyler Carleton rushed forward to Willard’s
assistance if need be. But the man had not fainted, and, raising his
white face, he squared his shoulders, clenched his hands, and, again
fixing his eyes on those of Fleming Stone, said in a desperate voice,
“Go on.”